Silver Creek Bodyguard – Excerpt 1
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Their eyes met as she opened the door. She liked that they were a gray color, reminding her of a turbulent, stormy sky. He halted a respectful distance away from her, his briefcase in his left hand, and he removed his Stetson.
“Ms. Romano?”
His voice was low, the timbre riffling through her, making her heart stutter in response. His hat hair made him look endearing. “Yes. You must be Mr. Wes Paxton?”
“I am.” He held out some identification from his company, which had his photo on it. She took it, looking at it and studying him. Her lips had been pursed but as the seconds ticked by, they softened and he saw her wariness begin to dissolve.
“May I enter?”
She handed the ID to him and pulled the door open. “Come on in . . .” Sounding a bit breathless, she could feel the quietly reined power, the energy, that surrounded him. There was nothing obvious about him, but to her, she was supersensitive to people in general. In fact, he seemed more a shadow than real to her. Shadows hid things. What was he hiding from her? Shutting the door, she turned to him. His gaze once more met hers. Heat flooded her lower body and then moved upward to her heart and lungs, making her feel somewhat stunned by his presence. He didn’t scare her. He impressed her. “Why don’t we talk at my desk?” She gestured toward a chair she’d placed in front of it, opposite where she would sit behind it.
Nodding, he moved toward it, casually observing the retail part of the store. She liked that he seemed to be absorbing the area, the many shelves, the colorful products placed upon them.
“I like how it smells in here,” he said, giving her a slight smile.
“Welcome to my world of herbs,” she said. “I love the natural fragrances, too. It’s different on every day, depending upon what I’m formulating in my lab.”
“Some of them I can ID, but most of them, I can’t,” he admitted, moving the chair to the corner so he would sit facing the display windows. He set his briefcase on the oak floor next to the chair. Sitting down, he placed his hat to his left in a clear spot on the wide polished desk.
“What can you identify?” she wondered, moving into the U and sitting down in her chair.
“Cloves, ginger, cinnamon . . . I was lucky enough to spend a few nights every week over at my friend’s family home. Frannie, Tom’s wife, would always make an apple pie when she knew I was coming over because it was my favorite. She used those spices in it. Brings back really happy memories to me.”
A part of her began to sigh in relief. He seemed so easygoing compared to Werner. Understanding that a contractor was not a personal buddy, she tried to choose her questions carefully. “That’s a lovely memory. Do you cook?”
His mouth quirked. “No . . . never got into it.”
“Nowadays, most boys growing up have mothers who get them into the kitchen to learn how to cook and clean and take care of themselves. I think that’s a good idea.”
She saw a brief glint of sadness cross his eyes as he leaned down and took a yellow legal pad out of his briefcase along with a pen.
“I just didn’t get the chance,” was all he said.
“So? Where do we begin?” she asked, feeling a blanket of deep sadness enveloping him. She sensed he was being evasive, but she didn’t know why. What bothered her was the deep sadness she felt. It was depressing to her. “To be honest with you, Mr. Paxton, I’ve had my fill of the other contractor, Zane Werner, and I didn’t want a replacement. That’s no afront to you, but I’m fried from the experience I just disentangled myself from a couple weeks ago.”
“Steve told me there was a mismatch personality-wise between you and Mr. Werner.”
He was diplomatic. Another worry began to dissolve.
“Are you always like this?”
“Like what?”
“Well”—she stumbled, trying not to be coarse about her opinions on Werner and superimposing them on him—“you just seem more a shadow, very quiet, and you feel like a deep, deep lake where you cannot see what is below the water surface.”
His eyes gleamed with thoughtfulness, but his face didn’t alter in expression. “Did Steve share with you any of my SEAL background?” he asked.
“No . . . he didn’t. I just assumed you were all alike.”
Again, that glint in his eyes that did not transfer to his expression. He felt off-limits to her. Women were open and men were closed up tighter than Fort Knox. That was her experience. It was a pity that Mr. Paxton wasn’t more forthcoming. He seemed, well . . . nice . . . even approachable.
So far . . .
“A SEAL team usually has ten members,” he offered,“and they’re as different as ten people you might meet walking down any street.”
“Oh . . . well, I just thought . . .” She grimaced. “You killed for a living.” The words came flying out of her mouth and she instantly regretted it. It came out sounding like he was little more than a murderer of human beings.
He sat a little straighter. Nodding, he said, “That’s true.”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have framed it like that.” Pushing her hair across her shoulder, she said, “I’m overreacting to Mr. Werner, the other contractor. He was positively brutish, bragging about how many people he’d killed.” She shivered, her shoulders rising and falling momentarily.
“Lives are precious. All lives, Mr. Paxton. I know in your line of work, from what Steve shared with me, that you’re more than just a hired killer, but that’s what Mr. Werner called himself.”
Giving her a sympathetic look, Wes said, “I was the medic for our SEAL team, Ms. Romano. I guess you could say that I was half and half: half taking lives when necessary, and the other half trying to save lives on my team, or those of the children and adults who lived in the villages, working with the civilian populace and helping them where we could.”
Her fingers touched her lips and she stared at him.
“Steve didn’t say you were a medic.”
“You seem shocked by it.”
“I-I just didn’t think about SEALs in those terms, I guess. You saved lives.”
He sighed and shook his head. “Not always. I wanted to, but sometimes, the wound was beyond my skills in the field.”