by Laura Taylor
Nicholas clenched his fists to keep from reaching for her again. "I’m going back to work."
"What kind of work?"
"Not important."
He turned on his heel and walked away from her without a backward glance. Shoulders slumping, Hannah watched him stride out of the room. She remained at the window, mired in conflicted thoughts and emotions as she watched the darkness consume the panoramic view.
She lost track of time as she grappled with the avalanche of emotions—all centered on one very difficult man—that threatened to overwhelm her. Part of her wanted to shake Nicholas until he abandoned his suspicious attitude. Another part, the more dominant part of her nature, wanted to hold him and love him until the flashes of pain and loneliness in his eyes finally disappeared. But she couldn’t do either, no matter how compelling the impulses.
Hannah returned to her chair and collected her book, but she didn’t open it right away. She felt too unsettled to re–immerse herself in the story just yet.
Her thoughts were admittedly wild and farfetched as she pondered the kind of life Nicholas had probably lived before he’d built an elegant fortress in the center of a wilderness area. Those thoughts repeatedly led her to the same conclusion. She risked losing her heart to Nicholas Benteen with every passing moment she spent in his company.
The man puzzled and angered her, but he also tantalized her with glimpses of tenderness and compassion. Would he always feel reluctant to allow anyone access to his emotions? What would have happened between them if they’d met under circumstances that hadn’t involved her brother?
She doubted that he would ever set aside his emotionally defensive stance. Deeply troubled by that reality, she decided to stop kidding herself and focus exclusively on Sean. He was the reason she’d traveled to Nevada. She’d just have to suck it up and get on with the purpose of her trip. Nicholas was not for her.
Hannah worked to remain calm in the face of his constant moodiness as the days slowly crept by. She also struggled to sustain her optimism that he would help her to locate Sean. She grew restless and tense, alternately smothering her desire to reach out to Nicholas and worrying over her brother’s welfare. And then, of course, there was her mother, who languished in a St. Louis hospital.
She eventually felt like an idiot for comparing Nicholas Benteen to the hero in St. Gregory’s latest novel. At least the fictional man possessed the ability to reach out to those for whom he cared, something Nicholas appeared to be opposed to doing under any circumstances.
During the few hours they shared each day, she did most of the talking. Nicholas asked questions. She answered them. After a while, she felt like the object of an interrogation as he pressed for information about her family, her work as a teacher, and what she did in her spare time. Still, she didn’t hold back. She hoped that knowing more about her and her life would encourage him to open up about himself. But all of her questions went unanswered, her host as close–mouthed as ever, so she finally stopped asking them.
When she caught him staring at her, she didn’t conclude that his close scrutiny was based on anything more than his wary approach to the entire world. Hannah spent her nights fending off sensual dreams of Nicholas. She spent her days telling herself that she was crazy to think of him as anything more than a grudging host.
If a woman was foolish enough to fall in love with Nicholas Benteen, Hannah pitied her. Rejection would be the end result.
By her fifth day in his home, and with no reprieve from the steady snowfall and his chilling politeness, Hannah felt ready to scream with frustration. She restlessly paced up and down the long hallway adjacent to her bedroom. She couldn’t take the isolation another minute more. She abandoned the restraint she’d exercised since moving into the guest room, no longer willing to honor the rules Nicholas had imposed as a condition of remaining in his home. She’d had enough.
Hannah explored a game room that contained everything from a billiards table to a carved teak backgammon table with two leather wing chairs positioned on either side of it. She inspected two additional guest rooms decorated in sophisticated styles similar to her own room. Her curiosity also led her to a store room that appeared to contain sufficient provisions, as well as heavy clothing in a variety of sizes for men and women, to see a large family through a long winter.
She accidently discovered a temperature controlled vault–like room on the bottom floor of the tri–level structure, which contained an extensive collection of gallery–sized oil paintings and numerous sculptures that took her breath away. Despite the muted lighting, she thought she recognized a Chagall and a Monet as she meandered through the spacious area. Then, she told herself that that was impossible. The paintings had to be copies since purchasing the originals would have cost millions of dollars.
As she made her way through the sprawling house, Hannah rationalized her behavior, blaming her curiosity on a severe case of cabin fever and her host’s surly nature. Nonetheless, she refused to curb her curiosity or her frustration with Nicholas.
She continued her self–initiated tour as she climbed the stairs to the uppermost level of the house. Logic told her that Nicholas worked and slept in this part of his home. Only when she reached the landing and faced two closed oak doors did Hannah hesitate.
6
"You’re obviously looking for something, Hannah. Care to tell me what it is?"
She nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard his voice. Just as quickly, she squared her shoulders and glared at the intercom on the wall to the right of one of the heavy doors.
He chuckled, the sound like a rumble of thunder and off–the–charts sexy. "Cat got your tongue?"
His humor annoyed her. Big time! "I’m just stretching my legs."
"Since you’ve come this far, you might as well take the final few steps. Use the door on your right," he instructed.
Hannah turned the knob and pushed open the door, but she hesitated in the doorway. She spotted Nicholas, who appeared relaxed as he sat at his desk in a high–backed leather chair.
She scanned the rest of the room, taking in dense burgundy–colored carpeting, mahogany paneled walls, several floor to ceiling bookcases, and an extensive array of office equipment. When she returned her curious gaze to his face, she thought he looked mildly amused by her behavior.
"Come on in," he invited. "I gather you ran out of ways to entertain yourself and decided to explore."
Hannah lifted her chin and shot him a defensive look. Stepping into the room, she waited for what she assumed was the inevitable chastisement for breaking his rules. And as she waited, she glanced beyond him and registered yet another sweeping, floor to ceiling expanse of tinted glass. This view, as was typical throughout the house, was breathtaking.
"It’s safe to come all the way into my office. I don’t keep untamed animals in here."
"Puma," Hannah absently corrected.
Her attention remained snagged on the natural beauty beyond the window. She watched an eagle swoop down out of the sky and glide to a perch atop a snow–covered outcropping of rock less than a hundred yards from the house.
"Puma? As in the predator?"
She nodded as she slowly edged into the center of the room, her stocking–covered feet sinking into the plush carpet as she glanced at Nicholas. Clad in a heavy sweater of forest green, black jeans, and leather boots, and with his harshly carved features and collar length dark hair, he reflected the rugged northern Nevada image of a hot blooded male animal intent on capturing its prey.
A shiver ran up her spine, and it had nothing whatsoever to do with fear. Her insides quivered, all of her senses lighting up like blazing neon in response to him. "You remind me of a puma with all of its wariness and stealth. You have since that first night."
He half–smiled, but the slight upturn of the edges of his mouth failed to gentle his hard features. "Should I be flattered or insulted?"
"That’s entirely up to you."
At first glance, Hannah had
thought him to be relaxed. She realized he wasn’t when she noticed his white–knuckled grip on the pen in his hand.
When he saw the focus of her gaze, Nicholas discarded the pen and flattened his hands atop the surface of his desk. "Make yourself comfortable."
Hannah glanced at the two chairs positioned in front of his desk. "I am comfortable," she lied while insidious streamers of heat and desire unraveled within the confines of her body. She edged forward, but she didn’t sit down.
"If you say so."
"You know where I’ve been."
Again, not a question. A statement. Nicholas shrugged. "Of course."
"I was lonely… and on edge." Her frayed nerves made her blunt.
"I’ve been busy, although I empathize with how restless you must feel. It’s clear you aren’t accustomed to being inactive. If it’s any consolation, I don’t react well to restrictions, either."
"And the weather hasn’t exactly cooperated, has it?" She smiled tentatively, relieved that he hadn’t launched into more grilling about her life. She noticed the files stacked on the side of his desk. "The work you mentioned?"
Nicholas nodded, his gaze dismissive as he flicked a glance at the thick files.
"I broke your rules."
She sounded more unrepentant than usual, which made him chuckle. The sound, so soft, so sensual, lifted the fine hairs at the nape of her neck. She kept her gaze on his face.
"You’re forgiven."
"Why?" she asked.
"Because I think you’re on the verge of running into the woods and screaming yourself hoarse. I recognize cabin fever when I see it."
"The scenery, the house, it’s extraordinary and I love it, but I loathe feeling trapped." She moved closer. Pausing behind one of the chairs, she gripped the top edge with both hands. "I’m mildly claustrophobic."
He frowned. "Any problems when you were in the art vault?"
She shook her head, surprised by his obvious concern. "It’s a spacious area."
"I’ll show you the control panel for the wall of windows on that level. My dealer in London urged me to avoid subjecting the artwork to sunlight, but it’s shaded on that side of the house in the late afternoon."
She stared at him. "Those paintings are originals?"
He shrugged. "Seemed logical to buy the originals since I like them so much."
"Oh," she breathed.
He smiled. "Beautiful, aren’t they?"
"Too tame a word. Magnificent seems better."
"I’m glad you like them."
"I do. Very much." Hannah circled one of the chairs and settled into it. "Look, I’m sorry to bother you, but…"
"… but you’re feeling anxious," he suggested.
"Forget anxious. I’m a train wreck!"
Nicholas eased back in his chair.
Hannah took the direct approach. "I must know if you’ve tried to get a message to Sean, and if you really have any intention of helping me to find him."
When he remained silent, she continued, no longer caring if she sounded reckless. "I’ve been here for five days. I didn’t expect it to take this long to locate my brother."
His eyes reminded Hannah of the steel in his personality as he studied her in the diffused mid–afternoon light. He exhaled, the air that gusted free of his body sounding like a signal that he’d made a difficult decision.
"I’m willing to talk to you about my friendship with Sean, but there are limits to what I can reveal."
Startled, she asked, "Why now? Why not five days ago, or two days ago?"
"I think you’re ready to listen."
She bit back a sharp retort, a chastisement for his decision to delay this conversation. "Talk, Nicholas."
"I met Sean eighteen years ago in London when I was on a mission. What I liked most about him was his ability to adapt to any environment. We had friends in common and worked in the same world, although Sean was fairly new to it. Anyway, he had a quiet but very competent manner about him that inspired trust. We parted on good terms. Although I respected him, I sensed his reluctance to form close friendships, which is surprising given the nature of the work we did. Warfare tends to foster blood bonds, especially when blood is shed in defense of a brother or sister in combat."
Long retired memories surfaced in Hannah’s mind. "Sean was a courier for the State Department in those days… wasn’t he?"
Nicholas’s expression suddenly looked less open, although he nodded. "At the time, he worked for State. We both traveled a lot, and we ran into each other about two years later in the Middle East. We were staying in the same hotel when the political situation exploded, and we wound up trapped in–country for several months. Sean saved my life and the lives of several other people when our safe house was targeted to be over–run by counter–insurgents. By the time we got out of the country, we’d become friends."
Hannah straightened in her chair. "You’ve left out some important details."
He didn’t even break stride. "Sean and I teamed up, and several associates with similar backgrounds joined us."
"You were mercenaries?" She whispered the question, her body still, eyes wide.
"We did some trouble–shooting for a variety of international oil companies and the odd collection of Third World regimes, most unstable," he conceded. "Our reputation for getting the job done made its way to a few Western governments, and we accepted several commissions. From there, we intersected with representatives of our own government, and so began a series of black ops missions for an array of alphabet agencies. As you’d expect, some of those agencies operate totally off the grid."
A wide–eyed Hannah could not have spoken even if she’d wanted to. She did pick up on the care with which Nicholas chose his words. He named no one. He offered no clarity when it came to identifying agencies of the U.S. government, although she could guess at some of them.
"We worked all across the globe… Africa, Southeast Asia, Europe, the Middle East more times than I care to count, and all points in between. You name a country mired in political strife or coping with rebel insurgencies, and we were there. When we’d all finally had enough, we pledged our loyalty to each other, and we vowed to protect all of the members of the group in the same way that we’d protected each other in the field."
When Nicholas paused, Hannah saw the stress etched into his features and shadowing his eyes. She whispered, "You told me before that Sean is alive. Did you lie to me?"
"Of course, not!"
"Then what’s wrong?"
He frowned. "Hannah…"
She waved him to silence. "What’s wrong?"
"Listen, damn it! I’ve said all I can. I’m between a rock and a hard place. Just trust me, please. I really can’t say anything more."
"Why not?"
"You’re asking me to violate a vow I made. I can’t. Hell, I won’t do it, not even for you. Sean’s one of my closest friends, and I value both his friendship and our shared history. I also respect his privacy. Until I’m absolutely certain that you pose no threat to him, I cannot and will not initiate messages, searches, or anything else."
They stared at each other, locked in unspoken combat as they waged a war of wills replete with need and refusal, desperation and empathy.
Several minutes ticked by.
Still, neither spoke.
Hannah tried to read the emotions in his face, but all she saw was his stubborn determination to keep a vow. She sensed his distress went far deeper, however.
She pressed her palms together, struggling to rein in her temper, her escalating anxiety over Sean, and her frustration with the entire situation. When the fax machine situated on a long narrow table behind his desk beeped suddenly, Hannah nearly leapt out of her chair.
Nicholas scrubbed his face with his hands, and then raked long, narrow fingers through his hair in a universal gesture of male frustration. He muttered three words as he turned his chair to the table. "About fucking time."
Hannah, too disconcerted to say anythin
g, simply sat in her chair and stared at him. Her thoughts drifted back to his comments about Sean. Something didn’t add up, she realized, but it took her a moment to discern exactly what. Meantime, Nicholas retrieved several pages from the fax machine once it completed its transmission.
She watched him scan four printed pages as he sank back in his chair. He slid the material he’d just received, printed side down, onto his desk blotter, and then typed a brief message on his laptop keyboard. The email sent, he shut down the computer and returned his attention to Hannah.
She spoke quietly. "What you’ve told me coincides with the letters and postcards I used to receive from Sean, but I need more than a travelogue, Nicholas. Whether out of loyalty to him or out of some desire to stop me from finding my brother, you’ve skimmed the surface of his life. I don’t appreciate your clouding the issue, nor do I care where he’s been, or, for that matter, what he’s done since he left home. I have no intention of judging or condemning Sean, so there’s no need to protect him any longer. It’s not necessary. It never has been."
He pondered her for several silent minutes, then reached out and flicked a series of switches on the panel atop his desk. Two wall panels simultaneously slid out of sight to reveal a large, sensor–studded grid map of his property. The second expanse contained a collection of TV monitors, which scanned every room in the house, except the bathrooms, and the exterior grounds immediately around the dwelling. Nicholas then flipped another switch.
First, she heard the sound of the radio she’d left on in the kitchen at lunch time. The whistling sound of the wind followed as it buffeted the roofline of the house. She gaped at the exotic array of security devices and communications equipment housed in his office.
When she finally dragged her gaze back to Nicholas, she said, "I’m in way over my head, aren’t I?"
"On the surface, it probably appears that way. There’s no need to worry about your own personal safety."