Tied Up in Knots (Marshals 3)

His grin was warm. “Me neither.”

“So then—”

“That’s why I was so pissed last night.”

“We were both mad.”

He shook his head, closing on me again. “No, I mean when I came downstairs and the lawyer was there talkin’ to you, putting his hands on you and pettin’ Chick.”

This was a surprise.

“What?” He was surly.

“You were not jealous of Barrett.”

“The hell I wasn’t!” he flared.

“Are you serious? You’re being serious right now?” I didn’t believe him; there was no way Ian Doyle was jealous of any man, but it was something I could fix, instantly and without question. The normalcy of that made me smile. And that was how it was with Ian and me. Big reveals followed by whatever the thing was simply being absorbed and becoming part of our shared history. It was one of my favorite parts about us, and how I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, he was the one for me.

“I am,” he growled, and I saw the uncertainty, pain and self-recrimination was gone from those gorgeous blue eyes, replaced by a healthy amount of irritation.

“What the hell would you be jealous for?”

“Oh, I dunno, a rich, handsome lawyer who’s crazy about you moves in next door, likes Chick, and has already met your friends without me…. I think jealous about sums it up.”

“Oh, come on.”

“If the roles were reversed, you wouldn’t be worried?”

I thought about it a second. “No.”

“Why the hell not?” He was indignant now, and it took a lot of concentration not to smile at how adorable that was.

“Well, for one, you’re not as charming as me,” I replied, loving the fact that even though he had nothing to worry about with me, ever, that he was still rattled. There was a vulnerability there that touched me deeply. Scary-ass Ian Doyle worried that anyone could turn my head was terribly endearing. “And we both know you don’t make friends as easy, and—”

“Go to hell, M,” he groused, whacking me in the belly. “I’m plenty fuckin’ charming.”

“—I know you’d never cheat on me.”

He froze. “Now, wait, I never said you did somethin’ with him.”

“No?”

“Fuck no!” he yelled, getting more worked up by the second. “You’d never.”

“That’s right, I would never.”

“It doesn’t make me any less jealous,” he husked, leaning in and kissing my cheek. “But that’s on me. I’m the one who leaves you all alone.”

I was not getting into his military service at a funeral for his fallen team member. “Well, I’ll always be right here, waiting.”

“That’s good,” he said, letting out a deep breath and hugging me tight again. “That’s all I need.”

I hugged him back so he’d know, of course, I felt the same.

“Okay, so we better go back,” he said, and I heard the hesitance in his voice even as he nuzzled a kiss against my cheek before slowly easing free. We moved like honey, savoring the contact, hesitant to break it but knowing our quiet moment of respite was done.

Walking around the crypt, we moved out onto the cemetery drive that ran the length of the property and made our way back toward the others.

“Goddamnit, Doyle!”

There was Odell, Bates, and two other guys I didn’t know, and really, my plan was to be good. I was going to just shut up until it was time to leave, but then I got a clear look at the man I’d punched and the laughter rolled right out of me.

“Fuck you, Jones!”

It was hard to look menacing with tampons shoved up your nose, Ranger or not, and Odell—the picture he made, all puffy-faced and outraged—was hysterical. Even when I tried to stop laughing, the staccato snickering couldn’t be helped.

“You proud of this shit?” one of the guys I didn’t know flared, the hostility thick in his voice and in his hands fisted at his sides.

I shrugged. “He came at me first, man.”

“It’s a funeral, you fuck!”

“Yeah, I know,” I replied, gesturing at Odell. “Tell your boy.”

Two other men joined them, and I saw Ian’s eyes dart around. We were away from other people and we were outnumbered, and probably it was just going to be a lot of back and forth, but I wasn’t taking any chances. All of these men were trained soldiers who could hurt me—Odell notwithstanding, with him being three sheets to the wind—and I wasn’t about to let any of them harm Ian again. Once was more than enough.

“Hey, what’s goin’ on?”

Everyone turned to see smiling Deputy US Marshal Chris Becker. At six three, built like the linebacker he was in college, he was one of the nicest guys anyone could ever hope to meet—until he wasn’t.

“What’s up, ladies?” he asked Ian and me, snorting out a laugh.

“Sorry to bug you at a funeral and all,” his partner and best friend, Wes Ching, said as he bumped through the men surrounding us and walked up on me. “But if we’re going to the Befuddled Owl for torture, we’re making sure you and Doyle are too.”