Morgan's Hunter

by Cate Beauman

  Ethan would pay for this one. Technicalities kept his pal free and clear of a major ass kicking. Ethan hadn’t lied, after all. Morgan was smokin’; her picture confirmed it. He just forgot to share the part about her being a spoiled bitch.

  Hunter should’ve figured that out before her father more or less corroborated his suspicions. Stanley’s office screamed “filthy rich”. She probably held her position at the Bureau because Daddy was CEO and she’d wanted it, not because she was qualified and had earned it.

  Serious wildlife biologists didn’t look like that. He’d never actually met a wildlife biologist, but he doubted they looked like her. Weren’t they au natural? Didn’t they have hairy armpits and wrinkles from the sun? That certainly wasn’t Morgan Taylor. No, she was Grade A. He knew the type—saw it every day: there wasn’t a hair out of place or any activity attempted that could break a nail.

  Halfway through his conversation with Stanley, it became apparent he would be spending most of his days in a salon in Montana instead of L.A. She would probably get bored with the whole animal tracking thing after a day or two and be ready to go home early. He figured he’d be on a plane back to L.A. in less than two weeks. He could deal with her for two weeks. Spirited, was she? Well, he could be pretty damn spirited himself.

  Cheered by his own thoughts, Hunter smiled as he stepped from the elevator and walked through the parking garage. He hopped on the Harley he’d rented and drove toward the address Stanley gave him.

  CHAPTER 6

  MORGAN DROVE HER JAM-PACKED CONVERTIBLE down the long, winding drive of her parents’ estate. She glanced at lush grass spread over vast grounds and cherry trees—green and leafy without their blossom. Smiling, she passed a grouping of smaller trees. Their branches had yet to cascade over the drive like the rest. She and her father had planted them when she’d been a little girl. It was one of her most cherished memories—her father’s large hands covering hers while they gently tamped soil around tender, young roots.

  As Morgan rounded a sharp bend, she adjusted the visor close to the windshield. Late afternoon sunshine poured against the faded brick of her family’s massive home. Blinding light reflected off acres of glass and pillared white columns.

  Morgan pulled up to the walkway leading to her guesthouse, careful to avoid the catering trucks parked by the kitchen of the main house. Florists bustled about, setting up lavish arrangements on either side of the enormous double-oak front doors.

  Cherry trees and childhood memories were forgotten. Guests would arrive in little more than three hours. She and her mother had so much to do yet. If she was quick, she could drop off her supplies, grab a snack and head over to help in less than ten minutes.

  Morgan popped the trunk with the button on her key, walked to the back of the car, stopped when the deep rumble in the distance interrupted her thoughts. She watched as the black and chrome motorcycle pulled up next to her, stopping inches from her feet. The engine deafened, making her want to plug her ears.

  She stared at the man sitting on the Harley, taking in every impressive inch. Arms, well muscled and tan, filled out his white t-shirt. He wore his Dodgers ball cap backwards, giving her a good look at high cheekbones and a deep dimple in his square jaw. Oakleys covered his eyes.

  He turned the key, killing the engine, dropped the kickstand and in one efficient and surprisingly graceful swing of leg, stood next to his bike. Blue jeans, snug in all the right places, accentuated his mouthwatering build.

  Morgan stared at broad shoulders and a solid chest before pulling herself together. She recognized the red and black insignia printed on the breast of his shirt as Ethan Cooke Security’s and was certain this could be none other than the man who would be tagging along after her for the next thirty days.

  In an attempt to move beyond her irritation with the situation in general, she extended her hand in introduction, but pulled back when he glanced in the trunk, smirked and shook his head. Morgan’s thin eyebrow arched above her black Wayfarers, her friendly smile disappearing. Just what in the hell is his problem? She felt the low burn of her temper come to life and finally broke the tense silence humming between them. “So, you must be the muscle my father hired.”

  Hunter shrugged. “That’s me. You got a problem with it, talk to him.”

  Yup, he was going to be a pain in her ass after all—great. Deciding it was better to say nothing more, Morgan turned and reached for the bags she’d forgotten. Although her hands were full, several items remained in the trunk. She walked toward the house, glanced back, hoping Hunter would offer to help. He didn’t move. “Could I get a hand here?”

  He backed up, palms out. “Let’s get one thing straight, sweetheart. I’ve been hired to protect you, life and limb. I’m not a servant.”

  Oh, that was it! Morgan placed her bags on the driveway, stormed over to Hunter until they stood toe to toe. The top of her head met the bottom of his chin. She had no choice but to look up to make eye contact. “Listen, sweetheart—” She poked him in the chest with her index finger as she emphasized the word. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but I won’t put up with you talking to me like that.”

  He pushed his aviators onto his cap. “You gonna tell Daddy on me?”

  His potent grin and shocking blues eyes left her blinking. Her heart stuttered. In defense, the temper she’d tried to hold snapped. “You’re an even bigger idiot than I first feared. I was hoping you might have manners. Customarily, when you see someone with several items, it’s polite to help them, or at least offer.”

  Hunter flicked her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose. Morgan’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I’ll try to keep those manner things in mind. Perhaps over the next month you can teach me more. By the time we get back, I just might be civilized.”

  “Oh, I seriously doubt it.” She snapped her glasses in place, reached down for her bags and walked off without giving him another glance.

  “Holy shit,” Hunter muttered, letting out a long, slow breath. He stared after Morgan as she walked to a small house adjacent to an enormous, lagoon-style swimming pool. Her back end was as spectacular as her front. The picture in her father’s office had done her little justice.

  She was even more striking in person and she smelled great. Her perfume fit her perfectly: dark and sexy. The bears and insects would eat her alive if she wore that in backcountry. A slow smile spread across his face. Perhaps a few bug bites would be good for her. It wouldn’t hurt to knock Princess down a few pegs, and he felt honor-bound to do so—free of charge.

  Morgan opened the door to her cottage-sized house. Seconds later, wood cracked against wood as she sent it slamming home. There was certainly plenty of attitude packed into that hot little body of her.

  Hunter’s gaze followed Morgan as she moved past a large picture window. Christ, what a stunner. Physically, she couldn’t be any more perfect. He’d never seen eyes as big and boldly green as hers. They should have looked odd with her small nose and full lips, but they didn’t. He’d enjoyed a peek at firm breasts and silk when she’d bent down to collect her bags after giving him the business. It was too damn bad he couldn’t stand women like her. First impressions told him he’d hit his mark. She appeared to be privileged and useless.

  Taking his eyes from her window, he stepped back, scanned the enormous ramble of house, her high-end sports car pulled close to the posh guesthouse, and zeroed in on the dozen or so shopping bags remaining in the trunk.

  He sniffed at her expensive perfume still lingering on the air. With a shake of his head, he started toward the mansion he would be staying in for the next few days, damning his luck. Morgan Taylor was a first class bitch and he was stuck with her for the foreseeable future.

  CHAPTER 7

  IT WAS PAST NINE WHEN Hunter joined the fundraising event. At least two hundred people wandered the grounds of the Taylor estate. He’d expected formal and boring, but the twelve piece band tearing it up under the tent hinted that there might be a little
life to this party.

  He wore the black suit he’d been smart enough to pack. No matter the assignment, he always ended up wearing one.

  The evening was warm, the sky clear and twinkling with stars. Spacious grounds spread as far as the eye could see. Trees closest to the house sparkled with white lights. The scent of summer flowers surrounded him as he made his way to the outside bar set up next to one of the many gardens.

  Hunter grabbed a beer, scanned the crowd, spotting several of the nation’s most influential leaders. Ethan wasn’t kidding—Stanley Taylor was a big fucking deal. He nodded to a man discreetly tailing the Senator of Indiana—poor sucker was on duty. Happy he wasn’t, Hunter turned toward the guests beyond, looking for the boss-man. He would finish his beer, find Stanley, and make his excuses.

  The bottle of Corona was halfway to his mouth when he saw her in the dim lights of the tent. The short, black backless dress she wore gave him an eyeful of gloriously toned arms and legs. The thin string tied at her neck kept the silky fabric from falling in a heap at her feet. Her shiny brown hair curled loosely around her shoulders. She smiled at something the handsome ebony-skinned man standing next to her said, laughed. Hunter gripped the bottle tighter when the smoky sound carried on the air, washing over him. She brushed a piece of hair behind her ear and the diamond bracelet at her wrist winked.

  An older couple came up to join Morgan and the man at her side. She exchanged air kisses and smiles. Hunter knew the moment she spotted him; her smile vanished. He tipped his bottle in salute, took a deep drink. She excused herself and made her way toward him.

  “So, you decided to join us.”

  His pithy remark withered on his tongue when her face lit with warmth as she smiled and waved to a woman across the lawn. God, she was beautiful. He took another pull from the bottle.

  “I’m going to have to introduce you around. I’m not telling people you’re my bodyguard.” Morgan scowled as she said the word. “I’ll say you’re an associate of mine.”

  He shrugged. “You’re the boss.”

  “That’s right and—”

  “There you are, Hunter.” Ilene walked up to his side, kissed his cheek. “We weren’t sure if you would make it.” Ilene Taylor was just as lovely as her daughter in her black off-the-shoulder dress. She was also a hell of a lot friendlier.

  He grinned at her. “I got tied up with a couple of things. I wouldn’t have missed your event, Mrs. Taylor.”

  Hunter studied Morgan’s mother. Morgan favored her. They shared the same delicate build, golden coloring, striking eyes, and small nose that turned up ever so slightly at the tip.

  “I want you to call me Ilene, Hunter.” She laced her arm through his, smiling. “I’m sorry I left you by yourself this afternoon. I’ve been a terrible hostess.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You had your hands full. Everything looks great.”

  “Thank you. Morgan and I had to work quickly to get this ready.” She gestured to the people surrounding them. “Is your room comfortable?”

  “It’s perfect.” He was curious about the event in question and the really bad timing. Her co-workers had been slaughtered just weeks before and they were already throwing parties again. Unbelievable. With an internal shrug, he glanced into Morgan’s cool, measuring stare. Some people had ice water for blood.

  “Oh.” Ilene interrupted his thoughts with a gentle hand on his. “I thought I should tell you I talked to Helen, Stanley’s secretary, earlier today. She’s quite taken with you.”

  Morgan’s eyes widen in surprise.

  “What, not all women detest me on the spot.”

  Ilene frowned, tsked in her daughter’s direction. “Has my daughter been nasty to you, Hunter? I’m sure she’s only surprised by Helen’s reaction because Helen doesn’t like many people.”

  “Her nickname at the office is ‘Dragon Lady’,” Morgan said. “I can’t imagine how, but you’ve charmed the beast.”

  “Morgan, go take Hunter around and introduce him. Dance with him, make him feel welcome. You two will be spending a lot of time together.”

  “Mom, I know how to be a good hostess.”

  Hunter’s brow winged up; Morgan frowned.

  “Go have fun.”

  Hunter extended his arm. Morgan stared a moment before putting hers through his. He watched her exchange a glance with her mother as they walked off into the crowd.

  After being introduced to the throngs, Hunter was left alone as Morgan excused herself to speak to her parents. Desperate for quiet, Hunter wandered toward an empty corner of the tent where a large, draped table held dozens of framed pictures.

  He bent down for a closer study when he realized Morgan was in several of the shots. She didn’t look like the sophisticated woman he’d spent the last two hours with. In many of the photographs she posed with five other people. He recognized the man she’d been standing with earlier in several of the photos. Apparently he was an identical twin.

  Numerous shots showed Morgan and the men or a pretty blond woman in various stages of tagging wild animals. The pictures captured the group of six working in all four seasons. They wore shorts and t-shirts in some photos, parkas and snow pants in others. The only consistent thread in each picture was the elegant Morgan Taylor from Washington, D.C. ceased to exist.

  In most of the photographs, she wore a red bandana wrapped around her hair. In every shot she was grubby or even filthy and appeared blissfully happy. The dirt and grime didn’t take away from her beauty; they somehow accentuated it.

  Hunter’s eyes widened when he spotted one snapshot in particular. Morgan and a well-muscled man had their hands in the mouth of a tranquilized lion. Her long, graceful fingers held a caliper to a massive tooth while her partner wrote data in a notebook.

  Hunter frowned. The woman in these pictures definitely knew what she was doing.

  After several seconds, he moved to the last photograph. The group of six stood among a forest next to an empty cage. ‘Back Where I Belong’ had been written on a makeshift sign taped to the metal pen. Morgan smiled triumphantly and Hunter stared, captivated. Hypnotized by her eyes, he shook himself free of his trance and glanced away.

  He watched the guests gathered in upper-crust herds, talking, laughing, sipping champagne, before turning back to the table. He avoided Morgan’s frozen smile and concentrated on the five other faces in the same shot. Three of those people were dead. The blonde woman he knew for sure, but he wasn’t certain about the men. Had the man he’d seen Morgan with that evening lost his twin? What about the well-built guy with the rakish grin who’d helped Morgan with the lion? Or the thin man with thick glasses?

  He focused on arms linked around shoulders in one long chain. Morgan’s group had been close—connected. The obvious bond pulled at him.

  “Excuse me.”

  He glanced up; Morgan was on stage, speaking through a microphone.

  “May I have everyone’s attention, please.” She waited for the crowd to quiet. “On behalf of my parents and me, we would like to thank you all for joining us this evening. Tonight we gather in memory of three of the best people I’ve ever had the pleasure to know.”

  Murmurs spread through the group.

  “Shelly Simmons, Ian Ledderbeck, and Thomas Smithson will be forever remembered as great scientists, dedicated advocates, conservationists, and most importantly, amazing friends and human beings. It is with….” She paused when her voice thickened, took a deep breath, continued.

  “It is with a heavy heart I introduce to you our first annual fundraising event for a scholarship that will be set up in their names. With your generosity, we’ll be able to keep their dreams alive by helping aspiring wildlife biologists make a difference in the lives of the animals they worked so hard to protect. Thank you, again, for joining us.”

  The band kicked into high gear with something fast and fun. Everyone clapped as Morgan stepped from the stage. She was instantly surrounded by those who wanted to offer their sympath
ies.

  Her eyes met his across the room—wide and desperate. Hunter cut through the crowd, put his arm around her waist, whisked her from the mob. They walked out of the tent and kept going until music and conversation faded. When Morgan stopped, Hunter took a step back.

  She glanced up at him. “I guess you’re pretty good with a quick exit.”

  “That’s how I make the big bucks.”

  She gave him a small smile. “Thank you for getting me out of there.”

  “No problem.” He preferred the temper he’d seen in her eyes earlier to the misery clouding them now. Thinking fast, he stepped forward again. “You still owe me a dance.”

  Long, heavy notes belted from the saxophone far in the distance.

  “Oh, that’s okay. You don’t—”

  “I’m pretty sure your mother told you to make me feel welcome.”

  Morgan eyed him as she let out a long, weary sigh. “You’re right. I think I do.”

  She held up her hand for him to take in a more formal dance, but as they came together, Hunter put his hands on the exposed small of her back.

  She hesitated before her fingers laced around his neck. As they moved in slow circles, he stared into her eyes. Testing himself and her, he caressed his thumbs against soft skin. She shivered in response.

  He ignored the tug low in his belly. “I saw the pictures of you and your team. You did some amazing work together.”

  “Yes, we did. I still can’t believe they’re gone. I just don’t understand why. How could someone end three people’s lives like that?”

  He knew she wasn’t asking him, that she didn’t expect an answer.

  “They must’ve been so scared.” She looked down, shook her head. “I can’t think about that. I can’t bear to.” When she looked back up, her eyes shimmered with pain.