Because Sawyer had told her he loved her; but then he’d had somebody pack her bags and ordered a plane. He’d told her he loved her. And now he wasn’t even going to say goodbye. Was this goodbye?
The jerkface.
“I have to tell you, Zoe”—Hots was still beside her, wheeling her luggage—“I’m impressed. You handled yourself extremely well. I doubt even Alex could have done better. I’ll have to read your books.” He gave her a smile, and Zoe felt herself start to blush because the Duke of Hottington had that effect on a girl.
“And”—he stopped and leaned closer—“I must say, I’m especially grateful to you for looking out for our man on the inside.”
It must have been the fatigue because Zoe wasn’t exactly sure what he was saying. “Excuse me?”
“He’s one of the best MI6 has ever had. So thank you. I don’t know what I would have done if we’d lost him.” A mischievous glint filled his eye—one that spoke of inside jokes and flirty touches and the kind of charm that could make a woman’s pants just melt away. It was all overwhelming and . . . familiar. So familiar that she struggled against a sudden wave of déjà vu.
And maybe that’s why she didn’t see him—didn’t feel him—until a deep voice said, “He has to say that. He’s my dad.”
Chapter Sixty-Five
Her
Zoe was aware, faintly, of Hots saying something about luggage and airplanes, but she wasn’t paying attention. She was too busy watching Sawyer walk across the tarmac, running a hand through thick hair that would someday go salt-and-pepper like his father’s. His father . . .
“The Duke of Hottington!” she exclaimed. “The Duke of Hottington . . . is your father! Gasp!”
He shook his head and flashed his quickest smile—the one he didn’t even know he had. “I don’t understand any of the things that you just said.”
“I couldn’t remember his name so I called him . . .” She trailed off and waved the words away. “Never mind.”
She looked at Sawyer’s rolled-up shirtsleeves, dark stubble, and tired eyes. She remembered walking through the streets of Paris and making a list, calling him the hottest guy she’d ever seen. She was wrong, of course. He was more than that—so much more. And she tried not to think about the suitcases he’d had collected—the jet that was waiting to take her away.
She didn’t want to think about any of the things that were real, so she just said, “Am I going to have to use your courtesy title now? Are you Viscount SexyPants? Is that—”
“We really should have someone check out that head wound.”
“But . . . you’re not British,” she said, like that was the only thing that mattered when, in fact, it was the only thing that didn’t.
“I am, actually. I’m both. My father was MI6. Is MI6. And my mother was American. I didn’t mean to lie. But by the time I realized you thought I was CIA it felt like it was easier to just go along with it. I’m sorry.”
Apprehension filled his eyes—like he wasn’t asking forgiveness for what he’d done. He was asking for what he was doing.
“You don’t have an accent.”
“Don’t I, love?” And there it was. The accent.
“No. Gasp. Put that thing away.”
“What?”
“You can’t just go around with an accent like that. And with your shirtsleeves rolled up? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
Sawyer did that thing where he grinned down at the ground, and Zoe’s heart really did stop beating. Which was a good thing. Maybe that would keep it from breaking.
“Was any of it real?” The words slipped out and her voice cracked. Everything cracked. Because the jet was still idling . . . Still waiting . . . Still ready to take her to the other side of a whole, entire ocean. “Was any of it . . .”
“Oh, lady. All of it was real.” His palm was warm against her cheek, and she wanted to throw herself into his arms and burrow in like . . . the kind of animal that burrows, she thought, cursing herself for not being able to come up with a far better analogy. But her eyes were too wet and her throat was too hot and everything was too much, all of a sudden.
It was too much and not nearly enough.
So she slipped her arms around him and felt the rise and fall of his chest—the pressure of his fingers as his hand cradled the back of her head. It was exactly what he’d done in Paris, but this time it was a different kind of pain shooting through her.