Undercover Protector. Cassie Miles
like you.”
“You shut up,” Michael snarled.
“Make me. If you throw the first punch, I can fight back. It’s self-defense. Annie is a witness.”
“Not for long,” she said. “Much as I’d love to stick around and watch this spitting contest, I’ve got things to do.”
She pushed past Michael and proceeded down the sidewalk toward her grandpa’s house. Though she wasn’t scared anymore, this emotional roller-coaster ride unnerved her. Slightly disoriented and dizzy, she had to concentrate on placing one foot in front of the other.
At the wide veranda that wrapped around her grandpa’s two-story wood-frame house, she climbed the three steps, went inside and slammed the screen door behind her. Why was Michael here? Her grandpa must have invited him.
But Michael had vanished without a trace. If her grandpa had known how to contact Michael, why hadn’t he told Annie? She didn’t like secrets, and she hated lies.
“Lionel,” she yelled as she passed the old oak staircase leading up to her grandpa’s bedroom, “you’ve got some explaining to do.”
Down the hall in the kitchen she dropped the canvas pouch on the table. Bracing herself against the countertop, she exhaled in a whoosh. The terrifying flashback had been erased from her mind, but she was still trembling. The pent-up fury of eleven years shivered through her. How could Michael ignore her? How could he be so indifferent?
He was the first man she’d ever loved and the last person she ever wanted to see again. Raising her left palm to her face, she felt the hot flush of her cheek.
Even after all these years, he had the power to spark her emotions. He had faded safely into her past, an unsolved mystery who she would never see again except in dreams. Now, he was here in the flesh. His unexpected return was nearly as puzzling as his disappearance. Eleven long years ago, she’d trusted him with her first fragile love, and he’d betrayed her. Oh, Michael, why did you leave me?
She glanced toward the hallway leading to the front door, pulling herself back to the present. Why hadn’t he yet returned to the house? Her policewoman’s instincts kicked in. She really hoped he hadn’t been fool enough to get into a fistfight with Bateman. Though she didn’t want to care about Michael, she’d hate herself if he got hurt and she did nothing to stop it.
Her gun was all the way upstairs in her bedroom, and her injured arm was too weak to aim and fire, but Bateman didn’t know that. Just showing her Glock automatic ought to be enough to chase him away.
She dashed down the hallway toward the staircase. Before ascending, she looked out and saw Michael step onto the veranda. Equal parts of anger and relief flooded through her.
He grinned at her through the screen door. “May I come in?”
Though she wouldn’t have thought it possible, he was even handsomer now than when he was a teenager. The years had chiseled away any hint of youthful softness, leaving well-honed strong masculine features. He looked hard, dangerous and amazingly sexy. “Give me one good reason why I should open this door.”
“Because I want to talk to you.”
If she invited him inside, the old wounds would rip open, exposing her heart to more devastating hurt. “We have nothing to say.”
“Fine.” He gave a quick nod. “I’ll wait out here until you’ve spoken to Lionel.”
“What does he have to do with this?”
“Ask him.”
“Damn it, I’m asking you.” She had a million questions for him. Why did you leave me? Why did you shred my heart like a paper valentine? Unprepared to talk about his long ago betrayal and her pain, Annie decided to leave the past untouched. It was ages ago, and she didn’t know the man Michael had become. “Why are you here? Did Lionel invite you?”
“May I come in?” he repeated.
“Why should I trust you? You might be as dangerous as that creep out on the street.”
“Will you open the door?”
“Fine.” She shoved open the screen door. Immediately she realized that she’d used too much force. The door was going to smash into Michael and probably break his perfect straight nose. She made a frantic grab for the handle.
Michael stepped aside as the door hurtled past. He caught the edge and entered the foyer.
Suddenly they were standing less than a foot apart—near enough to touch. When she looked up into his coffee-brown eyes, she catapulted back in time, remembering his caresses, his strength, his warmth. He was the first man she’d ever really kissed. That long hot tantalizing kiss had transformed her from a sixteen-year-old tomboy into a woman. The memory of sweetly awakening passion spun through her like a cyclone, lifting her off the ground into clear blue skies.
Michael cleared his throat. “How have you been?”
“Fine.” She thudded back to earth. Both feet on the ground, she hardened herself, sealed off her emotions. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he affected her. He’d get nothing else from her. Nothing. Coldly, she asked, “And you? Are you well?”
“I’m okay.”
“How nice.”
“I guess so.” Michael’s smile felt rigid as a death mask. He hated the stiff formality of their conversation. “It’s good to see you again, Annie.”
“I’m surprised you even recognize me.”
He could never forget her. His gaze lingered on her. She was the most naturally beautiful woman he’d ever known. Her lips were full and pink, untouched by lipstick. Light freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose. She didn’t need makeup to highlight blue eyes that shone with honesty and, at the moment, hostility.
He’d always thought she was incredible. In all the years they’d been apart, he’d never stopped wondering about Annie, about the budding love he’d sacrificed. Regret burned within him. He still carried a battered photo of a sixteen-year-old Annie in his wallet. “I’ve missed you.”
“You’re the one who disappeared.” Briskly she walked away from him, heading into the front parlor, where she turned on a brass table lamp. Apparently, she wasn’t going to bring up the past.
Following her, he was amazed by how little the room had changed. The claw-foot brown velvet sofa was in the same place. The same framed photographs hung on the wall. The only difference was an air of neglect. The walls needed a fresh coat of paint, and the hardwood floors could use a buffing. When Annie yanked the drapes closed, a cloud of dust escaped.
“The old place is looking a little…”
“Shabby?” she snapped. “You’ll have to pardon the mess. I wasn’t expecting company.”
“I didn’t mean to insult you.”
On the opposite side of the room, she turned to face him. “You’re right, Michael. Lionel hasn’t been keeping up with repairs. But I’m going to be here for a month, and I’ll get everything shipshape again.”
He wanted to help. He’d always liked this pleasant old house on Myrtlewood Lane. For the first seventeen years of his life he’d ached to live in an orderly neighborhood like this one—a safe haven where nobody drank too much or yelled all the time.
“It’s been eleven years,” Annie said as she came toward him. “I believe this is the first time you’ve come home.”
“Bridgeport was never my home. I just lived here.”
She stopped a few feet away from him. Her eyes narrowed as she demanded. “Who is Drew Bateman? What does he have to do with my grandpa?”
“What did he say to you?”
“Don’t