Bodyguard Under the Mistletoe (16 page)

Their heads turned toward her. In their overwhelmingly masculine presence, she felt small and feminine. But she wasn't helpless, couldn't allow herself to be a shy little violet. The safety of her child was at stake.

“This afternoon,” she said, “we were following the track of the kidnapper who picked up the ransom. Which one was it?”

“We don't know for sure,” Burke said. “But we're figuring it was Richter.”

“So he had the money,” she reasoned.

“Then he killed his partner,” Burke said.

“Why?” Her voice was louder than she intended. “He has the money. His partner is dead. Why is he still hanging around?”

“He
had
the money,” Jesse said. “But he must have lost it. Butch might have gotten it away from him. Or even Nicole.”

Burke added, “When the ransom was being delivered, there were dozens of FBI swarming the area. SWAT teams. Helicopters. They might have figured they should hide the cash and lie low.”

“And there's a fine hiding place in your barn.”

She pieced together the logic. “So, one of them brought the money here and hid it.”

“It's possible,” Burke said.

“Then what? The ransom just disappeared?”

No one had an answer.

Without further evidence, they were playing a guessing game. All she knew for certain was that Pete Richter had come after her. And he didn't seem like the kind of man who gave up easily.

A few hours later, Fiona lay on her bed—too tense to sleep or even to close her eyes. In those brief, terrifying seconds when she saw Richter running at her, he had a gun in his hand. If he'd wanted to kill her, he could have taken a shot. But he didn't fire his weapon. Instead, he charged from the shadows in a desperate attempt to do…what?

She knew well enough that bad things sometimes happen for no discernible reason, but that adage generally applied to natural disasters or car accidents or illnesses. People had motives. What did Richter want from her?

She rolled over to her side. For tonight, she felt safe. Jesse had deployed a team of bodyguards outside her house, and he was inside, wide awake. Through her partially opened bedroom door—a safety precaution in case Richter crashed through her window—she could hear him pacing in the front room.

Only a few hours ago, she'd been in his arms, kissing him and wanting him to make love to her. Her body still yearned for his touch.

She flipped onto her belly. Even if they didn't make love, she wanted to be with him. The way she felt about
Jesse was more than hormones and passion. She trusted him. Within moments after they met, she'd told him her secrets. She truly believed that he'd keep her safe no matter what the threat. Damn it, what did Richter want from her?

The answer came to her in a flash. Simple. Obvious. Why hadn't she thought of it before? She threw off the covers, grabbed her plaid flannel bathrobe, cinched the tie around the waist and went down the hall to tell Jesse.

He was waiting for her. He leaned against the sofa facing the hallway. His right hand rested on the butt of his sidearm, ready for action. His lean, muscular frame radiated strength. No bad guy in his right mind would mess with Jesse Longbridge.

He grinned at her. “What took you so long?”

“Do you think I can't stay away from you?”

“I think you want to talk. I could see it when you went off to bed. Actually, I was counting on it.”

Because he wanted to make love to her? The hormonal urges that she'd put aside when alone in her bedroom rushed to the forefront of her mind. She totally forgot her brilliant yet obvious insight. “You were counting on me? To do what?”

“I need some practical help.”

“P-p-practical?” If he was talking about lovemaking, that was a really odd description. “Isn't that kind of clinical?”

“It is.” He unfastened the first button on his shirt. Then the second. His chest was smooth. His skin, vibrant. The color of a mocha latte. “I need some help changing the bandage on my shoulder.”

He pivoted and strode into the kitchen, leaving her gaping. Mentally, she shook herself. He wanted her as his nurse not his lover. She trailed behind him, her wool socks shuffling on the hardwood floor.

On the kitchen counter, he'd laid out the necessary antiseptics, soap, bandages and towels. “I thought we should do it in here,” he said. “The bathroom is right next to Abby's room, and I don't want to wake her.”

“Are you planning on making a lot of noise?”

“That depends.” He arched a suggestive eyebrow. “Will you be gentle?”

He was most definitely leading her on, and she didn't mind being led. But she did have something important to say. “I figured out why Richter is after me.”

“I thought you might come up with something.” He unbuttoned the rest of his shirt. “You have the mind of an investigator. You're smart and creative. You can look at a problem and see all the possibilities.”

He slipped off his shirt.

She struggled to maintain an air of detachment, to look at him as if he were one of the models she sculpted in art classes. His shoulders were wide, slightly out of proportion to his narrow hips. His torso wasn't overly muscled like a bodybuilder's, but his abs were nicely defined. There wasn't an ounce of flab on his torso. He was, in her opinion, a perfect male subject, worthy of Michelangelo.

She froze, unable to speak or think or do anything but stand and stare as he peeled off the adhesive and removed the gauze bandage. Black sutures closed the jagged wound, leaving an angry red scar.

She stammered. “D-d-does it hurt?”

“Not the stitches. The wound is healing, but the muscles are still sore, especially when I lift my arm above my shoulder.” He illustrated and winced. “Like that.”

The muscles in his upper arm flexed as he raised his hand above his head and gave a new perspective to his
body. She wished she had a camera to record his pose. Not that she'd ever forget this moment.

She thought of the various sculptures in her studio, each representing the way she'd been feeling at the time. The happy little houses. The angry trees. The empty vessels.

Jesse represented a new phase in her life. Sensual and strong.

“Fiona? Are you going to tell me what you figured out?”

She tore her gaze away from his torso and got busy, grabbing a washcloth from the counter. “Let me get this cleaned up. Is this some kind of special soap?”

“I don't know. Wentworth said to use it.”

She turned the water in the kitchen sink to hot, held the washcloth under it and worked the soap into a light lather. When she touched his chest, his flesh quivered. A corresponding shiver went through her. “When I came into the front room, you said you knew I wanted to talk. Why?”

“You had that look. When there's something going on inside your head, your eyebrows tilt up. And I was right, wasn't I?”

“How did you get to know me so well?” She carefully washed the area around his wound, holding her other hand at a clumsy angle to keep from touching his chest.

“The same way you know me. We have a connection.”

“We do.” And it was more than the link that came when he saved her husband's life so many years ago. “It feels like we were meant to meet at this particular time and place.”

“And walk the same path through life.”

She wasn't so sure about that. “Your path is a lot more dangerous than mine.”

“Not at the moment,” he reminded her.

“Okay, here's what I figured out. You and Burke as
sumed that Richter was the one who rode into town and exchanged his horse for a car he bought from Silas O'Toole's grandson.”

He nodded.

“What if it was Butch? Butch grabbed the ransom and stashed it someplace before he met up with his partner. That's why Richter killed him.” She rinsed the washcloth in the sink and wiped away the soap on his shoulder. “Richter is coming after me because he thinks I know where Butch hid the money. Because of the secret room in my barn where Nicole was held, he thinks Butch and I were working together.”

“Maybe he thought you and Butch were lovers.”

“Eww.”

“You saw those photos of Butch Thurgood. He was a rodeo star. A good-looking cowboy.”

“Not my type.” Her type was the man standing bare-chested in front of her. “Richter's suspicions are completely unfounded. They don't really have anything to do with me.”

“It has everything to do with who you are,” he said softly. “You're so pretty and sexy that even a snake like Richter assumes you have a lover.”

“Oh, pul-eeze.” With the towel, she patted his shoulder dry. “You make it sound like I'm some kind of sultry siren, luring cowboys to my ranch.”

He stroked his fingers through her long hair and spread the tresses on either side of her face. “The new woman in town. The mysterious, desirable Widow Grant.”

With a flip of his wrist, he unfastened the sash that held her robe together. His right hand slipped inside, circled her waist and yanked her toward him. The thin material of her jersey nightshirt pressed against his bare chest. Her body molded to his. She arched her neck, ready for his kiss.

Instead, he dipped his head and nuzzled her ear. His teeth caught her lobe and tugged, causing an electric spark.

Her hands glided across his bare back. Her fingertips savored the texture of his skin and the hard muscles beneath.

He held her firmly. One hand stroked her back. The other cupped her bottom and fitted her tightly against his hard erection. She ground her hips, pushing hard, pinning him against the kitchen counter.

His mouth was hot, demanding, passionate. As he kissed her, the spark ignited and fire surged through her veins. She clawed at his back, wanting him, needing him.

In a seemingly effortless move, he scooped her off the floor and lifted her onto the countertop. Her thighs spread. Her bare legs wrapped around him as he peeled off her bathrobe.

She heard a sound outside the sphere of their passion.

Jesse reacted immediately. He separated from her, grabbed his gun and crept toward the back door.

She heard Wentworth's voice. “Open up. I'm freezing my tail off.”

“Bad timing,” Jesse muttered.

While he answered the door, she pulled herself together, fastening her robe and straightening her hair. There was nothing she could do about the heat pulsing through her. She knew her face was flushed and her eyes alit with passion.

Wentworth tromped into the kitchen, bringing the cold with him. His gaze focused on the floor, and he kept moving as he mumbled something about going to the bathroom.

She looked at Jesse—shirtless with a heavy bulge in his crotch. It was ridiculously obvious what they'd been doing.

She grinned. “I think we embarrassed Wentworth.”

“He'll get over it.”

But their passion—no matter how urgent—would have
to wait. Having guards on rotating shifts patrolling her house wasn't exactly conducive to intimacy.

“I'd like to finish what we started,” she said. “And I'm not talking about your bandage.”

He embraced her lightly and whispered, “I want to do this right, Fiona. To make love on satin sheets and spend the night holding you. I want your face to be my first sight in the morning.”

She sighed and leaned her cheek against his bare chest. “Sounds perfect.”

“I want to give you every luxury. All the special little things.”

“Been there,” she said.

“I know you have.”

“Having a lot of things doesn't make you happy. I'm just as warm in faux fur as in a mink coat. And a whole lot more politically correct.”

He stepped back and held her at arm's length. “Wyatt was a good man, a good provider, the father of your child.”

She hadn't been thinking of Wyatt. His memory was just that: a precious memory. “I'll never forget him.”

“He was the love of your life.”

He turned away from her, went to the counter and started sorting through the surgical supplies. Though he had moved only a few paces away, it seemed that a gulf had opened between them. Did he resent her love for Wyatt? Was this going to be an issue?

Her feelings for Jesse were too new to understand or explain. She wouldn't call it love. Not yet, anyway. But when she was with him, she felt joy and hope and an indescribable glow.

“When Wyatt died,” she said, “my life didn't end. For
a while, I wished that it had. It would have been easier for me to jump into the grave with him.”

He turned toward her. “The grave that's right outside your front door.”

She hadn't realized how omnipresent Wyatt was in her life, especially in this cabin. There was a photo of him on her bedside table. Abby's room was full of stuffed animals he'd bought for her. The radio was tuned to his favorite oldies station.

“My life is moving forward,” she said.

Avoiding her gaze, he glanced down at the scar on his shoulder. “The stitches are almost healed. I don't think I need the big bandage.”

He was changing the subject, avoiding an emotional land mine. Usually, Fiona insisted on expressing her feelings, but she was confused. It was better to get back to business. “Let me put on the antiseptic, and we'll finish with a couple of these extra-large patches.”

As she tended to his shoulder, he looked away.

She did the same.

They'd gone from blazing hot to icy. Back to business. Tersely, she asked, “What do you think of my theory about Richter?”

“Makes sense, but it doesn't explain the most important thing. What happened to Nicole?”

“According to Dylan, she's gone. She left him.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Carolyn said they'd been arguing. Their marriage was already in trouble, but every couple has times like that.” She and Wyatt had their share of spats. Good grief, was she thinking about him again? She placed the bandage on Jesse's shoulder and stepped back. “Whatever Nicole said
to him was enough to convince Dylan. He believes that she wants a divorce.”

He slipped back into his shirt. “When I hear those words from her lips, I'll believe it, too. For now, she's still my client. I need to know that she's safe.”