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The Little Templar Girl

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She couldn't believe her eyes. Him, of all the people - and here, of all the places. No way she could meet this man at a mediocre lounge bar of a mediocre Tahitian "grand hotel". Not the night she was taking her time enjoying a Mai Tai after her successful mission. Is it... not a coincidence? But this man's a fucking legend. Best of the best, or so they say. And her mission was so small and unimportant, hardly of any interest to other parties - even to his people. No, it can't be him. But he looks so familiar...

She finally managed to avert her eyes and demonstrate being utterly preoccupied with her drink. But not before meeting his probing gaze.

He left his chair and went over to her, bringing his whiskey glass along.

-May I, luv? - ah, that voice she recalled too well from the vision, the deep manly baritone. Strangely, his uncouth Northern English made it sexier still.

-Sure, this place is public. - she made an automatic smile, the kind that follows one's inner decision "I must act naturally". This close encounter was disturbing her too much. But he can't know her and her agenda - and he must be here on holiday. Yes, why can't he be on holiday?

-Aw, you're English? Always such a pleasure to meet a compatriot among these wild tribes.

She uttered a nervous giggle.

-So what brings you to this strange land, miss... - ah. May I ask you for your name?

For some weird reason she decided to give neither her real name nor the one she was travelling under at the moment.

-It's Emma. Emma W-w, - nope, Emma Woodhouse is too blunt, moreover, he's British, he might notice, - W-whi-te.

-Whi-te like White or like Wyatt?

-Wyatt. Emma Wyatt. - She chose fast, not to seem suspicious, while offering her hand to be shaken. - And you're mister...

-McCall. - His grasp was firm yet careful. - But please, call me Alex. All my friends do.