by Julie Miller
With her body still humming with the aftershocks of loving him, Whitney curled against his chest and pretended to doze.
Sleep couldn’t claim her. The same thoughts that had haunted her dreams earlier refused to subside.
Vincent had given her this night to feel special, this night to feel loved. She hoped she had given him the same gift in return.
Because there would be no more nights after this one.
When the threat of Dimitri Chilton and the Black Order had ended, when Ross Weston had been proved to be a traitor or a patriot, he’d have no reason to stay and protect her. He’d return to Chicago, to his fatherless Italian family that meant so much to him, to an important job that didn’t involve baby-sitting an impetuous, headstrong heiress who drove him crazy.
Whitney squirmed at the notion of being cast aside again. Thinking she stirred in her sleep, Vincent feathered his fingers into her hair and gently massaged the nape of her neck. She melted into him, imprinting his unpolished brand of tenderness in her memories to last for all time.
Come morning, there’d be no tenderness.
In just a few hours she’d have to betray the fragile trust that had blossomed between them.
Only now, she wasn’t just afraid of putting her life in danger.
She’d be risking her heart, too.
Chapter Nine
How did one go about getting kidnapped, anyway?
Whitney’s morning wasn’t going according to plan. Last night she’d left her Explorer at the helipad, away from the house and barn, and managed to drive away from the ranch without being followed. She’d stopped at the Old Firehouse Gym to shower and change into jeans and an olive wool blazer.
But now what?
She took a sip of her diet cola and looked at the antique Regulator clock hanging behind the counter of the soda fountain where she’d stopped for a drink. Nearly 10:00 a.m. Her time was running out.
She hadn’t thought much beyond how she could get away from the ranch undetected. She’d made record time driving up Highway 89 into Livingston, even calculated the location of the highway patrol so she could slow down without being ticketed. She didn’t need the authorities running a check on her. Daniel had the means to track down such a report in the war room. He’d pinpoint her location in an instant, and then she imagined a fleet of cars, maybe even a couple of helicopters, swarming after her.
Because she had no doubt Vincent, with Daniel and the other Montana Confidential agents in tow, would be coming for her like a herd of riled-up big brothers out to stop a forbidden date with destiny.
She had to find Dimitri Chilton before they found her.
Her short life as a secret agent would be over before it ever got started. “Looked good in the trench coat, but couldn’t get the job done.”
“Excuse me?” The teenage girl working on the other side of the polished pine counter interrupted her thoughts with a polite smile.
Whitney needed to stand out in a crowd not get lost in one.
“What’s the deal with all the tents and trailers outside?” As usual, nervous impatience prompted her to talk.
She picked up her cup and climbed off her stool. The Robin’s Nest soda fountain was part of a souvenir shop inside a restored train station. One end of the station was now a formal restaurant. The main concourse had been turned into a museum. Whitney had chosen to hang out at the gift shop because its two entrances allowed her to be seen by both the traffic on Main Street and the tourists wandering in and out of the museum.
Not that anyone seemed to be looking for her at the moment.
The girl followed her over to a display of signs made of old barn wood. “With the political rally for Senator Weston at the high school, there’s lots of folks driving into town. Every vendor with something to sell has set up shop, hoping to cash in on the extra customers. We opened early this morning ourselves.”
A long strip of land between the railroad tracks and the street served as both park and parking lot. This morning it was bustling like a carnival. “When is Senator Weston supposed to show up?”
“Not until tomorrow night. At the high-school auditorium. It’s the only place in town big enough to hold everyone. Our band will play. The choir will be there.”
“You play in the band?”
The girl nodded. “Clarinet. If you want to come, though, you need to have a ticket.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll have an invitation.” One way or another, she’d find a way to check out Weston.
She pretended an interest in the amusing and philosophical sayings carved into the signs, and the girl moved on to help another customer who’d just walked in. His black coat clicked all Whitney’s senses into alert. She slipped around to the back of the display to get a look at the man. Too tall to be Chilton. Too skinny to be Vincent. She breathed out a sigh mixed with relief and frustration.
This was getting her nowhere.
Trading goodbyes with the teenager, she stepped outside to try her luck in the open-air market.
She strolled past the funnel cake stand and stopped to watch a cooking demonstration at the next tent. She hovered at the back of the crowd, raised her hand and asked a question—making herself seen and heard.
Nothing.
She tossed her soda into a trash receptacle and made a few purchases. Some homemade fudge to send to her mother. A set of handwoven place mats she didn’t need. At every stop she chatted with anyone who was willing to have a conversation. All the while she kept scanning the crowd, looking for men dressed in black clothes.
After a half hour without success, she sat on one of the park benches and pulled out a piece of fudge to sample, herself. Surely one of Chilton’s men would be out looking for food and supplies, or scouting for the next easy target to bargain with. Someone was bound to notice her out on her own—away from the Lonesome Pony and her big, brooding bodyguard.
Thinking of Vincent made the sweet chocolate in her mouth taste bitter. He would never forgive her for sneaking out in the dark before dawn.
She’d half hoped he’d wake up and snatch her back into his arms, growl one of his decisive no’s and keep her in her place. But days without proper sleep, and a night full of physical exertion had left him snoring softly on her pillow.
Sprawled across her bed, naked to the waist with his legs tangled in the sheet and his dark head cradled against the wrinkled pillowcase, he seemed vulnerable to the cruel realities of the world he conquered by day. She’d curled her hands into fists, resisting the urge to cover him up, to climb back in beside him and shield him with her body.
The tough guy had opened up to her last night—shown her that he was much more than a crackerjack agent or a skilled lover.
He had a heart.
He didn’t quite know what to do with it yet, but he had a heart. His feelings for his father had been difficult to express. But for her sake—because he thought it would make her stay—he’d struggled with those words and emotions he hated so, and showed her that he cared.
Whether that caring stemmed from his sense of duty or the craving they shared for each other, she couldn’t say. She still had much to learn about Vincent Romeo and his secrets.
But now she’d never have the chance to learn them.
He’d been hurt by one woman already. She doubted he could forgive another for abandoning him.
Having lost her appetite entirely, Whitney wadded the fudge back inside its paper and stuffed it into her bag.
Waiting didn’t sit well with her. She rose to her feet and searched the park for an inspiration. She would not botch this self-assigned mission. Now that she’d added Vincent to the list of important people she’d disappointed, she couldn’t afford to fail.
She couldn’t just drive up to Weston’s ranch. According to the locals, he wasn’t due to arrive in Livingston until tomorrow. If she walked up to his front door, he’d be suspicious of how she knew he was already in Montana. Chilton had to be the way she got to him.
A
nd then the inspiration hit in the form of an eager young man who handed her a brochure.
The campaign tent. Volunteers handing out Vote for Weston stickers and discussing pamphlets filled with the senator’s plans to “Take back America for Americans.”
Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of that before?
A frisson of anticipation shivered along Whitney’s spine. She took a deep, steadying breath and hurried over to the booth. Someone there would recognize her name, if not her face, and report back to their chief. If Weston knew she was here, he would put Chilton on her tail.
“I knew I recognized you. You’re the lady in the photographs.” The same young man who had given her the campaign brochure circled her and sat on the edge of the folding table beneath the tent. His awestruck rendition of spotting a celebrity captured the attention of the two women sitting behind the table. “Are you still a Weston supporter?”
Whitney laughed and lied through her teeth. “Of course I am. That was all a misunderstanding. I worked for the senator because I believe in what he stands for. I still do.”
“Do you think it’s smart for the senator’s mistress to be seen at his campaign stops?” Though asked without the leering undertones of the reporters she’d encountered in Washington, the question made her cringe.
“I’m not…” No. She had a role to play now. She couldn’t afford the luxury of defending herself. “I just happened to be in Livingston today. I thought I’d stop by and see how preparations were going for the rally tomorrow.”
“Big doin’s,” the young man promised. As he launched into a blow-by-blow account of the senator’s arrival by train and parade to the high school through town, Whitney tuned him out. Instead, she focused on how the two women at the table stared at her, questioning her, condemning her.
Whitney stood tall and smiled beneath that scrutiny, until a new awareness assailed her.
She was being watched.
A ripple of unease cascaded down her spine. The two ladies continued to cast glances her way while the young man prattled on.
But this was something different. Someone different.
Adding a few un-huhs from time to time to keep the man talking, Whitney scanned the area, moving just her eyes. Had Chilton spotted her? Or was this crawling sense of dread a reaction to being identified as the fallen woman who had set Washington on its ear a few months earlier?
“…and then, of course, he’ll move on to the capitol in Helena, where he’s scheduled to give another speech. It’s his last tour of the home state before Election Day.”
A palpable danger hummed in Whitney’s ears, tuning out the rest of the campaign spiel. She turned her head now, openly searching the faces in the crowd, looking for a man in black whose conscienceless eyes promised suffering and death.
She spotted a familiar face. The humming became a deafening roar as the blood pounded in her veins. At the far end of the park, a sun-weathered, sandy-haired man stepped out of the gift shop where she’d bought her soda less than an hour ago.
Daniel Austin.
That unruffled air of cool authority was evident even at this distance. He slipped his tan Stetson onto his head, tipped it to the two ladies that walked past him, then lifted his head with a subtle nod. Whitney turned and followed the direction of his gaze across the busy street.
Court Brody.
Whitney didn’t wait to see if anyone else from the ranch had come to town. They were all here somewhere. Looking for her. Saving her from her own foolishness.
She spun completely around. They hadn’t spotted her yet. She breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth, calming herself, weighing her options, making a plan.
“Miss MacNair?”
She tapped the young man on the arm, calming his concern. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go.”
“Take some brochures.”
She grabbed the handful he gave her and fanned one open. Burying her face behind it, she walked back toward the benches, away from Daniel. The speed of her pace created a breeze that lifted her hair and blew it around her shoulders.
“Damn.” The brochures flew from her hands as she grabbed for her hair. Subtle. “Double damn.”
She remembered Vincent’s insistence on her wearing that itchy black cap on the mountain. Her hair was like a red flag to a bull, he’d explained. She had to hide it if she didn’t want to be noticed.
Right now she didn’t want to be noticed.
Beating down the urge to run, Whitney ducked into the next tent. Indian blankets. Throw rugs.
Scarves.
She pointed to a three-foot square of lightweight, mustard-colored wool. “This is lovely. How much?”
She paid the inflated price and wrapped the scarf around her head, tying it tight beneath her chin and pulling it around her face to mask the style and color of her hair.
Hunching her shoulders, she zipped from tent to tent, making her way toward her Explorer and the sunglasses she kept in the console between the two front seats. She couldn’t drive away with Daniel and Court so near, but she might be able to sneak inside for the glasses to complete her disguise.
Whitney rounded the last tent and froze.
Vincent.
He paced back and forth beside her car like a caged animal. Tall and dark.
And angry.
She could see the heat of the emotion shimmering in his eyes. He surveyed the parking lot as he paced. His fingers splayed at his hips, revealing the bulge of his gun beneath his leather jacket. So much strength. So much power. So much control.
What would he do if she showed herself right now? Greet her with that stoic disinterest of the man she’d first met? Or swallow her up in his arms and celebrate her safe return?
Vincent stopped pacing. Whitney held her breath.
Like the feral animal he was, he tilted his nose into the air and sniffed. Thirty yards separated them. Did he sense her presence? Did he know he was being watched?
His shoulders rose and fell, and Whitney sighed along with him. Then, in the flash of an eye, he pounded her window with the side of his fist.
Whitney jumped in her boots, feeling the jolt all the way to her heart.
She backed up a step, hugging the flap of the tent. Hiding herself and her shame and regret from his view.
“What have I done?”
Whitney collapsed in on herself, hugging herself, unable to stanch the guilt that reared its head and clutched her in its painful jaws. She backed away another step.
She smelled the spicy sweat an instant before she felt the jab in the back of her ribs.
“Good to see you again, Miss MacNair.” The false guise of civility in Dimitri Chilton’s accented voice couldn’t mask the threat behind the gun in her back.
Was this what success felt like? This heart-stopping chill that stunted her breathing and made her stomach clench to keep from crying out loud?
“What do you want?” she asked on a croaky whisper.
“Come with me.” He slipped his hand around her waist beneath her jacket, pulling her against him in a crude mockery of an embrace. “Do not make a scene, or some of these very nice people might get hurt.”
This was what she wanted, right? This was what she had to do. Her gaze strayed back to Vincent, silently crying out for help, silently warning him away.
Dimitri’s lips brushed against her ear. “Including your friend there. He has already cost me three men.” He pressed the gun into her back, hard enough to bruise the skin. “It would be my pleasure to get rid of him.”
Whitney turned her head, trying to look over her shoulder. He wouldn’t kill Vincent in broad daylight, would he? Not with all these people around?
Turning was a mistake. It allowed him to see the fear in her eyes.
Chilton laughed the devil’s laugh, right into her ear. “Walk with me. Like we haven’t a care. My associate is parked in the street.”
Powerless against the gun at her back and the threat to Vincent’s life, Whitne
y let him guide her across the marketplace. Vendors and patrons she had chatted with earlier paid no heed to her as they strolled past, step in step, like an army marching to its doom.
She focused on breathing. She focused on staying sane. She focused on why she had wanted Chilton to find her in the first place.
In a matter of minutes, he had her stuffed in the back seat of a nondescript blue Ford. Whitney slid to the far corner as he climbed in beside her. He tapped the back of the front seat and gave a command in a language she couldn’t understand. The driver nodded and pulled into the flow of traffic. At the next intersection he stopped and a third man climbed into the passenger seat. After a few more turns, they pulled onto the highway and headed out of town.
Whitney huddled in her corner, clutching her bag of souvenirs in front of her and reciting the reasons over and over in her mind why she thought becoming a hostage again was a good idea.
“What, no vile words of protest, Miss MacNair? No kicks to the face?”
Whitney responded to his taunts with a disjointed observation. “You’re not wearing black.”
Chilton’s eyes narrowed, as if she had actually surprised him with that one. “Excuse me?”
Other than the lethal-looking black steel handgun that rested on his lap, he looked like any other citizen of a small Montana town in his jeans, denim jacket and black felt hat. It staggered her comprehension to see how easily these cold-blooded killers could blend in with the American landscape.
It was then that Whitney realized she was in way over her head. She didn’t have to feign fear and ignorance this time. “You know my father won’t pay a ransom. What do you want with me?”
Chilton leaned toward her. With the coldest excuse for a smile she’d ever seen, he lifted his gun and touched the tip of the barrel to her temple. Like a loving stroke straight from hell, he drew the gun along her cheekbone to the corner of her mouth. “Not a damn thing.”
Whitney squeezed her eyes shut to block out the hideous caress. But Chilton enjoyed his game far too much for her to escape so easily. He put the cold steel right beneath her chin and forced her head back. Whitney snapped her eyes open, obeying his command to pay attention. “But someone else is willing to pay a very high price for you.”
