Kimberly Meter - Trusting the Bodyguard

Archer felt grim satisfaction in the woman’s startled jump as she spun around to face him after he spoke.

Holy hell. He knew this woman. A shaft of white-hot misery speared his insides and his voice cracked with surprise as he managed to murmur her name, though in truth it was a miracle his voice worked at all, his shock was so great.

As he stared at the face that haunted his dreams, he couldn’t help but drink in her appearance, even if he’d never admit to anyone—least of all her—that losing her had been as painful as tearing off a limb and tossing it down the garbage disposal.

“Marissa.” He recovered, ashamed at his gut reaction and the sudden leap in his heartbeat, and demanded, “What the hell are you doing here?”

Dear Reader,

There is something to be said for the allure of rekindling a lost love. We all have someone in our past that we can’t help but wonder “what if?” Sometimes the road not taken is a benefit to both parties as the relationship was bound to fizzle or implode. Other times, it’s hard to ignore that section of the heart that still yearns for the one who got away because we wonder, deep down, if they might’ve been The One.

For Marissa Vasquez and Archer Brant, circumstance throws them together and the threat of danger keeps them close, but it’s love that ultimately binds them. Writing their story was a roller coaster of ups and downs as they struggled against their need for one another, and the reward was that much sweeter when they conquered their challenges.

This is the last story in the HOME IN EMMETT’S MILL miniseries. It’s been a wonderful journey. I hope you enjoy this story of redemption and second chances.

Hearing from readers is one of my greatest joys (aside from really good chocolate) so don’t be shy. Feel free to drop me a line at my Web site, www.kimberlyvanmeter.com, or through snail mail at P.O. Box 2210, Oakdale, CA 95361.

Happy reading,

Kimberly Van Meter

www.millsandboon.co.uk

An avid reader since before she can remember, Kimberly Van Meter started her writing career at the age of sixteen when she finished her first novel, typing late nights and early mornings on her mother’s portable typewriter. Although that first novel was nothing short of literary mud, with each successive piece of work her writing improved, to the point of reaching that coveted published status.

Kimberly, now a journalist, and her husband and three kids make their home in Oakdale, California. She enjoys writing, reading, photography and drinking hot chocolate by the windowsill when it rains.

To those who’ve had the good fortune to reconnect with their heart’s desire and equally to those who’ve found contentment in allowing the past to remain in memory.

Everything happens as it should.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

EPILOGUE

ARCHER BRANT SLIPPED his key in the lock of his front door, still surly over the forced convalescence dictated by the Bureau doc. The three-hour drive from San Francisco had at least leached most of his anger so that he didn’t feel the need to punch something any longer. He gritted his teeth against the pulsing ache in his busted-up shoulder and thoughts of a beer with a Vicodin chaser crossed his mind, but the moment he stepped over the threshold of his cabin, the hairs on the back of his neck stiffened with a sense that something wasn’t right.

Quietly pocketing his keys, he moved to the scarred oak cabinet where he kept his spare Glock and retrieved it slowly from the drawer. Once the comforting weight of the gun was in his hand, he moved through the bottom floor of his house in a security sweep. Finding nothing, he made his way up the stairs.

His ears pricked at an odd, unfamiliar sound coming from his bedroom.

Creeping along the wall, he pushed open the door to his bedroom and slid inside. Someone was in his bathroom. The air still held the balmy, damp moisture left over from a hot shower. He caught the sound of soft singing, slightly off tune and he wondered what kind of idiot broke into a stranger’s house to make use of the soap and shampoo as if it was a friggin Holiday Inn yet bypassed the valuables like the flat-screen plasma television mounted on the wall or the accompanying high-end Bose stereo system. He curled his lip. Whoever was in there was murdering a classic Journey song, and that was near enough to a crime in his book to warrant shooting first and asking questions later. Since he was supposed to be convalescing, he ignored his itchy trigger finger and his protesting ear drums and just prepared to oust his uninvited houseguest with a little force.

He moved into position along the wall, gaining an excellent vantage point, and his disposition brightened at the thought of scaring the life out of the trespasser. But as a figure moved into view of the mirror, Archer blinked and frowned with surprise. He’d been expecting a punk pimply-faced kid or perhaps a homeless man but he was damn sure not expecting to see dark hair cascading down a petite backside that was nearly engulfed in his white terry cloth robe. Strong, slim legs, rounded calves and pretty ankles met his gaze as he assessed his trespasser. A woman. A shapely woman, he noted with faint appreciation for the rounded swell of hips hidden beneath the robe, and even as his hormones pumped a healthy dose of testosterone into his veins, he looked for evidence of a partner. A beautiful woman provided great distraction for the thug that’s about to cave in your cranium from the back. That’s not how he was going to clock out of this world.

But his quick check revealed nothing, not even a bag of belongings. Then on the bed he saw something that narrowed his stare and made him swear under his breath.

A baby bottle. Leaking something wet and pale onto his five-hundred-dollar duvet. “This just ain’t my day,” he muttered, tucking his gun into his waistband. Of all the places this wayward chick could’ve stopped, why’d it have to be his? He wasn’t in the mood to play host no matter what her hard luck story was. He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled a short breath before stepping into view, ready to get this over with. “You picked the wrong house to freeload in,” he announced, taking grim satisfaction in the woman’s startled jump as she spun around to face him.

But holy hell, the air in his lungs evaporated and it felt as though his heart had squeezed to a stuttering stop. He knew this woman. A shaft of white-hot misery speared his insides and his voice cracked with surprise as he managed to murmur her name, though in truth it was a miracle his voice worked at all, his shock was so great. As he stared at the face that haunted his dreams and took center stage in his most private thoughts, he couldn’t help but drink in her appearance, even if he’d never admit to anyone—least of all her—that losing her had been as painful as shoving a limb into a garbage grinder. And just as permanent.

“Marissa.” He recovered, ashamed at his gut reaction and the sudden leap in his heartbeat, to demand, “What the hell are you doing here?”

MARISSA VASQUEZ’S PALMS found and then clutched the marble countertop she was leaning against. She’d rehearsed a possible explanation while in the shower but now that Archer was standing before her, looking fierce and stony, her well-rehearsed speech fled along with the strength in her knees. Suddenly, she was well aware of her near nakedness, her busted lip and the sheer improbability that Archer would find it in his heart to help her at all.