Taken by Storm. Rochelle Alers
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parking lot. It'd been one of three attacks on federal officials marking the first anniversary of the Oklahoma City bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building. Undercover agents had reported the subsequent attacks, like the bombing, was to avenge the Waco siege and Ruby Ridge killings.
The agents had also gathered evidence that Benton was a professional hit man for supremacist groups targeting lawyers and judges involved in the prosecution of hate crimes. However, after his l996 release following the mysterious disappearance of a government witness, Benton dropped out of sight, only to resurface more than a decade later, this time in the Northeast. If convicted, he would be sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole.
Simone exhaled a soft sigh. She didn't want to think or talk about Ian Benton. She wanted to believe she'd imagined everything that had happened to her, that she'd had a bad dream, that when she woke she would be living alone and she wouldn't have to share her house and life with the marshal who'd become her bodyguard.
Opening the door to the room she'd chosen for Rafe, she gave him a level stare. "This will be your bedroom."
"Where's yours?" Rafe asked.
"It's the one on the right at the top of the stairs."
"I can't sleep here."
"And why not?" she countered.
"It's too far from your bedroom." He didn't want to lose time getting to her in an emergency. "I'll take the bedroom across from yours."
"Whatever," Simone mumbled under her breath. She'd chosen the room as much for its spaciousness as for its southeast exposure. If Rafe wanted to sleep in a bedroom with embroidered sheets, lace panels at the windows and frilly pillows, then she didn't want to hear any complaints from him.
They went upstairs, Rafe dropping his bags with a thud when he peered into a smaller bedroom. Lace-and fringe-trimmed pillows were piled high on two twin, four-poster beds draped in more embroidered lace. It was pretty, but Rafe wasn't into butterflies. White-painted furniture and cream-colored coverlets added to the feminine softness of space fashioned expressly for a girly-girl.
He smiled, attractive lines crinkling around his luminous eyes. "Who last slept here? Cinderella or Snow White?"
Simone flashed a Kool-Aid grin. "Very funny, Rafe." She sobered quickly. "I did offer you the bigger bedroom and a larger bed."
Rafe eyed the beds again. He was six-three, two hundred and ten pounds, and there was no way he'd be able to sleep comfortably in a twin bed. "I'll take the other room."
A smile of triumph softened Simone's mouth as she averted her face so he couldn't see her expression. It was enough that he was sleeping under her roof, and she didn't want him that close to her bedroom.
"I'll leave you to settle in. By the way, your bathroom is directly across the hall. You'll find a set of towels on a tray on the bench under the window. There're more in a cupboard, along with grooming supplies. I'll be downstairs in the kitchen if you need me for anything."
"Where's your bathroom?" Rafe asked.
The seconds ticked off as Simone met his questioning gaze. "It's in my bedroom. Why?"
"I'm going to take a shower before I go through the house to familiarize myself with the layout of your property. Activate the alarm, and please don't open the door for anyone."
"What if someone comes while you're still in the shower?"
With wide eyes, he glared at her. "Then come and get me."
Bully! she mused, glaring at him. Rafe reminded her of a bad-tempered dog who'd growl and bare his teeth, but only after he let you pat him. Solitary by nature, she didn't want Raphael Madison around, not only because he reminded her of what had happened earlier that morning, but also because she didn't want to share her space with a man. Once she'd made the decision to give her ex-husband his walking papers, she'd sworn that the next man to sleep under her roof would be the last man in her life.
Rafe would sleep under her roof, but thankfully his stay would be temporary. As soon as Ian Benton was tried, convicted and sentenced, she'd be able to move on with her life unfettered and unencumbered by a man. If her ex's intent was to turn her off on all men, then he'd been successful. Simone realized she didn't want or need a man—not even for sex. She turned and walked away, feeling the heat of the marshal's gaze on her retreating back.
Picking up his bags, Rafe retraced his steps, stopping to peer out the hallway window before walking into what would become his bedroom. As in the smaller room, this one also had white walls, pale floors, furniture, baseboard heating, ceiling vents for central air-conditioning and a wood-burning fireplace. However, this one came with an added bonus: an incredible view of the river.
There was built-in storage with shelves and drawers to minimize clutter. A wicker rocker with a patchwork cushion was positioned under the vaulted ceiling, while a matching bedside table cradled a Depression blue vase filled with fresh sunflowers. A shelf in an alcove held a television, a state-of-the art stereo system and an assortment of hardcover novels.
The information he'd been given about Simone Whitfield confirmed that she operated her flower business out of her home. She'd erected greenhouses on her property, and her reported income and the large, colorful sunflowers were obvious indicators of her skill as a floral designer.
Slipping out of his jacket, he hung it on a wooden hook affixed to the back of the door. He reached under his T-shirt and slipped a pair of handcuffs, a holstered semiautomatic handgun and an extra clip of ammunition off his waistband. He would unpack later. His first priority was to shower, change his clothes and then make it very clear to Simone what he needed from her to ensure her safety.
Chapter 2
Simone sat in the dining area of the kitchen, her feet tucked under her body. It was the first time since she'd returned home to take a shower that she'd been alone.
She'd been driven to a White Plains station house in a police cruiser where she stood behind a one-way glass and identified Ian Benton as the man who'd tried to murder Mitchell Fischer. Even if she hadn't recognized his face, it was the infinity tattoo on the back of his right hand that sealed his fate. A cadre of marshals transported Ian Benton to a detention center, while she'd lost track of time when questioned by a team of attorneys at the federal courthouse. The lead prosecutor told her that she would be provided with witness security, and until the conclusion of the trial, she wasn't to discuss any aspects of the case on the phone and only her immediate family would know of her protected status.
Simone had just finished her second cup of green tea when she felt the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. Glancing over her shoulder she saw Rafe standing under the entrance, staring at her.
Lowering her feet, she stood up. "I see you managed to find the shower."
Water had darkened his rakishly long hair to burnished gold. He'd changed into a pair of black jeans with a matching V-neck polo and black boots. She noticed the slight bulge at his waist near his left arm. She detested firearms, handguns in particular, yet she was forced to cohabitate with a man who wore one as if it were an appendage.
Rafe angled his head. "You probably think you're very clever. Why didn't you tell me it was hidden in a closet?"
"I just assumed you'd find it. And apparently you did."
"Were you testing me?" he asked, walking into the kitchen.
Simone dropped her gaze before his steady stare. She noticed for the first time that his eyes weren't blue, but an odd shade of violet with dark blue irises. The color reminded her of the delicate purplish-blue flower of the same name, while his hoary lashes and eyebrows were several shades darker than his hair. She wanted to tell him that he was sorely in need of a haircut.
"No. But if I were, then you passed. Have you settled in?"
"Not yet." Rafe glanced around the space that reminded him of the kitchen in the farmhouse where he'd grown up in Kansas. Hanging copper pots and exposed ceiling beams imbued the space with