Taken by Storm

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."