A Promise at Bluebell Hill (11 page)

She sorted through keys, tried one, then another before grinning. “Got it.”

After she led the way upstairs, they moved through a long hall with scattered framed photos of family, friends, and scenes of Colorado. There were doors off the hall.

“Bedrooms and a bathroom,” Mrs. Wilcox explained, then added in a teasing, singsong voice, “and none of your business.”

There was a galley kitchen, then one room that encompassed both a dining area and the living room.

“This is good,” Royce said. “Room for a ­couple of us to move around in.”

Travis let Royce look out the window, while he studied the room where Monica lived. There were deep, upholstered chairs beneath the big picture window, and a love seat perpendicular against the wall. A huge potted plant of some kind rose almost to the ceiling in that corner. The opposite wall had floor-­to-­ceiling shelves filled with books and knickknacks, lots of potted plants, and little woven square baskets that must hide stuff while still looking neat. It seemed like a girl thing to do, and Monica was definitely a girl. There were books scattered on a coffee table, magazines, some papers, but overall, she kept a neat place.

“I hope you don't need to be here much longer,” Mrs. Wilcox said, glancing down at the sidewalk through the window and frowning. “If a customer comes, I don't want to keep them waiting.”

“Hello?” Monica called from the stairwell, uncertainty in her voice.

He was surprised at the little jolt of desire just the sound of her voice gave him. He remembered her low moan, too, when he'd kissed her. That kiss had continued to haunt him, and more and more he couldn't regret it. When they'd gone running that morning, he'd tried not to look at her because, otherwise, he'd have dragged her behind a tree.

“We're up here, Monica!” Mrs. Wilcox called.

Monica appeared at the back of the hallway. “We?” And then she did a little stutter step as she saw them.

His heart did its own little stutter in his chest as he tried to shove down his intense, physical reaction to her. He'd heard of desire clouding a man's thinking, but he'd never believed it. He did now.

Her expression smoothed into pleasant lines, but Travis thought perhaps he should have waited until she could escort him into her apartment. She'd given permission, so he hadn't thought she'd need to give it again.

“Hi,” she said as she entered the living room.

She was wearing cropped white pants and sandals, along with a sleeveless blue top that showed off her supple arms. Though he tried not to think about it, the image of her breasts in that white bikini flashed through his mind. Royce was no better. Travis almost felt like elbowing him since he seemed to be staring a little too worshipfully, the afternoon sunlight glinting off his bald head.

“Monica,” Mrs. Wilcox began tentatively, “I hope you don't mind that I showed these gentlemen up. They had badges and said you'd given permission to use your living room?”

“I did. Don't worry about it. Why don't you go back downstairs and open up? Thanks.”

Mrs. Wilcox gave the two men another grin, then hurried to the staircase.

“This room will be perfect, Monica,” Royce said. “Come on over to the window and let me show you the sight lines.”

Travis stood for several minutes and watched as Royce explained the observation post, the rifles, the binoculars, the cameras. She listened patiently until at last Royce seemed to run out of things to say.

“Thanks, Royce, you can take off,” Travis said. “I have a few more things to talk to Monica about.”

Royce gave her a regretful smile. “I've been at Tony's a ­couple times but haven't seen you there.”

“Yeah, I've been pretty busy lately, what with the big wedding.”

“Of course. I'll look forward to seein' all your ­flowers.”

As he walked between Travis and Monica, Royce shot Travis a semiserious frown. Travis knew he was going to have to listen to another evening of how “fine” Monica was.

When he was gone, Monica's pleasant expression remained but with none of the warmth and sparkle he associated with her.

“I wish you'd have waited for me, Travis. This feels like an invasion of my privacy.”

“I'm sorry. You'd given permission, and I assumed that included a walk-­thru.”

She nodded, looking around warily.

“Worried we stole something?” he asked with faint amusement.

“Worried about what personal things I might have left out.”

“We didn't enter your bedrooms, and we didn't touch anything, either.”

She eyed him, but there was more warmth now, and that made his pulse pick up speed. He could think of something he wanted to touch. And suddenly that kiss was between them as if it had just happened. It took everything in him not to look at her mouth, not to step closer and take what he wanted—­what she wanted.

“So glad you're conscientious in your duty, Special Agent Beaumont.”

He nodded, relieved she'd spoken lightly, hoping that would break the spell between them.

She set down her purse and held up a newspaper. “Did you see this?”

He didn't need to take it. “Yes, and I'm now regularly stopped on the street, and the mayor is bugging me to schedule an event with the president, so she can give her a key to the town.” He arched an eyebrow. “And what about you? Were your friends upset you didn't tell them the truth about me?”

She shook her head. “They were rather fascinated, the girls, anyway. Haven't talked to any guys this morning. And I . . . already told my mom about the Secret Ser­vice infiltration. Hope you don't mind.”

“That would be a superhuman feat, to keep it from your mom.”

Her dark eyes were alight with humor and relief. “Could you have kept it from
your
mom?”

He hesitated. “It would have been very difficult.”

“Men and their mothers.” She rolled her eyes, then gave him an adorably lopsided grin. “Can I get you a drink? Water, coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

She went into the kitchen, and as she poured a glass of water, called through the pass-­through in the wall, “Although I am glad to hear that you're close to your mom. It must have been hard on her when you and your sister went into the Marines.”

“She thought it was inevitable, as far as I was concerned. But Kelly's enlistment? I think it was a shock for both my parents although my dad was immediately proud of her. We were raised hearing that our ancestors fought in every war back to the American Revolution.”

“Wow. Your dad, too?”

“No, my dad didn't qualify for medical reasons. And it was hard on him. Especially since
his
dad loved to recount tales of Korea.”

“My brother tried to join and was denied, too.”

She walked back into the living room with a tall glass of ice water. “For him, it was asthma. And he's such a patriot, too. I felt bad for him. Hope your dad didn't push you too hard because he couldn't join up.”

“He didn't.” It was what he'd wanted for himself. “So . . . did you mention anything else to your mother about me?”

She gave him a slow, sexy smile. “Did I tell her you'd kissed the heck out of me? No. But she'd heard about you, of course, since you'd showed up at the hot springs and ignited gossip.”

Her voice was a little deeper, a little throatier, and if he wasn't mindful of his thoughts, he'd soon have to adjust himself. They stared at each other, on the precipice of making a move they couldn't take back.

“Regardless of what I wanted, I shouldn't have kissed you. But that bikini—­” That came out too much like a growl.

Her grin smoldered with delight. “I'm so glad you approve.”

He cleared his throat. “Monica, I don't know what you expect of me, but—­”

“I don't expect anything,” she interrupted, her expression turning serious. “I'm just enjoying the ride. But if you don't mind my saying, I think you work a little too hard and could loosen up a bit. If you want to see more than Tony's Tavern some evening, give me a call. Maybe I'll be able to help you get to know our fair town.”

“That's a nice offer—­I think.”

“You think?” she said, arching an eyebrow.

“Well, it's not every day a woman I've just met tries to dissect me.”

“I do sound awfully presumptuous,” she said with mock seriousness. “I hope I'm not offending you.”

He resisted the urge to smile. “Maybe we can call it even since I might have presumed when I entered your apartment without permission.”

“ ‘Might have'?”

“Okay, okay, I presumed. Even?”

“Even.”

“Then I'll let you get back to work.”

“Have fun with Valentine Valley, now that your secret identity is revealed.”

She was smiling up at him as he walked past, and she looked so beautiful that he had to forcibly restrain himself from taking her in his arms and kissing her.

 

Chapter Ten

T
hat night at the Widows' Boardinghouse, Monica was met by the very eager and expectant faces of the widows and the other Double Ds. She answered questions about the Secret Ser­vice and how they were going to use her apartment for an observation post.

“Well, I can't believe he came to the hot springs yesterday just for business,” Mrs. Ludlow said briskly. “He's interested in our Monica.”

Monica put up both hands. “Let's not go there, ladies. He'll only be here another ten days or so.”

“So?” Mrs. Palmer shot back. “If you like each other, things might change.”

“Enough of that. I don't want a
second
daughter moving to D.C.,” Janet insisted in a huff.

Monica hadn't even thought of that—­couldn't imagine chasing a man across the country and leaving behind the business she cherished—­the family she loved. Missy lived in D.C., and had once been very depressed that Monica hadn't moved to be with her. But even her twin sister hadn't been able to persuade her to move away from Valentine. She'd loved her mountain home too much.

They got down to business, discussing the calendar, then the Mammoth Party, assigning ­people to booths, splitting up lists of supplies, and figuring out what still had to be made. Monica concentrated as best she was able, trying not to dwell on Travis. She was at war with herself, mostly thinking that this protest was none of his business, that everyone had the right to speak freely. And the other part of her thought he would consider this a “disruption” of his Friday schedule. They'd do it well before the wedding rehearsal, she told herself. But she still felt uneasy.

When she and her mom got back in the minivan, Janet said, “Oh, I forgot to tell you! Missy pulled some strings and is flying out here to help cover the wedding for CNN!”

“That's great!” Monica loved her sister and was always so happy to spend time with her, especially since they had reconnected two years before. Everything was just like it used to be.

“I met Travis today,” Janet said in a pleased voice.

That captured Monica's attention, and she glanced at her mom curiously before returning her focus to the road.

“I must say—­he's gorgeous.”

Monica laughed. “Mom! But yeah, he is. How did you meet him?”

“He had a meeting with Doc Ericson about the medical needs for a presidential visit. Although the president travels with a doctor, they need to know routes to the nearest clinic and hospital.”

“You're pretty well-­informed,” Monica said with a smile.

“Travis told me. Not that I got to be in on the meeting, of course, but we chatted. He recognized me right away, said you and I looked alike.”

“What a flatterer.”

“You
should
be flattered to look like me.”

They exchanged a glance and started laughing.

“Oh, I'm flattered, Mom.”

“Good,” Janet said, although her voice still shook with amusement. After a moment, she turned serious. “Monica, does he know about the protest?”

She sighed. “No, I haven't said a thing, and I feel a little uneasy about it.”

“About participating?”

“No . . . yes. I think it's a worthwhile protest, don't get me wrong. But . . . Travis has talked a lot about his mission here, smoothing the way for the president, planning everything down to the last detail. He even asked me to let him know if anything comes up to disrupt his weekend.”

“Ooh,” Janet said with sympathy.

They pulled up in front of her parents' house. “Yeah, that's what I mean. I really believe we can pull this off with little bother to anyone—­except for closing down Main Street for a few hours. And the Renaissance Spa needs to know we aren't just a few crazies. I plan to do everything in my power to keep the widows in check.”

“Not an easy thing to do. But Travis won't like it.”

“No, I don't think so, but I can't worry about that. My position is clear, but . . .” She trailed off on a sigh.

“But you feel guilty.”

“I do, like I'm keeping a bad secret. Do you think I'm doing the right thing, Mom?”

“I can't tell you what to do, baby girl, but I appreciate the position you're in. I think you'll make the right call.”

“I can't tell him—­he might try to get the whole thing canceled. I would feel like I betrayed the widows, betrayed what I believed in.”

“So you've already made up your mind to keep quiet.”

“I hope he doesn't hold it against me.”

“Sounds like you care,” Janet said softly.

Monica felt her mother studying her. “Why should I care that much when we've only had one dinner together and various run-­ins?”

“I don't know, you tell me.”

Monica tightened her jaw. “I'm socially conscious—­I always have been. The government isn't always right, and sometimes ­people can only make changes by speaking up.”

“There's my girl!”

They exchanged grins.

T
he next morning, Travis was sitting in front of a computer in the room he was using as the command center. Behind him, Royce was talking to a ­couple other agents about how enjoyable the OP would be with Monica nearby. Travis was trying not to listen, telling himself it didn't really matter that Royce thought Monica was “hot”—­to use his words.

It was like Travis couldn't escape her, especially since his own thoughts kept wandering in her direction. More than once, he glanced out the window and thought he saw her in the shop, just a flash of her as she showed something on a display table to a customer. He thought she'd be able to sell oil to an Arab.

Would he see her today?

Oh, this obsession was getting out of hand.

He checked his e-­mail and was glad for something to distract him. It was the background checks he'd ordered on the widows. Pretty soon he was wishing they hadn't been necessary. Seemed like the grandmother of the bride had a criminal record for trespassing at a nuclear power plant during a protest. He might have tried to excuse her if she'd been young and immature, but she'd been sixty. Apparently, the widows were more serious protesters than he thought.

He was debating on how to figure out if a large-­scale protest was in the planning stages when an agent from the Forensic Ser­vices Division called him about a photo match from a past demonstration against a president, this one in Denver. The name popped up, and they'd done facial recognition to confirm: Monica Shaw.

Demonstrating against a president? She'd just convinced him that she'd been following her passion for flowers. Apparently, she had a passion for violent demonstrations, too. He felt a clenching in his gut at the thought of her in danger. He clicked on the photo and stared in disbelief. She was much younger, probably college-­age, but it was Monica all right. Her fist was raised as she shouted something, her expression fierce and determined—­while behind her burned the American flag.

Travis wanted to wince, but he kept his expression impassive. No point alerting Royce. He wanted to look into these new facts all by himself. He was bothered that she hadn't told him about it, especially when she knew he was doing background checks. But, of course, it hadn't come up there because she hadn't been arrested. He might think she was just trying to forget about her past—­if it wasn't for his nagging suspicion that the widows weren't about to let slide this perfect opportunity to get the archaeology dig more recognition and support. And Monica was close to the widows. He had to find out what was going on and prevent them from getting into serious trouble.

On his way out, he ran into a woman with short, silver-­white hair, wearing a business suit and a determined expression.

“Special Agent Beaumont?” she asked.

“Yes?”

“I'm Mayor Galimi.”

He withheld a sigh as they shook hands. “Good morning, Your Honor. What can I do for you?”

“I've been told you're in charge around here, Agent Beaumont. I'd like to make an appointment to see the president when she arrives, to welcome her and offer a ceremonial key to Valentine Valley.”

“That's gracious of you, ma'am, but the president's schedule will be extremely tight because of wedding festivities. Frankly, I don't even have the full schedule yet. And this is not a public visit.”

“We both know the president is in the public eye, Agent Beaumont. We both know she will be shutting down major streets for her motorcade and inconveniencing many citizens, as well as taking up the valuable time of public servants. We are all glad to accommodate her. I believe she'd probably like to thank us personally.”

Travis couldn't help admiring the mayor's no-­nonsense firmness. “I promise I will give the president's staff your request and urge them to do what they can, Your Honor.”

“Thank you.”

And then she gave him a smile and a wink and started walking down the hall. Travis waited until she got on the elevator, then he took the stairs down himself. After walking through the ornate lobby, he headed across Main Street to Monica's Flowers and Gifts.

When he ducked inside, she was already busy with several customers. Mrs. Wilcox manned the cash register, while Monica moved among the display tables, discussing the various crafts with two middle-­aged Asian tourists with expensive cameras around their necks. She wore a green sundress with a little white short-­sleeve sweater.

Travis hadn't exactly paid attention to what she sold besides flowers—­he'd been far too interested in looking at Monica. But now he scanned the one side of the flower shop, full of potted plants, terrariums, and little gift baskets. On the other side, various crafts were displayed on tables and boxes and shelves, pottery pieces, knitting, quilting and a few leather goods—­from Josh? He didn't want to get too close to check them out because he didn't want to disturb her.

And then he noticed a little wrought-­iron table and two chairs, an apple cobbler on display, and a sign that read,
PLEASE HELP YOURSELF
. He sat down and took advantage of a midmorning snack. Emily Thalberg could certainly bake. He was so busy enjoying the cobbler that he didn't even notice that the tourists had left until Monica sat down across from him.

“Please cut me a slice, Special Agent.”

He did, and she dug in, then closed her eyes and moaned. His groin tightened, and he took a deep breath.

“I could so easily get fat on this stuff,” she said reverently. “Thank God I run. I didn't see you out there this morning, Travis. Are you avoiding me?”

“No, but I'm curious that you haven't been ignoring me from the moment you suspected who I am.”

She blinked at him. “What? Why would I ignore you?”

He lowered his voice, leaned toward her, and spoke with concern. “You had to figure your protesting days would come up eventually.”

She stiffened, then sighed and took another bite before speaking. “Yeah, I guess I'm not surprised. I assume you saw the photo?”

“I did.”

“For what it's worth, I didn't even know the flag was being burned behind me. I just somehow became the face of radical environmentalism for a year or two.”

“We always take our own photos at protests against the president. We use facial-­recognition software to see if the same ­people are showing up from event to event.”

“Well, you can't accuse me of that.”

“You're here, aren't you?” he said wryly, spreading his hands.

She snorted. “I live here! And the criminal trespassing was supposed to be wiped off my record.”

“Criminal trespassing?” he echoed, unable to hide a worried frown.

She winced. “Oops, it
was
wiped off my record, I guess.”

“If this was in your past, I assume you ceased because you regretted what you'd done?”

“Nope.”

She enjoyed another forkful of cobbler. He could swear she was making that enraptured face to distract him.

­“People need to stand up for the environment,” she continued earnestly. “I had more time then, of course, but I haven't changed my beliefs.”

“So you don't regret your actions then—­or what you're doing now?” Was she truly that unconcerned for her own safety or playing that for his benefit?

“What I'm doing now?” she repeated, her expression innocent. “I don't know what you're talking about, Special Agent Beaumont.”

He stared at her hard, but she didn't break. She was going to deny it, he realized. And she wasn't even sorry about anything, which was hard for him to grasp. Even if she hadn't known about the flag-­burning at the Denver protest, she hadn't left when things got ugly, when she could have been hurt.

He knew he was frowning, saw the way Mrs. Wilcox kept glancing at him from behind the counter with worry in her eyes. Even a ­couple customers still browsing looked their way with interest.

“You know the irony of all this?” Monica continued, pointing her fork at him. “Guess who first got me involved with activism in college—­Ashley Ludlow.”

He didn't bother revealing that Ashley had alerted him to a possible protest from her own friends. “The widows have obviously been protesting long before we were born. Mrs. Ludlow—­grandmother of the bride—­has a criminal record.”

Her eyes went wide. “Really? I didn't know that! It must have happened after she retired from teaching because, otherwise, that would have affected her job.” She tilted her head, curls bouncing against her neck, and studied him. “So this is how you prepare for the worst? Threaten the rights of grandmas?”

“You know there's more involved than that,” he said with sincerity. “Whatever you're up to—­do you care if there's fallout to your business, to your livelihood? What if your customers decide you're wrong to protest against the president?”