Tycoon Warrior. Sheri WhiteFeather

then when she’d lost the baby—

      Her breath hitched. Oh, God. Don’t think about the baby. Not here, not now. She placed a hand over her stomach. When would the pain go away, the ache of losing Dakota’s child? How many years would have to pass? How many years before she stopped wishing every dark-haired toddler she saw was hers?

      Dakota turned toward her, and she removed her hand from her stomach. Kathy had learned long ago how to keep her emotions in check, and she wouldn’t give herself away now. Dakota didn’t know about the baby. He had been in the Middle East tracking gunrunners when she’d miscarried—alone and afraid, missing her husband and crying for the baby they would never hold. A child she had wanted desperately.

      “How well do you know Albert Payune?” Sheikh Rassad asked, catching Kathy off guard.

      She lifted her chin and concentrated on the mission, the reason she had agreed to fly to Asterland with Dakota.

      “I know Payune well enough to form an opinion of him,” she responded. The sheikh’s interest in Payune didn’t surprise her, nor did his active participation in this meeting. She knew the sheikh’s new bride had been formerly promised to Albert Payune in an arranged marriage. “Payune is a clever man, but he’s arrogant, too. Much too vain to be considered charming. He isn’t likable, but he knows how to command attention. He prides himself on power. Craves it, one could say.”

      “The perfect profile of a revolutionist,” Aaron added. “It’s quite possible Payune’s sanity borders on his desire to succeed.”

      Matthew Walker joined in the conversation, mentioning his fiancée—Lady Helena of Asterland, a cousin to the royal family—a lady who shared Kathy’s opinion of Payune.

      Only Dakota and Dr. Webb remained silent. The doctor sat patiently, but Dakota rose from his chair and crossed the room, heading toward the cowhide-covered bar.

      Kathy watched him. He moved like a long, fluid animal stalking his prey. It was the Comanche in him, she thought. The warrior preparing to count coup, his mental focus merging with his physical being. She recognized the look, the walk, the adrenaline charge that took him into the next battle, the next mission. This would be the man going after Albert Payune.

      Had Dakota acquired another scar since she’d seen him last? Another mark of valor?

      Kathy knew every inch of his body, every taut muscle, every hard ridge and flat plane. She also knew his hands were mildly callused, capable of inflicting pain or pleasure, depending on his objective. She had always been on the receiving end of pleasure, those large callused hands surprisingly gentle against her flesh. Dakota Lewis was as skilled a lover as he was a warrior.

      Don’t think about that now, she told herself. Focus on the mission. The reason she had agreed to help the Cattleman’s Club.

      When the meeting ended, the other men departed, leaving Dakota and Kathy alone. She clutched her handbag and stood. Suddenly the smell of wood and leather made her homesick. The ranch looked the same, the living room cluttered with rustic charm. Pillows, lamps, paintings, bronze statues—every piece told a Western story.

      Was the bedroom the same? Had he kept the items she had chosen? The canopy bed, the hand-painted dresser, the horse weather vane sitting atop a Chippendale desk? The ranch belonged to Dakota, a custom-built home he had helped design ten years before. But when Kathy had married him, he’d asked her to redecorate the bedroom—fill it with her flair, her flavor. So she had combined formal antiques with Western relics, candles with cowboy boots, Waterford crystal with carved wood. The end result had pleased Dakota, especially the massive bed.

      A bed Kathy had no right to remember. She didn’t belong in this house. Loving Dakota didn’t mean she could live with him, wait months on end for him to return from the missions that consumed him.

      How ironic that they would come together for an assignment, for one of the secret operations engineered by the Texas Cattleman’s Club. The members of that prestigious club weren’t just established businessmen. They were Lone Star warriors, men who vowed to serve and protect.

      Only Dakota hadn’t protected her. He hadn’t been there when she’d lost the baby.

      “I think we should have dinner together tomorrow night.”

      Kathy blinked, then glanced up. How long had she been standing in the middle of Dakota’s living room? And how long had he been watching her? “To synchronize our plan?”

      “To get used to each other.” He placed several empty glasses on top of the bar. “We can’t go to Asterland like this. Acting like strangers. No one will buy our cover.”

      She let out an anxious breath. Right. The reconciled couple. The Foreign Service consular and her husband. “We still have some details to work out about the mission.”

      “We can do that over dinner. Which means avoiding a restaurant. There are too many ears out there. I don’t want to take the chance of being overheard.”

      And she didn’t want to have dinner with him at the ranch. She couldn’t bear the familiarity. “How about my hotel suite? We can order in.”

      “That’s fine.”

      He walked her to the door, and as she turned to say goodbye, their eyes met.

      Yes, she thought, struggling to hold his gaze, they needed to get used to each other. Three years, too many missions and a secret miscarriage had created a lot of distance between them. Pretending to be a reconciled couple wasn’t going to be easy.

      The following evening Kathy stood before a full-length mirror in her hotel room. She wore a white suit, gold jewelry and low heels. Reaching into her blouse, she lifted a long chain. Her wedding ring glittered on the end of it, a brilliant-cut diamond surrounded by emeralds. It was foolish, she knew, to wear it in such a manner, but she didn’t have the strength to part with it completely.

      It reminded her of wishes and dreams, a house full of children and growing old with the man she loved—a life where terrorists and gunrunners didn’t take her husband away from home. As she slipped the chain inside her blouse, the ring thumped against her heart, out of sight but not out of mind.

      Kathy tilted her head. Her hair was loose about her shoulders, the way Dakota liked it best. Quickly she twisted it into a neat chignon, her fingers working the heavy strands with deft precision. This wasn’t about what Dakota liked. This was a business meeting, a professional dinner engagement.

      When the room-service waiter delivered the meal, Kathy stood nearby, watching him set the table. Dakota would be arriving at any moment. She signed the bill and forced a smile, telling herself to relax. She had been in the company of dignitaries and heads of state. One tall, ex-military man, a dark-eyed Comanche, had no right to twist her stomach into a pretzel.

      Five minutes after the waiter departed, a knock sounded at the door. She answered it, keeping her head high and her posture straight but not stiff. “Hello, Dakota.”

      “Hi.” He smiled, a brief affection that gentled his raw-boned features.

      She used to kiss the scar on his chin, she thought. And the one on his belly, too.

      Kathy took a step back. What a thing to invade her mind—that masculine stomach, rippling with hard-earned muscle.

      “Come in. I took the liberty of ordering our meal ahead of time.”

      “Great.” He walked into the suite, his voice more casual than she had expected. But when he made a beeline for the phone and began dismantling it, she realized his tone was for show.

      He talked about insignificant things as he swept the set of rooms for bugs, electronic devices that might have been planted by someone posing as part of the hotel staff. Kathy had already done a search, but she appreciated Dakota’s professionalism. With her anxious behavior, she could have missed something. She wasn’t accustomed to providing her own security.

      “What are we having?” he asked, indicating his search had turned