Guarding Laura

by Susan Vaughan

  He leaned forward, forearms on his knees. “You got away?”

  The blanket slipped to show the black waistband of his briefs. Equally black hairs arrowed downward beneath the edge.

  Cheeks heating, Laura smiled at the appropriateness of black briefs on Cole, but she averted her gaze to her glass. “They were drunk and not too steady on their feet. I knocked a trash can over in front of them and ran.”

  In shock or in tribute, he gave a low whistle. His face turned somber, and he set the empty water glass down on the low table between them. “Laura, your toughness amazes me.”

  “I did what—”

  “What you had to do. I know. Blows me away.”

  An unholy light of desire burned in his blue eyes, tempting her to forget all caution. She imagined she could feel his body heat on her skin, but she was probably still warm from her battle with her nightmare demons.

  The play of dark hairs with his sculpted chest’s rise and fall mesmerized her. She swallowed.

  Before she allowed his magnetism to erode her resistance further, she should put the bedroom door between them. She could survive his presence for the night.

  He’d be out of her cabin tomorrow. He had to be.

  The questions she’d tried to pose earlier glued her to her seat. “So, my junker from Trusty Tom is kaput. I have no transportation. It seems Markos has found me, and ATSA has agreed to use me. I have nowhere to run and no way to run. What’s next?”

  The vulnerability of her falsely light tone stung Cole like salt in a wound. He wished to God he had a different answer to her question. Wished he could win her confidence, draw out what she was still reluctant to share.

  He bent forward, catching her apple scent, overlaid with the sweet tang of female sweat. Were those her nipples he glimpsed through the thin cotton, or only shadows? He recalled the satiny aureoles, the soft pink of a seashell lining.

  Hell. He was too damned susceptible to her, to her courage and determination, to the gentleness in her eyes and the curve of her mouth.

  And to the livid scars that slashed the tender flesh above the T-shirt neck.

  “Laura, you don’t have to do this. No one will force you to be a target. We can go on with the plan of a safe house.” He’d hide her himself if ATSA wouldn’t go along. The hell with protocol. Fear for her was eating him up.

  He watched as she squared her shoulders. “No. The trap is the best idea. If it helps catch Markos and finds New Dawn’s leader, I’ll paint that bull’s-eye on my back.”

  The steel in her words punched him in the heart.

  He’d seen this mission as another step up in ATSA, but the personal side of it outweighed whatever its success—or failure, but he wouldn’t consider that—meant to his career.

  Setting their rock-strewn history aside, he would protect this courageous woman with his life.

  Leave the past out of it.

  Leave the personal crap out of it.

  “What’s next, you ask?” He tried to sound cocky and confident. Hell, he had nowhere to run, either. Run to me, he wanted to say. “My bivouac on your couch is permanent.”

  Her scowl could have curdled milk. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m moving in permanently, Laura. As far as everyone’s concerned, you and I are lovers.”

  The next morning Cole stood to one side as Laura locked her door. She smelled of sunscreen and insect repellant, but underneath, her own sweet scent filled his senses. “How many kids are in this sailing thing?”

  She stuffed her key in her shorts pocket and picked up the travel mug she’d parked on the step. “Eight, most about eleven years old. Kay is thirteen going on twenty-five.”

  He fell into step with her. “You never used to drink coffee.” He clinked his mug with hers, then drank.

  She sipped from her mug. “It’s an acquired taste.”

  No wonder she looked down her elegant nose at him like he was a taste she’d resist acquiring. Yesterday he’d pushed her too hard. No one had ever accused him of diplomacy, but he’d learned some patience in his work.

  Doing his job of protecting her meant waiting to find out more about the past.

  And, if he was honest, more about the woman she was today. Was the chasm of their differing backgrounds still between them or was it something else? The craving to know more warred with his fear of knowing and tightened his chest.

  Her comment about wanting justice for the man who’d died at Markos’s hands came back to him. And as wary of him as she was, she’d offered him comfort about his old man. In the midst of danger and her own grief, she thought of others. Compassion flowed automatically, part of her nature.

  Regardless of the past, protecting her was personal as well as duty.

  And regardless of the present, he longed to taste her apple-scented skin. To bury himself inside her until the rekindled passion burned all the lost years to oblivion.

  But to do his job and remain alert he needed emotional damn distance. Neutrality.

  Guarding Laura would be more torture for him than the New Dawn Warriors could dream up.

  “The class is held over on the east shore of Passabec Lake.” Laura pointed toward a cluster of rambling outbuildings that included a bathhouse and boat shed. All gave a good view of the rental and private cabins on the west side.

  They continued past the beach to the docks and the boat shed, about the size of a one-car garage.

  “The boat shed’s really an equipment building,” she said as she shoved the old-fashioned door. The heavy wood squeaked in protest on its metal runner, but yielded and slid to the right. “And before you ask, no, we don’t keep it locked. This is Maine, not Washington or New York.”

  He nodded, chalking up one more spot a killer could hide. Or an ATSA officer for surveillance. Knowing he had backup downshifted the pressure to manageable.

  Only the sunlight streaming in the opening illuminated the boating gear. Oars, odds and ends of lines and ropes, sail bags and life vests lined the walls of the musty interior. A Coleman lantern and its fuel can stood atop a wooden stool, and an old rowboat lay in a corner beside a motor and red plastic gasoline containers.

  Peering at the sills, he gave a low whistle. “You’d better hope a big storm doesn’t come along and blow this shed away. Rotten boards all around.”

  She darted about the cluttered space, sorting sail bags and life vests. The sway of her hips and the silken fall of her hair snagged his hungry gaze. “Jake Elwell, the regular handyman, was going to repair it, but he hurt his back.”

  “I hope this place doesn’t get struck by lightning.” He noted a pile of discarded life vests, their stuffing bleeding through ragged holes onto the dirt floor. Busy mice.

  “Eliminating the junk would help.” Laura prodded a fist-size hole in the white dinghy’s bottom. “I’d like this out of here, too. It’s identical to mine. A guest ran it up on the rocks last summer. Jake was fiberglassing it. With him out of commission, Burt has his hands full with all the normal maintenance and gardening.”

  Heat erupted in his gut. It must be concern at an unknown factor like that kid. Cole had no real reason to resent him. Relieved he’d kept his anger spike to himself, he swallowed the rest of his coffee. He set the mug on the floor as she shoved an armload of life vests at him.

  “Here, make yourself useful. Put these out on the dock.” She picked up a couple of sail bags and headed outside.

  Cole followed into the brilliant sunshine as the novice sailors began arriving. Some wore T-shirts, others shorts over their swimsuits.

  No chance of missing the going-on-twenty-five Kay. Wearing makeup heavy enough to require a neck brace and a cutoff T-shirt that displayed her budding attributes, she was dressed for a street corner rather than a sailboat. She gyrated onto the dock to the beat from her palm-sized MP3 player. Her chunky younger brother trailed behind.

  Six more youngsters trooped onto the dock chattering and laughing. Wreathed in smiles, they eyed him with curiosity.
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br />   “None of the kids I’ve been around lately looked this well fed or well kept,” mused Cole, struck by the openness he saw. “They were ragged and thin, wary of the Americans asking questions. Or big-eyed orphans desperate for affection.”

  Laura’s gaze skittered away. “Did you…come in contact with many children? Orphans?”

  He shrugged. “People are so poor in Colombia that some abandon children they can’t feed. My unit picked up a baby in a field and took her to an orphanage just north of Medellín.” The children’s sad souls had reached right into his chest and squeezed his heart. He’d wanted to offer the attention denied him as a child.

  “Thank God. But most of them aren’t so lucky?”

  “I wouldn’t want to guess how many.” Best not to get into that. “Anyway, the little kids at the orphanage liked my hokey coin tricks.”

  Laura looked as if she wanted to ask more, but smiled. She dropped her sail bags beside the life vests and turned toward the students. “Okay, swabbies, this is Mr. Stratton. He’s going to watch today.”

  Saying their names, she tapped each child on the shoulder by way of introduction. Besides Kay and her brother, there were dark-haired twin girls. One peeked at him shyly from behind her sister. The last four were freckle-faced brothers sporting transfer tattoos of wrestling stars, a Chinese-American boy with the unlikely name of Butch and a Mohawk-haired boy who eyed Cole with suspicion.

  “Someone needs to bring out the rest of the sail bags,” continued Laura. “First captain ready gets choice of crew.”

  The mad scramble for equipment had Cole’s head whirling.

  Laura waved at someone beyond the beach. Cole spotted her target in time to see the cocky young handyman wave back. Cole’s friendly grin for the children warped into a scowl.

  Hefting a sail bag, the older girl Kay called, “Hey, Burt, how about a ride on your sailboard sometime?”

  Burt’s reply would remain a mystery. When he spotted his employer and the play director sauntering along the path, he roared away on the mower.

  Kay shrugged and continued rigging her sails.

  Good riddance. The guy was too old for her.

  When he turned back, Laura was checking the seven-foot dinghies bobbing on the calm water. The sapphire water mirrored their slender masts along with the few wispy clouds.

  Mohawk-top remained standing there. His dark-blue eyes were fixed solemnly on Cole. He stuffed a small camera in his pocket. “Are you a spy?”

  Cole gaped at the boy. What the hell? How in blazes could this kid— But he realized the boy had his own agenda. “Um, what do you mean?”

  “The East Pond kids want to beat us bad enough to send spies. Are you here to scout for them?”

  Cole laughed. “Nope. I’m a Passabec fan all the way. I’m just here to pick up a few pointers about sailing.” And to keep an eye on the teacher.

  But no hands. No touching.

  “Pointers, huh? You keep your eyes on my boat. Me and Butch are the best. We skunk ’em every time.” With a swagger, the wiry boy ambled down the dock, where his partner was finishing rigging the sails.

  “Hey, mister,” yelled one of the twins, paired with the older girl Kay. “Come watch us. We can come up into the wind better than yucky old Zach.”

  Cole strolled along the dock, commenting as kids vied for his attention. He lost track of Laura momentarily until he heard the putt-putt of an outboard. She was scudding away from the dock in a five-foot long white skiff.

  Damn. He hadn’t realized she’d be alone in the middle of the lake, not a staked-out goat but a damn sitting duck. How could you protect a woman like that?

  A few minutes later, the sailing dinghies, little bigger than Laura’s skiff, glided toward the triangular course she was setting up with pumpkin-colored buoys.

  The practice race came off smoothly. Two boats dunked their occupants, but the kids righted them and sailed away.

  Hearing only snatches of Laura’s instructions, Cole liked the gentle way she guided and encouraged the kids. He watched the shore for suspicious activity, but kept returning to her sunlit hair as she zipped around in the little outboard.

  Sailing. Another sport too rich for him. Like the horseback riding. That last summer, Laura was the only rider who’d spoken to him. In hindsight, maybe she shouldn’t have.

  When the morning’s races and practice ended and the kids had left, he helped Laura stow the sail bags and life vests.

  They were alone. Now was a good time to bring up reducing risk. Like eliminating solo jaunts on the lake.

  Before he could speak, a small whirlwind blew into the shed. “Sailing is awesome, Laura! I’ve never had so much fun.” He recognized one of the twin girls. The child’s voice was chirpy, like words popping out of a bubble machine. She threw her arms around Laura’s waist.

  Laura knelt to return the child’s bear hug. “I’m so glad, kiddo, but I knew you’d have a good time.”

  “I didn’t even mind falling in the water. It didn’t matter.” She pantomimed lifting the mast out of the water. “Me ’n my sister can’t wait ’til the race!” She shoved her team’s sail bag at Laura, then dashed away.

  Her cheeks flushed with the child’s contagious excitement, Laura rose and swiped moisture from her eyes.

  Cole cleared his throat. “I watched that little girl out there on the lake. She had a blast. Her shy sister, too.”

  Blowing her nose into a tissue, Laura shook her head. “That was the shy sister. When she came in, I was afraid she wanted to quit. She’s so timid, I didn’t know how she felt. Talking to me like that must have taken all her courage.”

  He picked up his mug and helped her stack the sails.

  These kids were middle-class, comfortable, rich compared to the San Sebastiano orphans in Rio Placido. But they needed nurturing every bit as much.

  Seeing how deeply Laura cared about her young charges softened his heart to warm pudding. So many facets to her. She kept him guessing. Elegance and painstaking control in the face of danger. Slicing him to ribbons with her tongue one minute, nurturing and caring with her students the next.

  Laura dusted her hands together. Placing them on her hips, she cocked her head at him. “Now are you ready for your sailing lesson?”

  Chapter 6

  Friday morning, Laura fumed as she entered the inn dining room. Cole had proposed they spend her day off together, creating the illusion of their intimacy. She had no choice in the matter, but she would protect her heart and her secrets.

  When this trap or whatever it was ended, when she knew she’d never see him again, she’d tell him what she owed him. No more. She couldn’t bear to rip the rest from her soul.

  They’d strolled over together from her cabin, but she’d drawn the line at holding hands. When Stan waylaid Cole with a request about the play, she welcomed the chance for respite from his intimidating maleness and take-charge competence.

  Or was it her susceptibility putting her to flight?

  Like a kid, he’d enjoyed their sail in one of the larger rental sloops. At first, nerves had brought out his temper. The quintessential engine guy didn’t like having no motor for backup. Then in spite of his fuming about privilege and leisure sports, he’d turned his face to the wind and taken a turn at the tiller.

  Anxiety about how he’d deal with the sailing group had aroused the butterfly colony in her stomach. But he’d charmed them. And her. He’d listened seriously to their shameless bragging, asked questions, cheered them on and coaxed a giggle from the shy Tolman twin by producing a quarter from her ear.

  The wistful hunger in his blue eyes had wrenched her heart. Hunger for children of his own to go boating with.

  “Yoo-hoo, Laura,” a voice called from one of the tables by the window. “Come join us.”

  Laura smiled as she wove between tables toward the two elderly ladies in flounced, gauzy dresses and draped scarves. The Van Tassel sisters enjoyed to the fullest their stature as doyennes of the resort theater.


  “Thank you,” she said, choosing her next words with care, “but I’m with someone.”

  Bea Van Tassel patted her curls, as perfectly rolled and shiny black as if they’d been lacquered. “Oh, is it that nice young man you introduced me to last evening?”

  “Oh, dearie, what a hunk,” Her sister Doris’s teacup hovered in midair. Her wispy teased hairdo matched her apricot-blushed cheeks. Neon-blue eye shadow completed the theatrical effect. “We observed the sailing class from beneath our beach umbrella. He is most attentive.”

  “Well, yes, he…that is, he and I…” Her tongue simply could not cope. Laura Markham Rossiter, two courses and a dissertation away from a Ph.D. in anthropology, couldn’t put words together to say she was having breakfast with a man.

  With that particular man.

  Bea fluttered the fringed edge of her paisley shawl at Laura. “And here he is.”

  “Good morning, ladies.” Cole nodded to the beaming women as he placed possessive hands on Laura’s shoulders.

  Feeling her cheeks heat, she at last found her voice and introduced Doris to Cole.

  He bowed over the ladies’ hands as he inquired what breakfast delights they recommended. In his charcoal polo shirt and khaki slacks, he looked for all the world as though he belonged in the proper inn dining room with its white linen and polished wood. Only the scars on his face hinted at his rough edges.

  She suppressed her irritation at how gorgeous he looked. How could he be so rested after two nights on the lumpy couch?

  Tittering and blushing like the Depression-era schoolgirls they’d once been, the Van Tassels sent them off with a recommendation for the blueberry pancakes.

  Laura allowed Cole to usher her to a table in a private corner. Usher wasn’t quite the right word, she mused as she scurried ahead of his touch. The warm hand at the small of her back felt like an electric prod.