Читать книгу Taken by Storm - Rochelle Alers, Rochelle Alers - Страница 11

"I'll put the groceries away," Rafe told Simone in a no-nonsense tone while at the same time giving her a don't-challenge-me look. He'd unloaded the government-issued Yukon Denali.

What Rafe did not know was that Simone didn't want to challenge him or anyone. During the ride back from Elmsford, all of her spirited spunk had dissipated. Although the images were still as vivid as they'd been hours before, she hadn't wanted to believe what she'd become involved in. She knew she was in denial, because like so many who lived in suburban neighborhoods, she believed crimes like this don't happen here. Not only had she witnessed a heinous assault, but she was also drawn into circumstances not of her choosing.

In a moment of weakness she wanted to tell Rafe to drive her to Mount Vernon, but then remembered that her parents were in Bermuda, celebrating their wedding anniversary. She needed their reassurance that she would cope with this crisis as she had when the man with whom she'd fallen in love and married turned out not to be who she'd wanted him to be. The only difference was it wouldn't take sixteen years to resolve the case of U.S. v. Ian Benton.

"I'm going to print out my schedule for the next two weeks before I go upstairs and lie down," she told Rafe.

"Are you all right?"

Simone gave him an incredulous look. Of course she wasn't all right. Would he be all right if he'd seen someone nearly get murdered? "Yes," she said instead, walking in the direction of her office.

What she didn't want or need was his sympathy or pity, because she'd lost count of the poor Simones or isn't it too bad she wasted her life with a man who was so wrong for her when her marriage fell apart. A few times she had to tell off a few folks when they spoke as if her life were over and that she would never find another man. She would celebrate her thirty-fourth birthday in September and she certainly wasn't too old to remarry or have children.

Fifteen minutes later, Simone had entered her schedule from the planner to the PDA, downloaded it into her computer and printed a hard copy for Rafe.

"Do you need help?" she asked, strolling into the kitchen.

Rafe glanced over his shoulder at Simone as he dried his hands on a paper towel. "No, thanks. I think I have everything under control."

Closing the distance between them, Simone placed her schedule on the countertop. "That's my schedule for the next two weeks."

He quickly scanned the top sheet. "What's happening in the Bronx tonight?"

"I'm in a bowling league."

"Who do you bowl with?"

"Cops." She smiled when he gave her a stunned look. "My sister and her fiancé, who's a former NYPD lieutenant, are in a bowling league with a group of officers from a Bronx precinct."

"Do you bowl every Wednesday?"

"Yes."

"What about Englewood Cliffs Saturday night?"

"I'm having dinner with my cousin and her husband."

"Can you cancel it?"

"No!"

Rafe reached for the cordless wall phone, handing it to Simone. "I suggest you call your cousin to let her know that you're bringing company. It'd be in poor taste for me to show up unannounced."

A flicker of apprehension swept her as she processed what she'd been instructed to do. She wouldn't be able to go anywhere, see or talk to anyone without Rafe being present. Her life as she knew it was no longer hers.

She closed her eyes, struggling with the gamut of emotions shaking her confidence. Whenever her sister and cousin wanted to do something daring, it was always Simone Whitfield who accepted the dare and came out a winner.

She was the Whitfield girl, not Faith or Tessa, who preferred hanging out with the boys, climbing trees, hopping fences and playing baseball. It was she who had mixed it up with the boys in their Mount Vernon neighborhood, and it was she who had never run from a fight, even if her opponent was older or bigger.

When she'd announced to her family that she was getting married, no one believed her until the day she exchanged vows. The running family joke was they'd expected Tessa or Faith, the Whitfield princesses, to marry before designated family tomboy Simone.

Depressing a button on the speed dial, she rang Faith's cell phone, which she used exclusively for her business. The call was answered after the second ring. "Let Them Eat Cake. Faith speaking."

"Faith, Simone. I'm calling to ask if it's all right if I bring a date Saturday night."

"Why, Simi Whitfield, do you insist on working my nerves? Of course you can bring a guest." A soft chuckle came through the earpiece. "Who is he?"

Simone smiled. Faith was the only person who shortened her name. "You'll see," she said cryptically.

"Simone Whitfield!"

"Goodbye, Mrs. McMillan." Ending the call, she gave Rafe the phone. "She'll be expecting you."

He placed the receiver in its cradle. "You listed a party for Thursday evening. Where is it?"

Crossing her arms under her breasts, Simone leaned against the counter. "Manhattan. I'm doing the floral arrangements for a dinner party."

Rafe gave each item a mental check. "You also listed a consultation for tomorrow at eleven in Central Valley."

"I'm meeting with a prospective bride to discuss her wedding flowers."

"What's Monday in BK?"

"Every other Monday I get together with my sister and cousin. This coming Monday, we're meeting in Brooklyn at Tessa's house. The next meeting will be here, then after that we'll meet in Greenwich Village at Faith's apartment. The only time we don't meet is when one of us is out of town."

"Doesn't Faith live in New Jersey?"

Simone realized that not only did Rafe have a quick mind, but there were probably very few things that would get past him. "She and her husband stay in Manhattan during the week, and spend the weekends in New Jersey."

Rafe fixed his dark blue stare on Simone's delicate features, taken aback by her fragility. He didn't know why, but there was something about her that appealed to his protective instincts that had nothing to do with the assignment.

"How often do you go out of town?"

"Not too often. The last time I left the state for business was when I was commissioned to provide the floral decorations for a charity affair in D.C. Most times it's within the tri-state area."

Scanning the second sheet, he noted she'd listed a number of visits to Mount Vernon. "If you don't mind, I'd like for you to curtail your personal social engagements."

What was he talking about? Simone fumed inwardly. If she didn't bowl on Wednesdays with her sister and future brother-in-law or commit to their bimonthly get-togethers she wouldn't have anything remotely resembling a social life. What if she'd had a boyfriend? Would she have to stop seeing him, too?

"I'll see what I can do to accommodate you. I'm going upstairs to relax." She walked out of the kitchen, leaving Rafe staring at the space where she'd been.

Simone pressed her face into the softness of a mound of pillows on her bed. How could her life have changed with a single incident? Why now, when she was attempting to get her life and head together?

She'd spent years wishing, praying and hoping the man she'd come to love more than she'd loved herself would change. She'd tried over and over to make her marriage work. Even after divorcing Tony she'd attempted reconciling, yet in the end she knew she had to let him go.

Her emotions, vacillating from frustration to fear, made her a prisoner in her own home. If and when she ventured out of doors, she would never be alone, free to walk down to the greenhouses and linger long enough to lose track of time. Even if she were to end her day sitting on the porch, it would be under the sharp gaze of a man whose job it was to see that no harm came to her until the conclusion of the trial of a man charged with attempted murder. Questions assaulted her like missiles, questions to which she had no answers, questions she wanted to ask, but feared the answers to.

What she actually wanted was to go to sleep, then wake up and find it was all a dream. Rolling over on her back, she stared up at the ceiling. Simone knew wishing, hoping or praying wouldn't change the fact that what she was experiencing wasn't a dream, but a reality as real as the man moving around her kitchen as if he belonged there. She closed her eyes, willing her mind blank, and within minutes she succumbed to the comforting embrace of Morpheus.

It felt as if she'd just closed her eyes when she came awake suddenly to find Rafe sitting on the padded bench at the foot of the bed. She popped up like a jack-in-the box. He stood up and came to sit on the side of the mattress; it dipped with his added weight. Lengthening afternoon shadows made it difficult for her to see his face.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, Simone." Rafe's voice was soft and comforting. He'd come to her bedroom and, not wanting to startle her, sat on the bench, waiting for her to wake up.

She blinked once. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to ask you if you wanted something to eat."

He leaned closer, his warmth and scent sweeping over her; suddenly Simone felt smothered, trapped. Unconsciously she moved back against the mound of pillows propped against the headboard. She wanted to escape from Rafe, but there was no place to go. Was she just now undergoing delayed post traumatic stress?

She shook her head. "I don't think I'll be able to keep anything down."

"You're going to have to eat."

"I know." She closed her eyes for several seconds.

Rafe didn't think he would ever get used to hearing her husky voice. Not only was it sensual, but also hypnotic. "Are you a vegan?"

With wide eyes, she gave him an incredible stare. "No. Why would you ask me that?"

"There was no meat in your freezer."

Simone's expression softened. "I eat red meat three times a week, and this was my week to call in an order to the butcher."

"Do you pick up the order or have it delivered?"

"They deliver."

"That's going to change. The less company you have, the better."

She moved off the bed, walked over to a window and stared at the verdant landscape. Rarely a day passed when she didn't find herself in one of the greenhouses pruning branches, stripping wilted leaves from flowers or weeding vegetable flats.

"You mention company as if I have a steady stream of people traipsing through here. Aside from the butcher, there's only a courier service I use to deliver plants or flowers to family and clients."

Rafe left the bed and stood behind her. "What I want is to control the number of people you come into contact with."

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.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled.

Rafe smiled. "What are you apologizing for?"

She pulled back, but didn't break contact. "For losing it."

He stared at the shimmer of unshed tears. "You're allowed, Simone."

Sniffing and smiling, she nodded. "Thank you, Rafe."

Attractive lines deepened around his eyes. "You're welcome."

A slight frown formed between Simone's eyes that were now a vibrant green. "You must think I'm silly—"

"Stop it," Rafe chided softly. "What you went through today would take the nerve of the bravest man, so don't you dare apologize for being human."

"What—what would you've done in my situation?" she asked tentatively.

A muscle tightened his lean jaw. "I would've shot the bastard."

Rafe had said it so matter-of-factly that Simone shivered noticeably, as if cold air had swept over the nape of her neck, and in that instant she wondered if he'd ever killed another human being. She felt herself withdrawing although she hadn't moved.

"Would you have killed him, Rafe?"

He nodded. "I would've if he'd come at me with a knife."

"Did you—have you ever killed someone?"

Rafe smiled at Simone as if she were a small child. "Thankfully I haven't had to."

She returned his smile. "That's good to know."

"Why?"

"Because I'd feel uncomfortable living with you knowing you'd taken someone's life."

Within seconds, Rafe's expression became a mask of stone. "I don't ever want you to forget who or what I am. I'm not a school crossing guard protecting children from motorists who disobey the twenty-mile-per-hour school zone speed limit. I know my living with you is a constant reminder of what you saw this morning, but it's not a permanent arrangement. Think of the Supreme Court Justices who live every day of their lives under the protection of the U.S. Marshals Service."

Simone shook her head. "I don't think I could live like that, knowing that some crazy may be planning to take me out because they don't agree with my decision."

"You wouldn't have a choice if you were confirmed and accepted the position. Don't forget that everything we do or say has either conditions or consequences."

She knew Rafe was right. Easing out of his embrace and off his lap, she flashed a shy smile. "Thank you for your shoulder. I'm okay now."

Pushing off the chair, Rafe studied the too-bright smile and false bravado of the woman who for several minutes had slipped under the professional facade he wore like a badge of honor. Always the consummate professional, he'd never let any witness affect him emotionally.

However, when he'd held Simone he hadn't wanted to acknowledge that she'd felt so right in his arms that he hadn't wanted to let her go. He also hadn't meant to call her baby. He had to be careful, very careful, not to cross the line and risk compromising his assignment.

What he couldn't tell her was that she reminded him of a woman who'd captured his love and passion a year after he'd joined the Marshals Service. But his world came crashing down when she'd informed him that she was carrying another man's child. Although they'd lived together, she'd also been sleeping with another man. Their two-year liaison had ended without incident when he moved out, checked into a motel and submitted a request to his regional director—he wanted to be reassigned to witness security. Traveling kept him busy, and a single-minded focus on protecting witnesses proved advantageous to his emotional healing and growth.

A wry smile twisted his mouth as he walked over to the sink. Simone Whitfield's hair may have reminded him of Dorene, but that was where the similarities ended. The woman under whose roof he would sleep had an in-your-face attitude that said she was no shrinking violet. She'd proven that when she pepper-sprayed Ian Benton.

There was no doubt that if she were in law enforcement, the taxpayers of New York wouldn't have to foot the expense of the thirty-plus thousand a year it cost to incarcerate an inmate. Rafe knew that if Simone had been armed, she would've shot and probably killed Benton.

He gave her a sidelong glance when she stood next to him. "I'll make the dressing tonight. Tomorrow you're on your own."

Simone rolled her eyes at him. "Bully," she said under her breath.

Rafe lifted his eyebrows. "You think?"

She flashed a smile that looked more like a grimace. "I know."

The seconds ticked off as they stared at one another. Rafe was the first to break contact. "I'm going to need some fresh parsley, a green onion and two shallots."

"The parsley's in the second pot on the left on the window ledge. But I'm going to have to get the onion and shallot from the greenhouse." She'd set up one greenhouse to grow her flowers and half of the second one for herbs and vegetables.

Reaching for the keys to the house Simone had left on the window ledge, Rafe slipped them into the pocket of his jeans. "I'm ready whenever you are."

"You're going to have to change your shoes if you're going to the greenhouse."

He glanced down at his boots. "What's wrong with my shoes?"

"I don't want you to track fertilizer and insecticide into the house. There should be a pair of clogs or garden boots in the mudroom that should fit you."

Rafe wanted to ask Simone why she had men's shoes in her house if she wasn't living with a man, but thought the question much too personal. He followed her to the mudroom and discovered a shelf filled with wooden clogs and rubber boots in varying sizes and heights. He found a dark green pair of clogs in his size and slipped into them at the same time Simone pushed her sock-covered feet into a pair of rubber boots.

He waited for her to activate the alarm before they took off, walking side by side down the hill to the greenhouses. For a brief moment of madness, Rafe wondered how it would've been if he'd met Simone under other circumstances. He dismissed the traitorous thought as soon as it came to mind, knowing that if he allowed himself to see her as someone other than a witness, then he would lose his edge.

Ian Benton and the men who'd hired him weren't small-time hoods robbing gas stations and convenience stores for a few dollars. They were a well-organized group of dissidents whose intent was to eliminate anyone who opposed their beliefs.

Unconsciously, he reached out and took Simone's hand. She stiffened momentarily, then relaxed her fingers as she met his unflinching gaze. I'm going to make certain nothing happens to you, said a silent voice. She flashed a shy smile, and he returned it with a confident one of his own.

He'd made her a promise, one that he intended to keep, just like he'd kept the one he made to his mother and sister.