Chapter Two

O aks braced his legs wider and eyed him. "You know the place?"

"You fucking know I do." Carson was already moving to his desk and grabbing his keys.

Golden Horizon. Layne's ranch.

"You don't want to know the particulars?" Oaks folded his arms.

"Don't need them."

"You don't even want to know who called?"

He was already storming out of his office. Oaks caught up to him at the front door.

"You might want to know the cops are staying with her until you get there."

He sent his brother a cursory nod before running down the stairs and striding toward his black SUV parked out front. It didn't matter if Mr. London or the housekeeper needed protection—he was here for them.

As he slid behind the wheel, he couldn't deny that his gut was clenched with a sensation he hadn't felt in years.

Hope.

After their last summer together, he never saw Layne again. She didn't respond to any of the letters he sent for two whole years after he joined the Navy, but it didn't matter to him. It didn't matter if she had a gaggle of kids and a husband—he had vowed to protect her when they were children, and he was a man of his word.

He took the fastest route to Golden Horizon. The name they gave the ranch was never his favorite but it did fit the stunning land that seemed to glow golden from daybreak to the moment the sun sank behind the horizon it was named after.

Now night had fallen. His headlights carved a pathway through the blackness. How many times had he mentally driven this road since retiring from the SEALs? Countless.

The girl who got away had never slipped far from Carson's mind. No matter how many times he told himself that she stopped caring about him, he couldn't stop caring about her.

Layne had been his first everything. First true friend. First kiss.

The first woman he ever took to bed. Okay, it was a sleeping bag in a tent after she rolled up on her four-wheeler to his campsite. But he'd taken her virginity that night and had her several more times after that.

He inflated his lungs with a deep breath of air as he turned into the long drive leading to the ranch.

They must have turned on every light in the house. The log structure glowed like a candle, and out front a police cruiser had its lights on too.

He felt the shift in him as he moved into work mode. His brothers called it battle mode. They should know, considering they all served in the military too. His youngest two brothers, Theo and Denver, were still enlisted. Last Carson heard, Theo was somewhere in North Korea, and Denver…well, he was so deep undercover, he didn't exist on paper.

Until Carson heard the scuff of his cowboy boots on asphalt, he didn't realize he'd climbed out of his vehicle.

Carson and his brothers ran the security company, but on the side, they were involved in a program to help wounded veterans. Military men could stay on the ranch, get therapy and gain what peace they could from people who experienced similar issues.

One of the tricks the therapists suggested was to focus on their surroundings to ground themselves in the moment. Carson was using that right now—taking stock of sounds and sights. But it wasn't connecting him to his feelings about walking in to that house and possibly seeing…

The one that got away. Layne.

Adopting a professional demeanor, he rang the doorbell. The familiar low gong raised the hair on his neck as memories flooded in.

He severed his emotions. The cop who answered the door was one he knew well from his company dealing with previous crimes in the area.

"Harkins. Thanks for sticking around until I got here."

God, the place even smelled the same—woodsy with a hint of cinnamon, as if the occupants baked batches of cinnamon rolls just to keep the smell lingering.

He stepped into the foyer. So many memories.

Harkins's big shoulders cut off Carson's view of the living room behind him. He couldn't see who was sitting there.

"Can you fill me in on the matter?"

Harkins gave a no-nonsense nod. "The owner's daughter. Age thirty-eight…"

Carson stopped listening at the words "owner's daughter." His heart pulsed heavily, almost drumming his ribs.

"Officer, is that the guy from Black Heart Security?"

Fuck. Layne sounded exactly the same. Her voice was soft and dusky, but when she told off him or any of his brothers, it came with a knife's edge.

Without a doubt, he knew Layne was standing right behind Officer Harkins. The man stepped aside, granting Carson a look at the woman he'd dreamed about for two goddamn decades.

Their gazes met. Her rough sigh rushed past her beautiful, plump lips.

She sucked in another breath, but before she could address him, he spoke.

"Layne."

"Carson." His name came out of her lips in a rasp. Almost strangled.

Harkins's sharp gaze pierced Carson and then swung to Layne. At that moment, his radio rattled off a report of a drunk driver in Willowbrook.

"If you've got this under control, I'll leave you to it, Malone."

"I'll take it from here." Avoiding Layne's stare, he walked into the living room. Other than a few new paintings on the walls and fresh linen pillows, the place looked exactly the same as the last time he'd seen Layne standing in it.

Saying goodbye.

He listened for Harkins to leave and the sound of the front door shutting before he moved to the tall windows and gazed out over the dark ranch.

"Carson—"

He cut her off. "Tell me your side of the story."

Silence shook the air, beating like wings of some night creature—a bird of prey swooping in between them, blackening the moment that could be so much more.

Should be so much more.

A fucking reunion.

One that was never going to happen.

Layne circled in front of him, forcing him to focus on her. As if his body didn't already have everything about her memorized, from the warm whiskey color of her hair to her hazel eyes flecked with green and gold.

He dropped his stare to her body. That wasn't better.

The girl he knew had possessed a few soft curves that were now filled out into full breasts, a small waist and hips that flared like an old Hollywood star's.

"I received a package." Her tone was still breathless.

"You went to the door?"

"No." She folded her arms, which thrust her breasts forward. "Faye brought it to me in my study."

His mind swept through the house, already questioning which room she'd adopted as her study.

"What did the package look like? Did Faye see who delivered it?"

"She told the police that she saw the package leaning against the porch post but nobody was around."

He swung back to the window. Looking at her hurt. Treating her this way felt like cutting off his own limbs. Why was he doing it?

"Is that a Malone boy I see?"

He turned to see the older housekeeper in the doorway, more gray in her hair than when he'd seen her twenty years ago, but he'd know her face anywhere.

"Faye." In long strides, he moved forward.

"Carson! My land, you got big." She reached for his hands, and he enveloped her in a hug.

He heard the small intake of breath from behind them as Layne reacted to the difference in how he treated her versus her housekeeper.

He couldn't see any way around the emotions trying to stab him in the chest but to act professional. For a former SEAL, that meant acting cold. Impersonal. Unbothered by her presence.

He had to show Layne that it hadn't hurt him when she abandoned him. He was a survivor and needed no one. Most of the people in his life had let him down. He'd learned that only his siblings or his brothers-in-arms had his six.

Faye was thinner, tougher, like a small bird hardened by service. But she still wore the same big smile that brightened her blue eyes.

"I can't believe I'm setting eyes on the likes of you, Carson. My, you've grown so handsome."

From the corner of his eye, he saw Layne jolt in reaction. Then she bustled forward and planted herself next to him, hands on her hips. "Is there another agent who can take this case?"

"If you'll excuse us, Faye. I'd love to catch up with you later."

She offered him that warm smile again and left them alone.

He ignored Layne's question and fired one back at her. "I need to know all the places you've lived the past twenty years. Make a list. I also need a list of people who might have a vendetta against you. Disgruntled employees…pissed-off ex-boyfriends."

Her eyes sparked. "Just you."

He narrowed his eyes. "Were we even really together? I thought we were more of a fling."

"Why even call it a fling?" she shot back. "It was easy enough to walk away from."

They glared at each other. His jaw popped from clenching it so hard, but he didn't look away from the woman. He'd be damned if he let her see that her jab hit its mark like a programmed missile.

They'd always been good at getting each other—now they were good at getting under each other's skin.

Her chin was the same, a small point she raised in defiance. "Is there no one else in Black Heart Security who could work with me? I'm in need of protection, and that means working together closely until the matter is resolved."

The brisk way she spoke was new, probably honed after years of running her father's antique and fine art dealership in New York City, as well as traveling the world. Hell, she could have picked up a stalker anywhere.

He took a step toward her, enjoying the glimmer of worry in her eyes. To her credit, she didn't try to escape and stood her ground.

She was the same height as before. Had the same kissable lips.

His stare locked on them. "Of course there is another person who could work with you. But this …is…mine."

* * * * *

A shiver started at Layne's nape and rolled all the way down her spine. Her stomach clenched in reaction to Carson's words.

It didn't sound as though he was talking about the case.

That was silly. Of course he was talking about the case. She was nothing to him, and never had been, according to this new, harder Carson.

The one staring at her lips as if they'd done him some personal injustice.

Or as if he wanted to lay claim to them.

Her insides clutched at the thought of being kissed by her ex now. The black stubble gracing his jaw would sear her sensitive skin. His lips appeared to be as firm as marble. And if he held her against his body, she might feel like she was hugging a hardwood tree.

That thought made her gaze drop. Before she realized where exactly her eyes were going, it was too late. She'd looked at the front of his jeans, searching for the outline of that long, thick, perfect cock that had been her first.

A chance he'd never get again, that was for damn sure.

As she moved to the 19 th -century cherry wood desk to start writing her lists, she grew aware of every twitch of Carson's big body. She pulled out the chair and sank to it, keeping him in her peripheral vision.

Faye hadn't been wrong to say he was handsome. Carson Malone had always been hot. Every girl who ever set eyes on him would attest to that. But his boyishness had been altered as if from an artist's brush.

Where there was once a chiseled jaw, it was now sliced in with harder brushstrokes. His nose had been broken at some point, and he bore a scar above one brow, a jagged line that cut into the hairs and created a fine line.

He was tanned by the sun, as though he still worked outdoors on the family ranch. And he was…well, big all over now. His forearms were roped with muscle, and a line of star tattoos lined the underside from wrist to elbow.

She drew out a sheet of paper and began writing down the places where she'd lived in the past twenty years. Coming up with his second request was much more difficult.

None of the men in her past could ever be called boyfriends. They were merely guys who flitted in and out the door. Some had been better than others. But none had truly hooked her.

Not like Carson.

She swallowed hard against the painful lump that had lodged in her throat from the moment he spoke those first brutally cold words to her. Words she didn't deserve. After all, he walked away from her.

He never came back to Wyoming, never called or wrote a single letter.

She steeled her spine. That pain was an echo from the past. Now, she had much, much bigger troubles. Each time her mind touched on the text message she'd received about the painting looking better above her bed, her blood ran cold.

Carson returned to the window, arms folded in a nonchalant pose. Layne ignored him and worked on her list.

When she finished, she got up and carried the paper to him.

He took it with a flicker in his eyes.

A painful twist in her stomach made her back away from him.

He glanced at the paper and skimmed it far too fast, giving little effort compared to the one she'd just exerted.

"This is it?"

"Yes."

"You've only lived in New York City all this time?"

She nodded. "It's my homebase. But I do stay in hotels and rental units all over the world when I travel. You'll see the ones I stay at most often are listed."

His stare didn't leave her face. But it left her with a warm trickle low in her belly.

"And your list of boyfriends? This list only has six."

She arched a brow. "So?"

"Six doesn't sound like very many over a twenty-year period. Are you married?"

She tried not to show her response to that question. It was horrible enough getting questioned on a regular basis by her father, who thought his only daughter should settle down. She didn't need Carson Malone giving her the third degree about her relationship status.

Or lack of.

Her stomach gave a tiny, unwanted wobble at the burning look he pinned on her.

"Look, is there any way this issue can be wrapped up quickly? I have to leave in two weeks."

His brow hiked up.

"There's an art expo in Germany. A buyer's trip."

"Stalking cases can take months. If you want this to go faster, you'll have to work with me. The police gave back your phone so I can take a look at it, right?"

She nodded.

"I need to go through calls, messages, contacts and your photos."

She stiffened. "Why do you need my photos?"

"Sometimes the stalker ends up in photos without you realizing it. Plenty of photos have revealed a stalker lurking in the background."

Fear rippled through her, and she crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly chilled.

"Have you had any other incidents? Any phone calls? Other strange gifts?"

Layne racked her brain. Between all the traveling she did and all the people she met on a daily basis, she would be hard-pressed to think of it all. When she thought of that text… Another shiver broke over her.

She looked up into Carson's eyes, all animosity gone. "There was this one time."

"Tell me."

The way he gritted out those words sent a different sort of shiver through her. This one was entirely too pleasant for how it reminded her of the young man she knew.

"I was in a bar in New York. Someone standing behind me told the bartender to give me my favorite drink."

"Fresh-squeezed lemonade."

She blinked at him. Back in the day, that had been her favorite.

He gave himself a small shake. "That's probably changed."

"It's still my favorite regular drink. My favorite alcoholic beverage is a Manhattan."

"Of course it is."

She let the stab at her home city slide. "The guy said, ‘Give the lady a Manhattan.' When I turned around, nobody was there."

That same hollow feeling filled her stomach that she felt then and today.

"And you didn't call the cops? You didn't ask the bar to view the security footage to see who was standing behind you?" Carson made a quick move, slicing his fingers through his dark, slightly wavy hair.

She curled her fingers, feeling the texture from times past.

"I never thought of it. I just figured the guy chickened out." She nibbled her lip, considering the possibility that a small event which happened months and months ago could be connected to the current one.

Carson made a quiet noise like tearing paper. When she raised her gaze, she found him staring at her mouth.

Slowly, as if she was backing away from a panther about to pounce, she released her lip from her teeth. "Something happened after the bar incident. I never connected the two…and it could be nothing ."

"Let me decide if they're connected."

God, that was hot as hell. Carson always did take command. Now…his presence was as big as the rest of him.

"In Paris. I came back from dinner out with a few big art dealers to find a bouquet of roses in my hotel room."

"What color roses?"

"Red." She gulped. "There was a card. Unsigned. It implied that we knew each other. I figured it was from a secret admirer."

"Jesus, Layne. I thought you were smart."

Her jaw dropped in outrage. "You're even more insulting than I remember!"

Unfazed by her insult, he pushed on. "Why didn't you contact the police in Paris?"

"Thank-you gifts are the norm in my industry. You get people to like you by being nice . Not that you would understand that."

His flat look came with a scowl heavier than any thunderstorm on the horizon.

Oh hell no. She was not putting up with Carson's temper tantrum. She had enough experience dealing with them that she knew exactly how to nip it in the hard, chiseled, muscular bud.

"It's not any big deal to receive gifts like drinks, roses or paintings. People like me. I'm nice. And they do nice things in return."