Mallory Kane - The Colonel's Widow?

Knew them, yes. But believe what she heard and saw? No way.

It was impossible.

She clapped her hands over her mouth as her brain denied what her eyes saw. Was this another, more astounding dream? A dream she’d never—even in sleep—dared to contemplate?

Her hands slid down to cover her pounding heart. “Who are you?” she asked. “Where’s Brock?”

He took another step forward.

She instinctively stepped backward, maintaining the distance between them. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. Her throat closed up. Her whole body contracted, as if turning inward in an effort to protect her.

For an instant, her panicked brain considered running. Deke was in the barn. But she’d have to go past—

Her breath hitched.

His brows drew down and he took a step closer.

She stiffened, and he stopped.

She couldn’t take her eyes off his face. His cheeks were leaner, his hair was all wrong—long and shaggy and damp, as if he’d just gotten out of a shower—and his eyes were haunted and sad. He was wearing dress pants without a belt, and a dress shirt that hung unbut-toned and untucked over the pants. And he was barefoot.

It was him.

Or a dream of him.

Darkness gathered at the edge of her vision, like a fade to black.

Like a dream. That had to be it. It was the only explanation that made sense.

She hadn’t eaten dinner, and she’d drunk a glass of wine. Maybe she’d never woken up at all. She was still in bed, immersed in dreams. She pinched her arm, feeling silly.

Nothing changed.

The man standing in front of her lowered his gaze to the floor, then raised it again. When he did, a burning log collapsed, sending more light splashing across his face.

His face. The last time she’d seen those lean cheeks, that long straight nose, that wide sexy mouth, they had been horribly distorted by the dark Mediterranean waters.

“Go away,” she cried. “Why are you doing this to me? You can’t be here, Rook. You cannot. You are dead.”

God in Heaven, it was really her.

That was her low, sexy voice with the faint Russian accent that increased when she was upset.

Rook Castle wiped his palms down the legs of the dress pants that hung a bit too low on his haunches. His skin was still warm and damp from his shower, but the moisture on his palms came from pure nerves. He hadn’t seen his wife in two years. Hadn’t dared to hope he’d ever see her again.

She was so beautiful his eyes ached. More beautiful than he remembered. Although her delicate features were masked by fear, and her slender frame looked fragile, engulfed by the plaid wool blanket that wrapped around her shoulders.

Without makeup, her blue eyes surrounded by pale lashes were as wide and innocent as a girl’s. And right now, they were filled with confusion and disbelief that etched another groove into his already battle-scarred heart.

“Irina,” he breathed, and dared to move one step closer.

She held up a hand in warning. Her gaze tracked him like a doe watching a hunter. He hated seeing her like that—the way she’d been when he’d rescued her father, dissident Soviet scientist Leonid Tankien.

But he’d come to know her well in the past six years. Irina Castle was no doe in headlights. In about five seconds that wild-eyed fear was going to change to fury, and woe to anyone who stepped into the path of her storm.

Woe to him.

“Irina.” His throat was scratchy and sore, his voice hoarse from disuse. He’d talked more today than he had in two years. He cleared his throat. “I’m not—”

“What is going on?” She stiffened her back and tucked her chin. Her eyes narrowed and the spark he’d been waiting for flashed in them. She eased sideways. Again.

A weak thrill fluttered in his chest. If he could’ve remembered what muscles to use to smile, he would have.

She was doing exactly what he’d expected her to do. She was edging toward the closest weapon—a Glock .23, hidden in a shelf of dog-eared paperbacks opposite the fireplace.

He pushed back his open shirt and slid his weapon from the paddle holster in his waistband. He held it up. “Here,” he said, flipping the Sig Sauer’s handle out. “Take mine.”

He bent down and slid it across the red oak floor toward her, then straightened and leaned against the mantel, doing his damnedest to appear nonchalant.

She picked up the gun, never taking her eyes off him. The blanket slipped off her shoulders, and Rook saw her perfectly shaped breasts beneath a thin covering of silk. He gritted his teeth as his body reacted to the familiar, lush curves and hollows he saw, and those he knew only from memory. Her beautiful body, which he’d yearned for every night during the past two years.

Was that the red silk gown and robe she’d bought for their yachting cruise in the Mediterranean? He’d never gotten to see it on her.

He’d died on that trip. As the thought formed in his head, the heat in his groin dissipated.

Clutching the Sig, Irina pointed it at him and straightened. One shoulder of the robe slid down her arm. She didn’t notice.

Her delicate shoulder was made more vulnerable, more fragile looking by the little bump of bone that interrupted its curve. Her skin stretched across it, appearing translucent. He knew that bump, and the matching one on the other side. He knew how it felt, how it tasted. Like clean, white linen. Like her.

Rook winced inwardly and lifted his gaze to her face. Her gaze met his with faint horror, as if he were a stranger ogling her and she could read his thoughts.

Suddenly, a different kind of sparkle lit her eyes, and it twisted his heart painfully.

He knew better than anyone that Irina never cried. And he knew why. That he’d caused the tears that reflected the firelight gouged another chunk from his heart.

She took a deep breath, lifted her chin and, miraculously, the dampness in her eyes disappeared.

“So tell me. What is the big emergency?” she asked tonelessly.

“What?”

“Obviously, you never planned to—” she paused briefly “—to come back here. But something has happened. Something involving me. Something you couldn’t handle any other way.”