Книга - Mountain Blizzard

Mountain Blizzard
Cassie Miles


Her ex-husband becomes her bodyguard in USA TODAY bestseller Cassie Miles's gripping new suspense novelAfter his ex-wife witnesses a murder, FBI agent turned security specialist Sean Timmons steps in to be her bodyguard. One look at investigative reporter Emily Peterson and Sean is reminded why he fell in love with her years ago. But his beautiful, headstrong ex is being targeted by a crime lord – who Sean is determined to take down. Trapped in the Colorado mountains by a blizzard, the former Mr. and Mrs. Timmons rediscover each other with red-hot passion. But a cold-blooded killer is waiting to stop them from uncovering evidence – and ever saying "I do" again.







Her ex-husband becomes her bodyguard in USA TODAY bestseller Cassie Miles’s gripping new suspense novel

After his ex-wife witnesses a murder, FBI agent turned security specialist Sean Timmons steps in to be her bodyguard. One look at investigative reporter Emily Peterson and Sean is reminded why he fell in love with her years ago. But his beautiful, headstrong ex is being targeted by a crime lord—who Sean is determined to take down. Trapped in the Colorado mountains by a blizzard, the former Mr. and Mrs. Timmons rediscover each other with red-hot passion. But a cold-blooded killer is waiting to stop them from uncovering evidence—and ever saying “I do” again.


“You have plenty of reason to be worried,” Sean reminded Emily.

“Don’t make this into a worst-case scenario.” Emily continued to hold his hand, and he felt the tension in her grip.

“Seriously, Emily, you do need a bodyguard.”

“I agree, and the job is yours.”

He’d expected an argument but was glad that she’d decided to be rational. He glanced toward the dining room. The snowstorm raged outside the windows. “I could do with another bowl of chili.”

“Me, too.”

Before she hopped down the step to the floor, she went up on tiptoe and gave him a kiss on the forehead. It was nothing special, the kind of small affection a wife might regularly bestow on her husband. The utter simplicity blew him away.

Before she could turn her back and skip off into the dining room, he caught her hand and gave a tug. She was in his arms. When her body pressed against his, they were joined together the way they were supposed to be.

Then he kissed her.


Mountain Blizzard

Cassie Miles






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


CASSIE MILES, a USA TODAY bestselling author, lives in Colorado. After raising two daughters and cooking tons of macaroni and cheese for her family, Cassie is trying to be more adventurous in her culinary efforts. She’s discovered that almost anything tastes better with wine. When she’s not plotting Mills & Boon Intrigue books, Cassie likes to hang out at the Denver Botanical Gardens near her high-rise home.


For Nafina,

who will always be my screen saver and,

as always, to Rick.


Contents

Cover (#u78a29f64-411f-5302-99dc-437d855a9096)

Back Cover Text (#u32d4dfd9-b618-5ccc-b2f0-7ef80189bee9)

Introduction (#u93f4c771-9f28-5a4e-a21f-aba0a83554d3)

Title Page (#uc0655235-af8b-5a07-af6d-31b66421c78f)

About the Author (#u9172329e-4dce-5bb3-bd7f-1973eb4c33e2)

Dedication (#ue4df4689-764c-5e3a-9a4f-28ccabc3ec7f)

Prologue (#ulink_1e3600ef-988b-5f9f-bf65-3ee7f0b465cc)

Chapter One (#ulink_d27e7864-f3b8-51af-9829-20e823698a0b)

Chapter Two (#ulink_b462ea02-36c3-526c-b5cc-797600a1e99e)

Chapter Three (#ulink_f9195741-1340-5596-87bb-2eb439ce5535)

Chapter Four (#ulink_dcaa2af0-b6c6-5fba-9dc4-948f3f2e7b9a)

Chapter Five (#ulink_134284b1-95be-5537-a77a-1a10203d4d48)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Prologue (#ulink_7e2953e6-b61c-5fc9-bde8-d01a93b660d6)

San Francisco

Mid-September

The double-deck luxury yacht rolled over a Pacific wave just outside San Francisco Bay as Emily Peterson wobbled down a nearly vertical staircase on her four-inch stilettos. Her short, tight, sparkly disguise gave her a new respect for the gaggle of party girls she’d hidden among to sneak on board. Somehow those ladies managed to walk on these stilts without falling and to keep their nipples covered in spite of ridiculously low-cut dresses.

Her plan for tonight was to locate James Wynter’s private computer and load the data onto a flash drive. She’d slipped away from the gala birthday party for one of Wynter Corporation’s top executives. The guests had been raucous as they guzzled champagne and admired their view of the Golden Gate Bridge against the night sky. Some had complained about having to surrender their cell phones, and Emily had agreed. It would have been useful to snap photos of high-ranking political types getting cozy with Wynter’s thugs.

Belowdecks, she went to the second door on the right. She’d been told this was James Wynter’s office. The polished brass knob turned easily in her hand. No need to pick the lock.

Pulse racing, she entered. The desk lamp was off, but moonlight through the porthole was enough to let her see the open laptop. In a matter of minutes, she could transfer Wynter’s data to her flash drive, and she’d finally have the evidence she needed for her human trafficking article.

Before she reached the desk, she heard angry voices in the corridor. She backed away from the desk and ducked into a closet with a louvered door. Desperately, she prayed for them to pass by the office and go to a different room.

No such luck.

The office door crashed open. One of the men fell into the office on his hands and knees while others laughed. Another guy turned on the lamp. Light spread across the desktop and spilled onto the floor.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, but Emily stayed utterly silent. She dared not make a sound. If Wynter’s men found her, she was terrified of what they’d do.

Carefully, she stepped out of her red stilettos and went into a crouch. Through the slats in the door, she could see the shoes and legs of four men. The man who had fallen kept apologizing again and again, begging the others to believe him.

She recognized the voice of one of his tormentors: Frankie Wynter, the youngest son of James Wynter. Though she couldn’t exactly tell what was going on, she thought Frankie was pushing the man who was so very sorry while the others laughed.

There was a clunk as the man who was being pushed flopped into the swivel chair behind the desk. From this angle, she saw only the back sides of the three men. One of them rocked back on his heel, cracked his knuckles and then lunged forward. She heard the slap, flesh against flesh.

They hit him again. What could she do? How could she stop them? She hated being silent while someone else suffered. Each blow made her cringe. If her ex-husband had been here, he could have made a difference, would have done the right thing. But she was on her own and utterly without backup. Should she speak up? Did she dare?

The beating stopped.

“Shut up,” Frankie roared at the man in the chair. “Crying like a little girl, you make me sick.”

“Let me talk. Please. I need to see the kids.”

“Don’t beg.”

Emily saw the gleam of silver as Frankie drew his gun. Terror gripped her heart. The other two men flanked him. They murmured something about waiting for his father.

Frankie opened the center drawer on the desk and took out a silencer. “I can do what needs to be done.”

“But your father—”

“He’s always telling me to step up.” He finished attaching the silencer to his handgun. “That’s what I’m going to do.”

He fired point-blank, then fired again.

When Frankie stepped away, she saw the dead man in the chair. His suit jacket was thrown open. The front of his shirt was slick with blood.

Emily pinched her lips closed to keep from crying out. She should have done something. A man was dead, and she hadn’t reached out, hadn’t helped him.

“We’re already out at sea,” Frankie said. “International waters. A good place to dump a body.”

“I’ll get something to carry him in.”

He glanced toward the closet...


Chapter One (#ulink_8339b705-801b-593e-99b3-ee9fb79c3a0d)

Colorado

Six weeks later

He’d been down this road before. Though Sean Timmons was pretty sure that he’d never actually been to Hazelwood Ranch, there was something familiar about the long, snow-packed drive bordered on either side by wood fences. He parked his cherry-red Jeep Wrangler between a snow-covered pickup truck and a snowy white lump that was the size of a four-door sedan. Peering through his windshield, he saw a large two-story house with a wraparound porch. It looked like somebody had tried to shovel his or her way out, but the wind and new snow had all but erased the path leading to the front door.

Weather forecasters had been gleefully predicting the first blizzard of the Colorado ski season, and it looked like they were right for a change. Sean was glad he wouldn’t have to make the drive back to Denver tonight. He hadn’t formally accepted this assignment, but he didn’t see why he wouldn’t.

Hazel Hopkins from Hazelwood Ranch had called his office at TST Security yesterday and said she needed a bodyguard for at least a week, possibly longer. He wouldn’t be protecting Hazel but a “friend” of hers. She was vague about the threat, but he gathered that her “friend” had offended someone with a story she’d written. The situation didn’t seem too dangerous. Panic words, such as narcotics, crime lord and homicidal ax murderer, had been absent from her conversation.

Hazel had refused to give her “friend’s” name, which wasn’t all that unusual. The wealthy folk who lived near Aspen were often cagey about their identities. That was okay with him. The money transfer for Hazel’s retainer had cleared, and that was really all Sean needed to know. Still, he’d been curious enough to look up Hazelwood Ranch on the internet, where he’d learned that the ranch was a small operation with only twenty-five to fifty head of cattle. Hazel, the owner, was a small but healthy-looking woman with short silver hair. No clues about the identity of her “friend.” If he had to guess, he’d say that the person he’d be guarding was an aging movie star who’d written one of those tell-all books and was now regretting her candor.

Soon enough he’d know the truth. He zipped his parka, slapped on a knit cap and put on heavy-duty gloves. It wasn’t far to the front porch, but the snow was already higher than his ankles. Fat, wet flakes swirled around him as he left his Jeep and slogged along the remnants of a pathway to the front door.

On the porch, the Adirondack chairs and a hanging swing were covered with giant scoops of drifted snow. He stomped his boots and punched the bell under the porch lamp. Hazel Hopkins opened the door and ushered him into a warmly lighted foyer with a sweeping wrought-iron staircase and a matching chandelier with lights that glimmered like candles.

“Glad you made it, Sean.” Her voice was husky. When he looked down into her lively turquoise eyes, he suspected that a lot of wild living had gone into creating her raspy tone. Though she wore jeans on the bottom, her top was kimono-style with a fire-breathing dragon embroidered on each shoulder. He had the impression that he’d met her before.

She stuck out her tiny hand. “I’m Hazel Hopkins.”

Compared with hers, his hand looked as big as a grizzly bear’s paw. Sean was six feet, three inches tall, and this little woman made him feel like a hulking giant.

“Hang your jacket on the rack and take off your wet boots,” she said. “You’re running late. It’s almost dark.”

“The snow slowed me down.”

“I was worried.”

Parallel lines creased her forehead, and he noticed that she glanced surreptitiously toward a shotgun in the corner of the entryway. Gently he asked, “Have there been threats?”

“I had a more practical concern. I was worried that you wouldn’t be able to find the ranch and you couldn’t reach us by phone. Something’s wrong with my landline, and the blizzard is disrupting the cell phone signal.”

He sat on a bench by the door to take off his wet boots.

Without pausing for breath, she continued. “You know how they always say that the weather doesn’t affect your service on the cell phone or the Wi-Fi? Well, I’m here to tell you that’s a lie, a bold-faced lie. Every time we have a serious snowstorm, I have a problem.”

The heels on her pixie-size boots clicked on the terra-cotta floor between area rugs as she darted toward him, grabbed his boots and carried them to a drying mat under the coat hooks. She braced her fists on her hips and stared at him. “You’re exactly how I remembered.”

Aha, they had met before. He stood and adjusted the tail of his beige suede shirt to hide the holster he wore on his hip. “This may sound strange...” he said. “Have I ever been here?”

“I don’t think so. But Hazelwood Ranch is the backdrop for many, many photos. The kids came here often.”

Her explanation raised more questions. Backdrop for what? What kids? Why would he have seen the photos? “Maybe you could remind me—”

She reached up to pat his cheek. “I’m glad that you’re still clean-shaven. I don’t like the scruffy beard trend. I’ll bet you picked up your grooming habits in the FBI.”

“Plus, my mom was a good teacher.”

“Not according to the photo on your TST Security website,” she said. “Your brother, Dylan, has a ponytail.”

“He’s kind of a wild card. His specialties are electronics and cybersecurity.”

“And your specialty is working with law enforcement and figuring out the crimes. I believe your third partner, Mason Steele, is what you boys call the ‘muscle’ in the group.”

“I guess you checked me out.”

“I have, indeed.”

He took a long look at her, hoping to jog his brain. His mind was blank. Nothing came through. His gaze focused on her necklace, a long string of etched silver, black onyx and turquoise beads. He knew that necklace...and the matching bracelet coiled around her wrist.

Shaking his head, he inhaled deeply. A particular aroma came to him. The scent of roasted peppers, onions, chili and cinnamon mingled with honey and fresh corn bread. He couldn’t explain this odor, but his lungs had been craving it. Nothing else was nearly as sweet or as spicy delicious. Nothing else would satisfy this newly awakened appetite.

His eyelids closed as a high-definition picture appeared in his mind. He saw a woman—young, fresh and beautiful. A blue jersey shift outlined her slender curves, and she’d covered the front with a ruffled white apron. Her long, sleek brown hair cascaded down her back, almost to her waist. She held a wooden spoon toward him, offering a taste of her homemade chili.

He had always wanted more than a taste. He wanted everything with her, the whole enchilada. But he couldn’t have her. Their time was over.

He gazed down into her eyes...her turquoise eyes!

“You remember,” Hazel said, “the wedding.”

That Saturday in June, six and a half years ago, was a blur of color and taste and music and silence. His eyelids snapped open. “I recall the divorce a whole lot better.”

These were dangerous memories, warning bells. He should run, get the hell out of there. Instead, he followed his nose down a shadowy hallway. Stiff-legged, he marched through the dining room into the bright, warm kitchen where the aroma of chili was thick.

Two pans of golden corn bread rested near the sink on the large center island with a dark marble countertop. She stood at the stove with her back toward him, stirring a heavy cast-iron pot. She wore jeans that outlined her long legs and tight, round bottom. On top, she had on a striped sweater. Over her shoulder, she said, “Hazel, did I hear the doorbell?”

The small, silver-haired woman beside him growled a warning. “You should turn around slowly, dear.”

Sean gripped the edge of the marble countertop, unsure of how he was going to feel when he faced her. Every single day since their divorce five years ago—after only a year and a half of marriage—he had imagined her. Sometimes he remembered the sweet warmth of her body beside him in their bed. Other times he saw her from afar and reveled in coming closer and closer. Usually, he imagined her naked with her dark chestnut hair spilling across her olive skin.

Her hair! He stared at her back and shoulders. She’d chopped off her lush, silky hair.

“Emily,” he said.

She whirled. Clearly surprised, she wielded her wooden spoon like a knife she might plunge into his chest. “Sean.”

Her turquoise eyes were huge, outlined with thick, dark lashes. Her mouth was a thin, tight line. Her dark brows pulled down, and he immediately recognized her expression, a look he’d seen often while they were married. She was furious. What the hell did she have to be angry about? He was the one who had driven through a blizzard.

He stepped away from the counter, not needing the support. The anger surging through his veins gave him the strength of ten. “I don’t know what kind of sick game you two ladies are playing, but it’s not funny. I’m leaving.”

“Good.” She stuck out her jaw and took a step toward him. “I don’t want you hanging around.”

“Then why call me up here? I had a verbal contract, an agreement.” TST had a strict no-refund policy, but this was a special circumstance. He’d pay back the retainer from his own pocket. “Forget it. I’ll give your money back.”

“What money?” Emily’s upper lip curled in a sneer that she probably thought was terrifying. Yeah, right, as terrifying as a bunny wiggling its nose.

“You hired me.”

“Not me.” Emily threw her spoon back into the chili pot. “Aunt Hazel, what have you done?”

The silver-haired woman with dragons on her shoulders had maneuvered her way around so she was standing at the far end of the center island with both of them on the other side. “When you two got married, I always thought you were a perfect match.”

“You were the only one,” Emily said.

Unfortunately, that was true. Sean and Emily were both born and raised in Colorado, but they had met in San Francisco. She was a student at University of California in Berkeley, majoring in English and appearing at least once a week at local poetry slams. At one of these open-mike events, he saw her.

She’d been dancing around on a small stage wearing a long gypsy skirt. Her wild hair was snatched up on her head with dozens of ribbons. He’d been impressed when she rhymed “appetite” and “morning light” and “coprolite,” which was a technical word for fossilized poop. He would have stayed and talked to her, but he’d been undercover, rooting out a drug dealer at the slam venue. Sean had been in the FBI.

When they told people they were getting married, their opposite lifestyles—Bohemian chick versus federal agent—were the first thing people pointed to as a reason it would never work. The next issue was an age difference. She was nineteen, and he was twenty-seven. Eight years wasn’t really all that much, but her youthful immaturity stood in stark contrast to his orderly, responsible lifestyle.

“If you’d asked me at the time,” Aunt Hazel said, “I’d have advised you to live together before marriage.”

Sean hadn’t wanted to take that chance. He had hoped the bonds of marriage would help him control his butterfly. “It was a mistake,” he said.

Emily responded with a snort.

“You don’t think so?” he asked.

“Are you still here? You were in such a rush to get away from me.”

His contrary streak kicked in. He sure as hell wasn’t going to let her think that she was chasing him out the door. Very slowly and deliberately, he pulled out a stool and took a seat at the center island opposite the stove top. He turned away from Emily.

“Aunt Hazel,” he said, “you still haven’t told us why you hired me as a bodyguard.”

“You? A bodyguard?” Emily sputtered. “You’re not a fed anymore?”

“Do you care?”

“Why should I?”

“What are you doing now?” he asked.

“Writing.”

“Poetry?” He scoffed.

She exhaled an eager gasp as she tilted her head and leaned toward him. Her turquoise eyes flashed. Her face, framed by wisps of brown hair, was flushed beneath the natural olive tint. He remembered her spirit and her enthusiasm, and he knew that she wanted to tell him something. The words were poised at the tip of her tongue, straining to jump out.

And he wanted to hear them. He wanted to share with her, to listen to her stories and to feel the waves of excitement that radiated from her. Emily had always thrown herself wholeheartedly into whatever she was attempting to do. It was part of her charm. No doubt she had some project that was insanely ambitious.

With a scowl, she raised her hand, palm out, to hold him away from her. “Just go.”

“Such drama,” Aunt Hazel said. “The two of you are impossible. It’s called communication, and it’s not all that difficult. Sean, you’re going to sit there and I’m going to tell you what our girl has been up to.”

“I don’t have to listen to this,” Emily said.

“If I’m not explaining properly, feel free to jump in,” Hazel said. “First of all, Emily doesn’t write poems anymore. After the divorce, she changed her focus to journalism.”

“Totally impractical,” he muttered. “With all the newspapers going out of business, nobody makes a living as a journalist.”

“I do all right.”

Her voice was proud, and there was a strut in her step as she strolled from one end of the island to the other. Watching her long, slender legs and the way her hips swayed was a treat. He felt himself being drawn into her orbit. She’d always had the power to mesmerize him.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Tell me about your big deal success in journalism.”

“Right after the divorce, I got a job writing for the Daily Californian, Berkeley’s student newspaper. I learned investigative techniques, and I blogged. And I started doing articles for online magazines. I have a regular bimonthly piece in a national publication, and they pay very nicely.”

“For articles about eye shadow and shoes?”

“Hard-hitting news.” She slammed her fist on the marble island. “I witnessed a murder.”

“Which is why I called you,” Aunt Hazel said. “Emily’s life is in danger.”

This was just crazy enough to be possible. “Have you received threats?”

“Death threats,” she said.

His feet were rooted to the kitchen floor. He didn’t want to stay...but he couldn’t leave her here unprotected.


Chapter Two (#ulink_64c300a1-cbe8-540d-801b-d363d757154f)

Emily couldn’t look away from him. Fascinated, she watched as a muscle in Sean’s jaw twitched, his brow lowered and his eyes turned as black as polished obsidian. He was outrageously masculine.

With a nearly imperceptible shrug, his muscles tensed, but his frame didn’t contract. He seemed to get bigger. His fingers coiled into fists, ready to lash out. He was prepared to defend her against anything and everything. His aggressive stance told her that he’d take on an army to keep her from harm.

When she thought about it, his new occupation as a bodyguard made sense. Sean had always been a protector, whether it was keeping a bully away from his sweet-but-nerdy brother or rescuing a stray dog by stopping four lanes of traffic on a busy highway. If Sean had been hiding in that louvered closet instead of her, he would have saved the man she now could identify as Roger Patrone.

Sean reached toward her. She yanked her arm away. She didn’t dare allow him to get too close. No matter how much she wanted his embrace, that wasn’t going to happen. This man had been the love of her life. Ending their marriage was the most difficult thing she’d ever done, and she couldn’t bear going through that soul-wrenching pain again.

“Did you report the murder to the police?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said, “and to your former FBI bosses. Specifically, I had several chats with Special Agent Greg Levine. I’m surprised he didn’t call and tell you.”

“Levine is still stationed in San Francisco,” he said. “Is that where the crime took place?”

“Yes.”

“In the city?”

“Just beyond the Golden Gate Bridge.”

“In open waters,” he said. “A good place to dump a body.”

It was a bit disturbing that his FBI-trained brain and Freddie Wynter’s nefarious instincts drew exactly the same conclusion. Maybe you need to think like a criminal to catch one. “As it turned out, the ocean wasn’t such a great dump site. The victim washed up on Baker Beach five days later.”

“The waiting must have been rough on you,” he said. “It’s no fun to report a murder when the body goes missing.”

Definitely not fun when the investigating officer was buddy-buddy with her ex-husband. She’d asked Greg not to blab to Sean, but she’d expected him to ignore her request. Those guys stuck together. The only time Sean had lied to her when they were married was when he was covering up for a fellow fed.

She wondered if Sean’s departure from the FBI had been due to negative circumstances. Had Mr. Perfect screwed up? Gotten himself fired? “Why did you leave the FBI?”

“It was time.”

“Cryptic,” she snapped.

“It’s true.”

God forbid he give her a meaningful explanation! Leaving the FBI must have been traumatic for him. Sean was born to be a fed. He could have been a poster boy with his black hair neatly barbered and his chin clean-shaven and his beige chamois suede shirt looking like it had come fresh from the dry cleaner’s. He’d been proud to be a special agent. Would he confide in her if they’d fired him? “You can be so damn annoying.”

“Is that so?”

“I hate when you put off a perfectly rational query with a macho statement that doesn’t really tell me anything, like a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”

“I don’t expect you to understand.”

“Mission accomplished.”

Hostility vibrated around him. A red flush climbed his throat. Oh yeah, he was angry. Hot and angry. They could have put him on the porch and melted the blizzard.

“I’ll leave,” he said.

“Not in this storm,” Aunt Hazel said. “The two of you need to calm down. Have some chili. Try to be civil.”

Emily stepped away from the stove, folded her arms at her waist and watched with a sidelong gaze as Sean and her aunt dished up bowls of chili and cut off slabs of corn bread. Sean managed to squash his anger and transform into a pleasant dinner guest. She could have matched his politeness with a cold veneer of her own, but she preferred to say nothing.

There had been a time—long ago when she and Sean were first dating—when she was known for her candor. Every word from her lips was truth. She had been 100 percent frank and open.

Those days were gone.

She’d glimpsed the ugliness, heard the cries of the hopeless, learned that life wasn’t always good and people weren’t always kind. She’d lost her innocence.

And Hazel was correct. She’d gotten herself into trouble from the Wynters. Though she didn’t want to be, she was terrified. Almost anything could set off her fear...an unexpected phone call, the slam of a door, a car that followed too closely. She hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep since that night in James Wynter’s closet.

The only reason she hadn’t disintegrated into a quivering mass of nerves was simple: Wynter and his men didn’t know her identity. Her FBI contact had told her that they knew there was a witness to the murder, but didn’t know who. It was only a matter of time before they found out who she was and came after her. Tell him. Tell Sean. Let him be your bodyguard.

Her aunt asked, “Emily, can I get you something to drink?”

Hazel and Sean had already sprinkled grated cheddar on top of their chili bowls and added a spoonful of sour cream. They were headed to the adjoining dining room.

What would it hurt to have dinner with him? The more she looked at him, the more she saw hints of his former self, her husband, the gentleman, the broad-shouldered man who had stolen her heart. She remembered the first time they were introduced when he’d tried to shake hands and she gave him a hug. They’d always been opposites and always attracted.

“I’m not hungry,” Emily said.

“There’s no reason to be so stubborn,” Hazel scolded. “I’ve hired you a bodyguard. Let the man do his job.”

“I don’t want a bodyguard.”

She glared at Sean, standing so straight and tall like a knight in shining armor. She was drawn to his strength. At the same time, he ticked her off. She wanted to tip him over like an extra-large tin can.

Edging closer to the kitchen windows, she pushed aside the curtain and peered outside. Day had faded into dusk, and the snow was coming down hard and fast. The blizzard wasn’t going to let up; he’d be here all night. She’d be spending the night under the same roof with him? This could be a problem, a big one.

“I’ve got a question for you,” he said as he strolled past her and set his chili bowl on a woven place mat. “What kind of murder would trigger an FBI investigation?”

“The man who pulled the trigger is Frankie Wynter.”

He startled. “The son of James Wynter?”

She’d said too much. The best move now was to retreat. She stretched and yawned. “I’m tired, Aunt Hazel. I think I’ll go up to my room.”

Without waiting for a response, she pivoted and ran from the kitchen. In the foyer, she paused to put Hazel’s rifle in the closet. It was dangerous to leave that thing out. Then she charged up the staircase, taking two steps at a time. In her bedroom, she turned on the lamp and flopped onto her back on the queen-size bed with the handmade crazy quilt.

Memory showed her the picture of Roger Patrone sprawled back in the swivel chair with his necktie askew and his shirt covered in blood. When they came toward the closet, looking for something to wrap around poor Roger, she’d expected to be the next victim. She’d held tightly to the doorknob, hoping they’d think it was locked.

There had been no need to hold the knob. Frankie told them to get the plastic shower curtain from the bathroom. Blood wouldn’t seep through. His quick orders had made her think that he might have pulled this stunt before. Other bodies might have gone over the railing of his daddy’s double-decker yacht. Other murders might have been committed.

She stood, lurched toward the door, pivoted and went back to the bed. Trapped in her room like a child, she had no escape from memory. Her chest tightened. It felt like a giant fist was squeezing her lungs, and she couldn’t get enough oxygen. She sat up straight. She was hot and cold at the same time. Her head was dizzy. Her breath came in frantic gasps.

With a moan, she leaned forward, put her head between her knees and told herself to inhale through her nose and exhale through her mouth. Breathe deeply and slowly. Wasn’t working—her throat was too tight. Was she having a panic attack? She didn’t know; she’d never had this feeling before.

The door to her bedroom opened. Sean stepped inside as though he didn’t need to ask her permission and had every right to be there. She would have yelled at him, but she couldn’t catch her breath. Her pulse fluttered madly.

He crossed the carpet and sat beside her on the bed. His arm wrapped around her shoulders. His masculine aroma, a combination of soap, cedar forest and sweat, permeated her senses as she leaned her head against his shoulder.

Her hands clutched in a knot against her breast, but she felt her heart rate beginning to slow down. She was regaining control of herself. Somehow she’d find a way to handle the fear. And she’d set things right.

Gently, he rocked back and forth. “Better?”

“Much.” She took a huge gulp of air.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?”

“I already did. I told your buddy, Agent Levine.”

“Number one, he’s not my buddy. Number two, why didn’t he offer to put you in witness protection?”

“I turned it down,” she said.

“Emily, do you know how dangerous Frankie Wynter is?”

“I’ve been researching Wynter Corp for over a year,” she said. “Their smuggling operations, gambling and money laundering are nasty crimes, but the real evil comes from human trafficking. Last year, the port authorities seized a boxcar container with over seventy women and children crammed inside. Twelve were dead.”

“And Wynter Corp managed to wriggle out from under the charges.”

“The paperwork vanished.” That was one of the bits of evidence she’d hoped to get from James Wynter’s computer. “There was no indication of the sender or the destination where these people were to be delivered. All they could say was that they were promised jobs.”

“This kind of investigation is best left to the cops.”

She separated from him and rose to her feet. “I know what I’m doing.”

“I’m not discounting your ability,” he said. “You might be the best investigative reporter of all time, but you don’t have the contacts. Not like the FBI. They’ve got undercover people everywhere. Not to mention their access to advanced weaponry and surveillance equipment.”

“I understand all that.” He wasn’t telling her anything she hadn’t already figured out for herself.

“You’re a witness to a crime. That’s it—that’s all she wrote.”

She braced herself against the dresser and looked into the large mirror on the wall. Her reflection showed her fear in the tension around her eyes and her blanched complexion. Sean—ever the opposite—seemed calm and balanced.

“Can I tell you the truth?” she asked.

“That would be best.”

She made eye contact with his reflection in the mirror. “I didn’t actually witness the shooting. I saw Frankie with the gun in his hand. He screwed on a silencer. I heard the gunshot, and I saw the bullet holes...and the blood. But I didn’t actually witness Frankie pointing the gun and pulling the trigger.”

“Minor point,” he said. “A good prosecutor can connect those dots.”

“The body that washed ashore five days later was too badly nibbled by fishes for identification.” She splayed her fingers on the dresser and stared down at them. “I was kind of hoping he was someone else, someone who jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge, but Agent Levine matched his DNA.”

“To what?”

“I’d given a description to a sketch artist and identified the victim from a mug sheet photo. His name was Roger Patrone.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know him.”

“He was thirty-five, only a couple of years older than you, and made his living with a small-time gambling operation in a cheesy strip joint. Convicted of fraud, he served three years.”

“You’ve done your homework.”

“Never married, no kids, he was orphaned when he was nine and grew up with a family in Chinatown. He speaks the language, eats the food, knows the customs and has a reputation as a negotiator for Wynter.”

“Roger sounds like a useful individual,” Sean said. “I’m guessing the old man wasn’t too happy about this murder.”

“Yeah, well, blood is still thicker than water. The FBI brought Frankie in for questioning, but one of the other guys in Wynter Corp confessed to killing Patrone and claimed self-defense. He took the fall for the boss’s son.”

Sean left the bed and came up behind her. His chest wasn’t actually touching her back, but if she moved one step, she’d be in his arms.

In a measured tone, he said, “You’re telling me that Frankie’s not in custody.”

“No, he’s not.”

“And he knows there’s a witness.”

“Yes.”

“Did you write about the murder?”

“Agent Levine asked me not to.” But she had written many articles about the evil-doing of Wynter Corporation.

“Does Frankie have your name?”

“No,” she said. “I write under an alias, three different aliases, in fact. And I have two dummy blogs. Since my communication with these publications is via the internet, nobody even knows what I look like.”

“Smart.”

“Thank you.” Her reflection smiled at his. So far, so good. She might make it through the night with no more explanation than that. There was more to tell, but she didn’t want to get involved with Sean. Not again.

He continued. “And you’re also smart to have left Frankie and the other thugs behind in San Francisco. Hazelwood Ranch seems like a safe place to stay until this all dies down.”

Unfortunately, she hadn’t come to visit Aunt Hazel for safety reasons. Her gaze flickered across the surface of the mirror. She didn’t want to tell him.

He leaned closer, whispered in her ear. “What is it, Emily? What do you want to say?”

The words came tumbling out. “Frankie is here in Colorado. The Wynter family has a gated compound over near Aspen. I didn’t come here to give up on my investigation. I need to go deeper.”

He grasped her upper arms. “Leave this to the police.”

From downstairs, there was a scream.


Chapter Three (#ulink_bac79161-6333-535a-81d3-5cfa8a2bf73e)

“Aunt Hazel!”

Though Emily’s immediate reaction was to run toward the sound of the scream, Sean only allowed her to take two steps before he grabbed her around the middle and yanked her so hard that her feet left the floor. This was why he’d been hired.

He dragged her across the bedroom. There was only one thought in his mind: get her to safety. In the attached bathroom, he set her down beside a claw-foot tub.

“Stay here,” he ordered as he drew his gun. “Keep quiet.”

“The hell I will.”

Though he hated to waste time with explanation, she needed to know what was going on. He spoke in a no-nonsense tone. “If there’s been a break-in, they’re after you. If you turn yourself in, we have no leverage. For your Aunt Hazel’s safety, you need to avoid being taken captive.”

“Okay, help her.” Her face flushed red with fear and anger. Her eyes were wild. She pushed at his shoulder with both hands. “Hurry!”

Moving fast, he crossed to her closed bedroom door. He wished he was wearing boots instead of just socks. If he had to go outside, his feet would turn to ice. He paused at the door and mentally ran through the layout of the house. From the upstairs landing, he could see the front door. He’d know if someone had broken in that way.

Sean was confident in his ability to handle one intruder, maybe two. But Frankie Wynter had a lot of thugs at his disposal, and they were loyal; one guy was willing to face a murder rap for the boss’s son. One—or two or more—of them might be standing outside her bedroom door right now.

But he didn’t hear anything. Outside, the snow rattled against the windows. The wind whistled. From downstairs, he heard shuffling noises. A heavy fist rapping at the door? A muffled shout. Sean turned the knob, pulled the door open and braced the gun in his hands, ready to shoot.

There was no one on the upstairs landing.

Emily dashed to his side. “Let me help. Please!”

He’d told her to stay back and she chose to ignore him. Emily was turning into a problem. “Is that tub in the bathroom made of cast iron?”

“It’s antique. Now is not the time for a home tour.”

“Get inside the tub and stay there.” At least, she wouldn’t be hit by a stray bullet.

“I’m coming with you.”

Was she trying to drive him crazy or was this stubborn, infuriating behavior just a part of her natural personality? He couldn’t exactly remember. He’d had damn good reasons for divorcing this woman. “No time to argue. Just accept the fact that I know what I’m doing.”

“I need a gun.”

“What you need is to listen to me.”

“Please, Sean! You always carry two guns. Give one to me.”

He pulled the Glock from his ankle holster and slapped it into her hand. “Do you remember how to use this?”

She recited the rules he’d taught her one golden afternoon six years ago in Big Sur. “Aim and don’t close my eyes. No traditional safety on a Glock, so keep my finger off the trigger until I’m ready. Squeeze—don’t yank.”

“You’ve got the basics.”

He’d treated their lessons like a game and had never insisted that she take his weapon from the combination safe when he was on assignment and she was alone at home. While he was working undercover, he’d worried about her safety, worried that she’d be hurt and it would be his fault. There was a strange irony in the fact that she’d put herself in ten times more danger than he could imagine.

He peered through the open bedroom door onto the upstairs landing where an overhead light shone down on the southwestern decor that dominated the house: a Navajo rug, a rugged side table and a cactus in an earthenware pot. A long hallway led to other bedrooms. The front edge of the landing was a graceful black wrought-iron staircase overlooking the foyer and chandelier by the front door.

Sean peered over the railing.

A menacing silence rose to greet him. He didn’t like the way this was going. Emily’s aunt wasn’t the type of woman who cowered in silence. He gestured for Emily to stay upstairs while he descended.

At the foot of the staircase, he caught a glimpse of flying kimono dragons when Hazel raced across the foyer and skidded to a stop right in front of him.

She glared. “Where the heck is my rifle?”

Looking down from the landing, Emily said, “I moved it to the front closet.”

“I had my gun right by the door,” she said to Sean. “Emily shouldn’t have moved it. Out of sight, out of mind.”

The women in this family simply didn’t grasp what it took to be cautious and safe. They needed ten bodyguards apiece. He rushed Hazel up the stairs, where she hugged Emily. The two of them commiserated as though the threat were over and done with. Had they forgotten that there might be an intruder?

“Hazel,” he barked, “why did you scream?”

“I heard something outside and looked through the window. A fat lot of good it did, the snow’s coming down so hard I couldn’t see ten feet. But I caught a glimmer...headlights. I went toward the front door for a better look. At the exact same time, I heard somebody crashing against the back door like they were trying to bust it down. That’s when I screamed.”

Sean figured that five minutes had passed since they’d heard Hazel’s cry for help. “After you screamed, what did you do?”

“I hid.”

“Smart,” he said. “You didn’t reveal your hiding spot until you saw me.”

She nodded, and her short silver hair bounced.

“Did you see the intruder? Did he make a noise? Was there more than one?”

“Well, my hearing isn’t what it once was, but I’m pretty sure there was only one voice. And I guarantee that nobody made enough noise to tear down the back door.”

As Sean herded Emily and her aunt into Emily’s bedroom, he tallied up the possible ways to break into the house. In addition to front and back door and many windows, there was likely an entrance to a root cellar or basement. The best way to limit access to the two women was to keep them upstairs. Unfortunately, it also meant they had no escape.

From Emily’s bedroom, he peered through the window to the area where the cars were parked. He squinted. “I can see the outline of a truck.”

“So?”

“Do you recognize it?” Is that Frankie Wynter’s truck?

“We’re in the mountains, Sean. Every other person drives a truck.”

A coating of snow had already covered the truck bed; he couldn’t tell if anybody had been riding in back. But the vehicle showed that someone else was on the property, even if there hadn’t been other noises from downstairs.

He gave Emily a tight smile. “Stay here with Hazel. Take care of her.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’ll check the doors and other points of access.”

Her terse nod was a match for his smile. They were both putting on brave faces and tamping down the kind of tension that might cause your hand to tremble or your teeth to chatter. When she rested her hand against his chest, he was reminded of the early days in their marriage when she’d say goodbye before he left on assignment.

“Be careful, Sean.”

He tore his gaze away from her turquoise eyes and her rose petal lips. Her trust made him feel strong and brave, even if he wasn’t facing a real dragon. He was girding his loins, like a knight protecting his castle. In the old days, they would have kissed.

“I should come with you,” Aunt Hazel said. “You need someone to watch your six.”

“Stay here,” he growled.

Emily hooked her arm around her aunt’s waist. “We might as well do what he says. Sean can be a teensy bit rigid when it comes to obeying orders.”

“My, my, my.” Hazel adjusted the embroidered dragons on her shoulders. “Isn’t that just like a fed?”

Hey, lady, you’re the one who called me. And he was done playing their games. As far as he was concerned, they’d had their last warning. He refused to stand here and explain again why they shouldn’t throw themselves into the line of fire when there was a possible intruder. He made a quick pivot and descended the staircase with the intention of searching the main floor.

The house was large but not so massive that he’d get lost. First, he would determine if an intruder was inside. The front door hadn’t been opened. The door to a long, barrack-type wing where ranch hands might sleep during a busy season was locked, and the same was true for the basement door and the back door that opened onto a wide porch. Though it had a dead bolt, the back door lock was flimsy, easily blasted through with a couple of gunshots. As far as he could tell, no weapons had been fired.

When he pushed open the back door, a torrent of glistening snow swept inside. The area near the rear porch was trampled with many prints in the snow. Was it one person or several? He couldn’t tell, but Hazel’s story was true. She’d heard someone back here.

As he closed the rear door and relocked it, he heard Emily call his name. Her voice was steady, strong and unafraid. Weapon raised, he rushed toward the front of the house. The door was opening. A man in a brown parka with fur around the hood plodded inside.

Though he didn’t look like much of a threat, Sean wasn’t taking any chances. “Freeze.”

“I sure as hell will if I don’t close this door.”

As the man in the parka turned to shut the front door, Hazel came down the staircase. “It’s okay, Sean. This is my neighbor, Willis. He was a deputy sheriff until he retired a couple of years ago.”

“I was worried, Hazel.” As he shoved off his hood, unzipped the parka and stomped his snowmobile boots, puddles of melted snow appeared on the terra-cotta tile floor. “Couldn’t reach you on the phone, so I decided to come over here and check before I went to bed. Hi, Emily.”

“Hey, Willis.”

“Take off those boots.” Hazel pointed to the bench by the door. “Are you hungry? Emily made a big pot of chili.”

He sat and grinned at Sean and Emily. His face was ruddy and wet. A few errant flakes of snow still clung to his thick mustache. “And who’s this young fella with the Glock?”

“Sean Timmons of TST Security.” He shook the older man’s meaty hand. “I’m Emily’s bodyguard.”

Willis was clearly intrigued. Why did Emily need protection? What other kind of security work did Sean do? He pushed the strands of wet gray hair off his forehead and straightened his mustache before he asked, “You hiring?”

“Part time,” Sean said. “I can always use a man with experience as a deputy sheriff.”

“Seventeen years,” Willis said. “And I still work with the volunteer fire brigade and mountain search and rescue.”

“Plus you’ve got your own little neighborhood watch.” Sean had the feeling that Hazel got more attention from the retired deputy than the others in this area. “You have a key to the front door.”

“That’s right.”

“Do you mind telling me why you banged on the back door and didn’t let yourself in?”

“The back door is always unlocked, and it was a few less steps through the blizzard than the front. When I found it locked, I was pretty damn mad. I yanked at the handle to make sure it wasn’t just stuck, and I might have let out a few choice swear words.”

“Scared me half to death,” Hazel said.

“I heard you scream.” Willis looked down at the floor between his boots. He wore two pairs of wool socks. Both had seen better days. “And I felt like a jackass for scaring you.”

She patted his cheek, halfway chiding and halfway flirting. “You’re lucky I couldn’t find my rifle.”

While he explained that his keys were in the truck, and he had to tromp back out there to find the right ones, Hazel fussed over him. She was a touchy-feely person who hugged and patted and stroked. Sean noted her behavior and realized how similar it was to methods Emily used to calm him, mesmerize him and convince him to do whatever she wanted.

He glanced toward her. She sat on the fourth step, where she had a clear view of the others in the foyer. Her gaze flicked to the left, but he knew she’d been watching him. A hard woman to figure out. Was she angry or nervous? Independent or lonely?

Earlier tonight, she’d been on the verge of a panic attack. Her eyes had been wide with fear. Her muscles were so tightly clenched that she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Scared to death, and he didn’t blame her. James Wynter and his associates were undeniably dangerous.

A muscle in his jaw clenched. Why had she chosen to go after these violent criminals? And how did Levine justify leaving this witness unprotected? The FBI had been chasing Wynter for years, way before Sean was stationed in San Francisco. A chance to lock up Frankie Wynter would be a coup.

“Then it’s settled,” Hazel said. “Willis is sticking around for some chili and a couple of beers. You kids come into the dining room and join us.”

“In a minute,” Emily promised as she rose to her feet and motioned for Sean to come toward her.

She stayed on the first step, and he stood below her. They were almost eye level.

He asked, “Did you have something you wanted to say?”

“You did good tonight. I know that Hazel and I can be a handful, but you managed us. You were organized, quick. And when we thought we needed you, there you were, charging around the corner and yelling for Willis to freeze. You were...” She exhaled a sigh. “Impressive.”

Her compliment made him leery. “It’s what I do.”

“Not that we actually needed your bodyguard skills.” She caught hold of his hand and gave a squeeze. “This was a simple misunderstanding because of the blizzard.”

“You have plenty of reason to be worried,” he reminded her. “You mentioned the Wynter family compound near Aspen. Tonight it was Willis at the door. Tomorrow it might be Frankie Wynter.”

“Don’t make this into a worst-case scenario.” She continued to hold his hand, and he felt the tension in her grip. “Tonight a neighbor came to pay a visit. That’s all. And the blizzard is just snow. It’s harmless. Kids play in it. Ever build a snowman?”

“Ever get caught in an avalanche?” He was keeping the tone light, but there was something important he needed to say. “Seriously, Emily, you need a bodyguard.”

“I agree, and the job is yours.”

He’d expected an argument but was glad that she’d decided to be rational. He glanced toward the dining room. “I could do with another bowl of chili.”

“Me, too.”

Before she hopped down the stair step to the floor, she went up on tiptoe and gave him a kiss on the forehead. It was nothing special, the kind of small affection a wife might regularly bestow on her husband. The utter simplicity blew him away.

Before she could turn her back and skip off into the dining room, he caught her hand and gave a tug. She was in his arms. When her body pressed against his, they were joined together the way they were supposed to be.

Then he kissed her.


Chapter Four (#ulink_0125af7d-373b-52d2-bc7e-78e2d51e6041)

Emily hadn’t intended to seduce him. That little kiss on his forehead was meant to be friendly. If she’d known she was lighting the fuse to a passionate response, she never would have gotten within ten feet of him. Not true. I’m lying to myself. From the moment she’d seen him, sensual memories had been taunting from the back of her mind. It was only a matter of time before that undercurrent would become manifest.

Their marriage was over, but she never had stopped imagining Sean as her lover. Nobody kissed her the way he did. The pressure of his mouth against hers was familiar and perfect. Will he do that thing with his tongue? The thing where he parts my lips gently, and then he deepens the kiss. His tongue swoops and swirls. And there’s a growling noise from the back of his throat, a vibration.

She’d never been able to fully describe what he did to her and what sensations he unleashed. But he was doing it right now, right in this moment. Oh yes, kiss me again.

She almost swooned. Swoon? No way! She’d changed. No more the lady poet, she was a hard-bitten journalist, not the type of woman who collapsed in a dead faint after one kiss, definitely not.

But her grip on consciousness was slipping fast. Her knees began to buckle, and she clung to his shoulders to keep from slipping to the floor. Her hands slid down his chest. Even that move was sexy; through the smooth fabric of his beige chamois shirt, she fondled his hard but supple abs.

This out-of-control but very pleasurable attraction had to stop before she lost her willpower, her rationality...her very mind. Pushing with the flat of her palms against his chest, she forced a distance between them. “We can’t do this.”

“Sure we can.” He slung his arm around her waist. “It’s been a while, but I haven’t forgotten how.”

Tomorrow he’d thank her for not dissolving into a quivering blob of lust. Firmly, she said, “I can see that we’re going to need ground rules.”

He kissed the top of her head and took a step back. “You cut it.”

“What?”

“Your hair, you cut it.”

“Too much trouble.” She fluffed her chin-length bob. “And getting rid of the Rapunzel curls makes me look more adult.”

“Oh yeah, you’re really grown up. How old are you now, twenty-one? Twenty-two?”

She didn’t laugh at his lame attempt at humor. “I’m almost twenty-six.”

Their eight-year age difference had always been an issue. When they first met, she’d just turned nineteen. They were married and divorced before she was twenty-one, and she’d always wondered if their relationship would have lasted longer if she’d been more mature. It was a familiar refrain. If I knew then what I know now, things would be different.

More likely, they never would have gotten together in the first place. Older and wiser, she would have taken one look at him and realized that he wasn’t the sort of man who should be married.

“I like your new haircut,” he said. “And you’re right. We need some ground rules.”

She gestured toward the dining room. “Should we eat chili while we talk?”

“That depends on how much you want your aunt and former deputy Willis to know.”

Of course, he was right. She didn’t want to spill potentially dangerous information about Wynter Corp into a casual conversation. Until now the only thing she’d told Aunt Hazel was that she’d witnessed a murder in San Francisco. She hadn’t named the killer or the victim and certainly hadn’t mentioned that the Wynter family had a place near Aspen.

Regret trickled through her. She probably shouldn’t have come here. Though she’d been ultracautious in keeping her identity secret and her connection to Hazel was hard to trace, somebody might find out and come after them. If anything happened to Hazel...

Emily shuddered at the thought. “I don’t want my aunt to get stuck in the middle of this.”

“Agreed.”

“Come with me.”

She led him across the foyer to a living room that reflected Hazel’s eclectic personality with a combination of classy and rustic. The terra-cotta floor and soft southwestern colors blended with painted barn wood on the walls. The high ceiling was open beam. The rugged, moss rock fireplace reminded Emily that her aunt was an outdoorswoman who herded cattle and tamed wild mustangs. But Hazel also had a small art collection, including two Georgia O’Keeffe watercolor paintings of flowers that hung on either side of the fireplace.

While Emily went behind the wet bar at the far end of the room, Sean studied the watercolor of a glowing pink-and-gold hydrangea. “Is this an original?”

“A gift from the artist,” Emily said. “Hazel spent some time with O’Keeffe at Ghost Ranch in New Mexico.”

“I keep forgetting how rich your family is. None of you are showy. It’s all casual and comfortable and then I realize that you’ve got valuable artwork on the wall.” He made his way across the room to the wet bar. “When I was driving up to this place, I had the feeling I’d seen it before. Did we come here for a visit?”

“I don’t think so. Hazel was in Europe for most of the year and a half we were married.” She peered through the glass door of the wine cellar refrigerator. “White wine or red?”

“How about beer?”

“You haven’t changed.” She opened the under-the-counter refrigerator and selected two bottles of craft beers with zombies on the labels. “You’ll like this brand. It’s dark.”

He didn’t question her selection, just grabbed the beer, tapped the neck against hers and took a swig. He licked his lips. “Good.”

A dab of foam glistened at the corner of his mouth, and she was tempted to wipe the moisture off, better yet, to lick it.

“Ground rules,” she said, reminding herself as much as him.

“First, I want to know why I have déjà vu about Hazelwood Ranch. Do you have any photo albums?”

She came out from behind the bar and shot him a glare. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not take a side trip down memory lane. We have more urgent concerns.”

“You’re the one who introduced family into the picture,” he said. “I want to understand a few things about Hazel. How long has she lived here?”

“The ranch doesn’t belong to our family. Hazel’s late husband was the owner of this and many other properties near Aspen. He renamed this small ranch Hazelwood in honor of her. They always seemed so happy. Never had kids, though. He was older, in his fifties, when they got married.”

She scanned the spines of books in a built-in shelf until she found a couple of photo albums. As she took them down and carried them to the coffee table in front of the sofa, she realized that she hadn’t downloaded her own photos in months. Digital albums were nice, but she really preferred the old-fashioned way.

“I knew there’d be pictures,” he said.

“Do you remember those journals I used to make? I’d take an old book with an interesting cover and replace the pages with my own sketches and poetry and photos.”

“I remember.” His voice was as soft as a caress. “The Engagement Journal was the best present you ever gave me.”

“What about the watch, the super-expensive, engraved wristwatch?”

“Also treasured.”

She went back to the bar, snatched up her beer and returned to sit on the sofa beside him. “I’m an excellent present giver. It’s a family trait.”

“How are they, the Peterson family?”

“My oldest sister had a baby girl, which means I’m an aunt, and the other two are in grad school. Mom and Dad moved to Arizona, which they love.” She took a taste of the zombie beer, which was, as she’d expected, excellent, and gave him a rueful smile. “I don’t suppose Aunt Hazel told my mom that she was calling you.”

“Your mom hated me.”

Emily made a halfhearted attempt to downplay her mother’s opinion. “You weren’t their favorite.”

Her parents had begged her to stay in college and wait to get married until she was older. Emily was her mom’s baby, the youngest of four girls, the artistic one. When Emily’s divorce came, Mom couldn’t wait to say “I told you so.”

“Toward the end,” he said, “I thought she was beginning to come around.”

“It was never about you personally,” she said. “I was too young, and you were too old. And Mom didn’t really like that you did dangerous undercover work in the FBI.”

“And what does she think of your current profession?”

She took a long swallow of the dark beer. “Hates it.”

“Does she know about the murder?”

“Oh God, no.” She cringed. If her mother suspected that she was actually in danger, she’d have a fit.

Emily opened the older of the two albums. The photographs were arranged in chronological order with Emily and her sisters starting out small and getting bigger as they aged. Nostalgia welled up inside her. The Petersons were a good-looking family, wholesome and happy. In spite of what Sean thought, they weren’t really rich. Sure, they had enough money to live well and take vacations and pay for school tuitions. But they weren’t big spenders, and their home in an upscale urban neighborhood in Denver wasn’t ostentatious.

Like her older sisters, she had tried to be what her parents wanted. They valued education, and when she told them she was considering becoming a teacher, they were thrilled. But Emily went to UC Berkeley and strayed from the path. She was a poet, a performance artist, an activist and a photographer. Her marriage and divorce to Sean had been just one more detour from the straight and narrow.

Aunt Hazel was more indulgent of Emily’s free-spirited choices. Hazel approved of Sean. She’d invited him to be a bodyguard. Maybe she knew something Emily hadn’t yet learned.

He stopped her hand as she was about to turn a page in the album. He pointed to a wintertime photo of her, wearing a white knit hat with a pom-pom and standing at the gate that separated Hazelwood Ranch from public lands. She couldn’t have been more than five or six. Bundled up in her parka and jeans and boots, she appeared to be dancing with both hands in the air.

“This picture,” he said. “You put a copy of this in the journal you gave me. I must have looked at it a hundred times. I never really noticed the outline of the hills and the curve in the road, but my subconscious must have absorbed the details. Seeing that photo is like being here.”

His déjà vu was explained.

She asked, “What are we going to do to protect Hazel?”

“How does she feel about Willis? Do they have a little something going on?”

She and her aunt hadn’t directly talked about who Hazel was dating, but Emily couldn’t help noticing that Willis had stopped by for a visit every day. Sometimes twice a day. “Why do you ask?”

“We could hire Willis to be a bodyguard for Hazel. They might enjoy an excuse to spend more time together.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” she said. “His performance tonight—tromping around in the snow looking for a house key—wasn’t typical. Usually he’s competent.”

“I wouldn’t want to throw him up against an army of thugs with automatic pistols,” he said, “but that shouldn’t be necessary. If you settle here and keep a low profile, there’s no reason for Wynter to track you down. You’re sure he doesn’t know you’re the witness?”

“I was careful, bought my plane tickets under a fake name, blocked and locked everything on my computer, threw away my phone so I couldn’t be tracked.”

“How did you learn to do all that?”

“Internet,” she said. “I read a couple of how-to articles on disappearing yourself. Plus, I might have picked up a couple of hints when we were married.”

“But you didn’t like my undercover work.” He leaned back against the sofa pillows and sipped his beer. “You said when I took on a new identity, it was a lie.”

At the time, she hadn’t considered her criticism to be unreasonable. Any new bride would be upset if her husband said he was going to be out of touch for a week or two and couldn’t tell her where he was going or what he was doing. She jabbed an accusing finger in his direction. “I had every right to interrogate you, every right to be angry when you wouldn’t tell me what was going on.”

His dark eyes narrowed, but he didn’t look menacing. He was too handsome. “You could have just trusted me.”

“Trust you? I hardly knew you.”

“You were my wife.”

It hadn’t taken long for them to jump into old arguments. Was he purposely trying to provoke her? First he mentioned the age thing. Now he was playing the “trust me” card. Damn it, she didn’t want to open old wounds. “Could we keep our focus on the present? Please?”

“Fine with me.” He stretched out his long legs and rested his stocking feet on the coffee table. “You claim to have covered your tracks when you traveled and when you masked your identity.”

“Claimed?” Her anger sparked.

“Can you prove that you’re untraceable? Can anybody vouch for you?”

“Certainly not. The point of hiding my identity is to eliminate contacts.”

“Just to be sure,” he said, “I’ll ask Dylan to do a computer search. If anybody can hack your identity or files, he can.”

“It’s not necessary, but go ahead.” She was totally confident in her abilities. “I’ve always liked your brother. How’s he doing?”

“We keep him busy at TST doing computer stuff. You’ll be shocked to hear that he’s finally found a girlfriend who’s as smart as he is. She’s a neurosurgeon.”

“I’m not surprised.” The two brothers made a complementary pairing: Dylan was a genius, and Sean had street smarts.

“I’ll use my FBI contacts, namely, Levine, to keep tabs on their investigation.” He drained his beer and stood. “That should just about cover it.”

“Cover what?”

“Ground rules,” Sean said as he crossed the room toward the wet bar. “You and Hazel will be safe if you stay here and don’t communicate with anybody. I’ll need to take your cell phone.”

“Not necessary,” she said. “I’m aware that cell phones can be hacked and tracked. I only use untraceable burner phones.”

“What about your computer?”

She swallowed hard. In the back of her mind, she knew her computer could be hacked long distance and used to track her down. There was no way she’d give up her computer. “All my documents are copied onto a flash drive.”

“I need to disable the computer. No calling except on burner phones. No texting. No email. No meetings.”

Anger and frustration bubbled up inside her. Though she hadn’t finished her beer and didn’t need a replacement, she followed him to the bar. She climbed up on a stool and peered down at him while he looked into the under-the-counter fridge. When he stood, she glared until he met her gaze.

To his credit, Sean didn’t back down, even though she felt like she was shooting lightning bolts through her eye sockets. When she opened her mouth to speak, she was angry enough to breathe fire. “Your ground rules don’t work for me.”

He opened another zombie beer. “What’s the problem?”

“If I can’t use the internet, how can I work?”

“Dylan can probably hook up some kind of secure channel to communicate with your employer.”

“What if I don’t want to stay here?”

“I suppose I could move you to a safe house or hotel.” He came around the bar and faced her. “What’s really going on?”

“Nothing.”

“You always said you hated lying and liars, but you’re not leveling with me. If you don’t tell me everything, I can’t do my job.”

The real, honest-to-God problem was simple: she hadn’t given up on the Wynter investigation. One of the specific reasons she’d come to Colorado was to dig up evidence against Frankie. She swiveled around on the bar stool so she was facing away from him. “I don’t want to bury my head in the sand.”

“Explain.”

“I want to know why Roger Patrone was murdered. And I want to stop the human trafficking from Asia.”

He nodded. “We all want that.”

“But I have leads to track down. If I could hook up with people from the Wynter compound and question them, I might get answers. Or I could break in and download the information on their computers. I might find evidence that would be useful to the FBI.”

“Seriously?” He was skeptical. “You want to keep digging up dirt, poking the dragon?”

She shot back. “Well, that’s what an investigative reporter does.”

“This isn’t a joke, Emily. You saw what happens to people who cross Frankie Wynter.”

“They get shot and dumped.”

Wynter’s men could toss her body into a mountain cave, and she wouldn’t be found for years. When she voiced her plan out loud, it sounded ridiculous. How could she expect to succeed in her investigation when the FBI had failed?

“If you want to take that kind of risk,” he said, “that’s your choice. But don’t put Hazel in danger.”

He was right. She shouldn’t have come here, and she definitely shouldn’t have talked to him. Trust me? Fat chance.

Their connection had already begun to unravel, which was probably for the best. He irritated her more than a mohair sweater on a sunny day. Her unwarranted attraction to him was a huge distraction from her work. She should tell him to go. She didn’t need a bodyguard.

But Sean was strong and quick, well trained in assault and protection. He knew things about investigating and undercover work that she could only guess about. Her gut instincts told her she really did need him.

“Come with me,” she said. “Back to San Francisco.”


Chapter Five (#ulink_3804578a-6860-537f-995a-dadb3818d273)

At five o’clock the next morning, Sean stood at the window in the kitchen and opened the blinds so he could see outside while he was waiting for the coffeemaker to do its thing. He’d turned off the overhead light, and the cool blue shadows in the kitchen melted into the shimmer of moonlight off the unbroken snow. The blizzard had ended.

Soon the phones would be working. Lines of communication would be open. There would be nothing to block Emily’s return trip to San Francisco. She’d decided that she needed to go back and dig into her investigation, and it didn’t look like she was going to budge.

It was up to him whether he’d go with her as her bodyguard or not. His first reaction was to refuse. She had neither the resources nor the experience to delve into the criminal depths of Wynter Corp, and she was going to get into trouble, possibly lethal trouble. He needed to make her understand her limitations without insulting her skills.

Outside, the bare branches of aspen and fir trees bent and wavered in the wind. So cold. So lonely. A shiver went through him. Their divorce had been five years ago. He should be over it. But no. He missed her every single day. Seeing her again and hearing her voice, even if she was arguing with him most of the time, touched a part of him that he kept buried.

He still cared about Emily. Damn it, he couldn’t let her go to California by herself. She needed protection, and nobody could keep her safe the way he could. He would die for her...but he preferred not to.

After she’d made her announcement in the living room, she outlined the plan. “Tomorrow morning, we’ll catch a plane and be in San Francisco before late afternoon. There’ll be time for you to have a little chat with Agent Levine and the other guys in that office. We’ll talk to my contacts on the day after that.”

He’d objected, as any sane person would, but she’d already made up her mind. She flounced into the dining room and ate chili with Hazel and Willis. The prime topic of their conversation being big snowstorms and their aftermath. The chat ended with Emily’s announcement that she’d be going back to San Francisco as soon as the snow stopped because she had to get back to work.

During the night, he’d gone into her room to try talking sense into her. Before he could speak, she asked if he would accompany her. When he said no, she told him to leave.

Stubborn! How could a woman who looked so soft and gentle be so obstinate? She was like a rosebush with roots planted deep—so strong and deep that she could halt the forward progress of a tank. How could he make her see reason? What sort of story could he tell her?

Finally, the coffeemaker was done. He poured a cup, straight black, for himself and one for her with a dash of milk, no sugar. Up the staircase, he was careful not to spill over the edge of the mugs. Twisting the doorknob on her bedroom took some maneuvering, but he got it open and slipped inside.

For a long moment, he stood there, watching her sleep in the dim light that penetrated around the edges of the blinds. A pale blue comforter was tucked up to her chin. Wisps of dark hair swept across on her forehead. Her eyelashes made thick, dark crescents above her cheekbones, and her lips parted slightly. She was even more beautiful now than when they were married.

She claimed that she’d changed, and he recognized the difference in some ways. She was tougher, more direct. When he thought about her rationale for investigating, he understood that she was asserting herself and building her career. Those practical concerns were in addition to the moral issues, like that need to get justice for the guy who was murdered and to right the wrongs committed by Wynter Corp. He crossed the room, placed the mugs on the bedside table and sat on the edge of her bed.

Slowly, she opened her eyes. “Has it stopped snowing?”

He nodded.

“Have you changed your mind?”

“Have you?”

She wiggled around until she was sitting up, still keeping the comforter wrapped around her like a droopy cocoon. Fumbling in the nearly dark room, she turned on her bedside lamp and reached for the coffee. “I’d like a nip of caffeine before we start arguing again.”

“No need to argue. I want to help with your investigation.”

“I’d be a fool to turn you down.”

Damn right, you would. His qualifications were outstanding. In addition to the FBI training at Quantico, he’d taken several workshops and classes on profiling. When he first signed on, his goal was to join the Behavioral Analysis Unit. But that was not to be. His psych tests showed that his traits were better suited to a different position. He was a natural for undercover work; namely, he had an innate ability to lie convincingly.

“Plus, I’m offering the services of my brother, the computer genius and hacker.”

Suspicion flickered in her greenish-blue eyes. “I appreciate the offer, but what’s the quid pro quo?”

“Listen to you.” He grinned. “Awake for only a couple of minutes and already speaking Latin.”

She turned to look at the clock and then groaned. “Five-fifteen in the morning. Why so early?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“So you thought you’d just march in here and make sure I didn’t get a full eight hours.”

“As if you need that much.”

The way he remembered, she seldom got more than five hours. He often woke up to find her in the middle of some project or another. Emily was one of those people who bounced out of bed and was fully functional before she brushed her teeth.

“It’s going to be a long day.” She drank her coffee and dramatically rolled her eyes. “Plane rides can be so very exhausting.”

“Here’s the deal,” he said. “There aren’t any direct flights from Aspen to San Francisco. You’ll be routed through Denver first.”

Watching him over the rim of her mug, she nodded agreement.

“Since we’re already there, let’s make a scheduled stop in Denver, spend the night and talk to Dylan. We’ll still be investigating. Didn’t you say you were looking for documents about imports and exports? He could hack in to Wynter Corp.”

“Information obtained through illegal hacking can’t be used for evidence.”

“But you’re not a cop,” he said. “You don’t have to follow legal protocols.”

“True, and a hack could point me in the right direction. Dylan could also check company memos mentioning the murder victim. And, oh my God, accounting records.” She came to an abrupt halt, set down her coffee and stared at him. “Why are you making this offer?”

“I want to help you with your new career.”

Though he truly wished her well, helping her investigation wasn’t the primary reason he’d suggested a stop in Denver. Sean wanted to derail her trip to San Francisco and keep her out of danger. As far as he was concerned, the world had enough investigative journalists. But there was only one Emily Peterson.

Her gaze narrowed. “Are you lying?”

He scoffed. “Why would I lie?”

“Turning my question into a different question isn’t an answer.” A slow smile lifted one corner of her mouth. “It’s a technique that liars use.”

“Believe whatever you want.” He rose from her bed and placed his half-empty coffee mug on the bedside table. “I’m suggesting that you use Dylan because he’s skilled, he has high-level contacts and he won’t get caught.”

She threw off the covers and went up on her knees. An overlarge plaid flannel top fell from her shoulders and hung all the way to her knees. The shirt looked familiar. He reached over and stroked the sleeve that she’d rolled up to the elbow. “Is this mine?”

“The top?” Unlike him, she was a terrible liar. “Why would I wear your jammies?”

“Supersoft flannel, gray Stewart plaid from L.L.Bean,” he said. “I’m glad you kept it.”

“I hardly ever wear flannel. But I was coming to Colorado and figured I might want something warm.” She tossed her head, flipping her hair. “I forgot this belonged to you.”

Another lie. He wondered if she’d been thinking of him when she packed her suitcase for this trip. Did she miss him? When she wore his clothing to bed, did she imagine his embrace?

He stepped up close to the bed and glided his arms around her, feeling the softness of the flannel plaid and her natural, sweet warmth. She’d been cozy in bed, wrapped in his pajamas that were way too big for her.

She cleared her throat. “What are you doing?”

“I’m holding you so you won’t get cold.”

He stroked her back, following the curve of her spine and the flare of her hips. With his hands still on the outside of the fabric, he cupped her full, round ass. Her body was incredible. She hadn’t changed in the years they’d been apart. If anything, she was better, more firm and toned. He lifted her toward him, and she collapsed against his chest, gasping as though she’d been holding her breath.

“Ground rules,” she choked out. “This is where we really need rules.”

He lifted her chin, gazed into her face and waited until she opened her eyes. “You’re supposed to be the spontaneous one, Emily. Let yourself go—follow your desires.”

“I can’t.”

The note of desperation in her voice held him back. Though he longed to peel off the flannel top and drag her under the covers, he didn’t want to hurt her. If she wanted a more controlled approach, he would comply.

“One kiss,” he said, “on the mouth.”

“Only one.”

“And another on the neck, and another on your breast, and one more on...”

“Forget it! I should know better than to negotiate with you. There will be no kissing.” She wriggled to get away from his grasp, but he wasn’t letting go. “No touching. No hugging. No physical intimacy at all.”

“You promised one,” he reminded her.

“Fine.”

She squinted her eyes closed and turned her face up to his. Her lips were stiff. And she was probably gritting her teeth. He’d still take the kiss. He knew what was behind her barriers. She still had feelings for him.

His kiss was slow and tender, almost chaste, until he began to nibble and suck on the fullness of her lower lip. His fingers unbuttoned the pajama top, and his hand slid inside. He traced a winding path across her torso with his fingertips, and when he reached the underside of her breast, she moaned.

“Oh, Sean.” A shudder went through her. “I can’t.”

His hand stilled, but his mouth took full advantage of her parted lips. His tongue plunged into the hot, slick interior of her mouth.

She spoke again. “Don’t stop.”

She kissed him back. Her hand guided his to her nipples, inviting him to fondle. Her longing was fierce, unstoppable. Her body pressed hard against his.

And then it was over. She fell backward on the bed and buried herself, even her face, under the covers. He loved the way he affected her. As for the way she affected him? He couldn’t ignore his palpitating heart and his rock-hard erection. But his attraction was more than that.

“About these ground rules,” he said. “Don’t tell me there’s no physical intimacy allowed. If I’m going to be around you and not allowed to touch, I’ll explode.”

“You scare me,” she said as she crawled out from under the covers. “I don’t want to fall in love with you again.”





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