Tied Up in Knots (Marshals 3)

“You don’t think this is a bit like an ambush?” a woman behind me said.

“What’re you talking about?” another replied.

“He’s coming home from a mission that took four months longer than it was supposed to, and as soon as he gets here, the wife of one of his buddies springs a blind date on him?”

“You could’ve skipped it, if that’s how you really feel.”

“And I probably would have, but then you had to go and show me his picture.”

An amused chuckle followed. “I told you Ian Doyle was gorgeous.”

It felt like someone punched me in the gut.

“And you’re sure there’s no one special?”

“Not that I’ve ever seen when I come pick up Paul.”

“Yeah, but Paulie’s brand new to the unit. This is only his second time out with these guys, and the last time he came home at like six in the morning, didn’t he? Was there even anyone else here but you?”

“No,” the second woman snapped. Clearly it was a sore subject. “All the other guys actually think about their wives and girlfriends and don’t make them pick them up before dawn.”

“Well, then Ian could be married and how would you even know?”

“It’s true, Paul doesn’t know either. He said Ian’s not a real talkie guy, but I understand he’s not only a reservist but also a US marshal. How hot is that?”

“Hot,” the first woman purred. “Really hot.”

“Yeah, so that’s why we’re here, dressed better than usual for the airport—to catch you a man.” She giggled.

I had to know what she was wearing to snag the love of my life, so I did a pivot, pretending to look behind me, and caught four-inch heels, black tights, a long cream-colored angora sweater with a chunky cowl, and beige cashmere overcoat. Not slutty, not skanky, elegant, with immaculate makeup and jewelry. She was lovely.

Her friend, Paul’s wife, was just as fashionable in her asymmetrical sweater with the shawl collar, jeans, and knee-high platform brown leather boots, all under a black swing coat. Both women looked classy, ready for a night on the town.

I got a quick, easy smile from each of them, which I returned before I was facing front once more.

I felt a shiver of dread because occasionally, I still worried whether I was enough for Ian Doyle. After all, the world was full of men and women more attractive than me who had way less baggage.

“Miro?”

I turned sharply to see a pretty blond woman dressed more like me, very casual, ready not to go out, but just to go back home after this.

We were both in old jeans and T-shirts, but whereas mine was under a white wool knit button-up cardigan, hers was under a hoodie and a motorcycle jacket. Her over-the-knee distressed black leather boots were as flat as my white Converse sneakers. Neither of us had dressed up at all.

“Yes,” I answered as she closed on me, hand out in greeting.

“I’m Stacy Qureshi. I’m Mo’s wife.”

I smiled at her even as I shook her hand. “I’m sorry, I haven’t met—Mo?”

“Mohammed,” she said kindly, looking at me askance.

“Yeah, I’m a bit out of the loop.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s just great to finally put a face to the name, or, you know, part of a face, at least,” she teased. “Lights too bright in here for you, marshal? Gotta wear shades in the terminal?”

I pointed at my eyes under the aviators I had on. “I got hit on the job. It looks worse than it is, but still. I don’t wanna scare people.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “Sweetheart, I’m here to pick up a Green Beret. You think he comes home abrasion-free?”

I chuckled and took off my glasses, hanging them on the collar of my T-shirt.

“Oh, see,” she sighed. “He’s gorgeous.”

“You’re very nice.”

“No,” she said impishly. “Really not. Kind of a bitch, actually, but you’ll learn that and find it charming down the road.”

I grinned at her.

“Oh yes, definitely pretty. I can totally see you and Ian together. That must be something when you guys are out together, stopping traffic and all.”

The chatter behind us ceased instantly.

“It’s Ian. Everybody looks at him.”

She nodded. “Yes, I’m aware. The first time I met him, my husband said ‘You’re drooling.’”

She was fun, I liked her already. “It’s really nice to meet you,” I said sincerely.

“Oh, you too,” she said, slipping her arm though mine, closing the distance between us. “I kept meaning to pick Mo up at least once so I could check you out after my husband told me you and Ian were together.”

“Ian told Mo about me?”

“He told all the guys, and frankly, I was thrilled.”

“You were?”

She nodded, waving to another woman wearing a sweater dress, leggings, and boots who came darting over to us. “I was. I always worried about Ian because there was never anyone he talked about or who came here to grab him after an op, and that was so sad.”