Beth Cornelison - Colton Christmas Protector

He never regretted that Penelope had chosen to marry Andrew. They’d been happy together, and he’d been happy for them. But he’d been a tad jealous of his partner. While Reid had his back turned and his womanizing interests focused elsewhere, Pen had grown from a shy but attractive teenager into a tall and willowy bombshell. More important, Pen and Andrew had built the kind of domestic partnership and loving home he secretly longed for. They may have been solidly middle class, living solely on Andrew’s detective’s salary after Pen’s falling-out with her wealthy father, but all of the Coltons’ billions hadn’t made his home life as harmonious and satisfying as what the Clarks had shared. Which, he knew, meant Andrew’s death was all the harder for Pen.

Reid kept a steady gaze on her as he approached, waiting for that moment when she first saw him. After years of studying people, their body language and emotional tells, he knew her first reaction to seeing him would be her most honest one. Penelope had always had a certain grace bred into her by her society parents. But today, with her silky auburn hair twisted up in a severe knot at her nape, her ivory skin blotchy from crying and her hazel eyes luminous with tears as she grieved her husband, she looked fragile. Vulnerable. Yet still as beautiful as a cherished china doll. Reid’s gut twisted seeing her so wrecked by her grief, so torn. Though she was surrounded by mourners offering condolences and had her father standing just behind her in a theatrical show of solidarity, Reid knew from the bleak look in her eyes, the wooden formality of her expression, she felt completely alone in her loss.

He wished he could simply push his way to the front of the crowd and pull her into a bear hug. But how would that impulse be received? Did she buy into the hype and lies that had been told about him since Andrew’s death? Was there any of the old respect and friendship left?

That instant moment of truth came as she dropped the hand of the older man, turned toward the last woman in the line of well-wishers...and her eyes met Reid’s. For one second, that first startled heartbeat, her one unguarded moment of recognition, she stared at him. He saw the raw emotion, the heartache and her longing for the refuge and support she knew he’d give her. And he prayed his eyes said all that was in his heart, because that one brief moment was all he had before her hazel eyes grew glacial.

Her shoulders stiffened and her back drew up straighter. Despite the hostile ice in her glare, he approached her. “Pen, I’m so sorry for—”

“You have a lot of nerve showing up here,” she spat at him, spots of color rising in her cheeks.

“Pen, I only wanted—”

“No!” She raised a trembling hand to ward him off. Then aiming her index finger at him like a gun, she snarled, “I don’t ever want to see you or your lying face again! Leave me the hell alone, Reid.”

Her warning hit him in the gut, as painful and final as if she had fired bullets at him instead of icy words. “If you’d just hear me out, Pen, I only wanted—”

“You heard her, Reid.” A firm hand closed on his shoulder and pulled him away from Penelope. “I think you should go.”

Reid turned to meet the cool blue gaze of Hugh Barrington. Behind his silver-framed glasses, Hugh’s eyes narrowed. The man’s squinty-eyed glare reminded Reid of the teasing way he and his brothers had referred to the man as The Weasel as kids, because of Hugh’s narrow eyes and ferret-like swath of dark hair.

“I can handle him on my own, Father,” Pen grated, turning her chilly stare on Hugh. “I don’t need a keeper. And if I did, it certainly would not be you. Not after you defended a Colton, took his side over Andrew’s. I’ll never forgive you for standing behind a Colton instead of my husband!”

If Reid had wondered whether the strained relationship between Hugh Barrington and his daughter had been set aside during this family crisis, he had his answer. A resounding no.

Pen whirled away from the men and stalked off, her chin high and her mouth pressed in a taut line of fury. She made a beeline to the waiting black Cadillac, where the funeral director stood with the back door open. A woman Reid thought he recognized from one of the Clarks’ barbecues—a neighbor or college friend of Pen’s maybe?—stood next to the Cadillac, as well, holding Pen’s six-month-old son, Nicholas. Penelope took her son from the woman, kissing his forehead and cradling him close. She took a moment to hug the baby, her eyes closed and cheek against his hair. Reid could see her body visibly relax as she held Nicholas, her baby’s presence clearly calming her frayed nerves. Finally, she raised her head and sent one last backward glance to her husband’s casket. Where Reid still stood. Watching her.

Her chest heaved with a deep sigh or a sob that she’d tried to choke down, then she spun away and slid into the backseat of the Cadillac. The funeral director closed the door, climbed in the front passenger side and the black vehicle pulled away.

A hollow pang assailed Reid’s chest as the car carried Pen away. As inappropriate as it was, especially here at his former partner’s graveside, he couldn’t ignore the facts. Pen hated him, blamed him for Andrew’s death. And he still harbored an undeniable lust for Penelope Barrington Clark.

Eighteen months later

The bitter tones of a woman sobbing set off alarm bells for Reid as he left his suite one morning in December the following year. His family had endured no shortage of tragedy, danger and suspicion of late, and the fact that a woman was crying somewhere on the first floor of the mansion didn’t bode well. On the other hand, his mother, Whitney, was known for her theatrics and overreactions, and the voice sounded like hers. He’d never been close to either of his parents, and for the last several years, he’d demonstrated as much by addressing them by their first names.

“Now what?” he mumbled to himself as he closed the door of his upstairs suite and headed toward the kitchen to find a late breakfast. He hated the prickle of dread that bad news waited downstairs. Was it his father, Eldridge? Was there bad news on his whereabouts?

Early this summer, his elderly father had gone missing from his bedroom in the main house of the ranch. Foul play was suspected, and speculation and suspicion had been thrown about within the family for the last six months with little real progress other than to eliminate several of his siblings as suspects. Reid had dabbled at finding his father, kept abreast of the investigation, but he still had a bad taste in his mouth for the police and their crime investigations based on the way his own case had been handled. Frustration over how the search for his missing father had stalled ate at him most days, but he knew what local law enforcement would say if he tried to intervene. Leave it alone, Reid. You’re not a cop anymore.

But that didn’t mean he didn’t still itch to take over the investigation and show the incompetents handling the case how effective detective work was done.

The glimmer of winter sun streaking through the foyer windows told him how late in the morning it had gotten while he lolled in bed and took his lingering hot shower. He used to be an early riser. He used to religiously get up before the ranch hands and head out for a run before the sun was up. But then he used to have a job to get up for, stay fit for, start his mornings early for. In the last eighteen months, he’d begun sleeping later, skipping days at the gym and generally hating the tedium of spending his days at the ranch with little to occupy his time.

To pass a few hours in recent weeks, he’d chased a few rabbits concerning Eldridge’s case to no avail and worked with his siblings on a few matters where his expertise was useful. He’d spent some time this fall riding his horse, fishing and reading some of the dusty books in the ranch library. But for the most part these days, he was at loose ends.