From the time the Witness Security Program was authorized by the Organized Crime Control Act of 1970 and amended by the Comprehensive Crime Control Act of 1984, no program participant who followed security guidelines had ever been harmed while under the protection of the Marshals Service, and he wasn’t about to let Simone Whitfield become the first victim. Not on his watch.
His gaze was fixed on the profusion of corkscrew curls floating down her back. Simone’s face and hair reminded him of his sister’s favorite doll, which she’d refused to play with because she claimed she hadn’t wanted to ruin it. The doll sat in a chair year after year until Rachel Madison packed her away the year she’d turned sixteen. It was the same year that all hell broke loose in the Madison household when Rafe relocated his mother and sister from Kansas and California.
Following Simone up the stairs and down a wide hallway, he pulled his thoughts back to the present. “Do you have an attic or basement?”
“No. There’s just the first and second floor.”
Rafe smiled. It was the first time she’d spoken to him civilly. “I need to check all of the windows and doors to make certain the locks are in working order.”
“The house is wired and monitored by a security company.”
“I’m still going to check everything,” he insisted.
Simone slowed her pace, stopping at a bedroom at the end of the hall. Shifting slightly, she stared up at Rafe. “I always sleep with my bedroom window open regardless of the weather.”
He shook his head. “You can’t continue to do that. What you don’t want is to make it easy for someone to get to you.”
There came a pause as a flicker of fear swept through her. “What makes you think someone is going to get to me? Isn’t Ian Benton locked up?”
There was another beat of silence before Rafe said, “Yes, he is. And I doubt whether he’ll be granted bail. But there’s also the possibility that he may have had an accomplice.”
Her eyes grew wide as she mulled over the marshal’s words. What if Ian Benton hadn’t acted alone? What if someone had paid him to kill the judge? “Are you saying someone paid Ian Benton to murder Judge Fischer?” she asked, voicing her concerns aloud.
“I don’t know,” Rafe lied smoothly. What Simone didn’t know was that Ian Benton had been added to a domestic terrorist watch list after he’d stabbed a federal prosecutor to death in a Dallas courthouse parking lot. It’d been one of three attacks on federal officials marking the first anniversary of the Oklahoma City bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building. Undercover agents had reported the subsequent attacks, like the bombing, was to avenge the Waco siege and Ruby Ridge killings.
The agents had also gathered evidence that Benton was a professional hit man for supremacist groups targeting lawyers and judges involved in the prosecution of hate crimes. However, after his l996 release following the mysterious disappearance of a government witness, Benton dropped out of sight, only to resurface more than a decade later, this time in the Northeast. If convicted, he would be sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole.
Simone exhaled a soft sigh. She didn’t want to think or talk about Ian Benton. She wanted to believe she’d imagined everything that had happened to her, that she’d had a bad dream, that when she woke she would be living alone and she wouldn’t have to share her house and life with the marshal who’d become her bodyguard.
Opening the door to the room she’d chosen for Rafe, she gave him a level stare. “This will be your bedroom.”
“Where’s yours?” Rafe asked.
“It’s the one on the right at the top of the stairs.”
“I can’t sleep here.”
“And why not?” she countered.
“It’s too far from your bedroom.” He didn’t want to lose time getting to her in an emergency. “I’ll take the bedroom across from yours.”
“Whatever,” Simone mumbled under her breath. She’d chosen the room as much for its spaciousness as for its southeast exposure. If Rafe wanted to sleep in a bedroom with embroidered sheets, lace panels at the windows and frilly pillows, then she didn’t want to hear any complaints from him.
They went upstairs, Rafe dropping his bags with a thud when he peered into a smaller bedroom. Lace-and fringe-trimmed pillows were piled high on two twin, four-poster beds draped in more embroidered lace. It was pretty, but Rafe wasn’t into butterflies. White-painted furniture and cream-colored coverlets added to the feminine softness of space fashioned expressly for a girly-girl.
He smiled, attractive lines crinkling around his luminous eyes. “Who last slept here? Cinderella or Snow White?”
Simone flashed a Kool-Aid grin. “Very funny, Rafe.” She sobered quickly. “I did offer you the bigger bedroom and a larger bed.”
Rafe eyed the beds again. He was six-three, two hundred and ten pounds, and there was no way he’d be able to sleep comfortably in a twin bed. “I’ll take the other room.”
A smile of triumph softened Simone’s mouth as she averted her face so he couldn’t see her expression. It was enough that he was sleeping under her roof, and she didn’t want him that close to her bedroom.
“I’ll leave you to settle in. By the way, your bathroom is directly across the hall. You’ll find a set of towels on a tray on the bench under the window. There’re more in a cupboard, along with grooming supplies. I’ll be downstairs in the kitchen if you need me for anything.”
“Where’s your bathroom?” Rafe asked.
The seconds ticked off as Simone met his questioning gaze. “It’s in my bedroom. Why?”
“I’m going to take a shower before I go through the house to familiarize myself with the layout of your property. Activate the alarm, and please don’t open the door for anyone.”
“What if someone comes while you’re still in the shower?”
With wide eyes, he glared at her. “Then come and get me.”
Bully! she mused, glaring at him. Rafe reminded her of a bad-tempered dog who’d growl and bare his teeth, but only after he let you pat him. Solitary by nature, she didn’t want Raphael Madison around, not only because he reminded her of what had happened earlier that morning, but also because she didn’t want to share her space with a man. Once she’d made the decision to give her ex-husband his walking papers, she’d sworn that the next man to sleep under her roof would be the last man in her life.
Rafe would sleep under her roof, but thankfully his stay would be temporary. As soon as Ian Benton was tried, convicted and sentenced, she’d be able to move on with her life unfettered and unencumbered by a man. If her ex’s intent was to turn her off on all men, then he’d been successful. Simone realized she didn’t want or need a man—not even for sex. She turned and walked away, feeling the heat of the marshal’s gaze on her retreating back.
* * *
Picking up his bags, Rafe retraced his steps, stopping to peer out the hallway window before walking into what would become his bedroom. As in the smaller room, this one also had white walls, pale floors, furniture, baseboard heating, ceiling vents for central air-conditioning and a wood-burning fireplace. However, this one came with an added bonus: an incredible view of the river.
There was built-in storage with shelves and drawers to minimize clutter. A wicker rocker with a patchwork cushion was positioned under the vaulted ceiling, while a matching bedside table cradled a Depression blue vase filled with fresh sunflowers. A shelf in an alcove held a television, a state-of-the art stereo system and an assortment of hardcover novels.
The information he’d been given about Simone Whitfield confirmed that she operated her flower business out of her home. She’d erected greenhouses on her property, and her reported income and the large, colorful sunflowers were obvious indicators of her skill as a floral designer.
Slipping out of his jacket, he hung it on a wooden hook affixed to the back of the door. He reached under his T-shirt and slipped a pair of handcuffs, a holstered semiautomatic handgun and an extra cli
p of ammunition off his waistband. He would unpack later. His first priority was to shower, change his clothes and then make it very clear to Simone what he needed from her to ensure her safety.
CHAPTER 2
Simone sat in the dining area of the kitchen, her feet tucked under her body. It was the first time since she’d returned home to take a shower that she’d been alone.
She’d been driven to a White Plains station house in a police cruiser where she stood behind a one-way glass and identified Ian Benton as the man who’d tried to murder Mitchell Fischer. Even if she hadn’t recognized his face, it was the infinity tattoo on the back of his right hand that sealed his fate. A cadre of marshals transported Ian Benton to a detention center, while she’d lost track of time when questioned by a team of attorneys at the federal courthouse. The lead prosecutor told her that she would be provided with witness security, and until the conclusion of the trial, she wasn’t to discuss any aspects of the case on the phone and only her immediate family would know of her protected status.
Simone had just finished her second cup of green tea when she felt the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. Glancing over her shoulder she saw Rafe standing under the entrance, staring at her.
Lowering her feet, she stood up. “I see you managed to find the shower.”
Water had darkened his rakishly long hair to burnished gold. He’d changed into a pair of black jeans with a matching V-neck polo and black boots. She noticed the slight bulge at his waist near his left arm. She detested firearms, handguns in particular, yet she was forced to cohabitate with a man who wore one as if it were an appendage.
Rafe angled his head. “You probably think you’re very clever. Why didn’t you tell me it was hidden in a closet?”
“I just assumed you’d find it. And apparently you did.”
“Were you testing me?” he asked, walking into the kitchen.
Simone dropped her gaze before his steady stare. She noticed for the first time that his eyes weren’t blue, but an odd shade of violet with dark blue irises. The color reminded her of the delicate purplish-blue flower of the same name, while his hoary lashes and eyebrows were several shades darker than his hair. She wanted to tell him that he was sorely in need of a haircut.
“No. But if I were, then you passed. Have you settled in?”
“Not yet.” Rafe glanced around the space that reminded him of the kitchen in the farmhouse where he’d grown up in Kansas. Hanging copper pots and exposed ceiling beams imbued the space with warmth, while open shelves put dishes and decorative serving pieces on display. A country-style table with seating for eight was duplicated with a smaller round one in the cozy nook surrounded by a trio of windows with seating for six. Clay pots filled with flowering plants and herbs lined window ledges, countertops and tables.
“I’d like for you to show me your place now,” he said in a quiet tone.
“Where would you like to begin?”
“Upstairs.”
“Follow me.” Her sock-covered feet were silent as she led the way out of the kitchen. Simone showed Rafe the master bedroom with a king-size antique iron bed and a massive mirrored armoire painted a sunny-yellow. Pale honeycomb shades at tall, narrow windows were raised to let in the bright afternoon sunlight. Framed Audubon prints of birds and flowers and a white vase filled with ferns and lilacs stood out in stark relief to the soft, light colors in an adjoining sitting room.
Crossing the room, she opened a door. “This is my bathroom.”
Rafe peered in, feeling as if he’d stepped back in time. A claw-foot tub, a deep upholstered chair in rose-pink toile, floral wallpaper and period scones infused the bathroom with an undeniable sense of femininity. He skirted a white, shaggy rug, lowered and locked the window before raising it again. Pale green sheers billowed in the warm breeze coming in through the screen. The ivy spilling over the sides of clay pots lining the fireplace mantel matched the delicate design on the wallpaper.
His bedroom, the bathroom where he’d showered and Simone’s bedroom and bath had fireplaces. “Do all of the rooms have fireplaces?” he asked.
Simone smiled. “Yes.”
“How old is this house?”
Simone felt a spark of excitement for the first time that day. She didn’t have any children, so she’d focused a lot of attention on refurbishing and decorating her home. “It’ll be one hundred next year.”
“Did you move here before or after you were married?”
She stared at Rafe as if he’d spoken a foreign language. “What did you say?” Her reaction seemed to amuse him. He was grinning at her as if she’d told a joke, not asked a question.
“What did you say?” he mimicked. Without warning, he sobered. “I’ll indulge you this one time, but I don’t like repeating myself, Simone. I asked you if you’d moved into this house before or after you married Anthony Kendrick.”
His earlier statement came rushing back. I know everything—well, almost everything—about you. Simone wanted to scream at the man standing inches from her. It’d been less than six hours since she’d become the only eyewitness to a horrific crime and already the government had a file on her. And Rafe hadn’t been bluffing when he raised the possibility of her being charged with obstruction of justice. When interrogated by one of the federal prosecutors, she’d been warned that her failure to assist in bringing Ian Benton to justice would result in her being charged with obstruction, punishable by up to five years in a federal prison.
“After,” she admitted reluctantly.
“How long were you married?”
A shadow of annoyance crossed her face. “You tell me, Rafe. You claim you know everything about me.”
“I could easily find out.”
“Then you do that. Now, if you’re finished interrogating me, we’ll continue with the tour.”
Clasping his hands behind his back, Rafe trailed behind Simone as she made her way to the first floor. Her hands were curled into tight fists, her shoulders pulled up in a defensive gesture. He’d deliberately goaded her to see whether she was quick or slow to anger. He was mildly surprised because she hadn’t shouted or lost her temper. What she’d exhibited was controlled rage that compressed her lips, flared her delicate nostrils and caused her breasts to rise and fall heavily under the oversized T-shirt.
Keven had warned him that she was a live one, and she was. Standing only five-three in her bare feet, she’d faced a killer with a can of pepper spray and won. He remembered his grandfather telling him that it wasn’t the size of the dog, but the size of the fight in the dog when he’d come home with a black eye after fighting with a boy twice his size who’d attempted to take his lunch money. He’d held on to his money after giving the wannabe thug a bloody nose, split lip and two black eyes. It was the first and last time Raphael Madison used his fists to protect himself and his property.
Simone led him into the room she’d set up as an office/library. A bleached pine antique secretary was littered with invoices. An open planner displayed entries for two weeks. A laptop, printer and PDA occupied another corner of the desk. Floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases provided a place for books, framed prints and decorative objects ranging from marble busts to painted ceramic vases.
A leather steamer trunk doubled as a coffee table and was the perfect place for a plant with large red flowers in a shiny copper pot. Striped and solid pillows in coffee-brown and eggshell were nestled attractively on loveseats covered in Haitian cotton, which faced each other. Canvas shades at a quartet of windows let in streams of bright sunlight.
Rafe approached the fireplace. The grate behind a decorative screen was filled with fresh bundled herbs rather than wood; he stared at an array of framed sepia, black-and-white and colored family photographs on the mantelpiece. He focused on one of Simone in a gown and hood and another of her with a group of young women wearing royal-blue T-shirts with white Greek letters across the front.
“Are you finished here?” Simone asked softly behind him.
She smiled. “Yes, I did.”
“Are you still in contact with your sisters?”
“A few of us get together around Christmastime.” A neutral expression replaced her smile. Simone was trying to be polite without revealing more than he’d read in her file. As it was, he knew more about her personal life than most. The exception was her family.
Continuing with the tour, Simone opened mahogany pocket doors separating the living and dining rooms that brought together an array of red and white patterns against a neutral backdrop. Rafe found her home lovely, as lovely as the woman who owned it.
“I like your home.”
“So, do I,” she confirmed without a hint of modesty. “It’s taken me a long time to restore it, and I’m still not finished.”
Rafe moved closer until their shoulders were within inches of touching, the top of Simone’s head coming to his shoulder. “What more do you want to do to it?”
Tilting her head, Simone met his gaze. Rafe stood close enough for her to feel the heat from his body, close enough for her to detect the subtle, tantalizing scent of a very masculine cologne, and much too close for her to feel comfortable knowing it would be just the two of them living in proximity for who knew how many weeks, or even months. Although she’d told herself that Raphael Madison wasn’t her type, she had to acknowledge that he was drop-dead gorgeous.
“I’d like to replace some of the furniture with antiques.”
Rafe flashed a sheepish grin. “Anything made before 1950 is antique to me.”
Simone couldn’t help but roll her eyes at him. “I don’t think so, mister,” she drawled. “If it’s from the sixteenth, seventeenth, eighteenth and late nineteenth centuries, then definitely yes. Certain twentieth-century pieces would take their place in antique and collectible history before the end of this century.”
Taken by Storm Page 2
