Bodyguard Under the Mistletoe Page 6

  His mother had laughed at his unsubtle inference to Fiona as a trophy wife. Clinton’s younger sister had merely glared.

  Fiona’s pride had ruled the day. She refused to be drawn into a bitching match. Without hurling a single insult, she lifted her chin and walked away.

  That brief exchange set the tone for all future confrontations. Even now, when Clinton was all grown up, a graduate of law school who had already started work in the family firm, his attitude toward Fiona had not mellowed.

  He hammered on the front door. With each heavy thud of his fist, her anger ratcheted higher, but she refused to let Clinton know how much he affected her. Over the years, she’d always faced him with ice, not fire.

  She stiffened her spine and opened the door. “Clinton, I’m so surprised to see you. Unfortunately, this isn’t a convenient time.”

  He peered past her shoulder and saw Jesse. “Am I interrupting a booty call?”

  “May I introduce Jesse Longbridge? He’s my bodyguard.”

  “Whatever.” He stepped forward, but she didn’t move. “Let me in, Fiona.”

  “Not convenient,” she repeated.

  “I’d advise you to step aside. Otherwise, I’ll be back with the sheriff and a warrant. You have several items that belong to me.”

  Clinton and his mother had already taken more than their fair share. After Wyatt’s death, they swooped in like vultures. Now he was back to pick the bones. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Heirlooms,” he said. “Valuable objects that have been in my family for generations.”

  Before she could slam the door in his face, Abby flew into the room and wedged her way in front of her mother. Wearing her pink flannel pajamas, she beamed at Clinton and held up her little hand. “High five.”

  Not even a greedy creep like Clinton could resist Abby’s charm. His mouth loosened in a grin as he slapped hands with her. “High five.”

  She tugged on his trouser leg, pulling him into the house. “I’m going to get a pony,” she said. “And his name is going to be Turquoise, and he’ll have a long, curly blue tail.”

  Clenching her jaw to keep from screaming, Fiona stepped aside. Abby was at that curious age when everything interested her: bugs, snakes and obnoxious stepbrothers.

  Her daughter pushed Clinton to the dining-room table and ordered him to sit. When he was seated, she cocked her head to one side, then the other. Clinton played along, matching her movements. The physical resemblance between them was obvious. And somewhat depressing.

  Playing hostess, Abby said, “Me and Mommy will bring you a healthy snack.”

  “No snacks,” Fiona said. “It’s past your bedtime.”

  “But, Mommy, it’s polite.”

  Her daughter had picked a lousy time to remember proper behavior. Fiona couldn’t bear the thought of sitting down at the table with Clinton.

  Jesse stepped forward. “Let’s go, Abby. I want you to show me your room. We’ll leave your mom and Clinton alone for a while. They have something important to talk about.”

  “More important than a pony?”

  He chuckled as he led her from the room. “I don’t suppose there’s anything more important than a blue-tail pony.”

  As soon as they left, Fiona confronted Clinton. Her icy veneer was beginning to melt under the heat of her anger. “Don’t ever use my daughter to get to me. Leave Abby out of this.”

  “But my little stepsister loves me.”

  “Just tell me what you want.”

  He reached into the inner pocket of his Harris tweed sports coat and took out an inventory sheet, which he placed on the table so she could see it. “This is it.”

  Over twenty items were listed, ranging from a Tiffany lamp to a pink crystal tiara. Fiona pushed the list back toward him with one finger. “I don’t have any of this stuff. Nor would I want it. Out here in cattle country, there isn’t much call for tiaras.”

  “Then you shouldn’t mind if I take a look around.” A purely evil sneer distorted his handsome face. “Abby can help me search. We’ll make it a treasure hunt.”

  The fact that he wanted to recruit her daughter to help in his scheme almost blinded her to the more obvious truth. “You want to search my property.”

  “If you were more cooperative—”

  “Were you here before? Did you enter my house without my permission?”

  “Of course not.”

  She didn’t believe him. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine Clinton sneaking into her house and searching. He could have pulled out the large box in her studio while looking for a Tiffany lamp she never owned. This scenario made a hundred times more sense than kidnappers searching for a ransom.

  “It was you,” she said. “You saw me leave with Carolyn, and you took advantage of my absence to search.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Grasping at shreds of her composure, she said, “Please leave.”

  “You’re crazy, Fiona.”

  He was dangerously close to being right. She was mad, mad, mad. “Please. Leave us alone.”

  “Or else? What are you going to do? Sic your bodyguard on me?”

  Right on cue, Jesse appeared behind him. “You heard the lady. It’s time for you to go.”

  Clinton stood to confront him. In his tweed jacket and cashmere sweater, he resembled an old-fashioned gentleman, the lord of the manor. Fiona wouldn’t be surprised if he took a formal pugilistic stance with his fists raised.

  But he didn’t dare.

  Even with his arm in a sling, Jesse exuded masculine confidence. If it came to a physical fight, he could handle Clinton without breaking a sweat. Jesse’s dark eyes shone with a hard, cold strength. He meant business.

  And Clinton didn’t challenge him. Her stepson might be pushy and underhanded, but he wasn’t stupid.

  He stalked toward the door, yanked it open and turned back toward her. “You need to pull yourself together, Fiona. This isn’t a fit environment for raising a child. If you’re not careful, you might lose Abby, too.”

  His threat went way over the top. There was no way in hell he could dispute her custody of Abby. The idea was not only absurd but infuriating. How dare he even suggest that she wasn’t a fit mother! Her self-control shattered. She was beyond mad.

  She thrust her hand toward Jesse. “Give me your gun.”

  Clinton gaped. “What are you doing?”

  “Something I should have done a long time ago. Teaching you some manners.”

  “You can’t—”

  “I’m within my rights. Around here, we shoot trespassers.”

  He slammed the door as he left.

  Rage swirled around her like a red tornado, but she was calm in the eye of the storm. This is what it feels like to defend your home.

  It felt damned good.

  JESSE WAITED AT THE dining-room table for Fiona to finish reading Abby a bedtime story. Her attack on Clinton had surprised him. Who knew she was such a firecracker?

  He’d overheard enough of her earlier conversation with her stepson to know that she suspected him of breaking into her house and going through her things. In a way, he hoped her accusation was true. Clinton was a mean son of a bitch who took pleasure in harassing a widow, but he presented less of a threat than Pete Richter.

  Unfortunately, Jesse didn’t believe that Clinton was the culprit. Sure, he had a motive to search for his supposedly valuable things. But no reason to murder Butch Thurgood. Nor could Jesse imagine the polished young lawyer creeping around in the forest, waiting for his opportunity to sneak inside and search.

  Fiona’s stepson was another piece of a big puzzle where nothing fit together right. Too many details about the kidnapping and the kidnappers—from the haphazard way Nicole was abducted to her refusal to come home—were skewed.

  The only part that made sense was the way Burke and the FBI had closed down the survivalist smuggling operation. Using high-tech precision, they took all the men into c
ustody and protected the women and children from harm. They’d even rescued a pregnant woman in the throes of childbirth who was still at the Delta hospital, accompanied by one of the FBI profilers, Mike Silverman, who seemed to have formed an attachment to the new mother and child. According to Burke’s notes, Silverman was taking a leave of absence so he could escort the mother and child home to her parents.

  Fiona came to the table and sank into the chair to his right. She folded her arms on the tabletop and rested her forehead upon them. While she’d been putting Abby to sleep, she’d unfastened her long braid. Her long brown hair tumbled around her shoulders in shiny waves.

  He reached over and stroked her hair. His intention was to comfort her, but another urge rose up within him. He wanted to caress her, to pull her toward him and feel her slender body pressed against him. From the first moment he saw her, he’d been drawn to her quiet beauty. He liked her spirit, her warmth, even the anger that hinted at a deeper passion.

  Only one thing held him back. He couldn’t help thinking of her as another man’s wife. She’d never stopped loving her husband.

  She lifted her head and looked at him with tired gray eyes. “It’s been a long day.”

  Reluctantly, he withdrew his hand from her shoulder. “Very long.”

  “You must be exhausted.”

  “Hell, no. I slept for three days in the hospital. I’m fine.” Not exactly true. He’d been taking pain meds, and his body was sore. He was worried about how he’d stay awake tonight to keep watch. “Tell me something. If I’d given you my gun, would you have shot him?”

  She grinned and pushed the curtain of hair away from her face. “I wanted to. But I don’t think I could have pulled the trigger. It would probably upset Abby if I killed her stepbrother.”

  “Probably.”

  “By the way, thank you for giving her that turquoise stone. She loves it. And now you’re on her Christmas list.”

  “I don’t need a present.”

  “Making Christmas presents is as much fun for her as giving them. She’s sculpting little clay figures that we fire in the kiln. A lot of them are ponies.”

  Her mention of Christmas reminded him of a possibility that would ensure her safety more effectively than having him here as a bodyguard. She could go home. “Do you have family nearby?”

  “My parents are archeologists. A couple of months ago, they rented out their house in California and went to a dig site in Peru.”

  “You have no one you could stay with until the threat of danger passes?”

  “There’s Wyatt’s family. They all adore Abby, and most of them aren’t as obnoxious as Clinton. But I wouldn’t be a welcome guest.” She tossed her head. “I’d rather stay here. We’re safe. Aren’t we?”

  He wished that he could reassure her, but he wouldn’t soon forget the ravaged corpse in her front yard. “I can’t guarantee it. Not while Richter is still at large.”

  A series of emotions played across her face. A frightened twitch. A worried frown. Her gaze flicked upward as if searching for an answer. She was one of the most open people he’d ever known, utterly without guile.

  Her jaw set. She showed determination. “We’d better figure out this puzzle and get Richter arrested.”

  He turned the computer screen toward her. “You can read Burke’s case file.”

  With a gesture that managed to convey exhaustion and disgust, she waved the laptop away. Her hands were nearly as expressive as her face. “I’m too tired to read. You can tell me the important points.”

  With a nod, he started at the beginning. “Nicole was kidnapped by Richter and Logan and taken to the Circle M. When Burke interviewed Logan, he learned that Logan—the leader of the SOF survivalists—sent Nicole away with Richter and Thurgood for safekeeping.”

  “He told Burke that?”

  “Logan is in custody and talking his head off, hoping to make a deal. He says that after Richter and Thurgood took Nicole, he never saw her again.”

  “Does Burke believe him?”

  “There’s no evidence that shows Richter and Thurgood returned to the Circle M. But Nicole herself gave them the clue that she was there.”

  “How?”

  “Proof of life,” Jesse said. “Standard operating procedure in kidnap cases is to demand proof that the victim is still alive. Here’s the first photo of Nicole.”

  On the computer screen, he pulled up a still picture of Nicole with a newspaper showing the day’s headline. “Look at the way she’s holding the paper. Her fingers form a circle and an M.”

  “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.”

  Chapter Eight

  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.