Wed In Wyoming

“What am I going to do about you?”

Angeline asked aloud as she stepped forward again, right into the V of his legs. Her chocolate-brown eyes were on a level with his mouth, and their focus seemed to be fixated there.

“You’re going to bandage me up,” he said, but his voice was gruff. Damn near hoarse.

“In a minute,” Angeline whispered. She leaned into him, tilting her head and, light as a whisper, she rubbed her lips over his.

She’d started out feeling tenderness.

That was all, Angeline reassured herself. Just tenderness for this man whose unexpected acts of kindness touched her just as much as his more “creative” stunts shocked her.

But tenderness was abruptly eaten up in the incendiary flames that rose far too rapidly for her to fight.

Instead, she stood there, caught, as wildfire seemed to lick through them both.

For my editor, Ann Leslie. Thank you for your patience, flexibility and general excellence. I think we’ve come a long way together!

ALLISON LEIGH

started early by writing a Halloween play that her school class performed. Since then, though her tastes have changed, her love for reading has not. And her writing appetite simply grows more voracious by the day.

She has been a finalist in the RITA® Award and Holt Medallion contests. But the true highlights of her day as a writer are when she receives word from a reader that she laughed, cried or lost a night of sleep while reading one of her books.

Born in Southern California, Allison has lived in several cities in four different states. She has been, at one time or another, a cosmetologist, a computer programmer and a secretary. She has recently begun writing full-time after spending nearly a decade as an administrative assistant for a busy neighbourhood church, and she currently makes her home in Arizona with her family. She loves to hear from her readers, who can write to her at PO Box 40772, Mesa, AZ 85274-0772, USA.

Dear Reader,

Many years ago, I wrote about a minor character – a little girl, orphaned in another country, who snagged the heart of one of the Clay brothers, Daniel. In the end, not only was Daniel united with his soul mate, Maggie, and her little blond munchkin, JD, but their new family grew even more when they were joined by sweet Angeline.

Little did I know that some day Angeline would grow up and find a story of her own, or that the secret agency partly responsible for that long-ago rescue from the orphanage would play such a part of so many of my stories. From one agent to another, that Hollins-Winword world just seems to keep growing, ever entwining, and even I am sometimes surprised with the pairings that result.

But that’s one of those fascinating – and often frustrating! – things about writing…you think you know what your characters are going to do, and who they’ll end up with, but quite often they have an entirely different idea. I never really intended Angeline for Brody Paine, but once he stuck his handsome nose in her business, well… this author had to just move out of the way and let them both have their way.

After all, who wants to stand in the way of true love?

Allison

Allison Leigh

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

Prologue

November

“Are you insane? What if someone sees you here?” Angeline Clay looked away from the tall man standing in the shadows of the big house to the wedding reception guests milling around behind her, barely twenty yards away.

“They won’t.” The man’s deep voice was amused. “You forget, sweet cheeks, what I do for a living.”

She rolled her eyes. They stood outside the circle of pretty lights that had been strung around the enormous awning protecting the tables and the dance floor from the chilly Wyoming weather. Her cousin Leandra and her brand-new husband, Evan Taggart, were in the center of the floor dancing away, surrounded by nearly every other member of Angeline’s extensive family. “I’m not likely to forget, Brody,” she assured drily.

Since then, her brief encounters with the man had been few and far between, but they’d nevertheless been memorable.

Annoying, really, considering that Angeline prided herself on keeping her focus squarely where it belonged. Which was most assuredly not the impossible appeal of the elusive Brody Paine.

She flexed her bare fingers around the empty platter that she had been on her way to the kitchen to refill when Brody had stepped into her path. “How’d you even know I was here, anyway?”

The corner of his lips lifted. “It’s a small world, babe. You know that.”

Sweet cheeks. Babe.

She stifled a sigh. She couldn’t recall Brody ever using her actual name. Which was probably one of the reasons why she’d never tried very hard to take the man seriously when it came to anything of a personal nature.

When it came to the work he did, however, she took him quite seriously because Brody Paine was well and truly one of the good guys. Since she’d learned at a particularly early age that the world was definitely on the shy side when it came to such people, she tried to give credit where it was due.

“I’m just visiting Weaver,” she reminded him. “For the Thanksgiving holiday and Leandra’s wedding. I’m going back to Atlanta soon.”

He blandly reeled off her flight number, telling her not very subtly that he was perfectly aware of her schedule. “The agency likes to keep track of its assets.”

She looked behind her again, but there was nobody within earshot. Of course. Brody wouldn’t be likely to mention the agency if there had been. “I’m hardly an asset,” she reminded him needlessly. She was a courier of sorts, true. But in the five years she’d worked for the agency, all she conveyed were pieces of information from one source to another. Even then, she was called on to do so only once or twice a year. It was a schedule that seemed to suit everyone.

“Believe me, hon. You’ve got more than any woman’s fair share of assets,” he assured drily. His gaze—she’d never been certain if it was naturally blue or brown because she’d seen his eye color differ over the years—traveled down her body. “Of course for some stubborn reason you keep refusing to share them with me.”

She’d seen appreciation in men’s eyes when they looked at her since she’d hit puberty. She was used to it. But she still felt absurdly grateful for the folds of the cashmere cape that flowed around her taupe-colored dress beneath it. “That’s right,” she said dismissively. “I assume this isn’t a social call?”

His lips twitched again. “Only because you’re a stubborn case, sweet cheeks.”

Her lips tightened. “Brody—”

“Don’t get your panties in a twist.” He lifted one long-fingered hand. “I’m actually in the middle of another gig.” He looked amused again. “But I was asked to give you this.”

She realized that a small piece of paper was tucked between his index and middle finger. She plucked it free, careful not to touch him, only to nearly jump out of her skin when his fingers suddenly closed around her wrist.

She gave him a startled look.

The amusement from his face had been wiped away. “This is important.”

Nerves tightened her throat. She wasn’t used to seeing Brody looking so serious. “Isn’t it always?” He’d told her, chapter and verse, from the very beginning just how important and sensitive her work with Hollins-Winword was.

“Like everything else in life, importance can be relative.”

Behind them, the deejay was calling for everyone’s attention since the bride and groom were preparing to cut their wedding cake. “I need to get back there. Before someone comes looking for me.”

He slowly released her wrist. She stopped herself from rubbing the tingling that remained there just in time.

The man was entirely too observant. Which was, undoubtedly, one of the qualities that made him such an excellent agent. But the last thing she wanted him to know was that he had any kind of affect on her.

They were occasionally connected business associates and that was all. If the guy knew she’d been infatuated with him for years—well, she simply didn’t want him knowing. Period. Maybe the knowledge would make a difference to him, and maybe it wouldn’t. But she didn’t intend to find out.

Playing immune to him was already hard enough.

She couldn’t imagine how hard it would be if she spent any real time with the man.

He gave that small smile of his that had her wondering if mind reading was among his bag of tricks. “See you next time, babe.” He lifted his chin in the direction of the partygoers. “Drink some champagne for me.”

She glanced back, too. Leandra and Evan were standing in front of the enormous, tiered wedding cake. “I can probably get you a glass without anyone noticing. Cake, too.”

She looked back when he didn’t answer.

The only thing she saw was the dark, tall form of him disappearing into the cold night.

Chapter One

May

“I still think you’re insane.”

Since Angeline had last seen Brody Paine almost six months ago, he’d grown a scruffy brown beard that didn’t quite mask the smile he gave at her pronouncement.

His sandy-brown hair hung thick and long around his ears, clearly in desperate need of a cut, and along with that beard, he looked vaguely piratical.

“Seems like you’re always telling me that, babe.”

Angeline lifted her eyebrows pointedly. They were sitting in a Jeep that was currently stuck lug nut deep in Venezuelan mud. “Take a clue from the theme,” she suggested, raising her voice to be heard above the pounding rain.

As usual, he seemed to pay no heed of her opinion. Instead, he peered through the rain-washed windshield, drumming his thumb on the steering wheel. The vehicle itself looked as if it had been around about a half century.

It no longer possessed such luxuries as doors, and the wind that had been carrying sheets of rain for each of the three days since Angeline had arrived in Venezuela kept up its momentum, throwing a stinging spray across her and Brody.

The enormous weather system that was supposed to have veered away from land and calmly die out over the middle of the ocean hadn’t behaved that way at all. Instead, it had squatted over them like some tormenting toad, bringing with it this incessant rain and wind. May might be too early for a hurricane, but Mother Nature didn’t seem to care much for the official calendar.

She huddled deeper in the seat. The hood of her khaki-colored rain poncho hid most of her head, but she still felt soaked from head to toe.

That’s what she got for racing away from the camp in Puerto Grande the way she had. If she’d stopped to think longer, she might have at least brought along some warmer clothes to wear beneath the rain poncho.

Instead, she’d given All-Med’s team leader, Dr. Miguel Chavez, a hasty excuse that a friend in Caracas had an emergency, and off she’d gone with Brody in this miserable excuse of a vehicle. She knew they wouldn’t expect her back anytime soon. In good weather, Caracas was a day away.

“The convent where the kids were left is up this road,” he said, still drumming. If he was as uncomfortable with the conditions as she, he hid it well. “There’s no other access to St. Agnes’s. Unless a person was airlifted in. And that ain’t gonna happen in this weather.” His head bounced a few times, as if he were mentally agreeing with whatever other insane thoughts were bouncing around inside.

She angled her legs in the hard, ripped seat, turning her back against the driving rain. “If we walked, we could make it back to the camp at Puerto Grande before dark.” Though dark was a subjective term, considering the oppressive clouds that hung over their heads.

Since she’d turned twenty, she’d visited Venezuela with All-Med five times, but this was the worst weather she’d ever encountered.

“Only way we’re going is forward, sweetie.” He sighed loud enough to be heard above the rain that was pounding on the roof of the vehicle. His jeans and rain poncho were caked with mud from his repeated attempts to dislodge the Jeep.

“But the convent is still miles away.” They were much closer to the camp where she’d been stationed. “We could get some help from the team tomorrow. Work the Jeep free of the mud. They wouldn’t have to know that we were trying to get up to St. Agnes instead of to Caracas.”

“Can’t afford to waste that much time.”

She huffed out a breath and stared at the man. He truly gave new meaning to the word stubborn.

She angled her back even farther against the blowing wind. Her knees brushed against the gearshift, and when she tried to avoid that, they brushed against his thigh.

If that fact was even noticeable to him, he gave no indication whatsoever. So she left her knee right where it was, since the contact provided a nice little bit of warmth to her otherwise shivering body.

Shivers caused by cold and an uncomfortable suspicion she’d had since he unexpectedly appeared in Puerto Grande.

“What’s the rush?” she asked. “You told me we were merely picking up the Stanley kids from the convent for their parents.”

“We are.”

Her lips tightened. “Brody—”

“I told you to call me Hewitt, remember?”

There was nothing particularly wrong with the name, but he definitely didn’t seem a “Hewitt” type to her. Brody was energy itself all contained within long legs, long hands and a hard body. If she had to be stuck in the mud at the base of a mountain in a foreign country, she supposed Brody was about the best companion she could have. She wouldn’t go so far as to call the man safe, but she did believe he was capably creative when the situation called for it.

“Fine, Hewitt,” she returned, “so what’s the rush? The children have been at the convent for nearly two months. What’s one more night?” He’d already filled her in on the details of how Hewitt Stanley—the real Hewitt Stanley—and his wife, Sophia, had tucked their two children in the small, exceedingly reclusive convent while they trekked deep into the most unreachable portions of Venezuela to further their latest pharmaceutical quest.

Brody had, supposedly, enlisted Angeline’s help because he claimed he couldn’t manage retrieving both kids on his own.

“The Santina Group kidnapped Hewitt and Sophia two days ago.”

“Excuse me?”

Despite the rough beard, his profile as he peered through the deluged windshield could have been chiseled from the mountains around them. “Do you ever wonder about the messages you’re asked to dispatch?”

“No.”

“Never.” He gave her another one of those mind reader looks.

Sometimes, honesty was a darned nuisance.

“Yes. Of course I am curious sometimes,” she admitted. “But I don’t make any attempt to satisfy that curiosity. That’s not my role. I’m just the messenger. And what does that have to do with the Stanleys?”

He raised one eyebrow. “When I gave you that intel back in November, you didn’t wonder about it?” He didn’t quite sound disbelieving, but the implication was there.

“There are lots of things I wonder about, but I don’t have the kind of clearance to know more. Maybe I prefer it that way.” The tidbits of information that she dispatched were not enough to give her real knowledge of the issues that Hollins-Winword handled. It was a tried-and-true safety measure, not only for her personal safety, but for those around her, the agency’s work and the agency itself.

She knew that. Understood that. Welcomed it, even.

She believed in her involvement with Hollins-Winword. But that didn’t mean she was anxious to risk her neck over four sentences, which was generally the size of the puzzle pieces of information with which she was entrusted. Brody’s message for her that night at Leandra and Evan’s wedding reception had been even briefer.

Stanley experimenting. Sandoval MIA.

She’d memorized the information—hardly difficult in this case—and shortly after she’d returned to Atlanta, she’d relayed the brief missive to the impossibly young-looking boy who’d spilled his backpack on the floor next to her table at a local coffee shop.

She’d knelt down beside him and helped as he’d packed up his textbooks, papers and pens, and three minutes later, he was heading out the door with his cappuccino and the message, and she was sitting back down at her table with her paperback book and her latte.

“You didn’t look twice at the name Sandoval.”

Somehow, cold water had snuck beneath the neck of her poncho and was dripping down the back of her spine. She tugged the hood of her poncho farther over her forehead but it was about as effective as closing the barn door after the horse was already out, considering the fact that she was already soaked. “Does it matter? Sandoval’s not that unusual of a name.”

His lips twisted. “How old were you when you left Santo Marguerite?”

The kernel inside her suddenly exploded, turning tense curiosity into a sickening fear that she didn’t want to acknowledge. “Four.” Old enough to remember that the name of the man who’d destroyed the Central American village where she’d been born, along with nearly everyone else who’d lived there, had been Sandoval.

She reached out and closed her hand over his slick, wet forearm. “I’m no good at guessing games, Brody. Just tell me what you want me to know. Is Sandoval involved with the kidnapping?”

His gaze flicked downward, as if surprised by the contact, and she hastily drew back, curling her cold hands together.

“We haven’t been able to prove it, but we believe that he is the money behind the Santina Group. On the other hand, we know Santina funds at least two different black market organizations running everything from drugs and weapons to human trafficking. According to the pharmaceutical company Hewitt works for, he was on to something huge. Has to do with some little red frog about the size of my fingernail.”

He shook his head, as if the entire matter was unfathomable to him. “Anyway, the pharmacy folks will try to replicate synthetically the properties of this frog spit, or whatever the hell it is.” His voice went terse. “And in the right hands, that’s fine. But those properties are also the kind of properties that in the wrong hands, could bring a whole new meaning to what profit is in the drug trade.”

“They’ve got the parents and now they’re after the kids, too. Sandoval or Santina or whoever,” she surmised, feeling even more appalled.

“We’re working on that theory. One of Santina’s top men—Rico Fuentes—was spotted in Caracas yesterday morning. Sophia Stanley’s parents were Venezuelan, and she inherited a small apartment there when they died. The place was tossed yesterday afternoon.”

“How can you be sure the kids are even at the convent?”

“Because I tossed the apartment yesterday morning and found Sophia’s notes she’d made about getting there, and packing clothes and stuff for the kids. I didn’t leave anything for ol’ Rico to find but who knows who Hewitt and Sophia may have told about their kids’ whereabouts. I’ve got my people talking to everyone at the pharmaceutical place, and so far none of them seems to know anything about the convent, but…” He shrugged and looked back at the road.

“Hewitt obviously knew they were on to something that would be just as significant to the bad guys as to the good,” he told her. “Otherwise, why squirrel away their kids the way they did? They could have just hired a nanny to mind them while they went exploring in the tepuis.” He referred to the unearthly, flattop mountains located in the remote southeast portion of the country. She knew the region was inhabited by some extremely unusual life-forms.

“Instead,” he went on, “they used the convent where Sophia’s mother once spent time as a girl.”

“If this Rico person gets to the children, Santina could use them as leverage to make sure Hewitt cooperates.”

“Bingo.”

“What about Hewitt and Sophia, though? How will they even know their kids are still safe? Couldn’t these Santina group people lie?”

“Hell yeah, they could lie. They will lie. But there’s another team working on their rescue. Right now, we need to make certain that whatever threats made concerning those kids are a lie.”

She blew out a long breath. “Why not go to the authorities? Surely they’d be of more help.”

“Which local authorities do you think we can implicitly trust?”

She frowned. Miguel had often complained about the thriving black market and its rumored connection to the local police. “Brody, this kind of thing is way beyond me. I’m not a field agent. You know that better than anyone.” Her involvement with Hollins-Winword had only ever involved the transmittal of information!

A deep crevice formed down his cheek as the corner of his lips lifted. “You are now, sweet cheeks.”

“I do have a name,” she reminded.

“Yeah. And until we get the kids outta this country, it’s Sophia Stanley.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Beg all you want. There’s a packet in the glove box.”

She fumbled with the rusting button and managed to open the box. It was stuffed with maps and an assortment of hand tools. The packet, she assumed, was the dingy envelope wedged between a long screwdriver and a bundle of nylon rope. She pulled it out and lifted the flap. Inside was a narrow gold ring with a distinctive pattern engraved on it and several snapshots.

He took the envelope and turned the contents out into his hand. “Here.” He handed her the ring. “Put this on.”

She gingerly took the ring from him and started to slide it on her right hand.

He shook his head. “Left hand. It’s a wedding ring, baby cakes.”

Feeling slightly sick to her stomach, she pushed the gold band over her cold wedding-ring finger. It was a little loose. She curled her fingers into her palm, holding it in place.

She’d never put a ring on that particular finger before, and it felt distinctly odd.

“This,” he held up a picture, “is Sophia.”

A laughing woman with long dark hair smiled at the camera. She looked older than Angeline, but overall, their coloring was nearly identical, from their olive-toned skin to their dark brown eyes.

“Not a perfect match,” Brody said. “You’re prettier. But you’ll have to do.”

She frowned, not sure if that was a compliment or not, but he took no notice.

“These are the kids. Eva’s nine. Davey’s four.” He handed her a few more pictures, barely giving her time to examine one before handing her the next. “And this is papa bear.”

If the situation hadn’t been as serious as she knew it was, she would have laughed right out loud. The real Hewitt Stanley definitely matched the mental image his name conjured.

Medium height. Gangly and spectacled. Even from the snapshot, slightly blurred though it was, the man’s un-Brody-ness shined through. Other than the fact that they were both male, there was nothing remotely similar between the two men. “This is who you’re pretending to be.”