“I flew you and Jason back here to Rocky Springs. I was with him in Vegas. You passed out before we landed, and we didn’t see each other until you were completely wasted.”
“Not one of my finer moments,” she answered, disgruntled. She pulled back to look at him. “I’m so happy to see you.”
“Most women are,” he told her mischievously.
Hope smiled back at him. She couldn’t help it. Colt—or was it Tate?—had been cocky as hell, but she’d needed that confident assurance three years ago, had hung onto it with everything she had back then. “Tell me how a billionaire Colter ended up in Special Forces,” she requested curiously.
“I’m a rebel,” he answered nonchalantly. “It probably happened much the same way as a wealthy Sinclair became an extreme weather photographer,” he teased. “My cabin is just over this hill. Want some coffee?”
“Definitely,” she agreed gratefully and followed him as he let her go and led the way. A comfortable silence settled between them for a while, before Tate spoke. “I guess I’m as curious as you are,” Tate mused. “I’m wondering how a very wealthy Sinclair ends up traveling alone in a foreign country without protection. I never connected you with the Sinclairs. It’s a fairly common last name. And I never knew your first name.”
“I didn’t want anyone to know.” She picked her way along a path that led uphill.
“Does Jason know what happened?” Tate asked solemnly. “I recognized you when I saw you in Vegas, but I never said a word.”
She stared at his wide back in front of her. “Thank you for not saying anything.”
At the top of the hill, he turned around and took her hand to help her up a short, rocky incline. “I hacked into your computer when we got back to Rocky Springs,” he confessed, totally remorseless.
“Why?” She looked at him quizzically as she stepped up beside him.
“Because I could,” he said devilishly. “You need to buy better computer protection. I wanted to see what you’d been up to in case you didn’t recognize me. You went back to chasing storms.”
She knew she should be angry because Colt had broken into her computer, but she couldn’t muster any anger. Hope nodded slowly. “I had to go back.”
Tate nodded. “I understand. But I think you need to tell Jason. He was totally clueless, Hope. The guy married you. He cares enough to know. I only outed you about your career. He was going to find out anyway. But it’s not my place to tell him anything else, or even that we’ve met before. It’s your story to tell.”
She followed as he strode toward a large home at the top of the hill. “He was drunk when he married me, and he just wants to get into my panties,” she told Colt, appalled as soon as the words came out of her mouth. She barely knew Colt, even though he’d been an important person in her life for a very brief time.
Tate chuckled. “Here’s a newsflash for you, Hope: that’s what most men want. And they don’t need to marry a woman to get it. That’s not all that Sutherland wants.”
“Colt, he said—”
“He’s full of shit,” Tate said confidently. “And call me Tate. Colt was just my code name.”
Hope stopped short as she got a good look at the home Tate was headed for. “This is your cabin?”
He shrugged. “It is made out of logs.”
Hope gaped, trying to take in the sheer size and design of Tate’s house. It was made of cedar logs and stone, with large pillars of cedar across the front of the home. Towering picture windows adorned the front of the house, probably giving an incredible view of the sunsets. It was at least two stories, probably three as she was fairly certain one of the sets of stairs led to a lower level. There was a garage connected with several doors, a section of the home that could probably store half a dozen vehicles. Strangely, the home was designed to fit into the wooded mountain setting, and even though it was enormous, it still managed to be welcoming rather than ostentatious. “It’s beautiful,” Hope said breathlessly. “Can I take pictures?”
Tate waved his hand, and taking that as permission, Hope took several shots before she followed him along the stone path to the door.
The inside of the house was just as stunning as the exterior: the entire first floor, open and spacious, boasted the same beamed, cathedral ceiling as the guesthouse. As she passed the living room, she noticed a lot of antique firefighting equipment and pictures prominently displayed. “You’re an antiques collector?”
“Just firefighting stuff. One of my ancestors started Colter Equipment, a big producer of firefighter equipment and gear, and it’s one of the major manufacturers now. I like to collect the old pieces and advertising from the company. It’s a hobby. I’m a volunteer firefighter.”