Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
A rtek nodded gratefully, drawing Meara into a quiet corner. She came willingly into his arms, burying her face against his chest. He breathed in her scent—paint and lavender and something uniquely her—letting it calm his protective rage.
“They could have killed someone,” she whispered.
“I won’t let that happen.” He stroked her back, memorizing the feel of her heartbeat against his. “But you need to learn to defend yourself. I can’t always be?—”
“Mr. Riggs!” a panicked voice interrupted. Bernard, the landscape photographer, burst in from the parking area. “Someone’s slashed my tires! And Rachel’s car has these horrible scratches all down the side!”
Meara stiffened in Artek’s arms. “No. No, this isn’t—” She took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. “We’ll handle this immediately. Frenchy?”
“Already on it, honey.” Frenchy appeared with his phone. “Called the garage in town. They’re sending someone up.” He paused, expression unusually serious. “Though perhaps this is the perfect time to consider that self-defense training our magnificent Mr. Riggs has been suggesting.”
Artek shot him a look, but Frenchy merely smiled innocently. “What? I’m just saying, a girl needs options. Besides—” He waggled his eyebrows. “The sexual tension during training sessions would be a chef’s kiss .”
“Frenchy!” Meara’s cheeks flushed adorably.
“He’s not entirely wrong.” Artek kept his voice low, enjoying how her pulse jumped. “About the training, at least.”
She turned in his arms, studying his face. “You can’t be everywhere at once. And I need to protect my guests.” Her hand came up to cup his jaw. “Teach me?”
“Today,” he agreed, turning to kiss her palm, “after we secure the vehicles.”
After all the students had left the one-day retreat, they’d cleared space in the main room, rolling back rugs to create a practice area. Frenchy sprawled across the couch with a bowl of popcorn, declaring himself official commentator.
“Now, for basic wrist grabs—” Artek positioned himself behind Meara, hyperaware of every point of contact between them. “When someone grabs you from behind, you want to?—”
She attempted the escape move he’d demonstrated, somehow managing to elbow him in the ribs instead.
“Oh! I’m so sorry?—”
“You’re absolutely lethal, darling!” Frenchy cackled. “Though perhaps not in the intended way. But don’t stop on my account. The view is magnificent.”
“Your support is overwhelming,” Meara said dryly, but her lips twitched.
“Again,” Artek instructed, adjusting her stance. His hands lingered on her waist, appreciating how perfectly she fit against him. Her pulse raced beneath his fingers, her scent sweetening with arousal.
She turned her head, meeting his gaze over her shoulder. The air thickened with possibility.
Frenchy’s theatrical cough shattered the moment. “Not that this isn’t criminally entertaining, but perhaps we should discuss dinner? My newest flame is dying to hear about our property drama.”
Meara brightened. “Gustavo’s coming? The lawyer?”
“Mh-mmm.” Frenchy preened. “And he’s very interested in our Lopez situation. Among other things.” His eyebrows performed an impressive dance. “Though mostly in my things, if you catch my meaning.”
Despite his reluctance to involve outsiders, Artek admitted the legal angle needed exploring. Evening found them gathered around Meara’s kitchen table, sharing a meal while Gustavo—a sharply dressed man with an easy smile—outlined potential approaches.
“A formal cease-and-desist letter might make them reconsider,” he suggested, helping himself to more pasta. His attention kept straying to Frenchy, who’d positioned himself unnecessarily close on the pretense of passing bread.
“You think that would work?” Hope colored Meara’s voice. She’d curled into Artek’s side, his arm draped naturally across her shoulders.
“It could.” Gustavo’s hand brushed Frenchy’s as they reached for the wine simultaneously. “Sometimes the threat of legal action is enough to—oh!” He jumped slightly, and Artek strongly suspected Frenchy’s foot had found his ankle under the table.
“Sorry, darling.” Frenchy batted his eyelashes. “These legs have a mind of their own.”
Meara buried her laugh in Artek’s shoulder. He tightened his hold, pressing a kiss to her temple.
“The Lopez family runs on greed,” he said quietly, hating to dim her optimism. “I doubt paperwork will stop them.”
Later, after their guests departed, Meara led him upstairs to what was formerly her bedroom but had somehow turned into their room. Lamplight cast soft shadows as she curled against him on the bed, exhaustion evident in the slope of her shoulders.
“Tell me honestly,” she murmured. “How bad is this going to get?”
Artek gathered her closer, breathing in their mingled scents. “I won’t let them hurt you.”
“It’s not just me I’m worried about.” She gestured toward the guest rooms. “I can’t risk my students getting caught in the crossfire. I can’t fail Betsy’s legacy like that.”
He tilted her chin up, meeting her worried gaze. “We’ll increase security. Make the next retreat safer.” His thumb traced her lower lip. “I can’t kick them off the mountain, though I wish I could. I’ll make sure that their plans to take your land never happen. You’re not alone in this.”
She smiled, soft and sweet enough to make his bear rumble with satisfaction. “I know.” Rising, she pressed her mouth to his in a slow, thorough kiss that sparked fire in his blood. “Are you tired?”
“Not really.” He rolled them, pinning her beneath him as her laugh turned to a gasp. “Though you should get some rest.”
“Later.” Her hands slid under his shirt. “Much later.”
In the darkness outside, cricket songs filled the air as his security teams patrolled the shadowy grounds. But in this moment, with Meara safe in his arms, Artek let himself forget about threats and sabotage. Tomorrow would bring new challenges. Tonight belonged to them.