by Julie Miller
“But they tried to kill you.” The strain in her voice told him she was slowing down.
“They’re not the first. They won’t be the last.”
Whitney made the mistake of looking down at him. “You live with that kind of threat every day, don’t you?” Vincent kept climbing while she worked through her hesitation. He took advantage of the color draining from her cheeks and moved to cut off her ascent. “You don’t always face the bad guys alone, do you?”
She sounded shocked, sympathetic even. Sort of like Melissa’s reaction when she first learned the details of the work he did for the government. He wondered if Whitney’s concern would turn into fear and resentment the way his fiancée’s had.
Vincent berated himself for having such a thought at all. He had promised a lifetime to Melissa, giving her plenty of time to change the way she felt about him. His time with Whitney was limited to the duration of this mission. And the sooner it ended, the better. He’d turn her over to her father and be done with her. No more mishaps, no more endless conversations.
No more fascination.
“Home, MacNair.”
He swung himself up and had her in his grasp. But she found a grip for her toes and pushed herself beyond his reach.
“Chilton’s not interested in you.” He detected an almost desperate tone as she switched back to her original line of reasoning. Why wouldn’t the woman just give up this crazy idea and stop this reckless race up the mountain? “He wants me. If I show up, then he will, too. You can be hiding out, and track him while he follows me.”
In Whitney’s hurry, she grabbed at an exposed root. The shallow topsoil couldn’t support her weight and the root ripped from the ground. She made the mistake of holding on to the root instead of the rock and sailed backward. “Romeo?”
“Hell.”
The chain reaction happened too quickly for Vincent to brace himself. As Whitney flew past, he snagged her beneath the arms and jerked her toward his chest. When she hit, his foot slipped. He held the rock for a precarious moment, but five fingers were no match for the weight of two adults and gravity.
“Romeo!”
Her arms snaked around his neck. Vincent turned his left shoulder into the rock and locked his right arm around her waist as they slid and bounced down the unforgiving wall of granite and dirt. He absorbed each jolt into muscle and bone, shielding her from the brunt of their fall. As the ground rushed up to meet them, he tried to turn. But it was too late.
His feet hit the slick earth and flew out from under him. They smacked into the cushion of leaves and dead grass and rolled together down the bank. They crashed through a tangle of deadwood caught at a curve in the stream, and were saved from a drenching in ice-cold water when Vincent slammed into the one solid trunk of aspen in the pile.
He lay there stunned, breathless, his shoulder aching, his eyes squeezed shut against the swirling world of trees and sunlight above him.
“Romeo?”
A tender touch stroked across his cheek. A caress. A query.
Vincent gathered control of his spinning world and focused on that touch. As oxygen returned to his lungs, he became aware of other touches. Long legs tangled with his, his thigh wedged in a crevice of soft heat. A delicate weight sprawled across his chest, punctuated by two small mounds pressing into him. A slender hand cupped his jaw, and strong yet delicate fingers ran with concern along his cheekbone, the hair at his temple, the arc of his ear.
“Romeo?”
She’d touched him like this before, with concern. With care. When the truck had crashed and he’d been unconscious. That was the first time he’d noticed the willowy curves of her body. The first time he’d allowed himself to think of her as a woman. Not a hostage.
Damn her, anyway, for turning a routine mission into an unpredictable roller-coaster ride. One minute he was in control, the next they were tumbling down the side of a mountain. He did his job. He did his job. He did his job. Damn her for stirring up feelings that had nothing to do with that job. Damn her for complicating his life.
In the time it took him to open his eyes, he’d rolled over, pinning her on the bed of leaves beneath him.
“Nothing’s simple with you, is it?” he accused.
Her eyes expanded, darkened. He watched the play of surprise, relief, and something like desperation dance across her face. Her hands swept down across his collar and balled in the front of his sweater. “I want to help. I work for Montana Confidential. I can—”
“Shut up.” The frustrated order came out on a husky whisper. “You’re going to listen to me. You are not volunteering for any foolhardy, unplanned strike—”
“I can do this.” She moistened her lips in a nervous gesture, and his gaze dropped to the unconsciously erotic glimpse of her sweet pink tongue. Suddenly, Vincent’s entire body felt parched. Starved for just one taste of her. “I want Chilton as bad—”
Easing his weight onto his elbows, Vincent lowered his mouth to hers. He lingered there a moment, simply touching her lips. He absorbed her taste, her scent, her surprise. And when she opened her mouth—to protest, no doubt—he angled his head and sampled her unintentional offering. Soft. Firm. Feminine. He nipped at the aristocratic arch at each corner, and drew his tongue along the fine curve of her bottom lip.
Just a taste.
Just enough to get this distraction out of his system.
Just enough to detect a pulsing heat between his legs.
He needed to retreat. For sanity’s sake. He needed to shut down his body’s reaction to her.
She frustrated him, that was all. Annoyed him. She was headstrong and spoiled, and he deserved a kiss just for enduring her company in this rescue gone sideways.
Vincent lifted his head and inhaled deeply, enjoying the calming control that seeped into his limbs.
“Think about it.” The breathy catch in Whitney’s voice gave him a perverse satisfaction. The fact that she swallowed and continued on carved a chink in his contented armor. “Why does Chilton want me so badly? My father sent you instead of paying a ransom. And still he pursues us. There’s something more going on—”
Vincent kissed her again.
He captured her lips and demanded her silence. No. He demanded her attention. On him. On them. On the way her long, lithe body fit so perfectly beneath his.
Her fists opened and she splayed her fingers across his chest. Yeah. He liked that. That false contentment became a slow, drugging heat that made the line between control and surrender hazy to detect. He wanted her to touch him again. His chest. His face. He wanted to feel her skin on his skin.
He made the request with his mouth, and somehow she seemed to understand. Her fingers crept up around his neck as his tongue swept into her mouth, seeking hers. She gave him a tentative welcome, touching the tip of her tongue to his.
He asked again.
To his feverish delight, she ran her fingers higher, along the curve of his head, and discovered the friction of her palms against his bristly short hair. She moaned in her throat, a sound as ragged and disjointed as his own thoughts.
She shifted beneath him, adjusting the cradle of her hips to support his heavier weight, drawing him nearer to her unique feminine heat. He slipped his hand down to cup the flare of her hip and hold her there as an urgent message rocked between them. Vincent’s rational mind exploded with the need to answer.
Whitney joined her tongue to his in a move as bold as her auburn hair, and Vincent claimed her. He took. He gave. He asked. He received.
He was awash in the sensations of Whitney MacNair. Her taste. Her scent. Her touch. Such beauty. Such spirit.
He’d been too long without sustenance like this, too long without admitting, much less fulfilling, this consuming need.
“Whit—” He breathed her name along her cheek, tearing his mouth from her succulent lips to indulge an idle fantasy. He found one freckle. Then another. And another. A little touch of his tongue. A tiny press of his lips.
A l
ong tendril of coppery hair had slipped from her stocking cap and fallen into his path. He reached up with one hand and swept the cap off her head. Handfuls of rich, sun-red waves spilled into his hand. He pulled them to his nose and buried himself in the fresh, wholesome smell of…
Sweat. Laced with a foreign spice.
And gunpowder.
A clarity of awareness spiked through him, as icy and sharp as the mountain stream beside them.
“Son of a—”
Vincent cut himself off. He was too close to her. This was too perfect. He’d already spoiled the moment. He wouldn’t shock her with a self-condemning curse.
He inched some distance between them, forcing cleansing air in and out of his lungs.
Confusion blanched the silver in Whitney’s passion-clouded eyes, leaving them almost colorless. Unlike the flaming patches of pinkish red that stained her cheeks.
He should have known better. He should never have lost control like that.
He had no right to take advantage of her free spirit, her adventurous nature, or whatever it was that had allowed him to kiss her. That had made her risk taking part in an embrace like that.
Through sheer will alone he managed to stand and help her up. He led her to the top of the bank, then released her hand. He moved two steps away before shame and common sense sapped his strength and he sank to the ground.
With elbows on his knees, he swiped his hands across the rasp of his jaw. He steepled his fingers and pressed his lips against them, unable to dispel the aftershocks of Whitney’s willing kiss.
From the corner of his eye he watched her hug her arms around her waist and pace. How could she possibly possess such energy when he felt completely drained?
She made three laps before coming up to sit beside him. She folded herself up inside his big jacket, making the determined thrust of her chin look somehow childlike and poignant all at the same time.
“Don’t think you can just haul off and kiss me to shut me up. I’m not going to change my mind on this.”
She tried to make a joke of it, but Vincent didn’t laugh. In reality that kiss was a sad testament to how badly he had lost his focus on this assignment. Maybe it was time he put in for a leave of absence. Maybe he needed to do something new.
Melissa had warned the job would take a toll on him. She’d meant the physical risks. But clearly, by age thirty-five, in the midst of the Montana wilderness, it was beginning to take a toll on him mentally.
And that’s when the other memories rushed in. Vincent pressed his face into his hands, trying to ward off the images. His dad in a coffin. His mother’s tears. The incredible weight of becoming a father figure to his younger brothers and sisters.
He felt a brush of fingers on his forearm and sat bolt upright.
Whitney snatched her hand away. But she didn’t retreat. “Do we need to talk about this? About what just happened?”
Talk?
What could he say? How could he explain the jumble of emotions he had no business feeling, anyway?
He turned to Whitney, wishing he had the words.
She wore the hint of a brave smile on her face, and her eyes sparkled with their quicksilver light.
But he saw her porcelain-smooth skin, roughened with the red marks from his two-day beard that lay side by side with the marks of Dimitri Chilton’s abuse.
Vincent pulled the glove off his left hand and reached out to touch her chin. He tipped it first to the left, then to the right, inspecting all the damage she’d sustained these past few days. The violence written on her soft, freckled features sickened him.
A familiar fist of justice tightened in his gut. It made him strong, righteous and absolutely sure of his next words.
He turned her chin and looked her straight in the eye. “I will not use you as bait to draw out Dimitri Chilton.”
With that final word, he found the strength to pick up his gear and start the trek downstream toward civilization and rescue.
Whitney, unfortunately, didn’t understand final words. He heard her footsteps running behind him. “Dammit, Romeo. I am not some spoiled princess without a mind of my own. I know there are risks. But I know I can do this secret-agent stuff. I can help.”
Vincent whirled around, planted himself, pulled himself up with every bit of might and muscle he possessed. Whitney skidded to a halt and backpedaled a step.
“My father was shot in the heart when I was eighteen. Died instantly. He’d gone into a warehouse to rescue an eight-year-old girl who’d been kidnapped by her mother’s boyfriend. He drew fire while his partner got the girl out.
“He was a Chicago cop doing his job. He knew the risks.
“He was the bait.”
His crude telling of the heroic, painful story had its intended effect.
He turned and marched on down the hill in silence.
“SON OF A BITCH.”
After trudging along with a companion whose dark mood made even the light mountain air seem oppressive, Whitney was relieved to hear that single curse.
“You really need to expand your vocabulary, you know that?”
Funny, but she was actually beginning to read his silent signals. A slight nod to the right or left indicated she should follow and in what direction. The flat of his hand behind his back meant stop.
And that black-eyed glare over his shoulder meant to be quiet.
Though she craved some human interaction to help sort out her thoughts, she was tired enough to obey. She sat where she was, curling her legs beneath her. The stream gave them plenty of fresh water to drink, but they’d split the last energy bar at lunch. Four hours later, her stomach was growling, her foot was throbbing, her head itched beneath the wool cap, and her mood was becoming more and more like her brooding escort’s.
“What do you see?” she had to ask. He’d pulled a pair of binoculars from his duffel and was looking toward the northern horizon.
That stiff set to his shoulders blocked her out as effectively as one of his pithy no’s. The more time she spent with Vincent, the more she learned about communicating without words.
Now if she could just figure out what that body-rocketing, mind-soaring, soul-stealing kiss had meant.
He’d turned her inside out with the coarse seduction of his hands and mouth. He was such a big man, so strong, so earthy. A little rough around the edges, even. And yet he’d been gentle. Patient with her as he tested her response. Had he been unsure of his welcome? Had he sensed her mistrust of a man’s desire?
She was more than the sum of her parts. More than a pretty face or a blue-blood pedigree or a prize to be won.
She’d been wined and dined by society’s finest. Wooed by men of wealth and power. Maybe it was the curse of an overprotective father and four older brothers, but she’d never experienced such raw, spontaneous passion before.
She’d given up her virginity on the sheets of one of the finest hotels in Martha’s Vineyard. But lying with Vincent in a pile of leaves and mud had been more memorable by far. He shut out the world with his size and power and honest need, shrinking her universe to just the two of them. He made her believe he wanted her. Not Gerald MacNair’s daughter. Whitney. Too skinny, too noisy, too headstrong. Just her.
That is, until he pulled away so abruptly.
Maybe he was just shutting her up. She had a habit of getting on people’s nerves, she knew. But she only wanted someone to listen and take her seriously. She didn’t want to be coddled and protected her entire life.
She wanted to find the man who’d kidnapped her and punch his lights out for degrading her so, for making her feel afraid. She wanted to complete Montana Confidential’s mission and eliminate the threat of the Black Order in the United States. She wanted to be kissed like nobody else in the world mattered again.
Fat chance.
She blew out her frustration on a sigh and picked up a pebble to toss into the stream. The stone sank to the bottom of the clear water, and Whitney felt her spirits sink with it.
/>
“How’s your foot?”
Vincent’s question startled her from her self-pitying reverie. It had been so long since he’d spoken, she almost didn’t recognize the familiar deep-pitched rasp.
She wanted to ask him what had happened to his voice. Had it always sounded as if he had that trace of laryngitis? It gave him a weathered quality, the sound of a man who had forgotten how to be a little boy a long time ago. After losing his father so tragically, she imagined he’d grown up instantly.
But Whitney didn’t indulge her curiosity. Conversation with Vincent was a precious thing, and she didn’t want to jeopardize this opportunity by changing the subject. “It hurts like hell, but I don’t need crutches yet.”
“You got another mile in you?”
Was that a challenge she heard? She stood and brushed the dirt and debris from her jeans, and her curiosity swerved in a whole new direction. “I might.”
“We may not need to chance the radio, after all. Here.” He held out the binoculars. While she put them up to her eyes, he stood behind her and angled her in the proper direction.
Whitney squinted and adjusted the knob until they were focused. She squinted again. Was that a gravel road? Steps? A sparkling white wraparound porch?
“It’s a ranch.” A very successful one, judging by the number of corrugated-metal outbuildings and the matching pair of black SUVs off to one side of the sprawling cut-stone residence. “My God, it’s a house!”
A surge of renewed energy spun Whitney around. She flung her arms around Vincent’s neck and hugged him tight. “Yes! We did it! We’re going home!”
He snugged his arms around her and lifted her off the ground. She felt weightless, airborne high above the puffy cotton-ball clouds in the sky above her. And for an instant, she thought he was sailing up there with her. But all too soon her feet hit the ground and Vincent said, “Business before celebration, MacNair.”
His hands settled at her waist and she made the awkward realization that he was holding himself perfectly still. Whitney quickly pulled away, feeling the sting of his rejection. But she refused to let embarrassment destroy her buoyed spirits.
