“Yeah.”
Connor supposed that, on the surface, you couldn’t find two people more different from each other. Where Bronte appeared at home in her sophisticated clothes and surroundings, he was counting the minutes until he could get out of there and out of his monkey suit.
But they did share something in common: their involvement in the justice system, though he found it ironic that even in that regard their roles were completely different.
As an attorney in the Transnational/Major Crimes Section of the U.S. attorney’s office, Bronte O’Brien put together cases against criminals to take to trial, which sometimes required protection for key witnesses she unearthed. And as a deputy U.S. marshal in Witness Security and Protection, also known as WitSec, that’s where he came in. He made sure those witnesses were kept safe and sound and delivered in time for trial.
In this particular case, Bronte had convinced Melissa Robbins to testify against her ex-boyfriend, Leonid Pryka, a once small-time importer who had become big time with noted speed, making local and federal law enforcement very interested in just how, exactly, he had come by his seemingly instant wealth. They suspected that illegal arms and possibly weapons of mass destruction might be the import of choice. And apparently the U.S. attorney’s office felt that Pryka’s spurned girlfriend was the witness that could help them finally prove it.
Connor’s current assignment was to keep Melissa Robbins safe. Well, at least from outsiders. Protecting himself and the other marshals from her incessant, aggravating, irrational demands was something else entirely.
He squinted at Bronte, wondering if she knew exactly how…impossible her witness was. It wasn’t that he doubted Bronte’s capabilities. He made a point of knowing what was going on in the U.S. attorney’s office. You couldn’t fully protect a witness unless you knew who and what you were protecting her from. And he’d long since become aware that Bronte’s conviction rate was high. If she thought Robbins could deliver the goods on Pryka, then she could. It was as simple as that.
But as far as witnesses went, high-maintenance Melissa Robbins was one of the most difficult targets he’d had to protect in all his years with WitSec—second only to a schizophrenic mob accountant who had convinced himself that the marshals protecting him had been bought. Norman Becknal had escaped their custody no fewer than four times.
Connor would count himself lucky if Melissa Robbins tried to do the same.
“I suppose I can be thankful for that,” Bronte finally said. “I mean, your being in charge of Robbins’s protection. At least I can be reasonably assured that she’ll be…available when the case comes up for trial next month.”
Connor grimaced. That was if he and his men didn’t end up whacking the woman themselves.
Bronte fingered a simple silver earring on her left lobe. Connor watched the absent movement, inexplicably fascinated.
It wasn’t the overt things about women that got to him. Height, hair color, breast size—none of that made one iota of difference to him. It was the small things that threatened to do him in. The way they wrinkled their noses when they talked. How they told a story, including details he’d overlook but ultimately made the tale more interesting. The way they toyed with tiny, shimmering earrings….
“What?” Bronte made a funny face. “Don’t tell me. I have rice or something stuck in my eyebrow.”
Connor couldn’t help a smile. “No. Your…eyebrows are just fine.” As was everything else about the outgoing college student turned savvy junior U.S. attorney.
He snapped upright, moving from his startlingly relaxed position.
He’d be well-served to remember what else he knew about Bronte O’Brien. Particularly that she went through men faster than a shopaholic could max out a new credit card. He narrowed his eyes. Funny, he hadn’t seen her with anyone lately, though. Not at the bar when he’d first crossed paths with her again outside the district courthouse. Not during her occasional visits out to the McCoy place with Kelli.
Not that he’d been paying close attention, mind you. The last thing on his mind was women.
Bronte pushed from the bar and visibly straightened her shoulders, jolting him from his thoughts and making him realize he’d been staring. “Okay, after that thorough inspection, I know something is wrong. It’s my makeup, isn’t it? I forgot to put mascara on one eye. No, wait. My blush doesn’t match my lipstick.”
Connor looked down at his glass, fighting a half smile. “I’d be the last person to notice either thing.”
She considered him warily. “Then why are you staring at me?”
He shrugged. Why was he staring at her? He already knew that such steady attention only garnered unwanted interest. And while he wasn’t opposed to bedding the occasional female every now and again, Bronte wasn’t going to be one of them. “Just thinking.”
“Uh-huh…you were just…thinking.”
He put his glass on the bar. “Something wrong with that?”
“I don’t know. Depends on what you were thinking.”
He fastened his gaze on her face. But rather than the flirtatious look he expected, he instead found she wore a guardedly curious expression. Was that because she wasn’t attracted to him? Found his company…wanting?
He frowned. What was he thinking? He didn’t want her to be attracted to him any more than he wanted to be attracted to her. And he wasn’t. He was merely appreciating her beauty, that’s all. He wasn’t any more attracted to her than he was to any of his sisters-in-law. So what if he noticed the way her breasts pressed against the thin fabric of her dress? How the slit up the side of her ankle-length skirt flashed glimpses of her long legs when she walked? How pale freckles peppered every visible inch of her skin? He’d notice the same thing about any other female within the vicinity. He was a man, after all. It didn’t necessarily mean he was attracted to her.
“I was just thinking,” he began, searching for an explanation that would keep him safely out of reach, yet make some sort of sense. “You went to G.W.U., didn’t you?”
Her instant answering smile yanked on something inside his chest. He told himself it was relief. “I’m surprised you remember.”
His brows budged upward. Her response indicated she had some memory of him being there as well. “I have to say I’m surprised you do too.”
She looked down at her glass. “Yeah, well, it’s hard to forget a guy who would be taller than me even when I’m in high heels. There aren’t many out there.”
“I remember noticing your height too—and that red hair,” he said.
She leaned back against the bar. “I have to give you credit. You’re the first guy I’ve met who hasn’t asked me inside of a minute if I’ve ever modeled.”
“That’s because I know you’re with the U.S. attorney’s office.”
Her laugh was mature, deep and throaty.
“I could say that you’re the first woman at this wedding who hasn’t asked me to dance inside of a minute.”
Bronte O’Brien looked at strapping Connor McCoy from beneath her lashes, trying to figure out if he was trying to make small talk, or if he was just plain conceited. Oh, she could imagine that lots of women asked him to dance. That wasn’t the problem. In a room full of men dressed to the nines, he was the one who stuck out, tempted women’s attention with that clean-shaven, good-guy look and brooding expression. He was the type of guy a woman spotted and instantly a flashing alarm went off: Grade-A heartbreak ahead.
Well, at least that’s how she saw him. Other women might be inclined to try to tempt him from his commitment-phobic ways. Of course she’d passed that masochistic phase years ago, thank God. The simple truth was, no woman could change a man like Connor. The more she’d try, the more he would resist. Until finally she’d be forced to walk away—or worse, he would send her packing and she’d be left to make fast friends with a carton of tissues.
Anyway, her problem wasn’t being attracted to commitment-phobic guys. In fact, it was the complete opposite. She�
��d settle for one who wasn’t already married.
She frowned into her beer, forgetting for a moment why Connor was staring at her. The she realized he was waiting for some sort of response. “Did it cross your mind that I didn’t ask you to dance because I’m not interested in dancing with you?” Her smile took some of the bite out of her words, then grew genuine when he smiled back. “Okay, that’s not really the reason. I didn’t ask you to dance because I don’t dance.” She shrugged, wondering why she’d volunteered that little piece of trivia from the life and times of Bronte O’Brien. Still, no matter how many years went by, or how many men she dated, the memories from her wallflower days tagged along on her heels like a long piece of unnoticed toilet paper. Until events like these reminded her. Speaking of which… She looked down at her shoes just to make sure she wasn’t trailing any t.p. The way today was going, she wouldn’t be surprised to find an entire roll hanging on. “I don’t know. I guess it’s one of the drawbacks of having a foot on the guys in school. For some reason, they never ask girls taller than they are to dance.”
His eyes darkened with something shared and elemental, throwing her for a second. “I bet they regret their actions now.”
She laughed. “I doubt it.”
She caught herself staring into those same eyes, now tinted with enigmatic shadows. She’d come across Connor several times in the past few months and he’d never given her the time of day, much less made an effort to talk to her. There was something different about him tonight, though. Something almost…human.
She forced herself to turn and watch the people on the dance floor, realizing she probably sounded like she was looking for a pity dance. She slanted him a covert look, relieved to find he was staring out on the dance floor much as she was. She let out a quiet, shaky breath. She should have known better. Through Kelli’s dealings with the McCoy family of rebels-without-a-clue, she’d learned that while they had to be the best-looking bunch of men on the eastern seaboard, they weren’t exactly the brightest when it came to women. Kelli, herself, had nearly halted her wedding plans at least three times because of some stupid stunt or other that David had pulled both on and off the job.
Her gaze was drawn to the good-looking couple, swaying to a slow, sultry song about lost loves, and her own heart gave a gentle squeeze.
This whole night had been harder on her than she would have ever imagined it would be. It was more than the loss of her heel before the ceremony that an application of Wilhemenia Weber’s quick glue had fixed; the spot of brisket drippings on her dark dress she hid with the strategic placement of her gauzy wrap; the fact that, aside from Kelli and Connor, she didn’t know anyone in the large room. No, what really bothered her was that she’d caught herself looking at the happy couple in a way that could be nothing but envious. Wishing it were her on that dance floor leading off the celebration with Thomas Jenkins, the man she had planned to marry. The only man who had tempted her to glimpse past her dedication to her career, made her think that maybe there was something else out there, perhaps even a white picket fence and two-point-two children. Enough to become engaged to him. At least until nine months ago, when she’d discovered he’d never had any intention of marrying her. Because he was already married.
A mixture of sadness, regret and guilt gathered in her chest, making it almost impossible to breathe as she caught herself looking at her left hand for the engagement ring that used to be there.
She tried to shake off the unwanted feelings and focus her thoughts on the man next to her, warning herself not to focus too intently. Taking on another man to get over the one before was the mode of operation the old Bronte would have employed—a mode she’d long ago chucked out the window.
“They make a cute couple, don’t they?” she quietly asked Connor.
David dipped his new wife then took a whack in the arm for his efforts once Kelli had her feet back under her. “I guess.”
She wondered at the tension that suddenly emanated from Connor. Did he object to Kelli’s marrying his youngest brother? She found it impossible to believe that anyone would object, but she knew only too well that what she believed and what was really the truth often were two completely different things. “She loves him, you know,” she felt the need to point out.
He nodded slowly. “I know.”
“And he loves her.”
“I know.” He squinted at her, as if trying to figure out her motives.
“Then why the long face?”
He appeared suddenly uncomfortable, an emotion she would never have attributed to him. Ever. She knew her reasons for not wanting to be here, in this hall, watching two people so obviously in love with each other, but what were his?
“Would you believe me if I said I hate these things?” he asked, putting his beer bottle on the bar.
Now that she could understand. “Yes, I would.”
“Then I hate these things.”
She tilted her head to the side, considering him. “I guess that’ll do. For now.” She placed her beer next to his, then straightened the swath of gauzy material that had been resting in the curve of her elbows. “What’s say we blow this joint for a while? Take a walk or something? I could do with some fresh air.”
She slowly turned and began walking toward the doorway. She didn’t know what she expected, but she was surprised when she glanced over her shoulder to find Connor following her.
CONNOR WASN’T CERTAIN WHY he’d instantly accepted Bronte’s offer of a walk. Maybe it was the straightforward way she’d made the suggestion. Perhaps because she hadn’t tucked her hand in his elbow in a possessive manner that some women thought brooked no argument. But the moment they stepped outside the stuffy, overdecorated hotel, he was glad he had listened to the voice that had prodded him to follow her. Almost instantly, he felt the cloud squeezing his shoulders dissipate. Immediately, his muscles relaxed. He no longer had to be the proud big brother. Pretend he was happy with events when he clearly wasn’t.
Over the U.S. Treasury building across the way, the sun was setting. He realized Bronte had continued walking and followed again—this time across the street and into the park there. He hung back slightly as she leaned against a bench and slipped off first one, then the other, of her shoes. Her feet, like the rest of her, were long, slender and well-shaped, her toenails painted bright, scarlet red, contrasting against the dark navy-blue of her dress. The low-heeled pumps swinging from her fingers, she continued on, deeper into the park, away from the traffic on the street. Away from the hotel and the celebrating people inside.
She took a deep breath. He found his gaze drawn to the scooped neckline of her bridesmaid’s dress. The gentle curve of flesh there expanded, revealing a few more freckles he felt the desire to explore with his fingertips. “I can’t tell you how great it is to take a breath and not have your senses overwhelmed by somebody else’s perfume,” she said.
“Hmm?” Connor tore his gaze away from the top of her breasts. It was then he realized that he didn’t detect any immediately recognizable perfume coming from her. At least not of the store-bought variety. She smelled vaguely of something soft, somewhat like a white flower he’d picked once and taken home to his mother, who had been pregnant with David at the time. Just a couple years or so before she died.
“Connor McCoy, are you staring at my breasts?”
He grinned and slowly budged his gaze up to her face, half hidden in shadow. “Yes, I guess I am.” He cleared his throat and noticed the small orbs pressing against the shiny fabric. “And either you’re suddenly cold, or they’re staring back at me.”
Her burst of laughter surprised him and when he looked up he found the same startled expression on her face. “Well, that’s the first time I’ve heard that.”
“Good. Because it’s the first time I’ve said it.”
His gaze locked with hers. A strong undercurrent of exactly what he’d been trying to ignore flowed between them like a tangling web. Attraction. Full, strong, elemental attraction
. He followed the line of her cheek down to her lips, finding the top one fuller than the bottom, unpainted, the natural dusky shade unbearably appealing.
“What would you say if I told you I wanted to grab you and kiss you?” he asked.
2
WHAT WOULD SHE SAY IF HE what?
Bronte stared at Connor, wide-eyed, wondering where exactly she had left her good sense, and how she could snatch it back…quickly. She rested her hand against the rough bark of a cherry tree in full bloom, balancing herself before she actually fell over.
The last thing she’d had on her mind when she suggested a walk was kissing Connor McCoy. She’d simply wanted to escape the claustrophobic hotel. Gulp some fresh air. Take time to convince herself that no one noticed the envious way she eyed Kelli’s dress. The way she breathed in the intoxicating scent from her tiny bouquet. The way she had clasped her hands together a little too tightly when the bride and groom had exchanged vows.
If Kelli wasn’t her best friend, she would never have agreed to come to the wedding reception, much less taken on the role of her maid of honor. The whole concept of weddings made her think of things better off forgotten.
She briefly closed her eyes. She had just gotten to the point where she woke up in the morning and didn’t immediately crush the empty pillow next to her to her chest and squeeze it between her aching thighs. She no longer jumped every time the phone rang. She’d even stuck his photograph into a box in her attic and had dived headfirst into a complete remodeling of her house to erase all evidence of his presence.
Then Thomas had left a message on her answering machine a couple of weeks ago. Then again last week. And yet again this morning.
It was bad enough her emotions were in disarray as a result. Now she was facing a clearly hungry Connor McCoy…and wanting him.
“What did you say?” she asked, finding her voice curiously breathless, her breasts tingling under the fine fabric of her dress.
Never Say Never Again Page 2