The Colton Heir

by Colleen Thompson

  “So Amanda told you about that.” The memory heated her face.

  “She certainly did.” He grinned, grunting a little as he climbed back to his feet. “So don’t tell me you’re afraid to take a chance on me. I don’t believe it any more than I believe you still have feelings for that ass who was your husband.”

  But she was afraid. Scared to death that Dylan would grow to hate her once he realized all he’d given up for her. Not only the career and reputation he’d worked so hard to build, but all the relationships here on the ranch that clearly meant so much to him, relationships that would change and grow as he, too, grew to accept his Colton heritage, his sisters and his brother, maybe even to reclaim the name to which he’d been born. And then there was the money, all the money he’d be giving up for her. It might sound crass, but his share of his father’s fortune could change his life forever, could enable him to achieve his every dream on a grand scale.

  Telling herself she could bear even a lifetime of loneliness more than his eventual resentment, she swallowed hard and spoke past the pain knotting in her throat. “It’s not that I’m not flattered by the offer, Dylan, but a quick fling’s not the same thing as forever. And I’m pretty sure that you’re confusing lust with—”

  “Are you telling me you don’t love me? That you risked your life, your freedom, everything you have to come racing back to face an armed assassin out of— What would that be? Gratitude for a good time?”

  “I—I’d do the same for any of my friends.”

  “Friends?” he asked, the word dripping with disbelief.

  “Good friends,” she allowed with the smallest of shrugs before lying, “but no more...”

  He moved to within inches, as he searched her eyes with a searing intensity that primed her every nerve ending, that had her heart pounding out a warning to turn away before he—

  Too late, for as he pulled her in his arms and kissed her, all her objections, all her willpower ignited like a million tiny torches. Melting into his embrace, she kissed him back, her lips parting to his questing tongue, her hands stroking the hard muscle along—

  He broke off the kiss to pull away, his teeth gritted in pain.

  “I’m sorry,” she told him. “I forgot about your poor ribs. And I—I forgot other things, as well. Things that you’d be giving up if you chose me.”

  “Do you mean a chance to father children?” he asked gently.

  She shook her head and said uncomfortably, “It could be I exaggerated about that a little. But what if it did happen? What would we do then?”

  He took her hand and stroked it, his callused fingertips gliding over smooth skin. “The best we could. Together. Just like every other couple. If you love me, that is.”

  Reasons clamored in her mind, reasons that she shouldn’t. “What about your business here?” she asked. “About finding your mother’s killer? Police chief Peters said himself, Misty might’ve been behind the recent attacks, but up until a few months ago, she was still halfway across the state gambling up a storm, with plenty of witnesses who can alibi her.”

  “I know that. And I’m sorry to be leaving without those questions answered.” Dylan looked over his shoulder before lowering his voice. “I did speak to an old friend of mine, Slade Kent, of the Wyoming Bureau of Investigation. With police chief Peters’s blessing, Slade’s going to be coming to work here as a ranch foreman—and he’s sworn he won’t leave until he’s shut down the mastermind once and for all. Because it’s obvious we’re going to need a professional to do it.”

  “And you’re willing to walk away from all that?”

  “I’ve told you, I can’t stay here. I can’t and I won’t play the Colton, ever.”

  “Ever is a long time. Are you sure you—”

  From outside, they heard the thumping beat of a descending helicopter.

  “I won’t change my mind about this. Or about you, either.”

  “Not even if they send us to—” As she leaned forward, her warm breath feathered a location into his ear. A location so remote, she’d never dreamed it possible, but not even the Australian Outback would seem empty if she had someone to share it with her.

  “Not even if they send us to the moon,” he promised. “Not as long as I can earn my keep with my own two hands...and know you love me, too.”

  “How do you know?” she teased. “Are you really that confident?”

  “Confident enough,” he said, turning from her to face the table, then reaching for the centerpiece and pulling it his way.

  When he winced with pain, she chided him. “You really shouldn’t—”

  “What’s this?” he asked, pulling out a slip of paper. The very same one she’d dropped inside only moments earlier. Making a show of unfolding it, he flashed that cocksure grin of his and read the two words. “Dylan Frick. I knew it.”

  Feigning innocence, she said, “How do you know that’s my handwriting, cowboy? Maybe it’s one of the hands who likes the way you look in your Levi’s, or Mrs. Black’s got roving eyes. The good one, let’s hope.”

  He made a face, then hugged her to him carefully. “I’m pretty sure none of them dot their i’s with a heart.”

  “Come to think of it,” she said, “I’m the one who’s been noticing the way you look in those jeans—” And obsessing all too often on how much better he’d looked out of them.

  “And the one who loves me?” he asked, abruptly growing serious. “Because you’re right. This is for the long haul. I need you to be sure.”

  Studying his eyes, she read the hunger in him, the need to build a new life with her at his side. And seeing his vulnerability as well, how she could crush him with a single word if she chose. Still, she hesitated. “What about Amanda. Amanda and the others?”

  “I know they hoped I’d stay, but they’ve given me their blessing. Levi even helped me pack a bag. So answer me, please, Aurora. You’re going to have to say it.”

  Tell him no. Tell him now, her frightened brain was begging.

  But her heart spoke even louder. “Then we’d better hurry, cowboy. Because, much as I love you, this is one flight we can’t miss.”

  Still, they were delayed several minutes longer, as his strong arms encircled hers, and their mouths joined together. And in his kiss, she tasted life and love and passion...and all the hope she thought she’d left behind.

  * * * * *

  Don’t miss the last story in

  THE COLTONS OF WYOMING:

  COLTON CHRISTMAS RESCUE

  by Beth Cornelison, available December 2013

  from Harlequin Romantic Suspense!

  Keep reading for an excerpt from PROTECTING HIS PRINCESS by C.J. Miller.

  We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin Romantic Suspense title.

  You want sparks to fly! Harlequin Romantic Suspense stories deliver, with strong and adventurous women, brave and powerful men and the life-and-death situations that bring them together.

  Enjoy four new stories from Harlequin Romantic Suspense every month!

  Visit Harlequin.com to find your next great read.

  We like you—why not like us on Facebook: Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks

  Follow us on Twitter: Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks

  Read our blog for all the latest news on our authors and books: HarlequinBlog.com

  Subscribe to our newsletter for special offers, new releases, and more!

  Harlequin.com/newsletters

  Chapter 1

  She would never enjoy a cup of coffee again. Laila removed her stained navy-blue apron and shoved it in the washing machine with the others. A few more tasks and she could close for the night, giving her feet—and her nose—a much-needed break.

  Laila had been listening to the radio since she’d closed the store, hoping to learn new information about the situation in her home country of Qamsar. Her brother’s regressive, conservative social policies weren’t popular with certain factions in the country, and Laila hoped Mikhail would adopt a more moderate app
roach to ruling before tensions erupted into violence. Her mother feared civil war, and Laila feared for her family’s safety. The broadcast had nothing new to report.

  Laila double-checked the coffee, latte and espresso machines, and switched off the lights and radio in the back room. The only sound in the small café was the washing machine filling with water.

  She jumped when she saw a man leaning against the café’s glass front door. Deep blue eyes watched her. Laila crossed the room, her heart jittering nervously. He had visited the café dozens of times before, and each time, he had caught and held her attention. “Harris. What are you doing here?” she asked through the glass.

  Had he not been one of her regular customers, she would have backed away, told him to leave and maybe even called the police. But Harris was a good man, charming, easy to talk with, and she’d developed a fondness for him. She looked forward to his visits, and though this one was oddly timed, a shudder of excitement piped through her.

  “I tried knocking, but you didn’t hear me,” Harris said. “I need to talk to you.”

  Laila stared at him through the glass. “About what?” Growing up in Qamsar, even as a member of the royal family, she was wary of men. American men made her doubly nervous; though with Harris, her nervousness was centered on attraction not fear. Attracted to him and unsure how to strike up a friendship, her feelings for Harris confused her. In Qamsar, it wasn’t appropriate to have a friendship with a man. Much about her life in America was new to her, including her job, which she’d taken to stay off her brother’s radar and have money of her own. It was a freedom she enjoyed.

  Harris pressed a badge against the glass. “You’re in danger. I need you to come with me.”

  Laila leaned forward, examining the badge that contained Harris’s picture and the words FBI Special Agent. Surprise and alarm skittered across her skin. Harris had never mentioned what he did for a living, and she had never told him that she was the emir’s sister. A stab of betrayal pierced her. She’d expected the American government to monitor her, but she hadn’t expected Harris to be the one doing it.

  Had danger traveled from Qamsar to find her in America? “Why do you think I’m in danger?” Her nerves tightened in her stomach and exhaustion fled to the corners of her mind.

  “Please trust me. I don’t mean you any harm,” Harris said. He slid his badge into his pocket and held his hands out, palms facing her. “Let’s talk for a few minutes without me shouting through the glass.”

  Laila unlocked the door and allowed Harris inside. “Is my family safe?” Her mother’s safety was at the foremost of her thoughts.

  “At the present the data I have on the situation indicates they are not hurt or directly in danger.”

  Which was not the same as saying they were safe. People in public positions during social upheaval were never completely safe. Since her father had died two years ago, her brother Mikhail had taken over as emir, and the shift of power had caused political and social rumblings that had only grown louder with time. “Then why do you think I’m in danger?” Laila asked. She liked Harris. Whenever he’d come to the counter to place his order, he had spoken to her and listened to her responses. His demeanor tonight was different than it had been in weeks past. His shoulders were tight; his carefree, flirtatious smile was missing and tension pulsed off him in waves.

  “We’ve received intel that someone wants to hurt you,” Harris said. The tension she’d sensed was pent up in his words.

  Laila forced her heart to remain calm. Growing up in Qamsar, political enemies of her father had often threatened her and her family. Threats weren’t anything new. “The situation at home isn’t good, and someone always gets the bright idea to intimidate my family and me in the heat of emotion. I don’t take those threats seriously.”

  His brows drew together and his blue eyes sharpened. “You need to take this one seriously.”

  Laila wouldn’t allow an American man—no matter how attracted she was to him—to scare her. Americans didn’t understand the Qamsarian culture, and they didn’t understand her family. “We can talk about this another time. I’m tired, and I have an early class tomorrow. My uncle will be expecting me, and he’ll be worried if I arrive home too late.”

  Harris waited while she locked up and followed her to her car. “Please, Laila. I wouldn’t be here if we didn’t feel the threats against you were real and pervasive.”

  Laila pulled her car keys from her handbag and pressed the unlock button. The lights on her car flashed.

  “No!”

  Harris’s shout echoed in her ears, followed by the sound of an explosion and the sensation of her body being slammed into gravel. She slid, the backs of her legs and her arms burning. Harris was on top of her, his body covering hers. Laila gasped for air, the heaviness of him stifling. She struggled to sit up. As he rolled to the side, pulling his phone from his pocket, she caught sight of her car. It was now consumed in flames.

  Her mouth fell open. She hadn’t expected this. Not while she was living in America. Car bombings didn’t happen in suburban America. People were safe here, weren’t they?

  Who wanted to kill her bad enough to follow her to America?

  * * *

  Harris scanned the area, looking for anyone out of place. A bystander who might have seen something or even the bomber lingering to watch the fallout of his attack. No one except law enforcement and the first medical responders were on the scene.

  Laila sat on the curb in the parking lot, a blanket wrapped around her. He’d had someone on his team call her aunt and uncle to let them know Laila was fine, painting the explosion as a car accident. The truth was more grim: a car bomb had been planted in Laila’s car. If Harris hadn’t recognized the high frequency whine of an explosive’s timer engaging, she would be dead. The intel the FBI had gathered on the situation had predicted Laila and members of the royal family of Qamsar were in danger, though it was difficult to predict how or if an attack might occur.

  The FBI’s list of bombing suspects was short, mostly made up of members of the Holy Light Brotherhood, a terrorist organization that wanted Qamsar to remain isolated from “infidel influences.” Those “infidel influences” included America as a whole, and with the emir negotiating a trade agreement, a female member of the royal family studying in America became an obvious target to anyone wanting to send a message.

  Harris sat on the curb next to Laila. “How are you holding up?”

  Laila watched him with tired, soulful brown eyes. “I’m in shock. I’ve read about bombings. I’ve seen it reported on the news, but nothing like this has ever happened to me.”

  The profile the FBI and CIA had created for Laila indicated she had lived a sheltered life. Living in America with her uncle and aunt, her mother’s sister, was the first time Laila had been away from Qamsar and her life as a royal princess. After her father, the former emir, had died, Laila had come to America on a student visa and had enrolled in the University of Colorado in Denver. From what Harris had gathered, her brother was not happy about Laila living in America, but he hadn’t outright forbidden it. “We’ll make sure nothing like this happens again to you.”

  Harris had connected with Laila from the first day he’d met her. She went about her job quietly and efficiently, and she had intelligent, alert eyes. If she wasn’t his assignment, he might have asked her on a date, and gotten a chance to know her better and uncover the passion he saw simmering below the surface. Then again it was better for him to keep his distance. His track record with women was embarrassing, and he wasn’t ready to add another name to the list of failed relationships. When he was working a difficult case, those women were targets of his enemies, and none had proven able to handle the pressure or remain loyal when money changed hands.

  Laila pulled the fleece blanket Harris had given her tighter around her body. Harris read the gesture as less from cold and more from discomfort. Was his presence making her uncomfortable because he was male? He and Laila weren�
�t alone. The parking lot was filled with people: FBI agents and CIA investigators, along with local law enforcement. The FBI and CIA had teamed up to create a joint task force to shut down the Holy Light Brotherhood, starting with the head of the organization, Ahmad Al-Adel. When it became apparent Al-Adel had potential ties to the Qamsarian ruling family, the task force had become interested in Laila and how she could help find Al-Adel.

  His CIA contacts had told him that, as a Qamsarian woman, Laila had had a conservative upbringing. Not conservative the way an American defined it. Conservative as in limited contact with men, chaperones when appropriate and never being alone or having physical contact with any male apart from family. Harris was doing his best to respect those boundaries, but the extrovert in him found it difficult not to touch her, not to let his gaze linger on her and not to overtly flirt with her. Laila was a beautiful woman. She spoke with a tentative formality, her accent light and pleasing to his ears. She was sensual and feminine, even if she tried to hide it behind loose and concealing clothing.

  He moved a few more inches away to give her more personal space.

  “No one can promise this won’t happen again,” Laila said.

  Sadness drew a frown across her face and everything in him urged him to take action to erase her unhappiness. Seeing her upset affected him. He wanted to do something, say something, but he didn’t have the words to make this better for her.

  Tyler Morgan, Harris’s CIA counterpart on the task force, arrived on the scene. He strode to Harris and glanced between him and Laila. “Is this the Princess of Qamsar?”

  Laila flinched, and Harris gathered she didn’t like being called a princess. He’d gotten the sense she was trying to blend with the Americans around her, and her Qamsarian title didn’t help that effort. “Yes, this is Laila bin Jassim Al Sharani.”

  Harris introduced Laila to Tyler. Laila stood and nodded, though she didn’t offer her hand in greeting.