A Promise at Bluebell Hill (12 page)

“I would never protest against the president,” she said with conviction. “Travis, you're making a big deal of this for nothing.”

“If it's no big deal, then you won't care if I interview the ­people who might be involved.”

“Go ahead and do your job.” She hesitated, pushing aside her empty plate. “So tell me—­does my past fame mean you can't be seen with me anymore?”

When she lifted her chin, a stubborn gesture, suddenly he knew if they'd been alone, he'd have kissed her, kissed away that defiance and shown how much he cared about her. She must have sensed his thoughts, because she licked her lips in a slow dance until they glistened. She could have punched him in the gut, that's how powerful he felt the impact of her sensuality.

He tried to gather his thoughts. “I'm going to figure out what you're hiding, Monica, and I'll put a stop to it.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” She gave him a slow, naughty smile.

They might have sat there a long time getting lost in each other's eyes, making fools of themselves, but the door opened again, and the bell jingled noisily.

Monica startled, as if awakening from a dream. His blue eyes were captivating, so powerful and direct and demanding. She wished she could run her hands through his short auburn hair, more red than brown when the sun caught it just right. He wanted answers, but he wanted her, too, and it was obviously getting harder and harder for him to hide it. She was flattered and aroused all at the same time.

But she was also straddling a line between him and the widows. She had to admit—­she was enjoying herself, even if all her past mistakes had to be laid out in front of him.

“Monica?”

Her brother, Dom, walked toward them, holding out his hand, wearing a broad smile. She and Travis stood up.

“We weren't officially introduced, Agent Beaumont,” Dom said, shaking Travis's hand, a light of interest in his eyes. “I'm Monica's brother, Dom.”

Monica wanted to roll her eyes. Her brother, Mr. USA, was going to enjoy knowing a member of the government.

“Good to meet you, Dom. I'm Travis.”

“How was I supposed to introduce each person at the hot springs?” Monica asked. “It would have been overwhelming for poor Travis.”

Dom glanced down at the two empty plates on the table, then looked between them with not quite a frown. “Did I interrupt a meeting?”

“Only some routine questions,” Travis said.

Monica held back a smile. There'd been no questions when they'd been staring at each other.

“My mom tells me you're going to use Monica's apartment for an observation post,” Dom said.

Travis glanced at Monica. “I would appreciate if that didn't get much further.”

“I'll make sure my friends don't tell,” she said lightly.

“Well, if you need anything else,” Dom continued, “I'd be happy to help. Although seeing my little sis cooperating with the government sure is strange.”

Monica narrowed her eyes at her brother, biting her tongue to hold back the anger even as he elbowed her to emphasize his little “joke.” She had nothing against the government, just some of its policies—­and Dom knew that. But he'd let that flag-­burning photo start a schism between them, drawing other petty grievances into its wake over the years. He seemed to see everything she did through the prism of her supposed rebellion. She could have told him a long time ago that it was Missy, not her, but she didn't want him turning his renewed disappointment on their sister when she arrived. With Travis determined to investigate everything, Missy might crack under the strain of what she thought of as a cowardly lie on her part. Monica didn't see it that way.

Travis was watching her face with a little too much focus, and she tried to keep her expression neutral.

“I'm not sure anyone can help,” Travis said. “I'm getting some pressure from the mayor—­you wouldn't know her personally?” he asked Dom.

“Sure I know her. Her brother's diner is one of my clients.”

“The True Grits Diner?”

“Yep.”

“I've eaten there several times. Very good. So he's related to the mayor . . .”

“The mayor's cool,” Monica said, “but not so much her brother. He protested against Whitney's Leather and Lace before it opened, claiming it was porno­g­raphy.”

“This town likes its protests,” Travis said dryly, “if it gets upset about lingerie.”

Dom shot Monica a quick frown, then turned back to Travis. “A bunch of the guys are meeting at Tony's Tavern tomorrow night for a poker game. We call it Robbers' Roost, just having fun. You're welcome to join us.”

To Monica's surprise, Travis hesitated, as if he was actually considering it—­considering how he could use it to his advantage as far as his job was concerned. She wasn't sure she'd ever met a more focused man.

“I might have to work,” he finally said, “but I appreciate the invitation.” Then he looked back at Monica. “Thanks for answering my questions. I'm sure we'll talk again.”

“Sure.” She gave him a friendly smile as he walked out of the shop, then rounded on her brother. “Really! Really, Dom? You had to make it sound like I'm some kind of wacko who hates the government? Dom!”

“I was kidding!” he insisted, spreading his hands.

Mrs. Wilcox, dealing with a customer, frowned at them both.

Monica lowered her voice, leaned in to her brother, and spoke firmly. “Maybe you think you were kidding, but I think you're kidding yourself. You were trying to piss me off. Get. Over. It.”

She brushed past him and went into her workroom, where it was time she stopped mooning over Travis Beaumont and concentrated on the most important wedding of her career.

 

Chapter Eleven

A
­couple hours later, Monica was looking at her spreadsheets, tracking her flower orders, when Emily came into the workroom.

Monica smiled. “Hey, Em!”

Emily smiled distractedly, then pointed a thumb over her shoulder. “Have you been outside?”

Monica blinked at her in confusion. “Uh . . . I went for my run this morning. And you?”

“Yes, I ran,” she said almost impatiently, “but I mean, have you looked outside on
Main Street
?”

Monica got to her feet and followed Emily back through the showroom. To her surprise, Mrs. Wilcox had a box open on the counter, red, white, and blue bunting dangling out of it.

“Mrs. Wilcox, what's going on? Those are our Fourth of July decorations.”

“That's what I'm talking about,” Emily insisted. “All the stores are putting up theirs.”

Mrs. Wilcox blushed. “Well, our president
is
coming next week, Monica. I was going to run my ideas by you first, of course.”

Monica waved her concern aside. “I didn't doubt it.”

Emily grabbed her elbow and tugged her to the door. “Come on!”

Monica went outside, where the day was overcast, with a chilly breeze more reminiscent of late winter then late spring. She hugged herself—­and stared.

Up and down Main Street, ­people had their ladders outside, attaching red, white, and blue decorations from bunting to flags. On the door of Sugar and Spice, Mrs. Thalberg was hanging up a wreath made of tiny US flags. Someone was walking from door to door, putting pinwheels in all the planters. At the Hotel Colorado, a worker was putting red, white, and blue stars in each window on the ground floor. Those who hadn't finished their flower-­planting were doing it now, and windows were being washed until they gleamed.

“Wow,” Monica said, bemused.

“I know! But since the news of the president's arrival broke this morning, this town has gone crazy. You can't believe the orders I'm getting from regular customers whose relatives all decided to visit to catch a glimpse of President Torres or the wedding party. And this is on top of the wedding cakes I'm already baking!”

Emily looked a little wild-­eyed, and Monica gripped her upper arms.

“Okay, let's calm down,” Monica said in a genial voice. “You can only do what you can do. You've been training your sister to bake, right?”

Emily nodded, breathing in and out deeply.

“Then you can concentrate on the wedding stuff, and Steph can do the smaller, easier orders.”

Another deep breath. “Yes, yes, you're right. I just had . . . a moment. Thanks for talking me down. Are you getting hit?”

“Just by the wedding, and regular orders. Although did I tell you I have another wedding that day?”

Emily gasped.

“It's okay, it's okay, I give you permission to breathe. I'll probably end up calling in some seasonal employees to help, especially making bows and doing deliveries. We'll all be fine.”

“You're so confident and calm—­and you have a man to deal with at the same time.”

“Maybe that's why I seem calm because flowers are easy compared to him.”

They shared an understanding look.

“Excuse me, are you Monica Shaw?”

She turned around to find a woman walking between parked cars and coming up on the sidewalk.

“That's me. You look familiar.”

The woman smiled. “We've seen each other in the grocery store or the diner, but I was a few years behind you in school. We've just never had an opportunity to meet. Strange, huh, in our small town?”

The woman, dressed business casual, looked to be in her midtwenties, with long blond hair that curled in waves down past her shoulders. With a pang, Monica realized she could no longer identify herself in the same way, as “in her twenties.”

She was being ridiculous.

The woman put out a hand. “I'm Jessica Fitzjames, a reporter with the
Valentine Gazette.
” After shaking hands, she turned to Emily expectantly.

Emily smiled and shook hands, too. “Hi, I'm Emily Thalberg.”

“Oh, you own Sugar and Spice,” Jessica said. “You've done a great job.”

Emily grinned. “I thought you looked familiar.”

“I'm a regular—­way too often,” she said, patting her tummy. Her expression turned more serious though still friendly. “You two must have seen the article in our paper this morning.”

Nodding, Monica began to feel a little wary.

“I understand you both will be involved in Ashley Ludlow's wedding.”

“It's not like we're in the wedding,” Monica pointed out. “But yes, we've been hired.” It couldn't hurt to get
that
in the paper.

“It must feel pretty incredible, being involved in the biggest wedding to ever hit town.”

“We're thrilled,” Emily admitted.

“Any details you can share with the rest of us?”

“You've gotta know we've been sworn to secrecy,” Monica said with amusement.

Jessica sighed. “I had to try.” She studied Monica. “But I have seen the Secret Ser­vice guys, and I hear you've been seen in Special Agent Beaumont's ­company.”

Monica shrugged. “You know the Secret Ser­vice prepares for the president's arrival. I'm not the only one to be scrutinized. They have to be careful.”

“They're going to watch me bake,” Emily said, then glanced wide-­eyed at Monica, as if saying,
Was I allowed to reveal that?

“Watch you bake,” Jessica mused, nodding. “That's an interesting detail. Guess I'll have to do more research.” Again her assessing, but still-­friendly, gaze came back to Monica. “Someone spotted you and Agent Beaumont running together one morning.”

“We met up accidentally, and he was too polite to leave me in his dust,” Monica answered smoothly. She didn't want to be fodder for the gossips, not after she saw the toll it had taken on Josh last year.

A smile played on Jessica's mouth. “Was it accidental at Tony's, too?”

“Is someone following me?” Monica asked, only half-­amused.

“No, but you know ­people love to talk in Valentine Valley. And apparently those Secret Ser­vice guys get noticed everywhere they go. Have you met the big bald guy? Pretty hot.”

Monica almost spilled Royce's name but held back. “I didn't know they'd be there,” she said mildly, “didn't even know they were Secret Ser­vice then.”

“When
did
you know?”

“Now you know I can't reveal classified information, Jessica,” she teased. “And before you ask, it was only a business dinner at the Halftime Sports Bar. You can't believe the hoops I have to jump through because my flowers will be at the same venues as the president of the United States.”

Jessica arched a brow. “I hadn't heard about the Halftime Sports Bar.”

Monica hid a wince and saw Emily biting her lip with great innocence at her predicament.

“Is that when you talked him into appearing in the ‘Men of Valentine Valley' calendar I've heard rumors about?”

Monica gave a choked laugh. “Are you kidding? I can barely get that guy to remove his sunglasses as we talk, let alone his shirt for charity. You must already know that the Sweetheart Inn will be the site of the wedding. He was exploring the grounds and ran into our big party.”

“He didn't quite fit in,” Emily admitted, spreading her hands.

Jessica sighed. “Well, I appreciate your answers. Hope you don't blame me for doing my job.”

“Not a bit,” Monica said. “That's all we're doing, too.”

“I have to laugh,” Jessica continued, shaking her head. “Even Leather and Lace is getting more interest because of a presidential romance. The owner says she's glad the uptick in customers is due to lingerie rather than her baby. Finally, ­people seem to have found something else to gossip about besides Josh Thalberg's becoming a daddy. His and his wife's celebrity never quite dies down, does it?”

“No, it doesn't,” Monica agreed, then happened to catch sight of Emily's wistful expression. She felt a pang of sad sympathy. To the reporter, she said, “Why don't you give me your card in case something occurs to us.”

Jessica brightened, reached into a side pocket of her purse, and pulled one out. “Thanks! Nice to meet you guys.”

After she'd walked away, Monica pulled a startled Emily to a seat on the bench beneath the flower shop's display window.

“You okay, Em?” Monica asked.

Emily frowned her confusion. “Okay? I don't mind being interrogated by reporters. I have a lot less to say than you do.”

“I . . . I saw your expression when she talked about Josh and Whitney's baby. You okay about it all?”

Emily's first marriage had broken up after several miscarriages, a doctor's diagnosis of infertility, and her ex insisting he had to have a biological child.

Now Emily gave her a tender smile. “I am so happy for Josh and Whitney, and I can't wait to hold my niece. Honestly. But it's sweet of you to be concerned.”

“Have you thought about adopting? Well, that's a silly question—­your husband was adopted.”

Emily laughed. “We've discussed lots of things. But right now we're just enjoying being together. We have all the time in the world.”

But when Emily left her soon after to go back to work, Monica found herself frowning with a concern that wouldn't go away so easily.

L
ate Friday morning, in the command center, Travis got off the phone after his first conversation with Samantha Weichert, the junior presidential staffer who'd been bothering Ashley Ludlow. The clipped, arrogant tone of her voice was enough to annoy him, and he hadn't even met her. No, she did not have the president's schedule, she'd assured him impatiently, and he couldn't rush the president. Travis had a feeling that if President Torres knew that the Secret Ser­vice was being inconvenienced, there'd be another outcome. But he'd give Ms. Weichert the chance to fix things herself first.

Royce dropped the
Valentine Gazette
in front of Travis, who was working at his computer.

“You're a celebrity, man,” Royce said, grinning. “Been seen all over town interviewin' ­people—­but especially that hot Monica Shaw. Maybe someone's tailin' you.”

Travis frowned and scanned the article in the local section of the small paper. It read like a “look what your neighbors are up to” piece and talked about the local businesses being used for the wedding, and how the Secret Ser­vice had to investigate everything. It did sound like he was focusing on Monica although it was all pretty harmless.

Travis pushed the paper back at Royce. “No big deal, and in this small town, what else do they have to gossip about?”

Royce grinned and walked away, and as Travis frowned down at the paper, the hotel phone rang.

“Special Agent Beaumont,” he said.

“Uh, hello? Are you the agent in charge?”

“I am. May I have your name, and how I can help you?”

“I can't tell you my name, Agent Beaumont,” he said with a stubborn edge, his voice making him middle-­aged or older. “And I ask you not to try to figure it out. ­People depend on the postal ser­vice for privacy, and I already feel guilty enough calling you to report something. But . . . I couldn't live with myself if something happened, and I'd said nothing.”

Travis felt his pulse slow, his senses sharpen. “Then tell me what you know, sir, and we'll discuss your identity later if it's important.”

“Okay. See . . . we got the word that with President Torres coming and all, we were to tell our bosses if we noticed anything unusual, if a customer acted suspiciously, you know, stuff like that.”

“And we appreciate the care you take with your job, sir,” Travis said patiently. “Something came to your notice?”

“It did, and I told my boss, but he told me I was nuts, and that this was nothing. It probably is, but since I didn't grow up in this town, I don't really know everyone all that well, you know?”

“I know.” Travis tapped his pen on a pad and waited.

“Today someone received a shipment of three ghillie suits. Do you know what they are, Agent Beaumont?”

Travis straightened, focusing on the phone as if he could see the man on the other end. “I do, sir, but you tell me what you think.”

The man sighed. “Well, just so we're on the same page, hunters use ghillie suits to sit in the woods and wait for deer during hunting season, right? You know, the suits make you look like you blend into the background, from your toes to the tip of your head, all covered in string and rags that match the color of the woods. Heck, I know guys who have a ghillie covering for their rifles.”

Travis felt a chill. Ghillie suits were used by hunters—­but they were also used by military snipers.

“Sir, does the person who ordered these suits hunt?”

“I asked my boss that, and he said he thought so. But I don't know the man, and when my boss said he's a Vietnam vet, I just got . . . suspicious. Why order three ghillie suits in May? He could just be preparing for hunting season while he has some free time before the hay harvest, but, with the president coming and all . . .”

“So he's a rancher?”

“Yes, sir.” The man took a deep breath. “His name is Deke Hutcheson. I feel sorta bad telling you, but I'd feel worse if something happened. He owns the Paradise Mountain Ranch. His family's been here forever, so I'm told, and my boss says he's never been in any trouble. I'm probably making a mountain out of a molehill, but still . . . Was I right to call you?”

“You were right. Thank you, sir. I can take it from here.”

“You won't say where you got the information?”

“No, and I don't know your name, regardless. But if you'd give it to me, I could contact you with more questions.” He could also use the hotel's phone records to trace the call, if necessary. But after watching so much TV, most ­people knew not to call with their own phone if they didn't want to be found.