Mountain Blizzard. Cassie Miles

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      “The waiting must have been rough on you,” he said. “It’s no fun to report a murder when the body goes missing.”

      Definitely not fun when the investigating officer was buddy-buddy with her ex-husband. She’d asked Greg not to blab to Sean, but she’d expected him to ignore her request. Those guys stuck together. The only time Sean had lied to her when they were married was when he was covering up for a fellow fed.

      She wondered if Sean’s departure from the FBI had been due to negative circumstances. Had Mr. Perfect screwed up? Gotten himself fired? “Why did you leave the FBI?”

      “It was time.”

      “Cryptic,” she snapped.

      “It’s true.”

      God forbid he give her a meaningful explanation! Leaving the FBI must have been traumatic for him. Sean was born to be a fed. He could have been a poster boy with his black hair neatly barbered and his chin clean-shaven and his beige chamois suede shirt looking like it had come fresh from the dry cleaner’s. He’d been proud to be a special agent. Would he confide in her if they’d fired him? “You can be so damn annoying.”

      “Is that so?”

      “I hate when you put off a perfectly rational query with a macho statement that doesn’t really tell me anything, like a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”

      “I don’t expect you to understand.”

      “Mission accomplished.”

      Hostility vibrated around him. A red flush climbed his throat. Oh yeah, he was angry. Hot and angry. They could have put him on the porch and melted the blizzard.

      “I’ll leave,” he said.

      “Not in this storm,” Aunt Hazel said. “The two of you need to calm down. Have some chili. Try to be civil.”

      Emily stepped away from the stove, folded her arms at her waist and watched with a sidelong gaze as Sean and her aunt dished up bowls of chili and cut off slabs of corn bread. Sean managed to squash his anger and transform into a pleasant dinner guest. She could have matched his politeness with a cold veneer of her own, but she preferred to say nothing.

      There had been a time—long ago when she and Sean were first dating—when she was known for her candor. Every word from her lips was truth. She had been 100 percent frank and open.

      Those days were gone.

      She’d glimpsed the ugliness, heard the cries of the hopeless, learned that life wasn’t always good and people weren’t always kind. She’d lost her innocence.

      And Hazel was correct. She’d gotten herself into trouble from the Wynters. Though she didn’t want to be, she was terrified. Almost anything could set off her fear...an unexpected phone call, the slam of a door, a car that followed too closely. She hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep since that night in James Wynter’s closet.

      The only reason she hadn’t disintegrated into a quivering mass of nerves was simple: Wynter and his men didn’t know her identity. Her FBI contact had told her that they knew there was a witness to the murder, but didn’t know who. It was only a matter of time before they found out who she was and came after her. Tell him. Tell Sean. Let him be your bodyguard.

      Her aunt asked, “Emily, can I get you something to drink?”

      Hazel and Sean had already sprinkled grated cheddar on top of their chili bowls and added a spoonful of sour cream. They were headed to the adjoining dining room.

      What would it hurt to have dinner with him? The more she looked at him, the more she saw hints of his former self, her husband, the gentleman, the broad-shouldered man who had stolen her heart. She remembered the first time they were introduced when he’d tried to shake hands and she gave him a hug. They’d always been opposites and always attracted.

      “I’m not hungry,” Emily said.

      “There’s no reason to be so stubborn,” Hazel scolded. “I’ve hired you a bodyguard. Let the man do his job.”

      “I don’t want a bodyguard.”

      She glared at Sean, standing so straight and tall like a knight in shining armor. She was drawn to his strength. At the same time, he ticked her off. She wanted to tip him over like an extra-large tin can.

      Edging closer to the kitchen windows, she pushed aside the curtain and peered outside. Day had faded into dusk, and the snow was coming down hard and fast. The blizzard wasn’t going to let up; he’d be here all night. She’d be spending the night under the same roof with him? This could be a problem, a big one.

      “I’ve got a question for you,” he said as he strolled past her and set his chili bowl on a woven place mat. “What kind of murder would trigger an FBI investigation?”

      “The man who pulled the trigger is Frankie Wynter.”

      He startled. “The son of James Wynter?”

      She’d said too much. The best move now was to retreat. She stretched and yawned. “I’m tired, Aunt Hazel. I think I’ll go up to my room.”

      Without waiting for a response, she pivoted and ran from the kitchen. In the foyer, she paused to put Hazel’s rifle in the closet. It was dangerous to leave that thing out. Then she charged up the staircase, taking two steps at a time. In her bedroom, she turned on the lamp and flopped onto her back on the queen-size bed with the handmade crazy quilt.

      Memory showed her the picture of Roger Patrone sprawled back in the swivel chair with his necktie askew and his shirt covered in blood. When they came toward the closet, looking for something to wrap around poor Roger, she’d expected to be the next victim. She’d held tightly to the doorknob, hoping they’d think it was locked.

      There had been no need to hold the knob. Frankie told them to get the plastic shower curtain from the bathroom. Blood wouldn’t seep through. His quick orders had made her think that he might have pulled this stunt before. Other bodies might have gone over the railing of his daddy’s double-decker yacht. Other murders might have been committed.

      She stood, lurched toward the door, pivoted and went back to the bed. Trapped in her room like a child, she had no escape from memory. Her chest tightened. It felt like a giant fist was squeezing her lungs, and she couldn’t get enough oxygen. She sat up straight. She was hot and cold at the same time. Her head was dizzy. Her breath came in frantic gasps.

      With a moan, she leaned forward, put her head between her knees and told herself to inhale through her nose and exhale through her mouth. Breathe deeply and slowly. Wasn’t working—her throat was too tight. Was she having a panic attack? She didn’t know; she’d never had this feeling before.

      The door to her bedroom opened. Sean stepped inside as though he didn’t need to ask her permission and had every right to be there. She would have yelled at him, but she couldn’t catch her breath. Her pulse fluttered madly.

      He crossed the carpet and sat beside her on the bed. His arm wrapped around her shoulders. His masculine aroma, a combination of soap, cedar forest and sweat, permeated her senses as she leaned her head against his shoulder.

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