by Julie Miller
Whitney hesitated. She turned to see if his welcome was real. If he was more than an illusion concocted by her needy heart. And then she flew across the room and was swallowed up in the haven of Vincent’s arms.
She wrapped her arms around his waist and snatched handfuls of his jacket within her fists. She buried her nose in the open vee of his coat and drank in the clean familiar smells of leather and wool and man.
He lifted her onto her toes and squeezed her tight, wrapping her up in his body and scent, stamping her with his imprint—leather and hardware, tender hands and callused skin, hard muscle and a heart beating a life-affirming staccato beneath her ear.
“Vincent. Vincent.” Shudders of unspent anger and pent-up fear shook her body. But he held her with scorching need and exquisite care.
He nuzzled his nose into the damp hair at her temple and kissed her there. He rocked her back and forth ever so gently, never saying a word.
He held her like that for a moment out of time, long enough to become aware of the press of a zipper against her breast, the bulge of his holster beneath her arm, the possessive squeeze of his hands along her waist and bottom. And when his fingers moved up to frame her face and feather into her hair, she tipped her head back and welcomed the gentle claim of his mouth on hers.
Like an instantaneous crackle of electricity, tender possession gave way to greedy passion. His tongue plunged in, forever erasing the taste of any other man. Whitney wound her arms around his neck and lifted herself into his kiss. As her palms savored the delightful static of crisp hair at his nape, her towel gave way. In an instant, she was bare-skinned against leather and denim and the pressing need of his hands. His electric touch gave her new life, new strength and a feverish heat all her own. Those gifts he gave her in abundant supply.
His forgiveness, however, might be a long time coming.
With that thought to sober her, Whitney tore her mouth from his and buried her face beneath his chin. His breathing sounded as labored as her own as she tried to regain her equilibrium. How could she want one man so much? Need him to feel complete? How could she hurt inside so much at the thought of causing him pain?
When the current between them subsided, it was Vincent who finally pulled away. He picked up the towel and wrapped it around her again. She took over the job of tucking it in at her breast and holding it there, crossing her arm in front of her to secure herself inside the dubious armor of fuzzy cotton.
She sifted her fingers through her hair and held a loose ponytail at her nape. “How did you find me?”
“I knew where you’d be.”
Those spare words, the intense scrutiny, were unnerving. Whitney sought a way to distance herself from the doubts she knew lay there between them. Brooding strength and garrulous beauty were an odd combination to begin with. She’d blown her chance to share something more than passion with Vincent when she’d left despite his wishes that morning. He’d taken a huge risk by talking about his past, and she’d repaid his effort by leaving him.
Passion would turn into resentment, eventually. And she didn’t think she could stand the thought of Vincent Romeo hating her.
That left only the mission. Maybe she could redeem herself in his eyes by turning this into a success.
Tucking the hair behind her ear, she scouted through the clothing strewn across the floor. She picked up one particular bundle and handed it to him. “Here. This is for you and Daniel.”
“Panty hose?”
“There’s a disk inside with a file that shows a connection between Weston and the Sons and Daughters of Montana. He knew Court was working undercover with them. I think he’s the one who revealed his identity.”
Vincent’s curse added an air of normalcy to their hushed conversation in the darkened bedroom. “Should I ask why it’s in your hose?”
“No.” Too sharp an answer. It hung in the air and demanded an explanation. Whitney shrugged off the memory of Weston’s leering eyes and groping hands. “I didn’t realize this kind of work would be so creepy.”
She probably didn’t know the half of it, judging by the grim lines creasing along Vincent’s unshaven jaw. “Where’s Weston now?”
“Last I knew, he was on the phone, taking some important call. I think it was about having Chilton deported. He sent four security men with Chilton and two other Black Order guards this afternoon with travel visas and enough cash to get them on a plane to Agar.”
“Four?”
“Yeah. You know, dark glasses, blue suits, wires sticking in their ears.” Vincent’s utter stillness absorbed the room’s atmosphere, chilling her. Goose bumps of alarm prickled along her skin. “What?” Whitney hugged her arms around her body. “Dammit, Romeo, talk to me. What?”
“Court Brody found four dead men that fit your description up in a ravine.” Her knees weakened at the senseless waste of more lives and she sank onto the bed. She didn’t need Vincent to tell her the implication of those four murders. “Chilton’s still out there somewhere.”
“And Weston doesn’t know it.” She latched onto his sleeve, demanding he listen as she thought out loud. “He thinks he’s got it all under control. He has this master plan he believes is going to make him a hero and carry him right to the White House. If Chilton shows up again—at the house here, or at the rally in Livingston—there’s no telling what he’ll do.”
Vincent took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “I can take you out of here right now.”
Whitney dug in her heels. His offer of safety was tempting, but she couldn’t. “That would be quitting with the job half done.” She knew Vincent understood that kind of commitment. He was the living, breathing essence of dedication to his work. “I have to stop him. He’s vulnerable now. If Weston’s deal with Chilton has gone wrong, he’ll be scrambling for other options. He’ll say or do something to incriminate himself, and I’ll be right here.”
His dark eyes glittered as he stood there, unmoving, studying her from head to bare toes, and back to her face.
“Then here.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a tiny silver box he pressed into her hand. She recognized the microphone from their first visit to Weston’s ranch. “Take this.”
She curled her fingers around his reassuring gift and felt the strength of his protection wash over her like a healing balm. Now she wouldn’t be alone against the devil. She’d have Vincent watching over her like before. And this time, she didn’t seem to mind.
“Frank Connolly will record everything at the other end. The five of us are all linked with mikes.” Vincent’s efficient, businesslike explanation sounded like words of love to her. But she knew he didn’t fully believe in such things. “I’m not giving you the earpiece, that could be detected.
“But I’ll hear every word you say.”
“Every word?” Whitney clutched the miniature mike to her breast and gave him a wry smile. “You really want to listen to everything I have to say?”
She was teasing. He wasn’t.
“Yes.” He reached out with the tip of his finger to lift a stray tendril of hair and tuck it behind her ear. “I’d better go. If I overstay my welcome, someone will get suspicious.”
Whitney followed him to the window, and wondered only briefly how he had scaled the wall to the second floor. As soon as he raised the sash, a woman’s voice could be heard down below on the side porch.
Vincent pushed Whitney back against the wall beside him, hiding her in his shadow. Whitney pushed against the arm at her waist, but it wouldn’t budge. She settled for closing her eyes and training her ears to the pitch of the voice. “That’s Alysia, the maid.” But she couldn’t make any sense of the words. “What’s she saying? I can’t—”
Vincent clamped his hand over her mouth and pulled her into his arms, trapping her with her back to his chest. The barest vibration of wary tension transmitted from his body to hers. She got the message. She held herself perfectly still until she heard the beep of a cell phone being disconnected down below.
When the soft footsteps faded away, she pulled at his hand and he released her. “Arabic?”
Vincent nodded. “Something about moving a timetable to tomorrow morning.”
“Ross is hosting a brunch for the local dignitaries before the parade and speech at the high school.” A new piece had just been added to the puzzle. “She’s not Native American, is she. She’s—”
“One of Chilton’s people. Hell. Weston’s not running this show after all. I wonder if he knows that yet.” He rubbed his hand along his stalwart jaw and shook his head. “You’re sure you don’t want to just get out of here and let them all kill each other?”
“That almost sounded like a joke, Romeo.” She reassured him with a determined smile. “I’m strong enough to do this. I’m stronger knowing you’re here.”
His dark eyes pinned hers. “We’re all here. Daniel and the others. We’re following your plan.”
Something close to shock lifted her tired spirit. “You’re using my idea?”
“It’s a good one. The perimeter’s secure, like you requested. The detection units are in place.”
Daniel was using her plan. Would they follow her contingency plan as well?
“If Chilton shows up to talk—”
“We’ll let him through. Use him to trap Weston. But I guarantee you—” Vincent took one of her battered wrists and held it up to the moonlight streaming through the open window “—he’s not getting back out of here alive.”
The raspy tone of those powerful words thrummed through her. He carried her hand to his chest and pressed it flat against his heart. How could this man not know about love when his emotions ran so deep? How could he not believe in it when he showed such caring?
“You give the word and we’ll be here. Don’t be a martyr and give it too late.” She knew he was thinking of his father. Maybe it hurt him too much to love. Maybe opening himself to that remembered pain was the one thing that frightened her tight-lipped hero. Maybe together, she could help him rediscover the joy that went along with loving, too.
“Vincent. About this morning—”
He pressed a finger to her lips and hushed her. “We’ll talk about that later.”
“Promise?”
“Just do your job, MacNair.”
He speared his fingers into her hair and covered her mouth in one quick, soul-stealing kiss.
Then he turned and slipped out the window. He dropped onto the porch roof without a sound and disappeared into the night.
Whitney stood at the window a while longer, watching the darkness that was so like him, so much a part of him. The darkness could be a frightening thing. But there was peace there, too. Comfort. The darkness was where dreams began and ended.
And it was where she’d found the man she loved.
A cold north wind whisked through the window and chilled her bare skin.
She loved Vincent Romeo.
How else could she explain the fever his touch ignited in her? How else could she explain the relief and joy at simply seeing him again? How else could she explain the horrible fear squeezing around her heart?
She thought she’d wanted this assignment to prove her competence to her father, or Daniel—or to shove it in the faces of Ross Weston and the rest of a world who saw her only as a scatterbrained princess attached to a powerful name.
But maybe there was something more in her drive to put Weston and Chilton behind bars. She did talk too much. She was impulsive and emotional, and had silly hobbies like shopping and riding horses.
Maybe she wanted this so badly because she needed to feel worthy of all the overprotective big brothers and fathers in her life. She needed to feel worthy enough to earn Vincent’s love.
The revelation made her feel ancient. She closed the window and shut the curtains, then crawled under the covers still wrapped in her towel.
Vincent hadn’t placed an inordinate amount of faith in her, he just expected her to do her job. Clinging to that matter-of-fact confidence in her abilities, she hugged the microphone he’d left her tight in her fist. Come morning, she didn’t intend to disappoint him.
ROSS WESTON’S GIFT to her the next morning was a figure-hugging pantsuit in nubby charcoal wool. Whitney pinned the tiny microphone beneath the collar of the sleeveless blue turtleneck she wore, pulled on the jacket and fluffed her hair so that it fell across her shoulders.
“I hope you guys can hear me.”
More than anything, she wished she could hear a friendly response. A good-luck, kid from Frank. A be careful from Daniel. Even a shut up and do your job, MacNair from Vincent.
Those last imagined words made her smile. “Don’t be talking about me behind my back.”
She leaned closer to the vanity mirror and applied some copper-tinted lipstick. She smacked her lips together and threw her shoulders back, approving the final look. Irresistibly attractive and blissfully naive was a hard combination to achieve. Hopefully, Weston would buy the blend of strong colors and a schoolgirl pout. “Here goes nothing.”
With her hand on the doorknob, she paused, speaking freely to Vincent and the agents of Montana Confidential one last time. “Remember, Romeo—when I give the signal, you’d better be there.”
She closed her eyes and imagined a raspy I will.
Whitney needn’t have worried about the impression she made on Ross Weston. The glib senator was clearly distracted the moment she walked in.
They were again in the study, with the usual cast of characters. Weston, Margery, Warren Burke, the two guards and Alysia, along with some visitors. Whitney slipped a glance at the black-haired woman, ostensibly busy filling the buffet table set up in front of one of the picture windows. Had she alerted Chilton to the senator’s schedule that day? Were there submachine guns hidden beneath the tablecloths? Or had she simply called in to verify that she would keep watch on the senator?
Whitney had a gut-tingling feeling that nothing would be simple this day.
When he saw her in the doorway, the senator broke away from the couple he was chatting with. “Whitney.” Despite a glare from his wife across the room, Weston slipped his arm behind Whitney’s waist and introduced her. “This is Whitney MacNair from the Massachusetts and Washington MacNairs. This is, um, the mayor…” Weston paused. He couldn’t remember their name.
Though she enjoyed watching him suffer the minor embarrassment, Whitney was here to play a part. She extended her hand the way her mother had taught her and completed the introduction herself. “Mayor Hunt. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Miss MacNair.” She could tell by his callused grip and natural smile that Glenn Hunt was a man of the people, the type of man who should be in politics. He turned and introduced his wife, Sue.
Whitney smiled in genuine recognition. “I believe we work out at the same gym.”
Okay, so this politicking part was second nature to her. Keeping her eye on unfolding events and getting Weston to talk was not.
Weston left her chatting with the Hunts and went over to Warren Burke by the desk. The two men bent their heads and whispered. The flushed glower on Ross’s face indicated he hadn’t heard what he wanted to.
She excused herself and went to pour a cup of coffee. She put the cup to her lips and whispered into the mike. “He’s agitated about something.”
“Good morning, Whitney.” The pointed voice startled her. “Always talk to your coffee cup?”
“Margery.”
Mrs. Weston made no effort to hide the silver flask she pulled from her pocket to doctor her coffee. She also showed no real interest in Whitney’s reaction. “My husband didn’t come to bed last night. Not that that’s all that atypical, but I don’t suppose you know where he was, do you?”
“No.”
A hand at the small of her back startled Whitney a second time. She decided to set her cup and saucer back on the table before she spilled it. “Whitney. Dear.” Ross stepped between the two women, embracing them both. “Governor Haskel’s plane has been delayed.
He won’t be joining us this morning. To help out, I thought I’d drive on in to the Bozeman airport to meet him. I want to talk with him before this evening’s festivities.” He dipped his head and smiled at Margery. “You don’t mind staying and entertaining our guests, do you?”
“That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?”
He leaned over and pressed a kiss to his wife’s forehead. Then, for no good reason, he kissed Whitney goodbye as well. Then, with a quick nod to Warren, the two men headed for the door.
No! Success slipped through her fingers as Weston slipped out the study door. “They’re leaving.”
“It happens all the time,” Margery answered, thinking the comment had been meant for her. “You get used to it.”
There’s a time to run, a time to fight…
Definitely time to run.
Without a backward glance, Whitney darted through the door after Weston.
“Ross!”
Warren held their coats in his hand just outside his office. Slowing to a walk, Whitney gave Ross a breathless smile. “I wanted to ask if you found out anything last night.”
Weston frowned. “About what?”
“You said you were going to get final word on Dimitri Chilton so I could call my father.” She spotted the phone on Warren’s desk and went on in. She turned the phone box to face her, lifted the receiver and kept right on talking as she began to dial. “He must be going out of his mind. Please, just let me call him and tell him I’m okay. Then you can talk all about your terrorist-elimination plans later.”
A rough hand snatched the receiver from her ear. A rougher hand grabbed her above the elbow and pushed her away from the phone. “Ow. Let go.”
Ross Weston’s perfectly tanned skin blotched as blue veins of fury popped out on his forehead. “I said you could call when I’m ready.”
He slammed down the receiver and she jumped in his punishing grasp. This was it. This was her chance to push him into revealing the truth. “Don’t you have the Black Order under control yet?” It was an attack on his power, a taunt at his ego. “I thought you shipped them out of the country.”