by Julie Miller
“What kind of business are you talking about?” She reached up to push the hair from her face, but discovered everything was already tucked away beneath the nubby black wool of Vincent’s stocking cap. Neatly controlled. Out of sight. Out of trouble. Nothing to mess with.
The symbolism wasn’t lost on Whitney.
She kicked her pride up a notch and pretended Vincent’s lack of an explanation didn’t hurt. She concentrated her attention back through the binoculars and developed a sudden interest in studying the ranch’s layout. “We are going home now, right?”
“As soon as I check it out.”
Whitney jumped at the scrape of metal on metal. “What are you doing?”
Vincent held his gun as if the deadly piece of steel was as much a part of him as his own hand. He slapped the magazine of bullets up into the handle and tucked it into the back waistband of his jeans. “I’m down to three rounds.”
Whitney frowned along with him. “We don’t have to shoot our way in there, do we? Can’t we just walk up and ask nicely to use their phone to call the NSA?”
“Not after the last setup. I don’t know if it’s my equipment or my contact that’s been compromised. I’d like to get an independent line and call your friend Daniel. He’ll have a secure line at the compound. We can call your father from there.”
She liked the your friend part. Seeing Daniel again sounded good. Going home sounded even better.
“Let’s go.”
“Hold on.” The steel-edged grip on her arm would have stopped her, even without the warning. “Someone’s coming up the road.”
A wary energy radiated from the broad set of his shoulders. The laid-back intensity of it filled the air around him, setting Whitney’s nerves on edge. But she thought she understood his caution. “You think the Black Order beat us to it?”
With his hand still on her arm, he scrunched her close to his side behind a stand of gorse bushes. “I count two men in the truck cab, one riding in the bed.” He released her and knelt to dig out something from his bag. “What do you see?”
He was asking for her help? He was including her in his business? A sense of importance straightened Whitney’s spine. She held the binoculars up and spotted the telltale trail of dust spitting out behind the black pickup. The cloud settled to earth as the truck pulled to a skidding stop in front of the house. “I see two men standing beside the truck. They have guns.” She lowered the binoculars just as she felt the blood draining from her face. “They’re dressed in black.”
Vincent squeezed her hand, sharing his strength. “I’m going in for a closer look.”
“What? No.” She snatched at the front of his sweater. “Shouldn’t we be running the other way?”
He stayed calm as he hunched his shoulders to her level to look her in the eye. He stayed practical. He stayed Vincent. “There may be people inside. It might be Chilton’s headquarters. It might be nothing.”
“People?” Whitney swayed with memories of duct tape and taunts and a man’s pleasure at inflicting pain. She squeezed her hand into a fist at his chest. “We have to help them if someone’s inside. We have to warn them.”
“We don’t have to do anything.” He unhooked her fist from the front of his sweater and pressed a tiny silver box into it. “I’ll go up ahead and assess the situation. This is a two-way radio. Shortwave. Too small to be detected by normal scanners. But you and I can keep in contact.”
Whitney tried to match his composure. But her hand shook as he showed her how to pin the radio to her collar and hook a detached earpiece into her ear. “How does it work?”
“Just talk into it. It’s voice activated. I’ll hear every word you say.”
“Will I hear you?”
“If it’s safe to talk.” He looked back over his shoulder. “One of them’s at the door now. You watch through the binoculars and tell me anything you think’s important. If I can’t get to the house, I’ll come back here and we’ll leave. Understand?”
Whitney’s gaze fluttered from the house up to Vincent’s expressionless face. “You said you had only three bullets.”
For an instant, a light warmed the cold black void of his eyes. “I’ll be back.”
“Promise?” She remembered Carl Howard. She remembered Vincent’s poignant story about his father’s death. She shivered at the thought of a bullet silencing the heart that beat inside the big, warm chest that had cradled her so gently while she slept last night.
Vincent reached out and touched her cheek. The supple leather at his fingertips stroked her so tenderly she couldn’t help leaning into the caress.
“Yes,” he answered simply. No joke. No dramatic speech. Just a succinct promise she tried to believe.
And then he was gone. He slipped into the small trees and underbrush and disappeared before she could question the reassuring gesture. And before she could question her heart’s aching reaction to it.
Chapter Six
Whitney breathed in deeply and set herself in position on the slight rise above the ranch. Vincent had paid her a higher compliment than any pretty words could have.
He’d asked for her help.
Feeling like an equal partner in this, at least, she didn’t intend to disappoint him.
She reported everything she saw, from the men at the truck lighting their cigarettes, to the man in a blue suit who answered the door. The blue suit disappeared into the house and the man on the porch turned around. Whitney gasped. She’d suspected as much, but she’d hoped she was wrong. “The third man’s Chilton.”
“I recognize him from here.” Vincent’s voice sounded distant but clear from the tiny radio nestled inside her ear.
Whitney altered her scan and tried to find him somewhere on the grounds of the ranch. “There’s at least one man inside. What should we do?”
“Watch the house, MacNair.”
She glanced around at the soft-voiced rebuke. Was Vincent close by? Could he see her?
Could Chilton?
Alarmed by the possibility, and hoping that returning to her duty might help Vincent in some small way, Whitney lifted the binoculars and watched as the front door opened again.
Like a disgruntled neighbor who hadn’t been invited to the block party, Chilton puffed up. He drew back the front of his coat and stood with his weapon clearly on display. She saw no mask of civility there, no pretense of culture.
Whitney’s heart stuttered. Three terrorists, three bullets. Maybe helping the people inside wasn’t such a good idea.
Of course, what kind of ruthless terrorist knocked on the front door and waited for someone inside to greet him? The hackles of suspicion she had started to develop over the past few months shot up.
A man stepped out onto the porch to greet Chilton and Whitney’s stuttering heart stopped completely.
He was a big man with silver at the temples of his cocoa-brown hair, dressed to perfection in Montana chic—unscuffed brown boots, pressed jeans, a western-cut jacket of tan suede and a crisp white shirt. In the middle of his artificially tan face he wore a smile. A smile too white to be real, too easy to be trusted. A smile that never reached his sparkling blue eyes.
“It’s Ross Weston,” she reported to Vincent. “Senator Ross Weston.”
He shook hands with a murdering terrorist as if the two were old friends. Friends who’d had a falling-out, judging by the heated exchange of words she could see but not hear.
“The guy running for president?”
How many senators from Montana were vying for that position? “Yes.”
Vincent swore. “I’m at the back of the second building. I’ll cut around and see—”
“No. He’s not in trouble. They’re arguing. They know each other.”
Suddenly, the people inside the house didn’t seem to be in any trouble at all. Suddenly, she and Vincent seemed to be the only uninvited guests. Whitney crouched down, feeling exposed, though she knew she was well hidden. But Vincent was out there all alone. With three bull
ets. And a porch full of power and evil just a few feet away. “Vincent, come back.” His name escaped on a whisper of terror.
“Easy, MacNair.”
“I don’t like this.” The two men at the truck snapped their attention toward one of the metal buildings. They ground out their cigarettes beneath their boots and raised their guns. When they started walking, Whitney scanned the path ahead of them, praying she wouldn’t see her scruffy man in black. “Vincent?”
Suddenly, she was back in that cabin on the mountain, taped and lying on that rotting mattress. Fighting the urge to beg or cry while Chilton and his friends pointed their guns at her. They laughed and promised to pull the trigger if she tried to escape again.
That same fear curled deep in her gut. It threatened to swell and consume her. But she fought against it. She pressed her lips together and nibbled on the inside. She breathed in deeply and pushed the fear to the shadowy recesses of her mind where she could pretend it didn’t exist.
Daniel had once complimented her for remaining cool in a crisis. She could do no less when her own life might depend on it. Or Vincent’s. She offered a quick update over the radio. “The thugs at the truck are moving toward the tan building farthest from the house.”
“Good.”
“Good?” A slice of panicked intuition threatened to undermine her attempt at control. “Please tell me you’re not there.”
The two men disappeared inside the building. She tried to calculate the distance from her post to the barn. Could she run fast enough to get there in time to help Vincent? And once there, what could she do?
“Vincent?”
She heard a thunk. And a moan. Something falling.
“Vincent?” She stood straight up and pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle the urge to shout.
Silence.
“Vincent?”
Damn the man and his silence. She prayed this was good silence. Normal, annoying Romeo silence. Not dangerous, deadly, oh - my - God - now - I’m - all - alone - in - the Montana - wilderness silence.
She swung the binoculars back to the front porch. Maybe, by some cruel twist of fate, she’d been dreaming.
No. They were still there. Still talking, though the discussion looked a bit more peaceful now. Not friendly, but businesslike. She hoped the fact they were still talking meant they hadn’t been alerted to Vincent’s presence.
She hoped.
They were the only two men visible now. Whitney rocked back and forth on her feet, feeling the need to pace, feeling the need to do something.
She’d give Vincent a minute. A minute to call in or show himself. “Dammit, Romeo, where are you?”
She reached up to her cap and pushed the black wool back far enough to thread her fingers into her hair and massage her scalp. Daniel had once told her that not knowing was the hardest part of waiting. The hardest part of sending a man out to do his job. He trusted his men, had faith in the skills of his team. But not knowing…
Whitney had stayed up late with him several nights when an agent was out on a mission. Popping popcorn in the kitchen, running needless tests on equipment down in the war room.
These few minutes were giving her an understanding of why her boss couldn’t sleep well at night.
And an understanding of why he kept himself so busy, working either in the administrative office or with the horses out on the ranch.
Whitney returned to her post, trying to make sense of the connection between her kidnapper and her former boss.
Ross Weston.
Well connected in Washington, well loved in the heartland.
He’d won the support of agriculture and big business alike with his tough stance on foreign business. The hypocrite ran an antiterrorist campaign from his seat on the National Defense Committee.
America for Americans, he preached.
A catchy slogan suggested at a staff meeting over a year ago by one of his bright, up-and-coming former aides.
Whitney MacNair.
Heiress to a political dynasty in Massachusetts. An idealistic young woman who joined his staff because she wanted to make a difference in the world. She brought her family connections and fresh ideas to Weston’s campaign.
The same bright young woman whose name had been scandalized across the country by an unauthorized picture leaked to the media. A simple thank-you kiss blown out of context. Her lips on his cheek, his hand on her bottom.
Rumors that blotted out the truth.
A bright young career ruined.
A randy old man cheered behind the scenes for still being able to “get it on” with a young beauty.
Whitney sank to her knees and tried not to retch at the implication of what she was watching on that front porch.
Negotiations for peace with the Black Order?
Not likely.
Whitney wasn’t the only one betrayed by Ross Weston.
Her country had been betrayed as well.
“I knew I was in trouble when you called me by name.”
The deep scratchy voice was right beside her, not in her ear.
“Damn you—” She jumped up and thumped Vincent on the shoulder. But punishment for sneaking up on her, for being gone so long, for frightening her, quickly became a needy grasp. The binoculars fell around her neck as she glided her hands across his chest and arms and down to his waist, checking for a wound. Checking for a bruise, a paper cut, any indication that he had been harmed by Chilton’s men.
She framed his face in her frantic search, rubbed her palms against his beard, dabbled her fingertips beside his eyes. He caught her hands between his and pulled them down, holding them together, prayerlike, between them.
“I’m in one piece.” He reassured her unspoken question with his quiet voice and dark-as-midnight eyes.
Trapped in the heat of his stare, she couldn’t look away. If darkness had a fire, it was blazing there in the smoldering eclipse of his gaze.
“I thought something had happened to you. You didn’t answer. I heard a sound. I thought there was a fight or you fell, or—”
The fire loomed closer as his mouth descended toward hers.
Whitney moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. His gaze dropped to that same point and she felt a throbbing there. A shaking, a newly discovered need that only Vincent could assuage for her.
She closed her eyes as his lips touched hers, savoring the touch, the texture, the taste of him. She opened her mouth and welcomed him. His tongue rushed in and she met him halfway. He was safe. He was here. And for now, he was hers.
Touching only his hands and lips, she felt surrounded by him. Engulfed by his heat. Heartened by his strength. She leaned into him, wanting more, wanting this to be more than just gratitude or reassurance or shared relief.
All too soon, he pulled away, leaving her heart hammering in her chest and her lungs laboring for air. Her mind struggled to make sense of what was happening to her.
Vincent, however, seemed to suffer no ill side effects of that unexpected kiss. He bent down and retrieved his bag, zipped it tight and slung it over his shoulder. She had to know what he was thinking, if he was thinking anything at all when he kissed her.
“You were trying to shut me up, huh?”
“No.”
The possibilities behind that single word triggered the tingling all over again. She pressed her lips together in an effort to control the sensation, and watched him walk away.
She was a healthy young woman, she reasoned. Maybe that was why she felt so drawn to him, because of his raw, enigmatic sex appeal. He’d rescued her time and again. She wouldn’t be the first victim to fall for her savior. Spending nearly forty-eight hours alone with him on an untamed mountain was bound to lead to something.
And maybe there was nothing to that kiss at all. Maybe it was just a kiss.
One thing was certain. If Vincent Romeo held the answers to her questions, she’d never find out the truth.
He followed the stream back the way they had com
e, skidding down the embankment to obtain even more cover. Whitney hurried to catch up.
He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and held it up. “An independent line.”
“Let me guess. The guy you borrowed it from won’t be needing it right now because he’s passed out on the barn floor?”
“Something like that.” He slipped the phone into her hand. “Call Daniel.”
“Wait a minute.” With the ability to get home literally within her grasp, she suddenly felt a surprising, nagging inclination to stay. She pointed her thumb over her shoulder toward Weston’s ranch. “Shouldn’t we do something?”
Vincent stopped. She translated the impatience behind his weary sigh and interrupted before he could give her the excuse she knew by heart. “I know, I know. I’m your first priority. But I’ll feel pretty damn guilty if I’m home safe and they hurt or kill or corrupt someone else when I could have prevented it.”
He dragged his gloved hand down his cheeks and jaw, trying to squeeze a little patience into his explanation. “We are doing something. We’re going back to Montana Confidential and debriefing on what we discovered.”
“And what, exactly, did we discover?”
Whitney tipped her chin to meet the black-eyed glare that had grown cold once more. “Chilton is a fugitive from the law. Not the kind of man a United States senator should be consorting with.”
She didn’t think it was terribly smart for Chilton to get involved with Weston, either.
“That’s it? That’s all we do?”
“Yes.”
With her ever-vigilant giant casting his shadow over her, she bit back any further protest and punched in the number to the Lonesome Pony Ranch.
DANIEL AUSTIN FOLDED his arms across his chest and leaned back in the worn leather chair of his office. His relaxed slouch didn’t fool any of the men in the room with him. He’d gotten little sleep in the past seventy-two hours. One of his own had been taken by the enemy. Put through hell.