Bodyguard Under the Mistletoe (7 page)

“She doesn't look scared at all.” Fiona leaned closer to the screen. “I wouldn't have been that brave.”

“Sure you would. I saw how you stood up to Clinton.”

“Dealing with a jerk isn't comparable to being held captive.”

“Keep in mind,” Jesse reminded her, “that Nicole might have been falling in love with one of the kidnappers, probably Butch Thurgood. He was a former rodeo star and an accomplished horseman.”

“And she's a large-animal veterinarian. I guess they have a lot in common.”

Because Fiona was so sensitive, he was interested in her interpretation of Nicole's actions. “Do you think she's the kind of woman who'd run off with a kidnapper?”

“It sounds kind of romantic. Some women are attracted to bad boys. But I thought Dylan and Nicole were truly, deeply in love.” She shook her head. “I could be wrong. It's hard to know what goes on inside a marriage.”

Jesse tapped a few computer keys and played a video. Nicole looked into the camera and said she'd be fine if they
paid the ransom. “Again, watch her hands. She made a circle when she tucked her hair behind her ears. The way she touched her lips is a sideways M.”

“The way she's dressed,” Fiona said. “It isn't right. She wears practical ranching clothes. Not a worn-out cotton shirt with a flower print.”

In Burke's notes, others had come to the same conclusion. “Here's the third proof of life. Another video.”

He and Fiona watched and listened as Nicole apologized for causing so much trouble and said everything might have worked out for the best.

“No clue this time,” Fiona said. “And her attitude is different. More resigned. In the other pictures, she has more spark.”

“And this one?”

“Her eyes are empty and hollow.” Fiona turned her head, averting her gaze from the screen. “I saw that same expression on my own face every time I looked in the mirror after Wyatt's death.”

“What does it mean?”

“Loss of hope.” Slowly, she rose from the table. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Knowing that you've lost something precious, and you might never find it again.”

He came up behind her and gently turned her toward him. “You don't have to hide your tears from me. I understand. I know how much you cared for your husband.”

But when she looked, her eyes were dry. “Tennyson said it's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

She stood so close to him that he could feel the radiant warmth of her body. He sensed the beating of her pulse,
the rhythm of her heartbeat. “That's what Tennyson says. But what do
you
say?”

“I'm not a poet.”

“But you're an artist.”

“Which means I'm
not
good with words. I could draw you a picture.”

He didn't need for her to pull out her sketch pad. He could see that she was aware of the chemistry between them. Her lips had parted. Her breathing was shallow.

The fire was there.

The question was: would she fan the flames?

If she wanted him to back off, now would be the time to tell him. “I know you have an opinion about love and passion.”

Her eyes invited him to come closer. A gradual smile spread across her face. “I haven't given up on love.”

While Fiona had been sitting beside him, the dining-room table provided a natural barrier. Now there was nothing but air between her and Jesse. That air was charged with tension and promise.

“You're not wearing the sling anymore,” she said.

“I'm feeling a lot stronger.”

She could see that was true. He didn't seem like the same man who'd nearly collapsed. “The oatmeal cured you.”

“No doubt.”

She reached toward his shoulder and lightly touched the bulge of bandages under his blue flannel shirt. “Do you need help changing the dressings?”

Too easily, she imagined peeling away his shirt and gliding her fingers across his bare chest. A rising tide of sudden warmth elevated her temperature. Her skin prickled with sensual awareness that penetrated deeper, causing her blood to race. It had been a very long time since she'd felt this kind of arousal, and she didn't know what to do about it.

“You're blushing,” he said.

“Am I?” She pulled her hand back. Fantasizing about him wasn't appropriate. He'd only agreed to stay with her
because of an imagined debt to her late husband. She needed to be careful not to misinterpret his kindness as something else.

Jesse glided the back of his hand along her cheek. “I like the color in your face.”

Oh, good
. Because she felt as if she was turning bright red from the roots of her hair to her toenails. She was glad to realize that it definitely wasn't kindness that emanated from him. “Your eyes.”

“What about them?”

“The color is like a glaze I use in pottery. Rich, dark, coffee-brown.”

“I'd like to see some of your work.”

That should be a cue to take him into her studio. To put some distance between them. But she didn't want to separate. Instead, she leaned closer. The tips of her breasts were mere inches away from his chest. She tilted her chin up.

When their lips met, the teasing warmth became a powerful torrent. She actually felt as if she were being transported, swept away by one gentle kiss. Never before had she experienced anything like this. Excitement rushed through her, leaving her breathless.

Gasping, she stepped backward, out of his embrace. Looking into his face, she saw her desire reflected. She knew, without a doubt, that this attraction could only end one way. Soon, they would be in each other's arms. Soon, they would be making love.
Am I ready? Is it time?

Her longing was tempered with panic. She'd never imagined that she'd be able to feel this way. She was a widow with a small child, resigned to a life of responsibility without passion. How could this be happening? “Jesse, I—”

He laid his finger across her lips, stopping her words. “No need to speak.”

He was right. These churning emotions required no explanation. She could trust the way she felt and know that he'd felt it, too. For now, that was enough.

“Fiona.” His voice caressed her name.

“Yes?”

“I appreciate your offer to change my dressings, but Wentworth will be here soon. He's a medic. He likes messing around with surgical stuff.”

She might enjoy messing around, too.
Tell him
. She wanted another kiss. If she let this moment pass, it might not come again. Which was a good reason
not
to tell him.
But it's too soon. And I'm afraid
.

She cleared her throat and took another step back. “I have an ointment that might be soothing. When I'm sculpting, it seems like I'm always getting cuts and burns on my hands.”

“Some kind of nontraditional medicine?” he asked.

“I didn't make it myself, but all the ingredients are from nature.”

“My grandfather had a remedy for healing, made from creosote bush, prickly pear and some mysterious herb with a Navajo name I can't pronounce.” His smile turned nostalgic. “He believed the strongest medicine came from within. Trusting your body to heal itself.”

“You've mentioned your grandfather before.” She wanted to know more about Jesse. “Tell me about him.”

“He lived on the reservation.”

She returned to her seat at the table, and he did the same. Though she regretted the distance between them, she was also relieved. With her long-suppressed hormones raging, she wasn't able to think straight. “Did you live there, too?”

“I'm a city kid. We lived in Denver. My mom isn't Navajo, but she wanted me and my sister to know and appreciate our heritage. She sent us to live with our grandparents every summer.”

“And was she right? Did you learn to appreciate that life?”

“Probably more than the kids who grew up on the rez. Our time there was limited and special. We were hungry for knowledge, fascinated by the old ways and rituals. And we knew we could always return to our urban life. My sister said we had the best of both worlds.”

“Are you close to her?”

“Elena is the office manager for Longbridge Security.”

He seemed to be devoted to his family. That was a check mark on the plus side. “You haven't mentioned your father.”

“He was in the marines. He died when I was seven. I hardly remember him.”

“I'm sorry,” Fiona said.

“My mother remarried a couple of years after he died. My stepfather is a good man, a good provider.”

His mother—a widow like her—managed to find love again. Not an unusual situation. Lots of people had second chances. There wasn't a rule that said Fiona had to live the rest of her life alone, draped in widow's weeds. She just wasn't accustomed to thinking that way.

“My grandfather,” Jesse said quietly, “passed away a few years ago. Sometimes, he seems to be with me.”

“I understand. His memory lives through you.”

“It's something more,” he said. “When I was in the hospital, they said that I died on the operating table for a few minutes. I saw him. My grandfather.”

Many people talked about seeing a white light and being
reacquainted with others who had passed away. “Did he say anything?”

“He was there to welcome me,” Jesse said. “But I wasn't ready to go with him. Not yet. There's something more I need to do with my life.”

Had he come back from death to be with her? Were they both being given a second chance? “What is it, Jesse? What do you need to do?”

“I'll wait and see. And trust that I'll recognize the true path when it appears before me.”

She wanted to walk beside him on that trail. No matter where it led. Their brief kiss had been the first step. She could hardly wait to see what came next.

 

P
ETE
R
ICHTER WATCHED
as the lights inside the widow Grant's house were turned off one by one. From where he was standing in the forest, he couldn't actually see inside because the curtains were pulled. But the glow at the edges of the windows went out until only one lamp in the living room was still lit.

Richter figured the bodyguard would station himself there, near the fireplace. Even though no smoke rose from the chimney, the thought of a warm blaze made him feel even colder. It was below freezing out here. He needed to act soon before he turned into a damn icicle.

The widow's bedroom was at the end of the cabin, far away from the front room. He could break through her window and grab her, but he wouldn't be able to haul her away before her security man responded. It might be smart to kill him first.

But the curtains were drawn. Richter couldn't see to get a clear shot at the son of a bitch who, by all rights, should already have been dead.

Walking carefully so he wouldn't make any noise, he tried to come up with a plan. There had to be a way for him to get to the widow—another way into her house.

He'd find it soon enough. Then he'd make her tell him where she'd hidden his money.

 

W
ITH
F
IONA SAFELY TUCKED
into bed, Jesse sat in a wooden rocking chair beside the fireplace with his gun resting on the table beside him. Though he would have been a hell of a lot more comfortable on the sofa, he couldn't allow himself to take off his shoes and relax. If he did that, he'd be asleep in minutes.

Leaning forward with his elbows resting on his thighs, he listened. Both doors to the bedrooms were ajar, and he could hear Abby and Fiona shifting in their beds. He thought of Fiona's long hair spread across the pillows, and her graceful body stretched out across the sheets. Her face in repose. Her lips.

He hadn't planned to kiss her, but he didn't regret that moment. It tasted right. And the sensual jolt to his system had gotten his heart pumping and his blood circulating. He felt better now than he had since he woke in the hospital. If he made love to her, he'd probably be completely cured.

A sound outside the window interrupted his reverie. The wind rattling the bare branches of the aspens near the front door? He wouldn't take any chances. Gun in hand, he went to the curtains and peered around the edge. From this limited vantage point, he saw nothing suspicious.

One-man guard duty was difficult. If Wentworth had been here, one of them could have gone outside to check while the other stayed here. Alone, he couldn't risk leaving the house unprotected.

He checked his wristwatch. Wentworth was supposed to be here any minute.

He sank into the rocking chair again. Waiting. Listening.

The next sound seemed to come from overhead. A tree squirrel running across the roof? He looked up.

It was quiet again.

Then he heard the tires from Wentworth's vehicle pulling up the gravel drive. He stood at the front door, watching as Wentworth got out of the car, and motioned him inside.

With the door bolted, Jesse said, “I heard something on the roof.”

“How big?”

“Don't know. It was a scraping noise.”

Wentworth exhaled a weary sigh. It had been a long day for him, too. “What should we do about it?”

“You stay here. I'll go out and take a look around.”

Though Jesse would have preferred using a rifle, his left arm wasn't steady enough to be trusted. He took his handgun and stepped outside. Earlier today, he'd had an opportunity to check out her house from various angles, figuring out which direction an intruder might take. But he hadn't considered the roof.

The cold night air was bracing. After taking a moment to allow his eyes get accustomed to the moonlight, he circled around to the rear of the house. None of the aspens at the front of the house were good for climbing; the branches started too far from the ground. At the back, there was one tall pine tree.

He stared into the depths of its branches. Nothing there.

The roof of Fiona's one-story house formed a shallow peak—just enough of an angle to encourage the snow to
slide off. He saw nothing in the back or the front. But he sensed a threat.

When he returned to the inside of the house, Wentworth escorted him into the kitchen. “Here's the deal, Jesse. I'll change those dressings. Then you go to bed. I'll wake you in three hours to relieve me.”

“You should go back to the Carlisle Ranch.”

“They don't need me. Our man, Neville, is there. And Burke. And a whole mob of cowboys with rifles.”

Though Jesse didn't like to admit that he needed help, he wasn't a fool. “I won't lie. I could use some rest.”

He had the feeling that the next couple of days weren't going to get any easier.