Cassie Miles - Protecting the Innocent

“Are you all right?”

“I’m a little freaked,” she said.

When he stepped inside, his male energy filled the house. She could have sworn that the lightbulbs burned a little brighter and that the temperature rose several degrees. He placed his hands on her shoulders and stared down into her eyes. In a husky whisper, he asked, “What happened?”

“I stepped outside for some air and met a security man who was armed like a commando. Why is he here?”

“This is an international think tank. We handle sensitive, top secret projects—scientific and political. The guards are a precaution.”

“Against what? Terrorists? Did I bring my son into a war zone?”

His smile was warm and reassuring. He lightly brushed her hair back from her forehead, and she remembered his gentleness—unusual for such a big man. “You’re safe here.”

How could he say that? Her husband died here. Of course, that was an accident, unrelated to the security corps. “If Charlie sees armed guards, he’ll be scared.”

“I doubt that,” he said. “Your son might be a genius, but he’s also a typical boy. He’ll think the guns are cool.”

“That’s worse! I don’t want him to be comfortable around weapons.” Her fingers clenched into fists, ready to battle an invisible enemy. “I might be overreacting.”

“Maybe.”

He lifted her chin so she had to look directly into his face. “What’s really bothering you?”

“I don’t know.”

As she continued to gaze up at him, she became distracted. An errant strand of his thick, black hair fell across his forehead. His deep-set eyes shone with a dark compelling light. Up close, his irises weren’t completely black, but a dark tawny-brown. His firm jawline was outlined with a day’s growth of stubble.

She focused on his well-shaped mouth. His smiling lips were the most welcoming feature in that hard chiseled face. What would it be like to kiss those lips?

Immediately, she squelched that impetuous idea. Roman had a reputation as a ladies’ man. He dated models and socialites. He lived in a bachelor’s pad on a cliffside—a legendary setting for seduction. Even if he had been a suitable person to kiss, she wasn’t ready to go down that path. It had only been eight months….

She caught hold of his hands and lowered them from her shoulders. Roman was a friend. She wouldn’t allow herself to think of him in any other way. “Would you like some tea?”

“I’d rather have wine.”

“Me, too.” She tossed her head, trying to shake the idea of Roman as a man she could be attracted to. “But I don’t know if I have wine.”

“Allow me.”

He led the way into the kitchen where he opened a cabinet near the back door. The face of the cabinet door was oak, like the rest of the cabinetry, but it sealed like a refrigerator. Inside was a full wine rack.

“White or red?” he asked.

“Merlot,” she said. “Is that another refrigerator?”

“A mini wine cellar. It’s sealed to keep the temperature stable at the proper fifty-five degrees with humidity of seventy percent.” He pulled out a corked bottle. “We take our wine seriously in Northern California.”

He went to the cabinets above the sink and found two stemmed wineglasses. Quite obviously, Roman knew his way around this kitchen far better than she did. “You’ve been here before.”

“We’ve used this place as a guest cottage,” he said. “But it’s yours now. Everything in here is yours.”

So she’d been told, but Anya couldn’t help feeling like she was at a fancy resort with an honor bar that she’d somehow end up paying for. “A nice young man from the public relations department showed me around. From what he said, I don’t even have to go to the market. I just check off the items I want on a list. My order is delivered to the doorstep.”

Using a corkscrew, Roman opened the bottle. “Before you stock up on food, I suggest you try the lunch and dinner buffets in the mansion. The chef is cordon bleu.”

“Are you saying he’s a better cook than I am?”

He grinned. “I’ve had your spaghetti, Anya.”

She remembered a disastrous dinner she prepared while Roman was in Denver after the funeral. Thinking that it would be good for her to return to her regular routine, she put together the ingredients for homemade spaghetti sauce. Then her brain shut down. The sauce bubbled too long on high flame, and the result was charred. “Dinner isn’t only about food,” she said. “It’s a time for talk and catching up on the day.”

“A private time for you and Charlie,” he said.

“We’re going to need some space and privacy,” she said, accepting the wineglass he held toward her. “This educational program is so packed with activity that he’ll need a chance to wind down.”

He peered across the rim of his glass, making eye contact. “Be careful, Anya.”

She tried to match his steady gaze, but she wasn’t that bold. Her glance slipped to the floor. “Why should I be careful?”

“Don’t spend so much time worrying about Charlie that you ignore your own needs.”

She took a sip. The light merlot slid easily down her throat, leaving a pleasant aftertaste. “My own needs, eh? Well, that’s all I’ve been thinking about tonight. I’m afraid I’ll feel trapped here. That I won’t have…”

“Won’t have what?” he asked.

“Fun. That I won’t have any fun.” She rolled her eyes and tasted her wine again. “It sounds foolish when I say it out loud. I’m an adult. A widow. Why should I be concerned with fun and games?”

“Let me guess,” he said. “Because you never had much fun when you were growing up.”

“My mother did a good job raising me.” She automatically defended Claudette. Her mother had been a single parent with a demanding job. “She didn’t have a lot of time for me. Her skills were in demand, and we traveled all over the place. East Coast, West Coast and in between. Plus we lived abroad. Pacific Rim. Africa. Europe.”

“Was it fun?” he asked.

“Not for me,” she admitted.

It seemed odd that they’d never really talked about her early life before. During the days she spent with Roman after the funeral, they talked about Jeremy. Or about Charlie. Or they just sat together, staring into the middistance between real life and tragedy.

She took another deep sip. “It’s bad enough being the new girl in town. When everybody else speaks a foreign tongue, it’s even worse.”

“You felt isolated,” he said. “Trapped.”

His snap analysis hit close to the truth. Being at Legate felt very much like her childhood when she had no control over what happened and was dragged along like an inconvenient piece of luggage. “Am I so transparent?”

“Hell, no. You’re an intelligent, complex woman.”

“I don’t want to be complex.” She carried her wine to the oak table in the dining area between the kitchen and living room and sat. Usually, Anya didn’t drink alcoholic beverages, and the wine was already having an agreeable, relaxing effect. “All I ever really wanted was a normal life. A normal family. A nice little house. A pleasant, low-pressure job. A garden. Maybe a golden retriever named Rover.”

“And when Jeremy died, you feel like you lost that chance.”

“I miss him,” she said.

“So do I.”

When he sat beside her at the round table, she felt warm and settled, as if this were the way things ought to be. A man, a woman and her son upstairs asleep. Normal. “Thanks for rushing over here.”

“Whenever you need me, I’ll be around.”

She couldn’t believe that promise. He might have the best intentions, but he also had a life. “Baby-sitting me would cut into your social action.”