Undercover Protector. Cassie Miles

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      Michael stepped aside as the door hurtled past. He caught the edge and entered the foyer.

      Suddenly they were standing less than a foot apart—near enough to touch. When she looked up into his coffee-brown eyes, she catapulted back in time, remembering his caresses, his strength, his warmth. He was the first man she’d ever really kissed. That long hot tantalizing kiss had transformed her from a sixteen-year-old tomboy into a woman. The memory of sweetly awakening passion spun through her like a cyclone, lifting her off the ground into clear blue skies.

      Michael cleared his throat. “How have you been?”

      “Fine.” She thudded back to earth. Both feet on the ground, she hardened herself, sealed off her emotions. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he affected her. He’d get nothing else from her. Nothing. Coldly, she asked, “And you? Are you well?”

      “I’m okay.”

      “How nice.”

      “I guess so.” Michael’s smile felt rigid as a death mask. He hated the stiff formality of their conversation. “It’s good to see you again, Annie.”

      “I’m surprised you even recognize me.”

      He could never forget her. His gaze lingered on her. She was the most naturally beautiful woman he’d ever known. Her lips were full and pink, untouched by lipstick. Light freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose. She didn’t need makeup to highlight blue eyes that shone with honesty and, at the moment, hostility.

      He’d always thought she was incredible. In all the years they’d been apart, he’d never stopped wondering about Annie, about the budding love he’d sacrificed. Regret burned within him. He still carried a battered photo of a sixteen-year-old Annie in his wallet. “I’ve missed you.”

      “You’re the one who disappeared.” Briskly she walked away from him, heading into the front parlor, where she turned on a brass table lamp. Apparently, she wasn’t going to bring up the past.

      Following her, he was amazed by how little the room had changed. The claw-foot brown velvet sofa was in the same place. The same framed photographs hung on the wall. The only difference was an air of neglect. The walls needed a fresh coat of paint, and the hardwood floors could use a buffing. When Annie yanked the drapes closed, a cloud of dust escaped.

      “The old place is looking a little…”

      “Shabby?” she snapped. “You’ll have to pardon the mess. I wasn’t expecting company.”

      “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

      On the opposite side of the room, she turned to face him. “You’re right, Michael. Lionel hasn’t been keeping up with repairs. But I’m going to be here for a month, and I’ll get everything shipshape again.”

      He wanted to help. He’d always liked this pleasant old house on Myrtlewood Lane. For the first seventeen years of his life he’d ached to live in an orderly neighborhood like this one—a safe haven where nobody drank too much or yelled all the time.

      “It’s been eleven years,” Annie said as she came toward him. “I believe this is the first time you’ve come home.”

      “Bridgeport was never my home. I just lived here.”

      She stopped a few feet away from him. Her eyes narrowed as she demanded. “Who is Drew Bateman? What does he have to do with my grandpa?”

      “What did he say to you?”

      “Don’t answer my question with another question. You knew him right away. Who is he?”

      “Somebody who used to live around here.”

      “A logger?”

      “I don’t think he ever worked at the mills.” Bateman had probably never worked at all. His profession was criminal.

      Curtly she nodded encouragement. “What’s with the chewing gum?”

      “He has a bit of a sweet tooth.”

      “That’s good to know.” In spite of her visible anger, she eased into an interrogation mode. Like a good cop she used the slight information she’d garnered to push him toward more revelations. “And why was Bateman in prison?”

      “Aggravated assault on a police officer. He shot a cop.” Though Michael didn’t want to scare her, she needed to understand that Bateman was a serious criminal, not just a small-town bully. “Annie, I think Lionel should be a part of this conversation.”

      “No.” She shook her head. “I don’t want to upset him.”

      “He has a right to know.”

      When Michael had arrived at the house half an hour ago, he’d been shocked by Lionel’s frail emaciated appearance—so different from the gruff invulnerable man who’d coached him in football and taught him the meaning of honor that went deeper than sportsmanship. It hadn’t taken long for Michael to realize that Lionel’s willpower and dignity were still there, stronger than ever. A lesser man would’ve given up and died. Lionel was alert enough to know he needed help, wise enough to call on Michael.

      Michael turned to Annie and said, “You can’t treat your grandpa like a helpless invalid.”

      “Excuse me.” Her voice turned hard and brittle. “You know nothing about what’s gone on here. You’ve been gone for eleven years, Michael. Why now? Why are you here?”

      “Because your grandpa needs me.”

      “Are you telling me what Lionel needs? Are you suggesting that you know how to take care of my grandpa?”

      “I guess I am.” Giving orders came naturally to him, and he wasn’t accustomed to dealing with women. He probably needed to be more careful about how he phrased things. “Let’s go see Lionel.”

      “Just a minute.” She dug in her heels. Though she wanted to resist anything Michael suggested, Annie knew he was right about her grandpa. She had to protect him without smothering him. Still, she didn’t want him to worry. He needed to concentrate on getting better. “Lionel has been hurt enough.”

      “He’s still a man.”

      “Don’t I know that,” she said. “An ornery old buzzard, if you ask me. When he was in the hospital, he refused to take his medicine. And he bribed one of the orderlies to bring him one of those big stinky cigars he loves so much.”

      Actually it had done her heart good to walk into his sterile white hospital room and see Lionel with a naughty grin on his face, puffing away like a chimney. “He’s a man, all right. Grumpy. Inconsiderate. Stubborn.”

      “That’s exactly what he needs to make him well.” Michael gestured toward the staircase. “Shall we go upstairs?”

      “I suppose. If that’s the only way I’ll get straight answers.” She crossed the foyer and automatically reached for the railing with her right hand. When she bumped the splint, she winced.

      “Looks СКАЧАТЬ