Protecting the Innocent

“It’s not totally out of character,” he reminded her. “Once, Jeremy bought a car without even a test drive.”

“Because he liked the hood ornament.”

“He was capable of snap judgments.”

“That’s true,” she said. “The new will was dated only a few weeks before his death, and he probably meant to discuss it when he came back to Denver.”

When she talked about Jeremy, the blue of her eyes grew dim. Her shoulders caved slightly. She was still grieving, and it troubled Roman to see her suffer. Her husband shouldn’t have died. If Roman had been smarter, he might have prevented the tragedy.

He believed that the explosion at Building Fourteen had been rigged, but he still didn’t know why. Why would Slater kill four scientists who worked for him? They were good employees—productive and nonconfrontational. Why did they have to die? After eight months of digging into the various global projects these scientists were working on, Roman still didn’t have the answer.

“It’s good to see you,” Anya said.

“And you,” he said. “You’ve put on weight.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s a compliment.” After Jeremy’s death, she’d been skinny as a rail, unable to eat. “You look healthy.”

“Healthy? Like a prize cow?” Her eyebrows arched. “If that’s your standard pick-up line, you’re going to be a bachelor forever.”

“That wasn’t even close to a pick-up line.”

“And why not? We might be friends, but I’m still a single female. According to your reputation, you should be charming me off my feet.”

“You’re not an ordinary female.” She was another man’s wife. Even now, with Jeremy dead, she was still married to his memory.

From atop the horse, Charlie called out, “Mommy, look. I’m riding with no hands.”

“Hold on to the pommel,” she said. “Or you’re getting off, mister.”

“I want to go faster. Please.”

“This is your first time on a horse,” she said. “Take it easy.”

“Okay, Mom.”

She returned her attention to Roman, picking up their conversation where it left off. “All right, Bachelor Number One, give me a real compliment. I need one.”

For years, he’d tried not to think of Anya as an eligible woman. But she’d asked for it.

His guard went down. The facade of civility slipped away. He allowed his unspoken desires to rise to the surface. These thoughts had been simmering at the back of his mind from the first day he met her.

With smoldering eyes, he gazed into her heart-shaped face. His voice lowered to a seductive murmur, and he said, “When I see you here in the sunlight, with the wind in your hair and your lips as soft as rose petals, I know what miracles are. This vision of you is precious. I’ll carry it with me forever.”

“Oh.” She gaped.

He relished the effect he had upon her, and he pressed his advantage, tenderly grasping her hand and lifting it to his lips to blow a light kiss across her knuckles. “You touch my heart.”

“Oh, my.”

“Anya, please. Let me touch you.”

“Wow! You’re good.” She grabbed her hand back from him and fanned her face with it. “No wonder you have thousands of babes swooning all over you.”

He looked away from her and started walking again. Though this flirting was a game, he’d meant every word. He wanted to touch her, to kiss her mouth, to make love to her.

They neared the stables where Anya’s mother and Fredrick Slater stood waiting. The sight of Slater had the effect of a cold shower on Roman. He sloughed off his sensuality, any sign of vulnerability. Instead, he visualized himself as forged steel.

“There they are,” Anya said. “Claudette and Slater. They almost look like a couple, don’t they?”

Well matched in ruthless intelligence and ambition, they could have been MacBeth and his lady. “Almost.”

“Roman, with this contract, am I doing the right thing?”

“It’ll all work out.” He wouldn’t let anything bad happen to her or to Charlie.

At the stables, Slater wasted no time in pulling him to one side. “Did you handle the problem in Los Angeles?”

“It was nothing,” Roman said. “A simple miscommunication.”

“I suppose Anya told you that she and Charlie will be living here.”

“Yes.” He slipped on a pair of dark glasses, concerned that his eyes might betray his hostility.

“She seems a bit uncomfortable,” Slater said. “That’s not good for Charlie’s transition. He needs to feel that Legate is his home. It’s important for his mother to transmit that acceptance.”

“According to whom?”

“Dr. Neville, the psychiatrist.”

“I have an urgent message to contact him,” Roman said.

“Yes, I know.”

Slater’s hands were clasped behind his back. In his tweed suit with his neat gray hair, he looked like the lord of the manor, out for a stroll on his magnificent grounds.

Roman lengthened his stride. He was a good six inches taller and wanted to make Slater stretch to keep up with him.

But the old man sensed what he was doing and halted. When he looked up, he probed with his gaze, taking Roman’s measure with quick, stabbing glances. Slater wanted something. “You have a bond with Charlie’s mother.”

“I’ve known Anya for years.”

“She’s done a good job raising the boy. Neville said it was important to leave Charlie with his mother until he was five and had established a healthy bond.”

“Then what?”

“Education, of course. Expanding the child’s frame of reference.”