by Julie Miller
Or the words that dictated her actions? The no’s that kept her locked away under the guise of protection. A pampered bird in a cage gilded with good intentions was still trapped inside a cage.
Whitney pushed at his shoulders, her mind needing an answer before her body completely betrayed her resolve. Those mysterious eyes, glistening like polished obsidian now, gave her no answers.
He lowered her to the floor, but his hands slipped beneath her sweater and maintained their possessive grasp at her waist. She blinked against the searing touch of skin on skin, and struggled to get the words past the knot of emotions tangled in her throat. “I don’t understand you. One minute you’re biting my head off, the next you’re seducing me. Which is it, Romeo? Are you on my side or not?”
He’d put his body in front of a bullet for her, held her when she no longer had the strength to take care of herself, kissed her as if she was the only woman he’d ever wanted to kiss.
But he refused to let her into his dark, brooding world.
His chest rose and fell beneath her hands in a massive sigh. “You never answered my question. Why are you so set on doing this?” Though he held her as though her thoughts and ideas mattered, he steered the conversation away from himself, carefully avoiding the information she most wanted to hear.
Maybe if she bared a bit of her soul, he’d risk opening up as well. “It’s a chance to prove myself. To show you and Daniel and my father I’m not just a flake with a big mouth. I want to be involved with life. I want to make a difference. Like you do.”
He released her, his dark eyes shadowed and unreadable as he studied the woven Indian rug on the floor. Their talk must be over before it ever really got started. Feeling the absence of his touch like a winter chill, Whitney hid her disappointment on a shaky breath and backed away.
But before she was out of arm’s reach, he caught her by the hand. At first he simply pressed his palm to hers and aligned their fingers, emphasizing how the length and breadth and strength of his hand outmatched her own. Then he slid his fingers between hers, twining them together, all the while studying the shape and scope of her hand like a rare work of art.
A warm liquid honey rushed to her fingertips and reheated traitorous parts of her body that forgot he hadn’t yet agreed to her plan. She matched his grasp and willingly let him pull her back to his side.
“First.” His low throaty voice was barely more than a whisper. “You are not a flake. You just do your thinking out loud.”
It was more observation than teasing, and hope blossomed inside her.
“Second. I do my job, that’s all.”
“That’s not—”
He cut short her protest with a stern glance and pulled her hand between both of his.
“Third.” He slipped his fingers down her wrist, pulling back the sleeve of her turquoise sweater. The welts there had receded to pink stripes, but the bruises were rising to the surface, dotting her pale skin with blotches of blue, purple and deep dark red. “What did you prove with this?”
He touched his thumb to the right side of her jaw, and one by one he matched his fingertips to the bruises that ran down her right cheek. “Or these?”
She jerked her chin away from the crude reminder. “Damn you.” Her red-haired temperament carried her to the far side of the room. “How dare you.” She speared the fall of hair at her temple and raked it across the top of her head before turning on him. “I proved that I’m a fighter. I proved that I’m a survivor. Hell. If I can put up with you for two days, I can survive any terrorist attack or undercover mission.”
He stood. “MacNair—”
This time she cut him off, hating herself for falling for his rough-edged charm, believing for a moment that he’d singled her out for some sort of special attention. She’d known it was a trap, but had played right into his old-fashioned, overprotective tenderness anyway. “Are you suggesting I need to lock myself up and never come out? Never do anything to laugh or live or help anyone?”
“Yes. That’s what I think you should do.”
“That’s what you would do. Not me.”
“Maybe I didn’t say it right.”
“You made yourself perfectly clear. You’re judging me and everything I want to be by your experience.” She zeroed in on his position at the desk, never taking her eyes from his stony expression. “Yes, you had some horrible stuff happen to you. Losing your fiancée. Your father’s death. I am sorry for your pain. But now you’re locked down tighter than that national security you’ve sworn to defend. And you want me to be the same way?”
She speared all ten fingers through her hair and scattered it into disarray. This had been a loaded conversation from the beginning. She thought that untapped sensitive streak inside him might make him different. But no, he’d prejudged her abilities just like everyone else.
“I know almost nothing about who you are. You don’t share your feelings. You don’t trust your heart. You touch and you take—you even give—but it doesn’t mean anything to you. Maybe the only thing you really care about is this job.”
Vincent’s body shot to rigid attention, reacting to her words but not responding.
“I care about something more. Sure, life’s knocked you down a couple of times. But guess what? Bad things happen to other people, too. I had my reputation destroyed, my career stolen from me. I’ve been abused, shot at, ridiculed. Daniel’s divorced. Jewel’s going through adolescence. I can go on.”
The deadly calm in his expression shifted a bit. But he turned away before she could identify the message there. “Your point?”
Whitney gentled her voice, wondering too late if she had gone too far. “My point is this. There’s a difference between you and the rest of us. The rest of us go on with our lives and make the best of it. You’re stuck in…” She shook her head, helpless against his brooding silence. “I don’t know where you are right now.”
She reached out to him. Her hand hovered at his shoulder for an infinitesimal moment. Long enough for her to recognize the rigid set of proud self-defense in his posture and pull away.
“But I know I don’t want to be stuck in there with you. I’m going after Weston if Daniel approves it.”
She crossed to the door and paused for a moment in the open archway, waiting for a word from Vincent. She didn’t expect an apology or words of support. She just wanted a goodbye. Something. Anything.
She got nothing.
A tad of that loneliness he seemed to know by heart reached out and snared her in its cold embrace.
“I don’t need your permission or your blessing.” She had to do this. For her country. For Montana Confidential. For herself. “So get over it.”
GET OVER IT?
How did a man get over fire coming alive in his hands? How did a man get over a woman who spoke the truth and backed up her words with action? How did a man get over Whitney MacNair?
From the shadowed corner of the porch, he watched her kick up dirt and mutter a few unladylike phrases en route to the horse barn. No doubt he was the recipient of at least one of those curses. He deserved it. He couldn’t be what she needed him to be. He couldn’t say the things she wanted to hear.
All he could do was protect her.
Until he got word from her father that he was to do otherwise, he’d keep her safe and as out of trouble as a mortal man could keep Whitney MacNair.
Whether she liked it or not.
But who the hell was going to protect him from her?
Just like her long, willowy curves and eager kisses breathed life into his battered-up body, her candor was a breath of fresh air to his careworn soul.
Make the best of it, she’d challenged him. Losing his dad had changed his life, made him harder, older. Losing Melissa had been humiliating—a wake-up call that told him the love of his life wasn’t really that, after all. He didn’t know how to handle the pain, the shock, the confusion life threw his way, so he withdrew to a place where they couldn’t hurt him.
But Whitney had met all that, and more, with a smile on her beautiful face and determination to move on to the next challenge life threw in her path. Corrupt politicians. Terrorists. Overprotective fathers. A government agent who didn’t know whether to kiss her or throttle her for being so incredibly brave.
The only thing you really care about is this job. Not true. Melissa was wrong, and so was Whitney. He was wrong to forget all the good things, too. He had a loving family. A beautiful mom who had raised a brood of five children almost single-handedly. He was close to his brothers and sisters. There’d always been food on the table and someone around to care about him. And he wasn’t always obsessed with the job. Though he studiously avoided any long-term relationships, he hadn’t hurt for female companionship over the years.
He’d known women older, wiser, more suited to his personality than Whitney MacNair. But not one had gotten under his skin the way she did. Not one had made him angry and frightened one minute and feverish and alive the next.
Whitney didn’t hold back. When she was excited, she hugged. When she was afraid, she fought back. When she was confused, she talked. When she was happy, she laughed.
And when she was in his arms, she turned him inside out with her loving touches and unabashed need.
Oh yeah, she made him crazy all right.
Crazy enough to actually consider letting her have this chance to prove her mettle as an agent. She had something hurting inside her, some pain that drove her to take foolish chances. And while he didn’t like her going up against the combination of lethal terrorists and cunning politicians, he didn’t like seeing her hurt, either.
“Son of a bitch.”
Vincent caught himself the instant his guard lowered. Immersed in his thoughts, he’d lost track of Whitney. He jumped the stairs and headed for the barn after her.
Who the hell was he kidding? She couldn’t go after Weston. Letting herself be kidnapped by Chilton when the bruises from her first encounter with the bastard hadn’t yet faded was damn stupid. An unacceptable risk.
Yes. Logically, she was a good choice for such a mission. She had the prestige that would attract Weston and blind him to the deception. They shared a history. He couldn’t remember all the details of what he’d seen in the paper about her alleged flirtation with the man. He didn’t like to think about a man old enough to be her father putting his hands on her.
Vincent stuttered in his stride. He didn’t like to think about any man putting his hands on her. He never paused to analyze the fist of jealousy squeezing around his heart as he ducked into the barn after her.
His thick black boots made no noise on the powdery dirt floor. Though Whitney was no longer in his direct line of sight, he could hear her talking with Jewel and Patrick McMurty. Her energized voice played a familiar rhythm in his ears, distracting him from his confused thoughts. She was so full of life, so ready to laugh—and willing to put it all on the line because she didn’t believe anyone took her seriously. “Damn fool woman.”
And he was an even bigger fool.
Because he was drawn to her laughter, her energy, as helplessly and hopelessly as a moth drawn to a flame. She was a light in his world that had known darkness for too long.
He wouldn’t risk her life. He couldn’t allow her to be hurt.
He moved to a spot behind a stall that allowed him at least a partial glimpse of her. Welcome or not, it suddenly seemed imperative that he not let her out of his sight.
He’d make sure that Daniel said no to her plan. That she listened to her boss’s final word.
And then—because he was getting to know the utterly unpredictable way Whitney’s mind worked—he’d hang around a while longer and keep an eye on her.
Because he had no doubt that even if it was expressly forbidden, she’d try to go after Weston, anyway.
WHITNEY HUGGED her arm around Jewel’s shoulders and stood beside her, watching Silver lying on his side in the hay of his stall. His breathing was an audible wheeze, as if a heavy weight was sitting on the old gray’s chest.
It was never a good sign to see a horse go down like this, but Whitney saw it as a mixed blessing. Old Silver had lived thirty years, the last few in a great deal of pain from his arthritic hip. Most horses would have been put down after a run-in with a pickup truck. But not him. He was tough. And ornery.
And determined to succeed no matter what obstacles life threw in his path.
While she could relate to his struggle, she could also see the need for his suffering to end. She was sure Jewel wouldn’t see it the same way, though.
She looked over Jewel’s head to the gray-haired man standing on the opposite side. “Patrick?”
He held his white straw hat in both hands and twisted the brim. He met Whitney’s gaze with a slight shake of his head, then looked down at Jewel.
The twelve-year-old shivered, despite the relative warmth inside the barn. But her words were brave. “It’s okay, Grandpa. I know it’s not good.”
He feathered his fingers down the length of his granddaughter’s honey-blond ponytail. “Right now I’m trying to make him as comfortable as I can. But he’s old, sweetie. He’s nearing the end of his time.”
Jewel withered into Whitney’s side, acting more like a little girl than the grown-up she was trying so hard to be. “How much longer do you think he has?”
For a moment, there was a slump of age and heartache in Patrick’s military-straight posture. “We’ll be lucky if he makes it another day, maybe two.”
Whitney squeezed Jewel tighter. Moisture burned her eyes and spilled over when she saw the tears already streaming down Jewel’s cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”
Patrick hugged Jewel from the other side. He reached across and patted Whitney’s shoulder, offering her comfort, too. “I have some chores I can do out here. I’ll keep watch over him.”
Jewel tipped her chin up to her grandpa. “I’d like to stay, too.”
As if the sound of the girl’s voice triggered it, Silver shook suddenly and lifted his head. Whitney couldn’t help smiling through her tears. “I think he’d like that a lot.”
Jewel turned and buried her face in Whitney’s chest, and Silver settled back down on the hay. Whitney snugged the girl up in her arms and rested her cheek on the crown of Jewel’s hair, gladly absorbing the flood of her young friend’s tears. She didn’t try to offer any comforting words or false promises or mention anything about the hard truths in life. She simply held her, hugged her and cared.
Nearly an hour later, the thundering whop-whop of a helicopter landing on the chopper pad outside stirred her from their sad vigil. Whitney set down the brush she’d been using to groom Dragonheart, the bay Appaloosa she’d adopted as her own on the ranch, and wandered over to the door to investigate. From this angle she had a clear view of the landing area built on the next knoll, away from the house and barn. Daniel sat in the beat-up ranch truck at the pad, waiting for the all-clear to approach the helicopter.
Though the chopper was occasionally used for ranch work, visitors usually meant Montana Confidential business. But Daniel hadn’t mentioned anything. He would have called her if he needed her to take notes or call up a file, wouldn’t he?
Whitney rolled the kinks out of her neck and tried to ward off a growing sense of unease. Would Daniel think getting kidnapped put her on the disabled list? If he hadn’t notified her of an important meeting—even an unimportant one—it could mean he didn’t think she was ready to go back to work.
And that meant he wouldn’t let her go after Weston.
Fired up by an odd combination of anger at being left out and resignation that she had to prove her worth all over again, she dashed back into the barn. She pulled a bridle over Dragonheart’s head and led him out of the stall. In minutes she had him saddled. If no one would invite her to the party, she’d just invite herself.
Grabbing the reins, she stuffed her left foot into the stirrup and pushed up. But before she could swing her right leg over, a pair
of hands cinched her at the waist and pulled her down.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Thrown off balance, she stumbled into Vincent’s chest. She knew a brief sensation of rock-hard muscle and unyielding will before he set her on her feet and she wriggled away. “Take your hands off me.”
She reached for the horse again. This time he wrapped his arm around her waist and carried her down the main aisle of the barn. “You can’t leave.” His raspy voice was barely a tickle in her ear. “Remember the last time you went horseback riding?”
When he plunked her down on the ground outside, she whirled around. “That’s low, Romeo.” She swung her arm wide, gesturing toward the helipad. “I just want to see who’s here.”
The crunch of gravel behind her should have alerted her to the truck’s arrival at the house. But she had found a vent for her frustration. “You won’t let me do anything else. Why don’t you at least let me be the little hostess who greets everyone when they arrive at the ranch?”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed, “I want you to be careful.”
“Careful? Why don’t you just lock me in my room? If you can’t trust me to do anything right, you should—”
“Is there a problem?” She recognized the voice before she turned and saw the face. “Hey, kiddo.”
Her tirade faded on a harrumph of air. A tall young man in a gray wool suit, with short auburn hair and features much like her own, stepped out of the truck. In a heartbeat, Whitney’s frown became a whoop of joy.
“Brian!”
She ran to the truck and launched herself into her brother’s arms. He lifted her off her feet and spun her around. She hugged him tight, drawing three months’ worth of no family contact out of this one embrace. “God, I missed you.”
“It’s good to see you, Whit. You look great.” She was breathless by the time he set her on the ground. She combed the hair off her forehead and stood still for his inspection. His crisp Ivy League facade slipped a little with concern as he got a good look at her face. And the bruises. “You are okay, right?”
