Colton Storm Warning Page 7

  “It has its purpose and function.” Her voice was cool again. She was back in control. “And given my family has had full-time armed security for years, it would be very hypocritical for me to crusade against their tools.”

  “Points to you again, then.”

  She met his gaze, and he didn’t think he’d mistaken the amusement in her eyes. “As someone once said to me, I’ll take all the points I can get.”

  He couldn’t help it—he let out a chuckle. “I think you’re ahead at the moment.”

  “I shall endeavor to stay there.”

  She said it so snootily he knew she was putting it on. And a moment later, she was grinning at him, proving it. She was quite an unexpected package, was Ashley Hart.

  Ashley Hart, richest heiress in the civilized—or uncivilized—world, Colton. Remember that.

  “What’s the third thing?”

  He blinked, yanking his mind out of what was threatening to become a groove. “What?”

  “You said this room was three things. You gave me two.”

  “Oh. Yeah. You already guessed.” He walked over and pressed his thumb to the scanner on the weapons locker. A moment later, it clicked and disengaged. He pulled open the double doors, wondering if she’d freak at the sight of the rather impressive array. He looked back over his shoulder at her. Those delicately arched brows were lowered, but she didn’t look intimidated, or particularly worried. Not worried enough for him, anyway. He didn’t want her scared, but he didn’t want her relaxing her guard, either.

  Knowing the likely answer, he said, “I’ll leave out something simple, just in case. A revolver, so no chance of a jam.”

  She came closer, scanned the racks that held everything from the mentioned revolver to a semi-auto rifle.

  “Actually,” she said casually, pointing at the single shotgun there, “I’d be more comfortable with the Mossberg.” He blinked. She smiled at him. “Assumptions again, Mr. Colton?”

  “Apparently. When and how did you pick up that particular bit of know-how?”

  “My father took up trap and skeet shooting when I pitched a fit at age eight over him hunting live birds. I learned along with him.”

  “You any good?”

  “Quite.”

  He studied her for a moment before he asked quietly, “Could you shoot a human being if you had to?”

  To her credit, she didn’t give him a snappy comeback. And after a moment, she nodded. “Under certain circumstances, I could.”

  “But you won’t shoot a bird? A bit illogical, don’t you think?”

  “It’s perfectly logical. The bird is innocent, being hunted while unaware, just trying to go about its life. A human has made a conscious choice.”

  For a moment, he just looked at her. She was surprising him on every hand. “Okay, now you’re really ahead on points.” He reached up and lifted the Mossberg 500 Tactical from the rack. “Twelve-gauge, five plus one, you know?” She nodded. “Want the pistol grip?”

  “No. I’m not used to it, so it would just distract me.”

  “Good call.”

  When she took the weapon he held out to her, she took it with a familiarity that told him she hadn’t been lying. Not that he thought she was. So far, she’d been honest to a fault. She studied it for a moment, and he pointed out a couple of things he guessed were different from the version of the weapon she was used to, for their tactical purposes.

  “It fires pretty true,” he said, “but we can take it out in the morning for you to fire a few so you can be sure.” He gave her a wry smile. “No shooting range gear, I’m afraid. But I can throw something for you.”

  “That will do,” she said.

  “What’s the difference between trap and skeet, anyway?”

  She gave him a sideways look. “Testing me or do you really want to know?”

  He held up his hands innocently. “I want to know. I’ve never done either.”

  “Skeet, the targets come across your field from the sides, and always at the same speed and height. Trap, they come from all directions and are moving away, not across.”

  “Trap sounds like it would be trickier.”

  “They both have their challenges.” She took the box of shells he held out then and quite proficiently loaded the weapon. Then she looked at him. “Are we leaving it in here?”

  He shook his head. “You might need quicker access. There’s a rack in the great room.”

  She nodded, and soon the weapon was settled securely on the rack next to the door leading out onto the deck. It was already getting dark, the days growing ever shorter this time of year. It was also getting colder, so he set about building a fire in the fireplace. With the limited wood in the rack.

  “What was that look for?”

  She’d startled him. Again. He hadn’t realized he’d been grimacing. “Just acknowledging that the last person here was my father.”

  “Meaning?”

  He nodded toward the half-empty firewood rack beside the hearth. “It’s sort of an unspoken rule you refill that when you leave. He never thinks about the next person who’ll be here.”

  “Sounds...annoying.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s my father.”

  “Rude or just thoughtless?”

  “Oh, he’s quite capable of being both. If it’s not business-related, he doesn’t much care. He—never mind,” Ty cut himself off, wondering how on earth he’d let his father become a topic of conversation with this virtual stranger. Especially now, when Colton Construction was facing mounting problems, both personal and legal. Problems no one would appreciate him blabbing about to that stranger.

  Except...she didn’t feel like a stranger. He felt as if he already knew more about her, in these few hours, than he’d expected to.

  Thankfully, she didn’t press. Instead, she pulled her phone out once more and again started wandering the house. He knew perfectly well what she was looking for, what she wouldn’t find. Finally, she made a swipe and a couple of taps on the screen, studied it for a moment and her brow furrowed in that now familiar way.

  Here it comes...

  “Okay, this is ridiculous. I can’t get any kind of a carrier signal. And it’s telling me there’s no Wi-Fi in range.”

  He braced himself. Straightened up from where the fire was starting to take off. Then turned to face her.

  “That’s because there isn’t any.”

  For the first time, she looked blank. Which told him a lot. “Any what?”

  “Of either.”

  She stared at him. “You don’t get a cell signal here?”

  He pointed to the wall in the kitchen, where an old, rather nauseatingly yellow phone hung. “That’s not there because it’s pretty.”

  She blinked. “A landline? Seriously?”

  “Very seriously. It’s that or nothing out here.”

  “Wow.” She looked back at her phone.

  “Might want to turn the phone off, save the battery.”

  She looked as if he’d suggested she cut off a finger. “I’ll turn off the carrier function, so it’s not searching for a signal,” she said, and did so. “But why is there no—” She stopped abruptly, and her eyes grew wider as she stared at him. “You don’t have Wi-Fi, either?”

  “Nope.”

  She was starting to look as if she were sliding into shock. “Tell me you at least have broadband?”

  “I try never to lie.”

  She muttered something he was pretty sure there was a rude internet acronym for. “I haven’t had to deal with dial-up since I was...what, seven?”

  “You still won’t have to.”

  She brightened. “Oh, that was mean. What, you have a satellite connection or something?”

  “Nope. No satellite.”

  “Then what?”

  He
sighed. Loudly. Then, bracing himself for the blast, he very carefully said, “You, Ms. Hart, are offline. Completely. For the duration.”

  Chapter 11

  He was kidding. He was just ragging on her about her social media time again, that was all. Just kidding.

  He had to be kidding.

  Now she was gaping at him. While he was simply looking at her. Looking at her almost expectantly. She closed her mouth, almost embarrassed. She prided herself on her ability to keep an equanimous exterior no matter what she was thinking, but she was having trouble with that at the moment. In fact, if she were honest with herself, she’d been having trouble with it since this man had strode into her life and taken over.

  “Are you saying,” she enunciated carefully, “that this place does not have internet access at all? Or are you saying it does but I can’t use it?”

  “I believe the phrase is off-the-grid, internet-wise.”

  She supposed, of the two options, that was the better. Not that either was acceptable, but she had the feeling that had he been refusing her access, she would have...

  She would have given him the explosion he’d been expecting. That was why he’d looked as if he were braced. The idea that he thought her so predictable was irksome. Or worse.

  So she simply asked, “Why?”

  “Choice.”

  “To be out of touch?”

  He gestured with a thumb toward that indeed unpretty yellow wall phone. “Landline.”

  “Yet, you have that radio set up in there,” she said, gesturing toward the room with the communications equipment.

  “Precaution.”

  “Because you’re remote out here? Or is it because you use this as a safe house?”

  “Yes.”

  She’d had about enough of the one-word answers. “What, exactly, do you expect me to do?”

  “Have a tantrum? Pitch a fit, as my grandmother used to say? Addicts tend to do that.”

  She blinked. Maybe the one-word answers were better. “Addicts?”

  “A person who is addicted—driven to use compulsively—to a habit, activity, substance...or device or platform.”

  She drew back slightly. “My, aren’t we proficient at quoting—and editing—the dictionary.”

  He ignored the jab. “I’m a security expert. I don’t have much patience for people under threat who insist on increasing their risk by refusing to stay off social media. Which is a dangerous thing to begin with.”

  “Not that you have an opinion or anything.”

  “It’s more than an opinion. It’s based in fact. Would you like a list of the victims who were injured or even killed after being unable to resist making a post that betrayed where they were?”

  She didn’t doubt that—she’d seen too many stories about just that. The problem was she couldn’t believe this was that kind of threat. She’d grown up knowing she could be a kidnapping target, because of her family’s wealth and standing, but for someone to come after her not for money but when she was trying to help, to benefit everyone?

  Somehow, though, his words had taken some of the wind out of her sails. Because if she thought past her irritation, he had a point. A very valid point. Her mouth quirked, almost unwillingly. “Not to mention those who have managed to kill themselves trying to take a unique selfie?”

  He looked startled, and she took no small amount of pleasure in that. And then he smiled, slowly, a slight dimple flashing in his right cheek, and that thought of pleasure shifted into an entirely different realm. She froze, inwardly. This was so not happening. Absolutely not.

  “Yes,” he said. “Thankfully, you’re very much not stupid.”

  That pleasure expanded in a new direction now. Which unsettled her. What did she care if he thought her smart? Or stupid, for that matter? “Or hungry for fame?” she said hastily.

  His smile turned wry. “You were born with that, Ms. Hart.”

  Before she really thought about it, she said, “Could you dispense with the formality? Two weeks of Ms. Hart is going to be very wearing.”

  The smile faded altogether. “I’m not sure that would be wise.”

  Something knotted up in her stomach. Why would he say that? Why would he think it? The pleasure she’d gotten from his smile and his compliment had rattled her. The thought that maybe, just maybe he was feeling something similar shook her down deep.

  “Why?”

  It came out as barely above a whisper, and to her own ears betrayed everything she was thinking. But he answered as if it were a routine question. As if there had been none of her inner turmoil in her voice.

  “You’re a client, Ms. Hart. And Elite has protocols. Rules.”

  His businesslike tone, without a touch of regret, or anything other than a cool professionalism, chilled her emotions enough for her to say evenly, “Using my first name is against one of those rules?”

  Something flickered in those dark blue eyes, and then he lowered his gaze as if he’d suddenly seen something of interest on the floor. His lack of an answer made her prod further. And she chose her words very purposefully.

  “And do you never, ever break the rules, Tyler?”

  His gaze shot back to her face, as if he were again startled. “Ty,” he corrected, as if it were automatic. But then his voice changed. “I’ve been known to,” he said, and there was a slight roughness in his voice that sent a shiver down her spine. She saw him take in a rather deep breath. Then, in his normal voice, he added, “And I’ve almost always regretted it.”

  “Only almost?”

  “I still say that pursuing a child abductor off a roof was worth it, sprained ankle and all.” This time his smile was practiced, and thus more distant. She didn’t like that.

  And she didn’t like that she didn’t like it.

  * * *

  Damn. Get a grip, Colton.

  There was no reason in hell her just saying his name should have had that effect. None at all.

  But it had.

  He popped the tab on the caffeine-laden soda, not worrying about it because he needed to be sleeping light, anyway.

  Right. Like you’re going to be sleeping at all, with her right upstairs.

  He took a long swig of the soda while staring out the kitchen window. It faced toward the cottonwoods, their winter-bare branches looking a little eerie against the night sky. He glanced at the clock on the oven, saw it was nearly an hour until moonrise. Not that it would matter much; the waning quarter moon stage they were at wouldn’t put out much of that silvery light he loved.

  “That’s a nice smile. What brought it on?”

  She’d come quietly up behind him and the smile vanished. On some level, he’d been aware, but he hadn’t turned to look. Afraid to? Better not be. He was her bodyguard—damn, there had to be a better word than that—after all.

  “I was thinking about the moon.”

  “Going to howl?” There was such a teasing tone in her voice that he couldn’t help but smile again.

  “Not full,” he pointed out. “And it’s waning, not waxing, so it’ll be the end of the month before it’s howlable.”

  She laughed. “Then what were you thinking?”

  “More remembering.”

  “What?”

  He was certain it was stupid, wouldn’t be surprised if the sophisticated woman she was laughed, but he wanted to share the memory with her anyway. And he wasn’t nearly as scared by that as he probably should have been.

  “My mom took us all to the Flint Hills, to the Tallgrass Prairie Preserve when I was ten. It had only been established a couple of years before, and she wanted us to see what Kansas used to be. On the way back home, we had to pull over because the triplets started squabbling. I got out and walked over to look down the road, and it was just as a full moon was rising. It was huge, too big to be real, and it came up exac
tly where the road went over the last hill I could see, like it was leading the way, like the road was there just to take you to it. It was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen. And I think of it every time I look at the moon.”

  She was staring at him. Probably thinking he was the biggest goofball farm boy she’d ever imagined, far, far removed from her elite East Coast life.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  He drew back. “For what?”

  “Sharing that.”

  He was embarrassed now. Shrugged. “It’s just something I remember.”

  “Don’t belittle it. It’s a memory to be cherished.”

  It was, to him. He’d just never expected someone like her to get it. It struck him that he was still making assumptions.

  “Where was your father on that trip to the preserve?”

  He managed to keep his expression even. “Working. Like always.”

  “Too bad. He missed something special.”

  Like always.

  He quashed the sour thought as she moved, and he realized she was reaching for one of the back pockets of her jeans. She frowned, started to look around, then let out a sigh.

  The phone again. She’d been reaching for her now useless phone. When she noticed he was watching, she seemed to feel compelled to explain. “I wanted to look up that preserve. I remember seeing the name when I was researching the wetlands, but I didn’t follow it up then.”

  “Why would you?” He was trying to figure out how she thought.

  “Because I like to know about things as a whole. And the tallgrass appellation was intriguing. Made me wonder if there were short-grass prairies.”

  “Yes. More, actually, wider-spread.”

  “Obviously I need to up my study of the Plains.”

  His mouth quirked. “Don’t look at me. I think everybody should. For too many people, when they think of Kansas the only thing that comes to mind is The Wizard of Oz.”