Capture & Surrender (Market Garden, #5)(44)

And the truth was, no.

No, he had no idea what he was doing.





Frank used a minute at a red light to text Emily: Running late, couldn’t get out of the club on time.

Then he prayed to the gods of traffic (likely half siblings to the hellhounds and revenge goddesses of Greek mythology) for a smooth flow.

He didn’t get it, but the way out of London was a hell of a lot better outside the rush hour. How that didn’t spark at least one killing rampage a day on his route alone, he couldn’t comprehend.

“Trouble?” Brandon asked.

“Running late. I think I might have thrown the whole thing out of whack. I’m not keen on letting people wait.”

“Sorry.” Brandon’s grin said he wasn’t really, but Frank appreciated the sentiment.

“I’m not.” Frank glanced to the side. “It happens. Emily knows how it is. We’re all busy with stuff. My stuff is just maybe a little different from their stuff.”

“Who’s Emily?”

“Andrew’s sister. We’re still in contact. She was one of our main supports through that time. And we’ve been good friends ever since.”

“I’ve lost my big brother, Frank. I’m hoping I found another one. Please?”

Brandon nodded. “Is it going to be . . . fraught?”

“No. No, this is just us getting together for a meal. Geoff and Mike are coming, too.”

“Hope she’s planned for five, then.”

“There’s always enough left over to feed a little army, don’t worry about it.” Frank squeezed Brandon’s thigh. “We get together for a meal every two or three months. Mike and Emily have something of a competition going who can stuff the most food into guests. Mike’s a foodie, but Emily’s a pro.”

He pulled into his driveway and swerved around the Mini already parked there.

Emily was sitting in the tiny black car with the white rally stripe and—fake, obviously—race number in black and white. Frank faintly remembered her current boyfriend was a grease monkey who loved customising cars. That Mini was tricked out and a lot fiercer than such a dinky car had any right to be.

Frank killed the engine and stepped out. Brandon flanked him.

Emily slipped her phone into her pocket as she stepped out of the car. “Hey, Frank. How are you doing?”

“Doing good. You?”

“I’m ravenous.” She spoke without a hint of British reserve.

“As am I.” Frank smiled at her. “And I brought another mouth for you to feed. This is Brandon, my American friend. I thought maybe another built male worshipping at your feet after the meal might go down well.”

She laughed and offered her hand. “Hi, I’m Emily. I sometimes feed Frank and his friends.”

Brandon shook her hand. “I was a soldier long enough to know better than to turn away free food. Especially if it’s not mess hall food.”

“Well, I can’t promise you—”

“Oh, stop being so modest, you twit.” Frank nudged her shoulder and looked at Brandon. “Don’t listen to her. This woman’s cooking would make Gordon Ramsay weep.”

“So would my foot in his bollocks,” she muttered.

Brandon laughed. “I would pay good money to see that.”

“Obviously you two are going to get on like a house fire.” Frank shook his head. “Not sure if it’s a good idea, putting you in the same room.”

“Only one way to find out.” Emily pointed at the house. “You going to let us in, or do I have to cook out here? Can’t promise the ciabatta will be any good if I cook it on the hood.”

“All right, all right. Come on.” He glanced at her car. “You need help bringing everything in?”

“I’m not going to turn down the assistance of a strapping young boy.” She circled around to the boot. “Or his elderly friend.”

“Quiet, you.”

They unloaded the Mini, which took them two trips apiece. How she fit that much into a car that small mystified Frank; the boot was the size of, well, one of Brandon’s laced-up combat boots, and yet it somehow contained enough food to feed half of London. If she ever got a larger vehicle, she could probably open up a moving supermarket.

Brandon insisted on helping in the kitchen, but Frank persuaded him to go grab a shower first.

“So.” Emily eyed the empty staircase after Brandon had gone up. “He’s your . . . friend?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Mm-hmm. Isn’t he a little young for you?”

“He’s legal.” Frank shrugged. “And quite . . .” Experienced with things you and I wouldn’t wish on anyone else. “He’s mature.”

“Oh, sure, that’s a good match for you.” She sniggered. “But seriously, is he—I mean, does he know?”

“Of course he knows.” Frank barely managed to not snap. “Do you think I’d keep that from someone if I was seeing him?”

“No, you wouldn’t.” She arranged the implements she needed—a whole range of knives, a pile of bowls—moving quickly but without appearing hectic in the least. “He seems nice.”

“He is. And we’re in that weird phase where we’re kind of casual, but might be moving to kind of serious.”