Chapter 8 #2
She didn’t resist. Let him lead her through the green-armchair lobby, past the navy reception desk, the big-leafed plants they’d walked by a dozen times now. Into the elevator. The doors closing behind them with a soft chime.
Suddenly the space felt very small. Very intimate. Dakota was aware of her breathing, her warmth, the faint scent of her mixed with chlorine from the pool.
“Dakota.” She was looking at him with those striking whiskey-brown eyes, curiosity and something else flickering in their depths. “What’s going on?”
He turned to face her. Took a breath.
“Will you marry me?”
She’d officially lost her mind.
There was simply no other explanation for the fact that (1) she’d said yes to Dakota’s crazy proposal and (2) she didn’t hate it.
Will you marry me?
Yes, for a long second she’d simply stared at him, her heart in her throat, wondering if . . . well, he couldn’t be serious, right?
And then, no. He’d dropped his voice and said, “They already think we’re together. We get married, people start realizing if they mess with you, they mess with me.”
Oh.
And while that had sat inside her, he’d given her a crazy, too-charming smile.
“It makes tactical sense,” he’d added, and she’d almost been able to see the logic working behind his eyes.
Tactical. Professional. Not romantic at all.
“We’re already traveling together. If we tell Bonnie we’re newlyweds, we can share a room without questions, stay close without the tour-group gossip. ”
There was gossip?
Then he’d leaned close. “And no more sleepless nights in an adjoining room, wondering if you’re okay.”
That’s when she’d raised a brow and said, “Um, just to be clear—”
“I know. The Wall of Fiji.” He’d winked.
And that’s when she’d nodded. “Yes, Dakota, I’ll marry you.”
It hadn’t helped that the memory of dancing with him had still swirled inside her.
Dance with me.
Not a question. Not quite a command. Something in between that had made her pulse stutter.
That’s when she should have said no, probably. Instead, she’d taken his hand.
And for three and a half minutes, the world had narrowed to the press of his palm on her waist, the warmth of his shoulder under her cheek, the steady beat of his heart against hers. The guitarist had played a ballad, and Dakota had held her like she was someone precious. Worth protecting.
And, oh, she was in big, big trouble.
She could still smell the scent of soap on him, cedar and citrus.
Could still feel the way his thumb had traced circles on her hip, probably unconsciously, definitely devastating.
Could still hear his voice, low and rough—You scared me today—against her hair, like her well-being mattered more than the music or the mission or anything else in the world.
Then her phone had rung with London on the other end, and suddenly . . .
Well, Lynx was back, wasn’t she?
So when Dakota had pulled her into the elevator and popped the question, she might not have been completely on her game.
And here they were, “playing married.” He’d even purchased a ring for her in the hotel gift shop, a pink pearl in gold, and given it to her with a smile.
As if it were real.
Now they stood in the hotel lobby with the other tour-group members, bags packed, waiting for the shuttle to the airport. Morning light filtered through the glass entrance across the lobby.
And of course, all she could think about was London’s call, the intel that made everything worse.
Nimue picked up communication between the Orphans and a contract killer known as Spectre.
The Orphans. A deep-web, black-ops organization that acted as a broker between buyer and contractor. And she’d heard the name Spectre before. Professional. Expensive. A ghost who left no witnesses.
“Spectre goes by multiple aliases—Sasha Dragunov, Reese Calloway, Quinn O’Shea,” London had continued. “Could be male or female. The aliases are all gender-neutral. We believe Spectre may have joined your tour group—it would be an easy way to enter Australia without the usual visa scrutiny.”
And that’s when she’d gone cold. On the tour group?
“Look for someone with a gender-neutral name.”
Dakota.
The name had hit her like a punch to the chest.
Dakota was gender-neutral. Dakota had Opera House blueprints in his bag.
But Dakota had also saved her life.
Maybe that was the con. Maybe he was keeping her close to watch her. Maybe the dancing, the tenderness, the way he’d brushed wet hair from her face on the dive platform—maybe all of it was performance.
Or maybe he was exactly who he seemed to be, and she was losing her mind.
“Jayden?”
She blinked. Dakota was watching her, concern creasing his forehead.
“Sorry.” She forced a smile. “Didn’t sleep well.”
“The diving thing?”
“Something like that.”
He reached out. Squeezed her shoulder. The touch was warm, brief, devastatingly gentle.
“We’ll figure out who did it,” he said. “I promise.”
And that was the problem, wasn’t it? He sounded like he meant it. Looked like he meant it. Either he was the best liar she’d ever met, or he was genuinely trying to protect her.
She had no idea which one scared her more. But either way, she needed armor. “We have a few minutes before the shuttle arrives. I’m going shopping.”
He raised an eyebrow, but she grabbed her pack and headed to the gift shop.
The small store was a disaster of koala keychains and reef-themed beach towels, but it had a small rack of women’s clothing near the back. Jayden grabbed a cream linen blouse and a pair of cropped pants—her tropical wardrobe wasn’t built for wine country.
She paid and found Dakota standing in the lobby, their baggage already loaded. He held two coffees.
She took the coffee he offered. “Thanks.”
“Loaded with cream and sugar.”
She stared at him.
“What?” He lifted a shoulder. “A good groom knows his bride’s flavor.”
Oh boy.
The flight to Newcastle was short and bumpy. Jayden spent it staring out the window while her brain chewed through the Spectre intel.
Gender-neutral names on the tour. Like Dakota.
The vintage train to the Hunter Valley waited at the station like something from another century.
Polished brass fittings gleamed in the morning sun.
Restored wood paneling, dark with age and oil, lined the corridor.
White tablecloths dressed the dining tables, and crystal wineglasses stood ready at each place setting, catching light from the tall windows.
The air inside smelled of old leather and furniture polish and something faintly floral—the remnants of a thousand journeys, a thousand tourists, a thousand bottles of wine opened and enjoyed as the countryside rolled past.
Bonnie was practically vibrating with excitement as she herded them aboard.
“Wine country, everyone! Four tastings, stunning views, and lunch on board before we head to our accommodations for tonight. This is the crown jewel of our Hunter Valley experience!”
Jayden found a seat by the window. The upholstery was burgundy velvet, worn soft with age. Dakota slid in beside her—close enough that their shoulders touched, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him. Playing the newlywed role with an ease that made her stomach flip.
“This is nice,” he said, and his hand found hers in the space between them.
She didn’t pull away. Couldn’t, really—they were supposed to be newlyweds. That was the cover. That was the plan.
So why did his touch feel less like a performance and more like a promise?
An older woman settled across the aisle—sixties, maybe, with oversized sunglasses and a floral dress that matched the heavy cloud of perfume surrounding her.
The scent preceded her like a toxic fog.
Jasmine and gardenia and something cloying underneath, the kind of fragrance that coated the inside of your throat.
Jayden’s sinuses tightened. No. Not now.
“Oh no,” she muttered.
“What?” Dakota glanced at her.
“Nothing. It’s fine.”
The train lurched into motion with a gentle shudder.
Her eyes started watering.
Then burning.
Then she sneezed so hard that Dakota flinched and their wineglasses rattled against the table.
“Bless you!” The woman across the aisle said.
Jayden sneezed again. And again. Her eyes streamed. Her throat tightened.
No, no . . .
“Are you okay?” Dakota said.
“No—I have terrible fragrance allergies,” she said in a low voice. “And my meds are in my suitcase.”
Stupid, stupid. She blamed the quick turnaround in Hawaii.
“I’ll find some Benadryl,” said Dakota and got up.
Howard Brennan appeared in the aisle, holding a cup of coffee from the dining car. “Are you all right? You look terrible.”
“Yes. Just an allergy attack. My husband is handling it,” she wheezed, the word husband strange on her tongue.
He shuffled back to his seat, laptop already open on the table in front of him.
Dakota appeared. “No pharmacy onboard. We’re getting off at the next stop.”
“I’m fine—”
“Your eyes are swelling shut.”