The Bodyguard And The Bridesmaid. Metsy Hingle
a serious relationship for two years.”
“Want to explain the difference to me?”
“The difference is that I can go out to dinner, the ballet or a charity event with a man without being emotionally involved with him.”
“What about physically involved?”
He could practically see the steam rising from her on that one. “I’m not even going to answer that.”
But she already had. No lovers, he concluded, more than a little pleased. “So who are these men you go to dinner, the ballet and charity things with?”
“Friends.”
Ryan sighed. Getting answers from her was like pulling teeth. “Names, Duchess. I need names. No matter how remote they may seem to you, anyone you’ve gone out with or come into contact with could be the man we’re looking for.”
Her hands curled into fists and she looked at him scornfully as she said, “Patrick Evans, Donald Markson, Harry Peters. And stop calling me Duchess!”
“Anyone else?”
“Your uncle. I believe he escorted me to a black-tie fund-raiser where the agency was donating a cruise when your aunt was out of town about two months ago.”
He added his uncle’s name to the list.
“You’re putting James’s name down on that list?”
“He’s a man.”
“He’s your uncle.” Furious, she shot to her feet. “This is crazy. You’re crazy. None of those men are even capable of doing anything like this.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know.” She reached for the brandy he’d poured her earlier, swirled it around in her glass.
“You’d be surprised what a man will do when he finds himself obsessed with a woman.” What disturbed him was that after kissing her and sampling that sweet heat of hers himself, he could almost understand a man being driven mad with the need for more of her.
“Not them. I told you, those men are my friends.”
“How about defining friend for me.”
“Just what the word implies—a friend, a companion, a pal.”
“Any of those pals ever graduate to being your lover?”
She slammed the glass down onto the table. “No,” she said, her voice like chipped ice.
“Any of them want to be?”
“That’s it! I’m not listening to any more of this. You’re just trying to embarrass me.”
Ryan caught her by the arm before she could storm off. “What I’m trying to do is find out if the guy who’s after you could be a former lover, or someone who wanted to be your lover, that might have gone nutso when you rejected him.”
“I haven’t rejected anyone.”
“You rejected me,” he reminded her.
Clea blinked. “I—That was different.”
“How? I haven’t made any secret of the fact that I’m attracted to you. I’ve asked you out several times. I’ve kissed you, and I’ve even asked you to marry me.”
“You weren’t serious.”
“How do you know?” Her scent reached out to him, tangled around him. Still holding her wrist, he rubbed his thumb across her pulse, felt the rapid beat beneath that smooth, soft skin.
“Because...because you’re not,” she told him, defiance and desire in her eyes as she looked at him. “Men like you aren’t interested in marriage.”
“What if I was?” Desire licked through him. He lowered his head a fraction, until his mouth hovered just above hers. “What if I told you I wanted you the first time I laid eyes on you? That I decided right then and there that we would be lovers. What if I told you that I thought there was a chance we might even work ourselves right up to marriage and a half-dozen kids?”
Shock—and something else—flashed across her face for a moment, and then she made her expression go blank. “Then, I’d say you really are crazy because that isn’t going to happen.” She pushed against his chest.
Reluctantly, Ryan released her. He rubbed a hand down his face. She was right. He was crazy. Crazy not to realize that a woman who had avoided involvements for two years would run like a rabbit at the mention of anything sounding remotely like a relationship. And why in the devil had he said that stuff about marriage and kids?
“If you’re finished with this third degree, I’d really like to go home.”
“All right. We’ll call it quits for tonight.” Ryan picked up his pad and pen, jammed them into the back pocket of his jeans. “We’ll finish up in the morning.”
Clea didn’t say anything, didn’t even spare him a parting glance. And even though she walked out of the study, Ryan couldn’t shake the feeling that she was running scared, not from her sick admirer, but from him.
Clea slumped against the closed door of the study. She squeezed her eyes shut a moment, trying to cut off the emotions Ryan stirred up inside her. She didn’t like feeling this way—scared, needy, wanting. It had been a long time since she’d experienced that tug of desire for a man. She didn’t like feeling it for Ryan now. An old ghost of pain, dulled by time, wrapped around her heart, reminding her of that piece of herself that she’d lost so long ago because of her foolish choices.
She opened her eyes at the sound of footsteps near the door, and started down the hall. She had worked too hard putting her life back together again, she reminded herself. She wouldn’t let some crazy attraction for Ryan Fitzpatrick jeopardize it now.
“You and Ryan all finished?” Maggie asked as Clea entered the living room moments later.
“Yes.”
“We’re finished for now,” Ryan answered from behind her.
As far as she was concerned, they were finished. Period. Feeling more in control, Clea walked over to where Maggie was placing a fresh tray of coffee and snacks on the polished wood table. “I want you to know that I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me. Both of you,” she added with a glance at James.
“I just wish we had been able to do more.”
“You did too much as it is,” Clea told her, her heart swelling with affection. She kissed the older woman’s cheek. “And I’m sorry for coming so unglued tonight.”
“It was perfectly understandable. You had every reason to be afraid,” Maggie told her.
“I’m just glad we were there,” James added.
“Me, too,” Clea said, remembering how frightened she’d been, and the relief that had washed over her when she’d seen Ryan’s stern face, fire and determination burning in his eyes, as he’d battled through the crowd to reach her.
Glancing up, her pulse raced as she found his eyes fixed on her again. Only now, there was a different type of fire burning in them. Desire. She recognized it because an answering heat flowed through her veins. She jerked her gaze away. “It’s really late. I need to be getting home.”
“You sure we can’t persuade you to spend the night?” Maggie asked.
“Thanks, but I think I’d really just like to go home.” She walked over to the table near the doorway and picked up her evening bag.
“You know, staying with a friend or even going away for a while until this guy is caught might not be such a bad idea,” Ryan offered as he swiped a fresh cookie from the newly filled tray his aunt had placed on the table.
“That’s