Mountain Blizzard. Cassie Miles
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She braced her fists on her hips and stared at him. “You’re exactly how I remembered.”
Aha, they had met before. He stood and adjusted the tail of his beige suede shirt to hide the holster he wore on his hip. “This may sound strange...” he said. “Have I ever been here?”
“I don’t think so. But Hazelwood Ranch is the backdrop for many, many photos. The kids came here often.”
Her explanation raised more questions. Backdrop for what? What kids? Why would he have seen the photos? “Maybe you could remind me—”
She reached up to pat his cheek. “I’m glad that you’re still clean-shaven. I don’t like the scruffy beard trend. I’ll bet you picked up your grooming habits in the FBI.”
“Plus, my mom was a good teacher.”
“Not according to the photo on your TST Security website,” she said. “Your brother, Dylan, has a ponytail.”
“He’s kind of a wild card. His specialties are electronics and cybersecurity.”
“And your specialty is working with law enforcement and figuring out the crimes. I believe your third partner, Mason Steele, is what you boys call the ‘muscle’ in the group.”
“I guess you checked me out.”
“I have, indeed.”
He took a long look at her, hoping to jog his brain. His mind was blank. Nothing came through. His gaze focused on her necklace, a long string of etched silver, black onyx and turquoise beads. He knew that necklace...and the matching bracelet coiled around her wrist.
Shaking his head, he inhaled deeply. A particular aroma came to him. The scent of roasted peppers, onions, chili and cinnamon mingled with honey and fresh corn bread. He couldn’t explain this odor, but his lungs had been craving it. Nothing else was nearly as sweet or as spicy delicious. Nothing else would satisfy this newly awakened appetite.
His eyelids closed as a high-definition picture appeared in his mind. He saw a woman—young, fresh and beautiful. A blue jersey shift outlined her slender curves, and she’d covered the front with a ruffled white apron. Her long, sleek brown hair cascaded down her back, almost to her waist. She held a wooden spoon toward him, offering a taste of her homemade chili.
He had always wanted more than a taste. He wanted everything with her, the whole enchilada. But he couldn’t have her. Their time was over.
He gazed down into her eyes...her turquoise eyes!
“You remember,” Hazel said, “the wedding.”
That Saturday in June, six and a half years ago, was a blur of color and taste and music and silence. His eyelids snapped open. “I recall the divorce a whole lot better.”
These were dangerous memories, warning bells. He should run, get the hell out of there. Instead, he followed his nose down a shadowy hallway. Stiff-legged, he marched through the dining room into the bright, warm kitchen where the aroma of chili was thick.
Two pans of golden corn bread rested near the sink on the large center island with a dark marble countertop. She stood at the stove with her back toward him, stirring a heavy cast-iron pot. She wore jeans that outlined her long legs and tight, round bottom. On top, she had on a striped sweater. Over her shoulder, she said, “Hazel, did I hear the doorbell?”
The small, silver-haired woman beside him growled a warning. “You should turn around slowly, dear.”
Sean gripped the edge of the marble countertop, unsure of how he was going to feel when he faced her. Every single day since their divorce five years ago—after only a year and a half of marriage—he had imagined her. Sometimes he remembered the sweet warmth of her body beside him in their bed. Other times he saw her from afar and reveled in coming closer and closer. Usually, he imagined her naked with her dark chestnut hair spilling across her olive skin.
Her hair! He stared at her back and shoulders. She’d chopped off her lush, silky hair.
“Emily,” he said.
She whirled. Clearly surprised, she wielded her wooden spoon like a knife she might plunge into his chest. “Sean.”
Her turquoise eyes were huge, outlined with thick, dark lashes. Her mouth was a thin, tight line. Her dark brows pulled down, and he immediately recognized her expression, a look he’d seen often while they were married. She was furious. What the hell did she have to be angry about? He was the one who had driven through a blizzard.
He stepped away from the counter, not needing the support. The anger surging through his veins gave him the strength of ten. “I don’t know what kind of sick game you two ladies are playing, but it’s not funny. I’m leaving.”
“Good.” She stuck out her jaw and took a step toward him. “I don’t want you hanging around.”
“Then why call me up here? I had a verbal contract, an agreement.” TST had a strict no-refund policy, but this was a special circumstance. He’d pay back the retainer from his own pocket. “Forget it. I’ll give your money back.”
“What money?” Emily’s upper lip curled in a sneer that she probably thought was terrifying. Yeah, right, as terrifying as a bunny wiggling its nose.
“You hired me.”
“Not me.” Emily threw her spoon back into the chili pot. “Aunt Hazel, what have you done?”
The silver-haired woman with dragons on her shoulders had maneuvered her way around so she was standing at the far end of the center island with both of them on the other side. “When you two got married, I always thought you were a perfect match.”
“You were the only one,” Emily said.
Unfortunately, that was true. Sean and Emily were both born and raised in Colorado, but they had met in San Francisco. She was a student at University of California in Berkeley, majoring in English and appearing at least once a week at local poetry slams. At one of these open-mike events, he saw her.
She’d been dancing around on a small stage wearing a long gypsy skirt. Her wild hair was snatched up on her head with dozens of ribbons. He’d been impressed when she rhymed “appetite” and “morning light” and “coprolite,” which was a technical word for fossilized poop. He would have stayed and talked to her, but he’d been undercover, rooting out a drug dealer at the slam venue. Sean had been in the FBI.
When they told people they were getting married, their opposite lifestyles—Bohemian chick versus federal agent—were the first thing people pointed to as a reason it would never work. The next issue was an age difference. She was nineteen, and he was twenty-seven. Eight years wasn’t really all that much, but her youthful immaturity stood in stark contrast to his orderly, responsible lifestyle.
“If you’d asked me at the time,” Aunt Hazel said, “I’d have advised you to live together before marriage.”
Sean hadn’t wanted to take that chance. He had hoped the bonds of marriage would help him control his butterfly. “It was a mistake,” he said.
Emily responded with a snort.
“You don’t think so?” he asked.
“Are you still here? You were in such a rush to get away from me.”
His contrary streak kicked in. He sure as hell wasn’t going to let her think that she was chasing him out the door. Very slowly and deliberately, he pulled out a stool and took a seat at the center island opposite the stove top. He turned away from Emily.
“Aunt Hazel,” he said, “you still haven’t told us why you hired me as a bodyguard.”
“You? A bodyguard?” Emily sputtered. “You’re not a fed anymore?”
“Do you care?”
“Why should I?”
“What are you doing now?” he