Dangerous Lover (2 page)

Summerville, Washington
Christmas Eve
Twelve years later

She was here.

He could feel her, he could
smell
her.

Walking into the small bookshop with the old-fashioned bell over the door, the man now known as Jack Prescott knew he’d found her.

He was exhausted, having traveled for forty-eight hours straight, on a pirogue from Obuja to Freetown, via Air Afrique from Lungi Airport to Paris, Air France from Paris to Atlanta, Delta from Atlanta to Seattle, then a rickety puddle jumper he could have flown better himself to Summerville.

Even through his exhaustion, though, his senses were keen. Twelve years later, he could still recognize her touches. The
candles on the windowsill, the gentle harp music playing faintly in the background, a smell of cinnamon, vanilla, roses and
her.
Unmistakable, unforgettable.

Coming in from the airport, the news that she was still in Summerville and, astonishingly, still single had blown him away. He hadn’t been expecting that. He hadn’t been expecting anything but difficulty and frustration in tracking her down.

He had all the time in the world to do it in, now.

Colonel Eugene Prescott’s death had freed him from bonds of loyalty and love. The day after the Colonel’s death, Jack had sold ENP Security and flown to Sierra Leone to take care of the last of his responsibility to the man who’d become his father.

It had cost gunfire and bloodshed, pain and violence, but he’d taken care of the mess as his father had asked on his deathbed. Jack had done what had to be done, salvaged his father’s reputation, punished the fuckers who’d mounted a rogue operation, and was finally, finally free from all responsibility for the first time in twelve years.

His life as a Ranger and his duty to the Colonel and his company had kept him busy. As long as the Colonel was alive, Jack had tried to keep Caroline out of his head, and he was successful, mostly—except at night. She had her life, wherever it was, and he had the Colonel to serve. But after stopping Vince Deaver, he was free. He’d turned straight around and flown as fast as modern aviation could take him from Africa to Summerville.

It was crazy, he knew it was crazy to look for her here,
twelve years later. Why would Caroline stay in Summerville? She was beautiful, talented, smart, rich. She’d end up where all beautiful, smart, talented, rich women go—some big city on a coast. Maybe even abroad.

And no way could she be single, not someone who looked like Caroline. She’d be married with kids. Any man in his right mind would snatch her right up and keep her pregnant to be sure she stayed.

He had no illusions. Caroline wasn’t for him. She was probably happy and fulfilled, with a family of her own. Jack knew he’d never have a family, it wasn’t in his destiny.

He was going to keep out of Caroline’s life because he had no place in it.

But Jack had to see her.
Needed
to see her, like he needed to breathe. Just one more look before starting the next stage of his life, whatever that would be. He’d closed the door on ENP Security when he’d buried his father. The company was gone, the house sold. Everything he needed was in his duffel bag and suitcase. He was ready to turn the page, right after one last look at her.

So he’d come here to start his quest, to the last place he’d been before becoming Jack Prescott, to the last place he’d seen Caroline. Her family was established here, there was bound to be a way to track her down.

He didn’t care where she’d gone—whether she was still in the U.S. or had settled abroad or had gone to the moon. He was an excellent tracker—the best there was. He’d find her, eventually, however long it took. He had the rest of his life to do it in, and he certainly wasn’t hurting for money.

Just one look, and he’d disappear forever.

In the end, he didn’t have to track her down, though. The taxi driver in from the airport knew where she was.

Here. Right here, where she’d been all along. In Summerville.

Single.

Jack had been planning on checking into a hotel, cleaning up, having a nice meal in a restaurant, then sleeping for twenty-four hours. He’d been in a firefight, and he’d been traveling for two days straight. He was exhausted.

It was Christmas Eve. Everything would be closed on Christmas Day and the next day, Sunday. On Monday, he planned to start his search for Caroline.

But then the taxi driver said Caroline Lake—
his
Caroline Lake—was still in Summerville and ran a small bookshop, and so there was no question where he’d go.

Straight to her.

Quick, light footsteps on the hardwood floor and
shit
, before he was ready, there she was.

“Oh!” Caroline Lake stopped suddenly, the welcoming smile dying on her face as she saw him. “He-hello.”

He knew what she saw.

She saw a tall, heavily muscled man with long black hair tied back carelessly, dressed in cheap, rough, dirty, crumpled clothes. He hadn’t showered or shaved in three days, and he knew that lines of exhaustion creased his stubbled face.

He knew what she felt, too.

Scared.

She was alone with him. He had unusually sharp hearing,
and he heard no other human sounds in the small shop. The icy sleet storm outside was so severe that the streets outside were deserted, as well. If he turned out to be violent, there would be no one to hear her cries for help.

There was nothing he could do about the way he looked—dangerous. The truth was, he was every inch as dangerous as he looked.

Though Caroline couldn’t possibly see the Glock in the shoulder holster, or the tactical folder in the boot or the .22 in the ankle holster, an armed man carries himself differently than an unarmed man. He’d killed four men two days and two continents ago. At some subliminal level, she was picking up on this.

She was standing very still, nostrils slightly flared, instinctively pulling in oxygen in case she had to run. She wouldn’t know that was what she was doing, but he did.

He was an expert on human prey and how it reacted to danger.

First, defuse her fears.

He stood utterly still, watching her carefully. He would rather rip his own throat out than hurt her in any way, but she couldn’t know that. All she knew was she was all alone with a big, potentially violent man.

“Good evening.” He kept his voice low and without inflection. Calm. He kept his body language utterly nonthreatening, moving only his lungs to breathe. Not smiling, not frowning.

It was the only way he knew to reassure her. Words wouldn’t do it. Stillness would. If he were crazy, he couldn’t stay so still. Agitated minds make for agitated bodies.

It worked. She relaxed slightly, nodded, smiled.

He couldn’t smile back. For a second, he couldn’t breathe.

Christ, she is so fucking beautiful.
She’d somehow become even more beautiful than his memory. How could that be?

Slender yet curvy. Not tall, yet long-limbed. Her hair was the richest color he’d ever seen—a wild mix of reds and golds, with pale champagne streaks running through it. Her coloring was so vivid the eye naturally gravitated to where she was. Jack couldn’t imagine looking at another woman while Caroline was in the room.

She stepped back slightly.

He was staring at her. Worse, he was scaring her.

“Terrible weather,” he rumbled. His voice was deep, unusually so, but he kept his tone even and low.

It took a huge effort, one of the hardest things he’d ever done in a hard life, but he took his eyes off her. Hungry as he was for the sight of her, he couldn’t keep staring, or she’d freak.

So he looked around him, at what she’d created.

It was a pretty bookshop, with a high, beamed ceiling, hardwood floor with what looked like expensive rugs scattered around, pinewood shelves and tables with bestsellers on them. The harp music had given way to an a cappella choir of women’s voices singing madrigals. Over the smell of her—soap, shampoo, and the scent of roses that haunted his nights—he could smell potpourri, candle wax and resin from the small Christmas tree decorated with miniature books standing in a big red ceramic pot in the corner.

The entire shop was warm and welcoming, a delight to all the senses.

Jack had good peripheral vision and kept looking around until she visibly relaxed. He turned back to her. “Very nice bookshop. My compliments.”

Her lips turned up in a slight smile. “Thank you. And it’s not usually so deserted. I was expecting a Christmas Eve rush for all the lazybones who haven’t bought their presents yet, but the weather has kept everyone indoors.”

Jack tried not to frown and look disapproving. What was the matter with her? Jesus, the last thing she should do when alone with a man was point out just
how
alone they were.

She’d always been like that, too trusting.

Once, in the shelter, old man McMurty, doped up on God knows what shit he’d scored on the streets, had sidled up to her when she’d smiled at him.

Jack knew what McMurty was like when he was high. The filthy fucker would have put his hands on Caroline if Jack hadn’t blocked him. After Caroline left, Jack had shoved McMurty up against the wall, showed him the Bowie knife he’d shoplifted and promised McMurty that if he even so much as breathed in Caroline’s direction, ever again, he could kiss his balls good-bye.

Jack had meant every word.

Pretty, slender ringless hands opened wide. “Can I help you with something? We have a fairly good selection, and I can order anything you want if we don’t stock it. It takes about a week to arrive.” She smiled up at him.

She was a woman now. A stunningly beautiful woman, whose face showed the sorrows she’d suffered. The chatty taxicab driver had told him all about Caroline and the down
fall of the Lakes. Jack had heard all about the car accident that had killed her parents and injured her little brother. The discovery at their death that Mr. Lake had been making bad investments, that there was no money to cover the hospital bills, with barely enough to pay for the double funeral. Then six years of caring for an invalid brother, only to lose him two months ago, saddling her with even more debts.

All of that showed in her face. Faint lines starred her eyes, though they were still that haunting silver-gray color. She’d slimmed down even more. The young Caroline had had a lovely, open face with a perpetually sunny smile. This Caroline showed sorrow and serenity, the sunniness gone.

And yet, Jack could still see the young Caroline, the heart of her—the lovely, gentle girl who’d befriended an outcast inside the beautiful woman who’d known heartache and grief.

The young girl had haunted his days and nights. The woman in front of him nearly brought him to his knees.

Christ, he was staring again, lost. She’d said something—something about books. He didn’t want books.

“The sign,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?” She swirled a lock of shiny red-gold hair behind a small ear. He’d seen her do it a hundred times.

“You’ve got a sign at the front of the shop.
ROOMS TO LET
. Do you still have a room available?”

It had been the motor-mouth taxi driver who’d told him that Caroline rented rooms to boarders to boost her income from the bookshop.

Caroline looked at him for a long moment, clearly sizing him up. He couldn’t shrink and he couldn’t take a shower
and shave and he couldn’t change his clothes right then. All he could do was remain motionless and keep his expression neutral. There was nothing he could say or do to convince her if she didn’t trust him enough to want him in her home. The only thing he could do was wait.

And hope.

Finally, Caroline sighed. “Yes, as it happens, my boarders just left, so I do have a room. But let’s discuss it sitting down, why don’t we? You can leave those behind my desk if you’d like.” “Those” were his ancient duffel bag with the brand-new luggage lock and a suitcase.

No way was he leaving them out of his sight. “Thanks, I’ll just put them down next to me so no one will trip over them,” he said casually, hefting the duffel bag over his shoulder and picking up the suitcase.

She nodded and turned to walk between the rows of books to the back corner of the shop, where a small sitting area had been set up.

Though she was more slender than when she was a girl, she was also curvier. She had a tiny waist that begged for his hands to span, rounding out to a perfect ass. He had to work hard to keep his eyes off it, in case she turned around and found him ogling her. That would have got him tossed out on his ass, PDQ.

Jack recognized a couch and two small armchairs that had once been in her father’s study. They were old and worn but still looked comfortable. Jack put his duffel bag behind one of the small armchairs and sat down in it, hoping it would take his weight. He wasn’t built for old, delicate furniture, but he
needn’t have worried. The armchair might be shabby, but it was of good quality.

“Would you like me to take your jacket, Mr.—?” Caroline held out a hand.

“Prescott. Jack Prescott. And no, thanks. I’m still a little chilled from the weather outside.”

“I can imagine,” she murmured, withdrawing her hand.

Jesus, he couldn’t take his jacket off. Out of reflex, and because he hated being unarmed, he’d grabbed his bag off the carousel and ducked into the nearest men’s room to slip his Glock into his shoulder rig. And then he’d completely forgotten about it. He’d had no idea whatsoever that an hour after landing, he’d actually be sitting down, with Caroline, who wanted him to take his jacket off.

Jack was very very good at strategic planning. He’d been born with it. Then Colonel Prescott and the Army had taken that and refined it. Jack had been an outstanding operative, always able to think several moves ahead.

The fact that he hadn’t thought to hide his weapon before entering the bookshop, where he might be expected to take his jacket off, was off his own personal radar. That was exactly the kind of mistake that could have gotten him killed on the job.

But even without the weapon, he couldn’t take his jacket off. No way. Besides his weapon, he had a hard-on. A huge blue-steeler that felt like a club between his legs, and his pants were just loose enough to show it.