by Julie Miller
Whitney slipped her arm through Brian’s. “Do I hear music swelling in the background?”
Brian patted her hand and kissed her. “You’re a hero, kiddo. And to think all along I thought you were just an annoying little brat.”
She smacked his arm. The friendly interchange reminded Vincent of his own family gatherings. Maybe their backgrounds weren’t so different, after all.
After shaking hands all round and accepting a kiss from Rose, Whitney dragged Vincent right up to the man himself, Gerald MacNair, Sr. He reminded Vincent of an Irish boxer, red-haired, compact, tenacious, and smarter than he’d like anyone else in the room to believe.
Something about Gerald’s command of himself made Vincent stand a little taller himself. “Treason is a high crime.” Gerald was detailing his own personal plans for Ross Weston. “He’ll have no political career, ever. He won’t be able to sell his story from prison. He won’t be able to practice law. And if he has any money left over after Margery’s done divorcing him, I’ll sue him on behalf of the people of Montana for the emotional hardship he caused by inviting a terrorist organization to conduct their business on American soil.”
Vincent admired the man’s thoroughness. “Sir, I don’t think I’d want you breathing down my neck.”
Gerald slid a pointed look toward Whitney, who sat at his side. “I don’t have to, do I?”
Whitney rolled her eyes and stood while Vincent stuttered for an appropriate response. “Smooth, Dad.”
She kissed him on the cheek, rescuing Vincent from the “what are your intentions toward my daughter?” conversation.
He wanted to have that conversation.
He wanted to have it with Whitney first.
WHITNEY RODE with Vincent in silence up the elevator at the Wardman Park Hotel.
His silence was nothing new.
But this mood swing was.
She’d seen him angry. Frustrated. Passionate. Hurt. Caring. Deadly.
But she’d never seen him nervous.
She’d made a conscious decision at the hospital that she would accept whatever relationship he wanted to offer her. For whatever length of time. They’d agreed to travel together to Washington for the president’s reception honoring their defeat of the Black Order. They’d shared two fabulous days together, seeing the sights, making love, holding each other.
She hoped it wasn’t ending tonight.
Had her family scared him off? She couldn’t imagine anything scaring Vincent.
Was he looking for a way to let her down easy? Perhaps the thrill of being with her was only related to the high-stakes tension of the job, and now that the job was done, the thrill was gone.
Had he decided she was just too much work? That he didn’t get enough in return from her to justify a long-term relationship?
Completely depressed and utterly miserable, Whitney followed him down the hall to their room.
“Close your eyes.”
“What?”
Vincent wasn’t one to play games. What was going on with him today?
“Humor me.”
“Okay.” Whitney squeezed her eyes shut and waited while the key card buzzed and clicked in the lock. Vincent opened the door, and with his hand at the small of her back, guided her inside.
The door closed behind her. She breathed in an overpowering sweet smell and frowned. Or no, was that smoke? “Romeo?”
“Open your eyes.”
Whitney did.
Her jaw dropped open in mute shock. Vincent Romeo, man of silence, was trying to tell her something.
In every corner of the room, from the vanity counter to the window shelf, were roses. Dozens of them. Hundreds. Rich red bouquets in crystal vases.
And on any flat surface where no rose could fit, there was a candle. Tall ones. Fat ones. White ones. Blue ones. In candlesticks and sitting on plates. Each one flickered with a beckoning light. They alone illuminated the room.
“Romeo?” Should she read something into his room decor?
He took her purse and jacket, and peeled off his coat and tie. He disappeared into the bathroom for a moment, then came out with two champagne flutes filled with a clear sparkling liquid. He stopped and pressed a button on the radio, and soft, dramatic opera music filled the air.
Whitney pressed her lips together and tried to translate the unspoken message.
Did he think he needed all this to prove that he cared?
A tumble down the slope of Beartooth Mountain had been a romantic enough setting for her.
“Romeo?”
He handed her one of the glasses and clinked hers in a toast. “It’s just sparkling water. The doctor said no alcohol for two weeks.”
She took a sip along with him and found herself strangely without words. She walked to the window and sniffed the roses there. So many. So beautiful. It nearly overwhelmed the senses. “This is really something.”
He moved up behind her, slid his arm around her waist and drew her against his chest. She closed her eyes as he nuzzled her hair. This was what she needed. It was all she wanted from him.
She sank back into his strength and tilted her head for his lips to explore her neck.
He sniffled right in her ear, breaking the mood. But she wanted it back.
Whitney turned, took his glass and set it on the corner of a table with hers. Then she met his dark, hungry gaze and held it as she walked into his arms.
At first they simply stood together, swaying a bit with the music. Vincent’s hands began to roam and she followed his lead. She tested the breadth of his shoulders beneath the crisp white cotton. She ran her fingertips along the smooth column of his neck.
He skimmed her back, captured her waist, caught and squeezed her bottom.
He sniffled again.
Whitney leaned back and frowned. She made note of the pink tip of his tan nose. “Are you okay?”
“I just want you to know how I feel.” He turned his head and sneezed. “I want tonight to be special.”
She framed his clean-shaven jaw between her hands. “I always feel special when you’re with me.”
She pulled his mouth down for a kiss and he willingly obliged. She thanked him for the romantic gesture, then turned the kiss into something more.
Whitney rose up on tiptoe, pressing her mouth into his, demanding more. She wrapped her arms around his neck, rubbed her fingers into his short hair. Then she held on and let herself slide against him. He was hard and straight and unyielding. Her breasts flattened, her hips caught fire.
His hands splayed at her waist, his long fingers curving toward her bottom. He lifted her again, pulling her close, re-creating the same glorious friction between them.
His mouth left hers to explore her cheek and jaw and neck. Her feet hit the floor, for only a moment. He lifted the sweater she wore up over her head and tossed it onto the bed. Then she was in his arms again, silk against cotton. The music played. The aroma of roses filled her senses. The light from the candles flickered against her skin like the teasing caress of Vincent’s tongue.
He slipped the strap of her camisole down her arm and continued his exploration across her collarbone to the point of her shoulder. “You’re like fire in my hands,” he praised her, supping on the swell of her breast where skin and silk met. “Cool, creamy skin. Sets me on fire.”
Whitney shuddered at the power of his words. She needed him to know that he kindled that same fire in her, that he made her just as crazy. With breathless determination, she unbuttoned his shirt. His mouth caught hers and linked them together as they pushed the cotton off his chest and down his arms.
With the shirttails still hanging from his waist, he gathered her to him. Claiming her with his mouth. Branding her with his heat. Healing her with his touch.
Communicating his love the only way he knew how.
He sneezed.
The unexpected sinus explosion startled them both.
“Romeo?” Was he sick? Did he need her to get some medicine or a do
ctor?
“No.” He ignored the sneeze and the next few sniffles and returned his attention to her face. Each freckle that had annoyed her so over the years became a tempting target for his lips and tongue. Tickling, teasing…
He stopped.
More startling than that sneeze, his sudden stillness alarmed her.
His lips froze beside the bandage at her temple.
And then he walked away from her. Walked clear to one end of the room and back. Leaving her standing there, chilled. Alone. Clutching her arms in front of her feverish body.
“Talk to me, Vincent,” she pleaded. “Please talk.”
He swiped one hand across his jaw then came back to her at the center of the room. Not close enough for their bodies to touch, but close enough to feel his heat and frustration. And something more.
Whitney waited.
Vincent slipped her camisole straps back into place. He straightened her hair around her face. Then he touched his fingers gently to the cut at her temple.
“You shouldn’t be a part of the life I lead. People get hurt.”
The regret in his voice broke her heart. She caught his hand when he would have pulled away. “I would have gotten hurt, anyway. But I would have gotten killed if you hadn’t been there to save me.”
Vincent pressed her hand between both of his and sniffled. “What about when I go out there to save somebody else? What if I turn out like my dad? I can’t put anybody through that.”
“That’s not your choice.”
He frowned at her vehement response.
“If someone—” she sought her words carefully “—cares about you, she’ll find a way to live with the danger. Some people are stronger than others, stronger than you think.”
I’m strong.
“You don’t know what it’s like to lose somebody you love, Whitney.”
She was afraid she was about to find out.
Vincent released her and crossed to the window. A twinge of Whitney’s temper kicked in at his refusal to listen to her.
“Listen, Romeo.” She twirled around to face him.
But her argument died on her lips. Vincent sniffled again. And then he sneezed. “Damn.” It sounded as if he was cursing through a wad of cotton. He sneezed again. And again. And again.
“Vincent!” Whitney ran to his side, grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him. His eyes were glossy with fluid, his nose was turning redder by the minute, and when he spoke, she could tell his sinuses were swollen and full. “These are the same symptoms Brian has when he gets around cats. You’re allergic. I think it’s the roses.”
“I dote tink so.”
She couldn’t help laughing at his stopped-up voice. It was a belly laugh. A cleansing laugh that shook her shoulders and flushed her cheeks with warmth.
Big bad Vincent Romeo was allergic to roses.
She slipped her hand around his neck to apologize, but the laughter was still there in the lilt of her voice. “I’m glad you’re human like the rest of us.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Vincent!” Her laughter died in an instant. Not because of his teasing dare, but because of the flames that shot up the curtain behind him. One of the candles had gotten too close.
She jerked him away from the growing blaze and spun around, searching for help. Resourceful as always, Whitney grabbed the two wineglasses and tossed the sparkling water on the blaze. It dampened the curtain but didn’t put out the fire.
“Get out of here!” Vincent yelled. The sprinkler system kicked on, dousing the room with water and triggering the fire alarm. He pulled the bedspread from the bed and tried to suffocate the flames.
Whitney had a better idea. She pushed her soggy hair off her face and ran to the bathroom to fill the ice bucket with water.
“Move, Romeo!” She shouted the warning above the high piercing tone of the alarm.
Vincent turned. She tossed. She saw too late that he had put the fire out. The water splashed with ignominious glory into Vincent’s face. It ran down his jaw and dripped onto his naked chest.
He looked up and squinted against the pulsing shower of water from the ceiling spigot, staring at it as if the wonders of the world could be explained by that silvery metal disk. He smoothed his hair back with the palms of his hands and shook off the excess water before he finally spoke. “Nothing’s simple with you, is it?”
Whitney clutched the bucket in front of her. She’d seen that look in his eyes before. Pure black. Intense. He moved toward her and she backed away a step. He wouldn’t hurt her, she knew, but this was going to be the part about not getting anything right. About being a danger to live with.
“Vincent…”
And then the sneezing attacked him again. His shoulders shook with the force of his reaction. One mighty man laid low by a bit of rampant pollen.
Whitney laughed. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“Why not?” Vincent advanced.
She stood her ground. “Because I love you.”
The words shocked them both into stillness. She hadn’t meant to say them. She didn’t want to put that kind of pressure on him.
But she felt them. In every cell of her body.
So she said them again.
“I love you.”
And then the most astonishing thing happened.
Vincent smiled.
This was no gentle curve of the mouth, no half-formed grin.
This was an ear-to-ear, devastatingly handsome, melt-her-down-to-her-very-toes kind of smile.
“Vincent?”
But of course, he didn’t tell her what his reaction meant. Instead, he pulled his leather jacket from the closet and draped it over her shoulders, snapping it at he neck and pulling the front together to add a protective layer of warmth over her sodden silk camisole that suddenly revealed everything. Before she could thank him for the tender gesture, he scooped her up in his arms. She fell against his chest and held on to his neck. The ice bucket landed on the floor and hope landed in her heart.
He carried her to the door and opened it. “Where are we going?”
He took her past the neighboring guests who had gathered in the hall to investigate the alarm. He gave a brief explanation to the security guard, bypassed the sealed elevator, and headed straight for the stairs. He had no shirt, and she wore only her skin-hugging camisole and skirt beneath his jacket. But he stood tall, confident, strong.
Mysteriously determined.
He pushed open the door to the stairwell. He carried her in to the landing and they were all alone.
“Vincent, dammit, what are you doing? People are staring at us.”
“Shh.” His mouth covered hers in a silencing kiss.
He came up for air and carried her down a flight of stairs. Whitney scrambled within his grasp. “You’re not dumping me out on the street, are you? I’m sorry about the fire and the water and the roses and the whole thing, but it—”
He kissed her again.
By the third floor he let her breathe again. Her argument was a little more subdued, but no less sincere. “It was a wonderful, romantic gesture. I’m sorry I ruined it for you, but where are you taking me?”
Those black eyes met hers, clear and dark as the midnight sky. “I’m going to ask the manager for a new room where I can make love to my girl all night long.”
Whitney blushed all the way to her toes and inside her heart. The portent of his words stoked a fire deep in her belly and made her cling to his shoulders in a grasp that would never let go.
“Okay.”
It was all she needed to say.
Chapter Thirteen
Patrick McMurty cussed all the way out to the barbecue pit with his wife, Dale, close behind, giving instructions and ignoring every last thing he said. “The first of November is too damn late in the year to have this thing fired up.”
Dale smiled, the spirit in her trim body every bit a match for her husband’s tall, lanky frame. “You’re the only thing that’s all fired up. N
ow, c’mon. I said I’d help.”
Patrick had started the fire last night before Whitney and Vincent had arrived back at the ranch for the final debriefing on Montana Confidential’s mission. Whitney perched on the top rail of the corral, scratching Dragonheart’s nose and spoiling him with a couple of carrots.
She’d come here three months ago, hating this place before she ever arrived. It was a life sentence back then. A punishment for being the ultimate screwup in a family and a city that didn’t tolerate screwups.
She gazed up at the snow-studded mountains that lined either side of the valley. There were no people here, she’d despaired. No places to shop. Nothing worthwhile to do.
But she’d found a family here. Daniel Austin and the others. The McMurtys. Vincent.
She’d found a purpose.
It was enough to care. About people. About work. She’d learned pride and satisfaction doing things as mundane as typing or cleaning tack. She’d learned what was important to her. Not the shopping. Not the prestige of a political career.
Her country.
Her friends.
Her heart.
Those were the things that mattered.
Dragonheart butted his nose against her leg, demanding her attention. She apologized for running out of carrots, then gave him a good rub down the center of his face. “Okay, boy. You matter, too.”
She looked back at Frank and Dale, and saw the silver-haired cowboy lean down and give his wife a kiss. Then Dale curled her arm through Frank’s and they huddled together, watching the beef grill over the coals. Their bickering no longer alarmed her as it had when she first arrived. It was just their way of talking. After forty some–odd years of marriage, their way of talking must work.
“Molly!”
Kyle Foster’s crisp voice shouted an order that his three-year-old daughter dutifully ignored. She had a running start ahead of Kyle and his dark-haired wife, Laura, as they left the barn.
“Horsey!”
Whitney laughed and jumped down to scoop up the bundle of energy into her arms. “Yes, it is.” She leaned closer to the railing so Molly could touch Dragonheart’s nose.
