A Promise at Bluebell Hill (10 page)

“Friends? Is that what we are? So you don't mind what others think? I warned you what your secrecy would lead to, after all.”

He glanced down at her from behind his sunglasses. “I'm okay with it if you are.”

As his voice rumbled tantalizingly, her amusement faded away to be replaced by delicious tension. “Are you saying it's okay to make me look so hard up for a date that I'd hang out with a guy only temporarily in town?”

“Your words, not mine.”

She punched him lightly in the arm. “Not very gentlemanly of you, Beaumont. I may have to sic my brother on you.”

“It's not like you introduced me.”

She looked away, feeling a twinge of discomfort. “I introduced him with the crowd.”

“I see.”

And she thought maybe he was seeing too much. Helping him let loose was one thing—­he didn't need to know about private family problems. And she didn't like being transparent.

The photo shoot ended, the guys got dressed, then enthusiastically dug into the subs.

“Hey, Monica!”

She turned to find Josh approaching her and Travis. She made the introductions.

“When I talked to Ashley,” Monica said, “she told me that the First Husband is a big fan of yours and plans to drop in to the flower shop. I told her I'd try to arrange for you to be there.”

Josh blinked. “That's flattering. Of course I'll come. Unless Whitney's in labor, I'm yours.”

“I won't be in labor!” Whitney called from where she was sitting with the widows. “Not this early,” she continued in a mutter.

“Thanks, Josh,” Monica said. “Did you need me for something?”

“I just wanted to let you know I have some frames almost ready for you.”

To Travis, she explained, “Not sure you noticed, but I take local crafts on consignment. Needless to say, Josh is my best seller.”

“I'm sorry I've been so busy,” Josh said. “And when the baby comes, I might have even less time. I hate affecting your business in a bad way, so I'll do my best not to.”

“Don't worry about it,” she insisted. “The baby is more important than your fans.”

He grimaced, and she knew he was remembering the fan who threw a rock through Leather and Lace's window out of jealousy over him last year. As for herself, she'd found the perfect way to combat her worry that Josh's fame had more to do with her business success than her own flowers. She'd prove that she could decorate a presidential wedding as well as the best florists in the big city. Ideas were bursting in her brain, the chance to use the most exotic flowers in intricate designs she seldom had the opportunity—­or the budget—­to try.

Gradually, all the subs were consumed, sodas drained, cookies devoured. Everyone started departing by twos and threes, and Brooke gave Monica a head gesture in Travis's direction, and mouthed, “Stay!”

Monica hesitated, then nodded. What else was she supposed to do, especially since Travis was letting ­people think what they would? She walked to the edge of the spring, sat down, took off her shoes, and lowered her feet in. Might as well enjoy the day—­maybe Travis would join her. She gave a sigh of contentment, leaned back on her hands, and let the sun filtering through the trees bathe her face with flickering light. The last voices faded away.

It was still quiet behind her. For all she knew, Travis had left, but . . . she thought she would have sensed it. Or at least he would have said good-­bye. She finally snuck a peek over her shoulder and found him, arms crossed over his chest, his expression impassive beneath those sunglasses.

“That must be your bodyguard face,” she said, smiling, kicking her legs gently in the hot water. “Is that what you're doing, guarding me? Or keeping up your story?”

“
My
story?”

“Of course! You're the one who told me to let ­people think what they want. And they're thinking it, believe me. Meanwhile, it sure helps you get to know all my friends, dangerous criminals that they are.”

“I do my job thoroughly.”

She thought he spoke with a hint of relish, and she got a different impression than what he might have meant. Or was she was reading him right . . . “Or maybe you came prepared to use the hot springs.”

He glanced at the pool, heat steaming off it. “I actually hadn't thought of it.”

She stood up. “I did. I have my suit on. Do you mind?”

Without missing a beat, he said, “Not at all.”

That surprised her, intrigued her, but she tried not to think too much about it as she pulled her shirt off over her head.

She saw him inhale swiftly at the sight of her white bikini top, which she thought made her skin look incredible. His expression stayed impassive, but he didn't look away. She slid off her cropped pants to reveal the little string-­bikini bottom.

“Want to join me in the water?” she asked.

“I can't, but thanks.”

“Right, you're working.” She stepped down in near the edge, then waded up to her waist and found one of the rock ledges built to sit on. She let her arms rest wide along the rim of the rock wall and hoped he was checking her out from behind those sunglasses. She wanted to chastise herself—­it's not as if a flirtation could go anywhere, but . . . she was having fun.

He started moving toward her, and she found her breath trapped in her lungs with anticipation. She couldn't read his expression as he walked slowly around the spring to the far side, forcing her to tilt her head back to follow him, but he never looked away. Then he walked back again. Her body was strung so tight, it was like foreplay, and he hadn't even touched her.

He moved back toward her again, like a jungle cat, all pretty on the outside but powerful and dangerous on the inside. He stopped right behind her; she tilted her head back and squinted up at him.

He pulled his sunglasses off, and she was startled yet again by the sharp blue of his eyes. Slowly, purposefully, he bent down, put his hands on her face, and kissed her, an erotic, upside-­down kiss. His lips moved over hers possessively, parted but not wide, framing hers, capturing them one at a time, his nose brushing her chin. She moaned when he tilted his head and kissed her more deeply, his tongue meeting hers like a conquering hero. She found herself straining upward toward him, desperate for this to go on and on, starving for the taste of him, wishing she could touch him—­

And then suddenly he was no longer touching her. He straightened up and ran a hand through his perfect hair while she turned on the ledge to get a better look at him.

“I hope you're not angry about this,” she said.

“Not at you. But it was a mistake. I should go before I do something else.” He started to turn away, then paused, saying over his shoulder, “Go ahead and dry off. I'll wait for you.”

“So you can escort me home?” she asked, amused. “Don't worry about me. You're obviously on the clock at this photo shoot. Sorry to distract you.”

He hesitated, then said in a wry voice, “I don't think you're all that sorry.”

She chuckled. “I can't be sorry for that kiss. It was pretty hot.”

He shook his head as he turned away and strode down the path, disappearing behind trees as he followed it along the curving stream.

She sank lower in the spring and grinned like it was Christmas Day.

 

Chapter Nine

T
ravis barely remembered driving the few blocks back to the hotel, that's how much Monica's kiss had affected him. If he'd let himself, he could have been feeling up a sexy woman in a mountain hot spring, where anybody could find them. How long had it been since he'd had a date?

Too long.

God, he couldn't even remember. Sometimes he had to work for weeks at a time without even a day off, and that didn't sit well with most women. His ex-­wife, who was also an agent, did understand that—­and it
still
hadn't helped their marriage survive.

He couldn't blame himself for seeing Monica in that white bikini and losing it. But even when she'd been fully clothed, it had taken everything in him to resist the lure of her. He could have lost it in front of all her friends—­and her brother—­that's how close he'd come to his control evaporating.

Lately, he'd been nothing but the job, the job that had given his life purpose for so many years. He knew he was doing important work, and it satisfied his need to help, to be involved. But the job also made him serious and paranoid and exhausted. And suddenly it seemed . . . a hollow, lonely way to live.

M
onica got a call from Brooke just before lunch Wednesday.

“Come on over to Leather and Lace,” Brooke said. “I've got some of my mom's chicken to share—­and something to confront you about.”

“What are you talking about?” Monica demanded with amusement.

“You'll see.”

“I can't just drop everything. I'm in the middle of—­”

The phone was already dead.

Mrs. Wilcox, white hair in a bun at the back of her head, glasses sliding down her nose, gave Monica a look. “No problem, I've got this covered. You should get away from here for a while. I don't think you've ever made so many phone calls in one day.”

Monica reached under the counter for her purse and gave the old woman's shoulder a squeeze. “Thanks. I'm placing a lot of big orders for this wedding, and our usual wholesalers are having trouble getting enough of the more exotic flowers Ashley wants. But I always make it work. And I'll keep my cell handy—­just call if you get busy. I'll only be at Leather and Lace.”

“Lately, you're so focused on this wedding, I'm at this counter more often than not.”

“Good thing Karista comes in after school to help. I'd really feel guilty.”

Mrs. Wilcox smiled. “You go on. You work too hard anyway.”

Monica waved a hand, then headed through the workroom toward the alley to walk the block to Whitney's store. Leather and Lace showcased upscale lingerie in a beautiful old Victorian. Whitney had kept the gorgeous woodwork and carved banister, even as she'd opened up the floor plan and used antique dressers to display her clothing. Brooke found the girls on the back terrace, surrounded by a landscaped garden that invited customers to think of peaceful tranquillity even when they just glimpsed it through the French doors.

Whitney was relaxing on a lounge, and Monica looked her over. “Swollen ankles again?”

Whitney wrinkled her nose. “The doctor says I might have to cut back my hours to rest more. This is such a pain. Good thing there's a wonderful outcome.”

“And good thing you have assistants—­and good thing I do, too, because I left Mrs. Wilcox alone during the lunch rush because Brooke insisted.”

Monica turned to find Brooke and Emily seated at the glass-­top patio table, spreading out a feast of fried chicken and salad. Monica's stomach growled audibly.

“See, I knew you needed lunch,” Brooke said. “Thought you might need to see this, too.” She pushed a folded copy of the
Valentine Gazette
toward the end of the table.

The giant headline stood out: “
P
R
E
S
I
D
E
N
T
T
O
R
R
E
S
T
O
V
I
S
I
T
V
A
L
E
N
T
I
N
E
V
A
L
L
E
Y
.”

“Well, we knew it would come out,” Monica said. “Now the rest of the town knows.”

She exchanged a glance with Emily, who said, “Look beneath the fold.”

Frowning, Monica unfolded the paper and saw a photograph of the front of the Hotel Colorado, a group of sunglasses-­wearing men standing together, Travis at the center. They were trying to look casual but only succeeded in looking like soldiers ill at ease in civilian clothes.

“Secret Ser­vice. And you knew,” Brooke accused with fake disappointment. She gave Emily a mock frown. “And I think you knew, too.”

Monica grinned. “Yeah, we knew. He didn't want anyone else to know, only vendors to be used in the wedding.”

“I can finally tell Heather, too,” Emily said with relief.

“President Torres wanted to keep it secret for as long as possible, so that's why no one could know.” Monica gestured at the paper. “This'll make Travis's job harder.”

“Oh, we're name-­dropping the president now?” Brooke asked.

Monica laughed and would have sat down, but Whitney raised an imploring hand.

“I can't get out of this damn lounge chair,” she grumbled.

Monica pulled her to her feet, and, together, they sat beside Brooke and Emily at the table. Chicken and salad were piled on paper plates, and Whitney was the first to dig in.

After they'd all had a few bites, Brooke said, “The article doesn't have a lot to say, just that the top two floors of the hotel will be taken over for the president, so they're in the process of planning the removal of the last guests now.”

“Good thing it's not the height of the summer season,” Monica said, then speared more mixed greens and ate them.

“And special agents are interviewing businessmen—­business­people, whatever we're called now.” Whitney blotted her lips with a paper napkin. She sighed. “No one from the government wants to talk lingerie—­although Ashley Ludlow did stop by to introduce herself and buy some honeymoon stuff. Did Travis want to interview you?”

“Eventually. I kind of . . . forced our first meeting, remember.”

“Because we saw him going store to store,” Emily reminded them all.

“But the Secret Ser­vice did choose my store to be an observation post when the president arrives—­well, not my store, but my apartment.”

“You're going to have handsome men in your apartment all hours of the day?” Brooke said, her smile growing. “Travis?”

“Well, he's in charge, so he says it won't be him.”

“So he says.” Emily pointed at her with a drumstick. “But I saw him when he hung out at my bakery that evening. He was watching you, Monica—­and he certainly didn't have to come to a photo shoot on behalf of the president.”

“You look embarrassed!” Brooke gaped at Monica. “What happened?”

Monica chewed her chicken slowly, enjoying the mounting eagerness and tension. “Well, I happened to have on my bathing suit underneath . . .”

“That white bikini?” Brooke said. “The man killer?”

Monica laughed. “Yeah, that one. So I stripped off my clothes . . .”

They all leaned forward.

“And got in the hot spring.”

“Did he get in, too?” Emily asked breathlessly.

“Nope. He paced around me for a bit—­and then he kissed me. Upside down, like the Spider-­Man movie.”

They collectively “oohed.”

“Then what?” Brooke demanded impatiently.

Monica sighed. “Then he said it shouldn't have happened, and he left.”

Shoulders sagged.

“Really?” Whitney asked in disappointment.

“I don't mind. It's not like I want to date him, but I am enjoying the challenge of getting him to relax a bit,” she added, grinning.

They all began to grin back.

“And was that kiss relaxing?” Brooke asked.

“Not exactly . . . And though I hadn't meant it to happen, it sure was nice. We even went running again today—­not that anything else happened, and we didn't talk about the kiss. We were like exercise buddies.”

“Exercise buddies?” Whitney echoed, making a face. “Surely, you can get him to have more fun than that. What are you going to do next?”

“I don't know. I'm taking it as it comes. I'll probably keep running into him. He asks for my help about towns­people. We had a great meal before he met Em the other day, and he actually opened up about his childhood and his career.”

“Since you two discussed your pasts,” Brooke said, “did you tell Mr. Special Agent about your activism in college?”

Monica winced. “I did not. I don't think that has to come up.”

“So you didn't tell him about the widows' current protest?” Emily asked.

“How could I? It would feel like I was betraying my grandma! I can make this work out, I promise. I can keep the widows low-­key, and Travis won't be upset.”

“I hope so,” Brooke said doubtfully.

While they finished up their lunch, Monica still felt they were studying her.

“Okay, what is it?” she finally asked.

“Well . . .” Brooke began, “you do seem like you're having a good time with Travis.”

“Okay, I'm a little fascinated by him,” Monica admitted. “But the wedding's a week from Saturday. Not sure when the president is arriving—­”

“That sounds so cool,” Emily interrupted.

“—­but I think once the president arrives,” Monica continued, “Travis'll be busy, then he'll go back to Washington. I keep telling myself I should just step back now, but . . . I don't want to.”

“Then don't,” Whitney said, leaning toward her. “If you're having fun, and you're not hurting anyone, then enjoy yourself without looking to the future. Sometimes things turn out the way they're meant to be.”

Monica looked at her three closest friends, all of whom had found love when they hadn't been looking. They'd all taken chances, risked their happiness and their hearts. Why couldn't she take a chance—­not on love or anything long-­term like that, she assured herself. Just . . . fun.

T
ravis and Royce entered the flower shop, and an old woman behind the counter glanced at them—­and then glanced again, eyebrows raised. It had to be that newspaper article. Travis didn't know how the hell they'd been captured unaware by a photographer, but all morning, ­people had stared, pointed, and whispered—­when they weren't approaching outright about the president's visit. He'd had to brusquely remind more than one person that the president had a press secretary to announce her schedule, not the Secret Ser­vice.

The white-­haired old woman raised a finger as if gesturing for them to wait a moment, then finished ringing up the single rose that a teenage boy had purchased. He was flushed when he ducked past the men and out the door without meeting their eyes.

“That was adorable,” the woman said, looking at them over her glasses. “Just when you think teenage boys are clueless, some of them get it right.” She studied them. “You two look familiar. Have you been in here before?”

“I have,” Travis said, “but I spoke with Monica. Is she here?” He tried to keep his tone flat and impassive rather than ringing with eagerness.

“Oh,
I
know where I've seen you. The newspaper! You're with the Secret Ser­vice to prepare for the president's trip here.” She put a hand to her chest. “It's so exciting. To think the first female president of the United States is coming here, to Valentine Valley. If anyone will understand and support the romance in our community, it's a woman.”

Support?
Travis thought skeptically. He wasn't going to ask. “Mrs . . .”

“Mrs. Wilcox,” she said, blushing. “Can't believe I didn't introduce myself. And you are . . . ?”

“Special Agent Beaumont,” Travis nodded toward his friend, “and Special Agent Ames.”

Royce flashed his white smile. “Pleasure to meet you, ma'am.”

His deep Southern drawl always made the ladies swoon—­except Monica, Travis remembered, feeling a little too satisfied.

“Is Monica available?” Travis asked again.

“Sorry, no, she's out to lunch. Can I help you?”

He frowned. “We'll be using Monica's building as an observation post when the president is in town—­”

Mrs. Wilcox gasped. “
Really?
It's so exciting to be part of something so important.”

“Agent Ames needs to look over the room where we'll be stationed. Monica says she lives up there. We've promised not to intrude too much, but if we could just go upstairs . . .”

“Of course! Let me just see your badges—­you can't be too careful.”

Travis found himself relaxing. At least Monica's employee wasn't going to let just anybody in her boss's apartment.

She handed back their badges and smiled. “Give me a moment to put the
B
A
C
K
I
N
5
M
I
N
U
T
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S
sign in the door.” She locked it as well, then bustled past them. “Follow me. The entrance is off the alley.”

She led them through what was obviously a workroom, with spools of ribbon lining one wall, a big cooler filled with flowers and greenery on another, and lots of worktables. A door led out into a little hall, with a door opposite to the alley and another entrance to the left.