The Protectors: Defending His Own / Guarding Jeannie. BEVERLY BARTON

against him and he trapped her body, holding her securely in his arms. He lowered his head until their breaths mingled.

      She closed her eyes, blocking out the sight of him, telling herself she was a fool to succumb to his easy charm.

      “The comfort is free, Ms. Vaughn.” He whispered the words against her lips. “If you’re woman enough to accept it.”

      Sucking in a deep breath, she opened her eyes. He released his hold on her and gave her a slight push away from him. Turning his back on her, he headed for the door.

      “Ashe?”

      “I’m just going to get a cup of coffee. I’m not leaving you, even if right now I’d like nothing better than to walk out that door and not come back.”

      “No one is stopping—”

      He pivoted around, glaring at her. “No, that’s not true. I don’t want to walk out on you and never come back. What I want, more than anything, is to shove all that stuff off your desk, lift you up on it and—”

      “I think you’re confusing me with Whitney,” Deborah said.

      “No, honey, that’s something I’ve never done. It’s your legs I’d like to slide between and your body I’d like to claim, not your cousin’s.”

      Ashe turned, walked out of the office and closed the door behind him.

      Deborah stood beside her desk, trembling. Visions of her lying on top of her desk flashed through her mind. She shook her head trying to dislodge the thoughts of Ashe McLaughlin leaning over her body, lifting her hips and burying himself inside her.

      She covered her mouth with her hand to still her cry, then bit down on the side of her finger as shivers of desire rippled through her.

      Chapter Six

      Deborah had thought about making a fire in her sitting room fireplace, but had neither the strength nor the determination. Although the October night was chilly, it wasn’t really cool enough for a fire. She’d simply thought a cosy glowing fire would be soothing. Instead she had settled for a nice warm bath and a cup of cinnamon tea.

      She curled up on the huge padded window seat beneath the stained glass window in her sitting room alcove. Her room was her haven. Since early childhood, she had escaped into this luxurious old room with its high ceilings and aged wooden floors. Many days she had sat where she sat now, watching the way the sun turned the colors in the stained glass window to sparkling jewels.

      She had written silly, girlish poems about love and life and Ashe McLaughlin. She had long ago burned those poems. Even now she could feel the tears on her face, the tears she had shed the night she’d tossed those hopeless professions of love into the fireplace and watched her youthful dreams go up in smoke.

      She shouldn’t be dwelling on the past, not with so many problems facing her in the present. Between the constant harassing threats and Ashe’s presence, her nerves were raw. She wanted to scream, to cry, to break something—anything—into a thousand pieces.

      She wanted Ashe to go away; she wanted Ashe to never leave her. She fantasized about telling Ashe that Allen was his son; she lived in fear Ashe would discover the truth.

      Deborah set her teacup on the mahogany tea table beside the window bench, pulled the cream crocheted afghan over her legs and rested her head against the window frame. She should have been in bed an hour ago, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. The simple, orderly life she had worked out for herself had suddenly and irrevocably fallen apart. She had turned off on the wrong road, witnessed a murder and her life would never be the same again. Not only was her life being threatened by the most notorious hoodlums in the state, but the very man determined to protect her posed the greatest threat of all. How ironic, she thought, that she should fear Ashe McLaughlin even more than she feared Buck Stansell.

      She heard a soft rap on her door. Her mother? Had she taken ill? Or Allen, who usually slept soundly the whole night through? No. Not her mother. Not Allen.

      Ashe.

      Dropping the afghan to the floor, she walked across the room, her heart hammering away in her chest. Just before opening the door, she readjusted her silk robe, tightening the belt around her waist.

      Ashe McLaughlin stood in the hallway, one big hand braced against the doorpost. He still wore his charcoal gray slacks and his dove gray linen shirt, but the shirt was completely unbuttoned and the hem hung loose below his hips.

      “May I come in? We need to talk.”

      “It’s late, Ashe. After midnight. I’m tired.” She didn’t want him in her room, didn’t want to be alone with him. “Can’t this wait until morning?”

      “It could, but since we’re both awake, I see no reason to postpone our conversation.” He dropped his hand from the doorpost, leaned toward her and looked her over from head to toe. “Are you going to let me in?”

      If she said no, he would think she was afraid of him, that he still held some kind of power over her. She couldn’t let him think she cared, that he…Oh, who was she kidding? Any fool could see that Ashe McLaughlin made her act like a silly, lovesick schoolgirl.

      “Come on in.” She stepped back, allowing him entrance.

      He followed her into the sitting room, glancing around, taking note of the lush femininity of the room. All muted cobalt blues and faded rose colors with splashes of rich cream. Ruffles and lace and dainty crocheted items whispered “Lady.”

      “Won’t you sit down?” She indicated the antique rocker covered in a vibrant floral pattern.

      Ashe eyed the delicate chair, wondering if it would hold his weight. Deborah sat on the wide, plush window seat. Without asking permission, he walked over and sat down beside her. She jumped, then glared at him.

      “I was afraid I’d break that little rocker,” he said, smiling.

      “You could have sat in the arm chair, there by the fireplace.” She indicated the wing chair, a wide-brimmed, lace hat hanging from one wing.

      “I’d rather sit beside you.” He knew he made her nervous, and he thought he knew why. No matter what had happened between them eleven years ago, no matter how betrayed either of them felt, the spark that had ignited a blazing fire between them that one night down by the river still burned inside both of them.

      “Fine, sit beside me.” She glanced over at the tea service. “Would you care for some cinnamon tea?”

      “No, thanks.”

      “What was so urgent that you couldn’t wait until tomorrow to discuss it with me?” Feeling her robe slipping open across her thigh, she grabbed the blue silk and held it in place.

      “Are you all right, Deborah?” he asked. “I mean really all right. You’ve had a rough day, and you barely said ten words at dinner. Miss Carol is worried. So is Allen.”

      “I’m fine, and I’ll make sure Mother and Allen both know it. Now, if that’s all you came to say—” she started to rise.

      “Sit down.”

      She eased back down onto the bench.

      “As you know, I paid a visit to Lee Roy and Johnny Joe, a couple of my cousins who work for Buck Stansell.”

      Her eyes, wide and overly bright, looked right at him. Damn her, she was working hard at being brave, at pretending she wasn’t slowly falling apart. And he figured having him around wasn’t helping her any. But he couldn’t leave, couldn’t let Sam Dundee send another agent to protect her. Deborah was his responsibility, his to protect, his to defend against whatever harm came her way.

      “What happened?” Deborah asked. “I’m sure they didn’t admit that Buck Stansell was harassing me, trying to convince me that he’d have me killed if I testify against Lon Sparks.”

      “No, the boys