Taken by Storm

by Rochelle Alers

  He took a step, but Simone put up a hand to stop him from coming closer. “I’m sorry, baby.”

  “Don’t you dare baby me, Raphael Madison. I am not your baby.”

  Rafe closed his eyes, berating himself for the endearment. He opened his eyes, silently pleading with her to understand. “I won’t call you baby again. But I’m sorry about the gun. When you startled me, I reacted the only way I know how. The next time you come into the bedroom, either say something or knock on the door.”

  Simone saw something in her bodyguard’s eyes that hadn’t been there before—humility. He was sorry that he’d frightened her, sorry that he’d pulled a gun on her, but he wasn’t going to apologize for his physical exhibition that left nothing to her imagination. She hadn’t had a lot of experience with the opposite sex, and if she were being truthful, she’d have to admit that her ex-husband was the only man with whom she’d slept. What made that so pathetic was that she couldn’t remember a time when she’d actually enjoyed sleeping with him.

  She’d lost count of the number of times she’d pleaded a headache, it was her time of the month or she didn’t feel well. But her excuses never bothered Anthony. He’d simply turn over and go to sleep without a word of protest. If she’d revealed the intimate details of her marriage to her sister and cousin, they would’ve said that her ex was even too lazy to make love to his wife.

  Crossing his arms over his chest, Rafe stared at Simone, wondering what was going through her mind. “Why did you come to see me?”

  Her eyelids fluttering as if she’d just come out of a trance, Simone trained her gaze on Rafe. He looked incredible with his clothes on and magnificent out of them. Broad shoulders, defined pectorals, a six-pack abdomen, narrow hips and muscular legs were the perfect complement to his drop-dead gorgeous face. Why hadn’t the Justice Department assigned her an older, less attractive or even a female bodyguard?

  “I wanted to tell you that I’m going jogging.”

  “You’re going jogging,” he said. It was more a statement than a question.

  “Yes, Rafe, I’m going jogging.”

  “At five o’clock in the morning.” Again his query was a statement.

  “Yes.”

  Rafe shook his head. “Not today, Simone.”

  “What do you mean ‘not today’?”

  “First of all, it’s too early to go jogging, and secondly I didn’t bring jogging gear.”

  A slight frown appeared between Simone’s eyes. “What gear? All you need is a pair of running shoes, shorts or sweats. We’re only going to jog around a track, not run a corporate-sponsored marathon.”

  Rafe rolled his eyes. “I have everything you mentioned, but if you happen to have an extra jockstrap handy, then I’ll go jogging with you—later.” He’d stressed the last word.

  Simone blushed for the second time in a matter of minutes. “No, I don’t happen to have an extra jockstrap around. What I do suggest is that you purchase one, because I don’t intend to modify my schedule because of your lack of gear.”

  “You have a meeting in Central Valley at eleven. What time do you have to be in Manhattan tonight?”

  “I estimate getting there around four. Why?”

  “We’ll leave here a little earlier so that I can stop at a sporting goods store to pick up a few things.”

  Simone nodded. “That shouldn’t be a problem. After breakfast, I’m going down to the greenhouse to select the flowers I’m going to need for tonight’s dinner party.”

  Grinning broadly, Rafe ran his fingers through his hair, pushing thick, sun-streaked waves off his forehead. “What’s for breakfast?”

  “For you—Froot Loops. I’m having waffles with strawberries.”

  “I want what you’re having.”

  “What’s wrong with your Froot Loops?”

  “I’ll eat them tomorrow.”

  “When I make omelets tomorrow, I bet you’ll want those, too.”

  “Instead of arguing about who’ll make what, let’s set up a schedule,” Rafe suggested. “You can make breakfast, while I’ll be responsible for dinner.”

  It took Simone only seconds to mull over his suggestion. She was much more proficient with breakfast foods than she was at preparing dinner. “Okay.”

  Rafe expelled an inaudible sigh at the same time he winked at Simone. “I’m going upstairs to shave and shower. Please don’t leave—”

  “The house without you,” she said, finishing his statement. “I get the message.”

  He winked at her again. “I was just checking.”

  “Yeah, right,” Simone drawled as a hint of a smile parted her lips.

  As Rafe walked out of the kitchen, she stared at the broad back that tapered to a slim waist and hips. It was the first time that she noticed he had a slight swagger to his walk. A knowing smile softened her features. Raphael Madison was the total package from head to toe, and that meant it was virtually impossible to ignore him. She had to make certain to keep busy or else she’d find herself drawn to the hunky lawman with a magnetism that came off him in sensually charged waves.

  * * *

  Having changed from her jogging attire into a pair of well-worn jeans and a faded sweatshirt, Simone carefully poured batter onto the heated plates of the waffle iron before closing the top. Hot steam and the warm, sweet smell of baking waffles mingled with the aroma of brewing coffee made from freshly ground beans.

  Without warning, a shiver shook her. She couldn’t fathom the eerie feeling because she hadn’t opened any of the windows in the kitchen. And if she had, then it would be warm, not cold air coming in through the screens. Simone didn’t want to imagine that she was losing her mind because twenty-four hours before her life had irrevocably changed, and she doubted whether she would ever be the same.

  “Something smells good.”

  Peering over her shoulder, she watched Rafe walk into the kitchen. The light blond stubble on his jaw was gone, his damp hair clung to his scalp and he’d changed into a pair of light blue jeans and matching shirt. This morning he wore a pair of running shoes instead of boots.

  “It’s the coffee.”

  Rafe came closer and wrinkled his nose. “It’s more than the coffee.”

  Simone returned her attention to the waffle iron. The light indicating doneness had gone out. Reaching for a fork, she opened the top and removed two perfectly crisp waffles and placed them on a platter.

  “How many waffles do you want?” she asked Rafe.

  “How many did you make?”

  “Eight. I usually freeze the leftovers and use them for ice cream sandwiches.”

  Rafe reached over her shoulder to take the platter. “That’s ingenious.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “They’re even better when you roll them in chocolate chips or nonpareils.”

  “How often do you eat them?”

  “I can assure you not too often, or I won’t be able to fit into my clothes.”

  Rafe wanted to tell Simone that he doubted that even if she had an ice cream sandwich every day that she’d put on a lot of weight. She had a nervous energy that made her almost hyper. The only time she wasn’t busy or moving was probably when she was asleep.

  “Go sit down and I’ll bring everything to the table,” he said instead.

  They sat at the table, eating silently while the music from a radio on the countertop filled in the blank spaces where conversation was unnecessary. Fragrant brewed coffee and fresh squeezed orange juice provided a perfect accompaniment to the crisp waffles and fresh, tart strawberries, bursting in their own juices and topped off with lightly whipped cream.

  Rafe cleared the table, while Simone rinsed and stacked dishes and flatware in the dishwasher. “I only have two pet peeves, and dishes left in the sink tops the list.”

  “Are you talking about the cup I left in the sink last night?”

  She nodded. “If you’re going to rinse it, then please put it in the dishwasher.”

  “What if I don’t r
inse it?”

  Simone rolled her eyes at him when she saw the smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “You don’t want to find out.”

  He took a step, bringing them within mere inches. “What are you going to do to me?”

  Resting her hands on her hips, she rose on tiptoe. “I’ll jack you up, Raphael Madison.”

  “Never happen, Simone Whitfield. Don’t you realize I’m exactly a foot taller and weigh a hundred pounds more than you?”

  Her delicate eyebrows lifted. “I’m certain you’ve heard the expression about the bigger they come the harder they fall.”

  “Of course, but that’s not the case with you and me.”

  “I—” Simone wasn’t given the chance to finish what she was going to say when she found herself hoisted effortlessly above his head as if she were a barbell. Her heart beat a rapid tattoo against her ribs. “Put me down! Please, Rafe. I’m afraid of heights!” He’d unknowingly found her Achilles’ heel.

  Lowering her slowly, Rafe set her on her feet and pulled her to his chest. “What else are you afraid of?”

  Burying her face against his shoulder, she shook her head and waited for her heart rate to slow down. “That’s it.”

  “What about snakes, worms or spiders?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  Smiling, he dropped a kiss on the fragrant hair covering her head. “You’re a girl after my own heart.” Rafe didn’t know why, but he preferred women who didn’t shriek or faint if they saw a bug or reptile. He found those who constantly played the vapid female boring and tiring.

  A frown found its way over Simone’s face. It was the second time Rafe had referred to her as a girl. She knew she wouldn’t be so sensitive about the word if she’d come close to looking her age.

  “The last time I checked my driver’s license, it indicated that I was over the legal age.”

  Rafe’s frown matched hers. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m not a girl, Rafe. If you claim you know that much about me, then you’d realize that I’m a full grown woman.”

  Gently easing her back, he studied the face that belied her age, but not her body. “You think I don’t know that,” he said quietly. “You may have issues about looking younger than you actually are, but once you’re over forty you’ll gladly accept the comments and the compliments.”

  She scrunched up her nose. “I’ll be certain to look you up the day I celebrate my big 4-0, so you can see for yourself if I look my age.”

  He shook his head. “That’ll never happen.” There was a solemnity in his voice that sounded ominous. “Once I leave here, chances are our paths will never cross again.”

  Simone sobered. “You’re so right about that. Let’s finish up here, because I have to go to the greenhouse to pick the flowers I need for tonight’s dinner party.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Rafe, sitting on a low stool, long legs stretched out in front of him, watched Simone’s fluid motions as she made her way along rows of flats and potted flowers growing in wild abandon in the greenhouse. The structure wasn’t as large as those in commercial nurseries, but its contents yielded enough to ensure success for Wildflowers and Other Treasurers. The hinged doors provided easy entry into the temperature-and humidity-controlled environment equipped with a security system and a small boom box.

  He’d promised himself that he had to make a concerted effort to think of Simone as his witness because it would serve to keep their association on a less personal level whenever they weren’t out together. To the world they would present themselves as a couple, but behind closed doors he had to make certain to keep as physically far away from her as possible. There was something about Simone that made him react to her with a little less professionalism. At first he’d thought it was because of their living arrangements, but if he were truly honest with himself, then he’d have to admit it had nothing to do with residing under the same roof.

  The reality was that he’d found himself enthralled with Simone Whitfield. Everything about her had become his ideal as it pertained to a woman: her looks and her spirited personality; but there was something else—a latent sexiness he was certain she was totally unaware she had. And what Rafe couldn’t understand was why she downplayed her sexiness when it wasn’t as obvious with her sister.

  Tessa was stunning, and she knew it. But on the other hand, Simone was sensually ravishing, but appeared totally unaware of her effect on men. Each and every time she’d gotten up to bowl, most of the men within twenty feet of her stopped what they were doing to stare at her—and he was no exception. Rafe still hadn’t figured out whether it was her hair, her eyes or her tiny, lush, compact body, but whatever it was it had him fantasizing about things that had nothing to do with his job. In fact, he’d been dreaming about Simone when she’d come into his bedroom earlier that morning. If she’d seen him in a state of arousal, then she’d been responsible for his lack of control.

  Rafe pulled his gaze away from her to stare at the butt of the small automatic in the holster strapped to his ankle. Leaning over, he adjusted the hem of his jeans to conceal it. Simone had admitted to her fear of heights, but neglected to include firearms in her declaration. He made a silent promise do everything possible not to let her see the weapons.

  “Are these roses?” he asked, running his fingertips over the delicate petal of a white flower growing in a large clay pot.

  Simone halted cutting the stems of a delft-blue hydrangea. Her client had requested varying shades of hydrangeas, her favorite flower, for her dinner party. “No. They’re camellias, or better known scientifically as camellia japonica.”

  “Do you use them in wedding bouquets?”

  She nodded. “Occasionally I do. But I prefer using them in garlands for decorating staircases, in urns or as centerpieces with other blush-colored flowers like rhododendron or cherry blossoms.”

  Rising slightly, he moved his stool closer to her. “What made you get into the flower business?”

  Simone placed each bloom into a large straw basket gently, as if she were collecting eggs. “Every summer Tessa, my cousin Faith and I went to South Carolina to visit my grandmother. Whenever it came time for cooking lessons, I conveniently found something else to do. I preferred climbing trees, playing ball or swimming in the lake. One day my grandfather took me with him on a nature walk. He showed me which berries were edible and the ones that were poisonous. Grandpa knew the name of every tree, bush, weed and flower. He was the first one to show me crossbreeding through propagation.

  “I’d forgotten everything he’d taught me until I got to college and took several botany courses. I’d dabbled in the humanities before changing over to a liberal arts concentration. But it was the math, science and social sciences I liked best.”

  “Did you go into college to be liberal arts major?”

  There came a beat before Simone said, “No. I’d decided beforehand to become a psychologist. After two years, I changed my concentration because my personal life was in disarray. I signed up for courses that I believed would be fun. It turned out that botany had become the magic cure. After I broke up with my ex, I started buying plants and flowers because having them around also managed to lift me out my funk. After a few months, the house looked like a nursery and smelled like a funeral parlor. When I ran out of room, I bought this greenhouse. Then when I took a course on floral arranging I knew I’d found my niche.”

  “How did you get your clients?” Rafe asked.

  “My first client was a childhood friend. I’d offered to do her wedding flowers for a fraction of what I should’ve charged. And as the saying goes, ‘the rest is history.’”

  “So most of your business comes from referrals?”

  “All of it is referrals.”

  “Pretend that I’m a bride. Don’t look at me like that,” Rafe said when she gave him a dubious stare. “I did say pretend.”

  Simone shifted her stool over to a large pot filled with pale-hued hydrangeas and ex
pertly clipped off half a dozen flowers. “I’m trying very hard to imagine you in a wedding dress.”

  “If Dennis Rodman can put on a wedding gown—”

  “Don’t you dare go there, Rafe,” she interrupted, grinning. “It’s easier for me to imagine Dennis Rodman on his book jacket butt-naked than seeing him in a wedding gown.”

  “Whatever floats your boat,” Rafe whispered under his breath. “Okay, scrap that image. What if my sister came to you for wedding flowers? What would you suggest?”

  “What’s her favorite flower?”

  “She likes roses.”

  “What color roses?”

  “She prefers white.”

  “I’d probably suggest a bouquet of all white roses, or a mix with ranunculus, lilac and lily of the valley.”

  “What is ranunculus?”

  Simone pointed to a pot in a far corner. “That’s ranunculus. It’s called the little frog flower, because rana is Latin for frog and because it grows near the water.”

  Rafe crossed his arms over his chest. “Do you know the Latin names for most of the flowers?”

  She nodded. “Their Latin derivation, history and what they represent. Louis IX brought ranunculuses to his mother after the Fifth Crusade, but unfortunately for him they didn’t flourish. Several hundred years later, its corns were stolen from a sultan’s garden in the Ottoman Empire and traded in the Marseilles flower market.”

  “What about different colors? Does a white rose have the same meaning as a pink?”

  Simone exhaled slowly. She didn’t know whether Rafe had kept up a steady stream of conversation because he was actually interested in what she did, or he was bored and he wanted her to entertain him. “Pink roses represent perfect happiness, and the white rosebud signifies worthiness and purity.

  “If you want to know more about flowers I’ll let you read Charlotte de la Tour’s 1918 version of Le Language de Fleurs. It was very popular during the Victorian period, because at that time flowers became a means of clandestine correspondence between chaperoned lovers. Secret messages were communicated in the bouquet based on chosen flowers. The flowers in a bridal bouquet, known as a tussie mussie, told a groom what his shy bride wanted him to know about her.”