Wyoming Bold. Diana Palmer

so far.” He hesitated. “Are you free for a couple of weeks? It’s a job, and it pays well.”

      There was a rush of breath. “How the hell did you know I’m out of work?” came the reply. “Just finished one job and didn’t even have another lined up. Bills are piling up, house needs repairs...” He was lying through his teeth, but Tank wouldn’t know. He didn’t speak of his private life to outsiders. He maintained the fiction that he was a starving mercenary, living from job to job.

      Tank chuckled. “Great! Well, not about the bills, I mean. But you’re hired.”

      “You’re a lifesaver! What do you need done?”

      “I’ve got a rogue fed after me,” Tank said. “I just hired a surveillance company to put up cameras and install bugs—but I have a nasty suspicion that the installer will turn out to be the rogue fed who’s after me.”

      “Damn! You do have the worst luck!”

      “Tell me about it.” Tank sighed. “How soon can you come up here?”

      “As soon as you email me a ticket” came the reply. “I haven’t unpacked from the last job. It will be a pleasure.”

      “You aren’t working for your...for your old boss, I mean?” He bit his tongue. He’d almost slipped and said “your father,” but he didn’t dare do that. Rourke wouldn’t get on the plane. Most people suspected that Rourke was the illegitimate son of K.C. Kantor, the ex-merc millionaire. Nobody said it to Rourke’s face. Nobody dared. Besides, if the man was living from hand to mouth, it was unlikely that he had a rich father looking out for him.

      “No, the boss and I had a falling out,” Rourke replied heavily. It wasn’t quite the truth, but it was close enough. “Things have gone from bad to worse. And Tat won’t speak to me at all.” The last was said with subdued rage. Tat was a socialite journalist who’d gone with Rourke and General Machado to retake Machado’s country in South America. Rourke and Tat, his nickname for her, had a very long history. Rourke had known her since she was a child. They had a rocky friendship.

      “Put her neck hairs up again, did you?” Tank asked.

      Rourke cursed. “She’s gone in with the troops, over in Nganwa,” he said, naming a small country involved in a nasty revolution. “I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen. It’s a bloodbath over there. I know seasoned mercs who won’t go near the place!”

      “Journalists are usually protected,” Tank said quietly.

      “Sure they are. Want to hear how many bought it last year on assignment?” he asked pessimistically.

      “Sorry to hear she’s in danger,” Tank said finally.

      “Her own damned fault. Stupidity has a price. For two bits, I’d go in and drag her out...” He hesitated. Swallowed. “Send me the ticket. I’ll be right up.”

      “I’ll email it on my alternate account,” Tank said.

      “Good man.”

      “Thanks, Rourke,” he said quietly.

      “Hey, what are friends for?” came the reply.

      * * *

      MERISSA WAS WEARING a soft beige dress that clung to her slender figure, outlining her pert breasts and tiny waist and flaring hips. She wore flat shoes with it, and her blond hair waved in soft curls around her elfin face. She wore a small Christmas tree pin on the dress and a matching clip in her hair.

      She smiled shyly at Tank, who stared at her with open admiration. “If it’s too dressy...” she began self-consciously.

      “I don’t very often see women in dresses these days,” he replied with a gentle smile. “I think you look lovely.”

      She flushed and then laughed. “Thanks.” She indicated her shoes. “I can’t wear high heels. I suppose this looks peculiar...”

      “It looks fine.” He didn’t question the odd remark. “Ready to go?”

      “Yes.” She peered into the living room. “See you later, Mom. Lock the doors,” she added firmly.

      Clara laughed softly. “I will. Got your key?”

      “Yes.”

      “Have fun.”

      “Thanks.”

      Tank stuck his head in the door and grinned. “I’ll take good care of her,” he promised.

      “I know you will,” Clara replied.

      * * *

      ROURKE HAD ARRIVED the day before. He got to work at once on the security cameras, swept the house for bugs—and found several—and swept the truck just before Tank got in it for his date.

      “We’re going to Powell to have supper,” he told her. “Sorry, but we’ve had a hitch in our security.”

      Merissa was very still. “It was him. The man in the suit.”

      He glanced at her quickly. “Well...yes, we think so.”

      “How ironic,” she said breathlessly. She shook her head. “He’s very confident.”

      “He is, but it will be his undoing,” he said coldly.

      She didn’t speak. Her face was drawn.

      He stopped the car at a red light as they approached Powell. “What do you see, Merissa?” he asked very softly.

      She swallowed. “Something bad.”

      “Can you be more specific?”

      She glanced at him. “I don’t know.” Her face contorted. “It’s just a feeling right now. I can’t...I can’t see what it is.”

      He reached across the seat and caught her soft hand in his. “It’s all right. We’ll handle it.”

      She felt a jolt all the way to her feet at his touch. His hand was big and warm, callused from work. She looked down at it in the light from the streetlamps. It was a beautiful hand, very masculine, with neatly trimmed and clean flat nails.

      “You have beautiful hands,” she burst out.

      He chuckled. “Thanks. Yours aren’t bad, either.”

      She grinned.

      He felt the same electricity that she did. It was comforting, to have that physical contact with another human being. Tank had imagined himself in love a couple of times, but it had never been this intense. He wanted to protect her, take care of her. She was a strong, capable woman. She could support herself, and did. But she made him feel taller, stronger.

      “What are you thinking?” she asked suddenly.

      He squeezed her hand gently. “That this is one of the best ideas I’ve had in years.”

      She laughed. “Thanks.”

      “You’re comfortable to be around.”

      “Not many people in Catelow would agree with that.”

      “They don’t know you. People are afraid of the unknown, of anything that isn’t scientific.”

      “Well, this certainly isn’t scientific,” she agreed. “I’ve spent my life seeing things that terrify me.” She glanced at him. “So many people want to know the future. But if they could see what I see, they wouldn’t. It’s never good to know what lies ahead.”

      “I have to agree.”

      “I mean, it’s one thing to have a handle on the weather, or what fashions will be in vogue the next year, or if you’re going to meet someone who will change your life. But to want to know what’s going to happen to you in a year, two years... You should never want to know those things.”

      He