Good Deed Bad Deed, Marcia Morgan [summer beach reads TXT] 📗

grid’ with this assignment. No way I can explain all of what’s happened. I’ll try to get away with just sending a text.” Ana leaned her head back against the headrest and contemplated what might be a satisfactory answer to her boss’s question. After a moment’s pause she began to type her one-fingered response. Ben also wondered how she intended to justify her presence in the Cotswolds rather than in London, where she was expected to be knee deep in words and hovering diligently over her laptop.

He waited a few minutes and then asked, “What did you tell him? Any details?”

“Not specifically. I just said that I was pursuing a very interesting piece of back-story on you, and it required me to leave the city. I hope that keeps him at bay for a few days, but I can’t stall longer than that.”

“I’ll do whatever I can to keep you employed,” Ben said, trying to lighten the mood.

“There are worse things than losing an assignment,” Ana countered, ”But I’m in too deep with this one. I’ve convinced myself that I’m the only one who can do justice to an article about Benedict McKinnon … or maybe I should say I’m caught up in an adventure with Benedict McKinnon.” She glanced at Ben, her comment having brought a smile to his face and a certain glint to his eyes. “In any case, I can’t walk away … unless you send me.”

He glanced at her quickly then returned his focus to the road ahead. “I hope I don’t have to send you away. If I did, it would be for your safety.” He realized that very soon he was going to have to explain to Ana the fact that he had whisked her away from London for just that reason, and under false, though innocent, pretenses. “I sincerely hope the adventure part is over—at least the dangerous part.” Ben’s gut told him not to believe his own words, and that the danger was likely far from over. He paused a moment before adding, “I’m sure there’s a lot more to what’s happened than we know right now.”

“You’re probably right. I don’t think you should let your guard down.”

“No worries about that. My eyes are open,” said Ben, hoping to reassure her.

“Regardless of what’s happened on this assignment— whether it turns into a full-fledged adventure or not— I’m pretty maxed out on moving around constantly. It’s the curse of being a journalist.” Ana turned her head to look out the window, her thoughts drifting. When she spoke her voice was so quiet that it seemed she was reluctant for Ben to hear. “I went into it assuming that being on the move all the time would be glamorous.” She sighed a weary sigh, an unspoken lament that piqued his curiosity about her history.

After another half hour they exited the A40 and went through a series of roundabouts before finding the B4425. From that point the roads became increasingly narrow by the mile. Soon they were passing through a quintessential village called Bourton-on-the-Water. Ana thought the village names were often very strange. Ben mentioned in passing that the village was known as the Little Venice of the Cotswolds. She asked if they could come back another day to take a look, and he agreed. He noticed that she was trying to stretch in her seat, but was inhibited by the belt across her chest and thus settled for leaning her head against the window. Seeing that she was tired, he assured her that they hadn’t much further to go before reaching his parents’ home.

Ana’s reluctance to drive the Jaguar had kept her quiet when Ben failed to ask that she take the wheel so he could rest his shoulder. He had been so adamant about his need for assistance with the driving and she couldn’t figure out why he looked so comfortable and happy driving his ‘baby.’ She finally decided to ask. She turned down the music, now a medley by Norah Jones, and said, “I like this CD. It’s mellow and relaxing. Is that why you look so relaxed at the wheel … in spite of a sore shoulder that you thought wouldn’t hold out for two plus hours on the road?”

Ben smiled, slyly, Ana thought— and kept his eyes on the curves ahead. “Busted! Stitched up! In the frame… and whatever other terms there are for being found out. I will confess… but not until we get to mom and Dad’s.”

Something about his reaction made Ana laugh, her tolerance boosted by the fact that she really had not wanted to drive the car anyway. He seemed genuinely contrite as he tried to deflect her question with humor. Ben felt that her laughter was a reprieve, and his thoughts returned to their pub meeting and his unbidden vision of her beside him in the Jaguar, her hair swirling in the wind, the crescendo of her musical laugh as he increased speed.

Ben quickly returned to the present when he turned off of the village’s high street onto a narrow road. In a few minutes the road split and the car bore left, although the directional sign had been turned cockeyed— no doubt a prank by some mischievous youth. The road narrowed even further and required his complete concentration. He reduced speed, and with the hedgerows that grew close to the pavement as his guide, he focused on the wide swath of brightness from the car’s xenon headlights. Beyond the hedgerows on either side were small stands of trees— pocket forests as he had described them to Ana. There were no streetlamps on country roads, and the blackness was setting in quickly. They hadn’t met another vehicle since leaving the village. She was careful not to distract Ben with conversation, having become edgy as soon as the light died and the road became one lane. Moving beyond the small forests, the landscape cleared to grassy fields that climbed gently toward the hills ahead. The last