The Dangerous Protector

by Janet Chapman

  Duncan’s arms tightened at the telling movement, and Willow cursed her body’s betrayal. Dammit, why this man?

  Of all the pleasant, civilized men in this world, why did she have to be so attracted to, so turned on by, Duncan Ross? He was an adventurer turned barkeep—a tall and ruggedly masculine, green-eyed, blond-haired throwback to a time when brawn was more useful than brain when it came to wooing naïve, starry-eyed women.

  Willow pulled free of his embrace, leaned back against the oak-paneled wall, and crossed her arms under her tingling breasts. Either there were several regressive genes rattling around in her own body or the drought was affecting her more than she realized.

  It was definitely time for a rain dance. And she was getting just desperate enough to do it on the front steps of the Capitol Building in Augusta.

  “So,” she said a little too brightly, looking at her sister, “what do you have for mailboxes that we can put out?”

  Rachel blinked at the change in subject. “I, ah, I have two that are finished,” Rachel finally said, her smile turning crooked. “Mikaela decorated them.”

  Willow winced, imagining what the mailboxes looked like after the seven-year-old had finished decorating Rachel’s beautiful creations.

  Rachel and Willow had been anonymously gifting unsuspecting homeowners around Puffin Harbor with new mailboxes for almost five years now. They did their work under the cover of night, digging postholes at the ends of driveways and setting up the handcrafted boxes to be discovered in the morning. But the best fun was then watching the entire town try to figure out who the “Mailbox Santa Claus” really was.

  Two years ago, they’d broadened their benevolence and set an eight-foot Puffin statue in the town park, causing an explosion of speculation that still hadn’t died down.

  And Mikaela, Kee’s daughter and the child of Rachel and Willow’s heart, insisted on helping, both with the decorating and the installation. And young Nicholas Oakes, Rachel and Kee’s fourteen-month-old son, was already showing signs of getting involved in their clandestine hobby—although the toddler was more interested in eating the sawdust than he was in helping.

  “You’re only in town for the weekend, so we should put one out tonight,” Rachel suggested, reaching across the table to pick up Willow’s drink.

  Willow immediately snatched it away from her. “You can’t have that. You might be pregnant.”

  The stunned silence lasted for several heartbeats before Keenan Oakes turned to his wife, his ocean blue eyes so intense that it was a wonder Rachel didn’t burst into flames.

  Her face darkening with a soft flush, Rachel glared at Willow and then turned and smiled up at her husband. “I…ah, it’s just a possibility. I haven’t said anything because I wasn’t…it’s not…”

  Willow poked Duncan’s side and pushed him out of the booth ahead of her. “I can’t do the mailboxes tonight, sis,” she said as she scrambled to her feet and faced her once again glaring sister. “I’m meeting someone in an hour. But don’t expect me home until late tomorrow morning.”

  Another silence—so absolute that the hum of the pub faded to nothing—settled around the four of them, seemingly centered just behind Willow’s left shoulder, right in the vicinity of Duncan Ross.

  Willow felt like smacking herself on the forehead. She was igniting one fire after another tonight, and if she didn’t get out of there quick she was the one about to be burned.

  “I got to go,” she muttered, spinning on her heel away from Duncan, too much the coward—or rather too intelligent—to meet the piercing green stare boring into her back.

  Willow marched past the cheerily burning hearth on the back wall of the pub, smiling and nodding at several friends as she held her breath, half expecting a large, powerful hand to close over her shoulder.

  She was not marrying Duncan Ross, but she sure didn’t want to provoke him, either. Tugging a troglodyte’s tail was not a wise thing for a woman in a sexual drought to do.

  She made it into the restroom without being stopped. Willow closed the solid oak door, leaned her back against it, and let out a loud groan of disgust. She finally gave in to the urge and smacked her forehead. “Dumb. Dumb,” she hissed, closing her eyes on the realization that she should have left the pub instead of hiding behind the first available door.

  She stood there berating herself for a good five minutes, knowing full well Duncan was waiting for her, all the time eyeing the narrow restroom window and gauging her chances of fitting through it. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, she forced open the stubborn window and climbed out into the crisp June night.

  Chapter Two

  With the patience of a predator waiting for supper, Duncan leaned against the candy red SUV in the dimly lit parking lot, his arms folded over his chest and his feet crossed at the ankles in a pose that might appear almost languid to anyone who didn’t know him.

  He was soon rewarded by the sight of Willow climbing out the restroom window of his pub; one shapely jeans-clad leg appearing first, followed by a deliciously firm little butt, followed by another leg, until she was hanging suspended over the sill. Her sweater caught on a protruding nail as her waving feet searched for a toehold, and she suddenly tumbled down over the stack of firewood with a curse loud enough to be heard all the way across the parking lot.

  Despite his dark mood, Duncan couldn’t stifle a smile. It was a wonder she could even walk after putting first one foot in her mouth by spilling Rachel’s secret, then cramming in her other foot when she’d blurted out that she wouldn’t be home until late tomorrow morning.

  That Rachel had told Duncan she’d heard Willow on the phone with an old high-school boyfriend earlier also didn’t bode well for the sassy-mouthed little brat.

  He was one second away from dragging Willow home—kicking and screaming, if that’s what it took—and tying her to his bed and not letting her go until she agreed to marry him.

  Duncan’s smile widened at the image of her tied to his bed. He watched Willow creep toward freedom while looking over her shoulder at the front corner of the building. A cool ocean breeze was blowing her long, blunt-cut brown hair across her face, the hem of her heavy wool sweater was hiked up over one shapely breast, and there was a smudge of white paint on her left knee. She was also fishing in her pocket for her keys, obviously forgetting that she had the same bad habit as most of the citizens of Puffin Harbor and had left them on the floor of her truck.

  Those keys were now tucked safely in Duncan’s pocket.

  Apparently satisfied that she had made her escape relatively unscathed, Willow started sprinting toward her truck only to finally spot him, swallow a gasp, and skid to a halt just four paces away.

  Duncan continued to watch in fascination as her chin came up, her shoulders squared, and her large hazel eyes glittered with challenge. Still he didn’t move from his insouciant pose, but simply stared back, not saying a word, and waited to see how inventive her lie would be.

  Lord, he enjoyed her games.

  She suddenly made a production of looking at her watch, holding her wrist toward the dim light of the streetlamp. “I’m going to be late, Dunky,” she said with a hint of impatience, lifting one brow as her shimmering gaze returned to his. “Was there something you wanted?”

  “Aye. You.”

  She smoothed her sweater back down into place, settled her hands on her hips, and shook her head. “We both know that’s never going to happen.”

  “Never say never, counselor. It’s a word that always comes back to haunt ya. Where are ya going tonight, Willow?”

  “If it’s any of your business, I’m going to visit an old friend I haven’t seen since high school.”

  “All night?”

  Her chin rose the slightest bit higher, and her hands on her hips balled into fists. “We’ll probably have a few drinks, so I won’t be able to drive home. And if I know his wife, she’ll cook a breakfast so big I won’t be able to walk away from the table, either.”

&nb
sp; “Ray and Patty Cobb separated three months ago.”

  Willow’s hands fell from her hips. “They’re separated?”

  Her surprise wasn’t fake, Duncan realized. She truly hadn’t known. “Aye,” he said quietly. “So tell me, did you call Cobb or did he call you?”

  She took a cautious step back, though he hadn’t moved so much as an inch, but then she stiffened. “How do you know I’m going to see Ray?” Her eyes narrowed. “And who told you he and Patty are separated?”

  “Your sister just told me, while you were hiding in the restroom,” he said with an indifferent shrug. “As payback, I suppose, for your so eloquently telling Kee she’s pregnant.”

  Duncan saw her wince. “Rachel’s not even sure yet,” she muttered. She took another step, this one sideways instead of back, obviously hoping to work her way toward her truck door.

  Duncan was on her before she could react. He caught her around the waist and lifted her up as he turned, dropped her down on the front fender of her truck, and settled himself between her knees so quickly that she had to grab his shoulders to steady herself.

  He threaded his fingers through her hair and cupped the sides of her face firmly enough to warn her against struggling. She went perfectly still, her eyes widening in alarm.

  Or was it awareness?

  “Come home with me tonight.”

  “I can’t, Duncan. And you know why.” There was anger in her whispered response. And also regret.

  “Then stay and help me finish my bottle of Scotch.”

  She slowly shook her head inside his hands. “I’ll just find myself waking up in your bed again.”

  “Eighteen months is a long time to be celibate.”

  Her face under his hands flushed with heat, and her eyes shimmered defiantly. “What makes you think I’ve been celibate? I’ll have you know I’ve had lots of dates in the last year and a half. Probably hundreds,” she said, waving an angry hand over his shoulder.

  “But not one of those dates ended in bed.”

  “How do—Dammit!” She squirmed to break free and pushed at his shoulders. “Let me go. I have to go kill my sister!”

  He ignored her struggles and covered her mouth in a kiss that was long overdue, holding her firmly as he tasted peat-dried barley malt mingled with her own sweet flavor.

  She stiffened on an indrawn breath, her hands on his shoulders digging into his leather jacket. Duncan dropped his own hand to her backside and slid Willow forward, pulling her pelvis firmly into his. He groaned into her mouth, and with an aggression born of need, deepened the kiss, not backing down until he felt her shudder in response.

  “Sweet heaven,” he growled, forcing himself to come up for air. “Dammit, Willow, don’t do this to us. You want it as much as I do.”

  She set trembling, delicate hands on either side of his face, and smiled sadly through passion-bright eyes. “You blew any chance for us eighteen months ago, Duncan, when you took me home, made incredible love to me all night, and then turned into a chest-beating caveman the next morning.”

  “It’s troglodyte,” he whispered, flexing his fingers on her hips. “I’m a troglodyte.”

  “Yes, you are,” she whispered back, her own hands tightening on his face. “You’re possessive, protective, and wonderfully physical, and you haven’t evolved into this century. If I ever let down my guard with you, for even a minute, I’d find myself in more trouble than I could handle.”

  Duncan took her hands from his face and held them securely against his thumping chest. “But that’s the very thing we have going for us, lass. Your own strength matches mine in a way that promises us a lifetime of passion.”

  “I’m not capable of making that kind of commitment, Duncan. Can’t you understand that?”

  “Aye,” he said on a sigh, leaning forward and giving her mouth a gentle kiss. He pulled back slightly. “I’ve understood that from the beginning. Cancel your date with Cobb.”

  “I can’t.” She also released a shuddering sigh. “It’s not even a date, really. I’m meeting Ray tonight because he has something to show me.”

  Duncan just bet Cobb had something to show her. “Then let me come with you.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t. This is business.”

  “Attorney general business?” He canted his head. “Your sister said Cobb is a lobsterman. What’s he got that concerns your office?” Duncan tightened his grip on her hands. “And why did you have to come here to meet him, and at night? All night, for that matter.”

  She wiggled to get free, and Duncan allowed her to shove him away and slide down off the fender of her truck. She turned with a snort and finally opened the driver’s door. “This is exactly why we can’t be together. I can’t even have a simple meeting without you getting all possessive and protective. I’ve been doing my job for over two years now, and I’ve been doing it damn well without your help. Go tend your bar.”

  “I have a staff for that. I’m taking tonight off.”

  “You can’t come with—” She stopped in mid-sentence and reached inside her truck, picked up the bottle he’d set on the seat while waiting for her, and turned back with one brow raised in question. “Pretty damn sure of yourself, aren’t you?” She returned her gaze to the bottle, lifting it toward the street light to read the label. “Rosach Distillery,” she read out loud, looking back up at him. “It’s the same name as your bar—The Rosach Pub.”

  He took the bottle from her. “They’re my silent partner.”

  “But I thought you bought and remodeled the bar with your share of the reward you and Kee and the others got when you recovered Thaddeus Lakeman’s stolen art?”

  “Aye, I did. But I also went into partnership with the Rosach Distillery.”

  After giving him an odd look, Willow reached into the truck again and reemerged with the small leather box that had been sitting next to the bottle. “What’s this?” she asked, running a finger over the faded gold letters embossed into the top of it. “Who’s Galen Ross?” she asked, opening the box.

  Willow shot him a quick look of surprise, then lifted the tulip-shaped glass from the velvet and held it up to see the etching. “This is the glass I just used inside,” she said, looking back at him. “It has the same crest as the label on the bottle. Who’s Galen Ross?” she repeated.

  “My father.”

  “You have a father?” she blurted out. She shook her head and smiled. “I mean, I know you didn’t really crawl out of a cave, but I never thought of you as having a family. You never talk about them.”

  He tucked the bottle under his arm and took the box and glass from her, set the glass back in the velvet, and carefully closed the lid. “My father and I were supposed to share this Scotch when it came of age, but he died six years ago.”

  “I’m sorry, Duncan,” she said softly.

  He tucked the bottle and box under his arm. “Life happens” was all he could think to say.

  “So that’s why you know so much about whisky,” she continued brightly. “Your father worked for the Rosach Distillery. Was he one of those…what do you call them? A noser?”

  “Aye, Galen Ross had a legendary nose for blending whisky.”

  “And that’s his nosing glass,” she said, stepping forward and lifting up on her toes as she pulled on the sleeve of his jacket. “Thank you for sharing your special Scotch with me, Duncan,” she whispered. “And for letting me drink from your father’s glass.”

  She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and then turned and climbed into her truck. Duncan watched her grope around on the floor for her keys, then bend over with a muttered curse and continue her search in front of the passenger’s seat.

  Duncan took her keys out of his pocket but said nothing, deciding to let the woman’s frustration build—even though he knew it wouldn’t even come close to his own. He smiled when she suddenly stilled, his grin widening when she bolted upright, glared at him, and held out her hand.

  He dangled the keys just out of h
er reach. “Take me with ya and I promise to be as quiet as a church mouse and not interfere in your work.”

  She climbed back out of the truck, stood directly in front of him, and stared up with a fierceness that would have worried the devil himself. “Do you trust me, Duncan?”

  He relaxed back on his hips and folded the hand holding the keys under his arm holding the Scotch. “I trust ya not to lie to me about the important things,” he said softly. “And I trust that ya know what you’re doing when it comes to yar work. But I don’t trust an old boyfriend not to have an agenda.”

  “Ray and I dated three months,” she snapped, clearly at the end of her patience—and seemingly not at all impressed that he trusted her. “I am not interested in Ray Cobb that way.”

  “Then ya shouldn’t have any problem with my tagging along.”

  She shoved her hand out again. “You are not coming with me.”

  He held his own hand over hers, the keys locked in his fist. “Then agree to have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

  She actually stamped her foot, and Duncan realized she’d just barely restrained herself from kicking him. “I will not be seen on a date with you. It would only feed the rumors about us.”

  “Then we’ll eat in. At my house.”

  She looked down at his leg, specifically at his shin, her mutinous eyes obviously judging her aim.

  But she looked back up at the sound of her jangling keys as Duncan made them disappear behind the zipper of his jacket, to an inside pocket over his chest. And then her eyes widened when his hand returned not with her keys but with a pen. He stepped forward, the bottle and box tucked firmly under his arm, and took her still extended hand in his and started writing on her palm.

  Just as he’d known it would, Willow’s curiosity held her still as she tried to read what he was spelling out in small, bold blue letters.

  “What does that say?” she demanded, pulling free the moment he finished. She held her hand flat, facing the light, and squinted down at it. “Potes currere…” She looked up and scowled at him. “Either you can’t spell worth a damn, Dunky, or this isn’t English.” She looked back down and tried reading it phonetically. “Potes currere sed te occulere non potes.”