---

 

Isabelle worked on the computer at her desk in the family room, which overlooked the deck and lake. As always, the water was rough in the early morning. She liked this time of day best, where the elements let loose their power even before the world woke up. Tearing her gaze from the outdoors, she focused on her goal this morning—to check out the customer reviews of the website that Mary Ellen had found. New rare-book sellers sprung up frequently, though the sites weren’t always reputable.

But she found herself unable to concentrate, which almost never happened because she loved this part of the business best. Her immersion in the store after Michael died saved her sanity. But the few days since the picnic had been rocky. First, there had been the phone calls—she’d pick up the house line and no one spoke on the other end. The second time it happened, Nick listened in. The calls were being monitored by the Secret Service, but they learned nothing. The new development unnerved her. She kept thinking about the person Trey thought he’d seen in the woods. The stark truth hit her smack in the face: the boys were vulnerable. Had she made a mistake in the kind of protection she’d allow? And then, of course, she had to deal with the presence of a strange man in her home. The sheer physicality of Nick Marino disconcerted her. Most of the agents Isabelle knew were strong and fit, but Nick came across as more imposing, more masculine, filling up both psychic and physical space.

Mary Ellen had picked up on Isabelle’s concern and offered to bring lunch over this week. They normally divided the bookstore hours when school was out, and Isabelle liked to work from home. So they hired back their summer help—Oliver Wilson, a perennial doctorate student in World Literature at a university nearby. He was a little offbeat, but he’d had excellent references.

“Will not!” she heard from outside. She’d let the boys go out on the upper deck while Connor and Nick dug holes for the footings.

“Will too!”

The twins rarely sparred, so she was surprised when she saw them squaring off.

“What’s going on guys?” Isabelle called through the screen.

Ryan ran to the window. His bottom lip was trembling. “Jamie says he’s gonna help Mr. Martin with the deck and I’m not.”

“James Manwaring Barton, come in here right this minute.” Isabelle winced at how shrill she sounded. Contrary to Michael, who had always hit the right note with everybody, her tone of voice occasionally missed the mark with the boys.

Jamie stomped inside and over to her, his face full of youthful mutiny.

“Why would you tell Rye that, Jamie? You know it’s not true.”

Her son shrugged.

“I want an answer.”

“There’s nothin’ to do. And you won’t let us go up to Johnny’s house.”

She had yet to deal with playdates, hoping this whole mess would be over before she had to figure out how they could go to a friend’s house and maintain their safety. But already Jamie was picking on his brother because he was bored. Hell, it had only been a few days since school ended. They were in for a long summer if the threats didn’t end soon. Luckily, the boys’ best buddy was leaving to visit their grandma tomorrow, like her own twins did for a week while they were off.

Swiveling around in her chair, she grabbed one of Jamie’s hands. “There’s someone coming to our house today that might keep you from being bored.”

“Who?” Jamie’s brows furrowed just like his father’s used to. The expression always twisted her heart a bit.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Ryan had his nose pressed up against the screen. “Ryan, can you come in, too?”

“I didn’t do nothing, Mom, honest.”

“I know, honey. Come inside.”

When Ryan joined his brother, Isabelle arched a brow. “Jamie? You know what to do.”

“Sorry,” Jamie said.

“It’s okay.”

“No, Rye, accept his apology. His behavior wasn’t okay. When somebody acknowledges he acts badly, don’t pretend what he did doesn’t matter.”

Ryan frowned. Motherly lessons sometimes went over their six-year-old heads.

“Somebody’s coming today, Rye,” Jamie said. “Who, Mom?”

“Ms. Dwyer. She’s going to be keeping you two company this summer.”

“How come?” Ryan asked, his green eyes wide. “We never have babysitters except Aunt Mar.” Her friend spent a lot of time with the boys.

“Because I have to work and because you guys deserve some fun this summer. She’s going to take you on excursions and do different things with you.”

Again, Jamie spoke up. “You always do that with us.”

Which was true. And she loved spending their vacations with them. But with the threats, there was no getting around this.

“We don’t know her,” Ryan whined. “What if we don’t like her?”

“I hope you’ll give her a fair shot.” Isabelle checked her watch. “Now, will you be able to get along out there for a while?”

“Can we go swimming?” Jamie asked. They wore red and blue bathing trunks, respectively.

“Not yet.”

“Then I wanna play on the swing set. Come on, Rye.”

“All right, stay out of Mr. Martin’s way.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Okay, Mom.”

Quick pecks on the cheek brightened her day. Maybe she needed some air today, too. Deciding to tidy up the deck, she followed the twins out. The floorboards of the decking were already hot, but she padded barefoot over to the railing and peered down. The boys each took a swing. They were in Nick and Connor’s line of vision.

The two men were a fascinating sight. Both were shirtless, wearing ball caps, shorts and work boots with thick socks. Each was covered with sweat, probably from the back-breaking work of digging and setting in the posts. Country music played from a boom box, the type totally out of character for Nick. Maybe Connor liked the style.

As if sensing her presence, Nick looked up. Even from here, she could feel the intensity of his gaze. All that masculinity focused on her made her shift on her feet.

“Everything all right?” he called out.

He’d told her and the boys to stay in the house or yard and keep the front all locked up.

“Uh-huh. You want something cold to drink? I’ve got lemonade.”

Connor waved at her. “I’d love some.”

“Water,” Nick said.

She fixed a tray and brought drinks out to the picnic table, which was beneath an oak tree. Connor joined the boys while Nick stood off to the side, scanning the grounds. The perspiration that covered him made her think of what he and Connor had taken on.

When the boys scurried back to the swings, she brought it up. “I’m sorry this is such hard physical labor. You didn’t volunteer for that.”

“I didn’t volunteer for anything,” Nick grumbled.

“I didn’t know that.” Stung, she stood and started away.

After she took a step, Nick grasped her arm and circled her around, then gestured to her feet. “You should wear shoes down here. Everywhere outside.”

“I always go barefoot in the summer.”

“What if you have to run away from a perpetrator?”

Her chest tightened. Glaring at him, she uttered, “Damn it,” and started back to the stairs leading to the house.

From behind, she heard Connor say, “Nice move, Nicky. You have absolutely no tact.”

Once up on deck, Isabelle found the broom and swept off the boards, which had weathered to a beautiful gray. Big maples surrounded the house, and leaves and those little green airplanes scattered everywhere. When she finished the task, she scrubbed the grill and hosed it down with water. Maybe she’d make hamburgers for lunch.

After watering all the plants and pulling off deadheads on the geraniums, her last chore was to wash off the glass-topped tables. One of them was newer and easy to clean, but the other was a purchase Michael had made when they first moved to the lake years ago. She should replace it but couldn’t bring herself to get rid of something he’d bought. After she scrubbed the tables, she noticed some stains from the birds on the umbrella. Lifting the heavy pole out, she sprayed off the mess, then went to reinsert it in the hole in the middle of the table.

The bulky mass weighed more than she remembered, but she managed. The thing was wet now and slipped from her grasp, then wedged in sideways.

“Shit,” she said and yanked at the pole.

A loud metal-on-glass screech.

Then an even louder pop.

The glass of the table shattered at her feet.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.”

Frozen, she saw the hundreds of pieces of glass around her. Her arm hurt, and when she looked down, she saw one wayward shard must have bounced off the metal innards and imbedded in her forearm.

“Jesus Christ!” She heard Nick behind her. “Mrs. Barton, stay right where you are!”

 “Oh no!” she said, realizing what she’d done. “This was Michael’s table. I broke Michael’s table.”

“Mom-my!” she heard in duet.

Turning abruptly, she felt pain shoot through her. The kids were running toward her. “No, don’t, there’s glass—”

Before they reached her, Nick corralled each under an arm.

“Mommy, you’re bleeding.” Ryan’s voice was high-pitched and hoarse.

Jamie screeched, “You got cut bad.”

“I’m okay, guys.”

Nick set them down and told them to stay put. His work boots crunched on the glass as he crossed to her. Bending over, he slid a hand under her legs, one around her back and picked her up.

“What are you doing?”

“Shh,” he mumbled, lifting her to his chest.

With the movement, her arm began to throb. “My arm hurts,” she said, laying her head on his shoulder. He held her close and she felt totally encompassed by him.

“Of course it does.” Though his voice was gruff, there was tenderness in it.

Crossing to the chaise, far away from the table, he laid her on the thick cushions. Off to the side, she could see Connor had joined the boys at some point and had each by the hand. Now he left them to come to her. To Nick he said, “Get some towels. Wet one.”

“Come on boys, your mother needs our help.” Nick’s tone was calm, as if their mother wasn’t lying there hurt. He had to practically drag them away.

Glancing down, Isabelle saw the blood on her peach T-shirt and matching shorts. Some had slid down her leg.

“Just sit back and stay still.” Connor propped her arm up and gently removed the visible glass. He studied the wound. “The blood’s already coagulating.”

When the guys returned with the towels, Connor dabbed around her forearm lightly. “I took the glass out, and the wound bled some more. But it’s not as bad as it seems. She’s in pain, though.”

“Are her feet cut?” Nick asked.

“No. Miraculously.”

Connor’s voice was soothingly cool. “I’m going to run back to the B&B. I brought my medical bag. We’ll clean out the cut and see if we need to go to the hospital.”

The boys flocked to her side at the mention of hospital. “Is he a doctor?” Jamie asked.

“He has medical training.”

They were too upset to question him further.

Nick said, “Be careful of your mom’s arm.”

“Are you okay?” Even Jamie’s voice was shaky, and he rarely got emotional.

“Uh-huh.” She looked at Ryan—his complexion was ghastly white. “Rye, did you hear me? I’m okay.”

“What if something happens to you?” Her son’s voice ratcheted up a notch. “Daddy died in a hospital, you said. What if you…?”

She sat up straighter. “This is not a life-threatening injury. It’s a cut.”

Moving in, Nick put a hand on each twin’s shoulder. “I think it’s the blood on your clothes.”

The boys calmed down when Nick told them about the many injuries he and his brothers had gotten when they were little. Then Connor returned. Before Isabelle could ask Nick to get her sons out of there, he said, “Come on, guys, let’s go in and watch some TV.”

The boys resisted. They said, almost in unison, “We wanna stay with Mommy.”

“I know,” Nick said. “But trust me on this.” Finally, he got them off.

First, Connor cleaned his hands with some blue solution from the bag. Then he took out a blister pack, removed a pill and handed it to her.

“What is it?” she asked.

“A fast-acting analgesic I used in Syria.”

“Painkillers knock me out.”

“That’s okay. This is going to get worse before it gets better. We’ll wait to clean the gash until the analgesic starts to take effect.”

Meanwhile, he dug around for a pen flashlight and examined the wound. “The glass I removed came out clean, in one piece. I don’t see any shards. We could go to the hospital, but nobody will know for sure if there’s anything in there until it starts to heal. Then glass would make itself known. Slivers often work their way out.”

“That sounds like something to look forward to.”

He rolled his eyes. “Sorry. I’m used to treating people who don’t understand a word I’m saying. I can’t tell you the number of wounds I’ve cleaned and dressed in squalid conditions.”

“You must have been a godsend in Doctors Without Borders.”

He checked his watch. “Honestly, this doesn’t seem that serious to me. I doubt it needs stitches, but I could do those, too.”

Trying to distract her, Connor told her about some of his time in the Middle East. Then, after he checked his watch again, he ferreted out the alcohol. “This will hurt. Want a bullet to bite?”

“No thanks, Doc.”

Despite the pills, as Connor cleaned the wound with peroxide, burning pain shot through her arm and radiated everywhere. Her eyes misted and her head began to hurt. But she’d be damned if she screamed and upset the boys.

“Sorry.” Connor’s brows furrowed as he applied antibiotic ointment, then bandaged the two-inch cut with gauze and tape. By the time he finished, the medicine was taking effect. Dizzy, she closed her eyes. “Call my children,” she said. “They need to see I’m all right.”

The two of them shot out of the house and over to her. Nick stood a distance back, his stance rigid, his face dark. The kids examined the bandage and asked several times if she was going to be okay.

Connor must have noticed she was having trouble keeping her eyes open. “Hey, Ryan and Jamie. Want to go to the ice cream shop next to the B&B?”

“There’s ice cream in the fridge,” Nick said pointedly.

Connor got the message that they weren’t to leave the premises. “The makings for a sundae?”

“This early?” Ryan asked.

“Yeah. Let’s splurge.” Connor led them away.

After they left, Nick came closer. His expression was grim. “I told you to put on shoes.”

“Thanks for the sympathy,” she mumbled sleepily.

For the first time, he seemed uncomfortable. Pointing to the table, he asked, “Why isn’t that made with shatterproof glass? There wouldn’t have been those big pieces that hit you in the arm.”

Reality flooded back. “Michael bought the table.” Her eyes got misty again. “I couldn’t bear to part with it.” She felt a few tears trickle down her cheek.

“I didn’t mean to upset you.”

She swiped her hand over her face. “I’m tired.” She sat forward and the world spun again so she grabbed the arms of the chaise. “Oh! I’d like to go upstairs, but…”

He stared at her for a minute, then once again scooped her up into a carry. The action made her feel woozier, so she didn’t protest. Instead she looped her uninjured arm around his neck and cuddled into him. She whimpered when her wound pressed against him, but she felt safe.

He whispered, “It’s okay. Let go some. I’ve got you.” She’d never heard that tone of voice from him before. She kept her face buried in his sweaty shoulder as they traveled through the house, up the stairs and down to her bedroom. He strode to the bed and set her on top of the covers. His actions were gentle; he was careful with her.

Trying to get comfortable, she stretched out and turned on the side that didn’t hurt. Her hair fell into her eyes, but she didn’t have the strength to push it away.

He did, his callused fingers brushing her forehead.

She felt the throw from the bottom of the bed on her legs. “Sleep now, Mrs. Barton.”

“Not Mrs. Barton.”

“Huh?”

“Call me Isabelle.”

He tucked the cover around her neck and she snuggled into it. Isabelle’s last thought was how comforting it felt to be tended to by a man again.

Nick stood at the stove, stirring macaroni and cheese for the boys, unable to get his mind off their mother. Usually the tart scent of the dish made him think of home, but not today. Instead, he was remembering when he’d heard the pop of the shattering glass and he thought someone had shot at her. He’d hurtled up the stairs to find her standing barefoot on a blanket of shards. Fool woman! She’d kept the damned table because her dead husband had bought the thing for her, and she’d cried when she broke it! After he’d gotten her to her room, he went back downstairs, he and Connor had cleaned up the mess, vacuumed the deck boards twice, then hosed them off. All the while, the boys sat on a bench a few feet away, staring grim faced at their actions. Nick noticed their hands were clasped.

What if something happens to you? Ryan had said, his voice full of tears. Daddy died in a hospital …

Poor kids. Nick had never known that kind of anxiety at six. Or since. He’d grown up secure in the knowledge that his big family would always be there for him, no matter what.

Connor came in from outside and interrupted his rumination. They’d both put on shirts but were still sweaty. “Is it ready yet?” he mimicked what a kid would ask.

“Almost.”

Tipping his chin to the family room, where Ryan and Jamie sat in front of the TV, Connor whispered, “They got scared.”

“Yeah.” Nick gave him a meaningful look. “We’re so lucky.”

“Who’s their guardian?”

“President Manwaring.”

The thought of Isabelle needing a substitute parent didn’t sit right with Nick. Nothing was going to happen to her! He’d sacrifice his life for the woman upstairs. And for the boys.

After filling the bowls with the cheesy confection, he handed two to Connor. “Serve this, will you? I’m going up to check on her.”

“Sure. Can we eat in front of the TV?”

“What?”

“No television in Syria.” Connor’s boyishness had never left him, though along with that, Nick observed an undercurrent of world weariness.

“Yeah, buddy, go ahead.”

After they all got their food, Nick headed upstairs and strode down the long hallway to Isabelle’s room. He hadn’t noticed the plush rugs and muted yellow walls lined with framed drawings, even when he checked the layout of the house on his first day here. With closer scrutiny, he saw the pictures depicted the cottages around the lake. By M. Barton. Huh—her husband was all over the place.

At the doorway to her room, he noticed the same clean lines and subtle touches as the hallway. Painted a sage green with white trim, it sported a darker green rug. The space had a ceiling fan circling the air, beautiful teak furniture and a balcony that spanned the whole width of the bedroom. He sniffed—the room smelled like Isabelle had yesterday.

She lay on her side, her features relaxed, making them appear more dainty than when she was awake. Again, her mussed hair fell into her eyes. He’d never seen her like this, even before he arrived here. Mostly, since her husband died, she had this deep sadness about her, as though life hadn’t turned out at all how she’d planned. It hadn’t, of course, and today, sympathy for her surfaced. Though she represented everything in life he didn’t want, he could see that any guy who did seek out a safe existence, two kids, a place to go home to at night would be one lucky stiff to get her.

 Stepping farther into the room, he sat on the chair facing the bed. He wished he’d handled things better with her when the table shattered. And he’d made the comment about the shoes. He’d behaved badly. Probably because her accident made him wonder if he should have been shadowing her like he did the president, wonder if he’d neglected his duties. But they’d agreed on the deck thing, so he couldn’t. In any case, Connor was right. He was an insensitive ass sometimes, unable to see beyond his job.

She turned onto her back. Her injured arm lay straight out on the mattress, but she raised her other one over her head, pulling at the ruined peach shirt she wore. Her breasts pushed against the cotton, and her chest rose and fell softly with her even breathing. A small patch of tanned skin peeked out at her waist…

Fuck! What was he doing, detailing her physical traits? He’d felt his body stir twice because of her, now and when she saw him in the buff and her breast was exposed. Damn it, he was always in control. Always. Better to leave the room right now.

Jim Manwaring turned over in his bed and sighed. He’d been trying to get to sleep for hours now, but something niggled at him, keeping him awake.

“Can’t sleep?”

“Christ, I woke you, too.”

Rustling on the other side of the bed. His wife of thirty years switched on a night-table lamp. Karen’s hair, a pretty steel blond, fell into her eyes. “I wasn’t asleep. This thing with Isabelle has gotten to me, too.”

He sighed and sank back into the pillows. “When I stop being president for the day, she’s on my mind. Tonight…I don’t know. I feel more edgy tonight.”

“Remember when Michael had the attack? You were up till dawn worrying before she called you.”

“Do you think something’s happened to her?”

“If it was major, Nick Marino would have called you. If she stubbed her toe, no.”

“I’m being foolish.”

She reached over and squeezed his arm. “No, love, you’re right to worry. She’s being threatened.”

“Because of me. I hate that.”

“We don’t know if it’s because of you.”

“I know in my heart. My career is fraught with people who would want to do me harm, even before I became president.”

“Would you change any of what you did, Jim?”

“I’m not sure. If I’d known then what I know now…”

“You wouldn’t have passed immigration legislation that helped give better lives to thousands of people? You wouldn’t have fired your campaign manager when he was getting money illegally? I could go on.”

“No, I’d do those things.” He shook his head. “Want a drink?”

“Sure.”

He slid out of bed wearing very un-presidential black boxers. He threw on a T-shirt, went to a sideboard and poured two glasses of Scotch. “No ice. If we want some we have to tell the guys.” He appreciated the Secret Service and hated treating them as errand boys.

“They wouldn’t mind, but I’m fine without it. Do you miss having Nick on duty?”

“Yeah, I do. I’d rather have him with Isabelle, though. He’s the best.”

When he brought their glasses back to bed, she’d propped up pillows. The agents had given her the code name Sunshine, but at times like these, she was sober and thoughtful. Jim appreciated all aspects of her. “Talk to me more about this.”

“I love being president, but I hate that it hurts my family.”

“Your career has always seemed hardest on Isabelle.”

“I know.” He checked his watch.

“Jim, call Nick. You won’t sleep if you don’t talk to him.”

“I—hell!”

He picked up the phone. It went to the switchboard, where he asked the operator to get Nick.

Only one ring on his cell. “Agent Marino.”

“Nick, it’s Jim Manwaring.”

“Mr. President, is something wrong?”

“No. I can’t sleep and I keep thinking about my sister. Can you give me an update? I know the last one was yesterday morning.”

“No action on the case. No more threats. But she did have a slight personal accident today.” Nick described to him what had happened to Isabelle.

“Did you take her to the hospital?”

“No need. Connor, my doctor brother, is here. He determined she was fine. No stitches required. Only painkillers. I just checked on her and she’s sleeping soundly.”

“Maybe that’s what set me off tonight. No offense, Nick, but your brother’s a good doctor?”

“He’s been in Syria with Doctors Without Borders. He’s done trauma medicine for years in squalid conditions.”

“Okay. I didn’t mean to imply anything different.”

“You’re worried about your sister, sir. Feel free to question me on anything.”

“Thanks Nick. I’ll let you go. Give her my love in the morning.”

“I will.”

When he disconnected he told his wife, “She got hurt moving a glass table on the deck. She’s fine.”

“At least you can stop worrying for tonight.”

Tonight being the operative word.