A Promise at Bluebell Hill (5 page)

“Speaking of inappropriate,” Brooke said at last, breaking their thoughtful spell, “Tony told Nate who told me that our Monica here had a good time with a group of strangers at his tavern last night—­and didn't invite us.”

“Hey, isn't this baby shower about Whitney?” Monica protested. She wasn't about to tell them her suspicions about Travis being a Secret Ser­vice agent. He could be a well-­dressed criminal.

“If it's all about me, then tell us what happened, Monica,” Whitney said eagerly.

“Nothing much, I swear. Yeah, Travis was there, and about all I got out of him was that he's working, can't talk about it, and is an ex-­Marine.”

“Really?” Brooke asked. “I'll have to tell Adam.”

“That's it?” Emily sounded disappointed.

“You haven't even been married a year,” Monica said. “Don't tell me you already need to hear the exciting stories of a single woman's life. I should write a blog: ‘The Last Single Girl in Valentine.' But honestly, I danced, I played darts, I had a good time.”

“Nothing else?” Brooke asked. “Tony says Travis walked you outside.”

They all leaned toward her, and Monica smiled as if some drunk hadn't accosted her. No point scaring everybody. “Nothing happened, which was just fine with me. I admit I'm curious about Travis, but that's all.”

They shared groans and disappointed smiles.

“Oh, please. Back to the kitchen, let's go help.”

She was relieved when they grumbled but complied. She was starting to feel surrounded, the past coming back to haunt her, and her fascination with a possible Secret Ser­vice agent confusing.

But there was only one way to deal with Travis Beaumont.

 

Chapter Four

T
he next morning, Friday, Monica drank her coffee, browsed her e-­mail—­and saw one from the widows, inviting the “protest group” to the boardinghouse Saturday evening to discuss the Mammoth Party and other “important events.” All the emphatic quotes made her smile, even as she shook her head. She saw her mom's e-­mail address included as well, and frowned, but she did send an offer to pick her mom up.

She usually took an early-­morning run since the flower shop didn't open until ten. But after a restless night thinking about the president's approaching arrival, she had to know the truth. Was Travis really involved? She locked her shop door, hesitated, then spontaneously decided to skip her run. Wearing shorts, a t-­shirt, and loose jacket, she marched across Main Street toward the Hotel Colorado.

To her surprise, the door opened before she even got there, and Travis came down the stone stairs. He was wearing another pair of casual pants, shirt, and jacket. Did that jacket hide a gun? Those black sunglasses certainly hid his eyes, but he saw her because he paused a moment, then came directly toward her. Once again, it was as if she couldn't quite take a deep enough breath.

Monica strode between the parked cars and stopped in front of him, hands on her hips.

“Good morning.” He quirked an eyebrow and waited. “You okay?”

She knew what he referred to but just gave him a smile. “I'm fine, thanks.” She looked both ways for eavesdroppers, then said quietly, “I hear the president will soon be making an appearance. Maybe you know something about that.”

He didn't even pause, just took her arm and began steering her back across the street. “Is your store unlocked?”

“Of course not. I was going for a run.”

“Unlock it.”

Amused at his bossy tone, she unzipped her jacket pocket and produced a key. Once they were inside, he turned and locked the door himself.

Was this a good idea? She didn't really know him, after all, and she'd just confronted him about his supposedly “secret” job. But . . . she'd never felt afraid of him and wasn't going to start now. And he'd put himself in danger to protect her.

He walked past her and swung the door open to the workroom. “No one else is here?”

“As you can see, no.”

He came back to her, removed his sunglasses, and spoke seriously while piercing her with those blue eyes. “What I'm about to tell you can go no further, at least not for a while. Yes, I'm a special agent with the Secret Ser­vice.” Pulling out a wallet, he flashed an ID and a badge.

Aha!
She'd been right. She took it before he could put it away and made a point of studying it—­although it was mostly just to get a reaction out of him. “Looks real.”

“It's real,” he said shortly. “I'm the lead agent preparing for the president's visit for her son's wedding.”

“I heard all about the wedding from the bride's grandma,” Monica admitted, smiling at his discomfiture. “Don't worry, she didn't give dates or anything, and we all understood this was under wraps for a while.”

“The wedding is two weeks from tomorrow.”

“What?” The shock next gave way to panic. “You can't be serious. They've asked me to do the flowers for the wedding, but we haven't even had a meeting. There's so much involved! I have to present ideas—­
presidential
ideas. And design kick-­ass window displays.”

“Just listen. Yes, I've been surveying the neighborhood because I need an observation post to monitor the front entrance of the hotel when the president is in town, especially when she gets in and out of her limousine. I'd like your permission to use your store, with its perfect sight lines.”

“So you use flirtation to soften women up for an observation post?” she cracked.

He frowned.

“Never mind, you didn't flirt. I was teasing. You would have asked to use my shop even if I'd been an eighty-­year-­old grandma.”

“Do we have your permission?”

“Of course you do. I'm honored to help. What's involved?”

“My agents won't bother you until the day of the president's arrival. We'll set up cameras, binoculars, rifles—­”

“Rifles?”

“We'll have snipers along Main Street while the president is staying in the hotel. Most will be on rooftops.”

“Oh, of course,” she said, suddenly realizing what a big production this wedding would be—­and not just for her. The entire town would be affected. Perhaps it would even be detrimental to business—­for all she knew, they'd shut down streets to pedestrians. But there was no point worrying about what she couldn't control.

“I appreciate your cooperation,” he said politely.

“So . . . is it true you guys would take a bullet for the president?”

He blinked at her. “We don't exactly sign an oath saying that.”

“I remember seeing clips of when President Reagan was shot—­an agent stepped right in front of him and almost died.”

“A brave man,” Travis admitted. “A legend.”

Without a doubt, she knew he'd do the same.

There was another awkward pause, and she couldn't resist her most pressing question. “You could have chosen any store on either side of this one. Why did you choose me—­my store?”

Saying nothing, he looked her in the eyes, and suddenly it was as if national security, her flower shop, none of it existed. They were just two ­people alone in a room, and his eyes, so mysterious to her, for just a moment seemed to . . . smolder.

Her breath caught and faded away, and she felt an urge to lean toward him, to press against him.

They both took a step back.

“You are the most obvious choice, Monica, being across the street. And we do background checks, as well—­”

She froze, imagining what that might have turned up of her past. Not that she'd been convicted of anything.

“—­and you passed that. We'll be doing background checks of every store owner on the street, and every employee who might come in contact with the president.”

“Wow,” she said a bit breathlessly, still recovering from that moment of lust. “It's a big production.”

“It is,” he said solemnly. “We prepare for the worst and hope for the best.”

She heard a faint buzzing; he pulled his phone out of his pocket, glanced at it, and put it away. Should she feel flattered he hadn't taken the call?

“And we take our duties very seriously,” he continued. “If you ever hear of anything, or know anyone, who could disrupt this wedding weekend, let me know.”

Disrupt?
she thought, feeling a twinge of queasiness at the thought of the widows and the archaeological dig. Somehow, Monica had to convince them that Ashley's wedding weekend wasn't the appropriate time for one of their extravaganzas.

“I—­I will,” she said. She cleared her throat and forced a smile. “The bride and I are old friends. But, of course, you probably think everyone in a small town knows each other.”

“I know better—­small town in Montana, remember?”

“Oh, right, forgot. So anyway, you say this is supposed to be a secret as long as possible—­how am I supposed to explain you and your men, and woman, if you're seen coming out of here? ­People have already begun to talk.”

“Let them think what they want,” he said, slipping his sunglasses back on his face and turning toward the door.

For just a moment, she thought he winked at her—­but no, she had to be mistaken.

“At least your job should be pretty easy here in Valentine,” she said, following him across the showroom.

He glanced back. “We never underestimate the enemy. I'll be in touch.”

She shivered even as he went out the door. She didn't want to be his enemy. And she thought maybe he needed a friend.

T
he next morning, Saturday, Travis headed out for an early run. He wasn't alone in that—­his fellow agents all had to stay in the best shape to perform their duties, but he usually liked to run alone. In D.C., it was difficult enough to feel peaceful when there were ­people everywhere exercising on the Mall at the same time, but here in Valentine Valley, other runners were few and far between and respectful of his privacy. Only a few shops were open, catering to the breakfast crowd. Other than the occasional car, he heard little but the sounds of birds singing and the peal of church bells at the top of the hour. The mountains rose above him, silent and majestic, the higher peaks still frosted in white above the tree line. The air smelled of the outdoors, trees and flowers, and was a little thin with the altitude. He didn't push himself, knowing he didn't need a case of altitude sickness.

Heading down Main Street toward the mountains, he scanned the streets, unable to ignore his training even off duty—­and then he caught a glimpse of Monica a half block ahead. He only saw her from the back, but he couldn't help recognizing her. She was wearing tight black shorts that hugged her ass, a tight hoodie, and her dark curls bounced at the back of her head where she'd held them off her forehead with some kind of band. She had the long, muscular legs of a runner.

He flashed back to that moment in her shop, when she asked why he'd chosen her for the OP, and something in him had just wiped out every thought unless they were hot and lusty. He could have put her right up on her counter, stepped between her thighs, and—­

He had to stop these thoughts, or running was going to be uncomfortable. But he couldn't help admiring Monica's form. He'd examined her background report a little more closely than necessary and seen that she ran in college. This little obsession he had with her wasn't wise—­hell, choosing her store wasn't wise, not with the way he was attracted to her. It was tempting fate, especially when he was close to being recommended for the next job up, the Presidential Protective Detail. He tried to focus on that, to tell himself
he
wasn't going to be manning the OP, after all . . .

And then Monica took the corner across from town hall and happened to glance to the side, as if she meant to cross the street. Their gazes met, and she slowed to jog in place, waiting for him to catch up.

“Good morning,” she called.

Her smile tugged at him, so bright and teasing and intrigued. She was too curious for her own good. “Good morning,” he said, trying to sound stern. Instead, he sounded like an old stuffed shirt.

She laughed. “Grumpy in the morning, are we?”

He shrugged.

“I know your big event”—­she air-­quoted the last two words—­“is at the Sweetheart Inn. You heading up that way? I could show you the grounds.”

He opened his mouth to politely refuse, but actually, that was a smart idea. There was already a site agent in charge of the hotel, but it wouldn't hurt for him to get a look himself. “Sounds good.”

If possible, her smile brightened even more. It was so strange for someone so stunning not to have a cooler, wary persona, but she truly was a cheerful small-­town girl with a model's face . . . and body.

Side by side, they ran the ­couple blocks north toward the Sweetheart Inn, the old-­fashioned mansion nestled on the lower slopes of the Elk Mountains. Baskets of impatiens hung between the columns of the wraparound porch, and yellow forsythia bushes dotted the grounds.

“Am I holding you back?” Monica asked, only a little breathless.

“Not at all. You're pretty fast. But, then, I know you ran in college.”

She made a wry face. “We're not going to ever be able to have a discussion because you already know too much about me. I feel a little . . . invaded.”

“Don't. It's just an outline, where you went to school, the jobs you've held, any problems with the law you might have had.”

“And my track scholarship.”

“That was part of school. You're a lot more than your background.”

“Is that a compliment, Special Agent?”

“Just a fact,” he said, turning up into the parking lot that led behind the inn. “Let's circle the property.”

“There are a lot of hiking trails up behind, too. I imagine you have to keep watch over it all.”

He nodded, taking in the stone terrace behind the banquet wing that had been added to the original mansion. A pool and hot tub had their own landscaped grounds, and, in the distance, he could see a gazebo, and even a bridge over flowing water.

“Show me the hiking trails,” he said.

She led him past an arrow sign that said
HOT SPRINGS
, and they followed the trail as it wound its way along the bank of the stream. The slope steepened, but she still kept up with him easily. He was impressed.

The hot springs were something you'd expect in low-­key Colorado, a rock-­edged pool, surrounded by trees, which gradually emptied into the cooler water. Steam softly rose from the surface, a rustic bench rested nearby. There were no other guests. Monica slowed to a stop.

“We're going to have an interesting event here in the next few days,” she said, shaking her head. “A group photo shoot for the ‘Men of Valentine Valley' ­calendar.”

He frowned, but before he could ask a question, she laughed, and he enjoyed the sound far too much.

She raised a hand. “I know, I know, it's ridiculous, but it's to benefit the Valentine Valley Preservation Fund, and they do good work. The calendar has eleven participants, so they decided to do a final group shot here, bare chests and all. You know,” she added thoughtfully, “there are some pretty good chests in the bunch. Anyway, the arrival of the president spurred them to finish it up, so it could be available all around town in time for the wedding weekend. I'm sure I can get you a copy if you'd like.” Those chocolate eyes sparkled as she teased him.

“That won't be necessary,” he said mildly.