One Night with Her Brooding Bodyguard

by Cara Colter

  And yet, after he had set her feet back down in that water the other night, he had felt like Samson without his hair. As if he was weak and no matter what she had asked him, he would have given it to her.

  That was the real lesson of Samson—not that there were women out there waiting to betray men—but that love stole a man’s strength from him.

  Love.

  Of course, he was under no illusions about love. What had sung through the air between him and Sophie was passion. A force of nature beyond reckoning with.

  She was not young and untried, anymore. She was a woman who had been in the world, and experienced both the good and the bad it had to offer. That made everything more complicated.

  And it was his own fault the chemistry between them had sizzled to life. What had he been thinking, revealing his presence at the hot springs to her? Dropping his clothes in front of her? Joining her in the water? What had he been thinking taking her delicate feet in his hands?

  He had been thinking he was a hell of a lot stronger than he really was. Lancaster should be thankful she had asked for something as harmless as a fishing trip.

  She could have asked him for what she had asked him for at Ryan’s christening. He thought of that night, her beauty, the taste of her lips, how much he had wanted her. But not with a few drinks in her. If she had come back to him, the next day, and asked the same thing, he would have been in the same position he was in now. Not certain that he would be able to say no.

  And how much more complicated his life would be if that is what she had asked for! So, why had he felt faintly disappointed by her request? For a fishing trip, instead of kisses? One was complicated, the other was not.

  Though really? He was not at all sure about that now.

  Because Sophie was standing on the banks of his favorite fishing spot, and it seemed complicated, indeed, as if she had invaded something that up until this point had been his and his alone.

  He had carried the poles and the gear and now he set them down, focusing furiously on them, threading the poles, selecting flies.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as she went and stood on a large flat stone that protruded out over the deepest part of the hole. She was squinting down into it, almost as if she knew where fish would congregate.

  He put on his fishing vest, and then took the fly-fishing rods over to where she stood. He joined her at the edge of the rock, and saw the dark shadows of fish in the water.

  Normally, something would sigh within him. Today was different. He decided to get her set and then head a little farther down the pool, away from her.

  He picked up his rod, felt the familiar weight of it in his hand. That familiarity felt as though it brought him home to himself, moved his focus in safe directions.

  “I’ll just show you.”

  It was as complicated and as simple as the dances the other night. It, too, had a disciplined rhythm to it, and he quickly fell into that, listening to the comforting song of his line hissing through the air in a nearly perfect snake pattern. The fly lit on the water, sprang away, lit again.

  He could forget she was here, if he worked at it. But he glanced back at her. Sophie was watching him closely, but he knew she would not get it from watching. He could let her just muck about by herself, of course. Aside from the loss of a few flies, and some tangled line, what would be the harm in that? Untangling line could keep her occupied for the rest of the day!

  But suddenly, self-protection aside, he wanted her to know this feeling.

  The line singing, the sense of connection with all things, the moving to a rhythm so powerful it ordered the universe.

  “Bring that other rod, and come here, lass.”

  He showed her again, this time with her standing right beside him.

  “Now you try it.”

  She hesitated and looked at her rod, faintly perplexed. Lancaster changed his position so that he was standing behind her. He reached around her, and laid his arms the length of her arms, put his hands on her hands. She rocked back into his chest.

  They had been here seconds, and he was touching her again! He had vowed, after the footsie thing at the hot springs, there would be no touching on this excursion. Unless it was an emergency, like her toppling off a rock because she was doing yoga in a place where she shouldn’t have been doing yoga.

  And yet, here he was, with her in no mortal danger at all, and his chin was just above the silky dark hair of her head, and the sweet curve of her back was pressed into his chest, and the scent of her was tickling his nostrils and obliterating the scents of clean water and fall leaves.

  He tried to guide her through her first cast. It was a disaster, because she wasn’t relaxing. The line dribbling out across the water instead of singing above it.

  “Relax,” he told her.

  But she didn’t relax. She was so tense her shoulders were shaking. Or maybe she was cold.

  “Did you get your feet wet crossing that creek? Are you cold?”

  “N-no.”

  He went very still. He ducked out from behind her and looked at her.

  As he had suspected, she was laughing.

  “This is why women don’t fish,” he told her sternly. “There’s no giggling in fishing.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, very contritely.

  He moved behind her, and tried to guide her through it again. Same thing. Laughing silently. Her shoulders shaking with mirth.

  “This is serious business,” he warned her.

  “I can’t do it,” she said.

  “You’re giving up?” he said, astonished. Sophie did not give up! Look at that epic walk from the christening. “You haven’t even tried it yet.”

  She turned and looked at him, almost with sympathy.

  “I can’t lie to you. That’s what I can’t do.”

  He tilted his head at her, baffled.

  “I’ve been fly-fishing since I could walk, Lancaster. I’m probably better at it than you.”

  I can’t lie to you.

  It was the same thing he had felt when he had come out of the trees at the hot springs the other night. As if there could be no deceit between them, as if that was written in the stars somewhere.

  Written in the bloody stars?

  He decided he’d better focus on things other than what was written in the stars for them. Sophie thought she might be better at this than him? She couldn’t possibly be serious. That was what he needed to be setting straight.

  He came out from behind her, rocked back on his heels, regarded her with narrowed eyes.

  “Show me what you’ve got, then,” he invited her.

  She looked carefully at the fly he had attached to her line. It was when she used a bit of spit to adjust it marginally that it occurred to him she wasn’t kidding.

  Then she turned away from him, and the line sang out of her rod. Her rhythm and her style were absolute perfection. Watching her was poetry.

  She turned and looked at him over her shoulder. She winked.

  He said a word under his breath that he rarely said.

  “A small wager?” she suggested.

  He glared at her.

  “First one to get a fish wins.”

  “Wins what?” he asked.

  Her eyes trailed to his lips. He was positive of that. Well, that didn’t have any place in fishing, either!

  “How about a piggyback ride over that first creek crossing near where we parked?”

  “You’re pretty sure you’re going to win, since you can’t piggyback me,” he said.

  “I could. In a pinch.”

  “You couldn’t.”

  “Moot point, anyway,” Sophie told him. And then she turned her back to him and put that fly precisely over the ledge, in the shadow where the fish loved to hang out.

  Without asking
, she had taken the best spot. Grumbling slightly, he headed downstream from her.

  He hadn’t even completed his first cast when he heard her gleeful shout. He glanced at her and saw the fish flashing at the end of her line. As he watched, she landed it perfectly, removed the hook, considered it and then let it go.

  “That’s your supper you just put back,” he warned her, glumly aware he had just lost the bet with her.

  “There’s plenty out there. I won’t keep the babies.”

  Which meant he was honor bound not to keep the “babies,” either. And they were the best tasting!

  “You want to go double or nothing?” she called, giddy with confidence.

  “You should just take your piggyback ride and be happy.”

  “Biggest fish of the day,” she challenged him. “If you get it, cancel the piggyback ride. If I get it, you have to carry me over the two rough spots in the canyon.”

  Really? He had no choice but to take her bet. When he thought about it, he had to get out of that piggyback ride thing. If he’d thought there was any chance of her winning, he would have never agreed to such silliness in the first place. The thought of her clinging like a limpet to his back, her long legs wrapped around him, her laughter in his ear, was great incentive.

  Lancaster had been fishing with his grandfather since he was just a wee lad. He had become very serious about it when he was a teenager.

  But he had never experienced fishing like this. It had always been for him a place of deep solitude, of connection to nature, a place where he was totally immersed in the moment, no thought, no worry, no guilt.

  It was not linked in his mind, except maybe in those long-ago days with his grandfather, to companionship. But today fishing became something else.

  Fun.

  Competitive.

  Laughter-filled.

  He had a feeling that given an opportunity, Sophie could take all things that a man was familiar with and edge them with light, make them feel brand-new again. She would make things he had been doing his entire life feel as if he had never done them before.

  He’d landed quite a big fish, when a shadow fell over him. Startled, he looked up to see a cloud boil up over the edge of the canyon, blocking out the ray of sunshine that always seemed to illuminate this pool.

  The problem with a woman like Sophie, he told himself, quickly gathering his gear, was that a man ended up paying attention to all the wrong things.

  He leaped over the rocks to where she was casting.

  “Pack her up,” he said, “we have to go.”

  “I do not have the biggest fish yet,” she said, ignoring him.

  He wasn’t used to being challenged, and in these circumstances, it was imperative that he make her see he was the leader and there was room for only one.

  “Sophie, the weather’s changing. It can change very fast here. We need to get out of this canyon.”

  She scanned his face. “You’re not just saying that because you have the biggest fish?”

  He shook his head. The first drop of rain hit him. He turned from her and began to throw together their gear. He needed her to sense the urgency of this situation without making her afraid.

  But the truth was that this particular canyon was susceptible to flash floods.

  If he was by himself, he would take his ability to handle whatever nature threw at him in stride.

  But he felt the enormous weight of being responsible for her, and not in a professional way, either.

  He felt a man’s basic need to protect a woman, yes, but he felt a shiver of awareness that it was becoming something even more than that.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  SOPHIE HAD GROWN up in the mountains of Oregon. Weather there, as here, could change in a hair and be unpredictable. Still, nothing in her life experience had prepared her for the ferocity and suddenness of the storm that caught them as they made their way out of the canyon.

  It had been a gorgeous fall day, the weather crisp and bright.

  Now, they were caught in the middle of a storm worthy of winter: rain quickly turned to sleet, and made the path they had come in on slick and dangerous. The creek that gurgled beside the path was beginning to roar with faint menace.

  It occurred to Sophie that perhaps she should feel utterly and completely terrified. She could barely see, her feet kept sliding out from under her and the wind was hurling ice at her with howling satisfaction.

  And perhaps if she had been with anyone else besides Connal Lancaster, she would have been terrified.

  But his great confidence and his great strength never flagged. She watched him turn, in the blink of an eye, from the content man who had fished at the pool into a 100 percent battle-ready warrior. When she lost her footing on the treacherous path, he was always there, making sure she didn’t tumble off an embankment or hit the ground. In more open places, he put his body between her and the worst of the storm, sheltering her. He was urging her on, but his voice was calm and sure, like a beacon of light a sailor might follow through a storm.

  Instead of feeling overwhelmed by how long it was taking them to make the trip back to the car, instead of feeling the discomfort of getting wetter and wetter, she seemed to be operating on some kind of adrenaline rush. Sophie found herself faintly exhilarated, as if it was an adventure she was sharing with him.

  Finally, they stood on the bank of the creek they had crossed this morning. Sophie felt the first niggle of real fear pierce the adrenaline. Just hours ago, the creek had been a trickle, postcard perfect, gurgling pleasantly over rocks. Now, it raged, thundercloud gray, its waters churning up debris from the bottom.

  Lancaster dropped the rods and other items he had been carrying. He got down on one knee, his one arm steadying him.

  “Get on.”

  “But I didn’t win the bet,” she said, pretending she was being defiant, and not what she really was, which was afraid. “You got the biggest fish.”

  “Sophie,” he said, she suspected seeing right through her, something dangerous in his tone, “now is not the time. Get on.”

  She looked at the raging water and realized she had no hope of crossing it on her own. It wasn’t particularly wide or deep—maybe six or eight feet to get across it, and maybe two feet deep—but it was moving horrendously fast. He was strong, she knew that, but even so something like panic tickled along her spine. Surely not even Lancaster could pit himself against an obstacle like this and come out the winner?

  If he lost his footing, they could both be swept away.

  On the other hand, what option did they have? They had no shelter here. The warmth of the car was seconds away.

  “Get on!” he said to her, and it snapped her out of her hesitation. She clambered on his back, and he rose, his arms closing tightly around her legs, and she wrapped her own arms around his neck.

  He plunged unhesitatingly into the water. With each step, he battled to find his footing. She could feel his weight shifting underneath her, his enormous strength being used entirely, his muscles bunching, relaxing, bunching again.

  He crossed the creek in less than two minutes, then set her down. Shocked, she watched him whirl around and head back into the raging water.

  “Stop it,” she screamed at him, over the roar of the water. They were safe! The car was right here! What was he doing?

  He glanced back at her, but kept going. She shrieked at him again, pure panic rising in her. He made it safely to the other bank and filled up his arms with their gear. He was risking his life to retrieve stuff?

  When she saw him come back across, saw how close he was to losing his footing and being swept away, her fear for him was replaced with fury, particularly once he was safely back on shore.

  “How could you?” she yelled at him.

  “I wasn’t leaving my fishing gear,” he said with not a trace of apology.
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br />   He was not hearing her! He could have been killed. Her helpless fury poured out of her, and she pummeled him with her fists.

  He grabbed her wrists and held them tight, and even her fury was no match for the pure power of him.

  “Tell me when you’re ready to stop, and I’ll let you go,” he said, his voice aggravatingly calm, as if she was a child having a tantrum.

  “You stupid ass! I can’t believe you risked your life for worthless stuff.” She tried to yank her hands free of him so that she could hit him again!

  “That fishing rod was given into my keeping by my grandfather.”

  “And that makes it worth risking your life for?”

  “Yes,” he said firmly.

  The fight went out of her and he let her go.

  “You scared me,” she whispered.

  “I can’t be something I’m not so that you won’t be scared,” he told her with soft firmness. “I promised my grandfather I would look after that rod. It was the only thing he ever had of value.”

  She wanted, desperately, to tell him how dumb that was, but she could see honor was everything to him. When he made a vow, he would keep it.

  I do, whispered along her spine, but she shook it off. She turned and walked toward the car. She admired what he had just done. And hated it. She loved him. And despised how weak that love had made her feel when he had crossed back over the creek to retrieve his precious fishing gear.

  She loved him?

  Sophie, she told herself, you are supposed to be getting over that.

  Or, a small voice whispered, seeing if there is any hope.

  There was no hope for loving a man who would put the well-being of his fishing rod above her feelings.

  As she sat in the car, shivering, he packed their stuff into the trunk. He seemed to take his time about it, too. At least she was out of the driving wind and sleet. When he finally got in, she could see he was soaked to the skin. He left his door open, started the car and turned the heater on high. He sat sideways on the seat, and took off his boots.

  He emptied what seemed to be a quart of water out of each one.