A Promise at Bluebell Hill (20 page)

“Ryan's not the only one who was curious about the president,” Whitney continued. “Even my dad is at our Aspen condo although he swears he's here for the birth of his first grandchild. I'm not due for a few more weeks, so he's not fooling anybody. He was on the other side of the world when
I
was born.” Then she stiffened. “Incoming. Gotta go.”

Whitney was gone by the time he saw the three widows bearing down on them, Mrs. Ludlow in the lead, manning her walker as if she'd use it like a battering ram.

Travis stood up. “You ladies look upset.”

“Did you see the Renaissance Spa ­people?” Mrs. Thalberg asked.

Monica stood on her tiptoes and looked around. “Must have missed them. They didn't cause a scene, did they?”

“I don't know how you could have missed the boos,” Mrs. Palmer said, flinging her arms wide. “They had the nerve to say the dig will be officially closed next week. ­People aren't bein' allowed near the site anymore.” She rounded on Travis. “What can the government do about this?”

“Mrs. Palmer, if it's private property, I'm pretty sure the government can't do anything,” he said patiently. “But maybe this event will change minds, and more ­people will bring pressure on the spa owner. You ladies have done an excellent job here.”

He was trying to mollify them, and though they gave him tight smiles of acknowledgment, they weren't happy. And he guessed they weren't finished with their own pressure on the spa owner. He wished he could fix things for Monica—­for the widows—­so they wouldn't have to do something drastic to get attention for a cause they deemed important.

 

Chapter Eighteen

T
he cleanup of the Mammoth Party took longer than expected, and Monica was exhausted by the time she drove home after dropping a minivan full of supplies off at the boardinghouse. She glanced up at the Hotel Colorado before turning down her alley, wondering if Travis was awake.

She still felt warm and delighted by the easy, unaffected way he'd behaved around little Kyle Deering, how Travis had no problem sitting on the floor to play with a lost child. He hadn't acted like it was her job to take care of a kid since she was a woman. He might even have continued to play if Kyle hadn't been separated from his dad. Monica had barely been able to keep herself from looking at Travis with lovesick eyes. What was it about a man who was good with kids? And Saudi princes?

She couldn't stop thinking about his other important skills, reliving every pleasurable touch he'd bestowed on her last night. She kept drifting off into daydreams when there was so much to be done, probably frustrating Mrs. Wilcox. The wholesalers had begun to drop off all the flowers she'd ordered, and the next few days she'd be crazy busy putting together the arrangements. But that was her favorite part of the job, creating original flower displays that would make ­people gasp with delight and maybe a little awe. She should probably be working right now . . .

And then she saw Travis sitting on her back step, and every thought of work fled her mind. They kissed all the way up the stairs, shedding clothing along the way, and fell into bed to roll around together like the best romantic movie.

When her phone rang, she ignored it, but afterward, it rang again while Travis was in the bathroom. She saw Brooke's ID and had to answer it.

“I was worried you'd already gone to bed,” Brooke said.

Monica stretched across the mattress, naked and happy. “I am in bed, but that's okay. I didn't want you to worry, so I answered. Is something wrong?”

Travis walked out of the bathroom, displaying lots of delectable skin. Monica could only grin as he dropped to his knees beside the bed and gently kissed the top of her foot.

“I saw Travis's friend Royce huddled together with Missy,” Brooke said. “Did you introduce them?”

“Uh-­huh,” Monica answered dreamily, shivering and melting as Travis began a slow, seductive line of kisses up her leg. She bit her lip to keep from gasping aloud.

“Monica, what—­he's there, isn't he? Travis?”

Monica gave a throaty laugh. “I can neither confirm nor deny.”

Brooke said something away from the phone. “Adam says it's time to hang up, that you have a private life, too. You don't have anything private from me, right, Monica? We always tell each other everything.”

“I seem to recall you kept a certain Marine secret for a while.”

Travis lifted his head and gave her an arched brow.

“Not you,” Monica mouthed. Then, “Say good night, Brooke.”

“Good night,” she practically grumbled. “Details later!”

“Uh-­huh.” Monica pressed the
OFF
button and tossed her phone onto the bedside table.

Travis parted her thighs and pressed his mouth in between, and she cried out and forgot everything but him. He licked and sucked, seeming to take pleasure in bringing her so close to orgasm, then backing away. Before he was done, her arms and legs were moving restlessly, her head turning back and forth, soft cries she didn't even recognize coming from her mouth. An orgasm shuddered through her at last, and then he was on her, in her, a part of her, their mouths and bodies joined for a rollicking ride that she could swear moved the bed a foot by the time they were done.

They ended up dozing, wrapped together, and when at last he left, it was like a part of her left, too. She had to find some way to remember this was just for fun, to keep her distance, to not get too emotionally involved.

She feared it was already too late.

T
uesday morning, a day before the president's arrival, Travis held the first major agent briefing, including all the agents from field offices in the surrounding states. He introduced the site agents, went over the president's schedule in detail, began to coordinate where agents would be posted. The first big C130 had just landed at the Grand Junction Regional Airport, with all of their equipment and SUVs, as well as the Beast, the presidential limousine—­two of them, so that no one would know in which one the president rode.

He'd asked for reports from stores if anything unusual was sold, and although his agents chuckled, one of them did announce that the local feed store had sold out of all their twine and cammo netting within a twenty-­four-­hour period—­but there was no increase in gun sales.

Travis didn't laugh along with everyone else because he knew what ghillie suits were made of. How many suits did they need, and why? Those supplies weren't used at the Mammoth Party, so something else was still going down this week.

Sheriff Buchanan was also at the meeting, and when Travis questioned him, he got to his feet, harrumphing as he tugged on his waistband.

“Agent Beaumont, you wanted to know every strange occurrence, so I have to bring it up. Did you see today's
Valentine Gazette
?”

Laughter rippled across the room, and from the back, Royce called, “CAT will take care of it, don't you worry.”

More laughter.

“I haven't read the paper yet, Sheriff,” Travis said tiredly. “What did I miss?”

“There's a lot of unrest over the archaeology dig.”

Travis was surprised at how uneasy the man seemed. “Spit it out, Sheriff. A lot of us were at the Mammoth Party last night, so we know how important it is.”

“We've had to keep watch on the site, of course, worried about vandalism. But we received several calls, and it made the paper.”

“Calls about what?” Travis demanded impatiently.

Buchanan sighed. “A Bigfoot sighting near the spa.”

The place broke out in roars of laughter, but Buchanan wasn't laughing as he sat down stiffly, and neither was Travis. He knew a person in a ghillie suit could resemble Bigfoot from a distance. And though snipers wore ghillie suits, he just didn't believe that was the reason.

Did the widows think they could
scare
­people away from the spa?

“M
onica!” Mrs. Wilcox called. “You have a visitor!”

Monica was in the workroom, baskets and vases for the presidential suite spread out around her, the first greenery already embedded in foam. She frowned. “Can you take care of it, please?”

“It's lunchtime—­you might appreciate this.”

Gritting her teeth and forcing a smile, Monica walked through the swinging door and found Travis opening bags with the Rancheros logo on the counter. Immediately, all her stress faded away, and she had to stop herself from grinning like an idiot. He kept saying he'd soon be too busy to see her much, but he was still finding the time.

“I figured you might be too engrossed to eat,” he said, wearing that faint smile beneath his sunglasses. “We can't let you get sick—­we need your apartment for our observation post.”

Mrs. Wilcox clapped her hands together. “We have been far too busy to order lunch yet. Agent Beaumont, you are a lifesaver. Monica, I'll take these customers,” she said, as the door jingled when an elderly ­couple entered.

Travis came around the counter, and Monica gestured for him to sit on a stool. He'd brought a selection of tacos, burritos, and quesadillas, and her mouth watered. He tossed her a bottle of Coke and, after opening it, she took a swig.

“Did you see the paper today?” he asked, too casually.

Monica eyed him. “I read it with breakfast.” She knew what he was going to mention, but she said innocently. “Do you follow baseball?”

“No. I was more interested in the local news. Weren't you? The unusual sighting?”

She filled her mouth with a quesadilla to stop her giggle, but she knew her eyes were shining at him.

He'd taken off his sunglasses, revealing blue eyes that were more concerned than amused. “Bigfoot? Really?”

She shrugged as she chewed, and after swallowing, said, “Never heard of it around here before. Someone's obviously having a good time with the president's coming. You know, like the sheep?”

“We never did catch it,” Travis said, frowning down at his taco.

“And now you have to chase Bigfoot. Honestly, I am just as clueless as you.” And that was the truth. She'd gasped when she'd seen the paper, then laughed herself silly.

“I don't know if it's about the president so much as the spa. That was where the person was spotted.”

“Person?” she asked, smiling.

“Person. And you can laugh, but you know this has already been picked up nationally because of the president's imminent arrival.”

She sighed. “And we'll come off as a bunch of rednecks.”

“Not what you wanted.”

“I don't know anything about this, Travis, I swear to you. Hold on a sec.”

She put down her food and went to help a teenager who seemed to be wandering aimlessly by the terrariums. Ten minutes later, she returned to try a taco.

“We are rednecks, you know,” she said casually. “You can't believe how excited ­people got in Grand Junction when your military planes landed. We can't handle that size in Aspen. Can you tell me what they're for?”

“Motorcade vehicles and our equipment.”

“Equipment?”

“Don't forget, we have to scan every visitor to every event. We use magnetometers, or mags for short, sort of like the rectangular doorways ­people walk through at airport security. We wand them, too.”

“Can't take any chances,” she agreed. And she imagined they had more-­deadly equipment, too.

“Back to Bigfoot.”

“Really?”

“Really. I wondered if you'd take me hiking near the spa. I'll have men keeping an eye on things, but I want to see it for myself.”

She glanced toward her workroom. “I'm getting all the flower deliveries now, Travis.”

“I can handle those whenever you need me to,” Mrs. Wilcox said. “And if you two go in the afternoon, Karista will be here to help. And isn't your mom going to start working evenings?”

Monica nodded. “Dad and Dom are going to help with deliveries, too.”

“It's a family affair,” Travis said. “I won't take you away for more than a ­couple hours. Should I ask permission of your family?”

“No!” Monica said quickly.

He smiled.

“I'm surprised you even mentioned my family.” She leaned toward him. “I do have a father and a brother, you know.”

“I didn't think you needed someone defending your honor.”

Mrs. Wilcox was watching them with interest, or Monica might just have kissed him right there.

She straightened up. “So did you solve Ashley's problem with the presidential staffer?”

“I tried. The woman actually had a meltdown right in front of me. Stamped her foot, thinking that would get her her way.”

Monica gaped at him. “How old is this chick?”

“Not much more than midtwenties. I feel pretty old around her.” He eyed Monica. “Guess she'll really have a meltdown when a protest interrupts her rigid schedule.”

Monica dipped her quesadilla into a tub of sour cream and said nothing.

“You know, I've been patient but upfront with my concern for you. But I need to know what's going to happen, Monica. This ghillie-­suit thing is crossing a line.”

Her gaze rose up to his in surprise.

“Yeah, I know about them,” he said soberly. “Did you know ghillie suits are used by military snipers?”

She stiffened. “You can't seriously believe anyone in this town is a sniper.”

“I didn't say they were, but others might think it. I've been handling this little investigation myself so far because I'm the lead agent,” he said, leaning toward her and lowering his voice. “I thought when you realized how important my duty is to me, you'd give me some explanations.”

For a moment, an ugly suspicion made her feel cold, and she set down her taco as her appetite faded away. Had he been using her to get details on the protest? She didn't want to believe it. The fact that she felt a sharp stab of hurt made her realize that she'd begun to fall for him, that this was more than a fling to her.

But maybe not to him. Maybe it was just a fun means to an end.

“Monica, this is about protecting the president of the United States,” he insisted.

“Nobody wants to hurt the president.”

Now Mrs. Wilcox was openly staring, and Monica strode into her workroom, knowing Travis would follow.

When he did, he stood with his arms folded across his chest as if in judgment of her—­when she should be the one judging him and his motivations.

“I don't want you or your friends to get hurt,” he said with a slow patience that rubbed her nerves raw. “I know you certainly don't want to hurt anyone.”

“Thanks for being so concerned, but you'll just have to trust me that no one is going to get hurt,” she said, her own patience strained. “This isn't just about the two of us. Too many ­people are involved, ­people who are important to me.”

“You're important to me,” he said softly. “I'm not important to you?”

The implication hurt—­but maybe that was what he wanted. “Did you really just say that?” she shot back. “You've totally made it clear what we have is temporary fun. You're making me think you have ulterior motives for sleeping with me, Travis.”

He flinched but said nothing, and her stomach plummeted with nausea.

And then icy tendrils of doubt wrapped her heart as she remembered the determination in his voice, the set of his jaw when he first told her he
would
figure out what the Double Ds were up to. And he hadn't been kidding. He'd done a background check on her, brought up the photo—­had he thought to weaken her somehow with a hint of threat from her past? But still she'd told him nothing. He'd changed his tune, though, when she hadn't tried to hide her attraction to him. He'd kissed her, and she'd played right into his hands, thought he was so sweet to treat the widows as if they were important—­maybe he wasn't being sweet at all. It was his first assignment as lead agent; she knew his job was important, and he wouldn't want to fail. She just hadn't wanted to see it.