Man of Passion. Lindsay McKenna

      “Rafe Antonio at your service, Señorita Worthington.”

      As his strong mouth grazed Ari’s hand, a wild series of shocks leaped up her arm. No one had ever kissed her hand before! But the minute Rafe raised his head, she saw that his brown eyes were hard and merciless looking.

      “Ohh…well…thank you, Señor Antonio.” She quickly pulled her hand away.

      “Call me Rafe,” he told her. He didn’t want to like her. He couldn’t bear to think of spending the coming months keeping guard over a woman—especially a woman like this.

      But Morgan Trayhern was counting on him. And Rafe wasn’t the kind of man who would shirk his duty.

      Man of Passion

      Lindsay McKenna

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      A homeopathic educator, Lindsay McKenna teaches at the Desert Institute of Classical Homeopathy in Phoenix, Arizona. When she isn’t teaching alternative medicine, she is writing books about love. She feels love is the single greatest healer in the world and hopes that her books touch her readers on those levels. Coming from an Eastern Cherokee medicine family, Lindsay has taught ceremony and healing ways from the time she was nine years old. She creates flower and gem essences in accordance with nature and remains closely in touch with her Native American roots and upbringing.

      To Karen David, a delightful maverick

       in her own right, and a dear friend.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter One

      “Morgan, I’m glad you could make it,” Ben Worthington said, standing up from behind his large cherry desk and thrusting his square hand out toward him.

      “Ben, it’s been awhile since we saw one another,” Morgan replied. Grasping the secretary of the Navy’s hand firmly, he saw Ben’s blue eyes narrow with concern, and wondered once again what had prompted his old friend’s sudden invitation.

      “Have a seat,” Ben invited. “Becky,” he called to his assistant, who sat in the outer office, “is the coffee on the way?”

      Morgan took a seat in the leather wing chair at the corner of Worthington’s desk and looked around the spacious Pentagon office. All kinds of Navy memorabilia—paintings, photos, diplomas—were affixed to the walls. Ben had been a Navy pilot on the carrier Enterprise during the Vietnam War. Ben’s desk looked just as cluttered and busy as his own, Morgan thought. Through the venetian blinds Morgan could see a patch of blue sky and fluffy white clouds. It was spring in Washington, D.C., and hundreds of cherry trees with white perfumed blossoms surrounded the Capitol and nearby monuments.

      As Worthington’s prim and brisk secretary entered the office, silver tray in hand, Morgan gave her a nod. She smiled and handed him a white china cup decorated in gold trim.

      “If I remember right, Mr. Trayhern, you like your coffee straight?”

      Grinning, Morgan took the proffered cup and saucer. “Indeed I do, Becky. You’ve got a long memory.”

      She smiled broadly and gave her boss his coffee. “Details are important around here, as you know, sir.” She set the tray on a cherry coffee table that sat off to one side, near the cream-colored, buttery-soft leather sofa. “And in case either of you wants a midmorning snack, there’s a delicious coffee cake drizzled with caramel just begging to be eaten.”

      Groaning, Morgan thanked the tall, graceful secretary, whose red hair had become peppered with silver since he’d last seen her. In her mid-fifties, Becky had been working for Ben Worthington for a long time, and she was more than just an assistant, she was his right hand.

      “I need that coffee cake like I need a hole in my head,” Morgan confided to Ben as Becky quietly closed the door to the office to leave them in complete privacy.

      Ben raised his thick, sandy-colored brows as he sipped his coffee. “Makes two of us. I don’t get out and exercise like I used to.” He looked around the office. “Maybe it’s this place.”

      “Or the pressures and crises that keep popping up to throw you off your scheduled maintenance,” Morgan said, his mouth twisted wryly.

      “I see you know that one, too.”

      “My middle name is crisis,” Morgan agreed with a chuckle. He eyed the coffee cake. “I shouldn’t, but I’m going to….” Rising to his full height, he unbuttoned his dark blue pinstripe jacket and moved over to the coffee table. Twisting to look over his shoulder at Ben, he asked, “Want to join me in collusion?”

      Laughing, Ben patted his girth. “I’m twenty pounds over right now, Morgan. I don’t dare.”

      “I just thought I’d have some company so I wouldn’t feel so guilty about cutting such a huge piece for myself,” he murmured as he sliced off a healthy portion and placed it on a china plate. Picking up the plate along with one of the forks and white linen napkins Becky had thoughtfully left behind, Morgan moved back to the wing chair and sat down.

      “What’s on your mind, Ben?”

      Scowling, Ben put his coffee aside and picked up one of several gold-framed photographs on one side of his massive desk. “How long have we known one another?”

      Morgan sat back and chewed on the sweet, mouth-melting coffee cake. “Almost as long as Perseus has been in existence,” he replied, referring to the covert government organization he headed.

      Moving his hands over one small photo, Ben studied it. “That was ten years ago. Arianna was only fourteen years old when you formed Perseus.” He looked up. “She’s my youngest of three children.” Turning the photo around, he placed it so that Morgan could get a good look at her.

      “Pretty young lady,” Morgan commented. The photograph showed a woman of perhaps twenty-four or -five sitting among a number of potted plants in a greenhouse. She was delicate looking, with short, blond hair and her father’s sky blue eyes in an oval face. She was dressed in a pair of jeans, a pink tank top and tennis shoes. The expression on her face was one of pure joy.

      Ben leaned back in his chair, his hands folded across his belly. “Arianna was only eight when her mother died of leukemia. She was the youngest and it was very hard on her. She was too young to understand…and her mother’s death changed her forever…. I tried to help, but I was hurting so much myself that I’m afraid I didn’t do a very good job of being a parent at that time….”

      Morgan lost some of his joviality as Ben turned another framed photograph around for him to look at. It showed Ben and his wife, Ellen. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he murmured sincerely. In some respects, Ellen reminded him of his own wife, Laura, who also had blond hair. “Arianna really takes after your wife, doesn’t she?”

      “In every respect,” Ben muttered. “Which is why I asked you to drop by and see me.” Ben waved his hand. “I know you have other appointments today, equally important, and I’m grateful you could squeeze this impromptu visit into your schedule.”

      Morgan finished the tasty coffee cake. He blotted his lips with the napkin and picked up