"Situational awareness." His ice blue eyes scan the tree line, the buildings, the shadows between them. "You're in an unfamiliar environment. I control your entry and exit points until you're oriented."
"That's a very tactical way of saying you opened my door."
"I don't do anything that isn't tactical, Ms. Plummer."
I step out, and the cold mountain air rushes into my lungs. Sharp. Clean. Nothing like the recycled office air I've been breathing for the past six months. For a moment, I just stand there, letting the silence settle around me.
No phones ringing. No assistants knocking. No board members demanding meetings about quarterly projections.
Just pine trees and snow and a mountain man who smells like cedar and gun oil.
"The main lodge is headquarters." Boone gestures toward the timber building. "You'll be briefed there before I show you to your cabin."
"My cabin?" I fall into step beside him, which requires moving faster than I'd like because his legs are approximately twice the length of mine. "I assumed I'd be staying in the lodge."
"Guest cabins are more secure. Easier to monitor, harder to approach without detection." He holds the lodge door open for me, and I duck under his arm. The brush of his chest againstmy shoulder sends heat racing down my spine. "You'll have your own space. Privacy within established parameters."
"Established parameters." I stop in the lodge's entry, taking in the interior. High ceilings, exposed beams, a wall of windows overlooking the mountains. Maps and tactical boards on one wall, comfortable seating arranged around a massive fireplace on another. A kitchen visible through an archway, and a hallway leading to what I assume are offices and meeting rooms. "Is everything you say going to sound like a military briefing?"
Boone moves past me, close enough that I catch another wave of his scent. "Would you prefer I speak in quantum encryption terminology?"
I actually laugh. "Did you just make a joke, Mr. Garrett?"
His expression doesn't change, but there's a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Situational adaptation. I've been told I need to work on my interpersonal communication."
"Told by whom?"
"Everyone." He gestures toward a seating area near the fireplace. "Sit. The team will be here shortly for introductions."
I don't sit. Instead, I wander toward the wall of maps, studying the terrain markers and patrol routes pinned across the topographical display. "You have the entire mountain range mapped."
"Within a thirty mile radius." He comes to stand beside me, and I'm acutely aware of the heat radiating off his body. "Every trail, every access road, every potential approach vector."
"That's..." I search for the word. "Thorough."
"That's the job."
I turn to face him, tilting my head back to meet his eyes. He's close. Too close for professional distance, not close enough for what I'm thinking. "You really believe someone's trying to kill me."
"I know someone's trying to kill you." His voice drops, rough and certain. "Two credible sources confirmed a contract. Corporate origin, professional execution. You're worth more dead to your competitors than you are alive to your shareholders."
My brain is clearly broken as instead of being terrified, I find myself studying the hard line of his jaw, the silver threading through his auburn beard, the way his shoulders fill out his tactical jacket.
My father sent me to the one place I can't run from, guarded by the one man I can't charm my way around.
Well played, Dad.
"And you think you can stop them?" I ask.
"I don't think." His eyes hold mine, steady and absolutely certain. "I know."
The lodge door opens behind us, and Boone steps back so smoothly I almost don't register the loss of his proximity. Almost.
A man enters, tall and broad shouldered with dark hair going silver at the temples and a beard that makes Boone's look conservative. A woman walks beside him, dark haired and visibly pregnant, one hand resting on her belly. Behind them, another couple, a massive sandy haired man with gentle eyes and a smaller woman with light brown hair and a shy smile.
"Ms. Plummer." The first man extends his hand. "Decker Cross. Welcome to Guardian Peak."
I shake his hand, cataloging details the way I do in every business meeting. Strong grip, calloused palms, wedding ring that he touches absently when he glances at the pregnant woman. "You're Deck. My father's mentioned you. Something about Fallujah and a very creative use of a humvee engine block."
