The moment their lips met, the kiss turned so hot that it could have started a wildfire.
The morning’s adventure had driven both of them to the edge of desperation.
What she needed was to close her eyes and focus on the man who held her in his arms instead of everything else that was happening to her.
He deepened the kiss. She loved the taste of him, the feel of his body, the way he clasped her tightly. She’d been craving this since last night, and the terror of the past few hours had only intensified her emotions.
She forgot where they were, forgot everything except the need to get close to him—as close as two people could get.
About the Author
Award-winning, USA TODAY bestselling novelist Ruth Glick, who writes as REBECCA YORK, is the author of more than one hundred books, including her popular 43 LIGHT STREET series for Mills & Boon® Intrigue. Ruth says she has the best job in the world. Not only does she get paid for telling stories, she’s also an author of twelve cookbooks. Ruth and her husband, Norman, travel frequently, researching locales for her novels and searching out new dishes for her cookbooks.
Carrie’s Protector
Rebecca York
MILLS & BOON
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For two little eagles, E12 and E14,
who met untimely deaths in Decorah, Iowa.
Chapter One
Carrie Mitchell had made the biggest mistake of her life. And if she had it to do all over again, her actions would be exactly the same.
“Ready?” the dark-haired man waiting ramrod straight at the bottom of the stairs asked.
She dragged in a breath and let it out before speaking. “As ready as I’m going to be.”
“Then let’s get it over with.”
He stepped outside and motioned for her to wait as he looked around the exterior of the safe house where she’d been staying for the past week.
Really, the visual inspection was unnecessary, she thought. Nobody could get past the electric fence and the motion detectors, or through the main gate without the proper security codes.
Still, he made her linger inside before motioning her out the door, then led the way toward the black town car they were taking into D.C. The car was bulletproof, a precaution Carrie wished they could have done without. But her father, Douglas Mitchell, was rich enough to make his own rules when it came to his daughter’s safety—or anything else. An ordinary man would have relied on the FBI to protect his only child. Dad wanted an armored car and an elite private security team to keep her safe. The driver was already behind the wheel, a guy named Joe Collins, who was one of the guards who had been with her for the past week.
The man who held the car door open was Wyatt Hawk, the one in charge. Carrie didn’t like him much. Maybe that wasn’t fair, because she couldn’t really say she knew him. He kept himself so closed up that she’d had little chance for an in-depth conversation with him.
He was tall and muscular and good-looking in a kind of tough-guy way that she might have admired from a dis-tance—if she’d had the choice. You could imagine him as the bodyguard for a mob boss, although that wasn’t his background. He was supposed to have retired early from the CIA, but he never talked about his former life.
The other security men at the safe house were much more open about their backgrounds. They were all ex-cops, and they’d been friendly, perhaps to counteract Wyatt’s aloof demeanor. Gary Blain was a black man in his fifties, with a shaved head and broad shoulders. Hank Swinton was around the same age, with a bit of gray invading his sandy hair. And Rodrigo Garcia was a little younger, with classic Hispanic features.
They’d made her feel protected as they’d tried to lighten her isolation. In contrast, Wyatt always had an open book in front of him at the dining table, probably to discourage conversation. One of the few things she knew about him was that he liked World War II spy novels.
She’d joined him a time or two in the basement gym. He’d stuck to his routine of weight machines and hard-driving pumping on the elliptical trainer to the sounds of classic rock.
She never pushed herself as far. For her, exercise wasn’t a religion. It was just a way to keep in reasonable shape so she could crawl around in the woods taking pictures of wildlife.
Which was how she’d gotten into the worst trouble of her life.
Last Thursday she’d been practicing her profession, happily eavesdropping on an eagles’ nest in D.C.’s Rock Creek Park, the sprawling wooded area that ran through the northwest section of the city. She’d been using her telephoto lens to capture the family life of the parents and their two babies, photographing them off and on since before they’d hatched.
The photos were to illustrate a piece she was doing for Wildlife Magazine on raptors in urban areas.
She was creeping through the underbrush out of sight of the eagles’ eighty-foot-high, thousand-pound nest when she spotted three young Midwestern-looking men in jeans and T-shirts in a nearby picnic area.
She could see they hadn’t come for a meal. They were sitting at one of the tree-shaded wooden tables, speaking in low voices. Two of them were chain-smoking and littering the ground with the spent butts. Every so often, one of them would look around nervously.
At first she’d paid them only minimal attention. Then, as she moved to get a different angle on the nest, she started to get the gist of their conversation, and the back of her neck began to tingle.
She heard the words bomb, Capitol Police and best place to inflict maximum damage. Her heart was pounding as she swiveled cautiously in her hidden position, switching her camera’s focus from the eagles’ nest to the men. After taking their pictures, she wanted to flee, yet she knew that just their faces might not be enough to identify them.
