Unfortunately, that was true. Sean and Emily were both born and raised in Colorado, but they had met in San Francisco. She was a student at University of California in Berkeley, majoring in English and appearing at least once a week at local poetry slams. At one of these open-mike events, he saw her.
She’d been dancing around on a small stage wearing a long gypsy skirt. Her wild hair was snatched up on her head with dozens of ribbons. He’d been impressed when she rhymed “appetite” and “morning light” and “coprolite,” which was a technical word for fossilized poop. He would have stayed and talked to her, but he’d been undercover, rooting out a drug dealer at the slam venue. Sean had been in the FBI.
When they told people they were getting married, their opposite lifestyles—Bohemian chick versus federal agent—were the first thing people pointed to as a reason it would never work. The next issue was an age difference. She was nineteen, and he was twenty-seven. Eight years wasn’t really all that much, but her youthful immaturity stood in stark contrast to his orderly, responsible lifestyle.
“If you’d asked me at the time,” Aunt Hazel said, “I’d have advised you to live together before marriage.”
Sean hadn’t wanted to take that chance. He had hoped the bonds of marriage would help him control his butterfly. “It was a mistake,” he said.
Emily responded with a snort.
“You don’t think so?” he asked.
“Are you still here? You were in such a rush to get away from me.”
His contrary streak kicked in. He sure as hell wasn’t going to let her think that she was chasing him out the door. Very slowly and deliberately, he pulled out a stool and took a seat at the center island opposite the stove top. He turned away from Emily.
“Aunt Hazel,” he said, “you still haven’t told us why you hired me as a bodyguard.”
“You? A bodyguard?” Emily sputtered. “You’re not a fed anymore?”
“Do you care?”
“Why should I?”
“What are you doing now?” he asked.
“Writing.”
“Poetry?” He scoffed.
She exhaled an eager gasp as she tilted her head and leaned toward him. Her turquoise eyes flashed. Her face, framed by wisps of brown hair, was flushed beneath the natural olive tint. He remembered her spirit and her enthusiasm, and he knew that she wanted to tell him something. The words were poised at the tip of her tongue, straining to jump out.
And he wanted to hear them. He wanted to share with her, to listen to her stories and to feel the waves of excitement that radiated from her. Emily had always thrown herself wholeheartedly into whatever she was attempting to do. It was part of her charm. No doubt she had some project that was insanely ambitious.
With a scowl, she raised her hand, palm out, to hold him away from her. “Just go.”
“Such drama,” Aunt Hazel said. “The two of you are impossible. It’s called communication, and it’s not all that difficult. Sean, you’re going to sit there and I’m going to tell you what our girl has been up to.”
“I don’t have to listen to this,” Emily said.
“If I’m not explaining properly, feel free to jump in,” Hazel said. “First of all, Emily doesn’t write poems anymore. After the divorce, she changed her focus to journalism.”
“Totally impractical,” he muttered. “With all the newspapers going out of business, nobody makes a living as a journalist.”
“I do all right.”
Her voice was proud, and there was a strut in her step as she strolled from one end of the island to the other. Watching her long, slender legs and the way her hips swayed was a treat. He felt himself being drawn into her orbit. She’d always had the power to mesmerize him.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Tell me about your big deal success in journalism.”
“Right after the divorce, I got a job writing for the Daily Californian, Berkeley’s student newspaper. I learned investigative techniques, and I blogged. And I started doing articles for online magazines. I have a regular bimonthly piece in a national publication, and they pay very nicely.”
“For articles about eye shadow and shoes?”
“Hard-hitting news.” She slammed her fist on the marble island. “I witnessed a murder.”
“Which is why I called you,” Aunt Hazel said. “Emily’s life is in danger.”
This was just crazy enough to be possible. “Have you received threats?”
“Death threats,” she said.
His feet were rooted to the kitchen floor. He didn’t want to stay...but he couldn’t leave her here unprotected.
Emily couldn’t look away from him. Fascinated, she watched as a muscle in Sean’s jaw twitched, his brow lowered and his eyes turned as black as polished obsidian. He was outrageously masculine.
With a nearly imperceptible shrug, his muscles tensed, but his frame didn’t contract. He seemed to get bigger. His fingers coiled into fists, ready to lash out. He was prepared to defend her against anything and everything. His aggressive stance told her that he’d take on an army to keep her from harm.
When she thought about it, his new occupation as a bodyguard made sense. Sean had always been a protector, whether it was keeping a bully away from his sweet-but-nerdy brother or rescuing a stray dog by stopping four lanes of traffic on a busy highway. If Sean had been hiding in that louvered closet instead of her, he would have saved the man she now could identify as Roger Patrone.
Sean reached toward her. She yanked her arm away. She didn’t dare allow him to get too close. No matter how much she wanted his embrace, that wasn’t going to happen. This man had been the love of her life. Ending their marriage was the most difficult thing she’d ever done, and she couldn’t bear going through that soul-wrenching pain again.
“Did you report the murder to the police?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said, “and to your former FBI bosses. Specifically, I had several chats with Special Agent Greg Levine. I’m surprised he didn’t call and tell you.”
“Levine is still stationed in San Francisco,” he said. “Is that where the crime took place?”
“Yes.”
“In the city?”
“Just beyond the Golden Gate Bridge.”
“In open waters,” he said. “A good place to dump a body.”
It was a bit disturbing that his FBI-trained brain and Freddie Wynter’s nefarious instincts
