Mountain Blizzard. Cassie Miles
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Her face, framed by wisps of brown hair, was flushed beneath the natural olive tint. He remembered her spirit and her enthusiasm, and he knew that she wanted to tell him something. The words were poised at the tip of her tongue, straining to jump out.
And he wanted to hear them. He wanted to share with her, to listen to her stories and to feel the waves of excitement that radiated from her. Emily had always thrown herself wholeheartedly into whatever she was attempting to do. It was part of her charm. No doubt she had some project that was insanely ambitious.
With a scowl, she raised her hand, palm out, to hold him away from her. “Just go.”
“Such drama,” Aunt Hazel said. “The two of you are impossible. It’s called communication, and it’s not all that difficult. Sean, you’re going to sit there and I’m going to tell you what our girl has been up to.”
“I don’t have to listen to this,” Emily said.
“If I’m not explaining properly, feel free to jump in,” Hazel said. “First of all, Emily doesn’t write poems anymore. After the divorce, she changed her focus to journalism.”
“Totally impractical,” he muttered. “With all the newspapers going out of business, nobody makes a living as a journalist.”
“I do all right.”
Her voice was proud, and there was a strut in her step as she strolled from one end of the island to the other. Watching her long, slender legs and the way her hips swayed was a treat. He felt himself being drawn into her orbit. She’d always had the power to mesmerize him.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Tell me about your big deal success in journalism.”
“Right after the divorce, I got a job writing for the Daily Californian, Berkeley’s student newspaper. I learned investigative techniques, and I blogged. And I started doing articles for online magazines. I have a regular bimonthly piece in a national publication, and they pay very nicely.”
“For articles about eye shadow and shoes?”
“Hard-hitting news.” She slammed her fist on the marble island. “I witnessed a murder.”
“Which is why I called you,” Aunt Hazel said. “Emily’s life is in danger.”
This was just crazy enough to be possible. “Have you received threats?”
“Death threats,” she said.
His feet were rooted to the kitchen floor. He didn’t want to stay...but he couldn’t leave her here unprotected.
Emily couldn’t look away from him. Fascinated, she watched as a muscle in Sean’s jaw twitched, his brow lowered and his eyes turned as black as polished obsidian. He was outrageously masculine.
With a nearly imperceptible shrug, his muscles tensed, but his frame didn’t contract. He seemed to get bigger. His fingers coiled into fists, ready to lash out. He was prepared to defend her against anything and everything. His aggressive stance told her that he’d take on an army to keep her from harm.
When she thought about it, his new occupation as a bodyguard made sense. Sean had always been a protector, whether it was keeping a bully away from his sweet-but-nerdy brother or rescuing a stray dog by stopping four lanes of traffic on a busy highway. If Sean had been hiding in that louvered closet instead of her, he would have saved the man she now could identify as Roger Patrone.
Sean reached toward her. She yanked her arm away. She didn’t dare allow him to get too close. No matter how much she wanted his embrace, that wasn’t going to happen. This man had been the love of her life. Ending their marriage was the most difficult thing she’d ever done, and she couldn’t bear going through that soul-wrenching pain again.
“Did you report the murder to the police?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said, “and to your former FBI bosses. Specifically, I had several chats with Special Agent Greg Levine. I’m surprised he didn’t call and tell you.”
“Levine is still stationed in San Francisco,” he said. “Is that where the crime took place?”
“Yes.”
“In the city?”
“Just beyond the Golden Gate Bridge.”
“In open waters,” he said. “A good place to dump a body.”
It was a bit disturbing that his FBI-trained brain and Freddie Wynter’s nefarious instincts drew exactly the same conclusion. Maybe you need to think like a criminal to catch one. “As it turned out, the ocean wasn’t such a great dump site. The victim washed up on Baker Beach five days later.”
“The waiting must have been rough on you,” he said. “It’s no fun to report a murder when the body goes missing.”
Definitely not fun when the investigating officer was buddy-buddy with her ex-husband. She’d asked Greg not to blab to Sean, but she’d expected him to ignore her request. Those guys stuck together. The only time Sean had lied to her when they were married was when he was covering up for a fellow fed.
She wondered if Sean’s departure from the FBI had been due to negative circumstances. Had Mr. Perfect screwed up? Gotten himself fired? “Why did you leave the FBI?”
“It was time.”
“Cryptic,” she snapped.
“It’s true.”
God forbid he give her a meaningful explanation! Leaving the FBI must have been traumatic for him. Sean was born to be a fed. He could have been a poster boy with his black hair neatly barbered and his chin clean-shaven and his beige chamois suede shirt looking like it had come fresh from the dry cleaner’s. He’d been proud to be a special agent. Would he confide in her if they’d fired him? “You can be so damn annoying.”
“Is that so?”
“I hate when you put off a perfectly rational query with a macho statement that doesn’t really tell me anything, like a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”
“I don’t expect you to understand.”
“Mission accomplished.”
Hostility vibrated around him. A red flush climbed his throat. Oh yeah, he was angry. Hot and angry. They could have put him on the porch and melted the blizzard.
“I’ll leave,” he said.
“Not in this storm,” Aunt Hazel said. “The two of you need to calm down. Have some chili. Try to be civil.”
Emily stepped away from the stove, folded her arms at her waist and watched with a sidelong gaze as Sean and her aunt dished up bowls of chili and cut off slabs of corn bread. Sean managed to squash his anger and transform into a pleasant dinner guest. She could have matched his politeness with a cold veneer of her own, but she preferred to say nothing.
There had been a time—long ago when she and Sean were first dating—when she was known for her candor. Every word from her lips was truth. She had been 100 percent frank and open.
Those days were gone.
She’d glimpsed the ugliness, heard the cries of the hopeless, learned that life wasn’t always good and people weren’t always kind. She’d lost her innocence.
And Hazel was correct. She’d gotten herself into trouble from the Wynters. Though she didn’t want to be, she was terrified. Almost anything could set off her fear...an unexpected phone call, the slam of a door, a car that followed too closely. She hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep since that night in James Wynter’s closet.
The only reason she hadn’t disintegrated into a quivering mass of nerves was simple: Wynter and his men didn’t know her identity. Her FBI contact had