A Weaver Wedding

He blew out a rough breath along with the justifications that amounted to zero. He shouldn’t have touched her and he knew it. No matter how unforgettable their time had been.

He pulled a U-turn and parked in front of her shop. Her front door was a fanciful thing of stained glass. It was locked, of course. He knocked purposefully as he looked through the glass window beside the door.

He couldn’t see her moving around inside, but that wasn’t surprising. The place was artfully packed with furniture, clothing and a host of other doodads.

He knocked again, as hard as he dared against a deep red triangle of glass.

Finally, she appeared.

The sleeves of her thigh-length pink sweater were pushed up above her elbows. She’d twisted her hair up into some kind of knot that wasn’t particularly effective, judging by the strands of hair that had slipped free to graze her elfin chin.

She made a face when she reached the door and tapped the sign that she’d posted in the lower corner of the window.

Closed.

“I’m not going away, Tara.” He knew she could hear him through the glass.

“Leave me alone. Or do I have to call the sheriff?”

“Call him,” he said easily. “I haven’t seen Max in a year. Good chance to catch up.”

“Must be nice to count half the people in town as a relation.”

Sometimes it was as much a curse as a blessing. “Open up.”

Her bow-shaped lips tightened and she made no move to unlock the door. “Can’t you take no for an answer?”

“No.” A gust of wind blew down the street, bringing with it a rolling cloud of old snow. “So you might as well let me in.”

She looked past him to the street. Whether it was his truck parked there or the sedan slowly driving past that made her grimace he couldn’t tell. Didn’t much care, considering she finally reached over and with a rattle of keys, opened the door.

“You could have at least parked in the alley behind the building,” she muttered, as she shut and locked the door again once he stepped inside. “Everyone in town can recognize your truck.”

Warmth engulfed him. “So?”

“So, I don’t want people wondering why you’re hanging around me.”

On that score, she was going to be sadly disappointed.

“Don’t bother taking that off,” she warned when he unzipped his jacket. “You won’t be staying long.”

He slid out of the jacket anyway and dropped it on the Ushaped mahogany bar that served as a counter in the center of the store. “There’s been a hit issued against your brother,” he said bluntly.

For a long moment, her wide eyes just stared at him. Then she slowly blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. There’s a price on Sloan’s head.”

The lovely throat that he knew tasted as sweet as cream worked in a hard swallow. She abruptly sat down on a weathered-looking leather couch whose massive lines made her look even more defenseless. “H-how would you know that?”

“Because I work for the same agency that placed you in Weaver when your brother went undercover with the ATF.”

Her face blanched and he quickly moved to her, placing his hand against her back. “Put your head down.”

But she pushed him away. “You know Sloan? Is—” she swallowed visibly “—is he all right? He’s still under protection somewhere in Chicago, right?”

Truthfully, Axel wasn’t entirely certain where Sloan was. The man had shunned the normal protocols and who could blame him? “He’s keeping contact,” he said instead, truthfully enough, though Tristan was the only one with whom McCray was maintaining the briefest of communications.

He eyed Tara’s fearful expression and shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching for her again.

There had already been too much touching between them. He was still losing sleep from the burning memory of those white-hot hours they’d shared. “How much do you know about the case he’s been working on?”

She swiped a strand of hair from her cheek. “Only that when he infiltrated the Deuce’s Cross, he wanted me far away from Chicago just in case the gang suspected he wasn’t the ex-con he was pretending to be.” Her hands fell back to her lap. “He was exaggerating the situation. Nothing’s ever happened to me. Not during the years he rode with them, and certainly not in the time it’s taken to get the case to trial.” She looked around the shop, avoiding eye contact. “I gave up the only home I’ve ever known to come here. It’s temporary. Just until all that’s over.”

Five years didn’t seem all that temporary to Axel, but he kept the thought to himself. “A few years before Sloan was finally accepted into the gang, another federal agent had gotten in. But his cover was blown. They killed his family before they executed him.” There was nothing he could do to soften the facts. They were what they were.

And they were only part of the reason behind Sloan’s rightful concern, now.

But Axel still felt like a bastard when her face paled all over again. His hands fisted in his pockets. It was either that, or reach for her, and he was pretty certain she’d push him away. Again.

“The Feds couldn’t make a murder case stick at that point,” he continued quietly. “Your brother was the one who finally came up with the glue.” About murder and a host of other felonies. “Now that the trial is finally going forward, it’s likely they want payback more than ever.”

“But Sloan’s identity was supposed to be protected.”

“There’s no guarantee about that,” he said carefully. “Information has a way of getting out. Your brother’s not taking any chances that it might lead to you.”

“I don’t even use my maiden name. I’ve spoken with Sloan once in the past five years! I don’t have a phone number for him or even an address. All I can do is sit around on my thumbs waiting for him to contact me.” She grimaced. “And to blow me off again even after he has. Why…why would anything about my brother lead to me?”

“You’re not some far-flung relation of his. You’re his twin sister.” Sloan’s only living family.

Her lips compressed. “So what am I supposed to do? Give up everything again and go start somewhere new?”

He frowned at the assessment. “Right now, Weaver is still the best place for you.”

“And how long have you known about all of this?”

“You mean about the order on Sloan, or the reason you moved to Weaver?”

She looked ill. “Both.”

He finally pulled his hands out of his pockets. “Since this morning, and since you came to town five years ago.”

“Great.” Her expression grew even more pinched. “So all that talk in Braden about your horse-breeding business was just a story. A line. You’re with the ATF, too.”

They hadn’t just talked about his business. They’d talked about hers. About movies and books and politics and religion. And they’d made love. Again. And again.

“I didn’t lie to you. I am a horse breeder.”

“But that’s not all you are,” she said her voice flat. “Right?”

“No,” he allowed. “But I’m not with the ATF.”

“But you said you were with the agency—”

“The ATF didn’t move you here to Wyoming. An agency called Hollins-Winword did that.”

Her lips parted. “But Sloan told me—”

He lifted his hand. “It doesn’t matter.” In a perfect world, the ATF would have been able to see to the full protection of its own agents. But he’d learned long ago that the world wasn’t perfect. McCray had done what Axel would have done in the same situation. He’d found someone to take care of what his own agency wouldn’t. “Sloan trusted Hollins-Winword to keep you safe before, and Hollins-Winword is going to keep you safe now.”

She closed her eyes for a moment as if she were searching for strength. He started to reach for her no matter the chances of rejection but she planted her slender palms on her knees and pushed abruptly to her feet.

Her brown eyes looked like bruises against her pale face. “Fine. You’ve told me. Now will you go?” She started toward the door. “Your five minutes are long gone.”

He closed his hand around her arm and absorbed the frisson that raced through him at the contact. “It’s more than a matter of just keeping you updated on the situation.”

She’d gone still the moment he touched her. Her gaze seemed focused on his hand on her arm. “Meaning what?”

“Meaning, I’m your new bodyguard.”

Chapter Three

Tara wasn’t certain she’d heard right. “Bodyguard.”

But Axel didn’t correct her. He just stood there, watching her with that steady, golden-brown gaze that she couldn’t get out of her mind, while his hand seemed to burn like some branding iron through her long sleeve.

She shook off the ridiculous notion. She wasn’t branded by this man any more than she was going to put up with this bodyguard nonsense.

“No.” Her voice was flat and she headed straight for the door. “No. No. And no.”

“It isn’t your choice.”

She pulled open the door. “It most certainly is. Just like it’s my choice to tell you to leave.” For years, she’d lived a life that she hadn’t chosen for herself, all for the benefit of Sloan’s overprotective streak. She’d gone along with it then because he’d asked her to, and there wasn’t anything she wouldn’t have done for him.

He was not just family—her only family—he’d been her best friend. She was his “goober” and he was her “bean.”

Now her brother was more of a stranger who seemed to be glad she was out of his hair.

As for Axel—it was best that he get out of her hair. “I want you to leave. Now.”

He surprised her by actually moving toward the door. But he stopped before passing through, standing so closely that she could feel the warmth of him. His head tilted toward her and it was all she could do to keep from trembling. “One way or another I will be guarding you, Tara. You’ll make it a lot easier if you work with me on it.”

So much for not trembling.

She hoped he’d attribute it to the cold air curling around them and not the effect he had on her. “I don’t feel compelled to make your life easier.” She wanted there to be plenty of distance between them before it became evident to anyone who looked at her that she wasn’t looking quite as thin as she ordinarily did.

Unexpected pregnancies weren’t just the domain of the young and foolish. She was a competent adult, and she’d still gotten “caught.” For now, though, nobody but her obstetrician in Braden knew.

“Darlin’,” he said, his voice dropping another notch, “there isn’t anything easy about this,” he assured her and stepped out onto the sidewalk outside her door.

She firmly shut it, staring at him through the mottled stained glass as she deliberately set the locks.

“I’m not going to let this drop,” he warned.

“Then you’ll be wasting a lot of time,” she answered, and hated the tightness in her throat. She made herself turn away from the door. Ignoring all of the items that needed to be returned to the shelves, she headed straight to the rear door, barely stopping long enough to hit the light switches and grab her coat.

She got in her car that was parked out back and, half-afraid she’d see his big truck rolling into view, bolted down the alley with a shameless disregard for caution. Less then ten minutes later, she’d pulled into the garage beside her house.

Axel hadn’t followed her.

She told herself she wasn’t surprised.

His “bodyguard” threat was just that. A threat.

Which didn’t explain at all why, once inside, she kept peering through the plantation shutters at the windows for any sight of his truck.

When she realized the street lights had come on outside, she wanted to tear out her hair. She’d wasted at least an hour padding from window to window. Watching and waiting for Axel to appear. Or worse.

Stomping to her closet, she gave a practiced yank on the enameled doorknob, hard enough to spring the stubborn, warped door open. She snatched out the first decent dress her hand encountered. She tossed it on the bed, then went down the hall to the bathroom.

Her reflection in the ancient mirror showed flushed cheeks and too-dark eyes. She freed her hair from the clip, pulling a brush through it until it swung smooth again, and swabbed some cosmetics into place. Then she went back into the bedroom where she put on the knee-length dress.

It was black, which suited her mood, with a forgivingly swinging cut that didn’t cling anywhere except where the wide, scooped neckline hugged the points of her shoulders. She pulled on black nylons—managing to put a run in the first pair she tried—shoved her feet into shiny black pumps, added a jet-black choker and drop earrings that she’d made a few years ago, and headed to the door.

The Valentine’s dance was the last place she wanted to be, but it was still better than hovering around in the shadows of her house, watching for signs of Axel Clay.

Her coat was where she’d left it by the back door and she slipped into it before leaving the house to cross the cracked sidewalk leading to the garage.

She resolutely ignored the way her neck prickled before she reached the safety of her car and drove it out onto the street, heading back to the school.

When she arrived, the gymnasium had once again been transformed. This time into a dinner dance, complete with a live band playing with more enthusiasm than skill on the stage that had been erected at one end. Large round tables were situated along the sides of the room—most of which already looked full. Opposite the stage, several long tables had been set up as a buffet, where there was already a long line.

And of course there were the hearts. Everywhere.

She blew out a faint breath as she handed over her ticket to the teenagers manning the entry and slid out of her coat, leaving it in the area set aside for them.

There was no such thing as a coat check in Weaver, Wyoming.

The fact that her car keys were in the coat pocket niggled at her, which annoyed her to no end. If it weren’t for Axel Clay’s ridiculous claim, she wouldn’t have thought twice about them.

“Good evening, Tara.” Joe Gage greeted her within seconds after she’d passed over her ticket. “You look great.” His gaze ran down her with appreciation. Sadly, she felt none of the rippling aftereffects from his attention that she did from Axel. She didn’t look at Joe and then have foolish, romantic thoughts of happily-ever-afters twining around her better sense.

“Thanks. So do you.” The school principal did look nice, but he certainly didn’t make her mouth water. Now that she was pregnant, this was certainly no time to start encouraging him, but desperate times called for desperate measures. “Looks like quite a crowd here tonight.” She was probably the only one in town who’d bought a ticket with no intention of using it.

“Yeah.” His gaze was diverted by Dee Crowder who sailed past them looking pretty in a lacy red dress. “There’s a seat left at my table, though.”

“Thanks—” The word caught when she felt a warm, long-fingered hand slide over her shoulder from behind.

“Thanks, Joe,” Axel said from above her head, “but we should probably find a spot for two.” His chuckle was deep. “Not that I’d mind Tara sitting on my lap through dinner.”

She stared up at him. “What do—”

His hand squeezed her shoulder. Not hard. But definitely in warning.

The rest of her protest died in her throat.

Her cheeks warmed at the realization crossing Joe’s face when he took in Axel’s proprietary hand, and she felt even worse when Joe smiled despite the disappointment in his eyes. “I wouldn’t mind if the prettiest woman in the room had to sit on my lap for a while, either.” He looked back over the crowded tables. “Most of your family is already here. Back near the buffet tables.” He grinned. “Y’all take up more than a few tables.”

“Principal Gage.” Dee Crowder reappeared. She had a pink cocktail in her hand and curiosity in her face as she eyed Axel’s hand on Tara, too. “Mind if I take the last seat at your table?”

“Of course I don’t mind. Axel, Tara, enjoy the evening,” he told them before tucking his hand in Dee’s arm. Tara felt her chance of sitting safely well away from the Clays evaporating as Joe escorted Dee to his table.

“Come on.” Axel urged her forward, right into the melee of dancers taking up the narrow rectangle in the center of the gymnasium floor. “Let’s dance.”

It was a double-edged reprieve from being forced to go to his family’s tables. “I don’t dance.” Déjà vu accosted her as he turned her into his arms.

“Think we’ve been over that,” he murmured, flattening her curled fingers against his shoulder.

The last thing she needed was a reminder of their time in Braden. Particularly when she now had a constant reminder, courtesy of her thickening waistline. And when Axel’s hand slid around that waist, she couldn’t help but hold her breath, just waiting for him to make some comment.

But though his fingertips seemed to flex against her, all he said was a muttered “Relax.”

She felt a hysterical bubble of laughter rise in her. Relax? “You’ve got to be kidding.”

His head lowered until his mouth was near her ear. “Honey, I’ve never been more serious.” He pulled her even closer. Until her breasts were flat against him and their legs were nearly entwined.

She could feel each one of his fingers splayed against her spine. “How do I know this isn’t all something you’ve made up, anyway? I’ve never heard of this Hollins thing you’re talking about.”

He smoothly spun her around. “Keep your voice down.”

“Nobody can hear me.” How could they when he wasn’t allowing a centimeter of breathing room between them?

“You never know who might hear what.” His lips brushed against her ear again and a shiver danced down her spine that owed nothing to memory and everything to the present. “And someday I might be curious as to why you’d think I’d make up a story like this. But for now, just know that most people never have a reason to learn about the agency. And that’s a good thing.”

She was perfectly aware that Axel’s answer hadn’t provided any proof at all to back up his claim. Nor did she feel inclined to tell him that she was used to people making up stories to suit whatever agenda they had in mind. Her father had been the absolute master at it.

She realized her cheek was feeling much too comfortable against his soft sweater. Or maybe it was the incredibly hard chest beneath the gray knit that was too comfortable.

She lifted her head, but that only put her forehead right beneath his angular chin. “Not that I believe any of this, but Sloan is notoriously overprotective.” Maybe the trait was a result of their childhood. She had her own issues that had carried over into adulthood, too. That’s what happened when you were raised by a man whose career demanded secrecy. “And I can handle my own safety.”

Axel’s hand crept an inch lower, moving dangerously near the small of her back. “Did I tell you how beautiful you look tonight?”

She deliberately stepped on his foot and wished it were so easy to squash the memory of his lips touching that very same spot where his fingers were drifting. “Sorry.”

She caught the twitch of his lips. “You’re not. But it’s natural that you’re in a defensive mode. I’ve thrown you a curve.”

Again, she felt that hysterical bubble want to escape. If he only knew. “How…understanding of you.” She tried to wedge her hand between them to create at least a minimum of breathing space.

Instead, he just covered her hand with his, probably looking even more loverlike to anyone watching them. “You’re going to give people the wrong idea.” Her heart was pounding and she was painfully aware that he was the reason. Not what he was saying. But him.

“The wrong idea about what? That I like dancing with you?” His fingertips flexed again. “I do.”

“Well, I don’t.”

She felt his lips against her temple. His thumb stroked against the wrist he still held captive. “Liar. Your pulse feels like it wants to jump out of your skin.”

“Anger does that, too.”

She didn’t hear the sigh he gave, but she definitely felt it.

“I wasn’t joking when I said this would be easier with your cooperation. If you want me dogging your footsteps looking like some stalker, then I will.”

She wanted to tear herself out of his arms and run far, far away. Instead, she followed his lead as he wove her around the crowded dance floor in time to the endless ballads that the band was cranking out. “I told you. I can take care of myself.”

She felt him sigh again. His jaw brushed against her cheek, the healthy five o’clock shadow he’d developed softly abrading. “Want me to tell you how that other agent’s family was killed? How they were going through their normal day, never suspecting, never knowing that—”

“Stop.” Her stomach rolled suddenly. “I don’t want the details.”

“And I don’t want to give them,” he assured her softly. “But I will if that’s what it takes to prove I’m serious.” He turned her smoothly to avoid colliding with another couple, and his voice dropped even lower. “We don’t know for certain that the order on Sloan came down from the Deuces. But it’s pretty likely, considering their trial starts next week. If you won’t go along with this for yourself, then do it for Sloan. Protecting people is one of the things I do, Tara. So let me do my job.” His deep voice was gentle.

Seductive.

And she had to brace herself against all of it.

“Then protect Sloan.”

“He’s not my assignment. You are.”

Assignments. Jobs.

His insistence had everything to do with his job and nothing to do with her, personally.

Nothing to do with the days they’d spent in each other’s arms. Certainly nothing to do with the repercussions of those hours. Repercussions of which he was blissfully unaware.

A state of secrecy she wanted to preserve more now, than ever.

A very short, very brief fling was the only thing she shared with this man. But she and her baby were a team now. She’d realized that in the two months since she’d learned she was pregnant.

She’d never be alone again.

No matter how easily she’d fallen for Axel over the course of one weekend four months ago, neither she nor the baby needed a man as unreliable as her father had been in their lives.

“Thanks, but no thanks.” She finally succeeded in tugging her hands out of his and stepped away when the song finished and Hope Clay took the microphone to encourage everyone to hit the newly replenished buffet.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said loudly enough for anyone to overhear, “I have some people I’d like to say hello to.” Without waiting for him to voice the protest forming on his perfectly shaped lips, she turned and joined the mass of people moving off the dance floor in the general direction of the food.

But she didn’t join the line that was even longer now than it had been, nor did she have anyone with whom she particularly wanted to speak. Instead, she slipped through the door leading to the girl’s locker room.

Only there was no easy escape there, either, she realized at the sight of Axel’s mother standing at the row of sinks, drying her hands on a paper towel.

“Hello, Tara.” Emily Clay’s dark hair was swept up with a sparkling clip and—like half the women present—she looked Valentine-appropriate in a slender red cocktail sheath. “What a lovely dress you’re wearing.”

Feeling painfully self-conscious, Tara swished her hand down her dress. “It’s just something I grabbed.”

“You grabbed,” Emily repeated humorously. “Don’t say that around too many women or you might make more enemies than friends. Not all of us can just whip something out of the closet and look like you do.”

Tara didn’t need the long mirror that spanned the row of sinks to know that her face was turning red. “I think you’re describing yourself more than me, but, um, thank you.” She knew she wasn’t beautiful. She was short and mostly unremarkable with freckles on her nose that makeup didn’t always hide, and now she was wearing a dress designed to hide the fact that she was starting to look fat.