notice.
She’d generally avoided him during their youth, despite their fathers’ friendship. Smith had been too full of himself, too loud and boylike—trouble on two feet. Only when they began moving in the same post-college circles did she really start watching him, still more annoyed than intrigued. His cocky immunity to her charms—and she wasn’t foolish enough to deny them—had bothered her. The more caustic the run-ins they had, the more she assumed their dislike to be mutual. They couldn’t seem to spend ten minutes in each other’s company without finding something to disagree about…which eventually proved downright fascinating. By the time he’d bitten out a sudden invitation to a party, like a dare in the middle of a fight over nothing, she’d been so surprised that she’d stuttered out agreement. And then…
Then the attraction that flared up between them, no longer held back by their pretense of mutual enmity, had almost consumed her.
How long had she already been in love by then?
It wasn’t just that he was handsome, though he was. She noted the long line of his back now, the pull of his shoulders under his faded brown T-shirt, worn to a softness she could only imagine under her fingers. She noted the defined muscles of his tanned, bare arms, his elbows on his jeaned knees as he leaned nearer Greta to hear the story. The brush of his too-long brown hair across his neck. That action-hero profile. The stubborn, uncompromising jaw—far more recalcitrant than his daring grins let on—which she could remember kissing the tension out of one night, while his hands had done sinful things across her…
She shifted uncomfortably in the love seat, crossing her ankles, her feet still bare. Smith’s gaze slanted momentarily in her direction, dancing with mischief as if he knew just what she’d been remembering, before returning to Greta.
Oh…sugar. They should have slept together and gotten it out of their systems, but she was a six-month-minimum girl and they’d kept breaking up at five-and-a-half months, then starting over. Maybe she’d been afraid to surrender that last bit of control, or afraid the reality couldn’t match the anticipation, which—good God in heaven! That last time, they were a day from six months and she’d honestly looked forward not just to making love, but to planning a future with him.
And then the phone call.
She should have dated more seriously since their breakup, but none of her gentleman callers had, well…challenged her. Not like Smith. Which should have been a good thing, but apparently was not.
He claimed to want to protect her, which shouldn’t make her feel quite as gooey inside as it did. The warmth of his body, so close to hers in this un-air-conditioned home, was bad enough without her mistaking stalking for affection. He’d come back—which, as far as reasons to like him went, was even worse.
He didn’t deserve a second—or was that a fifth?—chance. She couldn’t respect herself if she gave him one. Not that he’d even asked. What if he didn’t?
Arden felt far more threatened by Smith’s return than by any supposed Comitatus.
Val’s voice cut through her thoughts. “So you think he told you all these supposed secrets because of the Alzheimer’s?”
“I’m sure of it,” agreed Greta. “To hear him speak of it, the Comitatus were once a society of honor. A society formed by heroes of history and legend. But he finally faced that they’d lost their way, and he was well rid of them. His only regret, in speaking out against their interests, was how his exile harmed the rest of us.”
Again, Arden took the older woman’s hand. She could only imagine how similar ruin would pain her own father. “Daddies want to take care of their little girls.”
Did she imagine something odd in Greta’s expression at that? She must have, because all Greta said was, “My only regret will be if one of you is hurt doing a kindness for an old woman. As you said, Arden—the attack on you last night confirms that my father’s story was true. That is enough.”
“Enough?” repeated Arden, more unwilling than unable to understand.
“You must leave the matter alone.” Greta patted Arden’s hand and released it, then petted Dido’s head before sitting back. “Let it go, just as you were asked. If you pose no further threat to this society’s secrets, they may pose no further threat to you.”
“And let them win?” Arden looked from Greta’s faded, pleading eyes to Val’s pragmatic agreement. “They ruined your family, Greta! And they think they can threaten me with a knife to get their own way? If we let it go, they’ll think that’s appropriate behavior!”
“Seems like they already believe that,” noted Val drily.
“But it isn’t!” In desperation, she turned to Smith. Smith was nothing if not a rebel. Surely he would—
But even Smith, she could see by his wince, agreed with the others. Arden felt as betrayed as she had when he’d called to dump her, no explanation offered, the night they would have…
“It’s not just that it’s dangerous.” At least he knew that argument didn’t stand a chance against her. “But Greta’s the one who asked you to look into this, Ard. Now Greta’s asking you to stop. How polite is it to ignore her?”
Arden rarely scowled—it encouraged wrinkles—but she felt her eyes narrow at how easily Smith hit her weak spots.
“Greta’s not just being nice, Ard,” insisted Val. “This isn’t like, ‘You take the last cookie,’ ‘No, you take the last cookie.’ We don’t want to have to worry about you!”
“Exactly—” Smith cut himself off long enough to exchange a suspicious glance with Val, both surprised to find themselves on the same side of an argument. “Going after the Comitatus won’t just draw attention to you. What makes you think it won’t draw attention to Greta, as well? Or your rec center? For all you know, someone could have followed you here.”
“Obviously,” noted Arden, glaring daggers.
“Someone else.”
“If there’s any chance of danger to Greta, then I certainly can’t just leave.”
“Remember what I used to do for a living?” Used to? For the first time, Arden noted how Smith’s jeans weren’t artfully worn—they were well and truly worn. Gone was his expensive diving watch. His overlong hair couldn’t possibly be a fashion statement. Not without any product.
“You worked in security,” she admitted softly, trying to grasp the concept. Smith hadn’t just left her. He must have left Donnell Security—a business he’d built himself. Smith was…poor.
But he was a Donnell of the Fort Worth Donnells. That simply made no sense.
“If it’ll put your mind at ease, I’ll set up a security system for Greta,” Smith continued. “Will that make everyone happy?”
Val stared at him. “Not me. Why should we trust you?”
But Greta said, “Any friend of Arden’s, dear.” So that was that.
Then Smith just had to go and smile—no, smirk—at Arden, as if he’d won something.
“Friend? We weren’t that close,” she insisted, slipping her feet into
