Protector by Catherine Mann Page A

she saw his hand move toward hers. Her heartbeat hammered harder in her ears as she held still. His knuckles skimmed her wrist, upward along her bare arm until goose bumps prickled her skin, her nerves alive. Higher, higher still he stroked silently until his fingers curved around her bare shoulder.
    Her eyes slid closed.
Mio Dio
…
    “Livia.” His American accent, his Texas roots gave her name such a foreign and distinctive sound. “I’ve missed you.”
    Missed her? He had a damn strange way of showing it, considering he hadn’t so much as called in two years. Yes, she had walked away from him, but if he wanted her, really wanted her…
    She opened her eyes and gripped his chin. “No.”
    He stared back, his gaze so intense without glasses diluting the power. How was it that the stroke of his eyes over her face stirred her more than anyone else’s tangible touch?
    This was so, so dangerous.
    “No,” she repeated, stronger this time and adding a shove to his chest before she weakened. “I understand my role in helping you with”—she lowered her voice again—“whatever covert operations you have in the works. I realize it will help both of our countries, and in spite of rumors about my vanity, I do love my country more than myself.”
    “I never doubted that for a moment.” He crossed his arms over his chest, his half smile grating on her already ragged nerves. Damn his condescending ass.
    “Good.”She whipped past him and into her suite. “You need to go now. Bad things happen to me when I am around you. In Turkey, I was almost blown up. In your country, a serial killer kidnapped me. And I survived it all just to have you fracture my heart. I believe you will understand if I do not want to spend any more time around you than necessary.”
    His smile widened.
    “What?” she demanded, her hands flaying the air. “Did I get another of your American idioms incorrect?”
    “It’s nothing.” His smile eased. “You are just so damn magnificent when you’re fired up. Good night, Livia, and do not forget to lock the door.”
    He turned to leave, and it was all she could do to keep from tossing an ice bucket at his head. And yes, her Latin heritage was showing, but she couldn’t help herself around this man.
    Rex Scanlon loved his dead wife, and Livia did not intend to compete with a ghost or settle for second place in any man’s heart. She’d patched her life, her body and heart back together, a long and painful process.
    She had eight days to restrain herself from the colonel’s undeniable appeal. Eight days holding strong as they traveled from Italy to France, down the Italian shore to Greece, then back to Italy. Eight days, she could handle.
    The seven nights, however, worried her all the way to her toes.

F IVE

     
    Staring up at the night sky, Jolynn felt the need to explode swell with each mile of foaming waves and Italian countryside that sped past. Emotional and physical exhaustion inched toward frenzy.
    Charles downshifted the Mazarati, slowing, veering toward a waterside rest area near three crumbling stone columns beside an arch. Ruins were a dime a dozen around here, yet her American mind-set still gasped at the ancient ruins around every corner.
    She felt small and insignificant in comparison.
    The pillars cast long, fat shadows across the small paved lot lit only by the moon and a lone lamppost humming in the night. A few straggler tourists strolled in the distance, snapping photos with weak camera flashes that would never capture the majesty of this land.
    The Maserati’s motor idled, a soft purr. Charles shook his black hair into place.
    He turned to face her. Something wild and mysteriouslurked in his dark eyes. “You’ve had a long day with the transcontinental flight… then seeing your dad. We should head back.”
    Maybe the day didn’t have to be a complete disaster.
    Sure, she didn’t know Charles very well, but he seemed to have insinuated himself into her life in a hurry.