Rochelle Alers - Taken by Storm

Crossing her arms under her breasts, Simone turned and stared up at him. Blond or not, he was gorgeous. His features weren't too broad or thin, and his coloring wasn't washed-out, but a tawny gold that afforded him a look of being perpetually tanned. And when her gaze met and fused with his, she felt as if she were drowning in water the color of Ceylon blue sapphires.

"Why do I feel like a prisoner even though you claim I'm not one? You're wearing a gun, follow me around—"

"I'll try and make certain you don't see the gun," he said, cutting her off.

Exhaling, she managed a smile. "Thank you."

"What else is bothering you, Simone?"

"Why do you think something's bothering me?" she asked rather than answer his question.

"You're tense."

"Well, well, well," she drawled. "It looks as if my lawman is also a therapist." Her mood changed quickly. "I'm more than tense, Raphael Madison. What I am is scared. When I woke up this morning I never would've imagined that I'd see someone that I know almost murdered, or that a marshal would take up residence in my home and he would become a constant reminder that my life is not my own, that every phase of my existence is to be shadowed for heaven knows how long."

Rafe curbed the urge to pull Simone into his arms to offer her tangible protection. "I can't tell you not to be afraid, but what I need is for you to trust me. I've been protecting witnesses for ten years and I've never lost one. In fact, no program participant who follows security guidelines has ever been harmed under the active protection of the Marshals Service."

Simone smiled in spite of her predicament. "You sound like a recruitment ad."

"You think?" he teased.

She nodded. "I know."

He extended his hand. "Come with me."

Placing her hand in his, Simone felt the power in the fingers that closed over hers. "Where are you taking me?"

"We're going to the kitchen."

"It's too late for lunch, so I suppose it'll have to be an early dinner."

"What are you cooking?" Rafe asked.

Simone stopped suddenly, causing him to lose his balance before he managed to regain his footing. "You came to get me because you want me to cook for you?"

"For your information, I don't need you to cook for me."

"You cook?"

He nodded. "Some."

"How much is some?"

"Enough." He started walking, pulling her gently along as they descended the staircase.

"Where did you learn to cook?"

"I decided to learn when I went to college. It was either eat ramen noodles or go hungry."

"What's on tonight's menu?" Simone asked.

"Do you eat seafood?"

"Yes."

"I bought lobster tails, so I thought I'd make lobster over linguine."

Simone's smile was dazzling. "Talk about luck. I get a bodyguard who cooks."

Rafe returned her smile. "You don't cook?"

She wrinkled her nose at him, unaware of the endearing gesture. "I cook, but it's not fancy."

"Define fancy."

"I'll season a chicken with salt and pepper, then put it in the oven to bake, while other people will prepare broiled chicken breasts stuffed with herbs, green peppercorns and prosciutto."

"You may not cook what you consider fancy dishes, but you do grow incredibly beautiful flowers."

"Thank you." His compliment buoyed her sagging spirit. "Speaking of flowers, if you don't want them in your bedroom I'll take them out."

"No, please don't. Sunflowers remind me of home."

Easing her hand from Rafe's loose grip, Simone stopped at the entrance to the kitchen. "You're from Kansas?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"I don't believe it," she whispered.

"What don't you believe?"

"I never would've taken you for a Jayhawker."

Rafe winked at Simone as he stood aside to let her enter the kitchen. "That's because you're biased and into stereotypes."

"No, I'm not!"

"Yes, you are. And I'm going to prove it before this assignment ends." He held up a hand when she opened her mouth to refute him. "Please don't say anything else that may incriminate you. And I promise not to say I told you so when you realize I'm right. I don't know about you, but right about now I'm hungry enough to eat a side of beef."

"You make the lobster and linguine, and I'll put together a salad and set the table."

"I don't like bottled dressing," Rafe said as he opened the side-by-side refrigerator.

Simone's gaze lingered on the breadth of his wide shoulders before moving down to the denim fabric hugging his slim hips. "I have all the ingredients you'll need to make your own."

Taking the packaged lobster tails from the refrigerator, Rafe closed the door using his hip. "Aren't you going to help me cook?"

"I offered to make the salad."

Rafe gave Simone a direct stare. "Perhaps we can work out a schedule where we can take turns cooking. I usually have cereal, toast and coffee for breakfast, so that lets you off the hook for that meal. I don't mind preparing dinner if you take care of lunch."

"I—I don't believe you," Simone sputtered as a rush of color suffused her face.

"What don't you believe?"

"You take over my kitchen, then proceed to tell me what to do."

Rafe angled his head. "We can easily remedy that situation."

"How?"

"You can pack some clothes and personal items, and we can check into a hotel and order room service."

Her jaw dropped slightly. "You know I can't do that. I have a business to run."

"And I have a job to do," Rafe countered, his voice low and cutting, "but I don't intend to go hungry or tiptoe around you whenever you go into diva mode. We're going to be living together for several months, so I suggest you make the best of what you deem an uncomfortable situation."

Simone recoiled as if Rafe had struck her. She wanted to scream at him, but didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he'd upset her. She closed her eyes, suddenly feeling as if a crushing weight had settled on her chest.

Rafe moved quickly when he saw the color in Simone's face change. She was hyperventilating. He held her close to his body. "Breathe, Simone," he crooned softly. "That's it, baby. Take deep breaths. In and out, in and out," he repeated over and over until she finally let out a trembling gasp.

It didn't take a psychiatrist's evaluation to identify Simone Whitfield's behavior not as hostility, but fear. He knew from past experience that if a person didn't break down within minutes of witnessing a violent crime, then it would come later. In Simone's case, it was the latter.

Picking up Simone as if she were a child, Rafe sat down, settling her across his lap. He had to convince her that she was safe, that he would forfeit his life in order to protect her. When he'd been assigned to protect Simone Whitfield it'd become his responsibility to shield her from harm—physically and emotionally—because when he escorted her into the courthouse, the U.S. attorney expected her to give an accurate eyewitness account of Ian Benton's attempt to murder a federal judge.

It was Rafe's turn to hold his breath when Simone snuggled closer to his body, burying her face against his throat. What he was sharing with her was so acute that for a brief moment he felt what she was feeling: fear.

Lowering his chin, he buried his face in her soft, fragrant curls. "You're safe, Simone. I'm not going to let anything or anyone hurt you."

It was a promise he'd made only once in his life, when he rescued his mother and sister from an existence where they'd become prisoners to Gideon Madison's slow descent into a world of madness. Now, ten years later, he'd repeated the vow to Simone Whitfield, a woman with whom he would live for an unspecified time period, then walk away from when he accepted his next witness security assignment.

Simone heard the deep, comforting voice mouthing the words she wanted and needed to hear to ease her angst. Looping her arms around Rafe's neck, she fed on the strength emanating from him as naturally as breathing.