A Promise at Bluebell Hill (2 page)

But at least there were parts of his job that were easy. His site agent had already scheduled a meeting at the Sweetheart Inn, where the wedding would take place. His transportation agent would be meeting with the local cops to get a feel for every street in town. He'd soon have 3-­D models of Main Street from the Forensic Ser­vices Division, so they could find every vulnerability to guard the presidential motorcade. To that end, he'd spent his first afternoon looking at the street from on the ground, checking out the stores, the number of customers, the sightseers. He also needed a place for an observation post, with a great sight line to the front entrance of the hotel since the president would be staying there.

His team would be doing background checks on all the owners, of course, but the flower shop had an ideal location, right across the street, and a second floor. He saw the curtains of an apartment, not a business. The countersniper team would have a tactical advantage from such a location.

It didn't hurt that the owner was easy on the eyes and that she'd sort of flirted with him. That usually didn't happen. He knew he gave off a serious, no-­nonsense vibe, and most women were looking for fun. Not that he'd ever get involved with someone while on the job—­it was difficult enough to deal with an ex-­wife who was also an agent and the constant travel. He didn't have time for anything else. It was serious, crucial work, protecting the president, especially the first female president. The usual average of ten threats a day against a president were 50 percent higher for President Torres. All of them were taken seriously. He was focused on his job, and nothing would stand in his way.

But part of his job was making sure his team relaxed when they needed to, letting off steam during their brief hours away so they could be more alert on the job. Even though he didn't take advantage of the fun—­besides a good beer and maybe a game of pool—­he was one of them. He wanted to lead by example, and he wanted their respect.

And if they saw Monica flirting with him—­well, it couldn't hurt him, as far as his men were concerned. And meanwhile, he'd be sizing her up, deciding if she'd be the perfect host for a countersniper team. He found himself hoping she'd show up at Tony's Tavern.

 

Chapter Two

M
onica met up for dinner after work with all the girls at Rancheros, the Mexican restaurant farther down Main Street. The décor was old-­world, with wrought-­iron lampshades over each booth and an actual fountain in the center of the restaurant.

Emily Thalberg, pastry chef extraordinaire, arrived next, perky as the girl next door—­even though she'd been raised by a bohemian single mom in San Francisco.

Sliding in beside Monica, she pushed her strawberry blond hair behind her ears as she grinned. “Let's pull the table closer to us, or Whitney will never fit into the booth.”

“I heard that.” Whitney Winslow-­Thalberg appeared, her voice faintly sarcastic, waddling like the eight-­month pregnant woman that she was. She sank onto the opposite bench very slowly.

“How you feeling?” Monica asked, smiling at her.

“If one more person asks me that . . . But at least I can tell the truth to you guys. Grouchy. That's how I feel. Grouchy and uncomfortable. And I have a whole month to go of this. But I'm glowing,” she added with cheery sarcasm, “let's not forget I'm glowing!”

Whitney's black hair was cut stylishly, expensively, in layers to her shoulders, and she had a dimple to the right of her mouth that winked whenever she smiled—­and she smiled a lot now that she'd married Josh. She wore the most elegant maternity clothes that Monica had ever seen, but that happened when you traveled the world with your supremely wealthy family. Not that you'd ever know Whitney's family was in the same league as the Hiltons. Whitney was the most unassuming, sweet woman—­and owner of a slightly naughty lingerie chain, Leather and Lace, with underwear named just for her. Monica had a hard time staying out of her store, and it wasn't just because the owner was one of her best friends.

“There's my favorite sister-­in-­law!” Brooke Thalberg cried out as she approached. She bent over the bench and almost put her face into Whitney's stomach. “And my soon-­to-­be favorite niece!”

Whitney rolled her eyes, but the fondness in her gaze spoke for her. During the Christmas season, Whitney had married into a great family, the Thalbergs, who owned the Silver Creek Ranch south of town. Brooke, long brown hair in waves about her face, worked alongside her brothers and her fiancé. She also had a side business, a riding school, housed in a newly built indoor riding arena.

Brooke and Monica had grown up together, best friends all through school even though Monica had been a cheerleader and run track, while Brooke had been into barrel racing like every good cowgirl. They'd spent more time at Monica's house than on the ranch, mainly because Monica's grandpa had lived with them, and he was always too sick to do much. Monica had hated to leave him alone. He was a fascinating guy who'd marched for civil rights and taught her much of what she knew about gardening. He'd affected the course of her life, and she'd tried to follow in his footsteps, definitely where activism was concerned. She'd gone door-­to-­door to save Bluebell Hill, a gorgeous meadow in the foothills of the mountain that overlooked the whole valley, even led a boycott of the produce of an “organic” farmer she'd filmed using pesticides. Not that she'd made much time for environmentalism lately except for the occasional letter to the editor, she thought, wincing.

While they were waiting for their drinks and still browsing the menus, Emily said, “Monica, did you see that hot guy going from store to store this afternoon?”

“You sound like Karista,” Monica said, shaking her head, “all excited about someone who happens to be handsome, as clean-­cut as a soldier, and in a suit tailored to perfection.”

Brooke whistled her enthusiasm. “Tell us more.”

“How do you know he went from store to store, Em?” Monica asked. “Considering you're a married woman, I didn't think you'd spy on a guy.”

“Mrs. Ludlow literally marched her walker up to the front window to see what he did when he left.”

They all grinned at the image.

“You seem to know a lot about what he did, too,” Emily said, narrowing her blue eyes with friendly suspicion.

“That's because I actually talked to him.”

“So who is he?” Brooke demanded.

Before she could answer, their waitress, Lisa, daughter of another local rancher, Deke Hutcheson, came to take their order. She asked when the baby was due, talked about her son's riding lessons with Brooke, but Monica could see the impatience building around the table. All the girls wanted to know about Travis, and she didn't know what she wanted to tell them. For the first time, she wondered if she should keep something to herself. And just the fact that she had that thought made Travis far more important than he needed to be. So after they'd placed their orders, she told them everything.

Emily clapped her hands together. “He sounds like he'd be fascinating to get to know.”

“Even though he's only in town briefly,” Whitney said, helping herself to salsa and chips.

“Minor details,” Emily insisted. “He'll be blown away by our Monica.”

Monica smiled. “That's not necessary. I'm just really curious why he'd hide what he does, why he seems so formal.”

“Maybe he works for the Mafia,” Brooke offered.

They all laughed.

“He could be a criminal, but I don't think so.” Monica crunched a chip and swallowed. “In my mind, I thought of him as Captain America, all patriotism, like if he was wearing a suit, he'd have a flag pin on his lapel. He did pause and look with a lot of interest at Josh's leatherwork, Whitney.”

Whitney beamed with pride. “How could he not? My husband is so talented. Oh, not that he wouldn't love your flowers, too!” she insisted.

Monica grinned. “I pegged Travis as the macho type, so I'm thinking flowers aren't his thing.”

“But maybe florists are . . .” Brooke mused.

“Are the shoulder bags selling well in Aspen?” Monica continued.

Whitney's eyes widened. “It's just . . . amazing. He can't make them fast enough, and, of course, they take a lot of time because his carving is so intricate.” She looked earnestly at Monica. “I know he also has some frames in various stages for you.”

“That's nice of him, but I understand that he'll make the most money on those bags and the necklaces he's doing for you.” For a while there, it seemed every customer wanted only Josh's work, not her own. But she'd come to terms with it, taking some online classes to improve her design creativity, which was all she could control.

“We have more important things to discuss,” Emily said. “We're having a baby shower tomorrow!”

Whitney blushed and rested her hand on her stomach, that maternal glow she'd mentioned very evident. Monica felt a twinge of happy envy for her. She looked around at all her friends as they discussed the shower—­and it hit her for the first time that she was the last single girl. Emily and Whitney were both married, and Brooke was engaged. Monica was thirty years old now—­thirty! How had that happened? She'd enjoyed her twenties like every other girl, but lately, as she watched her friends fall in love, she'd begun to feel that her life was . . . lacking.

Maybe that was why she found herself intrigued by Travis and his unusual demeanor. Would he show up tonight at Tony's Tavern? Would she?

S
he would. Not that Monica confirmed that for any of her friends. She decided to go to Tony's alone, hoping that any embarrassment she might end up suffering would have limited exposure. Unless, of course, the Thalberg brothers and their sidekicks were there. She wouldn't think about that now.

In her little apartment above the flower shop, she dressed carefully, a white, sleeveless, drape-­necked top that showed off her lean arms and hugged in all the right places, above deep pink jeans and high heels. She wore dangly earrings and dangly bracelets, making her feel feminine and sultry, ready to flirt and dance and have a good time.

She tried to be very quiet going down the back steps and getting in her car. Brooke and Adam lived above Sugar and Spice next door, and she didn't want any questions. She drove to Tony's even though she could have walked the seven blocks—­but in heels? She thought not.

The tavern looked like a dive bar from the outside, but the regulars liked that because it kept most of the tourists away. Inside, there were flat screen TVs on the wall between mounted animal heads and neon beer signs. She walked through the front of the tavern, down the long bar, where customer after customer turned his head to look at her as she passed. She knew or recognized most of them. Even Tony De Luca did a double take as he poured a drink behind the bar, eyebrows raised. A single dad, Tony had been a few years ahead of her in school. He hung out with the Thalberg men and still played hockey and baseball on their rec teams, so she knew him pretty well. She gave him a broad smile, lifting her chin and shaking her curls, feeling sassy. It had been too long since she'd put her sexy on.

She didn't see any strangers, so she kept going into the back room, where a pool table was spotlighted in the center, tables and chairs scattered along the walls, a jukebox shining from one corner.

She saw Travis Beaumont almost at once, standing with a group of men near the pool table. He was wearing the same navy blue polo shirt but had changed into jeans. No sunglasses, either. She could look at those handsome high cheekbones, as sharp as if someone had sculpted them, all night long. She felt a little shiver of desire. It had been a while since a man made her feel that way. He spotted her, and an even more aggressive awareness shot through her, and she felt trapped in his gaze, impassive though it was. What did he keep hidden beneath all that control? She shivered, realizing that she wanted to find out.

Though he didn't smile, he raised his beer to her in a little salute. She smiled back, then noticed his friends—­or should she say “his men”? There were four guys and a woman, all dressed casually, but they, too, wore the same watchful expressions, even when they were smiling at something one of them said. They all eyed her, and it wasn't sexual in any way. It was like they took her apart with their gazes, then looked away after determining that she was harmless. Maybe they were bodyguards; she'd seen a few of those during her days skiing the hills of Aspen.

Or soldiers—­that seemed more precise. They had the same vibe as Adam Desantis, Brooke's fiancé, who'd just gotten out of the Marines a ­couple years ago. They appeared like ­people who'd seen more of the world, dealt with its ugliness, and had it change them. She couldn't even take offense at the way they studied her because when the next guy came through the door, they did the same thing to him.

One of Travis's colleagues gave her a closer look, a black guy with a shaved head and biceps that bulged beneath a tight Henley. He smiled at her, and she smiled back, even as he said something to Travis. She didn't know what Travis said, but the man gave a slightly disappointed nod and turned back to watch the pool match.

Had Travis dissuaded his interest? That was unexpected.

As the man himself came toward her, she settled her hip on a stool next to a long shelf built into the wall at bar height. Bowls of popcorn were scattered down the length, along with empty glasses and bottles of beer.

Raising her voice to be heard over the country music, she said, “Nice seeing you again, Travis.”

“Same to you, Miss Shaw.”

“You can call me Monica, you know. I won't bite.”

He didn't crack a smile although she thought the corner of his mouth might have twitched. Ah, there was someone human under there.

“Monica, may I order you a drink?”

“That's better. I'll take whatever beer you're having.”

He arched a brow, then caught the eye of Nicole, the waitress in tight jean shorts and a low-­cut top, passing through with a newly empty tray. After he raised his bottle of beer, she gave him a big smile, nodded, and moved back into the main barroom.

“Those must be your ‘men,' ” she said, gesturing with her chin toward the pool table. “And your woman, too?”

“Not my woman, but yes, she works with me. She's one of the guys.”

“She looks pretty cute for ‘one of the guys.' ”

“She's married.”

Smiling, Monica said, “It's very obvious they all work with you—­for you?”

He nodded.

“Ah, so you're the boss. Actually, you feel like the captain. I think you were in the military. You all act like a platoon or something.”

He nodded again. “I was a Marine.”

She felt like she'd scored a point in an imaginary game. “One of my best friends is engaged to a former Marine. You don't exactly remind me of him because he's always been a lot more easygoing, but there's . . . something about the two of you.”

He didn't say anything, so she chattered on.

“Are all the rest ex-­military?”

“Not all.”

As Nicole brought her a beer, she gave Monica a smile and an arched eyebrow that was the same as a thumbs-­up.

Hiding her grin, Monica took a sip and studied Travis. “You're making me treat you like a surprise gift, one I have to unwrap to see what the truth is.”

He arched a brow, then she felt herself blushing.

“Damn, that came out wrong,” she admitted. “You're a mystery, Travis Beaumont, and that's hard to resist in this small town.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure. I'd appreciate being distracted from my embarrassment.”

He didn't smile, but she thought those incredible eyes might actually have twinkled.

“I saw signs in various windows today. There's an archaeological dig nearby? One they're threatening to close down and build over?”

“Yeah. Did you hear about the big archaeological find outside Snowmass Village a ­couple years ago? Dozens of mastodons? They're calling it Snowmas­todon.” She quirked a brow. “Get it?”