Perfect Wyoming Complete Collection: Special Agent's Perfect Cover ; Rancher's Perfect Baby Rescue ; A Daughter's Perfect Secret ; Lawman's Perfect Surrender ; The Perfect Outsider ; Mercenary's Perfect Mission

by Marie Ferrarella

  Good point. His refusal did smack of hypocrisy, which he hated. He withheld a sigh and said, “You’re right. Of course you’re welcome to stay with me. But this is only temporary, right?”

  She snorted. “Of course. Rafe, you’re good-looking and all, but I’m not looking to pick out china or anything. I just need a place out of the elements.”

  “I have a spare bedroom,” he admitted, letting loose the breath he’d been holding from apprehension. “You don’t need to sleep on the couch. It’s a cute place, came furnished, so I can’t take the credit or the blame for the decorating.”

  “Great.” She smiled in relief. “You’re a lifesaver. I was really starting to stress. I thought you just might leave me to fend for myself, and that would’ve seriously damaged your good-guy image.”

  His mouth twisted wryly, knowing he was making—quite possibly—a terrible error in judgment and said, “I’ll keep that in mind. I’ll have a key made and get it to you tonight.”

  “Thanks,” she added with a cheeky grin, “roomie.”

  Oh yeah…this had bad idea written all over it.

  * * *

  Darcy probably should’ve felt a smidge of guilt for playing Rafe so easily but this took care of two needs at once. First, she truly needed a place to live, the hotel scene was getting old and expensive; second, her gut was telling her to ferret out whatever secrets Rafe was hiding. Perhaps knowing what was driving him could lend a clue to her own puzzle. Of course this also helped with another problem she hadn’t thought would be front and center right away.

  That creepy police chief was stalking her…or at least it felt that way. Every time she turned around, he was heading her way. It was taking some serious evasive maneuvers to circumvent his visits, and eventually her excuses would be exhausted and she’d have to, somehow, survive the presentation to Samuel Grayson.

  But seriously, yuck. Aside from the fact that she was related by blood to Samuel Grayson, she didn’t find him attractive. He had a snake-oil salesman quality to him that made her skin crawl. There was something wrong about a man who made such a fuss about smiling and shaking hands when his eyes were colder than death.

  What had her mother seen in the man? A pang of sadness followed. She had no idea why her mother had fallen in love with Samuel Grayson, because she hadn’t been given the opportunity to know her. Were they alike in personality? Darcy was left-handed; had she inherited that characteristic from her biological mother? There were so many questions and not enough answers—not enough by a landslide.

  Sometimes, like now, when she was lost in a painful melancholy over not knowing her biological mother, she felt she was betraying Louise for wanting more. In her heart, she knew that feeling was simply grief riding shotgun, disguised as guilt, but it didn’t make it any easier to handle. Louise had been a wonderful mother, and Darcy had enjoyed an unencumbered childhood. That was all her biological mother had wanted, right? Well, Louise had given that to her. So why did she have this heavy knot in her chest?

  A selfish part of her wished she hadn’t started this journey, that she’d closed her eyes to the crazy, screwed-up world of possibilities that involved her biological parents and had just lived her life as a normal human being ignorant to the dirty truths she was bound to uncover.

  But each time she imagined shouldering her pack and walking away from Cold Plains and everything it entailed, a nagging sense of unfinished business urged her to stay.

  Darcy touched the pendant under her blouse, the familiar weight and feel of the St. Anthony golden medallion an instant comfort to her, not because she was overtly religious, but because Louise had given it to her during happier times on her seventeenth birthday. Just remembering that day brought a rush of bittersweet memories.

  Louise had given the small, simply wrapped box to her before school. Darcy had opened it up with excitement, and when she’d lifted the medallion from the tissue, she’d smiled quizzically as her mother had never been one to cling to the dogma of organized religion. “You want me to start going to church?” she’d asked, half joking.

  Louise had laughed and took it from the box to hold it up in the light. “No, silly. This is St. Anthony, the patron saint of lost things.” She gestured for Darcy to turn around and lift her hair for her while she adjusted the clasp. “I figured, as often as you get lost because you have absolutely no sense of direction, you could use all the help you could get.”

  “M-om,” she’d exclaimed, laughing. “That’s not very nice.”

  “But true.” Louise readjusted Darcy’s hair so it flowed nicely over her shoulders and studied the new pendant. There’d been a subtle wistfulness to her mother’s expression that hadn’t quite made sense at the time, but Darcy had naively chalked it up to Louise’s reluctance to watch her baby grow up. Little had she known what a terrible secret her mother had been carrying. And now the medallion made sad sense. Darcy was the ultimate in lost things. Tears pricked her eyes and she wiped them away. Patting the medallion as if gaining strength from its molded metal, she drew a halting breath and refocused. It was time to pack. Rafe would be here soon with a key and she wanted to be ready.

  * * *

  Rafe helped Darcy grab her suitcase and walked toward the front door. He called over his shoulder, “It’s not the Taj Mahal, but it’s comfortable enough. There’s a nice breeze from the trees and it’s quiet.” That’s what he liked most, the silence. It gave him a chance to puzzle out the many pieces that fell his way without having to filter out the noise that usually surrounded him. He rounded the corner to the guest bedroom. “This is your room,” he announced unnecessarily as she filed in behind him. The room was small, but at least there was enough space for a corner chair by the window, an antique nightstand and a matching dresser. It looked like an old-fashioned boarding room, like something you’d see from the 1930s. Hell, he didn’t know, maybe it had been in a previous life. He hadn’t cared to ask many questions when he’d been shown the rental before taking it with little fanfare. To him, it’d fulfilled basic requirements. Now, oddly, he wished he could fill the space between them with meaningless babble about the house. She gingerly bounced on the bed to test the springs. He arched his brow at the action. “Is it to your liking?”

  “Perfect,” she said with a smile. “To be honest, the hotel bed was a bit soft. I need support.”

  A dark thrill tickled at her admission and he gritted his teeth against the inappropriate imagery that happily danced in his head. Images such as how delightful it would be to throw his new “roomie” down on his king-size bed and strip her clothes from her body with his teeth. Afraid she might somehow discern the bent of his thoughts, he made for a hasty retreat but not before covering a gruff set of rules. “Any long-distance calls, I’d prefer you make on your cell phone. Feel free to make use of the kitchen and laundry room. However, please remember to clean up after yourself. I’m not a maid, nor do I have one. You do your part, I’ll do mine and we’ll get along just great.”

  “Toilet seat up or down?” she asked.

  He did a double take. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you’re a bachelor. I suspect you prefer the toilet seat up because there are no women in the house to consider. It’s your house, so I’m being respectful. Would you like me to return the toilet seat to its upright position when I’m finished doing my business?”

  She said it with such perfect seriousness, he almost didn’t catch the subtle light of amusement in her eyes. In spite of himself, he actually chuckled. “Smart-ass. In deference to the lady in the house, I’ll lower the seat when I’m finished. My mother would tan my hide if it were any other way, bachelor or not.”

  “Such a gentleman. I think I’m going to like having you as a roommate. So tell me, what’s the plan for dinner? I’m starved.”

  “I usually grab a protein bar and some fresh fruit. I don’t like to
eat late. Bad for the digestion,” he said, which was true but not the reason he often chewed on easy, grab-and-go bars. He didn’t want to waste the time it would take to cook something when it was just him, and each second that ticked by without finding his son was another second closer to losing him forever. However, at her look of disappointment, he said, “But I think there’s enough food to scrounge up something decent, at least for tonight. Do you cook?”

  “Not really,” she admitted. “My mom always did the cooking. My mom’s love language was food. When I was sick, she’d make fresh chicken noodle. To even suggest something from a can was an insult. She would’ve made my school lunches for me until I graduated if I hadn’t put my foot down.”

  Rafe heard a hint of sadness in the deprecating laugh, but he didn’t press even though he was curious. It was best to keep the lines drawn to avoid emotional entanglements. To know too much was an invitation to want more.

  Like tangled sheets and rumpled clothing. His skin flushed and he wondered if the constant pressure was finally causing him to crack.

  Of course he’d never expected the tension to manifest in a sexual craving that only intensified the harder he tried to smother it.

  Honestly, this was ridiculous. He was a man of science, of medicine. He understood biology and the role it played in sexual attraction. Still, knowing all the ins and outs didn’t nullify the tight, burgeoning ache in his groin that heralded an erection if the wind so much as blew across his trousers. “Uh…you know what? I’m sorry,” he apologized, “but you’re going to be on your own tonight for dinner. I just remembered I have a mountain of patient files to go over before tomorrow and I just can’t spare the time. Do you mind foraging on your own?”

  She smiled, puzzled by his abrupt change. “No problem. I’m good at foraging. Go ahead. You’ve done enough to help. Really.”

  Guilt for leaving her to fend for herself in his kitchen caused all manner of conflict but he knew he needed to put some distance between them. The woman tripped his switch and tempted him to do things that were out of character. Abby had been the last person to cause him to override his judgment and throw caution to the wind. If he had any fuzziness in the brain, all he had to do was pull Devin’s picture from his wallet to remember everything had consequences. Not that he regretted Devin—how could he? But he’d sprinted from his old life and ran headlong into this new one, where everything felt tipped upside down and backward. He’d be lying if there weren’t moments when he just wished he could close his eyes and return to his uncomplicated former existence.

  “Good night,” he called out, pausing by his desk to grab a stack of patient notes before disappearing into his room for the night.

  He’d always considered himself a strong man, but being around Darcy reminded him that every man had a weakness.

  And Darcy was fast becoming his.

  CHAPTER 13

  Darcy wandered the small, cozy house but felt wholly weird drifting around Rafe’s place while he remained cloistered inside his bedroom. She wondered why he’d been so eager to get away. She tried not to let her feelings get in the way, but though she tried, she couldn’t ignore the bruising of her ego. The last time she’d checked she wasn’t a horrid person and certainly wasn’t hard on the eyes, but Rafe maintained a defensible space between them at all times. Even when she suspected there was more to the man than he let on, that there was quite possibly a very passionate individual hidden beneath that lab coat, he did a very thorough job of stuffing that side of himself far from prying eyes. Including hers.

  She realized on her third pass through the living room that there was something odd.

  Nothing personal.

  Not one shred of anything that would suggest that Rafe Black lived here. The house had come furnished, but certainly Rafe had pictures of his family or other mementos with personal significance. She frowned and casually opened a few drawers in the antique buffet against the living room wall. Aside from a few dust shavings, empty. Hmm… She eyed the closed door with open speculation. The mystery of Rafe Black deepened. She’d never been much for subterfuge, which was why this venture went against the grain of her nature, but she knew she didn’t have the luxury of flat-out asking him what he was hiding, so she would have to manipulate Rafe into giving her answers. But how far was she willing to go for those answers?

  The answer was easy enough—she’d go as far as she had to. There was more at stake than one person’s feelings. Besides, Rafe was a big boy; he could handle whatever she dished out and likely hand it right back to her with an extra serving of hot sauce on the side. A delicate ripple of awareness shuddered through her and she drew a halting breath. No doubt, she played a dangerous game.

  Tapping her finger against her folded arm, she pondered her next move. She couldn’t very well get answers from the man when he refused to spend more than a few minutes in her company. She had to break down those barriers and fast. The luxury of time wasn’t hers, and therefore she couldn’t wait for him to come around on his own.

  She wasn’t much of a cook, but she could whip up a nice batch of hot tea. At least that would give her an excuse to approach him instead of just standing outside his door, whining to be let in because she was lonely and out of her element.

  Mug in hand, she softly knocked and held her breath. Would he ignore her? Should she knock more loudly? How far should she take it? Don’t be rude and obnoxious, she chided herself before she banged harder on the door. Maybe he was asleep….

  Just as she turned to take the steaming mug back to the kitchen, the door opened and Rafe, bare chested and wearing a loose pair of soft linen shorts, stood there looking sexier than she’d ever imagined he could be. Her mouth went dry and she momentarily forgot she was holding a mug for a purpose. She thrust the cup at him, sloshing a bit like a dolt, and exclaimed as he sucked in a short breath when a hot drop landed on his midsection. “Oh God, I’m sorry,” she said, distressed at her utter lack of finesse when she needed it. “I just thought you might like some tea…. I didn’t mean to bother you. Here, let me get a towel.”

  “It’s fine,” he assured her, grabbing an old T-shirt draped over the hamper by the door. He rubbed the wet spot away and offered a subtle grin. “See? Easily fixed. You found everything all right?”

  “Yes. The labels on the cabinets are helpful,” she said, omitting the part where she’d stared incredulously at the orderly nature of his cabinets and how everything had corresponded to the label on the outside. “Are you always that organized?”

  “It’s a little OCD, isn’t it?”

  “A little.” A lot. “However, if you’re ever of a mind to start dating, you might want to disclose your penchant for labeling.” She handed him the mug, this time more gently, which he accepted with a wry, almost chagrined smile that she immediately found cause for question. “What?”

  “I don’t drink tea.”

  She frowned. “Then why do you have it in your cabinet?”

  “My mom always said it’s good to have tea in the house for the guests who don’t drink coffee.”

  “And do you entertain a lot of guests?”

  “No.” He shrugged. “Force of habit, I guess.”

  “Oh. Well, I’ll take that back to the kitchen, then,” she said, taking the mug. “Do you drink hot chocolate?”

  He leaned against the doorjamb, amused. “Not typically when it’s this hot. I prefer water, actually.”

  “Right, because of the whole soda ban,” she grumbled. The first thing she’d noticed when she moved here was the absence of soda, or not that it couldn’t be found, but you really had to look around. Then she found out that the drinking of soda was actively discouraged. In fact, Heidi, the nutrition Nazi, was said to go ballistic if she found out one of her patients had been sneaking the stuff on the side. “Well, I like an ice-cold soda now and
then,” she said, almost daring him to say something to the contrary.

  With that, Rafe pushed off from the jamb and gestured for her to follow.

  Intrigued, she followed him to the pantry, where he bent to retrieve something pushed to the back. He pulled out a can of cola. Her mouth watered just seeing the can, but as soon as he poured it over a glass of ice, she nearly wept with joy.

  “It’s like crack,” she said, closing her eyes and savoring the tingling rush as the sugar and carbonation kicked her tastebuds alive. “After weeks of water and ice tea, this is heaven.”

  He chuckled and she opened her eyes to regard him with renewed curiosity. “A closet rule breaker, huh? Who’d have thought the buttoned-down doctor had a wild side?” Rafe didn’t deny it; in fact, he seemed flattered. Emboldened, she ventured into deeper territory. “So, tell me…what about Cold Plains calls to you?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, the walls going up instantly. “I already told you. I was looking for something more meaningful to do with my life. Cold Plains seemed like it had a solid foundation in the values I believe in. Why do you find that unusual?”

  “I don’t,” she insisted, shaking her head, but maybe she was a bit too quick with her denial, because he continued to regard her with that probing stare that made her feel stripped bare. She tucked her bottom lip against her teeth, wondering how to salvage the conversation without appearing needy, nosy or just plain obnoxious. She took a deep breath and said, “When my mom died I was searching for something to believe in, something to heal the hole in my heart. When I discovered Cold Plains, I thought I’d found that something. Then I met you. And from that moment, I’ve always sensed that you were searching for something, too. So, naturally, I have to wonder what you were searching for and if you found it.” His mouth firmed, as if seaming shut against the urge to share what he might regret later, and she knew her window of opportunity was small. She pressed on, saying, “Rafe…I respect you’re a private person and I hope I’m not pushing where I ought to butt out. However, I know how it feels to be alone in this world, and I guess what I’m trying to say is…if you need someone to talk to…I’m here.”