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The heels on her pixie-size boots clicked on the terra-cotta floor between area rugs as she darted toward him, grabbed his boots and carried them to a drying mat under the coat hooks. She braced her fists on her hips and stared at him. “You’re exactly how I remembered.”
Aha, they had met before. He stood and adjusted the tail of his beige suede shirt to hide the holster he wore on his hip. “This may sound strange...” he said. “Have I ever been here?”
“I don’t think so. But Hazelwood Ranch is the backdrop for many, many photos. The kids came here often.”
Her explanation raised more questions. Backdrop for what? What kids? Why would he have seen the photos? “Maybe you could remind me—”
She reached up to pat his cheek. “I’m glad that you’re still clean-shaven. I don’t like the scruffy beard trend. I’ll bet you picked up your grooming habits in the FBI.”
“Plus, my mom was a good teacher.”
“Not according to the photo on your TST Security website,” she said. “Your brother, Dylan, has a ponytail.”
“He’s kind of a wild card. His specialties are electronics and cybersecurity.”
“And your specialty is working with law enforcement and figuring out the crimes. I believe your third partner, Mason Steele, is what you boys call the ‘muscle’ in the group.”
“I guess you checked me out.”
“I have, indeed.”
He took a long look at her, hoping to jog his brain. His mind was blank. Nothing came through. His gaze focused on her necklace, a long string of etched silver, black onyx and turquoise beads. He knew that necklace...and the matching bracelet coiled around her wrist.
Shaking his head, he inhaled deeply. A particular aroma came to him. The scent of roasted peppers, onions, chili and cinnamon mingled with honey and fresh corn bread. He couldn’t explain this odor, but his lungs had been craving it. Nothing else was nearly as sweet or as spicy delicious. Nothing else would satisfy this newly awakened appetite.
His eyelids closed as a high-definition picture appeared in his mind. He saw a woman—young, fresh and beautiful. A blue jersey shift outlined her slender curves, and she’d covered the front with a ruffled white apron. Her long, sleek brown hair cascaded down her back, almost to her waist. She held a wooden spoon toward him, offering a taste of her homemade chili.
He had always wanted more than a taste. He wanted everything with her, the whole enchilada. But he couldn’t have her. Their time was over.
He gazed down into her eyes...her turquoise eyes!
“You remember,” Hazel said, “the wedding.”
That Saturday in June, six and a half years ago, was a blur of color and taste and music and silence. His eyelids snapped open. “I recall the divorce a whole lot better.”
These were dangerous memories, warning bells. He should run, get the hell out of there. Instead, he followed his nose down a shadowy hallway. Stiff-legged, he marched through the dining room into the bright, warm kitchen where the aroma of chili was thick.
Two pans of golden corn bread rested near the sink on the large center island with a dark marble countertop. She stood at the stove with her back toward him, stirring a heavy cast-iron pot. She wore jeans that outlined her long legs and tight, round bottom. On top, she had on a striped sweater. Over her shoulder, she said, “Hazel, did I hear the doorbell?”
The small, silver-haired woman beside him growled a warning. “You should turn around slowly, dear.”
Sean gripped the edge of the marble countertop, unsure of how he was going to feel when he faced her. Every single day since their divorce five years ago—after only a year and a half of marriage—he had imagined her. Sometimes he remembered the sweet warmth of her body beside him in their bed. Other times he saw her from afar and reveled in coming closer and closer. Usually, he imagined her naked with her dark chestnut hair spilling across her olive skin.
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 (#ulink_64c300a1-cbe8-540d-801b-d363d757154f)
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 still 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.
