by Julie Miller
Even now he could feel the imprint of her on his body. Long, strong legs tangled with his. A small, firm breast and curvy hip pressed against his torso, softening into his harder angles, waking the interest of his body.
He could have dealt with that. He’d denied the needs of his body more than once while on a mission. When it came down to success and survival, he could turn off that prickling awareness in his skin and blood.
Like when he needed to concentrate on offering comfort and staving off shock—or guarding against a desperate terrorist whose hostage he’d stolen from under his nose.
He’d trained himself to ignore those little frissons of lust that charged his nerve endings.
But then Whitney had moved in her sleep. She’d stretched herself like a cat and snuggled closer, using his body as both bed and blanket. Her hair had caught in the scruff of his beard, and shaking loose, had released her scent. Anger had been his first reaction, when his nose detected the grime and violence of the Black Order’s hands on her. But his own outrage had eased at the more delicate smell of Whitney herself.
Baby shampoo.
He’d expected her to smell like something much more pricey. Expensive perfume or champagne or a showroom Lamborghini.
The sweetness of her scent, the unexpected reality of the woman herself, snuck around his defenses. The practical reasons he’d had for holding her shifted into something more personal. He’d pressed his lips to the crown of that glorious fire-gold hair before he even realized his detachment had slipped.
He wouldn’t let that happen again.
Chilton was out there. Searching. Waiting.
Vincent couldn’t afford to be distracted by hair the color of a fiery sunset, or a scent as innocent and sweet as a baby’s.
He bent down and snatched the collar of his jacket and peeled the garment off Whitney’s shoulders. Still cocooned inside, she unrolled like a piece of candy and plopped onto the floor. “There’s no limo waiting to take you home. You have to rise and shine all on your own.”
Lying in a heap of legs and elbows, she pushed herself to a sitting position. “I see you got an A in rudeness at spy training school.” She pushed a fall of warm russet curls off her forehead and tried to stretch some of the stiffness from her neck and back. “Is it even morning yet?”
He’d already packed everything in his bag, including the lantern, so the only light in the cabin came from the moonlight streaming through the dusty windowpane. While her eyes adjusted to the dimness, he reached for her hand and pulled her to her feet.
“I radioed my boss in D.C. this morning.”
She squinted toward the window, interrupting before he could finish detailing their situation. “This isn’t morning. I’ve seen morning. It’s a lot brighter than this.”
The frosty puff of air from her lips reminded him how cold the mountain air in late October could be. Just as he had the night before, Vincent wrapped his jacket around her shoulders, this time helping her stuff her arms into the sleeves and zipping it up to her chin. “You’ll need this more than I will.”
“Need it for what?”
“A two-hour hike.”
Her slender form shivered inside the bulk of his jacket. The cuffs hung past her fingertips, and the hem hit her thighs. And when she tipped her face up to his, the moonlight touched her translucent skin, bathing it in a soft, cool glow that matched the ethereal mystery in her quicksilver eyes. Vincent’s breath caught at the vision of angelic beauty. She looked so young and delicate and fragile. Her lips were finely sculpted, full, unpainted. So tempting. So vulnerable.
Those frissons of lust reacted before he could control them. The blood thickened in his veins. His skin heated at the possibilities. His lips parted for a breath of air, for the chance to taste hers.
She dispelled that idea with the next words out of her mouth. “So what incredible journey are you taking me on today, Romeo?”
Her sarcasm kept him from forgetting his duty, kept him from bending down to stroke those aristocratic lips with his own. He shook his head and erased the tender impulse from his mind. He wouldn’t allow a few errant hormones to interfere with getting the job done.
Vincent slung his duffel over his shoulder and anchored it so his gun hand would be free. “Taking you home. I arranged for a chopper pickup. I want to be at the rendezvous site before Chilton has the advantage of daylight to track us.”
“Oh goody.”
Following the gesture of his outstretched hand, she preceded him to the door. But instead of going out, she turned. Surprise, surprise. The woman had something she wanted to say.
But he subdued a sigh of impatience as she showed an uncharacteristic hesitancy in choosing her words. She seemed fascinated with some nub of wool on his chest, studying it for several moments before lifting her gaze to his. “About last night. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. When I freaked out like that. That doesn’t usually happen. I’ve been under a little stress lately.”
That was supposed to be a joke, right? She wanted him to laugh, to admit to the intimacy they’d surrendered to last night by sharing body heat and trading secrets. And then she wanted him to dismiss it.
Instead, Vincent put himself on guard.
One thing he had learned from Melissa’s humiliating speech at the altar—he could never mix his kind of business with a personal life. The woman or the job always demanded more of his time and focus than the other was willing to give.
Whitney MacNair was looking for someone to care.
He couldn’t do it. He would not do it.
He’d keep her safe. But someone else would have to be responsible for mending her trust and healing her heart. His hormones could fend for themselves.
“Let’s go.”
He snapped the command instead of giving in to the urge to brush a careless tendril off her forehead and tell her not to worry.
It wasn’t just a matter of his survival. Staying focused was necessary for her survival, too.
Her mouth dropped open to speak, but no words came out. Seizing the rare opportunity her silence presented, Vincent reached around her and opened the door. Then he took her by the elbow and guided her out into the frigid, moonlit morning.
WHAT HAD HAPPENED to the gentle giant who’d held her so tightly and soothed her fears throughout the night? The one who’d seemed to care that she was hurting, despite his gruff and brooding exterior?
Agent Romeo had returned in full force this morning.
She liked the other guy better.
Whitney trudged along in Vincent’s footsteps, planting one aching foot in front of the other. She’d lost all sense of direction except for one—up.
He seemed undaunted by the darkness that was just now creeping into dawn. A shadow among the shadows, he’d set the pace of a drill sergeant and had explained his plan as thoroughly as a monk who’d taken a vow of silence.
Her slick-soled riding boots had been made for sticking into a pair of stirrups, not mountaineering. She’d slipped more than once on the smooth expanse of glacier-cut granite that formed their path. The bottom of her toes, where she gripped her feet, were starting to go numb. And a blister the size of Montana itself had rubbed onto her right heel.
The golden rays of the sun cut their way through the chilly morning mist, and Whitney took another shot at getting the nicer Vincent Romeo to come out and talk to her again.
“Are we there yet?” she asked. Even if he didn’t laugh at the tired old joke, maybe he’d be annoyed enough to stop and rest for five minutes.
No answer.
Her foot hit a loose rock that rolled, smacking her heel against the ground. Whitney grit her teeth against the stab of pain as the blister broke open and her sock rubbed like sandpaper into the raw skin.
Damn, damn, damn the man, anyway! Whitney sank to one knee, debating whether to scream her head off in frustration or chuck the rock at his broad backside.
Deciding she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of either resp
onse, she grabbed the trunk of a pine sapling and pulled herself up. Stepping gingerly on her right foot, she concentrated on what she did best to avoid thinking about the pain.
“Where did you buy that wool sweater?” she asked. “You’ve got that whole black-on-black thing going, which is a little passé, but it works on you. Saks, I’m guessing. They have a great men’s department.”
What made the sweater so wonderful was the way it clung to the bulges and hollows of his shoulders and arms like a second skin. The design of the flat knit emphasized how his back tapered in to his trim waist.
She’d been watching that back for several miles now, and had memorized how his black jeans fit him snug, but not tight, cupping his tush with loving familiarity before expanding to cover the flexing strength of his thighs.
Something deep inside her clenched as her gaze lingered on the masculine grace of his movements. Suddenly, her skin felt tingly. Flushed. Hot.
“Damn.” She muttered the curse aloud, feeling betrayed by her body’s dramatic rise in temperature. She wanted to stay mad at Vincent. She absolutely did not want to be attracted to him.
She’d made such phenomenally bad choices in men recently.
Users. Takers. Each had had an agenda of his own.
And she’d gotten hurt each time.
Anger she could handle. But hurt…
Shaking off that entire line of thinking, she returned to the easy distraction of her shopping skills. “I take that back. A man like you wouldn’t be caught dead in a department store. That sweater’s either Land’s End or Eddie Bauer. Am I right?”
To her surprise, he stopped and turned. She braced herself for a scathing comeback. At the very least, a simple shushing.
But the opaque shadows in his eyes made her wonder if he had heard a word she said. “We’ll cut across here.” He took her hand and led her down into a washed-out ravine, away from the cover of the trees. His strong, sure grip gave her the balance she needed to dodge the bits of scrub pine and broken rocks that had settled at the center of the gully. When they turned to resume their climb, he released her. “Even though we’re exposed, we’ll leave less of a trail.”
His simple explanation went a long way to lighten Whitney’s mood. Not anxious to return to his brooding silence, she tugged at the hem of that well-studied sweater and stopped him. “There. Did that really hurt so much to have a normal conversation with me?”
The shadows in his eyes vanished for an instant, and the darkness behind them seemed to reach out and swallow her up. “I’ll talk when I have something to say.”
The power behind that low-pitched promise trickled through her veins like warm syrup and strengthened her like a hearty meal.
“Thank you.” Whitney smiled. The stretch of muscles across her face felt good. She tilted her face toward the sunrise, enjoying the warmth bathing her skin. It had been days since she’d even felt like smiling. Even longer since she’d dared to believe in a man’s word. “I feel better.”
When she tipped her face back to Vincent’s she was washed in an entirely different kind of heat. She’d had admiring looks from men before. But no wink or smile or appreciative twinkle compared to the intensity of the fire blazing in Vincent’s eyes.
But the shadows returned in an instant, shutting off his emotions so quickly that Whitney wondered if she had imagined his interest.
Self-conscious that she had misread his reaction, she pushed a wayward fall of hair off her forehead and shook it loose down her back. She shouldn’t be disappointed that Vincent wasn’t really interested in her. She must look a sight. No makeup. Wild hair. Bruised and dirty. Her dry lips seemed to crack beneath his blank scrutiny. She pulled lip balm from her pocket and rubbed a thin coat onto her lips. Then she dotted her cheeks and nose to protect her skin from the wind and cold, dry air.
Patting her pocket when she had finished, she managed to sound as if his look and his words hadn’t affected her so profoundly. “Shall we go?”
But Vincent made no move. His eyes narrowed to question her. “I say a few words and you feel better?”
“Funny how that works, isn’t it?” Assuming their course was up, as always, Whitney started the climb on her own. “C’mon, Romeo. I’ve got a hot shower and a hair dryer waiting for me at the ranch.”
“You’re limping.”
“No, I’m not.”
He clamped his fingers around her wrist and tugged her to a standstill. A faint memory of yesterday’s torture doubled her hand into a fist and she resisted.
But, just as quickly, his grip gentled. So did she.
“Sit.”
“The sun’s rising. You said we had to be there by now.” He knelt in front of her, his left hand running up and down her leg, squeezing at her ankle, her calf, her knee, her thigh. Whitney touched his shoulder to stop his search. “It’s just a blister.”
“Why didn’t you tell me—” Vincent raised his head and their faces almost touched.
Whitney froze. The warmth of his hands—at her thigh, at her wrist—rekindled the fiery awareness of his blunt tenderness and unquestionable power.
What she had denied with the logical part of her brain blazed into an overload of sensations. He was so solid, so hard and warm beneath her fingertips. This close, she could see tiny lines of life and sunshine crinkling beside his eyes. She wondered if laughter had formed any of the creases there. She breathed in and savored his clean, simple scent. He wore no cologne or aftershave to give him away to the enemy or cover up his own musky identity. When she exhaled, Vincent’s breath mingled with hers and she swallowed hard.
She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted to know how firm or pliant his lips would be on hers. Hard and straight and masculine, would they soften when he kissed? Or would he claim her? Take her? Would he ask her to be an equal partner in his embrace?
Spellbound, Whitney felt herself falling. Falling into those incredibly unique eyes. Unblinking orbs of obsidian beauty. Full of untold secrets. Full of untapped strengths. Dark and sexy and…
“We’ll stop here.”
Like an unexpected gust of frigid mountain air, Vincent moved his hands to her waist and sat her down, pushing space between them. His words held a double meaning in Whitney’s fevered mind. Stop drooling on me. Stop being so needy. Stop being such a pain in the butt.
Of all the adolescent…
The cold from the granite beneath her seeped through her jeans, chilling her skin. Chilling her heart and tearing her ego to shreds.
She’d practically thrown herself at him. That whole kissing fantasy had gotten way out of hand. He was here to do a job. To rescue her. To get her home in one piece.
Period.
Hadn’t she adamantly argued against the same sort of injustice when Ross Weston had kissed her? She hadn’t wanted his attention. Not like that. She’d wanted to do her job. She’d just wanted to do her job and not have to worry about whether or not the senator she worked for would keep his hands to himself.
She, of all people, knew better than to subject Vincent to that same awkward discomfort.
“Sorry.” Her breathy apology sounded inadequate. She thought of the warning he’d given her at Chilton’s cabin. “I know. There’s a time to run, a time to hide and a time to shut up. Apparently, I’m having a hard time keeping those three straight.”
Again, he failed to find the joke in her self-deprecating humor. Vincent shrugged his duffel off his shoulder and dropped it on the ground beside her.
He pointed up to a craggy overhang of rock some twenty feet above them. “The chopper’s landing on that plateau. I’ll go on ahead and check it out. First-aid kit’s in the bag. If you can fix it yourself, do it.” He pulled his gun from its holster and popped out the clip. With deadly looking efficiency he checked the bullets, slipped the clip into place and snapped the barrel back, loading the first bullet into the firing chamber. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”
Whitney nodded and watched him take the last twenty feet in
a few long strides, then shimmy up and over the rocky outcropping, disappearing from sight.
“That eager to get away from me, huh?”
Her chest heaved in a weary sigh. She gave up trying to figure out Vincent’s moods and her reactions to the man. Better she concentrate on something more productive. Like getting back to the ranch and finding out if anyone there had missed her. Jewel would be upset, at any rate. The girl might even be blaming herself for Whitney being captured by Dimitri Chilton.
With that sobering thought to focus on, she reached for Vincent’s bag.
VINCENT’S NERVE ENDINGS were on full alert. He crouched low to the ground and scanned the trees that surrounded the clearing.
Something didn’t feel right.
It wasn’t a sound so much as a lack of sound that made him suspicious. He should be hearing birds and rodents or whatever kind of wildlife awoke with the sun on this side of the mountain. He knew many animals migrated or hibernated in the fall. But something should be alive and moving out there.
Unless something—or someone—had scared them off.
He stared deep into the shadows beyond the open pasture, toward the rock face that rose behind the trees, looking for signs of any human animal. That slim stand of pines provided the only cover where Chilton and his men could hide up here.
Maybe fatigue was throwing his senses off. With the butt of his gun cradled loosely between his hands, he skirted the rim of the plateau for a closer look.
After circling the pockets of snow that clung to the shady interior of the forest, Vincent pressed his back into the trunk of an ancient pine and listened. He heard the wind whistle through the heavy boughs, and the limbs creaking and groaning as they swayed.
But there was no crackle of static that might indicate a radio. No grind of gears from a vehicle. No voices. No snap of twigs or crunch of rocks beneath booted feet. No birds chirping, no scrabbling of tiny paws in search of food, either.
Vincent made a quick trip around the perimeter of the clearing, waiting for the wary tension within him to dissipate.