by Julie Miller
Maybe it was the gentle scent of Whitney’s hair that had him off kilter. Or the hungry look in her eyes that had made him want to kiss her a few minutes ago. No, devour her would be a better description of the sudden, rushing heat that had consumed him. He’d wanted to taste each tiny freckle across that creamy expanse of smooth skin that glowed cool in the moonlight and radiated warmth in the sun.
Vincent checked his watch. He had just under five hours left to guard her. He could last five hours without giving in to the primitive urges of his body. In five hours he could deliver her to his Washington contact, then check in to a hotel, take a long, cold shower and sleep for two days.
Or maybe it was the way his wary heart cracked open a little bit at Whitney’s simple admission that he could make her feel better. He didn’t even remember what he’d said. But he remembered her smile. He remembered her “thank you.” He remembered wanting to make her feel that way again.
Vincent dispelled those fanciful imaginings on an impatient breath of air. Oh yeah. His objectivity had been shot to hell on this assignment.
He couldn’t do the relationship thing. Melissa had made that more than clear. And Whitney MacNair, with her blue-blood background and innocent eyes, wouldn’t be interested in a one-night stand with the son of a Chicago cop. Nah. She’d want the flowers and champagne and pretty words. He just wanted to get her out of his system.
Bedding the hostage wouldn’t exactly win points with her father and his buddy, the president, either.
Vincent shut down that whole distracting train of thought. If all he could do was his job, then by damn, he’d do it right.
Finding nothing in the trees to validate his sense of alarm, he struck out across the open grass of the plateau. He didn’t holster his weapon, but he dropped his hand to his side. The five minutes of privacy he’d given Whitney were up. He’d better get her out of sight. Then he could worry about how to survive a few more hours in her company without completely losing his mind.
That’s when he found what he’d been looking for.
Half a footprint in the snow.
He held himself completely still, moving only his eyes to analyze and identify the direction, size and age of the clue. His breathing was controlled. Silent. A disciplined energy curled within him, stealing out from his brain through the tips of his fingers and toes.
“Whitney.”
He mouthed her name, knowing he might already be too late. Adrenaline freed him from analysis to action, and he took off in a dead run for the edge of the plateau. He was a damn idiot for ever leaving her alone in the first place.
“MacNair!”
Right on cue, her head popped up over the ledge of rock. “I know, I know. I took longer than five minutes. But I really thought you’d come for me.”
She disappeared for an instant and dread sank to the pit of his stomach. He had a good ten strides left to reach her.
“MacNair!” Shouting was risky. If Chilton’s men had merely passed through, then he’d be calling them back to their position. But every cell in Vincent’s body had tightened with suspicion. Chilton was here. Hiding. Vincent had to reach Whitney first.
The next thing he saw was the top of her bright auburn hair, shining gold and copper in the sunlight. A breeze caught its length and unfurled it like a banner.
As distinctive as a warning flag.
A beacon for anyone within a mile of this clearing to see.
A dramatic grunt preceded the dip of her shoulders, and then his black nylon bag sailed through the air as she hefted it over the top of the outcropping. “What do you carry in that thing, anyway? If it’s a helicopter we can assemble, let’s do it and get out of here. My feet are killing me.”
Damn that woman. She made more noise than his entire family put together in one room at Christmastime.
Vincent reached the edge as she hooked one leg over the top. He grabbed her belt at the back of her waist and lifted her. With one glance, he scanned the washout below her. No one. Where the hell were Chilton’s men?
“I put some ointment and a bandage on my blister. Took longer than I thought to get my boot—”
He clamped his hand over her mouth and rolled her onto the ground beneath him. “Not a word.” He whispered the warning beside her ear. Keeping her still. Keeping her silent. “Understand?”
Her pale eyes blanched above his hand. When she nodded, he released her. She immediately whispered, “What’s going on?”
“Dammit, MacNair.”
And then he saw them.
They broke through the tree line on either side of the washout below them. Chilton, he recognized. There were three more men with him. Each dressed in black, each carrying a semiautomatic weapon.
Each charging up the mountain toward them.
There’d been four men at Chilton’s cabin. Vincent had killed one, wounded or killed a second in their pursuit.
“Where the hell is he getting reinforcements?”
“Romeo. What are you—?”
He grasped Whitney’s chin and turned it to the side. Her body flinched into his and he knew she saw them, too.
“Have they been following us?”
“They’ve been waiting for us.”
Vincent propped himself up on his elbows and used a millisecond to weigh his options. Shoot or run. Whitney was out in the open.
Simple decision.
He rolled to his feet and dragged her up with him. “Run!”
He shoved her toward the trees. In one fluid motion, he aimed his gun and fired. Chilton’s men were in the open as well. Easy targets without the cover of trees. When one went down, Chilton shouted an order. The others dived for the rocks, taking them out of Vincent’s line of sight beyond the lip of the overhang. Having bought Whitney a few precious seconds, he turned to follow her, snagging his bag along the way.
God, that woman could run. Something like pride, maybe admiration or relief, gave Vincent a fleeting feeling of triumph. He pursued the flash of copper-gold hair where it disappeared amongst the trees.
Separate them. The order came in a foreign tongue. Chilton’s men were scaling the rocks. Circling them. Herding them into the trees.
A hail of bullets pummeled the ground at Vincent’s feet as he hit the tree line. Why hadn’t they fired before?
Whitney. They wanted their hostage back in one piece.
He was expendable.
Branches slapped at his face and chest as he raced ahead full speed. He needed more time, more distance before he could stop and establish a defensive position. His knees protested the punishing run after two hours of steady climbing. His lungs burned as he deepened his breathing to compensate for the thinner air of this altitude.
Just as easily as running or breathing, he popped the spent clip out of his gun and tossed it. Without breaking stride, he slipped a new magazine from his pocket and shoved it in.
Shift. Load. Turn. Fire.
Vincent staggered a step at the recoil. He hadn’t expected to hit anything. But he’d expected to see a target.
“Damn.”
The terrorists had separated. He slowed his pace a fraction. Now he could hear the voices shouting around him. Commands echoing off trees. Messages that stabbed him in the back like a knife. Cutting him off from Whitney. Leaving her at Chilton’s mercy.
“Son of a bitch.”
Whitney wouldn’t understand what the terrorists were saying. But he did.
“MacNair!”
“Romeo—”
The clip of her plea struck him right in the gut. They had her.
Vincent shifted directions. Ran straight for the light. Straight for the clearing on the other side of the trees. Straight for the sound of Whitney’s voice.
The pounding of his boots on the topsoil changed to a smacking sound as he hit bare rock. A rock slide had cleared a gully on this side of the trees. A deep V that cut straight through the mountain to the other side. That’s where they’d taken her.
He entered the
cutout. Sheer rock on either side, with piles of rock and snow at the center where the sun couldn’t quite reach.
He’s coming! The warning came from behind.
Good. He wouldn’t have to face all four men to get her back.
Praying he knew Court Brody’s map by heart and that he hadn’t mistakenly run into a dead-end canyon, Vincent rounded the corner, gun raised in front of him.
And found Whitney.
One man had her. Sort of.
Vincent almost grinned as he slowed to a walk and regained a steady breath. The bastard had cinched his arm around Whitney’s throat and was half dragging, half carrying her with him, making it impossible for him to keep his gun pointed at her head. She kicked and elbowed and punched her captor, refusing to be his shield, refusing to surrender.
“MacNair?”
Her beautiful eyes, darkened by fear, looked up and saw him. And flooded with hope.
“Get back!” The man in black shouted the order in English and trained the gun on him. Then he pointed the gun at Whitney, unsure which target provided a better defense.
Her captor’s confusion would work to Vincent’s advantage. He pushed aside his own fears for Whitney’s safety and let a deadly calm fill him with renewed strength and strategy.
He’d taken her by stealth yesterday.
Today, he’d take her back by force.
He never broke his stride. He lengthened each step. He couldn’t shoot, for fear of hitting Whitney, so he holstered his weapon.
“Get your hands off her.” Vincent’s low-voiced command bounced off the rock walls.
“Romeo, what are you—”
“Get back!” Her captor retreated, taking Whitney with him.
Vincent kept advancing, his eyes pinned to the man in black.
“Romeo?”
For a single heartbeat of time, he slipped his gaze to hers and said, “Fight him.”
This would be a hell of a lot easier if she understood his message. She did.
He saw a flash of white teeth and heard a squeal of mortal pain. She’d bitten her captor’s hand. He released her and Whitney ducked. Before the man’s fist connected with her head, before he got off a shot at him, Vincent rammed him. Fist first. Knuckles to forehead. The man crumpled like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
“Let’s go.”
Whitney was already on her feet when Vincent took her hand. She latched on with both of hers and fell into step at his shoulder. They needed to get out of the snow, away from the trail of footprints.
“Where’s your backup?” she asked, picking up the pace when he did. He headed on through the cut. Chilton and his men controlled the plateau now. There’d be no helicopter coming to pick them up at noon or any other time. “How come we’re always doing this by ourselves?”
“We were set up.”
“What do you mean?”
He heard the foreign voices shouting questions and obscenities behind them, closing the empty circle, searching for their prey.
Vincent took a detour before answering. He turned off the main path and jumped down a five-foot drop toward the western slope. It’d be a much steeper descent, but this way provided more brush and boulders to hide behind.
He reached up and wrapped his fingers around Whitney’s waist, lifting her down beside him. Again he was struck by how delicate and slender she was, despite her sinewy strength and endless chatter. She could be hurt so easily. Not just by guns or hands or vicious words.
By betrayal.
They had both been betrayed.
With her hands still braced on his shoulders, she dug in her fingertips, demanding his full attention. “C’mon, Romeo. Don’t go quiet on me now. So Chilton and his men were waiting for us. He’s good. This guy has given Montana Confidential fits for three months. What makes you think it was a setup?”
He pulled her hands from his shoulders and clasped them between them.
“I speak Arabic.”
“So? What did they say?”
“They called me by name.”
Chapter Five
Vincent released Whitney’s hand and slid down the embankment toward the stream below them.
“Chilton used the words ‘Vincent Romeo’ and ‘NSA’.”
Whitney slid down after him, and marched downstream through the leaves on the bank, following the direction of his pointing finger without stopping for a breath. “And the only way he could have known who you were and who you work for is if he was tipped off. Right?”
Vincent scanned the slope above them. They’d lost Chilton’s men over an hour ago, and she’d been working this revelation through ever since.
Reassured their trail was clean, he fell into step behind her. Brody’s map didn’t cover this side of the range, but the terrain flattened out up ahead. Within a couple of miles they should reach the high pastureland used by one of the big ranches, if not an actual service road.
If his sense of direction hadn’t failed him. And the weather held. And the Black Order didn’t have any more tricks up their sleeves.
“You don’t have any idea who told Chilton our plans?” He’d given Whitney a black stocking cap to wear, both for warmth and to hide her red telltale flag of hair. He missed seeing those tempestuous curls bouncing along her shoulders. The kind of hair that only a woman like Whitney could do justice to.
Hell. Exhaustion was kicking in. He was too easily distracted now. He needed some serious sleep. Otherwise, he could have resisted falling into this conversation with her. “Somebody in Washington gave us away.”
She turned around and walked backward so she could face him. “You think your boss is linked to terrorists?”
“No.”
“The chopper pilot, then?”
“No.” With a firm hand on each shoulder, he turned her back around and guided her over a dip in the bank before letting her go. “Daniel Austin said Chilton had an American contact. I can’t believe it’s anyone inside the agency, though. More than likely, someone tapped into the call. I don’t want to use the radio until I can run a scan on the equipment.”
“Company man, huh? If not the NSA, then who?”
“I intend to find out.”
“So we’re going after Chilton?”
“No. I’m taking you home.”
Whitney stopped in her tracks. Vincent went ahead and passed her, on the off chance that she’d keep walking if he did. “Then you’re coming back?”
“Yes.”
“But the trail will be cold by then. Chilton could be long gone. The Black Order clearly still has support here in Montana. You keep killing terrorists, he keeps showing up with more. He knew our location this morning long before we got there. You can’t let him get away.”
Vincent’s breath seeped out on a weary sigh. Of course, when had Whitney done what he’d expected of her? He turned to face her. Even at this distance, his oversize jacket, her unadorned freckles and the expectant look in her eyes combined to sucker punch him in the gut. She looked so vulnerable and beautiful. So young and full of hope. He didn’t want to disappoint her. He didn’t want to see that look changed by the world of danger and suspicion he lived in.
“I won’t.”
A smile blossomed on her lips. “Then I’ll help you.”
Her reasoning was flawless, her patriotism admirable. But his job was to keep her safe. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“We lost them at that big gully.” Completely ignoring his decision, she turned to retrace their steps back up the mountain. She found a foothold, then stretched her arm to grab a larger rock for balance and pull herself up. “That’s where we should start.”
“You’re not going anywhere but back to the ranch.”
She continued to climb. “You need my help.”
“No.”
Vincent dropped his bag and jogged back up the bank. He would simply reach up, catch her by the ankle and pull her down to earth and to reason.
But now
those long legs of hers were working against him. “MacNair.” He swiped a gloved hand across his clenched jaw and started up the slope after her. “Get your butt back down here.”
That cute, little curvy butt.
He had such a nice view from this angle.
Just as nice as that sweet freckled face and glorious mane of hair.
Vincent clenched his jaw as his thoughts moved to the velvety smoothness of her skin. He chastized himself with the jarring movement of their climb. He wasn’t here to analyze her finer attributes. He was here to keep her safe. After two days in her company, he could understand the urgency of her father’s request to the president.
Whitney was a danger to herself, completely oblivious to just how dangerous and desperate a terrorist on the run, like Dimitri Chilton, could be.
It was up to Vincent to save her from herself.
But who would save him?
“Do you have any idea where you’re going?”
“If we find Chilton, we can eavesdrop. I know he made two calls from his cell phone when I was at the cabin with him. One was to my father. The other must be his contact.”
He snatched at her foot, but she flicked his hand away, sending a shower of pebbles and dirt down on him. He waited for the rock slide to settle, then hurried his pace to catch her. “Don’t you ever run out of gas?”
“Think of it, Romeo. This could be the break we need to bring down the Black Order. All we need is a name. Or a code word.”
“It’s not that easy to uncover a mole’s identity,” he argued, referring to the elusive traitor who’d revealed their whereabouts to the Black Order. “You’d need surveillance equipment. Skilled operatives. In some cases you have to work for days, weeks, even years, to find that one phone call or memo or computer disk that proves where the information leak is. You’re not going to find him by eavesdropping on one phone call.”
Whitney had drifted off course and reached a sheer rock face. Without ropes and pitons, she couldn’t scale that kind of incline. But even that didn’t stop her. Scooting to the side, she tried to work her way around it. “Don’t you want to nail the bad guys?”
Vincent studied the course above and below her, and found a foothold on a different path. “My mission was to return you safely to your father. There was nothing in my orders about bringing in any terrorists.”
