Guarding Laura

by Susan Vaughan

  He fought to remain objective, to take mental notes. Admiration for her expertise wasn’t helping. “What else?”

  “Tests revealed Egyptian techniques. Removing the internal organs, embalming, wrapping. Xerxes’s empire was far-flung enough that Egyptian embalmers might have traveled to his palace. Someone did a great deal of research. The ruse might’ve worked, except for a few miscalculations.”

  “Which you uncovered?”

  “Not I alone.” The excitement in her face dimmed.

  A seagull soared overhead. Its raucous complaint pierced the calm air.

  “You see, this wasn’t the first Persian mummy to be offered for sale. A few years ago, a Karachi museum curator examined one from the Pakistani desert region. She noticed grammatical errors in the inscription. And she knew that the ancient Persians buried their dead above ground. They believed that a corpse would defile the earth. After forensic experts conducted tests, that mummy turned out to be a modern woman with a broken neck.”

  “Murder?”

  “Apparently. And not just one. There is evidence of a sort of mummy factory in the northern hills of Iran.”

  “Gruesome. So you were suspicious from the get-go.”

  “This mummified princess had a broken neck, too. When more tests placed her in the present century, that clinched it.”

  He pictured the refined and cultured importer’s jaw dropping. A laugh burst from his lips. In spite of the mummy’s grisly origins, he couldn’t help it. “I’d have paid money to see Markos’s face when you told him.”

  A wry smile quirked her mouth, but didn’t lift the pain from her eyes. When she spoke again, her voice caught. “I wish I could forget it. I’ve never seen someone so enraged.”

  He clasped her hands. So much for his rule. But this time she didn’t pull away. “I’m sorry. Laughing was thoughtless. Can you go on?”

  “Talking about it helps. I’ve had no one to share it with for eight months.” She stood and brushed off her seat. “Let’s walk along the beach.”

  Towering spruce trees and blooming pink beach roses edged the pebbly beach, a fragrant wall of privacy.

  Again she didn’t object when he held her hand as they walked. “So you were in his office when you told him about the mummy,” he prompted.

  “We were in the shop. It was night, after hours. I thought at the time we were alone, but the mummy dealer was in the office.” She gave a small shudder. “I handed Markos the report and left. When I reached my car, I realized I’d been in such a rush to escape his temper that I left my purse behind.”

  She plucked a pink blossom from a nearby bush. He could barely hear her shaky whisper above the breeze’s rustling of leaves. “I went to the office to tell him the shop door was still unlocked. I heard him shouting at someone inside. The door was ajar. Then I saw…them.”

  She dropped the crushed rose blossom and covered her eyes with a trembling hand.

  “And you made it as far as the shop door before he caught you.” Cole had witnessed brutalities most people wouldn’t believe were possible for one human to do to another. To think what this gentle woman had seen and was forced to endure—

  “Cole, you’re hurting me.”

  He relaxed his fingers. Without realizing, he’d crushed her hand. “Sorry. Guess I thought it was Markos’s neck.”

  Laura massaged her mangled fingers, but managed a smile. “Thank you for caring.” She stepped closer. Leaned toward him.

  So much for avoiding emotional pitfalls.

  “I don’t want to put you through any more now. You can tell me the rest later.” Unable to resist, he bracketed her face between his hands. Gently this time.

  Desire hovered between them, dancing back and forth like the butterflies in the roses beside them. Waves lapped the rocks. The breeze picked up, blocking out other noises and mingling the contrasting scents of flowers and the sea.

  He cupped her nape and covered her mouth with his. She sighed as he brushed her lips with his, from one side to the other. He teased her sweet mouth, first with his lips, then tongue. Her lips parted, offering the taste that he craved, and her arms crept around his neck.

  He’d loved and made love to the girl Laura, reveled in her willowy body and innocent heat. The woman Laura surpassed the promises of that girl—with her female curves and gentle yet tenacious nature. Holding her like this uncurled something soft and warm within him, something he’d forgotten existed.

  With his tongue, he traced the raised ridges of the reddened scars at her throat. She flinched at first, but when he held her fast, sighed and allowed his tender exploration. She was so brave, so resourceful.

  And so vulnerable.

  She leaned into him. Through her thin cotton blouse, her peaked nipples pressed into his chest. The world tilting and his head spinning, he thought of nothing but her intoxicating scent and the hot, sleek moistness of her lips and tongue, joining his with thrusting demand.

  Laura loved the primal smell of him, the warmth and secure strength of his arms around her. She loved his fierce pride and even the dangerous side, the mysterious side.

  She’d loved the reckless boy. She couldn’t love the determined, controlled man. He tempted her with his sensuality and strength, with his gentle protectiveness, but danger and heartache lay behind the seductive aura.

  As she stiffened and pulled back, he raised his head, eyes heavy-lidded with desire. He held on to her hands and rubbed the backs with the pads of his thumbs. “Laura, don’t be afraid of me. I won’t hurt you.”

  Worse. We’ll hurt each other.

  When he released her, she turned toward the lighthouse. “I think we’d better get back.”

  When she held on to his waist for the return ride, the heat of him seemed to burn her hands. She couldn’t succumb. Every little bit of herself she revealed to him—recent or past—opened cracks in her defenses.

  She must keep her secrets and her sorrows to herself.

  She didn’t want to hurt him. By protecting herself from loving him again, she protected her secret. She protected them both from new heartbreak.

  Didn’t she?

  Chapter 7

  When they returned from Owls Head, Laura found a pan of lasagna on her doorstep. “From Bea,” she said, as she carried it inside to the refrigerator.

  Cole did a quick check of Laura’s cabin before returning to his to pack. After that searing kiss, both needed space.

  In his more spacious guest cabin, he dragged his suitcase from the luggage stand and threw it onto the bed. Thinking they’d be on their way west, he hadn’t really unpacked.

  He could kick himself for kissing her when she was so exposed. For starting something that they shouldn’t finish.

  That wouldn’t happen again.

  After slamming a few items from the bureau into the bag, he headed to the bathroom.

  Hell. She’d suffered so much. Time and time again. More than she’d divulged so far. And her expertise with the ancient cultures had astounded him. He had to scrap his princess image of her and replace it with the successful anthropologist.

  But he couldn’t quite scrap how he felt about her long-ago desertion. She’d believed that rat Valesko’s every word and thrown him away like the trash she thought he was. She denied his background made any difference, but it did. He dragged those leg irons with every step. He saw his old man’s leering mug, haunting him.

  He relaxed his fist before he squeezed out the whole tube of toothpaste, closed top or not.

  If he could only feel indifference toward her, the damned job of guarding her and catching a killer—killers—would be tolerable. But around Laura, his control extended only so far. Either his hands ached to hold her, to caress her silken skin, or they itched to pound the wall.

  Nothing in between.

  At a tap on the bedroom window, he gripped his 9mm. He moved to the wall beside the window and peered out.

  When he recognized one of his unit, he unlocked the window and pushed up the
screen. “Byrne, get in here.”

  ATSA Officer Simon Byrne hoisted himself up and crawled through the opening. “You just had a hot beach date with the lovely lady, Stratton. That should’ve set you up. What the hell’s got you in a twist?” He pulled down the window sash.

  “Not the lady’s fault. And not yours.” Cole dug fingers into his hair. “This gig’s not going down as planned. It’s all on the fly.”

  “And up in the air. Hell, aren’t you spook types used to winging it? Changing on the fly with a subject that turns squirrely? Or phantom?” Grinning, Byrne helped himself to water in the kitchenette. He was about Cole’s height, six feet, with a cocky attitude, a ready smirk and a nose that had seen knuckles at close range. A diamond earring winked through his shaggy brown hair.

  ATSA united special talents from various intelligence agencies, but the old rivalries cropped up, usually in the form of good-natured kidding. In spite of his dark mood, Cole felt one side of his mouth quirk up. The cocky nonconformist reminded him of his younger self. “I suppose you DEA humps always know who your subject is.”

  “Affirmative. Not usually a phantom. This Janus is a real piece of work. No clue as to his real identity so far.” Byrne hiked a hip on the oak dining table and downed the glass in one swig. “The Feebs identified his MO in half a dozen hits from Tampa to L.A. Execution-style. Those guys never knew what hit them. Word has it he can be subtle, too. Makes it harder to pin down an MO. People have mysterious accidents—falling down stairs or into traffic.”

  “Or down a mountain with punctured brake lines.” Cole zipped up his toiletries. “Local police show today?”

  “They flat-footed all over the place looking for stashed loot, but struck out. They did grill the handyman. No surprise, since he has a juvie record. Small-town cops are no threat to Janus. I doubt they’ll be in our way.”

  Cole’d expected that. “Are we all set?”

  “Ward has the inside covered. Furnished us with a map of the resort and who’s in each cabin. Snow patrols and reports in regularly with that cane of his. Isaacs is in place. We start our new jobs this afternoon. No sweat.”

  Cole zipped his bag and lifted it. He didn’t like to leave Laura alone, even with Isaacs on surveillance duty.

  “Man, Ward may be the Confessor, but you’re Lockjaw.” Byrne tugged at his studded earlobe. “You wouldn’t spill what’s eating at you if the president himself asked. It’s the lady, isn’t it?”

  Busted.

  Of course it was the lady. Cole’s gut churned with dread for her. He wanted to deck the man with his suitcase. “What makes you such a damned expert?”

  “Hope you don’t play much poker, Stratton.” The undercover officer unlocked the window and prepared to depart the same way he’d entered.

  “Hell, Laura and I may have a history, but it won’t stop me from doing my job.”

  “One reason the director picked you was because you do know her. Word in the agency says you’re cool, one of the best. You take care of her. The rest of us’ll have this place covered like fleas on a beagle. If Janus is here, we’ll get him.” He slipped out the window and into the trees.

  Birds sang in the afternoon sun. Squirrels raced and argued in the pine branches overhead. No sign of anyone watching. And no more sign of Byrne.

  Cole closed and locked the screen and window. His fellow officers might trust him. Laura seemed to trust him to keep her safe. But could he trust himself?

  He was used to stowing his emotions like he stowed his luggage, but being close to Laura blew that all to hell. Could he control his confused feelings for her enough to do the job?

  He’d proven himself over the years. With every new mission, he kept striving to prove himself. Who for? Only himself.

  Until now.

  It was Laura’s life on the line, but protecting her, stopping an assassin and nabbing Markos fit into his need for success.

  Hell, didn’t that make him the selfish bastard she’d accused him of being?

  That evening, the stage crew completed the last of the scenery for Death at the Diner.

  Laura hung the curtains Stan’s wife had sewed. Like the woven pattern in the yellow gingham, her feelings for Cole intertwined with her fear of Markos’s hit man. Cole’s arrival had ignited the flame of hope, that they’d catch the killer and Markos, and she could return home in safety.

  But hope was her enemy as much as fear. Either could weaken her vigilance and send her screaming into Cole’s arms.

  After the kiss on the beach, she’d intended to think of him only as her bodyguard, nothing more. But where Cole was concerned, she had about as much willpower as a child with a bag of Halloween candy. How could she maintain a vow of indifference when her awareness of him overrode her good intentions? She mustn’t leap into his arms as she had that afternoon.

  But she knew better than to try to convince him to drop the hot-lover scenario. He intended to stay close. So emotional distance was the key. She’d fortify herself with a wall of indifference. She was strong. Hadn’t she overcome challenges greater than her attraction to Cole Stratton?

  She hurried forward to help Cole and Bea Van Tassel shove the counter-and-stools unit into place.

  “Careful, Bea,” Laura said, “the paint’s still a bit sticky.” The older woman accepted her tactful out to avoid moving the heavy scenery. Bea painted and decorated with enthusiasm, but she was nearing eighty.

  “I’m sure this dear man would rather have you beside him,” Bea replied with a wink.

  “Put a little more hip into it, babe, and you’ll move me along with the scenery.” Cole grinned.

  Laura rolled her eyes at his suggestive comment. “You do your part, and I’ll do mine.” Pushing together, they slid the unit onto its marks on stage left.

  “The two booths and we’re done.” Cole strode into the wings.

  “Ah, Stratton, you’re a lifesaver.” Rudy Damon strode into the wings. A dapper man somewhere between forty and sixty, the director cultivated a bristling white moustache that forever fought gravity in an attempt to merge with his full head of white hair. “This bike is just what we need.”

  Parked beside the completed booths was Cole’s Harley-Davidson Bad Boy. Burt, in a leather jacket dripping with zippers, stood beside it. Running a hand over the leather seat, he drooled over the black-and-silver machine.

  Laura grinned, noting Cole’s compressed mouth.

  “So this is the bike I use on stage? Way cool.” Burt smoothed a hand over the black leather seat.

  Rudy adjusted his ever present red silk scarf, this one tied in an elaborate overhand knot. “Cole has offered the use of his motorcycle. I feared we’d have to use a cardboard one.”

  Leaving the bike, Burt ambled over beside Laura. “I want an Ultra Classic myself. CD player, fringes on the saddlebags, the works.”

  Cole’s wolf eyes sharpened. “This is a Harley Softail. A cleaner look, not some poser garbage wagon.”

  Laura slipped away from Burt to pick up a box of props. “Maybe the bike’s too new to suit the play. We are back in the fifties, you know.”

  “No, no, we need it,” the director said. “And I need to find my notes for the stage blocking. I’ll leave you folks to setting up the scenery.”

  “Hey, I’ll help with that.” Burt rushed to Cole’s aid.

  The two bent to tip one booth onto a dolly. Eyeing each other across avocado-green upholstery like wrestlers on the mat instead of crew members, Cole and Burt nearly heaved the booth off the stage. They had to drag it back into place.

  The effort flexed powerful shoulder muscles beneath the black cotton of Cole’s T-shirt. It strained the sinews in his arms and stretched the cargo pants’ khaki fabric across his taut backside.

  Laura forced her gaze away from him and to the booth she and Vanessa were balancing.

  Vanessa winked at her.

  Busted.

  When Cole and Laura left the theater, a thin fog hovered just above the lake surface. The d
isembodied masts of the sailing dinghies levitated in midair. The air was sharp with wood smoke from a bonfire on the beach.

  She walked beside Cole. The idea of what or whom the ghostly, gray scrim might obscure jittered her pulse. Seeming to notice her anxiety, Cole curved an arm around her shoulders. She should object, but welcomed the added shield of his heat and strength. She breathed in his scent and relaxed.

  “What’s the deal?” he asked as they drew near the fire.

  “You remember my mentioning Jake Elwell?”

  “The handyman. Burt’s uncle.”

  “He still can’t do any heavy work, but once a week he builds a bonfire for the guests. They roast marshmallows, and he tells stories.”

  His eyebrows scissored together. “What kind of stories?”

  “Ghost stories mostly. Jake spins wonderful old Maine tales, too. You know, the kind of stories you tell around a campfire.” A suspicion, inchoate as the fog, invaded her consciousness.

  She stopped, just beyond the congenial circle of adults and children, and faced him. “Have you ever done that? A bonfire, I mean, with tall tales and marshmallows?”

  His eyes, midnight blue and brooding, focused on her warily. She had the impression of coiled energy, a wild creature that at any moment could either pounce or flee. “The stories Marines tell around campfires would singe your hair.”

  Something flickered behind the intensity in his eyes. Hurt and envy—they curled around her heart. “But as a boy, you never did this, did you?”

  When he remained still, made no reply, she knew he hadn’t. He’d either had to work or deal with his father. Anger boiled up, hot but impotent. If the old man weren’t already dead, she’d like to choke him for denying his son a childhood.

  In spite of Cole’s achievements, he hadn’t banished the feeling of inadequacy engendered by missing small joys like fun around a campfire. The hostile biker facade had been a guise. He still felt unworthy, an outsider.

  “Then let’s make up for lost time. I see room for us by the rock beyond the fire circle.” She took his hand and began tugging him toward the spot she’d selected, apart, yet near enough to hear Jake and roast a marshmallow or two.