by Cassie Miles
“I agree, and the job is yours.”
He’d expected an argument but was glad that she’d decided to be rational. He glanced toward the dining room. “I could do with another bowl of chili.”
“Me, too.”
Before she hopped down the stair step to the floor, she went up on tiptoe and gave him a kiss on the forehead. It was nothing special, the kind of small affection a wife might regularly bestow on her husband. The utter simplicity blew him away.
Before she could turn her back and skip off into the dining room, he caught her hand and gave a tug. She was in his arms. When her body pressed against his, they were joined together the way they were supposed to be.
Then he kissed her.
Chapter Four
Emily hadn’t intended to seduce him. That little kiss on his forehead was meant to be friendly. If she’d known she was lighting the fuse to a passionate response, she never would have gotten within ten feet of him. Not true. I’m lying to myself. From the moment she’d seen him, sensual memories had been taunting from the back of her mind. It was only a matter of time before that undercurrent would become manifest.
Their marriage was over, but she never had stopped imagining Sean as her lover. Nobody kissed her the way he did. The pressure of his mouth against hers was familiar and perfect. Will he do that thing with his tongue? The thing where he parts my lips gently, and then he deepens the kiss. His tongue swoops and swirls. And there’s a growling noise from the back of his throat, a vibration.
She’d never been able to fully describe what he did to her and what sensations he unleashed. But he was doing it right now, right in this moment. Oh yes, kiss me again.
She almost swooned. Swoon? No way! She’d changed. No more the lady poet, she was a hard-bitten journalist, not the type of woman who collapsed in a dead faint after one kiss, definitely not.
But her grip on consciousness was slipping fast. Her knees began to buckle, and she clung to his shoulders to keep from slipping to the floor. Her hands slid down his chest. Even that move was sexy; through the smooth fabric of his beige chamois shirt, she fondled his hard but supple abs.
This out-of-control but very pleasurable attraction had to stop before she lost her willpower, her rationality...her very mind. Pushing with the flat of her palms against his chest, she forced a distance between them. “We can’t do this.”
“Sure we can.” He slung his arm around her waist. “It’s been a while, but I haven’t forgotten how.”
Tomorrow he’d thank her for not dissolving into a quivering blob of lust. Firmly, she said, “I can see that we’re going to need ground rules.”
He kissed the top of her head and took a step back. “You cut it.”
“What?”
“Your hair, you cut it.”
“Too much trouble.” She fluffed her chin-length bob. “And getting rid of the Rapunzel curls makes me look more adult.”
“Oh yeah, you’re really grown up. How old are you now, twenty-one? Twenty-two?”
She didn’t laugh at his lame attempt at humor. “I’m almost twenty-six.”
Their eight-year age difference had always been an issue. When they first met, she’d just turned nineteen. They were married and divorced before she was twenty-one, and she’d always wondered if their relationship would have lasted longer if she’d been more mature. It was a familiar refrain. If I knew then what I know now, things would be different.
More likely, they never would have gotten together in the first place. Older and wiser, she would have taken one look at him and realized that he wasn’t the sort of man who should be married.
“I like your new haircut,” he said. “And you’re right. We need some ground rules.”
She gestured toward the dining room. “Should we eat chili while we talk?”
“That depends on how much you want your aunt and former deputy Willis to know.”
Of course, he was right. She didn’t want to spill potentially dangerous information about Wynter Corp into a casual conversation. Until now the only thing she’d told Aunt Hazel was that she’d witnessed a murder in San Francisco. She hadn’t named the killer or the victim and certainly hadn’t mentioned that the Wynter family had a place near Aspen.
Regret trickled through her. She probably shouldn’t have come here. Though she’d been ultracautious in keeping her identity secret and her connection to Hazel was hard to trace, somebody might find out and come after them. If anything happened to Hazel...
Emily shuddered at the thought. “I don’t want my aunt to get stuck in the middle of this.”
“Agreed.”
“Come with me.”
She led him across the foyer to a living room that reflected Hazel’s eclectic personality with a combination of classy and rustic. The terra-cotta floor and soft southwestern colors blended with painted barn wood on the walls. The high ceiling was open beam. The rugged, moss rock fireplace reminded Emily that her aunt was an outdoorswoman who herded cattle and tamed wild mustangs. But Hazel also had a small art collection, including two Georgia O’Keeffe watercolor paintings of flowers that hung on either side of the fireplace.
While Emily went behind the wet bar at the far end of the room, Sean studied the watercolor of a glowing pink-and-gold hydrangea. “Is this an original?”
“A gift from the artist,” Emily said. “Hazel spent some time with O’Keeffe at Ghost Ranch in New Mexico.”
“I keep forgetting how rich your family is. None of you are showy. It’s all casual and comfortable and then I realize that you’ve got valuable artwork on the wall.” He made his way across the room to the wet bar. “When I was driving up to this place, I had the feeling I’d seen it before. Did we come here for a visit?”
“I don’t think so. Hazel was in Europe for most of the year and a half we were married.” She peered through the glass door of the wine cellar refrigerator. “White wine or red?”
“How about beer?”
“You haven’t changed.” She opened the under-the-counter refrigerator and selected two bottles of craft beers with zombies on the labels. “You’ll like this brand. It’s dark.”
He didn’t question her selection, just grabbed the beer, tapped the neck against hers and took a swig. He licked his lips. “Good.”
A dab of foam glistened at the corner of his mouth, and she was tempted to wipe the moisture off, better yet, to lick it.
“Ground rules,” she said, reminding herself as much as him.
“First, I want to know why I have déjà vu about Hazelwood Ranch. Do you have any photo albums?”
She came out from behind the bar and shot him a glare. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not take a side trip down memory lane. We have more urgent concerns.”
“You’re the one who introduced family into the picture,” he said. “I want to understand a few things about Hazel. How long has she lived here?”
“The ranch doesn’t belong to our family. Hazel’s late husband was the owner of this and many other properties near Aspen. He renamed this small ranch Hazelwood in honor of her. They always seemed so happy. Never had kids, though. He was older, in his fifties, when they got married.”
She scanned the spines of books in a built-in shelf until she found a couple of photo albums. As she took them down and carried them to the coffee table in front of the sofa, she realized that she hadn’t downloaded her own photos in months. Digital albums were nice, but she really preferred the old-fashioned way.
“I knew there’d be pictures,” he said.
“Do you remember those journals I used to make? I’d take an old book with an interesting cover and replace the pages with my own sketches and poetry and photos.”
“I remember.” His voice was as soft as a caress. “The Engagement Journal was the best present you ever gave me
.”
“What about the watch, the super-expensive, engraved wristwatch?”
“Also treasured.”
She went back to the bar, snatched up her beer and returned to sit on the sofa beside him. “I’m an excellent present giver. It’s a family trait.”
“How are they, the Peterson family?”
“My oldest sister had a baby girl, which means I’m an aunt, and the other two are in grad school. Mom and Dad moved to Arizona, which they love.” She took a taste of the zombie beer, which was, as she’d expected, excellent, and gave him a rueful smile. “I don’t suppose Aunt Hazel told my mom that she was calling you.”
“Your mom hated me.”
Emily made a halfhearted attempt to downplay her mother’s opinion. “You weren’t their favorite.”
Her parents had begged her to stay in college and wait to get married until she was older. Emily was her mom’s baby, the youngest of four girls, the artistic one. When Emily’s divorce came, Mom couldn’t wait to say “I told you so.”
“Toward the end,” he said, “I thought she was beginning to come around.”
“It was never about you personally,” she said. “I was too young, and you were too old. And Mom didn’t really like that you did dangerous undercover work in the FBI.”
“And what does she think of your current profession?”
She took a long swallow of the dark beer. “Hates it.”
“Does she know about the murder?”
“Oh God, no.” She cringed. If her mother suspected that she was actually in danger, she’d have a fit.
Emily opened the older of the two albums. The photographs were arranged in chronological order with Emily and her sisters starting out small and getting bigger as they aged. Nostalgia welled up inside her. The Petersons were a good-looking family, wholesome and happy. In spite of what Sean thought, they weren’t really rich. Sure, they had enough money to live well and take vacations and pay for school tuitions. But they weren’t big spenders, and their home in an upscale urban neighborhood in Denver wasn’t ostentatious.
Like her older sisters, she had tried to be what her parents wanted. They valued education, and when she told them she was considering becoming a teacher, they were thrilled. But Emily went to UC Berkeley and strayed from the path. She was a poet, a performance artist, an activist and a photographer. Her marriage and divorce to Sean had been just one more detour from the straight and narrow.
Aunt Hazel was more indulgent of Emily’s free-spirited choices. Hazel approved of Sean. She’d invited him to be a bodyguard. Maybe she knew something Emily hadn’t yet learned.
He stopped her hand as she was about to turn a page in the album. He pointed to a wintertime photo of her, wearing a white knit hat with a pom-pom and standing at the gate that separated Hazelwood Ranch from public lands. She couldn’t have been more than five or six. Bundled up in her parka and jeans and boots, she appeared to be dancing with both hands in the air.
“This picture,” he said. “You put a copy of this in the journal you gave me. I must have looked at it a hundred times. I never really noticed the outline of the hills and the curve in the road, but my subconscious must have absorbed the details. Seeing that photo is like being here.”
His déjà vu was explained.
She asked, “What are we going to do to protect Hazel?”
“How does she feel about Willis? Do they have a little something going on?”
She and her aunt hadn’t directly talked about who Hazel was dating, but Emily couldn’t help noticing that Willis had stopped by for a visit every day. Sometimes twice a day. “Why do you ask?”
“We could hire Willis to be a bodyguard for Hazel. They might enjoy an excuse to spend more time together.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” she said. “His performance tonight—tromping around in the snow looking for a house key—wasn’t typical. Usually he’s competent.”
“I wouldn’t want to throw him up against an army of thugs with automatic pistols,” he said, “but that shouldn’t be necessary. If you settle here and keep a low profile, there’s no reason for Wynter to track you down. You’re sure he doesn’t know you’re the witness?”
“I was careful, bought my plane tickets under a fake name, blocked and locked everything on my computer, threw away my phone so I couldn’t be tracked.”
“How did you learn to do all that?”
“Internet,” she said. “I read a couple of how-to articles on disappearing yourself. Plus, I might have picked up a couple of hints when we were married.”
“But you didn’t like my undercover work.” He leaned back against the sofa pillows and sipped his beer. “You said when I took on a new identity, it was a lie.”
At the time, she hadn’t considered her criticism to be unreasonable. Any new bride would be upset if her husband said he was going to be out of touch for a week or two and couldn’t tell her where he was going or what he was doing. She jabbed an accusing finger in his direction. “I had every right to interrogate you, every right to be angry when you wouldn’t tell me what was going on.”
His dark eyes narrowed, but he didn’t look menacing. He was too handsome. “You could have just trusted me.”
“Trust you? I hardly knew you.”
“You were my wife.”
It hadn’t taken long for them to jump into old arguments. Was he purposely trying to provoke her? First he mentioned the age thing. Now he was playing the “trust me” card. Damn it, she didn’t want to open old wounds. “Could we keep our focus on the present? Please?”
“Fine with me.” He stretched out his long legs and rested his stocking feet on the coffee table. “You claim to have covered your tracks when you traveled and when you masked your identity.”
“Claimed?” Her anger sparked.
“Can you prove that you’re untraceable? Can anybody vouch for you?”
“Certainly not. The point of hiding my identity is to eliminate contacts.”
“Just to be sure,” he said, “I’ll ask Dylan to do a computer search. If anybody can hack your identity or files, he can.”
“It’s not necessary, but go ahead.” She was totally confident in her abilities. “I’ve always liked your brother. How’s he doing?”
“We keep him busy at TST doing computer stuff. You’ll be shocked to hear that he’s finally found a girlfriend who’s as smart as he is. She’s a neurosurgeon.”
“I’m not surprised.” The two brothers made a complementary pairing: Dylan was a genius, and Sean had street smarts.
“I’ll use my FBI contacts, namely, Levine, to keep tabs on their investigation.” He drained his beer and stood. “That should just about cover it.”
“Cover what?”
“Ground rules,” Sean said as he crossed the room toward the wet bar. “You and Hazel will be safe if you stay here and don’t communicate with anybody. I’ll need to take your cell phone.”
“Not necessary,” she said. “I’m aware that cell phones can be hacked and tracked. I only use untraceable burner phones.”
“What about your computer?”
She swallowed hard. In the back of her mind, she knew her computer could be hacked long distance and used to track her down. There was no way she’d give up her computer. “All my documents are copied onto a flash drive.”
“I need to disable the computer. No calling except on burner phones. No texting. No email. No meetings.”
Anger and frustration bubbled up inside her. Though she hadn’t finished her beer and didn’t need a replacement, she followed him to the bar. She climbed up on a stool and peered down at him while he looked into the under-the-counter fridge. When he stood, she glared until he met her gaze.
To his credit, Sean didn’t back down, even though she felt like she was shootin
g lightning bolts through her eye sockets. When she opened her mouth to speak, she was angry enough to breathe fire. “Your ground rules don’t work for me.”
He opened another zombie beer. “What’s the problem?”
“If I can’t use the internet, how can I work?”
“Dylan can probably hook up some kind of secure channel to communicate with your employer.”
“What if I don’t want to stay here?”
“I suppose I could move you to a safe house or hotel.” He came around the bar and faced her. “What’s really going on?”
“Nothing.”
“You always said you hated lying and liars, but you’re not leveling with me. If you don’t tell me everything, I can’t do my job.”
The real, honest-to-God problem was simple: she hadn’t given up on the Wynter investigation. One of the specific reasons she’d come to Colorado was to dig up evidence against Frankie. She swiveled around on the bar stool so she was facing away from him. “I don’t want to bury my head in the sand.”
“Explain.”
“I want to know why Roger Patrone was murdered. And I want to stop the human trafficking from Asia.”
He nodded. “We all want that.”
“But I have leads to track down. If I could hook up with people from the Wynter compound and question them, I might get answers. Or I could break in and download the information on their computers. I might find evidence that would be useful to the FBI.”
“Seriously?” He was skeptical. “You want to keep digging up dirt, poking the dragon?”
She shot back. “Well, that’s what an investigative reporter does.”
“This isn’t a joke, Emily. You saw what happens to people who cross Frankie Wynter.”
“They get shot and dumped.”
Wynter’s men could toss her body into a mountain cave, and she wouldn’t be found for years. When she voiced her plan out loud, it sounded ridiculous. How could she expect to succeed in her investigation when the FBI had failed?
