Guarding Raine (Security Ops) (17 page)

“Uh-huh.” She wasn’t convinced. Seating herself on the edge of the counter, she filched another carrot. Munching, she considered him shrewdly. The only other time he’d felt compelled to cook something was on the night he’d brought her home from the hospital. She had a bad feeling about this. Something had happened today to elicit this thoughtfulness, and no doubt it was something that affected her. He’d barely looked at her since the night they’d made love, and conversation had been practically nonexistent.

Chewing reflectively, she decided that whatever the news was, it could wait. She was going to bask in the pleasure of watching him perform the mundane task of cooking in her kitchen. For a few precious minutes she was going to allow herself to pretend that Macauley was a different sort of man than he was, one free of regrets and dark places in his soul.

But then he wouldn’t be the man who’d made such a huge difference in her life, and he wouldn’t be the one she so desperately wanted a chance with. She watched, fascinated, as he wielded the knife with swift, economical movements.

“Are you going to sit there and eat the fruits of my labors, or do you want to actually do something constructive?” he asked after several minutes.

“I could help,” she said judiciously, “but I rather enjoy watching you do it.”

A small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Here’s a knife.” He slid a smaller paring knife toward her. “You can chop up those mushrooms.”

Lazily, she slid from the counter and did as he asked. They worked together in a companionable silence that made her wistful at its ordinariness. There was another side to Macauley O’Neill, one he refused to even recognize. It was the side that would put a meal together, in an awkward attempt to soft-pedal some bad news. A side that took a kind of wonder from the simple pleasure of sitting in the porch swing and watching the stars.

It was a side that would make love to a woman to comfort her, giving her gentleness in the only way he knew how.

She ached with the need to argue with him again, to press the point she’d tried to make the other morning after he’d left her. But she knew it would be useless. He was the only one who could find a way out of the shadows in his soul. She knew from experience that while others could try to show the way, he would have to be the guide on that particular journey. But she hated thinking of him living his life cold and alone, never letting anybody get too close to him. She’d tried to live that way herself and knew the damage it inflicted.

She let him get through the preparation and the entire meal before she asked evenly, “So, when are you going to tell me what happened today?”

He froze in the act of reaching for his glass, but only for an instant. The next moment he picked it up in a smooth movement and finished his lemonade. Setting the glass on the table with a deliberate motion, he met her eyes. What makes you think something happened?”

She leaned forward. “Because I’m beginning to know you, Macauley O’Neill. Better than you suspect.”

“If you knew me half as well as you claim to,” he said with irritation in his voice, “you’d know that
nobody
calls me Macauley. Ever.”

“Nobody?”

He shook his head.

“Not your mother?”

“Only when she’s mad at me.”

She wouldn’t even try to guess at the frequency that occurred. “I’ll bet you had a grandma who did. I’ll bet she insisted on calling you by your given name. I’m guessing she refused to call you Mac.”

He frowned at her, annoyed, wanting to deny it. How the hell had she known that? His grandmother O’Neill had insisted that Mac was no name for a boy, and she’d never called him that. She’d died when he was twelve, but he could still remember spending weeks in the summer at her home, eating freshly baked cookies and exploring her neighborhood. Odd, how Raine’s slightly teasing words had brought the visions back so vividly. He didn’t remember that carefree boy often. He’d been buried under years of living on the edge, where black and white blurred into an ugly shade of gray. Where right and wrong didn’t seem like opposites, but like a flip of a two-headed coin.

“You’re right,” he said finally.

“About your grandma?”

He wasn’t ready to admit to the accuracy of her guess. “Another letter came today.”

Her face went still, the amusement wiped from it. He noticed the change grimly. It seemed as if he was always responsible for bringing that look to her face. He’d had no choice in the matter, however. She wouldn’t thank him for shielding her from the truth, and he wouldn’t insult her by trying to do so.

She stood up abruptly. “I want to see it.”

“There’s nothing new in it,” he said quietly, rising, too. “The detective will be here to pick it up tomorrow.”

“I want to see it,” she repeated.

He looked into her face for a long moment, then nodded. He led her silently into the office and over to his desk. “Don’t touch it,” he cautioned. “There’s always a chance they could find prints.”

Raine read it silently. Long after she’d finished reading the message, it reverberated in her head. She swallowed and looked at him. “Doesn’t sound like it’s going to quit anytime soon.”

He watched her carefully, judging her reaction. “No.”

She turned away from him, crossing her arms and rubbing them, suddenly cold. “So how long does this go on? Indefinitely? How much longer do I have to be careful of who I see and where I go?”

“I don’t know.”

“I mean, it’s not that I’m trying to get rid of you,” she said, trying and failing at a light tone, “but I’m sure you have a life you want to get back to. And then there’s that vacation you were planning. You don’t have time to stick around here indefinitely, either.”

“I’ll have two men patrolling the grounds, day and night,” he said quietly. “The crew has already started work on the fence in front. And,” he added without thinking, “I’ll be here as long as you need me.”

She gave a little laugh. “Macauley O’Neill, duty first, that’s your motto, right?” She forced herself to stop then, doubting her ability to keep her next words from being shaded with the bitterness she suddenly felt. He’d stay for the job, out of duty, a sense of honor perhaps, but he wouldn’t be staying for her. The difference was glaring.

“I won’t leave until this thing is over.” It was a promise, to himself as much as to her, and he meant it. It was all he could offer her, but he knew it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. “We’ve got a postmark on the envelope, and that will give the police something to look for.”

“What will they be able to learn from that?”

“The detective will probably turn the letter over to the Postal Inspection Service. Sending threats through the mail is a federal offense, and the U.S. Postal Service has their own investigators. It will give them one more avenue to follow, at any rate.”

“When you talked to the detective, did he say if they’d found anything on the guy who ran me off the road?”

He shook his head slowly. “No one saw anything. They’re checking up on stolen and abandoned car reports and checking out rental agencies. Something may turn up.”

Raine turned and walked across the room to the window. Suddenly the pace at which the investigation was proceeding was overwhelmingly frustrating. She didn’t want to spend one more hour, one more minute with these threats hanging over her head. The only reason she’d remained sane so far was the amount of time and energy her painting was requiring. And the presence of Macauley, of course.

He made her feel protected, she realized suddenly, in a way no one before him had ever been able to accomplish. She’d carefully chosen men in her life who were no threat to her physically or emotionally. Until Macauley O’Neill had rocketed into her life and shattered so many of her personal reservations.

He watched her stand, pensive and alone at the window, and damned the helplessness that filled him. “I shouldn’t have told you about the letter,” he muttered, full of self-castigation.

That got her attention. She whirled, eyes flashing. “Yes, you should have. You’re here to protect me, but not to hide things from me. I can face what’s happening in my life, thank you very much. You’re not responsible for my mood. I choose to know every aspect of what’s going on in my life, and I’m free to react to it! Don’t treat me as if I might shatter if you speak too loudly or say the wrong thing. The only thing I can’t tolerate is being treated like an invalid.”

Admiring the way temper lit her jeweled golden eyes, he inclined his head. “An invalid is the last word I’d use to describe you.” The bruise from her accident had already turned its rainbow shades of color and now was a faded yellow. She’d never complained about it, or the goose egg she’d sported for a few days. She might be small, but she had the inner strength of any ten men he knew. A little temper was far less than he’d expect to have to put up with in this situation. She was edgy, and he couldn’t blame her. Who wouldn’t be edgy with some lunatic after them? Responsibility was a word she used a lot, but neither of them could deny that he bore partial responsibility for her anxiety level. If he’d never touched her, she’d damn well be better off now. And so would he.

If he’d never touched her he wouldn’t be filled with regrets for the way he’d compromised them both, taking advantage of her vulnerability and jeopardizing his objectivity. He wouldn’t be kept awake at night kicking himself for giving in that one time, for snatching a chance to be held in the arms of this warm, caring woman. And he wouldn’t be calling himself every kind of fool for not taking the time to go slowly with her while he’d had the chance. It seemed a shame that he hadn’t spent more time exploring her small, silky body, finding all the places that begged for a man’s kiss. If he was going to make such a mistake anyway, why hadn’t he turned on a light, so his memory could have gorged itself on her gentle curves?

Now he knew what her delicate breasts tasted like, how they fit his palm, but he didn’t have a complete picture in his mind. Were her nipples pink? He’d had them in his mouth but didn’t know if the firm mounds were a creamy white or tanned to a golden glow. Did she have tan lines that he could have traced with his tongue, or was the rest of her skin the same hue as her arms, the color of antique lace? He’d never have the opportunity for those answers now, and he damned himself for still wondering.

But most of all, he damned himself for ever having touched her to begin with.

“I’m going outside,” she muttered, and moved toward the door.

“Wait. I was meaning to ask you about those paintings in the back bedroom.”

She froze in place.

“The men had to move them from that closet in there when we were working. I can put them back now, but I thought I’d ask you for sure. I didn’t know if you planned to include any of them in your show or not.” Still she hadn’t turned or spoken, and he frowned at the back of her head. “If they’re pieces for the show, maybe you’d like them brought downstairs.”

“No.” Her answer was flat and sharp, and seemed to propel her into action. She headed for the door. “I’ll put them back myself.”

“You don’t have to . . . Dammit, Raine, wait!” he commanded. Swiftly he followed her into the hall and up the stairs. “I’ll put them back, I just wanted to make sure where you wanted them.”

She acted as if she hadn’t heard him as she walked swiftly through the upstairs hallway, flipped on the switch and disappeared into the bedroom.

He lengthened his stride, but even so, by the time he reached her, she already had her arms around one large canvas and was attempting to lug it across the room.

“Dammit, put that down,” he ordered. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I can handle it, and I don’t want you in my things,” she snapped. He watched her stiff back frustratedly as she carried her awkward load toward the closet. Swearing under his breath, he walked to the stack of canvases and began to pick up the top one, intent on at least helping her if she refused to let him do the work for her.

But his hand froze as he reached for it, and for an instant his mind froze, too. Then he picked up the canvas and carried it, not to the closet, where Raine was still struggling to place the painting she held, but over to where he could stand directly under the light. This painting wasn’t like any of the others he’d seen of Raine’s. It wasn’t only the technique that was different, it was the emotion expressed on canvas.

Rage. It was depicted in the picture, pure and unadulterated. He didn’t know how an abstract work could show so clearly the emotion of the artist. But it was there, in every brush stroke, in each slash of color used. He carried it to the stack and started to flip through the rest of the canvases.

Grunting with exertion, Raine finally managed to shove the huge canvas into the closet without harming it or a back muscle. Straightening, she turned and saw Mac. He was on his knees with one of the smaller pictures in both hands, holding it up and studying it. She strode over and snatched it from him. Not wanting to meet that silent gaze, she swiftly put it in the closet with the first one. Once that task was accomplished, she found she had a very difficult time turning to face him again.

When she finally looked at him, Mac was studying each of the paintings in turn. She couldn’t tell from his impassive features what, if anything, he was thinking.

But she was afraid she could guess. As good as he was at a poker face, she knew he saw things that others would much rather keep hidden. And as soon as those ice blue eyes met hers, she was certain she was correct. Awareness was in them, and understanding. But still his words, when he spoke, jarred her.