“I’ve brought warm syrup, too,” Jordan said.
“Yum.”
Jordan fetched a forest green fleece blanket, napkins, and utensils from his knapsack, and arranged our picnic on the floor. He had even thought to bring a thermos of French Roast coffee. We nestled onto the blanket and dug into our breakfast, the flavors bursting in my mouth. When I finished my last bite, the need to discuss my Internet search findings reared its ugly head. I had to have answers. I urged myself to speak but words wouldn’t come. My throat felt clogged with emotional cotton.
“I got your phone call,” Jordan said, breaking the poignant silence. “You sounded worried. Is it about Chip? I heard he came to your grandparents’ house. He and your grandfather fought.”
“Where did you learn that?”
“Your grandmother told Urso’s mother, who told me.”
“Ahhh.” My grandmother might not like idle gossip, but she could dish it. “Words. It was nothing.”
“That guy isn’t right, Charlotte. He puts me on edge.”
“You barely know him.”
“And you? How well do you know him?”
“I was engaged to him.”
“But he’s been gone for how long? People change.”
“He’s—”
Jordan tapped my leg to quiet me. “He came here with Kaitlyn Clydesdale and now she’s dead. He could be the killer, Charlotte.”
“Oh, please. Chip, a killer? He’s—”
“—hot for you, and hotheaded, to boot. He took on your grandfather. Sweetheart, even you know that’s just plain stupid.” Jordan traced a line up my sleeve to the tip of my chin. Shivers ran through me. He leaned forward and kissed me gently. “You’re like a magnet right now. Even if Chip’s not the guy to fear, how about the looter that came into your tent the other night?”
“He didn’t want to hurt me, either.”
Jordan frowned. “Don’t be naive; you’re a perfect target.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re pretty and a wee bit cocky. Get up.” Jordan slid the coffee and our breakfasts to a spot beneath a stand of hothouse tomatoes, hopped to his feet, and stretched out his arms. “Show me what you’ve got.”
“What do you mean?”
“Show me your defensive moves. You’ve been taking classes with Meredith.”
“Not for a while.” Our weekly self-defense classes ended in November.
“You shouldn’t get rusty.” He beckoned with both hands. “C’mon. Up!”
Eager to show how scrappy I was, I scrambled to a stand, and without warning, rushed him. He grabbed me by the arms, whisked me like a broom, and landed me on the green fleece blanket. Gently. But I was down.
“Sheesh.” I fingered the hair at the nape of my neck, wishing I could wipe the self-satisfied grin off his face. “Guess I wasn’t ready.”
He offered a hand and pulled me up. “Ready now?”
“Absolutely.” I would show him. “Reach for my shoulder.”
He did. As I had been taught, I blocked him with my forearm. He groped for my other shoulder. I mirrored the block. While I gloated over my quick reflexes, he took hold of the first shoulder, whipped me around, and pinned my wrist up between my shoulder blades.
“Uncle!” I said.
He spun me around and stared at me gravely. “As I thought. Brash with no oomph.”
I scowled. Good thing Meredith hadn’t seen the display. She would have teased me for weeks.
“I’m going to teach you a few more moves,” Jordan said.
A flutter of desire zipped through me. How I wished we would continue the lesson in my Victorian home. In my bedroom. Once he answered my questions.
“The natural effect of real aggression,” he went on, cooling my flames, “causes what some call an adrenaline dump. That means high volumes of adrenaline shoot through the attacker. You’ve got to be able to bring the guy down. Got me?”
I nodded.
“Let’s say the jerk tries to strangle you. Let me show you what you do.” He asked my permission, then gripped my neck.
Even though his touch was tender, my stomach constricted. It sickened me to think how I might react in a real situation. Thick-voiced, I said, “I poke your eyes.”
“Try.”
I reached over his arm and thrust upward with two fingers, but he jerked his head back and grabbed my wrist.
“Not good enough.” He didn’t let go. “What else can you jab?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
“I can’t.” My heart pounded double-time. “Let me go.”
He did. “C’mon, what’s open? What’s within reach?”
“The hollow of your neck.”
“Exactly. Right below the Adam’s apple. Do it now. Be precise.”
Slowly, I set my fingers in the hollow of his neck.
“That’s it. Except, in real life, you go for it with all your might. Shock your attacker. He’ll release his hands. And then what do you do?”
“Run.”
“Good. Now for lesson two.”
A rush of my own adrenaline zinged through me. Enough of the kissing and self-defense lessons. I pushed him away and blurted, “Are these spy moves?”
He stiffened. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re a spy.” There. It was out. No more pussyfooting around.
His mouth quirked up, creating a huge dimple down his cheek. “What kind of spy?”
“Espionage.”
“Oh, right. Hyah-hyah.” He chopped the air. “Shaken not stirred and all that rot.” He laughed. “Where’d you get that crazy idea?”
“You’re so private.”
“Cheese farmers are allowed to be private.”
I swallowed hard.
“That’s right.”
“J. Kenneth Montgomery is the name of a spy in a novel.”
Jordan frowned. “I’m not following.”
“Jeremy Kenneth Montgomery doesn’t exist. He’s not on the Internet. I think you had me look up this Montgomery guy because you knew I’d come upon this character. You wanted me to catch on.”
“Catch on to what?”
“That you’re a spy. That’s why you’re so cryptic. That’s why you moved to Providence. To hide out between missions.”
Jordan burst into laughter.
I whacked his arm with my palm. “Stop it and answer my question.”
He sobered and folded my hands into his. “Contrary to popular belief, not everyone lives on the Internet, Charlotte. I’m private; you said so yourself. Trust me. I am not a spy.”
“Were you ever a spy?”
“I was in the army for a stint.”
“Then why are you living under an alias? Are you in the Witness Security Program?” I’d had the same notion
