Taken by Storm

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?"