In Plain Sight by Hope Anika

Chapter Five

Rye Wilder had spent morethan his fair share of time in unusual environments.

Years in the deserts of Iraq and Afghanistan; months in the Amazon. He’d frozen his ass off in Siberia and crossed a good chunk of the Sahara on the back of a camel. The Kalahari, the Australian outback, Nepal, and Madagascar. Days spent below the waves of the Pacific and more than a few hours plummeting toward earth with nothing but a chute on his back and a knife in his boot. He knew blood and death and war.

He didn’t know carnivals.

He’d grown up on the streets of Los Angeles, and most of that time had been spent surviving. Avoiding the Bloods and the Crips and MS13; stealing food, fending off the perverts, beating his way out of any situation he couldn’t outthink. He’d managed to escape the system, but there was no escaping the horror. The blood, the hunger, the darkness that persisted in even the brightest sunlight.

A darkness he carried, despite his easy familiarity with the world.

Perhaps if his mother hadn’t abandoned him, it would have been different. But she’d disappeared when he was nine, and he’d been on his own ever since. In her absence, a dark, feral wildness had taken root, a force he often kept leashed, and a permanent part of him. Ferocity had kept him alive. In childhood; in adulthood. On the streets and on the battlefield.

Rye appreciated being alive. He wasn’t bitter about the life he’d led; he’d survived. That was more than many he’d known could say. He didn’t hate the woman who’d left him to fend for himself; she’d been broken, an addict and a victim, and he didn’t waste time wishing she’d been different. He didn’t focus on what he didn’t have—on what he’d never had—he focused on here and now. Today.

Because today was full of promise.

The sun was warm on his skin; the breeze was clean and fresh from the rain that had only just abated. The sounds of work filled the air: the hammer of steel, the hum of a generator, music, and voices mingling in a symphony of rushed activity.

The midway of Our Lady of Hope was a long, lush strip of thick green grass lined by games and food trailers. Rides interspersed the games—a tilt-a-whirl, the zipper, the scrambler, and octopus, along with an array of kiddie rides—and at the head of the display sat a large, trailer-mounted Ferris wheel. Ticket booths, garbage cans, and several small stands dotted the strip; flowering onions and caramel apples and roasted sweet corn. The games were in various states of readiness, stock being hung, awnings being raised and balloons inflated.

Eyes were heavy on him as he made his way toward his goal. He knew he was being watched; from the moment he’d stepped foot onto the midway—which wasn’t yet open to the public—he’d been aware of the attention he garnered.

Friendly and unfriendly, alike.

It awakened the predator within him, prickling his sixth sense. That heightened, almost painful awareness one didn’t survive the streets or battlefield without. This place was full of eyes—suspicious, narrow, hard—all of them trained on him.

All of them ready for trouble.

But Rye had expected no less.

He absorbed every detail as he made his way through the midway; where every ride, tent, trailer, and stand was located; the face of every person he passed. The highest vantage points, the deepest shadows, the holes and cubbies, and hidden, unseen corners.

Because this wasn’t pleasure, this was work, and he never forgot—not for a minute—that this was also, effectively, a potential battlefield. It was essential to know the landscape.

Being a paranoid bastard paid off.

According to Max, his stepsister Fiona owned three games and a food wagon. The mysterious, intriguing Fi, whose picture Rye had been staring at for as long as he’d known Max, an old, faded print of she and Max as kids, staring soberly into the camera with a man who looked older than dirt. Fiona had been no more than fourteen, russet-haired and long-limbed, her mouth wide and grim, her eyes dark. Moody, stark, too serious for the atmosphere they stood within, there was something about that photo—something about her—that stabbed deeply into Rye every time he saw it.

Something powerful.

Part of it was Max—Rye couldn’t imagine having family, let alone deserting them—and the anger he felt toward his friend—who was fucking better than that—and part of it was just life—because he knew intimately the solemn darkness he saw in her—but mostly it was just…her.

The seriousness with which she stared at the camera. The dark knowing in her eyes.

The inexplicable sense that, somehow, he knew her.

Understood her.

That somehow, they were…connected.

Which was not something Rye trusted, and something he’d tried hard not to think about. If he found himself considering her—and that picture—more often than he should, well, Max was family—so she that just meant she was, too. Right?

You just keep telling yourself that, brother.

He hadn’t let himself imagine a time when he might be able to test the odd and admittedly alluring bond he sensed. And now—

Anticipation rode his veins like cheap whiskey; he felt electrified, drunk on possibilities. Hope.

Which was stupid and just plain dangerous.

Because what he felt…it couldn’t be real. Fantasy. An illusion fed by his own dark yearnings. The idea of her was just too insanely seductive; it couldn’t possibly be genuine.

And it was messing with his head, when what he should have been was focused: cold, unwavering, utterly without distraction. This wasn’t some lark; he had a job to do, and it didn’t involve getting lost in whatever the hell it was he felt when he looked at that picture.

This was his job.

He was here to keep Fiona and Max’s kid witness safe. No more, no less. And if he lost sight of the boundaries, he might just get them all dead.

At the end of the midway sat three game stands: a .22 short range, a balloon game, and a duck pond. Across from them, a white food wagon with a bright pink cloud of cotton candy painted on its side sat in a dwindling mud puddle. On the far end, two battered combat boots stuck out from beneath the hitch.

Rye stalked closer. As he approached, one of the boots stomped the ground. Thump! Then again. Thump! Thump! Then—

“Shit biscuits!” A pipe wrench flew out from beneath the wagon and bounced across the ground in front of him. “Piece of frigging crap!”

Then, “Argh!”

And, finally, quietly, “Damn it.”

Rye stared at the boots, his heart a heavy thud in his chest. He ignored the intoxicating adrenaline that was flooding his brain with endorphins and bent over to pick up the wrench. Then he went to the end of the wagon and crouched down to look underneath.

Fiona lay scowling up at the undercarriage. The line of her profile made everything within him go suddenly still and tight.

All grown up.

“You can suck it,” she told the underside of the trailer. Her voice was husky, touched by a southern accent stronger than Max’s. “Today is so not the day, Mr. Wagon.”

For a long moment, Rye only stared at her. She wore a black Tesla t-shirt and worn cargo pants; a battered leather watch wrapped her wrist.

The sight of her—in the flesh—was like an unexpected, merciless blow. For a moment, he reeled.

“Shit biscuits,” she whispered again. Then she rubbed a hand over her face and sighed. “Just what I need.”

Rye shook himself.

“Can I help?” he offered, his voice too rough.

She started; her head turned toward him, and her glittering hazel eyes widened when they crashed into his.

Hunger trapped the breath in his lungs; need caught fire and burned. Want became a living thing.

He stared at her and understood immediately that what he felt when he looked at that picture wasn’t fantasy. Or illusion.

Just wishful thinking.

It was as real as she was.

And it was nothing compared to being in her presence.

Well, hell.

She frowned, and her gaze flickered to the pipe wrench. Color bloomed in her cheeks. “Did it hit you?”

“Nah.” He smiled at her; he couldn’t stop it. “My cat-like reflexes saved me.”

She snorted.

“Let me take a look,” he said.

Before she could protest, he rolled beneath the wagon. He stopped next to her, and she tensed, her gaze guarded and more than a little suspicious.

He tried not to take it personally.

Instead, he focused on the problem above them. The wagon’s ancient plumbing was rusty and badly corroded. He could see fresh silver scrapings where she’d tried to turn one of the aged couplers with the wrench; beneath him, the ground was soft and wet and cold.

“A leak?” he asked, studying the layout of the pipes.

“No,” she said. “I’m just hanging out down here for fun. Good times.”

He bit back another smile.

“Settle down,” he replied mildly. “I’m here to help.”

She sighed and pointed at the coupler. “There.”

“1955 called. It wants its plumbing back.”

“Hilarious! Is the show free, or do I have to pay?”

She was funny.

And he was screwed.

Flesh and blood beside him, her heat pressing against his skin; hecould smell her, something sweet and tangy…sugar, and underneath, something deeper, richer. Vanilla.

None of what was coursing through him was imagined. And the strange recognition she’d always engendered suddenly felt like…inevitability.

Jesus. Focus, man.

She pointed at the wrench he held. “Make use and get it off.” She paused. “Please.”

Rye slid the wrench into place around the coupler, tightened it, and turned.

It resisted. He braced himself against the soft ground and tried again; it refused to move.

“See?” she demanded. “Good times.”

“The best,” he agreed and tried again. A grunt escaped him; the wrench screeched.

“Seriously. Don’t pop a vein. I can find a torch.”

He gave the wrench a good whack with his palm, and suddenly it gave, turning the coupler.

“Good thing I loosened it,” Fiona said.

He wanted badly to turn and look at her. To study the changes in her wrought by time; to test the mysterious, anomalous connection to her that burned within him. But he didn’t.

Because now was not the time.

No matter the chaos and anticipation and… joy…churning inside of him.

He had a job to do; it came first.

Always.

He removed the coupler and looked at it. The thin rubber gasket inside had eroded completely; no wonder it was leaking. He showed it to her, pointing out the thin ring of worn rubber.

“The culprit,” he said. He tilted his head toward hers, inhaling that sugar-vanilla sent, painfully aware of his body’s instant, rock-hard response to her. It should have annoyed him—he was a man who prized control—but it felt...like heaven. “Replace the gasket, and you should be good to go.”

She took the coupler and squinted at it. “Half-inch?”

“Three-quarters.”

“Well.” She looked at him. “Thanks for being a buttinski, I guess.”

“My pleasure.” A smattering of freckles decorated her nose. Slender, arched brows; glinting green and gold eyes; a small beauty mark that kissed her left cheek. And that mouth—

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Her cheeks flushed. Her gaze narrowed. “Who are you?”

She eyed him warily, zeroing in on the sinuous dog tags tattoo that decorated his left forearm—seven tags, one for every brother he’d lost in battle—and those glinting eyes turned abruptly cold. And furious.

“Max,” she said flatly.

Startled that she’d nailed him so quickly, Rye blinked in bemusement. But she was already wiggling out from beneath the wagon, crawling on her belly like the most well-trained of soldiers, and he did his best not to focus on her butt, but it was pretty hard when she—

“Jackass!” she swore, and Rye rolled swiftly out from beneath the wagon.

He pushed to his feet and planted himself in front of her—even though her eyes were shooting sparks, and her hands were clenched, and her mouth was a flat, angry line.

“Settle down,” he told her again. “I’m the cavalry.”

She poked him in the chest. Hard. “Go. Away.”

He resisted the urge to rub where she’d poked him. “No can do, honey pie.”

“You did not just call me honey pie!”

“Sweetcheeks?”

The look on her face told him he should stop, but he couldn’t. Her anger was intoxicating. He felt high, his blood thick and hot and furious in his veins.

Fiona.

Finally.

“Baby,” he amended and leaned down toward her. “I’m here to help.”

She growled. “You’re going to need help after I’m through with you.”

A smile curved his mouth. “Promises.” He caught her hand when she went to poke him again. “Settle, Fi.”

She hissed at him. A heartbeat later, something sharp and pointy pressed against his groin. His gaze fell to the military-grade steel blade she suddenly held, the tip of which was pointed perilously close to his most delicate bits.

It should have alarmed him. Instead, fire surged through his blood.

Going to keep her.

An insane thought; dark with possession and unyielding, relentless determination.

But Rye had no desire to argue.

She was magnificent.

Watching him, weighing him, her body utterly still; for a long moment, they stared at one another like drawn gunfighters. Something electric and primal and untamed crackled between them; an intense, blistering awareness skittered across his skin. His body tensed; his spine stiffened, and the dark yearning he’d locked away stepped from the shadows and into the light.

Fiona’s lashes flickered—she felt it, too—and his hand tightened around hers. Skin like the finest cream; lips the color of a wild rose. He wanted to pull her to the ground and—

“Let go,” she snarled.

This was going to be a frigging problem.

He was pretty sure he didn’t care.

The steel tip of her knife scraped the fabric covering his family jewels. “Now.”

But he wasn’t afraid. He was in love.

“Careful,” he murmured. “I like it rough.”

Her eyes widened. Color flooded her cheeks; her lips parted, and he almost touched her.

Really touched her.But—

Movement flickered behind her.

And he remembered abruptly where they were. Who she was. And what his mission was.

Shit.

An audience had gathered, none of whom were trying to hide their interest.

But why would they?

These people lived with Fiona, traveled with her, worked with her. They would protect her. Something Rye understood; his band of brothers did the same—on the battlefield and off.

They would follow her lead. And if she considered him a threat—

“If you don’t let me go right now,” she told him softly, “I am going to carve out your left kidney and sell it to the highest bidder.”

It was no idle threat. Rye had dealt with enough brutal, bloodthirsty bastards to know the difference. Which—notwithstanding his own eager reaction to that fact—was less than ideal.

Because he couldn’t do his job if she didn’t let him; protecting her and Max’s kid would be impossible if everyone on the show wanted to hand him his ass every time he turned around.

He needed a legitimate excuse for his presence. Something with which none of them could argue.

Something with which she couldn’t argue.

The answer hit him like a ton of bricks.

So obvious that he smiled.

Because it was…perfect.

Regardless of the lip service he gave himself about focus, about the job and priorities, and the danger of distraction.

He was a former army ranger; he’d work it the hell out.

Max wouldn’t like it.

And Fiona…

Well. She’d just have to cowgirl up, wouldn’t she?

And this, it was efficient. Two birds, one stone. Rye liked to be efficient.

So he smiled down at her and lifted her slender hand—clenched into an angry fist in his—and pressed his mouth gently against her knuckles.

“C’mon, sweetness,” he murmured, just loud enough that those watching could hear. “Don’t be angry. I couldn’t help myself.”

Confusion flickered across her face. “Couldn’t help what?”

“I tried to let you go,” he told her seriously, the words far more true than he would have liked. “But it wasn’t in the cards.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You.” Rye projected every bit of charm and charisma he possessed. He could be very persuasive. When you grew up having to talk your way in and out of every situation, you became very good at words. And this…it was easy.

So easy.

“Me?” Fiona repeated blankly.

“You. Always you.” He leaned closer until the sweet scent of her made his nostrils flare. “I know you told me to go…that we were done…that I wasn’t the one.” He lifted his hand and stroked his thumb boldly across the soft, luscious pad of her mouth. “But you’re wrong. And I’m going to prove it.” He paused. “I love you, Fi.”

Someone gasped; a small ripple went through the growing crowd. Fiona gaped at him, her cheeks bright, furious red. Before she could destroy the delicate web he was spinning, Rye slowly—careful of her blade—lowered himself to his knees before her.

“Let me.” He pressed another lingering kiss to the hand he held and allowed his gaze roam her face, looking the fill he’d craved. “Let me show you what we can be.” He held her gaze, and his voice was low, intense with promise. “I’m begging, honey. On my knees for you. Please.”

Whispers surrounded them. So romantic… Is he serious? Look at her face. But Fiona was silent, staring down at him with an expression he couldn’t read.

The same grave seriousness she’d worn in Max’s picture.

“I’m here to do a job,” Rye told her softly. “Let me do it.”

For another long, drawn moment, she only studied him, as if trying to work her way through the façade, to the man beneath.

Rye could only wait. Sink or swim. If she let him drown, he was going to have to figure out how to do the job he’d been tasked with while simultaneously fending off a midway full of people.

But he’d made his bed; all he could do was lie in it.

Finally, she signed. A disgruntled look settled across her face, but she folded her knife and slid it back into her pocket.

“Bureau?” she muttered, one brow lifting.

“Former Army Ranger.” The tension in him eased. “Rye Wilder, at your service.”

“G.I. Joe.” She rolled her eyes. “Awesome.”

“Joe was an Action Soldier,” he told her.

“Hilarious,” she reminded him. She waved a hand at the crowd. “You should have just told me. This wasn’t necessary.”

Rye said nothing.

“I’m never going to live it down,” she added and scowled. “So, thanks for that.”

He smiled. Someone shoved through the throng of people behind her, a tall, broad blond man who looked furious.

Rye pushed himself smoothly to his feet. He stepped forward and cupped her delicate, stubborn jaw in his hands; a flood of raw, wholly unexpected pleasure washed through him as he stared down at her.

Finally.

“You won’t be sorry,” he told her

She stepped back and slapped him hard across the face.

“Lying, cheating dog,” she hissed. “I’ll never forgive you. Never!”

A shocked laugh caught in his chest. “Challenge accepted, sweetheart.”

She turned and strode away. The crowd lingered, eyes avid on him.

“I’m going to prove myself,” he promised her retreating back. “You’ll see.”

“Yeah?” She halted and swung around. “Great. You can start at the hardware store.”

Then she threw the coupler at him.