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Taken by Storm
Rochelle Alers


When tall, ruggedly handsome U.S. marshall Raphael Madison tells spirited five-foot-three floral designer Simone Whitfield that he's her live-in bodyguard for the duration of a high-profile court case, the notion that opposites attract definitely applies.But while trying to stay busy and ignore the magnetic pull of the hunky lawman, Simone discovers that sharing her home with a bodyguard stirs up a storm of longing. Soon, their closeness becomes electrifying, as friendship brings intimacy and an endless night of uncontrollable passion. But will the morning after bring regrets…or promises of forever?








Taken by Storm




Taken by Storm

Rochelle Alers





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 9781472018939

Taken by Storm

© Rochelle Alers 2013

First Published in Great Britain in 2013

Harlequin (UK) Limited

1 London Bridge, London SE1 9GF

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, including without limitation xerography, photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

This ebook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated, without the prior consent of the publisher, in any form or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this work have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à.r.l.

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Version: 2018-01-18

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




The Whitfield Brides series


You've met Ryan, Jeremy and Sheldon—the Blackstones of Virginia—and now it's time to meet the Whitfields of New York. In this Arabesque trilogy, you will meet the Signature Bridals' wedding divas: Tessa, Faith and Simone Whitfield. These three women are so focused on their demanding careers that they've sacrificed their personal happiness. Within a year, though, each will encounter a very special man who will not only change them but change their lives forever.

In Long Time Coming, wedding planner Tessa Whitfield never imagined that opening the doors of Signature Bridals to Micah Sanborn would lead to their spending the next twelve hours together after a power outage hits her Brooklyn, New York, neighborhood. Her vow never to mix business with pleasure is shattered when the Brooklyn assistant district attorney offers Tessa an extraordinary friendship with a few special surprises that make her reevaluate everything she's come to believe about love.

Wedding-cake designer Faith Whitfield, who owns the fashionable Greenwich Village patisserie Let Them Eat Cake, has all but given up on finding her prince, and refuses to kiss another frog. But, when she least expects it, she discovers love in the passionate embrace of pilot to the rich and famous—and modern-day knight-in-shining-armor—Ethan McMillan in The Sweetest Temptation.

After a disappointing marriage and an ill-fated reconciliation with her high-school sweetheart, floral designer Simone Whitfield wants nothing to do with men. She's content to run her business, Wildflowers and Other Treasures, in the greenhouses on her White Plains, New York, property. In Taken by Storm, Simone witnesses an attack on a federal judge, and suddenly finds her cloistered suburban life turned upside down when U.S. Marshal Raphael Madison from the witness protection unit is assigned to protect her 24/7. Although they are complete opposites, Simone and Raphael come to share a heated desire and a love that promises forever.

Yours in romance,

Rochelle Alers


To Brie Edmonds-Ashton—

Thank you for the exquisite packaging and incredible

marketing of the Whitfields of New York

They that sow in tears, shall reap in joy.

—Psalm 126:5




Contents


Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19




ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


I would like to thank the authors, editors and photographers of the following books, which proved invaluable in writing the Whitfields of New York's Signature Bridals:

Victoria Romantic Weddings, Hearts Books, 1998;

Bouquets: A Year of Flowers for the Bride

by Marsha Heckman, Stewart, Tabori & Chang, 2000;

The Knot Book of Wedding Gowns

by Carley Roney, Chronicle Books, 2001;

For Your Wedding Cakes

by Bette Matthews, Barnes & Noble, 2003;

Wedding Flowers Made Simple

by Stephen Roberts, Watson-Guptill Publications, 2003;

Martha Stewart Weddings, winter 2004;

InStyle Weddings

by Hilary Sterne, Time, Inc. Home Entertainment, 2005;

Bride's Receptions Special Issue, spring 2006;

Grace Ormonde Wedding Style, spring/summer 2007.




Chapter 1


Simone Whitfield got up at the same time every day regardless of the season. This morning, rather than prepare to work in the greenhouses on her property, she readied herself to go to a nearby park. She'd waited months for spring and the return of warmer weather to resume jogging.

Staring at her reflection in the mirror over the bathroom vanity, she pulled a large-tooth comb through her hair, securing it off her face in an elastic band. It'd been years since she'd worn her hair off her shoulders, but had been reluctant to cut it because her ex-husband said he liked long hair. Their on-again, off-again relationship from high school sweethearts, to marriage, divorce and a failed reconciliation spanned sixteen years, and Anthony Kendrick no longer had a place in her life.

Now at thirty-three, she'd moved on and had no intention of ever looking back. She'd given Tony more chances than he deserved to get his act together and his last plea of just one more time had fallen on deaf ears. Besides, she had other things on which to concentrate. She was involved in running her own floral business, Wildflowers and Other Treasures, while planning her sister's wedding that was only seven weeks away.

Simone couldn't believe her very staid younger sister was planning to marry. Tessa Whitfield, the preeminent wedding planner for Signature Bridals and Event Planners, Inc., and who'd coordinated countless weddings, was now going to be a Signature bride.

A week before Simone had been maid of honor for her cousin Faith Whitfield-McMillan, who'd just returned from honeymooning with her husband, Ethan. Beautiful, elegant Faith had eloped over the Valentine's Day weekend after a two-month whirlwind courtship; then two and a half months later, she and Ethan repeated their vows for friends and family members in a church ceremony.

Faith had invited her, Tessa and Micah Sanborn, Tessa's fiancé, to her Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey home for dinner Saturday evening, and she looked forward to sharing the small, intimate gathering with family members.

Flicking off the bathroom light, she walked into the adjoining bedroom and scooped up a set of keys and a cell phone off the dresser. Simone left her bedroom and took the staircase downstairs to an area of the large farmhouse where she'd set up a laundry room and workshop/mudroom. Sitting on a wooden bench, she slipped her sock-covered feet into a pair of running shoes. At the last minute, she decided to take a small canister of pepper spray. Coyote sightings in several Westchester County communities had prompted her to purchase the spray, which she prayed she'd never have to use. Putting on a hooded sweatshirt, she pushed the spray, cell phone and keys into the deep pockets. Depressing a button on the keypad on a wall, she activated the property's security system and stepped out into the warm, spring morning.

The panoramic view from the two-story house with a wraparound porch that overlooked the Hudson River was why Simone had decided to purchase the foreclosed, three-acre dilapidated property for a fraction of its worth. It'd taken more than seven years and an incalculable amount of money for her to restore the century-old house and surrounding landscape to its original beauty.

She set off down the hill at a brisk walk toward a wooded area that led into a park with a track, tennis and basketball courts and a baseball diamond. A layer of moisture had dotted her body under the sweatpants and hoodie as she increased her pace along the narrow, paved path.

The sound of footsteps behind her prompted Simone to glance over her shoulder. She recognized the tall, slender man with salt-and-pepper hair. "Good morning, Judge Fischer."

"Good morning, Simone," he said, breathing heavily as he joined her, their rubber-soled feet keeping pace.

The greeting was barely out of his mouth when a large form sprang from a copse of trees. Within seconds, Mitchell Fischer's throat was caught in a savage grip. Early morning sunlight glinted off a shiny object as it came down once, then again.

Simone couldn't move or scream; she stood stunned as she watched the horrific scene. Fear held her in a stranglehold until the limp body of her neighbor crumpled to the ground and his assailant turned toward her. Reacting on instinct, she reached into her pocket and took out the pepper spray. Her gaze locked on a pair of glittering gold eyes before she noticed the large tattoo on the back of his right hand. The blade of the knife he'd used to stab Judge Fischer was covered with blood. Pressing the red button on the canister of pepper spray, she aimed it directly at the man's face. There came a high-pitched scream followed by a gurgling sound. The knife fell to the ground as he stumbled around blindly before falling into the underbrush.

Everything that followed appeared to happen in slow motion for Simone. She remembered taking off her sweatshirt and pressing it to her neighbor's chest at the same time she fumbled in her pocket for her cell.

Don't panic! Get it together, she told herself over and over. "Judge Fischer." The wounded man's eyelids fluttered, then closed. She applied more pressure, dropping her phone and using both hands while attempting to stem the spreading red stain across the jacket of his white tracksuit.

"What happened?"

She glanced up to see two joggers standing over her. "Someone stabbed Judge Mitchell Fischer. Please call 911 and let them know whoever attacked him ran off into the woods."

One of the joggers took out his own cell phone and gave the 911 operator their location while the other took over for Simone, administering first aid. Within minutes, the wail of sirens, the distinctive whir of the blades of a helicopter and the cacophony of voices disturbed the quiet of the morning as curious spectators crowded around the crime scene, shocked and appalled that someone had attempted to murder one of their most respected residents.



U.S. Deputy Marshal Raphael Madison maneuvered the government-registered SUV into the driveway of the address he'd programmed into the vehicle's GPS. He'd left his Poughkeepsie condo within minutes of receiving an "urgent" call from his supervisor. Racing against time, he took a taxi to the Dutchess County Airport. Passengers on the small commuter plane glared at him, after the announcement that the carrier was being delayed pending his arrival. It seemed as if the plane had just taken off before it touched down at the Westchester County, where he'd been briefed on Judge Fischer's attack and eyewitness Simone Whitfield and picked up the vehicle.

Opening the hatch, Rafe got out and retrieved two carry-ons and a garment bag. Shifting slightly, his gaze swept over the surrounding landscape. Simone Whitfield's house was built on a hill with breathtaking views of the Hudson River, Westchester County and northern New Jersey.

His last three assignments had been in hotels with adjoining suites where he'd ordered room service and spent countless hours watching television with witnesses he was assigned to protect. Closing the SUV hatch, he climbed the porch steps and rang the doorbell. A stake on the front lawn and decals on several windows verified that the property was monitored by a security company.

The door opened and he came face-to-face with someone from his past. "Well, I'll be damned."

U.S. Deputy Marshal Keven Robbins flashed a wide grin. "Rafe Madison! How the hell are you?" He and Raphael Madison had joined the Marshals Service at the same time.

Dropping his luggage, Rafe shook the other man's hand, while slapping his back. "I thought you were with Prisoner Services." Marshals assigned to Prisoner Services assumed custody of those who were arrested by all federal agencies and were responsible for the housing and transportation of prisoners from the time they were brought into custody until they were either acquitted or imprisoned.

"I was, but transferred over to OCS three months ago. Court security is very different from babysitting prisoners."

"But not much different from babysitting witnesses. Speaking of witnesses, where's Miss Whitfield?"

"Come on in. She's upstairs."

"Please let her know that I'm here."

Rafe retrieved his bags while Keven climbed the stairs to the second floor. Walking into the spacious entryway, Rafe set his luggage down under a table with a vase filled with a profusion of white and pink flowers that resembled roses. The table was crowded with white candles of different sizes. The seat of a delicate-looking straight-back chair in a corner was covered with a cushion in red and white striped ticking. He preferred more contemporary furnishings, but had to admit that the space was charming and inviting.

Seeing movement out of the corner of his eye, Rafe turned, all of his senses on full alert, and stared at the woman whom he'd been assigned to protect until the conclusion of the trial of Ian Benton. Judge Mitchell Fischer's attacker had been captured a short distance from the crime scene by a SWAT team after search dogs found him hiding in a copse of trees. Temporarily blinded by pepper spray, he'd been unable to make it back to where he'd parked his car, which had been reported stolen two days before.

During Rafe's briefing, he'd learned that Simone Ina Whitfield was in her early thirties, but the petite woman with a dusky gold-brown complexion, large, haunting, hazel eyes and a mop of damp, loose, reddish curls appeared closer to twenty-three than thirty-three.

He forced himself not to stare at her full, lush mouth. There was something about her mouth that reminded him of sultry vixen. A pair of loose-fitting sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt made her appear small and fragile.

Rafe strolled across the room and extended his hand. "I'm Deputy Marshal Rafe Madison."

Simone stared at the large, well-groomed hand as if it were a venomous reptile. "May I please see some ID?"

"I can assure you that he is who he—" Keven Robbins's voice trailed off when Simone shot him a warning look.

"I was told by the U.S. attorney at the courthouse that I wasn't to trust anyone or assume they're who they say they are," she said quietly, glaring at the seemingly embarrassed federal officer. Her gaze swung back to the man who'd been assigned to live in her home while monitoring her whereabouts 24/7. Forcing a smile, she held out her hand. "Now, may I see your identification, Marshal Madison?"

Dark eyebrows lifted slightly in Rafe's lightly tanned face as he reached into the back pocket of his jeans for a small leather case. He handed it to Simone, who stared at his picture ID and badge for several seconds, then returned it to him. A hint of a smile tilted the corners of his mouth. "Are you convinced now?"

There was something smug about Raphael Madison's attitude that irked Simone. Her eyes narrowed slightly. "I'll show you where you can put your things."

Keven cleared his throat. He wanted to tell Rafe that he would have his work cut out for him with Simone Whitfield. Although he'd found her very pretty, he detected a toughness in her that wasn't apparent at first glance. And she didn't scare easily. After all, she'd repelled Mitchell Fischer's attacker with pepper spray.

He winked at Rafe. "I'm going back to the courthouse." He nodded to Simone. "Miss Whitfield." Keven slapped Rafe's shoulder as he made his way to the front door. "Good luck, my friend," he said in a quiet voice. "She's a live one," he added sotto voce.

Rafe walked with Keven, closed and locked the door, then picked up his luggage. When he returned to the living room, he realized Simone hadn't moved. When his gaze met hers, he saw uncertainty in the brown-green orbs. Was she in shock? Had the enormity that she could've been murdered or seriously wounded finally set in?

But she hadn't been killed or injured because common sense and quick thinking had saved not only her life, but also that of a federal judge.

Simone blinked once, as if coming out of a trance. "Follow me, Mr. Madison."

Rafe stared at her back as she headed for the staircase. "We have to settle something straightaway, Simone." She stopped her retreat and turned to face him. "Since I'm going to be living with you for a while, I believe we can dispense with the formality of Mr. Madison and Miss Whitfield."

Her naturally arching eyebrows flickered. "How do we address each other?"

"Rafe and Simone will do. It'd be better for everyone involved if you don't advertise why I'm here."

If Simone hadn't been so traumatized by the day's events, she would've reacted to the tall man with a mane of dirty-blond hair and intense dark-blue eyes. He'd been blessed with the most exquisite bone structure she'd ever seen in a man. His perfectly symmetrical features made him almost a little too pretty. He was what her pastry chef cousin, Faith, would refer to as delicious or yummy. A lightweight black jacket was stretched over his broad shoulders and a pair of well-washed jeans hugged his lower toned body like a second skin. It didn't matter if he was easy on the eyes; she'd never been attracted to blond men.

"How do I explain you, Rafe?" There was a hint of facetiousness in her query.

"You can say I'm an old friend from college."

"How do you know that I attended college?"

Rafe's impassive expression didn't change. "I know everything—well, almost everything—about you," he said, correcting himself.

The Bureau had forwarded her biographical information, along with other data needed for the security, health and safety of their government witness. He knew when and where she'd been born, the schools she'd attended, her marital status and how much income she'd reported to the IRS.

"You do know that I don't want you here."

A slight frown appeared between his eyes. "What you want is unimportant to me. I've been assigned to protect you whether you like it or not. Now, please show me where I can put my bags, then we'll sit down and clear the air about a few things."

Simone decided she didn't like United States Deputy Marshal Raphael Madison. She didn't like his macho attitude and superciliousness.

She narrowed her gaze at him while crossing her arms under her breasts. "Why wait until later? Let's clear the air right now. I don't like you and I don't want you living with me," she said. "I only agreed to go along with this witness protection thing because of what that monster did to my neighbor and would've done to me if I hadn't pepper sprayed his ass. I am cooperating with the government because I believe he should be locked away where he can't hurt anyone ever again. But that doesn't mean I'm going to become a prisoner with you as my jailer. I have a business to run and that's not going to change just because you're here."

Rafe struggled not to lose his temper. "Either you deal with me, or you'll find yourself in federal detention charged with obstruction. I can assure you that I won't interfere with your personal life or your business, but I want you to remember one thing. Where you go, I go. Those are my orders."

Simone inhaled deeply in an attempt to relieve the constriction in her chest. She felt helpless, vulnerable, but she wasn't going to let her bodyguard know that. "Okay. But try and stay out of my way." Turning on her heels, she headed for the staircase. "Now that you understand where I'm coming from, I'll show you to your room," she said over her shoulder.

Pressing his lips together, Rafe swallowed his sarcastic reply. If Simone Whitfield thought she was going to set the ground rules for what he hoped would be a short-term involvement, then she was quite mistaken. There was one thing of which he was certain, and that was he was very good at what he'd been trained to do.

From the time the Witness Security Program was authorized by the Organized Crime Control Act of 1970 and amended by the Comprehensive Crime Control Act of 1984, no program participant who followed security guidelines had ever been harmed while under the protection of the Marshals Service, and he wasn't about to let Simone Whitfield become the first victim. Not on his watch.

His gaze was fixed on the profusion of corkscrew curls floating down her back. Simone's face and hair reminded him of his sister's favorite doll, which she'd refused to play with because she claimed she hadn't wanted to ruin it. The doll sat in a chair year after year until Rachel Madison packed her away the year she'd turned sixteen. It was the same year that all hell broke loose in the Madison household when Rafe relocated his mother and sister from Kansas and California.

Following Simone up the stairs and down a wide hallway, he pulled his thoughts back to the present. "Do you have an attic or basement?"

"No. There's just the first and second floor."

Rafe smiled. It was the first time she'd spoken to him civilly. "I need to check all of the windows and doors to make certain the locks are in working order."

"The house is wired and monitored by a security company."

"I'm still going to check everything," he insisted.

Simone slowed her pace, stopping at a bedroom at the end of the hall. Shifting slightly, she stared up at Rafe. "I always sleep with my bedroom window open regardless of the weather."

He shook his head. "You can't continue to do that. What you don't want is to make it easy for someone to get to you."

There came a pause as a flicker of fear swept through her. "What makes you think someone is going to get to me? Isn't Ian Benton locked up?"

There was another beat of silence before Rafe said, "Yes, he is. And I doubt whether he'll be granted bail. But there's also the possibility that he may have had an accomplice."

Her eyes grew wide as she mulled over the marshal's words. What if Ian Benton hadn't acted alone? What if someone had paid him to kill the judge? "Are you saying someone paid Ian Benton to murder Judge Fischer?" she asked, voicing her concerns aloud.

"I don't know," Rafe lied smoothly. What Simone didn't know was that Ian Benton had been added to a domestic terrorist watch list after he'd stabbed a federal prosecutor to death in a Dallas courthouse parking lot. It'd been one of three attacks on federal officials marking the first anniversary of the Oklahoma City bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building. Undercover agents had reported the subsequent attacks, like the bombing, was to avenge the Waco siege and Ruby Ridge killings.

The agents had also gathered evidence that Benton was a professional hit man for supremacist groups targeting lawyers and judges involved in the prosecution of hate crimes. However, after his l996 release following the mysterious disappearance of a government witness, Benton dropped out of sight, only to resurface more than a decade later, this time in the Northeast. If convicted, he would be sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole.

Simone exhaled a soft sigh. She didn't want to think or talk about Ian Benton. She wanted to believe she'd imagined everything that had happened to her, that she'd had a bad dream, that when she woke she would be living alone and she wouldn't have to share her house and life with the marshal who'd become her bodyguard.

Opening the door to the room she'd chosen for Rafe, she gave him a level stare. "This will be your bedroom."

"Where's yours?" Rafe asked.

"It's the one on the right at the top of the stairs."

"I can't sleep here."

"And why not?" she countered.

"It's too far from your bedroom." He didn't want to lose time getting to her in an emergency. "I'll take the bedroom across from yours."

"Whatever," Simone mumbled under her breath. She'd chosen the room as much for its spaciousness as for its southeast exposure. If Rafe wanted to sleep in a bedroom with embroidered sheets, lace panels at the windows and frilly pillows, then she didn't want to hear any complaints from him.

They went upstairs, Rafe dropping his bags with a thud when he peered into a smaller bedroom. Lace-and fringe-trimmed pillows were piled high on two twin, four-poster beds draped in more embroidered lace. It was pretty, but Rafe wasn't into butterflies. White-painted furniture and cream-colored coverlets added to the feminine softness of space fashioned expressly for a girly-girl.

He smiled, attractive lines crinkling around his luminous eyes. "Who last slept here? Cinderella or Snow White?"

Simone flashed a Kool-Aid grin. "Very funny, Rafe." She sobered quickly. "I did offer you the bigger bedroom and a larger bed."

Rafe eyed the beds again. He was six-three, two hundred and ten pounds, and there was no way he'd be able to sleep comfortably in a twin bed. "I'll take the other room."

A smile of triumph softened Simone's mouth as she averted her face so he couldn't see her expression. It was enough that he was sleeping under her roof, and she didn't want him that close to her bedroom.

"I'll leave you to settle in. By the way, your bathroom is directly across the hall. You'll find a set of towels on a tray on the bench under the window. There're more in a cupboard, along with grooming supplies. I'll be downstairs in the kitchen if you need me for anything."

"Where's your bathroom?" Rafe asked.

The seconds ticked off as Simone met his questioning gaze. "It's in my bedroom. Why?"

"I'm going to take a shower before I go through the house to familiarize myself with the layout of your property. Activate the alarm, and please don't open the door for anyone."

"What if someone comes while you're still in the shower?"

With wide eyes, he glared at her. "Then come and get me."

Bully! she mused, glaring at him. Rafe reminded her of a bad-tempered dog who'd growl and bare his teeth, but only after he let you pat him. Solitary by nature, she didn't want Raphael Madison around, not only because he reminded her of what had happened earlier that morning, but also because she didn't want to share her space with a man. Once she'd made the decision to give her ex-husband his walking papers, she'd sworn that the next man to sleep under her roof would be the last man in her life.

Rafe would sleep under her roof, but thankfully his stay would be temporary. As soon as Ian Benton was tried, convicted and sentenced, she'd be able to move on with her life unfettered and unencumbered by a man. If her ex's intent was to turn her off on all men, then he'd been successful. Simone realized she didn't want or need a man—not even for sex. She turned and walked away, feeling the heat of the marshal's gaze on her retreating back.



Picking up his bags, Rafe retraced his steps, stopping to peer out the hallway window before walking into what would become his bedroom. As in the smaller room, this one also had white walls, pale floors, furniture, baseboard heating, ceiling vents for central air-conditioning and a wood-burning fireplace. However, this one came with an added bonus: an incredible view of the river.

There was built-in storage with shelves and drawers to minimize clutter. A wicker rocker with a patchwork cushion was positioned under the vaulted ceiling, while a matching bedside table cradled a Depression blue vase filled with fresh sunflowers. A shelf in an alcove held a television, a state-of-the art stereo system and an assortment of hardcover novels.

The information he'd been given about Simone Whitfield confirmed that she operated her flower business out of her home. She'd erected greenhouses on her property, and her reported income and the large, colorful sunflowers were obvious indicators of her skill as a floral designer.

Slipping out of his jacket, he hung it on a wooden hook affixed to the back of the door. He reached under his T-shirt and slipped a pair of handcuffs, a holstered semiautomatic handgun and an extra clip of ammunition off his waistband. He would unpack later. His first priority was to shower, change his clothes and then make it very clear to Simone what he needed from her to ensure her safety.




Chapter 2


Simone sat in the dining area of the kitchen, her feet tucked under her body. It was the first time since she'd returned home to take a shower that she'd been alone.

She'd been driven to a White Plains station house in a police cruiser where she stood behind a one-way glass and identified Ian Benton as the man who'd tried to murder Mitchell Fischer. Even if she hadn't recognized his face, it was the infinity tattoo on the back of his right hand that sealed his fate. A cadre of marshals transported Ian Benton to a detention center, while she'd lost track of time when questioned by a team of attorneys at the federal courthouse. The lead prosecutor told her that she would be provided with witness security, and until the conclusion of the trial, she wasn't to discuss any aspects of the case on the phone and only her immediate family would know of her protected status.

Simone had just finished her second cup of green tea when she felt the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. Glancing over her shoulder she saw Rafe standing under the entrance, staring at her.

Lowering her feet, she stood up. "I see you managed to find the shower."

Water had darkened his rakishly long hair to burnished gold. He'd changed into a pair of black jeans with a matching V-neck polo and black boots. She noticed the slight bulge at his waist near his left arm. She detested firearms, handguns in particular, yet she was forced to cohabitate with a man who wore one as if it were an appendage.

Rafe angled his head. "You probably think you're very clever. Why didn't you tell me it was hidden in a closet?"

"I just assumed you'd find it. And apparently you did."

"Were you testing me?" he asked, walking into the kitchen.

Simone dropped her gaze before his steady stare. She noticed for the first time that his eyes weren't blue, but an odd shade of violet with dark blue irises. The color reminded her of the delicate purplish-blue flower of the same name, while his hoary lashes and eyebrows were several shades darker than his hair. She wanted to tell him that he was sorely in need of a haircut.

"No. But if I were, then you passed. Have you settled in?"

"Not yet." Rafe glanced around the space that reminded him of the kitchen in the farmhouse where he'd grown up in Kansas. Hanging copper pots and exposed ceiling beams imbued the space with warmth, while open shelves put dishes and decorative serving pieces on display. A country-style table with seating for eight was duplicated with a smaller round one in the cozy nook surrounded by a trio of windows with seating for six. Clay pots filled with flowering plants and herbs lined window ledges, countertops and tables.

"I'd like for you to show me your place now," he said in a quiet tone.

"Where would you like to begin?"

"Upstairs."

"Follow me." Her sock-covered feet were silent as she led the way out of the kitchen. Simone showed Rafe the master bedroom with a king-size antique iron bed and a massive mirrored armoire painted a sunny-yellow. Pale honeycomb shades at tall, narrow windows were raised to let in the bright afternoon sunlight. Framed Audubon prints of birds and flowers and a white vase filled with ferns and lilacs stood out in stark relief to the soft, light colors in an adjoining sitting room.

Crossing the room, she opened a door. "This is my bathroom."

Rafe peered in, feeling as if he'd stepped back in time. A claw-foot tub, a deep upholstered chair in rose-pink toile, floral wallpaper and period scones infused the bathroom with an undeniable sense of femininity. He skirted a white, shaggy rug, lowered and locked the window before raising it again. Pale green sheers billowed in the warm breeze coming in through the screen. The ivy spilling over the sides of clay pots lining the fireplace mantel matched the delicate design on the wallpaper.

His bedroom, the bathroom where he'd showered and Simone's bedroom and bath had fireplaces. "Do all of the rooms have fireplaces?" he asked.

Simone smiled. "Yes."

"How old is this house?"

Simone felt a spark of excitement for the first time that day. She didn't have any children, so she'd focused a lot of attention on refurbishing and decorating her home. "It'll be one hundred next year."

"Did you move here before or after you were married?"

She stared at Rafe as if he'd spoken a foreign language. "What did you say?" Her reaction seemed to amuse him. He was grinning at her as if she'd told a joke, not asked a question.

"What did you say?" he mimicked. Without warning, he sobered. "I'll indulge you this one time, but I don't like repeating myself, Simone. I asked you if you'd moved into this house before or after you married Anthony Kendrick."

His earlier statement came rushing back. I know everything—well, almost everything—about you. Simone wanted to scream at the man standing inches from her. It'd been less than six hours since she'd become the only eyewitness to a horrific crime and already the government had a file on her. And Rafe hadn't been bluffing when he raised the possibility of her being charged with obstruction of justice. When interrogated by one of the federal prosecutors, she'd been warned that her failure to assist in bringing Ian Benton to justice would result in her being charged with obstruction, punishable by up to five years in a federal prison.

"After," she admitted reluctantly.

"How long were you married?"

A shadow of annoyance crossed her face. "You tell me, Rafe. You claim you know everything about me."

"I could easily find out."

"Then you do that. Now, if you're finished interrogating me, we'll continue with the tour."

Clasping his hands behind his back, Rafe trailed behind Simone as she made her way to the first floor. Her hands were curled into tight fists, her shoulders pulled up in a defensive gesture. He'd deliberately goaded her to see whether she was quick or slow to anger. He was mildly surprised because she hadn't shouted or lost her temper. What she'd exhibited was controlled rage that compressed her lips, flared her delicate nostrils and caused her breasts to rise and fall heavily under the oversized T-shirt.

Keven had warned him that she was a live one, and she was. Standing only five-three in her bare feet, she'd faced a killer with a can of pepper spray and won. He remembered his grandfather telling him that it wasn't the size of the dog, but the size of the fight in the dog when he'd come home with a black eye after fighting with a boy twice his size who'd attempted to take his lunch money. He'd held on to his money after giving the wannabe thug a bloody nose, split lip and two black eyes. It was the first and last time Raphael Madison used his fists to protect himself and his property.

Simone led him into the room she'd set up as an office/library. A bleached pine antique secretary was littered with invoices. An open planner displayed entries for two weeks. A laptop, printer and PDA occupied another corner of the desk. Floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases provided a place for books, framed prints and decorative objects ranging from marble busts to painted ceramic vases.

A leather steamer trunk doubled as a coffee table and was the perfect place for a plant with large red flowers in a shiny copper pot. Striped and solid pillows in coffee-brown and eggshell were nestled attractively on loveseats covered in Haitian cotton, which faced each other. Canvas shades at a quartet of windows let in streams of bright sunlight.

Rafe approached the fireplace. The grate behind a decorative screen was filled with fresh bundled herbs rather than wood; he stared at an array of framed sepia, black-and-white and colored family photographs on the mantelpiece. He focused on one of Simone in a gown and hood and another of her with a group of young women wearing royal-blue T-shirts with white Greek letters across the front.

"Are you finished here?" Simone asked softly behind him.

He pulled his gaze away from the photographs. "You pledged a sorority." His question was more of a statement.

She smiled. "Yes, I did."

"Are you still in contact with your sisters?"

"A few of us get together around Christmastime." A neutral expression replaced her smile. Simone was trying to be polite without revealing more than he'd read in her file. As it was, he knew more about her personal life than most. The exception was her family.

Continuing with the tour, Simone opened mahogany pocket doors separating the living and dining rooms that brought together an array of red and white patterns against a neutral backdrop. Rafe found her home lovely, as lovely as the woman who owned it.

"I like your home."

"So, do I," she confirmed without a hint of modesty. "It's taken me a long time to restore it, and I'm still not finished."

Rafe moved closer until their shoulders were within inches of touching, the top of Simone's head coming to his shoulder. "What more do you want to do to it?"

Tilting her head, Simone met his gaze. Rafe stood close enough for her to feel the heat from his body, close enough for her to detect the subtle, tantalizing scent of a very masculine cologne, and much too close for her to feel comfortable knowing it would be just the two of them living in proximity for who knew how many weeks, or even months. Although she'd told herself that Raphael Madison wasn't her type, she had to acknowledge that he was drop-dead gorgeous.

"I'd like to replace some of the furniture with antiques."

Rafe flashed a sheepish grin. "Anything made before 1950 is antique to me."

Simone couldn't help but roll her eyes at him. "I don't think so, mister," she drawled. "If it's from the sixteenth, seventeenth, eighteenth and late nineteenth centuries, then definitely yes. Certain twentieth-century pieces would take their place in antique and collectible history before the end of this century."

Rafe decided the topic of antiques was preferable to arguing with Simone. Whenever she talked about something she liked, the sound of her voice changed. The register deepened to where it resembled a sensual textured husky timbre.

His eyes widened appreciably as he took in everything about her in one, sweeping glance. She was a cat—a sensual, purring feline with her reddish-brown hair and glowing eyes. He'd grown up with an assortment of farm animals, but it was the cats, he discovered, that were the most elusive and unpredictable. They'd climb up on his lap wanting to be stroked, then without warning either flee or sink their claws into his flesh, leaving him wondering what he'd done to deserve their sudden aggression.

"Where do you shop for your antiques?"

"I usually go to Cold Spring. It's close enough so I don't have to leave the state," Simone added when he shot her a curious look.

A slight frown creased Rafe's smooth forehead. He'd caught her innuendo. "You're not on parole or house arrest."

She wrinkled her nose. "I was just checking, Warden."

He wanted to tell Simone that what she'd witnessed was hardly a joking matter. Ian Benton and the people he worked for wouldn't hesitate to eliminate her as easily as swatting an annoying insect. He realized she had to make light of her situation or she wouldn't be able to function normally from day to day. Working out of her home complicated logistics, because if she hadn't been self-employed she would've been put up in a hotel or safe house where her every move would be closely monitored. But on the other hand, her house had an added advantage: it was built on a rise that permitted an unobstructed three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of everyone coming or leaving.

"I'm not your warden, and if you cooperate with me then there's no reason why you should feel like a prisoner."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Oh! How would you like to change places, Rafe?"

There came a lengthy pause. Simone was physically everything he wasn't: female, petite, dark-haired with dusky brown skin. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, and if he'd met her under other circumstances he would've made that known to her. She was as beautiful and delicate as the flowers she cultivated.

"Maybe we can—after I complete this assignment."

For the first time in a very long time, Simone was at a loss for words. It was she, not her brother or sister, who was constantly grounded because she didn't know when to stop challenging her parents, her mother in particular. Lucinda Whitfield put up with a lot of things, but wouldn't tolerate sass from any of her children.

Rarely a week passed when she hadn't been banished to her room to think about what you've just said. Most times she didn't see what the fuss was all about because she was merely exercising her First Amendment right of free expression.

Lowering her gaze, a wealth of lashes touching the top of her cheekbones, Simone shook her head. "I don't think so." She'd enunciated each word.

"Whatevah," Rafe drawled.

A smile lit up her face. "Oh, no, you didn't go there."

His smile matched hers as he exhibited a set of perfect white teeth. "Yes, I did." Rafe winked at Simone. "You don't know what you're missing."

Her delicate jaw dropped. She couldn't believe his arrogance. "What did you eat this morning? A bowl of ego?"

"No. Froot Loops. Speaking of cereal, do you have any?"

Simone angled her head, not wanting to believe he'd just mentioned Froot Loops. "How old are you?"

"Thirty-five."

"Don't you think you're a little too old to be eating a kiddie cereal?"

He affected an expression of innocence. "No. I just happen to like Froot Loops."

"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, because I don't have any in my pantry. However, I do have oatmeal and Grape-Nuts." Rafe made a face as if he'd caught a whiff of something. "Well, if you want Froot Loops, then you're going to have to go to the supermarket."

Reaching for her hand, Rafe cradled it gently. "Let's finish up with the other rooms on this floor before I check outside. Then we'll go to the store."



Rafe was amazed at Simone's transformation. She'd changed out of her baggy clothes and into a pair of jeans, a yellow tee and a pair of navy blue leather mules that added several inches to her diminutive height. The profusion of hair that had framed her face was pulled into a single braid, the curling ends secured in an elastic band.

"Is that you, Simone Whitfield?"

Rafe moved quickly, stepping in front of Simone and sandwiching her between his body and the shopping cart. "Don't move." A rush of adrenaline had all of his senses on high alert.

"I can't," she whispered. Bracing her hands against his broad back, Simone tried moving him, but to no avail. She tried peering around his shoulder. "Will you please let me see who's calling me?"

A hand resting on his holstered weapon concealed under his shirt, Rafe took a step; his gaze lingered on a tall, slender, middle-aged woman with feathery coiffed silver hair that flattered her porcelain complexion. She appeared harmless enough, but when it came to witness security he couldn't afford to trust anyone.

Simone smiled when she recognized the woman who'd called her name. "Good afternoon, Miss Jennings." The retired high school teacher had put her Mount Vernon home up for sale and moved to Tarrytown to live with a widowed sister.

Corrine Jennings offered Simone a warm smile. "I thought that was you. How're your folks doing?"

"Very well, thank you."

"What are they up to?"

"Mama and Daddy are in Bermuda, celebrating their thirty-eighth wedding anniversary."

"When will they return?" Corrine asked. "I'd like to call and drop in on your mother to chat."

"They're due back next week. How's retirement?"

She didn't want to tell her former literature teacher that her father and uncle planned to close Whitfield Caterers at the end of the summer. The identical twin brothers were currently negotiating with the city's planning board to open an upscale bowling alley in an area of downtown Mount Vernon slated for gentrification.

The older woman's dark eyes sparkled like polished onyx. "To say I'm enjoying it is an understatement." Her gaze darted between Simone and the tall man standing beside her. "Aren't you forgetting your manners, Miss Whitfield?"

Simone paused before glancing up at Rafe, who lifted his eyebrows questioningly. Leaning into him, she put an arm around his waist. "This is my friend, Raphael Madison."

Corrine studied Rafe thoughtfully. "I don't remember you as one of my students."

"That's because I didn't go to school in New York," he said.

"We met years ago in Virginia Beach during spring break," Simone added quickly, knowing it was a lie she would repeat before her association with Rafe concluded.

Corrine Jennings smiled at the attractive couple. "It's nice meeting you, Mr. Madison. Well, you two have fun."

"We will," Simone and Rafe chorused.

"Now, that was easy," he crooned when Miss Jennings made her way down the wide aisle. "All we have to do is tell the same story and no one will suspect we aren't friends."

Dropping her arm, Simone backed away from Rafe. She wanted to remind him that they weren't friends and would never be friends. Raphael Madison was a stranger and interloper who'd insinuated himself into her life.

"I don't like lying."

"You really didn't lie," he countered.

"Why would you say that?"

"I did spend one spring break at Virginia Beach."

She knew she didn't have to tell him that she'd spent several spring breaks at Virginia Beach. Even when it wasn't spring break, she could be found at the beach studying or relaxing. It was one of the reasons she'd decided to attend Hampton University.

"Where did you go to college?" There was a long silence, which Rafe didn't seem inclined to break. "Now you know how I feel when you ask me my business," she chided in a tone pregnant with contempt.

Rafe glared at her in disbelief. Like quicksilver, Simone had come at him like a hissing cat because he refused to answer her question. He much preferred her soft and purring. Leaning closer, he pressed his mouth to her ear. "When we get back to the house we'll talk about us."

Simone resisted the urge to push him away. She wanted to tell him that he was wrong because there was no us. "Are you finished shopping?" she asked instead.

Her protector's idea of grocery shopping was going to a supermarket warehouse. She'd given him the directions to a Sam's Club in nearby Elmsford, where he'd filled a shopping cart with fresh fruit and vegetables, peanut butter, meat, fish, poultry and dairy products. When they'd gone down the cereal aisle he'd selected the largest box of Froot Loops available.

"I need to pick up some milk, then we can leave."

Two young women, both with toddlers seated in the front of their shopping carts, slowed, turned and stared openly at Rafe. His hair had dried and flowed down around his strong neck like sun-streaked wheat. Lifting their eyebrows in approval, they shared knowing glances. Without warning, their smiles faded when they noticed Simone standing a short distance away.

"Do you think he's here with that?" one whispered.

"Yes, he is," Simone spat out recklessly. Both women blushed noticeably with her comeback. Under another set of circumstances, she wouldn't have said anything, but it was the first time someone referred to her as if she were an inanimate object.

Rafe turned when he heard Simone's voice. "Is something wrong?"

"No, darling. I'm good." Her smile was as sweet as the words dripping facetiously off her tongue. The women raced down the aisle as if in a timed supermarket shopping competition.

Rafe placed a gallon of milk into his cart. "What was that all about?" he asked Simone.

Tucking a wayward curl behind her left ear, she affected an expression of unadulterated innocence. "What are you talking about?" She'd answered his question with one of her own.

Rafe studied the large hazel eyes staring up at him, enthralled by what he saw. "Do you make it a habit of talking to strangers?"

"No."

"Do you know those women?"

"No," she repeated. "And they don't want to know me. I hope you're ready to leave because I have to take care of some paperwork."

Eyes narrowing suspiciously, Rafe knew something had gone down between Simone and at least one of the women, but it was apparent she'd defused whatever it was before it got out of control. What he didn't want was for her to draw attention to herself before she was to appear in court. Once the trial began, the proceedings were certain to draw a lot of media attention.

Simone sharing her home with him was nothing compared to how her life would change, not only drastically, but also dramatically, the moment he escorted her into the courthouse. The government's lead attorney had begun building a case against Ian Benton, while taking the necessary steps not to leak the name of their witness until the trial.



Half an hour later, Rafe maneuvered into the driveway of Simone's home. When she'd shown him around the outside of the house, he hadn't known what to expect. It certainly wasn't the enclosed back porch that was perfect for a gathering at any time of the year. The space was filled with wicker furnishings and a natural-fiber rug that set the tone for a gardenlike romantic setting. There were an assortment of floral and red-and-white striped throw pillows, vases of fresh flowers, potted plants and dwarf lemon trees.

She'd added an expansive deck that led from the back porch out to a distance half the length of a football field on which sat a Victorian-style gazebo with a cozy settee, white wicker chairs, a small round table and flowering plants positioned on a periwinkle-blue and white rug. A gas grill, picnic table and chairs were protected from the weather by custom-made, heavy-gauge waterproof fabric. He hadn't been able to conceal his surprise when seeing the hot tub with a maintenance-free redwood cabinet.

Two large, barnlike greenhouses, the life's blood of Wildflowers and Other Treasures, were erected on the southeast end of the three-acre property. The structures were clearly visible from his bedroom window, not that he planned to let Simone work there alone. He intended to stick as close to her as a permanent tattoo.

Shutting off the engine, Rafe reached over and caught Simone's wrist. "You're not to get out of the car or go into the house until I give you an all-clear signal. And please don't ever leave the house without me."

"Rather than checking in with you, I'll give you a printout of my schedule for the next two weeks," she volunteered. Simone knew she had to go along with whatever Rafe proposed or he was certain to make her day-to-day existence a living hell.

Smiling, he nodded. "That'll do."

She resisted the urge to salute him. "I'm glad you approve."

Rafe stared out the windshield. "It's not about you getting my approval, Simone. It's about making my job and your life less stressful."

"That's not going to happen until Ian Benton's locked up for the rest of his life."

"Let's hope that's sooner than later. And another thing—" His words trailed off.

"What is it, Rafe?"

His head swung around and his indigo-hued eyes bore into her. "Don't call me darling unless you mean it."

"And don't you flatter yourself, Raphael Madison," she countered as he opened the door and stepped out of the truck. Smiling broadly, he winked at her over his shoulder seconds before he closed and locked the SUV with a remote device.

Arrogant pig! Simone fumed silently. She hadn't meant to call him darling, but once the endearment slipped from her lips she hadn't been able to retract it. Slumping against the leather seat, she grunted softly. There was no way Rafe would ever become close to what she considered her darling.




Chapter 3


"I'll put the groceries away," Rafe told Simone in a no-nonsense tone while at the same time giving her a don't-challenge-me look. He'd unloaded the government-issued Yukon Denali.

What Rafe did not know was that Simone didn't want to challenge him or anyone. During the ride back from Elmsford, all of her spirited spunk had dissipated. Although the images were still as vivid as they'd been hours before, she hadn't wanted to believe what she'd become involved in. She knew she was in denial, because like so many who lived in suburban neighborhoods, she believed crimes like this don't happen here. Not only had she witnessed a heinous assault, but she was also drawn into circumstances not of her choosing.

In a moment of weakness she wanted to tell Rafe to drive her to Mount Vernon, but then remembered that her parents were in Bermuda, celebrating their wedding anniversary. She needed their reassurance that she would cope with this crisis as she had when the man with whom she'd fallen in love and married turned out not to be who she'd wanted him to be. The only difference was it wouldn't take sixteen years to resolve the case of U.S. v. Ian Benton.

"I'm going to print out my schedule for the next two weeks before I go upstairs and lie down," she told Rafe.

"Are you all right?"

Simone gave him an incredulous look. Of course she wasn't all right. Would he be all right if he'd seen someone nearly get murdered? "Yes," she said instead, walking in the direction of her office.

What she didn't want or need was his sympathy or pity, because she'd lost count of the poor Simones or isn't it too bad she wasted her life with a man who was so wrong for her when her marriage fell apart. A few times she had to tell off a few folks when they spoke as if her life were over and that she would never find another man. She would celebrate her thirty-fourth birthday in September and she certainly wasn't too old to remarry or have children.



Fifteen minutes later, Simone had entered her schedule from the planner to the PDA, downloaded it into her computer and printed a hard copy for Rafe.

"Do you need help?" she asked, strolling into the kitchen.

Rafe glanced over his shoulder at Simone as he dried his hands on a paper towel. "No, thanks. I think I have everything under control."

Closing the distance between them, Simone placed her schedule on the countertop. "That's my schedule for the next two weeks."

He quickly scanned the top sheet. "What's happening in the Bronx tonight?"

"I'm in a bowling league."

"Who do you bowl with?"

"Cops." She smiled when he gave her a stunned look. "My sister and her fiancé, who's a former NYPD lieutenant, are in a bowling league with a group of officers from a Bronx precinct."

"Do you bowl every Wednesday?"

"Yes."

"What about Englewood Cliffs Saturday night?"

"I'm having dinner with my cousin and her husband."

"Can you cancel it?"

"No!"

Rafe reached for the cordless wall phone, handing it to Simone. "I suggest you call your cousin to let her know that you're bringing company. It'd be in poor taste for me to show up unannounced."

A flicker of apprehension swept her as she processed what she'd been instructed to do. She wouldn't be able to go anywhere, see or talk to anyone without Rafe being present. Her life as she knew it was no longer hers.

She closed her eyes, struggling with the gamut of emotions shaking her confidence. Whenever her sister and cousin wanted to do something daring, it was always Simone Whitfield who accepted the dare and came out a winner.

She was the Whitfield girl, not Faith or Tessa, who preferred hanging out with the boys, climbing trees, hopping fences and playing baseball. It was she who had mixed it up with the boys in their Mount Vernon neighborhood, and it was she who had never run from a fight, even if her opponent was older or bigger.

When she'd announced to her family that she was getting married, no one believed her until the day she exchanged vows. The running family joke was they'd expected Tessa or Faith, the Whitfield princesses, to marry before designated family tomboy Simone.

Depressing a button on the speed dial, she rang Faith's cell phone, which she used exclusively for her business. The call was answered after the second ring. "Let Them Eat Cake. Faith speaking."

"Faith, Simone. I'm calling to ask if it's all right if I bring a date Saturday night."

"Why, Simi Whitfield, do you insist on working my nerves? Of course you can bring a guest." A soft chuckle came through the earpiece. "Who is he?"

Simone smiled. Faith was the only person who shortened her name. "You'll see," she said cryptically.

"Simone Whitfield!"

"Goodbye, Mrs. McMillan." Ending the call, she gave Rafe the phone. "She'll be expecting you."

He placed the receiver in its cradle. "You listed a party for Thursday evening. Where is it?"

Crossing her arms under her breasts, Simone leaned against the counter. "Manhattan. I'm doing the floral arrangements for a dinner party."

Rafe gave each item a mental check. "You also listed a consultation for tomorrow at eleven in Central Valley."

"I'm meeting with a prospective bride to discuss her wedding flowers."

"What's Monday in BK?"

"Every other Monday I get together with my sister and cousin. This coming Monday, we're meeting in Brooklyn at Tessa's house. The next meeting will be here, then after that we'll meet in Greenwich Village at Faith's apartment. The only time we don't meet is when one of us is out of town."

"Doesn't Faith live in New Jersey?"

Simone realized that not only did Rafe have a quick mind, but there were probably very few things that would get past him. "She and her husband stay in Manhattan during the week, and spend the weekends in New Jersey."

Rafe fixed his dark blue stare on Simone's delicate features, taken aback by her fragility. He didn't know why, but there was something about her that appealed to his protective instincts that had nothing to do with the assignment.

"How often do you go out of town?"

"Not too often. The last time I left the state for business was when I was commissioned to provide the floral decorations for a charity affair in D.C. Most times it's within the tri-state area."

Scanning the second sheet, he noted she'd listed a number of visits to Mount Vernon. "If you don't mind, I'd like for you to curtail your personal social engagements."

What was he talking about? Simone fumed inwardly. If she didn't bowl on Wednesdays with her sister and future brother-in-law or commit to their bimonthly get-togethers she wouldn't have anything remotely resembling a social life. What if she'd had a boyfriend? Would she have to stop seeing him, too?

"I'll see what I can do to accommodate you. I'm going upstairs to relax." She walked out of the kitchen, leaving Rafe staring at the space where she'd been.



Simone pressed her face into the softness of a mound of pillows on her bed. How could her life have changed with a single incident? Why now, when she was attempting to get her life and head together?

She'd spent years wishing, praying and hoping the man she'd come to love more than she'd loved herself would change. She'd tried over and over to make her marriage work. Even after divorcing Tony she'd attempted reconciling, yet in the end she knew she had to let him go.

Her emotions, vacillating from frustration to fear, made her a prisoner in her own home. If and when she ventured out of doors, she would never be alone, free to walk down to the greenhouses and linger long enough to lose track of time. Even if she were to end her day sitting on the porch, it would be under the sharp gaze of a man whose job it was to see that no harm came to her until the conclusion of the trial of a man charged with attempted murder. Questions assaulted her like missiles, questions to which she had no answers, questions she wanted to ask, but feared the answers to.

What she actually wanted was to go to sleep, then wake up and find it was all a dream. Rolling over on her back, she stared up at the ceiling. Simone knew wishing, hoping or praying wouldn't change the fact that what she was experiencing wasn't a dream, but a reality as real as the man moving around her kitchen as if he belonged there. She closed her eyes, willing her mind blank, and within minutes she succumbed to the comforting embrace of Morpheus.



It felt as if she'd just closed her eyes when she came awake suddenly to find Rafe sitting on the padded bench at the foot of the bed. She popped up like a jack-in-the box. He stood up and came to sit on the side of the mattress; it dipped with his added weight. Lengthening afternoon shadows made it difficult for her to see his face.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, Simone." Rafe's voice was soft and comforting. He'd come to her bedroom and, not wanting to startle her, sat on the bench, waiting for her to wake up.

She blinked once. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to ask you if you wanted something to eat."

He leaned closer, his warmth and scent sweeping over her; suddenly Simone felt smothered, trapped. Unconsciously she moved back against the mound of pillows propped against the headboard. She wanted to escape from Rafe, but there was no place to go. Was she just now undergoing delayed post traumatic stress?

She shook her head. "I don't think I'll be able to keep anything down."

"You're going to have to eat."

"I know." She closed her eyes for several seconds.

Rafe didn't think he would ever get used to hearing her husky voice. Not only was it sensual, but also hypnotic. "Are you a vegan?"

With wide eyes, she gave him an incredible stare. "No. Why would you ask me that?"

"There was no meat in your freezer."

Simone's expression softened. "I eat red meat three times a week, and this was my week to call in an order to the butcher."

"Do you pick up the order or have it delivered?"

"They deliver."

"That's going to change. The less company you have, the better."

She moved off the bed, walked over to a window and stared at the verdant landscape. Rarely a day passed when she didn't find herself in one of the greenhouses pruning branches, stripping wilted leaves from flowers or weeding vegetable flats.

"You mention company as if I have a steady stream of people traipsing through here. Aside from the butcher, there's only a courier service I use to deliver plants or flowers to family and clients."

Rafe left the bed and stood behind her. "What I want is to control the number of people you come into contact with."

Crossing her arms under her breasts, Simone turned and stared up at him. Blond or not, he was gorgeous. His features weren't too broad or thin, and his coloring wasn't washed-out, but a tawny gold that afforded him a look of being perpetually tanned. And when her gaze met and fused with his, she felt as if she were drowning in water the color of Ceylon blue sapphires.

"Why do I feel like a prisoner even though you claim I'm not one? You're wearing a gun, follow me around—"

"I'll try and make certain you don't see the gun," he said, cutting her off.

Exhaling, she managed a smile. "Thank you."

"What else is bothering you, Simone?"

"Why do you think something's bothering me?" she asked rather than answer his question.

"You're tense."

"Well, well, well," she drawled. "It looks as if my lawman is also a therapist." Her mood changed quickly. "I'm more than tense, Raphael Madison. What I am is scared. When I woke up this morning I never would've imagined that I'd see someone that I know almost murdered, or that a marshal would take up residence in my home and he would become a constant reminder that my life is not my own, that every phase of my existence is to be shadowed for heaven knows how long."

Rafe curbed the urge to pull Simone into his arms to offer her tangible protection. "I can't tell you not to be afraid, but what I need is for you to trust me. I've been protecting witnesses for ten years and I've never lost one. In fact, no program participant who follows security guidelines has ever been harmed under the active protection of the Marshals Service."

Simone smiled in spite of her predicament. "You sound like a recruitment ad."

"You think?" he teased.

She nodded. "I know."

He extended his hand. "Come with me."

Placing her hand in his, Simone felt the power in the fingers that closed over hers. "Where are you taking me?"

"We're going to the kitchen."

"It's too late for lunch, so I suppose it'll have to be an early dinner."

"What are you cooking?" Rafe asked.

Simone stopped suddenly, causing him to lose his balance before he managed to regain his footing. "You came to get me because you want me to cook for you?"

"For your information, I don't need you to cook for me."

"You cook?"

He nodded. "Some."

"How much is some?"

"Enough." He started walking, pulling her gently along as they descended the staircase.

"Where did you learn to cook?"

"I decided to learn when I went to college. It was either eat ramen noodles or go hungry."

"What's on tonight's menu?" Simone asked.

"Do you eat seafood?"

"Yes."

"I bought lobster tails, so I thought I'd make lobster over linguine."

Simone's smile was dazzling. "Talk about luck. I get a bodyguard who cooks."

Rafe returned her smile. "You don't cook?"

She wrinkled her nose at him, unaware of the endearing gesture. "I cook, but it's not fancy."

"Define fancy."

"I'll season a chicken with salt and pepper, then put it in the oven to bake, while other people will prepare broiled chicken breasts stuffed with herbs, green peppercorns and prosciutto."

"You may not cook what you consider fancy dishes, but you do grow incredibly beautiful flowers."

"Thank you." His compliment buoyed her sagging spirit. "Speaking of flowers, if you don't want them in your bedroom I'll take them out."

"No, please don't. Sunflowers remind me of home."

Easing her hand from Rafe's loose grip, Simone stopped at the entrance to the kitchen. "You're from Kansas?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"I don't believe it," she whispered.

"What don't you believe?"

"I never would've taken you for a Jayhawker."

Rafe winked at Simone as he stood aside to let her enter the kitchen. "That's because you're biased and into stereotypes."

"No, I'm not!"

"Yes, you are. And I'm going to prove it before this assignment ends." He held up a hand when she opened her mouth to refute him. "Please don't say anything else that may incriminate you. And I promise not to say I told you so when you realize I'm right. I don't know about you, but right about now I'm hungry enough to eat a side of beef."

"You make the lobster and linguine, and I'll put together a salad and set the table."

"I don't like bottled dressing," Rafe said as he opened the side-by-side refrigerator.

Simone's gaze lingered on the breadth of his wide shoulders before moving down to the denim fabric hugging his slim hips. "I have all the ingredients you'll need to make your own."

Taking the packaged lobster tails from the refrigerator, Rafe closed the door using his hip. "Aren't you going to help me cook?"

"I offered to make the salad."

Rafe gave Simone a direct stare. "Perhaps we can work out a schedule where we can take turns cooking. I usually have cereal, toast and coffee for breakfast, so that lets you off the hook for that meal. I don't mind preparing dinner if you take care of lunch."

"I—I don't believe you," Simone sputtered as a rush of color suffused her face.

"What don't you believe?"

"You take over my kitchen, then proceed to tell me what to do."

Rafe angled his head. "We can easily remedy that situation."

"How?"

"You can pack some clothes and personal items, and we can check into a hotel and order room service."

Her jaw dropped slightly. "You know I can't do that. I have a business to run."

"And I have a job to do," Rafe countered, his voice low and cutting, "but I don't intend to go hungry or tiptoe around you whenever you go into diva mode. We're going to be living together for several months, so I suggest you make the best of what you deem an uncomfortable situation."

Simone recoiled as if Rafe had struck her. She wanted to scream at him, but didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he'd upset her. She closed her eyes, suddenly feeling as if a crushing weight had settled on her chest.

Rafe moved quickly when he saw the color in Simone's face change. She was hyperventilating. He held her close to his body. "Breathe, Simone," he crooned softly. "That's it, baby. Take deep breaths. In and out, in and out," he repeated over and over until she finally let out a trembling gasp.

It didn't take a psychiatrist's evaluation to identify Simone Whitfield's behavior not as hostility, but fear. He knew from past experience that if a person didn't break down within minutes of witnessing a violent crime, then it would come later. In Simone's case, it was the latter.

Picking up Simone as if she were a child, Rafe sat down, settling her across his lap. He had to convince her that she was safe, that he would forfeit his life in order to protect her. When he'd been assigned to protect Simone Whitfield it'd become his responsibility to shield her from harm—physically and emotionally—because when he escorted her into the courthouse, the U.S. attorney expected her to give an accurate eyewitness account of Ian Benton's attempt to murder a federal judge.

It was Rafe's turn to hold his breath when Simone snuggled closer to his body, burying her face against his throat. What he was sharing with her was so acute that for a brief moment he felt what she was feeling: fear.

Lowering his chin, he buried his face in her soft, fragrant curls. "You're safe, Simone. I'm not going to let anything or anyone hurt you."

It was a promise he'd made only once in his life, when he rescued his mother and sister from an existence where they'd become prisoners to Gideon Madison's slow descent into a world of madness. Now, ten years later, he'd repeated the vow to Simone Whitfield, a woman with whom he would live for an unspecified time period, then walk away from when he accepted his next witness security assignment.

Simone heard the deep, comforting voice mouthing the words she wanted and needed to hear to ease her angst. Looping her arms around Rafe's neck, she fed on the strength emanating from him as naturally as breathing.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled.

Rafe smiled. "What are you apologizing for?"

She pulled back, but didn't break contact. "For losing it."

He stared at the shimmer of unshed tears. "You're allowed, Simone."

Sniffing and smiling, she nodded. "Thank you, Rafe."

Attractive lines deepened around his eyes. "You're welcome."

A slight frown formed between Simone's eyes that were now a vibrant green. "You must think I'm silly—"

"Stop it," Rafe chided softly. "What you went through today would take the nerve of the bravest man, so don't you dare apologize for being human."

"What—what would you've done in my situation?" she asked tentatively.

A muscle tightened his lean jaw. "I would've shot the bastard."

Rafe had said it so matter-of-factly that Simone shivered noticeably, as if cold air had swept over the nape of her neck, and in that instant she wondered if he'd ever killed another human being. She felt herself withdrawing although she hadn't moved.

"Would you have killed him, Rafe?"

He nodded. "I would've if he'd come at me with a knife."

"Did you—have you ever killed someone?"

Rafe smiled at Simone as if she were a small child. "Thankfully I haven't had to."

She returned his smile. "That's good to know."

"Why?"

"Because I'd feel uncomfortable living with you knowing you'd taken someone's life."

Within seconds, Rafe's expression became a mask of stone. "I don't ever want you to forget who or what I am. I'm not a school crossing guard protecting children from motorists who disobey the twenty-mile-per-hour school zone speed limit. I know my living with you is a constant reminder of what you saw this morning, but it's not a permanent arrangement. Think of the Supreme Court Justices who live every day of their lives under the protection of the U.S. Marshals Service."

Simone shook her head. "I don't think I could live like that, knowing that some crazy may be planning to take me out because they don't agree with my decision."

"You wouldn't have a choice if you were confirmed and accepted the position. Don't forget that everything we do or say has either conditions or consequences."

She knew Rafe was right. Easing out of his embrace and off his lap, she flashed a shy smile. "Thank you for your shoulder. I'm okay now."

Pushing off the chair, Rafe studied the too-bright smile and false bravado of the woman who for several minutes had slipped under the professional facade he wore like a badge of honor. Always the consummate professional, he'd never let any witness affect him emotionally.

However, when he'd held Simone he hadn't wanted to acknowledge that she'd felt so right in his arms that he hadn't wanted to let her go. He also hadn't meant to call her baby. He had to be careful, very careful, not to cross the line and risk compromising his assignment.

What he couldn't tell her was that she reminded him of a woman who'd captured his love and passion a year after he'd joined the Marshals Service. But his world came crashing down when she'd informed him that she was carrying another man's child. Although they'd lived together, she'd also been sleeping with another man. Their two-year liaison had ended without incident when he moved out, checked into a motel and submitted a request to his regional director—he wanted to be reassigned to witness security. Traveling kept him busy, and a single-minded focus on protecting witnesses proved advantageous to his emotional healing and growth.

A wry smile twisted his mouth as he walked over to the sink. Simone Whitfield's hair may have reminded him of Dorene, but that was where the similarities ended. The woman under whose roof he would sleep had an in-your-face attitude that said she was no shrinking violet. She'd proven that when she pepper-sprayed Ian Benton.

There was no doubt that if she were in law enforcement, the taxpayers of New York wouldn't have to foot the expense of the thirty-plus thousand a year it cost to incarcerate an inmate. Rafe knew that if Simone had been armed, she would've shot and probably killed Benton.

He gave her a sidelong glance when she stood next to him. "I'll make the dressing tonight. Tomorrow you're on your own."

Simone rolled her eyes at him. "Bully," she said under her breath.

Rafe lifted his eyebrows. "You think?"

She flashed a smile that looked more like a grimace. "I know."

The seconds ticked off as they stared at one another. Rafe was the first to break contact. "I'm going to need some fresh parsley, a green onion and two shallots."

"The parsley's in the second pot on the left on the window ledge. But I'm going to have to get the onion and shallot from the greenhouse." She'd set up one greenhouse to grow her flowers and half of the second one for herbs and vegetables.

Reaching for the keys to the house Simone had left on the window ledge, Rafe slipped them into the pocket of his jeans. "I'm ready whenever you are."

"You're going to have to change your shoes if you're going to the greenhouse."

He glanced down at his boots. "What's wrong with my shoes?"

"I don't want you to track fertilizer and insecticide into the house. There should be a pair of clogs or garden boots in the mudroom that should fit you."

Rafe wanted to ask Simone why she had men's shoes in her house if she wasn't living with a man, but thought the question much too personal. He followed her to the mudroom and discovered a shelf filled with wooden clogs and rubber boots in varying sizes and heights. He found a dark green pair of clogs in his size and slipped into them at the same time Simone pushed her sock-covered feet into a pair of rubber boots.

He waited for her to activate the alarm before they took off, walking side by side down the hill to the greenhouses. For a brief moment of madness, Rafe wondered how it would've been if he'd met Simone under other circumstances. He dismissed the traitorous thought as soon as it came to mind, knowing that if he allowed himself to see her as someone other than a witness, then he would lose his edge.

Ian Benton and the men who'd hired him weren't small-time hoods robbing gas stations and convenience stores for a few dollars. They were a well-organized group of dissidents whose intent was to eliminate anyone who opposed their beliefs.

Unconsciously, he reached out and took Simone's hand. She stiffened momentarily, then relaxed her fingers as she met his unflinching gaze. I'm going to make certain nothing happens to you, said a silent voice. She flashed a shy smile, and he returned it with a confident one of his own.

He'd made her a promise, one that he intended to keep, just like he'd kept the one he made to his mother and sister.




Chapter 4


"Park next to the gray Beemer convertible," Simone instructed Rafe, pointing to the empty parking space in the bowling alley lot. "That's Micah's car," she added when he gave her a questioning look.

"Who's Micah?"

"Micah Sanborn is engaged to my sister Tessa."

"The former NYPD lieutenant and soon-to-be brother-in-law."

Smiling, she nodded. "Yes." Rafe maneuvered the large SUV into the space in one motion and shut off the engine. "I know," Simone drawled when he turned to look at her. "Don't get out until you give me the all-clear signal."

Rafe winked at Simone. "Smart girl. You're a quick learner."

Simone wanted to tell him she wasn't a girl, but didn't want to ruin what had become an undeclared truce between them. She'd recovered from her temporary meltdown to assist Rafe in preparing dinner. His admission that he could cook was grossly underestimated when he concocted an incredibly scrumptious dish—lobster over linguine—with flavors that exploded and tantalized her palate. She'd sat on a stool watching him melt butter in a large skillet to which he added garlic, shallot, mushroom and chicken broth.

When her grandmother had informed her, Tessa and Faith that she was going to teach them to cook the dishes that had been passed down through generations of Whitfield women, it was Simone who always skipped cooking lessons because she had better things to do than stand over a hot stove. Faith and Tessa had become the recipients of an invaluable tradition of secret recipes that were repeated time again when her father and uncle added them to the menu at Whitfield Caterers.

Simone had become the brunt of family jokes when everyone said that if she cooked as well as she designed floral arrangements, then she would be an award-winning chef. She no longer had her grandmother, but what she did have was a live-in replacement: Raphael Madison.

Rafe was a patient teacher when he showed her how to chop green onions and fresh parsley, and dice tomatoes, all which she grew in her greenhouse, with the facility of a professional chef. She was transfixed by the power in his hands when he removed the lobster meat from the tails without using a knife to crack the shells. At that moment, she'd imagined the side of his hand coming down on the back of someone's neck, rendering him unconscious within seconds.

Although they hadn't been together more than twelve hours, Simone found her bodyguard a study in contrasts. He'd warned her never to forget who or what he was—a U.S. Deputy Marshal licensed to carry a firearm and kill, if needed, with deadly force. However, when she'd lost her composure, he'd held her as if she were fragile porcelain, whispering words that calmed her fears, knowing she could trust him with her life. It was only at that moment that she realized that her life was in his charge.

"Why are you so cautious when you've said that only the Feds and a few members of the White Plains Police Department know that I'm the only witness?" she asked Rafe when he helped her out of the Yukon.

Rafe stared at Simone staring up at him. Brilliant gold-red rays from the sun turned her into a statue in shades of umber, honey and henna. Suddenly he found himself transfixed, hypnotized by the petite woman with the mesmerizing eyes and lush mouth who, within a matter of hours, had seeped into a part of him he hadn't known existed. Other than her overt beauty and a sensuality he wasn't certain Simone knew she possessed, he wanted to know what was it about her that made him feel as if he were a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle.

"Training," he said after an interminable silence. It was training, and the possibility that someone could inadvertently leak her name. Even a file labeled TOP SECRET wasn't that if more than one person was privy to the information.

"Can't you relax just a bit?"

"Why?"

Simone dropped her gaze, staring at the middle of Rafe's chest. "We're never going to fool anyone into thinking we're friends if you act like a bodyguard."

"For the lack of a better word, that is what I am, Simone." He opened the rear door to get the bag with her bowling ball and shoes, but when he closed it he found that she was heading for the ultramodern two-story building. He caught up with her, reaching for her hand. "How relaxed do you want me to be?"

"You don't have to tell me not to get out of the car before you, because that's something that I do with any man."

Rafe gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. "In other words, you want me to pretend that I'm your boyfriend?"

She gave him a sidelong glance. "The operative word is pretend. How am I going to explain you living with me if we don't pretend there's at least something happening between us?"

"Have you taken up with other men other than your husband?"

Simone's eyelids fluttered wildly. It was a question her cousin and sister had asked on occasion, and the answer was always the same. No.

"What do you mean by 'taken up with'?"

"Date."

She thought about a man who bowled with her that she'd recently gone out with. She probably would've consented to see him again if he hadn't talked incessantly about his ex-wife. "I've dated, but the dates never progressed to a man living with me."

"What about men sleeping with you?"

A shock swept through Simone with the power of a sirocco, her retort wedging in her throat. Who the hell did he think he was to ask her something that personal? "That's none of your business." she said, her voice lowering as she struggled to contain her quick temper.

Rafe flashed a devastatingly sexy smile. "The fact that you won't answer the question says you're celibate."

A soft gasp escaped her parted lips. "Whether I'm celibate or not is none of your damn business."

"Oh, but it is, Simone," he said softly. "If you're sleeping with someone, then you'd better tell him that there will be no knocking boots until after I'm gone."

"Oh, now I'm not permitted to date?"

"You can date."

Her smile was dazzling. "Why, thank you."

Rafe sobered quickly. "The only person you'll be dating is me. If you want a pretend boyfriend, then you have one. Let's practice to see if we can get it right."

He dropped her hand and looped an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his body. Lowering his head, he fastened his mouth to her parted lips, breathing in her breath and deepening the kiss. Rafe hadn't consciously thought of kissing Simone, but he found her sultry mouth was like the open blooms of flowers beckoning insects to taste the sweet nectar within.

Simone tried pushing Rafe away, but she was no match for his superior strength. The shock of his mouth on hers melted away, replaced by a warming that started at her toes and eddied slowly up her legs. Her thighs warmed and the hidden place at the apex throbbed with long-forgotten sensations that threatened to make her faint. Thankfully it ended as quickly as it'd begun.

With wide eyes, she stared at the sardonic grin on his face. He knew! He knew his kiss had affected her more than she wanted it to when his gaze moved down to her heaving chest. She was struggling vainly not to succumb to the delicious sensations coursing throughout her body.

"How did I do?" he asked, winking at her.

"Okay."

Rafe's dark eyebrows lifted slightly. "Just okay? Perhaps I need more practice." He reached for her again, but she stepped nimbly away from him.

"Don't you dare touch me," she said between clenched teeth.

"Are you all right, Simone?"

She whirled around at the sound of a familiar voice. It belonged to one of the police officers in her bowling league. "I'm okay, Mark."

His bright red eyebrows met in a frown, as clear blue eyes shifted between her and Rafe, who'd switched the bowling bag from his left hand to his right. "Are you sure?"

She nodded. "Very sure." The last thing she wanted was for bullets to start flying if the two lawmen drew down on each other. Moving closer to Rafe, she went on tiptoe and brushed a light kiss over his firm mouth. "We were just having a lover's spat."

Mark nodded. "If that's the case, then I'll see you inside."

Waiting until the other man walked away, Simone rounded on Rafe. "What the hell are you trying to do? Get yourself shot?"

"Do you really think he would've drawn a gun on me without identifying himself as a police officer? No, Simone," he said, answering his own question. "By that time, I would've told him the same. Despite what you might think, there is police protocol. Let's go," he continued. "I don't want to make you late for your game."

Simone shot him an angry glare as she waited for him to open the door. Rafe was several steps behind her when she made her way past an area where bowlers were exchanging their street shoes for bowling shoes.

"This place is really nice," Rafe drawled behind her.

"It is," she concurred.

It was nice, but the one her father and uncle planned to put up in Mount Vernon would surpass this one in square footage and other amenities. She spied Tessa and Micah as they sat together at the far end of the building. Simone knew she had to get her sister alone to tell her why she'd come with a strange man in tow.

She placed a hand on Rafe's shoulder. "Let me talk to my sister alone before I make the introductions."

"Okay. I'll be over there." He pointed to a corner where bowlers had left their bags.

Smiling, Simone approached her sister. Tessa's fiancé, Micah Sanborn, stood up and kissed her cheek. "Hey, Simone. How's it going?"

She returned the kiss, smiling at the tall, dark, handsome and incredibly masculine Kings County assistant district attorney whom she'd come to regard as her brother. He was dressed casually in a pair of jeans and a navy-and-white-striped rugby shirt.

"It's all good," she lied smoothly. "How's your family?"

"They're well, thank you. By the way, my folks wanted me to ask you if you're available Sunday to come for a cookout. Faith and Ethan have already committed."

Tessa Whitfield stood up and hugged her sister. Two years younger than Simone, she was taller and darker in coloring and the modified flyway Afro hairstyle she'd worn for years was replaced with a short chic cut that flattered her soft, delicate features. Light caught the sparkle of blue-white prisms in the magnificent cushion-cut center diamond on her left hand.

"Please say you're coming, Simone. Micah and I are spending the night at his parents' house after we leave Faith and Ethan. You can come with us, and that way you won't have to drive back to White Plains just to turn around and come back to Jersey the next day."

Simone met Micah's intense dark gaze, and knew he was waiting for her answer. She gave him a warm smile. "Excuse me, Micah, but I need to tell Tessa something before I commit."

Tessa gave her a perplexed look. "What's the matter?"

"Come with me," she said cryptically. Taking Tessa by the hand, she pulled her away from the people who'd begun crowding into the neighboring lanes. In another fifteen minutes, balls would be hurtled with astonishing speed, drowning out conversations.

Rafe took a step when he saw Simone with a woman who looked enough like her to be her sister, but settled back against the wall when he realized they weren't moving out of his line of vision.

He watched Tessa Whitfield's expression change as Simone whispered close to her ear. After a full minute, both women turned and stared at him. He acknowledged Tessa with a barely perceptible nod before she threw her arms around Simone's neck. He mentally concluded that Simone and Tessa must have incredibly attractive parents to have produced not one, but two beautiful daughters. Straightening to his full height he was ready when Simone led Tessa over to him.

She extended her hand. "Hello, Rafe. I'm Tessa Whitfield, your girlfriend's sister. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Rafe shook her hand. "The pleasure is mine, Tessa." He noticed their voices were similar, but Simone claimed a slightly lower register.

"Come, Rafe. I'd like you to meet my fiancé before we start bowling."

He wasn't certain what Simone had told her sister, but if she was going to pass him off as her boyfriend then he would willingly play out the charade until the game ended. What he didn't want to think about was kissing her again. He knew Simone hadn't been expecting the kiss, but once his mouth touched hers he hadn't wanted to stop.

Rafe's gaze swept over Micah Sanborn. He was tall, slender, with close-cropped dark hair sprinkled with flecks of gray. Although he wasn't in uniform there was something about the way he carried himself that silently blared Cop! Once a cop, always a cop. He wondered if it would be same with him when he retired.

Tessa looped her arm through Micah's. "I'd like you to meet Simone's boyfriend, Raphael Madison. Rafe, my fiancé, Micah Sanborn."

Smiling, Micah gave him a firm handshake. "Nice meeting you, Rafe. Is it Rafe or Raphael?"

"Rafe will do."

Micah's dark, penetrating eyes took in everything about Raphael Madison in one sweeping glance. "Are you on the job?"

Rafe knew he was asking if he was a cop. "How did you know?"

"After putting in twenty years on the force, I can spot one fifty feet away."

"What are you doing now?" Rafe asked, not admitting or denying he was in law enforcement.

"I'm a Kings County ADA."

"I'd like to talk—"

"Yo, Sandy, you guys are short one man tonight," called out Justin Jamison, a short, but solidly built man with a shaved head. "Harris had a collar, so he's stuck at the station with paperwork."

Micah stared at Rafe. "Do you bowl?"

"Not in a while."

"Do you mind filling in tonight?" Micah asked

Rafe preferred bowling to standing around looking and acting like a bodyguard. "I wouldn't mind at all." Placing a hand on Simone's shoulder as she sat changing her shoes, he leaned over her. "I'll be back."

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to be your bowling partner tonight."

She wrinkled her nose. "If you spoil our winning streak I'm going to hurt you, Rafe Madison." Not only was her team undefeated, but she and Micah had earned highest league scores among the men and women.

"Whatcha gonna do to me, baby?" he whispered.

"You don't want to know." She gave him a sassy grin when he winked at her.

Knowing no one was going to harm Simone with dozens of police officers around her, Rafe went to select a pair of shoes and a ball. It was apparent she'd adjusted to her present situation because she was smiling more than scowling, joking rather than protesting. He'd enjoyed cooking with her, even if he'd done most of it.



Simone was on her feet, her gaze fixed intently on Rafe. Whenever it was his turn to bowl, those in nearby lanes stopped whatever they were doing to watch him. She wasn't certain whether it was technique or luck, but the results were awesome. He'd just bowled his seventh consecutive strike.

"I'm impressed," she said, complimenting him when he sat down. "And I'll have you know that I'm not very easily impressed."

A dazzling smile deepened the lines around his eyes. "Neither am I."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You've impressed me, too."

Simone gave him a skeptical look. "I'm not the one on track to bowl a perfect game."

"Have you ever bowled a three hundred?"

Shaking her head, Simone watched Tessa's follow-through. She'd knocked down her spare. "I've come close. What about you?"

Rafe lifted a broad shoulder. "I've done it once or twice."

NYPD Sergeant Justin Jamison took a long swallow from a bottle of beer, narrowing his gaze at Rafe. "Look, Sandy, you know the rules. No ringers."

Simone popped up like a jack-in-the-box. "Who are you calling a ringer, Justin?"

He'd asked her out once, and she'd accepted. Although divorced, he couldn't stop talking about his ex-wife. And what Justin refused to understand when he called to ask Simone out again was why she'd turned him down. It was apparent he was unable to accept rejection because after that he'd suddenly turned on her as if she were a bitter enemy.

The homicide detective glared at her. "I wasn't talking to you, Curly Sue."

Rafe rose slowly to his feet and took Simone's arm. Even though he didn't need Simone to defend him he wasn't going to stand by and let the obviously inebriated man get in her face.

"Look, man, you need to watch your mouth," he threatened softly.

Micah shot the man a warning look. "And I think you should lay off the beer." A female vice detective forcibly pried the beer bottle from Justin's hand.

The others on Jamison's team groaned in unison while rolling their eyes at him. "What the hell are you looking at?" he asked his teammates.

The vice detective rubbed Jamison's shaved head, then kissed it. "They're spanking us, Sarge, so suck it up."

"Let go of my arm, Rafe," Simone whispered angrily when he steered her a short distance away.

"Only if you promise me you won't go after someone who's had a little too much to drink."

"But he accused us of cheating."

"It's okay."

"But it's not okay, Rafe."

He angled his head and glared her. "Let it go, Simone."

"I—"

"Enough, Simone." His warning was spoken softly. "If I haul you out of here now, then your team is going to have to forfeit the game. Remember, the ringer is only filling in for tonight."

The fact that Rafe referred to himself as a ringer made her pause. "You're not a professional bowler, are you?"

"No, I'm not. Please, let's finish this game so we can go home."

"I need to tell you something."

"What is it?"

"We've been invited to Micah's folks' house on Sunday for a cookout and—"

"And what?" Rafe asked when her words trailed off.

"After we leave Faith and Ethan's I'm not going back to White Plains."

"Where are you going?"

"Franklin Lakes. I've been invited to spend the night with the Sanborns."

Rafe shook his head. "Not without me, Simone. Remember, where you go, I go."

She gave him a facetious smile. "Why did I know you'd say that?"

"Probably because you know that I'm not going to succumb to your seductive wiles."

Her delicate jaw dropped. "What are you talking about?"

"You've got more than half the men here lusting after you. All you have to do is smile and they melt like butter."

With wide eyes, she shot him an incredulous stare. "I'm not interested in any of these men."

"That's a good thing because I'd hate to act a fool every Wednesday night."

Rafe didn't miss the admiring male stares directed at Simone, or the whispered innuendos about her face and body. He wanted to tell them that the woman he'd been assigned to protect was not only forbidden and unobtainable, but also unavailable. What he found objectionable was that most of the men were married.

"You won't have to act a fool much longer because next Wednesday is our last night."

"Good. Now, what's up with Saturday?"

"I'll let Micah know that you're coming, too."

He wanted to ask Simone if they were expected to share a bedroom because if they were, then it would complicate everything. It was one thing to sleep in the same house and quite another to sleep in the same bed.

The next-to-last game of the season ended with Rafe bowling a perfect three hundred and Simone a two thirty-eight, her highest score to date, allowing her team to remain in first place as the only undefeated team in the league.

Simone moved closer to Rafe, her hand cradled protectively in his as they stood in the parking lot talking to Tessa and Micah.

"Are you ready for some football?" Micah crooned singsong.

"I think I should warn you that whenever the Sanborns get together on Sundays there's always a friendly game of football," Tessa said to Rafe. "Do you think you're up to the task?"




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