A Promise at Bluebell Hill (22 page)

Monica glimpsed Ashley Ludlow in the doorway of the hotel, and then she realized why. A young man emerged from the limo, taller, just as dark-­haired as the president. He swept Ashley into his arms right on the hotel steps, and they hugged for a long moment.

“It's the groom!” Emily said, clapping her hands together.

The bridal ­couple disappeared inside, too, and the show was over. The Suburbans and limousines glided away, and soon cars drove down Main Street again. The crowds dispersed, and many headed right into her shop, so Monica went in and worked alongside Mrs. Wilcox and Karista. A lot of calendars were sold that afternoon, and Monica eventually retreated to her workroom with satisfaction.

She found herself wondering what Travis was doing. Would she be wondering that a lot over the next few months? Would she be second-­guessing everything she'd done with him, or could she find some peace? It didn't seem possible at the moment . . .

T
ravis had been watching from the command-­center windows as President Torres arrived. He'd seen Monica standing on the sidewalk across the street, and after that, it had been difficult to pull his thoughts back to his work.

It had been good to see her that morning—­he hadn't realized how much until he'd seen her all sleep-­tousled, then pushing her cart of flower arrangements, trying to charm his agent to let her upstairs. She'd looked beautiful, professional, and sexy as hell. But her gaze at him had been so hesitant and wounded, and he understood why.

He'd been upset he wasn't more important to her than her friends. Stupid of him. She'd spent a lifetime with them and only days with him. He'd known all that from the beginning, but somehow their relationship had changed so much that he blindly thought he was entitled to her trust, her belief. He was still surprised by how much he wanted more, how he wanted to be the one she entrusted with all her secrets, just as she'd entrusted her body.

The hurt in her eyes when she'd practically accused him of seducing her for information—­it was still like a hammerblow to his skull. He'd been indignant at first that she could believe such a thing of him, leading to their argument. But now that he'd thought of nothing else ever since, he realized how his behavior had looked, how his demand for information had sounded. And he felt sick inside that he'd hurt her when he'd arrogantly assumed he was only doing his job—­and that she might need his protection. But she wasn't part of his job, even if she and her friends might cause minor problems.

When the president and her entourage passed the command center on her way to her own suite, Travis stood in the doorway, nodding to the various members of the Presidential Protective Detail whom he recognized.

And then he saw his ex-­wife, Mikayla Hunt, not two feet behind the president.

Their gazes collided, and he schooled himself to keep the surprise from his expression. She had short blond hair that managed to look no-­nonsense and stylish at the same time; her green eyes swept the crowded hall with the cool intensity he'd always admired about her. She was tall, with the powerful shoulders of a swimmer. He hadn't known she'd made the “big show,” and he suddenly felt his chest puff up with pride in her. They'd both wanted the same thing—­to work their way up the ladder, prove they belonged on the most exclusive, prestigious detail in the Secret Ser­vice. And she'd achieved it.

He'd thought he might be envious of her promotion, but he wasn't. Part of his feelings was his happiness for her success, but he couldn't figure out the other part.

Where was the unease that always hovered just beneath the surface when he watched her do her job? He'd battled that daily until it seemed to take over his life. Now he didn't know what he felt, didn't know how to view his marriage through the lens of the past.

After the president and her entourage went past, he caught sight of Samantha Weichert, the junior staffer. Her short black hair was as styled as if she'd just gone to a salon, but her expression was pinched and pale as she practically glared at him. Did she think he was going to tell on her, like they were schoolkids?

Suddenly, a ripple of laughter moved through the command center, and one of his agents called him to the window. He gave a sigh as he saw a sheep running down Main Street, chased by two local cops on foot. He could see another slogan painted on its wool, but couldn't read it and didn't need to know what it said.

His phone buzzed, and he found a text from Monica:
Did you see the Wool-­a-­Bomber?

He chuckled aloud, relief flooding through him at the brief contact like the sun on a cold day, and more than one head swiveled to look at him in surprise. He never smiled on the job, usually took it so seriously because it
was
important.

But it wasn't the only important thing.

Did he still have a chance to make things up to Monica? Could she find a way to forgive him his stupidity, let him prove he'd never cheapen their lovemaking by using it to entrap her?

He stepped into the hallway, where agents stood at the door to the president's suite to his right. He headed left, back near the elevator, as he placed the call on his cell.

“Yes, Travis?”

Monica's voice, though strained and hesitant, rippled along his nerve endings, making him glad and horny all at the same time, regardless of the problems between them. “Hi, Monica.”

“We're not behind the Wool-­a-­Bomber,” she said coolly, firmly.

“I didn't think so.” He remembered those haunted eyes so filled with the hurt he'd caused. How could he make her smile again, her face radiant with the happiness and optimism with which she usually faced the world?

There was an awkward pause until she spoke. “President Torres's arrival was impressive. It looks different in person than what you see on TV.”

“We aim for intimidation.” He winced at his bad joke; that sounded so awful that he hastily added, “I meant—­”

“I know what you meant,” she interrupted tiredly, but with a faint amusement that relieved him.

He hesitated before speaking again, not sure why he felt the need to tell her something from his past. “You know who else arrived with the president? My ex-­wife, Mikayla. She's on the Presidential Protective Detail.”

“That's impressive.”

“I think so, too. She worked hard for it.” And then he remembered his uneasiness with his wife's ambition, the tenseness every time she traveled on assignment. Why was he dwelling on this? Why was he trying to see the past a new way when it was something that should be behind him?

There was a long pause, then Monica said quietly, “Is it awkward for you, her being here?”

“Surprisingly, no. I haven't talked to her yet, though, but it's not like we ever fought much.” And that was true. He hadn't been able to find the words to explain his disturbed feelings, didn't even want to admit he had them.

“I guess getting along with an ex is a good thing. What's she look like, so I can size her up?”

Her attempted joke sounded as awkward as their conversation, but it gave him hope. “Green eyes, short blond hair, tall, athletic.”

“Those eyes'll be behind sunglasses, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Gotta go, Travis. Flowers await.”

When he ended the call, he found himself staring out the window. He didn't know if he wanted his life to go back to what it was. It might be a cliché, but Monica had made him feel alive again, excited for each day and the chance to see her—­and now, the chance to make up for the hurt he'd caused.

For the first time, he wondered if a long-­distance relationship could possibly work. Because he could no longer imagine his life without her.

 

Chapter Twenty

B
y eight o'clock that night, Monica was exhausted. She trudged up the stairs to her apartment, thinking only of hot chocolate and her bed, but when she emerged from the hallway into her living room, two Secret Ser­vice agents turned to stare at her.

“Oh. Sorry, guys. I actually forgot about you. Let me grab some stuff and get out of your hair.”

Great, now she could go to her parents', who were silently feuding. As she packed a bag, her cell phone rang. Travis. She didn't know what to feel or do. But she couldn't ignore him, no matter how he'd hurt her.

“Hi,” she said. “Don't you have a president to protect?”

“I'll leave that to my ex.” He paused. “I wish I was there so I could kiss you and maybe find a way to convince you I'm an idiot.”

Did he really mean that? Because she didn't know if she could trust his words. She was all tied up in knots over him—­they'd met only two weeks ago, for God's sake! And he'd hurt her, made his job more important than anything they had together. She sank down on her bed and closed her eyes. This was a fling, no emotions involved. Just fun. Those were the things she'd told herself as they'd gotten closer. But her emotions
were
involved—­
too
involved. She'd thought she saw things in him she'd never seen in another man, tenderness in the midst of strength, humor to ease the tension of his life-­and-­death profession. And now she didn't know if they were all a part of a façade he'd constructed to weaken her resistance, get her to spill the truth on ­people she'd known her whole life—­reveal their secrets to a man who might as well be a stranger.

Was he really still a stranger?

“I don't think I need to be convinced you're an idiot,” she said huskily, no teasing involved at all.

He sighed. “I deserve that, I know. And I don't want to talk over the phone about something so important. I hope we can clear things up face-­to-­face.”

“You're awfully busy, Travis.”

“I'm not too busy for you.”

It was her turn to sigh. “We'll see.”

“I'm actually calling on a work-­related issue—­and not about the protest, I promise. Have you seen the bride and groom?”

She blinked in surprise. “I haven't even
met
the groom yet, so no, I haven't seen them except from across the street.”

“They seem to be missing.”

“Well, they have just been reunited a ­couple days before their wedding. Maybe they just want some privacy.”

“They didn't tell their agents that they were leaving.”

“Oh. And I bet that's frowned on.”

“You'd be betting correctly. It's hard to keep ­people safe when they sneak out.”

“I know, but . . . Ashley's been having a hard time. You know that, and she's not your typical jittery bride with nothing to worry about. I could kick that Samantha chick for upsetting her like this.”

“That ‘chick' burned holes into me with her eyes today,” Travis said.

“Great,” she answered with faint sarcasm. “No wonder Ashley might have run. You know, it must be overwhelming knowing that the moment you say ‘I do,' your life will change, armed guys will follow you around, and you can never do anything spontaneous again.”

“It's not forever, just until the president's time in office is up. And the protectee can be spontaneous—­we call an unplanned trip a pop-­up. But we just like a little notice.”

“That's easy for you to say. Can you just give Ashley and Jeremy some time? This is their wedding, not a political event.”

“I can't. The risk is too great.”

At least he sounded regretful.

“If you hear anything, can you let me know?” he asked.

“Sure. Good night.”

Was that a sigh as he hung up?

She stared at her phone, frowning. Ashley's world was about to change, and in some ways, Monica could understand. Monica was certainly not getting married, but still felt like everything in her world had changed since she had met Travis. It was scary and humiliating and infuriating all at the same time.

When she got to her parents', she sat in her minivan, letting the quiet darkness envelop her, before calling Ashley's parents' house. Of course the Secret Ser­vice would have already done that, but she had to try. Nope, Ashley wasn't there. She wasn't at the boardinghouse either, and although Mrs. Thalberg sounded suspicious, Monica kept her inquiry light and innocent.

Then she tried Brooke, who'd known Ashley as well as Monica had back in high school. “Is this a bad time?”

“We're having wild sex, but I interrupted it for you.”

“I'm flattered,” Monica said, holding back a sigh.

“What's up?”

“Ashley Ludlow is missing.”

“She's not missing—­she's at our bunkhouse.”

Monica let out her breath in a rush. “That's a relief. What's going on?”

“She just wanted some time alone with Jeremy. The hotels were booked solid, and the Secret Ser­vice follows him everywhere.”

“For a reason.”

“Says the girlfriend of an agent.”

“I'm not his girlfriend,” she said tightly.

“Oh, that doesn't sound good. What happened?”

“This isn't about me,” Monica insisted.

“All right, all right, we'll talk about
you
another time. You know Ashley's been a wreck, so much so that she's even begun questioning whether they should marry.”

“Oh, that's sad!”

“Turns out she hadn't been confiding in Jeremy, not wanting to worry him with the wedding stuff, and now he feels really guilty. So he wanted some time just for the two of them.”

“Thoughtful of him. But I'm going to have to tell Travis, you know, to prevent a national incident.”

“You mean the opposite of what you've
been
doing, keeping secrets?” Brooke teased.

Suddenly, Monica couldn't even speak, for fear she'd cry.

“Monica? I was kidding.”

“I know. I—­things are pretty bad between us,” she admitted hoarsely. “But—­but I can't talk about it yet. And . . . and he'll be gone in a ­couple days, so maybe it's for the best.”

“Oh Monica . . . but will he be gone from your thoughts, too?”

“He should be. He's an idiot.”

“Oh.”

She started fumbling in her purse for a tissue. “This isn't like me,” she suddenly said with intensity. “I don't cry over guys.”

“We all have our weak moments, even you. You know if you want to talk . . .”

“I know. Thanks. As for Ashley, I'll try to convince Travis and his agents to stay away from the bunkhouse.”

As she disconnected, she saw her parents' front porch light flicker on, but she didn't go in yet. She blew her nose, took several deep breaths, and called Travis.

He answered immediately. “That was quick. You have news?”

Even though she was in the middle of crying over him, his voice just seemed to resonate inside her. God, why did he affect her so much?

“Ashley's fine,” she said impassively. “She and Jeremy just wanted some time alone after the stress of the last week.” She heard him exhale.

“Where are they?”

“They're at the Silver Creek Ranch bunkhouse, but can you leave them alone? This isn't a political event but a wedding, Travis.”

“Well, they've made it bigger than that. There's a rumor that a local reporter saw them leave without their Secret Ser­vice detail.”

“Damn. We could warn them.”

“They're not answering their phones.”

“Then let me help, Travis. I recently met one of the local reporters—­surprise, I don't know everyone in town. I'll give her a call and persuade her to let this go.”

“That's great, thanks.”

She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, hating to ask a favor but knowing she'd promised the widows—­and that he owed her. “Travis, I wouldn't ask this for myself but . . . the widows . . . they don't want to disrupt your schedule or anything. They want their little event to be smooth and quick. Is there a chance you can tell me a time when the president will be in her hotel suite on Friday? They won't try to intrude or anything, I promise. But it would be helpful to know.”

“Monica,” he began, then stopped.

She didn't say anything—­what could she say? And she wouldn't beg.

“We don't distribute the details of the president's schedule,” he said, his voice reluctant and maybe weary.

“I assumed as much, and I don't want you crossing a line for me. But I had to ask. Now I'll call the reporter I know and try to help.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it. Good night, Monica.”

Heaving a sigh, she opened her purse, and by the light of her phone, dug out Jessica's business card. She called her cell.

“Jessica Fitzjames,” the woman said in a brisk voice.

“Hi Jessica, it's Monica Shaw.”

“Oh, hi, Monica!”

Warmth had flowed into Jessica's voice, and Monica relaxed.

“What can I do for you?” the reporter asked.

“Well, I have a favor. I hear there's a rumor about Ashley Ludlow.”

“A rumor? Well, I don't know about that, but I saw Ashley and her fiancé running out the back entrance of the hotel without their Secret Ser­vice detail.”

Monica heaved a sigh that she'd gone to the right person. “She's just a jittery bride, upset by all the presidential craziness. If you print that, you'll just be making her life worse. She needed an evening alone with Jeremy.”

“Then the wedding's still on?”

“Definitely,” Monica assumed. “And let me make you a deal—­if you hold off on putting Ashley's night out in print, I'll make sure she gives you an exclusive
after
the wedding. What do you think?”

“You have a deal.”

After ending the call, Monica almost redialed Travis, then decided to text instead. She wrote that Jessica had agreed not to print the story. In his text, he thanked her and said he would reassure the president. And that was it.

She was surprised to find herself near tears again. Putting her head down on the steering wheel, she took deep breaths, trying to get herself under control before facing her family.

Though exhausted walking up the front porch stairs, inside she put on a smile, had some snacks, and played cards for an hour with Missy and their parents, trying to pretend everything was the way it used to be.

A
fter Travis hung up with Monica, he entered the president's suite and reported what he'd heard about Ashley, Jeremy, and the reporter to the chief of staff, who headed in to brief the president. As Travis left the suite, he almost ran right into his ex-­wife going off duty.

She smiled at him, and said softly, “Hello, Travis.”

He smiled back. “Hi, Mikayla. It's good to see you.”

“You, too.”

She seemed to relax a bit after he first spoke, like she'd been waiting for a different reaction.

“Congrats on the assignment to PPD.”

She blinked, not bothering to hide her surprise. “Thanks. That means a lot coming from you.”

“You got a moment? It's too weird to talk in the hall like we're strangers. My room is at the end of the corridor, or we could go down to the bar in the Main Street Steakhouse for a drink.”

“I could use a drink,” she said tiredly.

He remembered that flying wasn't her favorite part of the job.

They decided to take a booth in the darkly paneled restaurant, and after they'd ordered drinks, she asked, “Are you enjoying being the lead agent here in Valentine Valley? You did flee your own small town, so this must bring it all back.”

He shrugged. “I didn't flee it because I hated living there. And this is a nice place, with good ­people who've been easy to work with.”
Especially one lovely florist,
he thought. “Even my job has been at a slower pace than normal, and I'm finding I like it.”

“Even being in charge of the advance?” she asked in surprise.

“Amazing, huh?” Maybe he liked Valentine too much—­or maybe he was just yearning for this slower pace because of Monica. His life in the Secret Ser­vice was never slow-­paced. The moment he got used to one thing, the agency would make him move on to another after just a ­couple years. It could be tiring.

“What's your next assignment?” she asked.

“Advance work in LA although I guess I shouldn't assume too much. Maybe they'll see how this wedding goes before agreeing to make me lead agent again.”

“Oh, come on, you're good at what you do, and you take it very seriously.”

The waitress brought their drinks, and Travis studied Mikayla when she didn't meet his eyes. He knew they both could feel bitter that the marriage hadn't worked out. But he didn't want that between them.

“I'm not sure you'll think I'm on top of the job when a protest breaks out.”

Those big green eyes looked up at him in surprise. “A protest against the president?”

“No, there's a local archaeology dig that's about to be closed prematurely to finish construction of an addition to a spa. ­People are angry, and they've decided a presidential visit is the perfect time to get national attention.”

“Oh. You know about it, but you can't stop it?”

“I'm slowly gathering the details—­maybe too slowly.”

“I'm sure you'll figure out what to do.” She bit her lip and took a quick sip of her drink.

“Are you laughing at me?” he asked skeptically.

“Not at all.” But her voice quivered a little. “It's just that . . . protecting the president—­protecting everyone—­is so important to you that this must be making you nuts.”