Mountain Blizzard

by Cassie Miles

  Her hair! He stared at her back and shoulders. She’d chopped off her lush, silky hair.

  “Emily,” he said.

  She whirled. Clearly surprised, she wielded her wooden spoon like a knife she might plunge into his chest. “Sean.”

  Her turquoise eyes were huge, outlined with thick, dark lashes. Her mouth was a thin, tight line. Her dark brows pulled down, and he immediately recognized her expression, a look he’d seen often while they were married. She was furious. What the hell did she have to be angry about? He was the one who had driven through a blizzard.

  He stepped away from the counter, not needing the support. The anger surging through his veins gave him the strength of ten. “I don’t know what kind of sick game you two ladies are playing, but it’s not funny. I’m leaving.”

  “Good.” She stuck out her jaw and took a step toward him. “I don’t want you hanging around.”

  “Then why call me up here? I had a verbal contract, an agreement.” TST had a strict no-refund policy, but this was a special circumstance. He’d pay back the retainer from his own pocket. “Forget it. I’ll give your money back.”

  “What money?” Emily’s upper lip curled in a sneer that she probably thought was terrifying. Yeah, right, as terrifying as a bunny wiggling its nose.

  “You hired me.”

  “Not me.” Emily threw her spoon back into the chili pot. “Aunt Hazel, what have you done?”

  The silver-haired woman with dragons on her shoulders had maneuvered her way around so she was standing at the far end of the center island with both of them on the other side. “When you two got married, I always thought you were a perfect match.”

  “You were the only one,” Emily said.

  Unfortunately, that was true. Sean and Emily were both born and raised in Colorado, but they had met in San Francisco. She was a student at University of California in Berkeley, majoring in English and appearing at least once a week at local poetry slams. At one of these open-mike events, he saw her.

  She’d been dancing around on a small stage wearing a long gypsy skirt. Her wild hair was snatched up on her head with dozens of ribbons. He’d been impressed when she rhymed “appetite” and “morning light” and “coprolite,” which was a technical word for fossilized poop. He would have stayed and talked to her, but he’d been undercover, rooting out a drug dealer at the slam venue. Sean had been in the FBI.

  When they told people they were getting married, their opposite lifestyles—Bohemian chick versus federal agent—were the first thing people pointed to as a reason it would never work. The next issue was an age difference. She was nineteen, and he was twenty-seven. Eight years wasn’t really all that much, but her youthful immaturity stood in stark contrast to his orderly, responsible lifestyle.

  “If you’d asked me at the time,” Aunt Hazel said, “I’d have advised you to live together before marriage.”

  Sean hadn’t wanted to take that chance. He had hoped the bonds of marriage would help him control his butterfly. “It was a mistake,” he said.

  Emily responded with a snort.

  “You don’t think so?” he asked.

  “Are you still here? You were in such a rush to get away from me.”

  His contrary streak kicked in. He sure as hell wasn’t going to let her think that she was chasing him out the door. Very slowly and deliberately, he pulled out a stool and took a seat at the center island opposite the stove top. He turned away from Emily.

  “Aunt Hazel,” he said, “you still haven’t told us why you hired me as a bodyguard.”

  “You? A bodyguard?” Emily sputtered. “You’re not a fed anymore?”

  “Do you care?”

  “Why should I?”

  “What are you doing now?” he asked.

  “Writing.”

  “Poetry?” He scoffed.

  She exhaled an eager gasp as she tilted her head and leaned toward him. Her turquoise eyes flashed. Her face, framed by wisps of brown hair, was flushed beneath the natural olive tint. He remembered her spirit and her enthusiasm, and he knew that she wanted to tell him something. The words were poised at the tip of her tongue, straining to jump out.

  And he wanted to hear them. He wanted to share with her, to listen to her stories and to feel the waves of excitement that radiated from her. Emily had always thrown herself wholeheartedly into whatever she was attempting to do. It was part of her charm. No doubt she had some project that was insanely ambitious.

  With a scowl, she raised her hand, palm out, to hold him away from her. “Just go.”

  “Such drama,” Aunt Hazel said. “The two of you are impossible. It’s called communication, and it’s not all that difficult. Sean, you’re going to sit there and I’m going to tell you what our girl has been up to.”

  “I don’t have to listen to this,” Emily said.

  “If I’m not explaining properly, feel free to jump in,” Hazel said. “First of all, Emily doesn’t write poems anymore. After the divorce, she changed her focus to journalism.”

  “Totally impractical,” he muttered. “With all the newspapers going out of business, nobody makes a living as a journalist.”

  “I do all right.”

  Her voice was proud, and there was a strut in her step as she strolled from one end of the island to the other. Watching her long, slender legs and the way her hips swayed was a treat. He felt himself being drawn into her orbit. She’d always had the power to mesmerize him.

  “Fine,” he muttered. “Tell me about your big deal success in journalism.”

  “Right after the divorce, I got a job writing for the Daily Californian, Berkeley’s student newspaper. I learned investigative techniques, and I blogged. And I started doing articles for online magazines. I have a regular bimonthly piece in a national publication, and they pay very nicely.”

  “For articles about eye shadow and shoes?”

  “Hard-hitting news.” She slammed her fist on the marble island. “I witnessed a murder.”

  “Which is why I called you,” Aunt Hazel said. “Emily’s life is in danger.”

  This was just crazy enough to be possible. “Have you received threats?”

  “Death threats,” she said.

  His feet were rooted to the kitchen floor. He didn’t want to stay...but he couldn’t leave her here unprotected.

  Chapter Two

  Emily couldn’t look away from him. Fascinated, she watched as a muscle in Sean’s jaw twitched, his brow lowered and his eyes turned as black as polished obsidian. He was outrageously masculine.

  With a nearly imperceptible shrug, his muscles tensed, but his frame didn’t contract. He seemed to get bigger. His fingers coiled into fists, ready to lash out. He was prepared to defend her against anything and everything. His aggressive stance told her that he’d take on an army to keep her from harm.

  When she thought about it, his new occupation as a bodyguard made sense. Sean had always been a protector, whether it was keeping a bully away from his sweet-but-nerdy brother or rescuing a stray dog by stopping four lanes of traffic on a busy highway. If Sean had been hiding in that louvered closet instead of her, he would have saved the man she now could identify as Roger Patrone.

  Sean reached toward her. She yanked her arm away. She didn’t dare allow him to get too close. No matter how much she wanted his embrace, that wasn’t going to happen. This man had been the love of her life. Ending their marriage was the most difficult thing she’d ever done, and she couldn’t bear going through that soul-wrenching pain again.

  “Did you report the murder to the police?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she said, “and to your former FBI bosses. Specifically, I had several chats with Special Agent Greg Levine. I’m surprised he didn’t call and tell you.”

  “Levine is st
ill stationed in San Francisco,” he said. “Is that where the crime took place?”

  “Yes.”

  “In the city?”

  “Just beyond the Golden Gate Bridge.”

  “In open waters,” he said. “A good place to dump a body.”

  It was a bit disturbing that his FBI-trained brain and Freddie Wynter’s nefarious instincts drew exactly the same conclusion. Maybe you need to think like a criminal to catch one. “As it turned out, the ocean wasn’t such a great dump site. The victim washed up on Baker Beach five days later.”

  “The waiting must have been rough on you,” he said. “It’s no fun to report a murder when the body goes missing.”

  Definitely not fun when the investigating officer was buddy-buddy with her ex-husband. She’d asked Greg not to blab to Sean, but she’d expected him to ignore her request. Those guys stuck together. The only time Sean had lied to her when they were married was when he was covering up for a fellow fed.

  She wondered if Sean’s departure from the FBI had been due to negative circumstances. Had Mr. Perfect screwed up? Gotten himself fired? “Why did you leave the FBI?”

  “It was time.”

  “Cryptic,” she snapped.

  “It’s true.”

  God forbid he give her a meaningful explanation! Leaving the FBI must have been traumatic for him. Sean was born to be a fed. He could have been a poster boy with his black hair neatly barbered and his chin clean-shaven and his beige chamois suede shirt looking like it had come fresh from the dry cleaner’s. He’d been proud to be a special agent. Would he confide in her if they’d fired him? “You can be so damn annoying.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I hate when you put off a perfectly rational query with a macho statement that doesn’t really tell me anything, like a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”

  “I don’t expect you to understand.”

  “Mission accomplished.”

  Hostility vibrated around him. A red flush climbed his throat. Oh yeah, he was angry. Hot and angry. They could have put him on the porch and melted the blizzard.

  “I’ll leave,” he said.

  “Not in this storm,” Aunt Hazel said. “The two of you need to calm down. Have some chili. Try to be civil.”

  Emily stepped away from the stove, folded her arms at her waist and watched with a sidelong gaze as Sean and her aunt dished up bowls of chili and cut off slabs of corn bread. Sean managed to squash his anger and transform into a pleasant dinner guest. She could have matched his politeness with a cold veneer of her own, but she preferred to say nothing.

  There had been a time—long ago when she and Sean were first dating—when she was known for her candor. Every word from her lips was truth. She had been 100 percent frank and open.

  Those days were gone.

  She’d glimpsed the ugliness, heard the cries of the hopeless, learned that life wasn’t always good and people weren’t always kind. She’d lost her innocence.

  And Hazel was correct. She’d gotten herself into trouble from the Wynters. Though she didn’t want to be, she was terrified. Almost anything could set off her fear...an unexpected phone call, the slam of a door, a car that followed too closely. She hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep since that night in James Wynter’s closet.

  The only reason she hadn’t disintegrated into a quivering mass of nerves was simple: Wynter and his men didn’t know her identity. Her FBI contact had told her that they knew there was a witness to the murder, but didn’t know who. It was only a matter of time before they found out who she was and came after her. Tell him. Tell Sean. Let him be your bodyguard.

  Her aunt asked, “Emily, can I get you something to drink?”

  Hazel and Sean had already sprinkled grated cheddar on top of their chili bowls and added a spoonful of sour cream. They were headed to the adjoining dining room.

  What would it hurt to have dinner with him? The more she looked at him, the more she saw hints of his former self, her husband, the gentleman, the broad-shouldered man who had stolen her heart. She remembered the first time they were introduced when he’d tried to shake hands and she gave him a hug. They’d always been opposites and always attracted.

  “I’m not hungry,” Emily said.

  “There’s no reason to be so stubborn,” Hazel scolded. “I’ve hired you a bodyguard. Let the man do his job.”

  “I don’t want a bodyguard.”

  She glared at Sean, standing so straight and tall like a knight in shining armor. She was drawn to his strength. At the same time, he ticked her off. She wanted to tip him over like an extra-large tin can.

  Edging closer to the kitchen windows, she pushed aside the curtain and peered outside. Day had faded into dusk, and the snow was coming down hard and fast. The blizzard wasn’t going to let up; he’d be here all night. She’d be spending the night under the same roof with him? This could be a problem, a big one.

  “I’ve got a question for you,” he said as he strolled past her and set his chili bowl on a woven place mat. “What kind of murder would trigger an FBI investigation?”

  “The man who pulled the trigger is Frankie Wynter.”

  He startled. “The son of James Wynter?”

  She’d said too much. The best move now was to retreat. She stretched and yawned. “I’m tired, Aunt Hazel. I think I’ll go up to my room.”

  Without waiting for a response, she pivoted and ran from the kitchen. In the foyer, she paused to put Hazel’s rifle in the closet. It was dangerous to leave that thing out. Then she charged up the staircase, taking two steps at a time. In her bedroom, she turned on the lamp and flopped onto her back on the queen-size bed with the handmade crazy quilt.

  Memory showed her the picture of Roger Patrone sprawled back in the swivel chair with his necktie askew and his shirt covered in blood. When they came toward the closet, looking for something to wrap around poor Roger, she’d expected to be the next victim. She’d held tightly to the doorknob, hoping they’d think it was locked.

  There had been no need to hold the knob. Frankie told them to get the plastic shower curtain from the bathroom. Blood wouldn’t seep through. His quick orders had made her think that he might have pulled this stunt before. Other bodies might have gone over the railing of his daddy’s double-decker yacht. Other murders might have been committed.

  She stood, lurched toward the door, pivoted and went back to the bed. Trapped in her room like a child, she had no escape from memory. Her chest tightened. It felt like a giant fist was squeezing her lungs, and she couldn’t get enough oxygen. She sat up straight. She was hot and cold at the same time. Her head was dizzy. Her breath came in frantic gasps.

  With a moan, she leaned forward, put her head between her knees and told herself to inhale through her nose and exhale through her mouth. Breathe deeply and slowly. Wasn’t working—her throat was too tight. Was she having a panic attack? She didn’t know; she’d never had this feeling before.

  The door to her bedroom opened. Sean stepped inside as though he didn’t need to ask her permission and had every right to be there. She would have yelled at him, but she couldn’t catch her breath. Her pulse fluttered madly.

  He crossed the carpet and sat beside her on the bed. His arm wrapped around her shoulders. His masculine aroma, a combination of soap, cedar forest and sweat, permeated her senses as she leaned her head against his shoulder.

  Her hands clutched in a knot against her breast, but she felt her heart rate beginning to slow down. She was regaining control of herself. Somehow she’d find a way to handle the fear. And she’d set things right.

  Gently, he rocked back and forth. “Better?”

  “Much.” She took a huge gulp of air.

  “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

  “I already did. I told your bu
ddy, Agent Levine.”

  “Number one, he’s not my buddy. Number two, why didn’t he offer to put you in witness protection?”

  “I turned it down,” she said.

  “Emily, do you know how dangerous Frankie Wynter is?”

  “I’ve been researching Wynter Corp for over a year,” she said. “Their smuggling operations, gambling and money laundering are nasty crimes, but the real evil comes from human trafficking. Last year, the port authorities seized a boxcar container with over seventy women and children crammed inside. Twelve were dead.”

  “And Wynter Corp managed to wriggle out from under the charges.”

  “The paperwork vanished.” That was one of the bits of evidence she’d hoped to get from James Wynter’s computer. “There was no indication of the sender or the destination where these people were to be delivered. All they could say was that they were promised jobs.”

  “This kind of investigation is best left to the cops.”

  She separated from him and rose to her feet. “I know what I’m doing.”

  “I’m not discounting your ability,” he said. “You might be the best investigative reporter of all time, but you don’t have the contacts. Not like the FBI. They’ve got undercover people everywhere. Not to mention their access to advanced weaponry and surveillance equipment.”

  “I understand all that.” He wasn’t telling her anything she hadn’t already figured out for herself.

  “You’re a witness to a crime. That’s it—that’s all she wrote.”

  She braced herself against the dresser and looked into the large mirror on the wall. Her reflection showed her fear in the tension around her eyes and her blanched complexion. Sean—ever the opposite—seemed calm and balanced.