Chapter 21

Laying her head against the back of the seat, Laura kneaded her brow with a pair of fingers.

She'd made a mistake. She couldn't marry him, not like this.

They could get an attorney, one specializing in immigration and work within the system. Surely they could muddle through the six months - maybe a year - it would take to legally bring him back to LA. It wouldn't be the same as last summer. There would be phone calls. She could take a few days here and there and visit him in whatever exotic locale he was passing through at the time.

Imagine, a long weekend in Paris, strolling the Champs-Elysées hand-in-hand and dancing along the Seine. Or… a week in Tahiti, visiting museums by day and making love on the beach by night. It could work. They would make it work.

She sighed heavily, and opening her eyes leaned her head against the window, her shoulders drooping in misery.

It wouldn't work. It wouldn't be enough. She'd discovered last summer just how many voids his absence left in her life. He wouldn't stroll into the office, unapologetically late, his lips tipping upwards in an amused smile, his eyes sparkling with good humor, when she sniped at him about his banker's hours. He wouldn't be there to cajole her into a good mood with his insouciant remarks. He wouldn't be there to coax her into leaving work at the office, so they could enjoy a night of good wine and quite conversation before the fire in his apartment. He wouldn't be there to tempt her with an afternoon at the beach or to play a round of golf followed by lunch at the club. She wouldn't return to her loft of an evening, her clothes carrying the faint scent of his cologne, the taste of him still on her lips and her skin still tingling where an artless caress had landed. She wouldn't fall asleep anticipating their first meeting the next day, and she wouldn't wake wondering what type of fireworks might erupt between them that day.

She straightened slightly in her seat as the cab approached the chapel again. Her eyes fastened on Remington's form long before they neared and stayed with him until he fell from sight when they passed.

She'd learned his tells long ago: The hand he pulled through his hair, the clenched jaw, the chest slightly puffed out in indignation. He was angry with her and that, in turn, was enough to trigger her own temper again.

Who was he to be angry with her? He was the one with the mysterious past that kept showing up unexpectedly, turning their lives upside down. He was the one who'd hidden – for God only knew how long, because she hadn't asked – the INS's arrival in his life. He was the one who'd waited until the eleventh hour to come clean, turning to her to come up with a solution… and had thus far dragged his feet the whole way.

"You can't be serious!"

She crossed her arms and scowled. How many times had his words, their tone, the look on his face, replayed in her mind? By his reaction, you'd have thought she'd asked the man for an organ… a limb… to… to… to… become a eunuch, when she'd never asked him for more than he was willing to give.

"I'm not planning on cutting a fast tango through your life and I'm not going to stop wanting you but those are the only guarantees I can give you."

How many nights had she spent alone wondering where he was… and with whom? Logically, she had understood that if she wasn't sharing his bed, she had no right to ask him to keep that spot next to him vacant. Hadn't she told him…

"You're a grown man, and I'm a grown woman."

Sure, he could take from that what he wished, but the point was: She never asked him for anything…

Other than to know where she stood.

She still didn't have the answer to that question, yet she was willing to put her neck and the Agency on the line to save him and he… Well, he was acting as though he'd rather be taken to the gallows.

So, why was she putting herself through this?

Then, when, for the third time, the cab turned down the boulevard where the chapel stood, and her eyes found Remington standing on that sidewalk – noting the hands in his pockets and the slump of his shoulders – she knew the answer:

She'd spent four years watching his back and keeping him safe, as much for herself as for him.

"Stop!" she barked at the cabbie.

Today wouldn't be… couldn't be… the first time she'd failed.