by Tawna Fenske
My shock dissolves into desire as she moans and presses her breasts against my chest. I pull her close, beyond caring that we’re on a public path and there’s a pig chewing my shoelace. He could eat my foot as long as Iz keeps kissing me.
I slide my fingers into her hair and she moans again, nipping my bottom lip. Even through winter coats, her body is soft and round against mine, and her mouth tastes like honey and heat. She clutches the front of my coat, and somehow her fingers find their way under the thick wool. Now I’m the one groaning as she traces my collarbones, my pecs, the space where my heart pounds like it’s threatening to hammer its way out of my chest.
If I had any doubt how Izzy feels about me, about us, that doubt dies as she arches up to press her pelvis against me. “Bradley,” she murmurs against my mouth, then kisses me again. “Maybe we should—”
A squeal pierces the air, and we spring apart. Catching my breath, I drag a hand over my mouth and glare at Kevin. “This is how you end up as pork chops.”
Kevin doesn’t care. He keeps squealing, and seconds later, I see why. On the path ahead, a hulking figure lumbers into view. Fog blankets the path, and it takes me a moment to recognize Baldy’s furrowed brow. He’s wearing the dark stocking cap again, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets.
He doesn’t look friendly.
I grab Izzy’s hand and pull her so she’s partway behind me. I don’t like the way this guy’s looking at her. “Can I help you?”
His gaze is downright icy. Something about the way his hand moves in his coat pocket sends a shot of adrenaline through me.
Gun. He has a gun.
Blame the Army for that paranoid instinct, but my heart rate doesn’t slow. The prickling in my arms is pure adrenaline, just like the way my brain catalogues his stance, his size, the exact spot I’d need to drive my shoulder to take him down. It’s been years since I saw any sort of combat action, but I have zero doubt the skills would kick in if I needed them.
Baldy doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. Just stands there on the path, staring at us with a blank expression.
I’m done pretending this isn’t creepy as fuck. “Brad Parker.” I take a step forward, keeping Iz behind me as I extend a hand. “And you are?”
He gives me a look I can’t read, and his hands stay stuffed in his pockets. I’m close enough now I could rush him if I had to. Just tackle him to the ground and disarm him. I don’t know why I’m convinced he’s armed, but my gut has seldom steered me wrong.
Slowly, he draws a hand from his pocket. Iz gasps behind me, but Baldy’s palm comes up empty.
“Danny.” He grips my hand in a firm, dry shake. “Or just Dan.”
“Dan,” I repeat. He doesn’t let go, but he’s not doing that bone-crushing thing guys do to prove they’re tough. It’s just a normal handshake, albeit a long one. “Dan, I can’t help feeling like we keep running into you.”
His icy blue eyes hold mine a few more beats. “Yep.” He lets go of my hand and shoves his back in his coat pocket.
“I mean, it’s a big resort,” I continue, conscious of Izzy clutching my left hand in a death grip. “Just seems a bit…odd.”
He doesn’t respond, which is fair, since I didn’t ask a question. Hell, maybe I should. Remembering Mark’s words about keeping your enemies close, I clear my throat.
“You play poker, Dan?”
He blinks. “Poker.”
“Yeah, poker. Five card stud, or maybe Texas Hold ‘em. We’ve got a group of guys that get together every couple weeks to play. You interested?”
He stares at me like he’s waiting for the punchline to a joke. I stare back, fighting the urge to blink. I’m tired of dicking around.
“You want me to play poker.” His gaze stays locked on mine, but his body tilts the tiniest bit toward Izzy. “With you.”
“Sure, why not?”
There are a million reasons why not, starting with the fact that this guy might be deranged.
But if there’s a deranged lunatic following Izzy around Ponderosa Resort, doesn’t it make sense to get him in a room with me, the police chief, her four brothers, and her cousin the Marine?
Dan keeps staring, and I’m beginning to wonder if he’ll answer. When he clears his throat, I feel Izzy flinch.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll play poker with you.”
“Great.” I fight to keep the surprise from my voice as I rattle off details of when and where, hoping Mark doesn’t kill me for putting our half-baked plan into action. Dan’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s a hint of bemusement in his eyes.
“I’ll bring stew,” he says. “Elk.”
“You’re a hunter then?” I’m pretty sure elk season ended a while ago, but maybe Dan’s been here longer than I thought.
“Sure.” He gives a sharp nod, then glances at Kevin. “Nice pig you got there. Looks like one I had as a kid.”
Izzy tenses beside me. “Thank you.”
He shakes his head a little sadly. “I loved that goddamn pig.”
Before I can respond, Dan gives another grunt and ambles past us on the path. He moves in an odd diagonal line, like he’s trying to avoid turning his back to us. I watch him vanish into the fog, unable to shake the sense I’m missing something big.
The instant he’s out of earshot, I turn to Izzy. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, of course.” She licks her lips, pupils dilating. I don’t kid myself into thinking it’s still the effects of the kiss. “It’s just—” she bites her lip, eyes fixed on mine. “Bradley.”
There’s something different in how she says my name. Something that makes the hair prickle at the back of my neck. “Yeah?”
“Um, there’s something you should know.”
A faint roar in the back of my head tells me I should have seen this coming. He’s her boyfriend. Her lover. Her—
“I have to tell you something important.” She squeezes her eyes closed, then opens them again quickly. “Really important.”
I fight to keep a fierce wave of disappointment from crushing me. “You know him?”
She doesn’t nod. Doesn’t shake her head either. Just looks right into my eyes like she’s weighing the weight of her words, the weight of the whole world.
“Come.” That hollow syllable lilts with Lady Isabella Blankenship, but the unease in her eyes is all Izzy. “We’ll talk in my cabin.”
Chapter 7
Isabella
The walk back to my cabin takes approximately eight thousand years. It’s partly that we stop every ten feet so Kevin can sniff something.
It’s mostly that I’m dragging my feet, buying time to decide exactly how much to tell Bradley about Dante.
Dan, I remind myself, willing to concede it’s an appropriate nickname. If he wants to blend in, that’s a start.
Then again, blending in doesn’t involve following me around a luxury resort like some predatory cat that’s been shaved and dosed with steroids. What exactly is he doing here? I have my suspicions, but until I know, I need to be careful.
“Let me take your coat.” I nudge the door shut behind Bradley and shift into hostess mode. “Can I get you some tea or maybe cocoa? Or what about dinner—it’s almost dinner time.”
He eyes me oddly as he peels off his coat and hooks it on the coatrack beside the door. “I’m okay.”
I twist my hands together, feeling awkward and a little useless. “I have marshmallows for the cocoa. I tried to buy some at the grocery store, but Sean pointed out the sugar content, which isn’t great for someone with a transplanted kidney.” I’m definitely babbling but can’t seem to stop myself. Even Kevin’s watching me warily, though it might be the marshmallow comment.
“Sean makes his own marshmallows from scratch, and he doesn’t use gelatin,” I continue for Kevin’s benefit, “so there’s no pork product whatsoever. They’re for resort guests to make s’mores, but he made a special batch for me with all my dietary restrictions taken into account and—”
This feels like a test, one I’m probably doomed to fail. “Sofa,” I decide. “It’s easier. More casual.”
Two things I fear this conversation won’t be. Bradley must have the same sense because he nods stiffly and makes his way to the couch. I’m still holding Kevin’s leash, so I lead him into the kitchen and get down the bowl I found at the feed store. I wanted to be prepared, so I already bought a bag of special pig chow. Also, fresh diced mango, since I read that’s a special treat for pigs. Tropical fruits interact poorly with the immunosuppressant drugs I’m required to take, so I’m delighted someone in this house can enjoy it on my behalf. I drop some diced bits into Kevin’s bowl, keeping the portion small so I don’t spoil his appetite for dinner. Then I wash my hands and get to work making the cocoa.
I consider informing Bradley about the low sugar content of my cocoa mix. Another gift from my chef brother, it’s made with my dietary precautions in mind. For some reason, I want Bradley to know I’m a model transplant recipient. That I can do this one thing right, at least.
When I glance up, I see he’s not sitting. He’s back at the cluster of photos, studying one near the back.
“This is him, right?” He turns, holding the image from my mother’s sixtieth birthday party. “The bald guy, Dan. I thought I recognized him in this photo.”
Dammit to hell. I should have known better than to put that in a frame. But how was I supposed to know Dante would show up here?
Instead of answering, I finish mixing the cocoa and drop in the marshmallows. I’ll answer the question, but not until we’re properly seated. Kevin’s done eating and has wandered over to the pet bed I bought just for him. As he flops onto the overstuffed surface and gives a grunt of satisfaction, I have the joy of knowing one thing has turned out the way I hoped it would.
When I look back at Bradley, he’s still holding the photo. I sigh, square my shoulders, and stride toward him. “Yes,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “If you’ll have a seat, I’ll explain.”
“All right.” He sets down the photo and ambles to the couch. His posture seems overly rigid, and I wonder what he thinks I’m going to tell him as I hand him a mug, then sit down next to him and take a deep breath.
“Dante is a hitman.”
Bradley blinks. “What?”
I frown and flip through my mental Dovlanese to English dictionary. “Maybe that’s not the right word. He protects my family from those who might harm us.” It sounds simple when I phrase it that way, so I cross my legs and continue. “Occasionally, if someone does something very bad, that person might just…disappear.” I hesitate. “It’s sort of understood Dante’s the one who makes them disappear, though my family never actually speaks of it. Perhaps hitman isn’t the right term for that?”
Bradley stares at me. “Uh, yeah. Hitman would be the word you want.”
I gesture to the bowl of marshmallows resting on the tray. “If you’d like more—”
“Wait, no.” He shakes his head and sets his mug down on the coffee table. “I’m sorry, but I have questions.”
“I thought you might.” And here’s where I’ll have to tread very carefully with answers.
“This is…legal in your country?”
I glance down into my mug and choose my words with care. “Self-defense is certainly legal. Beyond that…” I trail off, deciding how to phrase it as I meet his eyes again. “Well, are there things in America that aren’t precisely legal, but for those who hold a high political office, perhaps the rules are…well…different?”
Bradley stares at me. “I want to say no, of course not, but—” He rakes a hand through his hair. “Okay, yeah, I get your point.”
“And it’s not like I have absolute confirmation that Dante performs any duties beyond basic protection.”
He lifts one eyebrow. “But you have a good reason to suspect?”
Lifting my mug, I avert my eyes from his. “There was an occasion the Duke’s political rival was found to be conducting himself inappropriately with underage girls. One victim was a cousin of mine.”
I still recall the fury in my mother’s eyes when she learned about it. Heaven help any man who assaults a woman in my family, but especially a thirteen-year-old child. “The man, my father’s rival—he avoided prison time because of money and political power. After the trial, he attempted to resume contact with one of the young girls.”
My blood starts boiling as I speak of this. I’m so tired of men who think they can lay claim to anything they want because of money or power or both.
“Yeah, that sort of thing happens in America, too.” The anger in Bradley’s eyes reminds me this is a man who went to great lengths to protect his sister. I shouldn’t find that attractive, but I do.
“So, what happened?” he prompts.
“Well, I overheard part of a conversation between Dante and the Duke. A private conversation.”
Bradley arches one dark brow. “What did they say?”
“I didn’t actually hear everything.” Enough. I heard enough to have suspicions. “Anyway, two days later, the brakes failed in the man’s sports car. It could have been a coincidence, I suppose.”
“But it wasn’t.”
It’s not a question, so I don’t bother pretending it is. I look down into my cocoa mug and choose my words with caution. “The Duke was always careful to shield me from details. If it helps, I believe Dante’s skills were only deployed in situations where the justice system failed. Where someone was being hurt or mistreated or abused by people or systems the Duke found…disagreeable.”
“So you’re saying what?” Bradley frowns. “He’s a hitman with a heart of gold?”
The idea of Dante having a heart of any kind is enough to make me laugh. Since laughter isn’t the right response in this situation, I settle for sipping my cocoa. “I don’t fear him, if that’s a concern.” Maybe I should, but I don’t. Not the way Bradley’s thinking, anyway. “I don’t believe Dante—Dan—would harm me.”
He studies my face a moment. “That doesn’t sound entirely convincing.”
“It’s the truth.” Not all of it, but some.
Naturally, Bradley has more questions. “Why is he here?”
“I don’t honestly know.” Another kernel of truth, thank heavens. “The Duke is very protective. Perhaps he’s worried about me?”
It’s possible Bradley hears the dubious note in my voice. “A father who’s worried about his adult daughter comes to visit,” he says slowly. “He doesn’t send a killer to follow her around like a rabid puppy.”
Heat fills my cheeks as I look down into my mug. “I told you last year the Duke isn’t able to get a visa. And my mother—”
“Iz, that’s not what I meant.” The gentleness in his voice makes me look up, and the pity in his eyes makes my eyes well. “I know they had legitimate reasons they couldn’t visit when you had your transplant. All I meant is that it seems a little odd they’d send an armed thug to watch over you.”
“Is it, though?” I glance toward the window that faces Mark’s cabin. “It’s not as though it’s unprecedented for family members to protect other members of the family through whatever means necessary.”
He gives a sharp nod, perhaps thinking about his own sister. “Point taken.”
This feels like a bigger victory than it is. “I’ve been trying to reach my mother on the phone,” I tell him. “I’m planning to ask point blank why Dante is here or what he’s been tasked with. In the meantime, I’m trying not to be too alarmed.”
Trying, but not succeeding. Again, Bradley’s blue eyes bore into me in a way that suggests he knows I’m not wholly truthful.
But he doesn’t know for sure. I don’t know for sure.
And until I do, I need to keep my cards clutched tightly to my chest.
&
nbsp; “Any more questions?” I cross my fingers he’ll let it drop. That we can move on and pretend this isn’t a big deal. Maybe it isn’t.
Bradley lifts a brow. “Should I be concerned I’ve invited a professional killer to poker night?”
I watch his face, unsure if the moment calls for gravity or levity. “Only if you cheat.” I smile to let him know I’m kidding, which I absolutely am. “Maybe we shouldn’t use the word hitman. I’m thinking bodyguard might be a more accurate translation?”
He gives me a dubious look. “Is this wishful thinking on your part?”
If only he knew how deep my wishful thinking goes.
“I’m fairly sure ‘bodyguard’ is an accurate translation of his job title,” I point out. “Besides, if he’d wanted to harm anyone here, he’d have done it already.”
“That’s mildly reassuring.” He leans back against the couch. “All right. I do think you should tell your siblings.”
“Tell them what?”
“That one of their resort guests isn’t just here for the golf.”
I nod and try to picture that conversation in my mind. Then I push those thoughts away because I’d rather not deal with it. Just one more reminder that I’m not like them, that I don’t really belong here. “I’ll try to clear things up.”
Studying my face, he shakes his head. “You sure this guy isn’t unhinged?”
“Positive.” Mostly. “I’m sure he’ll be a nice addition to poker night. And he’s an excellent cook.”
“Elk stew made by a hitman.” He shakes his head. “Now I’ve heard everything.”
“Bodyguard.” Why did I ever use that word?
My stomach chooses that moment to growl. Probably all this talk of Dante’s elk stew. As my belly rumbles again, Bradley regards me curiously. “Need me to go?” he asks. “I know it’s kinda crucial you stick to a schedule for meals.”
I hesitate. I could usher him out the door now. Just be done with this conversation and all the awkward landmines it entails. Bradley might be curious, but he’s a doctor and a gentleman, and right now, those traits win out.
