Mountain Retreat. Cassie Miles

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      She nodded. “Coffee?”

      “That’s a negative,” he said. “You need your sleep.”

      She pushed back the sleeves of her plaid flannel shirt. “Do you like my outfit?”

      “Very cute.”

      “I call it hobo chic.” She picked up a cookie and took a ladylike nibble. A crumb fell onto her chin. He wanted to brush it off but didn’t trust himself to touch her. One simple caress would lead too quickly to another, and before he knew what was happening he’d be kissing her, scooping her into his arms and carrying her up the staircase to the bedroom.

      For the past six months, he dreamed about making love to her. Being so close and not being able to taste her mouth or run his hands through her straight blond hair was driving him crazy. He was desperate to feel her sweet, slender body pressed against his.

      He had to be careful, had to hold back. Sidney was smart and perceptive. He wasn’t ready for her to know the whole truth, not just yet.

      Hawthorne came into the kitchen. Scowling, she announced, “It’s almost three in the morning. We’ll call it a night and start again tomorrow.”

      “Agreed,” Nick said. He had considered talking to Lieutenant Butler about Rico. Butler was the closest he had to a confidant. But after tonight’s attack, Nick wasn’t sure he trusted the lieutenant. Butler had arrived at the scene quickly; he’d been in the backyard at the right time to shoot Rico.

      Hawthorne pivoted and marched into the other room. The two other agents shouldered their weapons and went out the back door. Nick was alone with Sidney in the kitchen. Not that they were truly alone. This was a CIA safe house; he’d be wise to assume that every conversation was bugged.

      Unable to resist her, he moved a little closer. “I missed you. I kept thinking about you and what you were doing every minute of the day. Rubbing lotion on your long legs. Combing your hair. Brushing your teeth while you hummed the Jeopardy theme song.”

      “That tune lasts a minute,” she said. “It’s important to spend at least a minute, twice a day, on oral care.”

      He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, catching a hint of her special scent through all the other odors in the house.

      “That routine pretty much covers what I was doing,” she said. “My days were the same as always, except for when I fell into the panic-and-depression thing, which I don’t intend to talk about. Oh, and I went to a psychic.”

      He was surprised. “You don’t usually go for nonscientific explanations.”

      “When logic fails, I’ll try other methods.” She finished one cookie and started on the other. “This was a Navajo woman who mostly deals with herbal remedies. She told me we’d be together again.”

      Her lips pressed together, and he could tell she was holding something back. “What else?”

      “She said something would come between us, but she wasn’t specific or logical.”

      Turning her head, she stared at him with wide, curious eyes. Quickly, she averted her gaze. He had the sense that she didn’t like what she’d seen.

      Nick had secrets he’d kept from everyone. He’d passed through a battery of interviews from several intelligence agencies, talking to people who were trained to spot deception. As far as he knew, none of them suspected him. But Sidney knew him better than anyone else.

      Her voice was soft and subtly persuasive. “Tell me what happened to you in Tiquanna.”

      “It’s a long story. We should go upstairs to bed.”

      * * *

      CLIMBING THE STAIRCASE to the second floor took effort, but Sidney managed. In the bedroom, she kicked off the moccasins and slipped out of the sweatpants, her back to Nick. Too tired to remove the flannel shirt, she crawled into bed and lay on her side with her injured arm facing the ceiling. She allowed herself a little smile. Her scar would be a badge of honor, totally impressive to all the tech guys at work.

      Under the comforter, warmth wrapped around her like a gentle cocoon. Sleep beckoned. If she relaxed a tiny bit more, she’d be unconscious. But she wasn’t ready to let go.

      Her mind hopscotched from one point to another and back again. Nick was her fiancé, the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. She should be able to embrace him without reservation. The less analytical part of her brain told her to open her arms and accept him. Forget the doubts. Take the kisses. It would all work itself out. Or would it?

      She’d never been a woman who would settle for less. Before Nick left for Tiquanna, their happiness had been as close to perfection as she could imagine. They’d bought a house. They were getting married. And now...he was different.

      She hadn’t gone through six months of hell, not knowing if he was dead or alive, to end up with a troubled relationship. Until she could look into his eyes and see the truth, she’d keep him at arm’s length. No matter how much she wanted to succumb, she’d resist. No kissing. No touching. Definitely, no lovemaking.

      Nick turned off the bedside lamp and unbuttoned his shirt. Her strong resolve crumbled when she saw the outline of his bare chest. Her heart beat faster. She had memorized those swirling patterns of hair and the ridges of hard muscle. Her fingers itched to touch him.

      “No,” she said aloud.

      In the dim moonlight shining around the edge of the window, she saw him pause. “Did you say something?”

      Though she wanted him with all the pent-up yearning of six long months, she said, “Don’t you have your own bedroom? I figured Hawthorne would enforce a no-fraternization policy.”

      “There’s another room. But the view isn’t anywhere near as pretty.”

      “Maybe you should go there, anyway.”

      The mattress bounced as he sat on the bed beside her. Gently, he stroked the hair off her forehead. “Are you throwing me out?”

      “I don’t feel good.” She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to bear looking at him. “Just for tonight, it’s better if I sleep alone.”

      “I’ll stay with you until you’re asleep.” His hand caressed her cheek. “It’s been a hell of a day.”

      “It has.” She couldn’t help turning her head and lightly kissing his palm.

      “I’m sorry about what happened at the house.”

      “I can’t imagine what our neighbors think.” Her memory pulled up a grim recollection of police vehicles and ambulances, flashing lights and gunfire. After that circus, she was pretty sure that nobody on their block would ask her to babysit. “We’ll have to make it up to them. Maybe have a barbecue.”

      “Yeah, nothing says ‘I’m sorry’ like pulled pork.”

      His voice went still. A heavy silence invaded the bedroom. The distance between them spread like a fading echo.

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