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“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 shooting 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?
“If you want to take that kind of risk,” he said, “that’s your choice. But don’t put Hazel in danger.”
He was right. She shouldn’t have come here, and she definitely shouldn’t have talked to him. Trust me? Fat chance.
Their connection had already begun to unravel, which was probably for the best. He irritated her more than a mohair sweater on a sunny day. Her unwarranted attraction to him was a huge distraction from her work. She should tell him to go. She didn’t need a bodyguard.
But Sean was strong and quick, well trained in assault and protection. He knew things about investigating and undercover work that she could only guess about. Her gut instincts told her she really did need him.
“Come with me,” she said. “Back to San Francisco.”
Chapter Five (#ulink_3804578a-6860-537f-995a-dadb3818d273)
At five o’clock the next morning, Sean stood at the window in the kitchen and opened the blinds so he could see outside while he was waiting for the coffeemaker to do its thing. He’d turned off the overhead light, and the cool blue shadows in the kitchen melted into the shimmer of moonlight off the unbroken snow. The blizzard had ended.
Soon the phones would be working. Lines of communication would be open. There would be nothing to block Emily’s return trip to San Francisco. She’d decided that she needed to go back and dig into her investigation, and it didn’t look like she was going to budge.
It was up to him whether he’d go with her as her bodyguard or not. His first reaction was to refuse. She had neither the resources nor the experience to delve into the criminal depths of Wynter Corp, and she was going to get into trouble, possibly lethal trouble. He needed to make her understand her limitations without insulting her skills.
Outside, the bare branches of aspen and fir trees bent and wavered in the wind. So cold. So lonely. A shiver went through him. Their divorce had been five years ago. He should be over it. But no. He missed her every single day. Seeing her again and hearing her voice, even if she was arguing with him most of the time, touched a part of him that he kept buried.
He still cared about Emily. Damn it, he couldn’t let her go to California by herself. She needed protection, and nobody could keep her safe the way he could. He would die for her...but he preferred not to.
After she’d made her announcement in the living room, she outlined the plan. “Tomorrow morning, we’ll catch a plane and be in San Francisco before late afternoon. There’ll be time for you to have a little chat with Agent Levine and the other guys in that office. We’ll talk to my contacts on the day after that.”
He’d objected, as any sane person would, but she’d already made up her mind. She flounced into the dining room and ate chili with Hazel and Willis. The prime topic of their conversation being big snowstorms and their aftermath. The chat ended with Emily’s announcement that she’d be going back to San Francisco as soon as the snow stopped because she had to get back to work.
During the night, he’d gone into her room to try talking sense into her. Before he could speak, she asked if he would accompany her. When he said no, she told him to leave.
Stubborn! How could a woman who looked so soft and gentle be so obstinate? She was like a rosebush with roots planted deep—so strong and deep that she could halt the forward progress of a tank. How could he make her see reason? What sort of story could he tell her?
Finally, the coffeemaker was done. He poured a cup, straight black, for himself and one for her with a dash of milk, no sugar. Up the staircase, he was careful not to spill over the edge of the mugs. Twisting the doorknob on her bedroom took some maneuvering, but he got it open and slipped inside.
For a long moment, he stood there, watching her sleep in the dim light that penetrated around the edges of the blinds. A pale blue comforter was tucked up to her chin. Wisps of dark hair swept across on her forehead. Her eyelashes made thick, dark crescents above her cheekbones, and her lips parted slightly. She was even more beautiful now than when they were married.
She claimed that she’d changed, and he recognized the difference in some ways. She was tougher, more direct. When he thought about her rationale for investigating, he understood that she was asserting herself and building her career. Those practical concerns were in addition to the moral issues, like that need to get justice for the guy who was murdered and to right the wrongs committed by Wynter Corp. He crossed the room, placed the mugs on the bedside table and sat on the edge of her bed.
Slowly, she opened her eyes. “Has it stopped snowing?”
He nodded.
“Have you changed your mind?”
“Have you?”
She wiggled around until she was sitting up, still keeping the comforter wrapped around her like a droopy cocoon. Fumbling in the nearly dark room, she turned on her bedside lamp and reached for the coffee. “I’d like a nip of caffeine before we start arguing again.”
