by Elle James
She had just placed her first foot on the bottom step leading up to the kitchen when the lights blinked out.
The darkness in the basement was so complete, Dix couldn’t see anything but the sliver of light beneath the door to the kitchen at the top of the stairs. But, wait—how could the light be on in the kitchen and not in the basement? Someone had to have turned out the lights or a breaker had tripped to cut the electricity to the lights where she stood.
The sound of wood crashing against the concrete floor made Dix jump. She stumbled against the riser, nearly stabbing herself with the butcher knife as she scrambled for a handhold. She found her footing and raced up the steps toward the slim bit of light finding its way beneath the door.
At the top, Dix held her breath, twisted the knob, flung open the door and burst into the kitchen, running into a solid wall of muscles.
A strong hand wrapped around her wrist, holding it and the butcher knife at a distance.
“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to run with a knife in your hand?”
At the sound of Stratford’s voice, Dix sagged against him, at once relieved, quickly followed by chagrin that he’d found her running out of a scary basement because of a noise. Some bodyguard she’d prove to be if his house gave her the willies.
She pushed her free hand against his chest, inhaling the faint yet tantalizing scent of aftershave. “Thank you, but I was doing fine until you stepped in my way.”
He chuckled. “Where were you going, brandishing that butcher knife?”
She pulled her hand free and tilted her chin. “I was headed to the drawer to put it away.” As if to prove out her lie, she walked to the drawer where she’d found the knife and slipped it in. Gathering her wits, she turned to face him, her brows rising. “I have a question.”
“Try me. I might have an answer.”
“Where’s the breaker box?”
His brows dipped. “Why do you ask?”
“The lights went out in the basement while I was down there checking windows and doors.”
His frown deepened. “The breaker box is in the basement. I had the wiring upgraded several years ago. Since then, I can’t recall having issues with breakers being thrown.” He walked to the door Dix had stormed through a moment before and flipped the light switch. The light came on. “Seems to be working now.”
Dix’s face heated. Could she have hit the switches by accident?
“I’ll check the breaker box, just to make sure. But if this light is on, the others will come on, as well. The basement is all wired to the same breaker.”
Dix nodded. “I’d feel better if you did check. Perhaps there’s a short in one of the wires.”
Mr. Stratford descended the steps.
Dix followed, wishing she’d brought the butcher knife.
A wooden chair that had been stacked on top of an old table lay on the ground, its legs broken and splintered. She could have brushed by, dislodging it from its perch. But that still didn’t explain the lights extinguishing when they did.
She followed Stratford to a metal box mounted in the wall. He opened it, ran his finger down through the labels until he stopped on the one marked Basement. He flipped the switch and the lights went out.
The breath caught in Dix’s lungs and she strained to hear the sound of footsteps, like she had a few minutes before. Silence stretched until another loud click heralded the lights coming back on.
Stratford turned to her. “Seems to be working fine.”
Great. She looked like an idiot. But that didn’t bother her as much as the memory of shuffling footsteps when she’d been hiding behind the cardboard boxes.
She didn’t believe there was a real problem with the electricity. The problem was that something or someone had to have flipped the breaker to make all of the lights in the basement go out at once.
“Besides you, me and Leigha, are there any other people who live in this house?”
Stratford shook his head. “No. Mrs. Purdy comes in every day to cook and clean for us. But that’s it.”
Dix nodded. She’d be sure to carry a gun with her whenever she entered the basement. If for nothing else, to shoot at the rats.
“Any more questions?” he asked.
“Yes.” She stared up into his eyes. “Where will I sleep?”
Stratford cupped her elbow in his hand and led her toward the stairs. “I have Leigha in the room next to mine with an adjoining door. I’d like for you to sleep in the bedroom beside hers.”
Dix nodded, her skin tingling where his hand rested on her arm. In a structure the size of Stratford House, she could have been assigned a room in a completely different wing. She was glad he put her close to Leigha for the child’s sake. But being close to the man added an entirely different dimension to this task. “One more question.”
His lips quirked on the corners, making the wicked scar less menacing. “Shoot.”
“Where’s Leigha’s mother?”
The hint of a smile vanished, replaced by a fierce frown. “Why do you need to know?”
“I was sent to protect the family. I assumed husband, wife and child. If I’m to protect the entire family, I need to know who that consists of.”
“All you need to be worried about is making sure Leigha is safe. I can take care of myself.”
Dix persisted. Stratford wasn’t happy about something and he was avoiding a direct response. “Your wife?” She held her breath, part of her hoping there wasn’t a wife. The other part of her wondering why she cared. She’d just met the man.
“Leigha’s mother is dead.”
* * *
Andrew turned away from Dix and marched up the steps to the kitchen. He didn’t wait for her to follow. The sooner he got away from her, the better. All the old rage roiled up in his belly, threatening to take him to that dark place he’d lived in when he’d been in the hospital suffering the pain of skin grafts. All because of Jeannette and her horrible, hateful revenge.
A hand on his arm slowed him to a stop. He breathed in and out like a bull preparing for the charge, but he refused to face Dix.
“As a bodyguard, I feel like the more I know about you, Leigha and this place, the better equipped I’ll be to take care of all of you. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to step over the line. I didn’t know.”
“I told you—I don’t need anyone to take care of me. Focus on Leigha. She’s the one who needs you. Not me.” He shrugged her hand off his arm.
“I’m sorry. Losing your wife is hard enough without someone dragging up the memory. You must have loved her a lot.”
Fury surged upward. Andrew was powerless to hold back. He spun, gripped Dix’s arms and shook her. “Jeannette wasn’t my wife, and I can honestly say that I hated her with every fiber of my being. Any mother who could willfully set fire to the apartment she shares with her daughter, and then stand by watching it burn with her daughter inside, is a monster. I’m glad she’s dead.” He shook her again. “Do you hear me? I might rot in hell, but I’m glad she’s dead.”
Chapter 5
Dix lay in the bed one door down from Leigha, her arms sore from where Andrew had squeezed so hard he’d left bruises. Yeah, they hurt, but nothing like whatever it was Andrew had gone through. She assumed the scars on his face and hand were caused by the fire Leigha’s mother had set.
Though he’d answered the question about a wife, he’d left so many more unanswered. Was Leigha his daughter? If so, why did she call him “Mr. Stratford”? Question after question spun through Dix’s mind to the point she couldn’t go to sleep.
She rose from the bed and padded barefoot down the hall to Leigha’s room. Pushing open the door, she entered. A night-light shone in a corner, giving just enough light for Dix to see everything in the room, including the little girl in the middle of
the big bed.
Leigha stopped beside the bed and laid her hand on Leigha’s forehead. Thankfully, the fever seemed to have broken and the child appeared to be resting comfortably.
Grateful Leigha was better, Dix turned toward the door.
“Stay with me.” The little girl’s voice stopped her before she could take a single step.
Dix smiled down at her and brushed a strand of golden-blond hair away from Leigha’s brow. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”
“Sometimes I get scared,” she said, taking Dix’s hand in hers.
“Are you scared now?”
She pressed Dix’s hand to her cheek. “Not when you’re here with me.”
Dix’s heart melted a little at the girl’s puppy-dog eyes. “Sweetie, you don’t even know me.”
“My friend said I could trust you.”
Dix’s hand tightened around the child’s. “Your friend?”
The child nodded. “He said you’re one of the good guys.”
Dix perched on the side of the bed, wishing she’d stopped long enough to pull on a pair of jeans. The extra-large T-shirt didn’t seem fully adequate should Leigha’s father choose to come in and check on his girl. But then, Leigha had Dix’s hand and didn’t seem willing to relinquish it anytime soon. “How does he know I won’t hurt you?”
She shrugged. “He just does.” Leigha scooted to the far side of the bed and threw back the blanket. “You can lie down, too. I won’t kick.”
With her legs cooling in the night air and Leigha still holding tightly to her hand, Dix caved. She slid between the sheets and laid her head on the pillow beside Leigha.
The child immediately rolled into her side and rested her head in the crook of Dix’s arm. “You smell like flowers.”
Dix smiled. “It’s probably the soap from the bathroom.”
“I think it smells good on you.” Leigha snuggled into Dix’s side and laid her arm over Dix’s stomach.
Dix sniffed the girl’s hair. It had that soft, clean smell of baby shampoo. “You smell pretty good yourself.”
Leigha hugged her. “My friend thinks you’re pretty.”
Dix stiffened momentarily and then relaxed. She supposed many children had imaginary friends to keep them company when they were lonely. “Does your friend have a name?”
She nodded, her eyelids drooping. “Bennet.”
“Do you play with your friend often?” Dix asked.
“Every day,” she whispered, her voice fading as her breathing grew deeper.
For a long time, Dix lay with the little girl nestling against her. She listened to the sounds the mansion made, creaking like an old lady’s knees as she settled in for the night.
A few days on the Oregon coast keeping track of one little girl who could very easily steal her heart wasn’t bad for her first gig as a Stealth Operations Specialist. She would ease into her role and learn more about the man who’d engaged her and his expectations of the bodyguard he’d hired.
The black Lab, lying at the end of the bed, rolled over onto her foot, completely relaxed. Acceptance by two of her clients had been accomplished. Now all she needed was to win the approval of the head of the family, one darkly brooding, deeply scarred man who didn’t mince words or waste time. But he did read to his daughter when she wasn’t feeling good, and he cared enough to hire someone to keep her safe from an unknown threat.
Tomorrow, Dix would ask him who might have it in for him and the exact nature of the inciting incidents that had set him on the course to finding a bodyguard for his daughter. In the meantime, her charge was to protect Leigha. With the little girl sleeping soundly against her side, Dix let her eyes slide closed.
Just as she was about to drift into sleep, a waft of cool air caressed her skin. Her eyelids fluttered open and she stared up at a man with black hair and dancing blue eyes, a smile curling his lips. His clothes appeared to be from another era. Wearing a dark suit and a fedora, he could have been a gangster from the early nineteen hundreds.
Was she dreaming? She blinked and the image was gone.
Dix gasped and jackknifed into a sitting position, her heartbeat thundering against her ribs.
Leigha lay with one hand tucked beneath her cheek and the other reaching out to Dix. Brewer lifted his head as if to question her for waking in the middle of the night. Then, as if his head were too heavy to hold up, he let it drop back to the blanket and sighed.
Had an intruder been in the room, surely the dog would have let her know or at the least been agitated.
Convinced the man she’d seen was nothing more than the beginning of a dream, Dix lay back on the pillow and willed her pulse to slow. Dreams of bygone eras had to be the norm for guests of Stratford House. The structure and the furnishings conjured ghosts of the past. If not real aberrations, then those dreamed up in the minds of present-day inhabitants. No wonder Leigha had an imaginary friend.
Dix finally relaxed. The day had been full of revelations and tomorrow she’d learn more about her new assignment. For now, sleep claimed her, sweeping her into a dream that spanned a continent and swept her out to sea in a mobster’s yacht.
* * *
Andrew lay in his bed, tossing and turning, drifting in and out of sleep. He fought the lure of the recurring nightmare that had plagued him for almost a year. But every time he closed his eyes to sleep, the dream returned, filling his night with memories of that awful day. Pulling him back into that flaming inferno of Jeannette’s apartment building—an image he could never erase from his mind. He’d go into the blaze to rescue the daughter he hadn’t known he had until that day he’d gone into hell to bring her out.
* * *
Jeannette had been a willing partner, but she’d failed to tell him she was married when they’d met in a bar in New York City. He’d been drunk, celebrating a Yankees win, when she’d invited him to her hotel room.
One night of sex he couldn’t even remember, and six years later he’d gotten a call from a woman he couldn’t recall, claiming he had a daughter.
When he’d called her bluff, Jeannette had told him she couldn’t afford to keep the brat since her husband had left her. If he didn’t take her, she’d leave her in the apartment where she couldn’t afford to pay rent.
At first Andrew chose to ignore the call. After all, he was a wealthy man. The woman could be scamming him.
When she’d called a second and third time, more desperate than the first, she described a tattoo Andrew had on his right butt cheek. She claimed the child had his blue eyes. She couldn’t keep her. Her landlord had threatened to evict them. With nowhere to go and no way to support a child, she had no other choice but to end it for both of them.
At that point, Andrew couldn’t ignore the woman. A child’s life could be at stake. He coaxed an address out of her and, in the middle of the night, he’d raced to the apartment building in a ramshackle section of the Bronx. When he arrived, smoke billowed from a window on the third floor of an eight-story building.
Women in bathrobes and men in boxer shorts herded small children from the building as Andrew ran inside and up the stairs to the third floor. Alarms blared but the sprinkler system never came on.
Choking on the acrid smoke, Andrew pulled his T-shirt up over his mouth and nose and pressed on, arriving at the door to the apartment where most of the smoke seemed to be coming from. He tried the handle. The door was locked. With the potential of a child being trapped inside, Andrew threw his shoulder into the door. It didn’t budge. He kicked and kicked until the door frame splintered around the dead bolt and the door swung open, emitting a cloud of black smoke.
Andrew crouched low and ran inside. His eyes had stung and his lungs had burned. He found Jeannette throwing a burning blanket over a couch.
When she saw him, she screamed and tried to run past him. “You
didn’t want her. Nobody wanted her.”
Andrew grabbed her by the arms. He didn’t recognize the woman like she was, her hair tangled, her face streaked with soot. He didn’t care if the child was his or not—she didn’t deserve to die in a fire lit by a crazy woman. “Where is she?” he shouted.
“You can’t have her. No one can have her!” The woman kicked him hard in the shins.
His grip loosened and she flung herself away from him. Before he could catch her, she ran screaming into one of the two bedrooms and slammed the door.
The other bedroom was completely consumed in flames. Andrew prayed the child hadn’t been in there. He focused his attention on the room into which Jeannette had run.
This door didn’t take long to breach. Two hard kicks and it crashed open. Andrew searched through the thickening smoke and couldn’t find the woman or the child.
Then he heard a whimper from beneath the bed. He crouched below the curtain of smoke and spied Jeannette holding on to a little girl. The child coughed and cried, “I’m scared, Mama!”
“Shut up!” Jeannette yelled. “Shut up!” She pulled her deeper beneath the bed.
Andrew reached in to grab the girl, but Jeannette lashed out with clawlike fingernails, scratching his arm. He pulled his hand back, but the heat of the blaze behind him pushed him to try harder. “Don’t do this to her, Jeannette. Let’s get out of here. I’ll make sure you’re all taken care of.”
She spit at him and clutched the child closer. “No! You can’t take her from me.”
“You wanted me to get her. I’m here now. Let me take her.”
“No one wanted her. No one cared about me. We’re leaving this world and taking this stinking apartment building with us.”
Andrew couldn’t stand by and let that happen. He grabbed what he could. His finger wrapped in the woman’s hair and he dragged her out into the open. She let go of the little girl and fought like a wildcat.