She might have to kill him for this.
Besides the obvious humiliation, Kirby’s stunt was guaranteed to sour any goodwill she’d managed to garner from Brady Marshall and destroy her chances of ever getting an appointment with his father.
There was a time for showboating and a time for quiet shows of strength—every activist who’d been around long enough knew that. Kirby was too new, too gung ho, to see that difference, and now she—and PPI—would be paying for it.
She kept her head high as the officer led them through the lobby and tried to keep as much distance as possible between herself and Mr. Marshall, who—thankfully—looked more exasperated than angry at the moment.
Chasing down Senator Marshall’s son and campaign manager had been a whim; a whim, that, for a brief moment, she thought just might pan out. Now she needed to get out of these handcuffs and see if she could salvage anything at all from her efforts.
A door emblazoned with the Capitol Hill Police Force’s emblem led to a small windowless room that looked suitable for interrogating suspects, and Aspyn wondered if she was about to get her first arrest on her record.
The officer—R. Richards from the name badge he wore—lifted their wrists and examined the cuffs. “Hmm. This is a problem.”
“Why?” she and Mr. Marshall chorused.
He pointed to the locking mechanism. “These aren’t standard handcuffs.”
Mr. Marshall sighed, but Aspyn didn’t understand the significance of the statement. “And?”
“And they don’t take a standard key.” Officer Richards gave her that stern look again, like this was all her fault or something. “Do you happen to have the key, miss?”
“No,” she gritted out, “Because they’re not my handcuffs. This was not my idea.”
“Well, then we’ll have to cut them off.”
That brought another sigh from her cocaptive. The exasperation was starting to give way to something else. “And how long will that take?”
“Only a couple of minutes once I get the bolt cutters. Finding the bolt cutters will take a little longer, though.”
Mr. Marshall finally looked at her fully—and the depths of his eyes caused flutters of something indescribable in her belly—and shook his head. He turned back to the officer and said, “I guess we don’t have a choice. Go get the bolt cutters.”
Officer Richards jerked his head in her direction. “Are you okay being left in here with her for a few minutes?”
Mr. Marshall looked her over and laughed, and she stiffened at the insult. “I think I’m safe enough.”
They both kept talking like she wasn’t even there, and Aspyn tried to keep her temper under control until the officer crossed to the door and made to leave. “Excuse me? Isn’t anyone going to ask me if I’m okay being left in a windowless room, handcuffed to a complete stranger?”
“I can vouch for Brady. You’ll be just fine.”
And then they were alone. While she’d been half-kidding with her earlier statement, the reality of the situation hit hard. It was a small room, and Brady Marshall was quite a large man—almost a full foot taller than she was with really broad shoulders filling out a suit jacket that even she could tell was custom-made. And she’d felt the muscles in his arm when she’d touched him earlier. Since she couldn’t get more than a literal arm’s length away from him, she was now very familiar with the unique scent of his aftershave and the way his skin seemed to radiate warmth. Combined with a strong jaw, dark honey-colored blond hair that kept falling rakishly over his forehead and deep, leaf-green eyes … Mercy.
The worst part of this situation wasn’t the public humiliation or even the irritation she could tell Brady Marshall was keeping in check. No, the worst part was the fact that part of her didn’t mind being handcuffed to him. He wasn’t really her usual type … But on sheer looks alone, if she’d been asked to describe the kind of man she’d like to spend some quality time handcuffed to, Brady Marshall would do nicely. And now that they were alone … Granted, he kept looking at her like she belonged in a carnival side show, but her brain kept going to inappropriate places with those handcuffs. It was ridiculous, but that didn’t stop the little tingly feeling low in her belly.
The silence was deafening. Aspyn sat on the table, letting her shoes fall off and her legs swing, and tried to relax the arm attached to his. To her surprise, Brady Marshall joined her on the table, allowing their hands to rest on the battered Formica top and releasing the strain caused by being cuffed to someone that much taller.
“How do you know it’s safe to be left alone in here with me?” she asked. “For all you know, I could be a martial arts expert or something.”
One dark blond brow went up as he took a long lazy look from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. It sent heat rushing to her skin. “Are you?” he asked.
“No,” she admitted, “but you didn’t know that.”
The corner of his mouth quirked briefly. “Given the alternatives, it was a chance I was willing to take. And Robert has known me for years. He wouldn’t have left you in here otherwise. I assure you you’re in no danger from me at all.”
Why did that feel a bit like an insult? “Good to know.”
“Miss Breedlove—”
“Aspyn,” she corrected.
That got her another of those side-show-oddity looks. “Excuse me?”
“I don’t like to be called Miss Breedlove. My name is Aspyn.”
His brow furrowed slightly. “Like the tree?”
She nodded. “Like the tree. Only it’s spelled with a ‘y’ instead of an ‘e.’” He doesn’t care about the spelling, you idiot.
Understanding lit up his face, and he started to laugh. The laugh completely transformed his face, making him seem more real and less like a bureaucrat. The smile caused cute little crinkles to appear around the corners of his eyes. The complete change in demeanor was devastating to nerves already on high alert and helped blunt the force of having her name laughed at. “Now I understand why your friend was shouting something about talking to a tree as he ran off. I thought he was just crazy.”
He wasn’t laughing at me. That made her feel a little better. “He’s not my friend. And I don’t think Kirby’s officially crazy, just a little overeager.” She offered him a small smile. “I am really sorry about this, Mr. Marshall.”
“All things considered, I think you should call me Brady.” His mood seemed to be improving, and the non-frustrated, nonexasperated Brady Marshall was a completely different person.
“Okay, Brady.” She held out her hand to shake his, realizing a second too late that would be impossible for him. She let their hands rest on the table again and settled for, “Nice to meet you.”
“You, too, although I wish the circumstances were bit different.” A smile seemed to be tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I need to let my lunch date know I’m going to be late.”
“Okay.”
“I need my phone.” There was definitely a laugh behind his voice, but she didn’t get the joke.
“I’m right-handed.” He indicated the cuffs that held them together.
She still didn’t quite understand.
“So,” he continued, “my phone is in my right pants pocket.”
Understanding