More Than a Mission Read Free

probably would have made a hell of a bad leader for the centuries-old island kingdom.
    Not that he involved himself in politics, since his nomadic life rarely gave him reason to grow attached to any particular place, and he had no interest in what happened in this tiny little town. At least, not in anything that wasn’t related to this mission.
    As for the Sparrow, he thought, she wanted professional? He would give it to her.
    The bartending part was under control thanks to the earpiece and the program he had loaded on his and Lucia’s PDAs. He’d resorted to that after his best attempts at memorizing an assortment of drink recipes had failed. He was a magna cum laude grad of MIT in a number of majors, none of which included Mixology 101.
    But now he had to deal with his other dilemma—getting the Sparrow to hire him. He walked to the closet. Inside were an assortment of jeans, but also a few suits. He wasn’t normally a suit-and-tie kind of guy. In some ways, he found them too much like the uniform he’d had to wear for so many years in the military. Now that he was in the private sector, he preferred his clothes to be casual. It suited his rebellious nature better.
    In fact, the last time he had worn a suit had been to Mitch’s funeral two years ago. It was one of the suits in the closet. Somehow apropos, he thought, as he reached for it and pulled it out. The suit was dark charcoal-gray and designer—Helmut Lang. Mitch, who had always insisted that his clothes and women be top-drawer, had forced him to buy it, claiming that his friend was never going to meet the right kind of woman if he looked like a Hell’s Angels reject or a derelict surf dude.
    Aidan had to admit the suit was gorgeous. Maybe it was just what the Sparrow had had in mind when she’d said that her type was someone more professional.
    Watch out, Sparrow, ’cause here I come.
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    Elizabeth was running late. After doing all her shopping and advising her sous chef and assistants as to what to prep for inclusion in that night’s dinner specials, she’d decided to tackle the slightly overgrown flowerbeds in the back of the restaurant during her afternoon break. In this backyard garden, which faced the shore, she had created an area for alfresco dining and dancing beneath the stars.
    She was rounding the corner of the building on the way to the front door when she smacked into someone heading toward the back patio. Hard hands grabbed hold of her to keep her from falling. “I’m sorry,” she said, noticing not just the strength in the hands clutching her, but the fine fabric of the suit jacket as she grabbed tight.
    She finally looked up and the familiar blue of his eyes gazed down at her, nearly laughing. “No, I’m sorry. Your sous chef said you were out back.”
    He released her and took a step away, which allowed her to get a complete picture of his total transformation. A suit the color of deep slate—definitely expensive—accented his lean muscular build and broad shoulders. His shirt was a pale gray and he was wearing a silk tie that had a stylish Keith Haring kind of pattern in maroon on a dark blue-gray background. His shaggy hair was brushed off his face, the longish strands secured somehow, exposing the sharp lines of his cheeks and jaw.
    He cleaned up well, she thought, although a part of her was remembering yesterday’s bad-boy look and regretting the change.
    â€œMr. Rawlings,” she said with a polite nod of her head. “I must confess that I wasn’t expecting to see you again.”
    He offered his arm and she looped hers around his, slightly surprised by the gallant gesture. She walked with him around the side of the building and to the front door.
    â€œI’m not a man who’s easily dissuaded, Ms. Moore,” he said as they stopped at the entrance to the restaurant.
    â€œAnd what if I told you the position had been filled?” she