To Love & Protect (Bryant Brothers Book 2)

by Tami Lund

  TO LOVE & PROTECT

  Bryant Brothers Book 2

  by Tami Lund

  Cover Design: Obeithion Covers

  Editor: Julie Sturgeon

  Copyright: 2020 by Tami Lund

  License Notes

  Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to purchase their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer.

  Thank you for your support.

  All entities, locations, businesses, etc. in this book are strictly figments of the author’s overactive imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Questions, comments, or desires to seek permission to use any part of this book for your own purposes should be directed to authortamilund@gmail.com.

  TO LOVE & PROTECT

  Philip Bryant, second born son to a fine, upstanding family, is anything but.

  He wants to amend his ways, though. Operate on the right side of the law. Be a positive, contributing member of society.

  A buddy who works for a government agency gives him the perfect opportunity to change his stripes. But instead of doing what he was told to do, he kidnaps the witness to an attempted murder.

  The witness’s name is Maecie McIntosh. She’s a hairstylist with a whole lot of opinions, and she isn’t afraid to put him in his place. And the more time he spends with her, the less he wants to let her go. Can kidnappers develop Stockholm Syndrome?

  Or is this what true love feels like?

  Bryant Brothers series

  Each book has its own happily ever after, however it is recommended they be read in the following order:

  Racing Home

  To Love & Protect

  The Right Tool

  Picture This

  Chapter One

  “You look way more rumpled than usual,” Richard Gerrard commented as Philip slid into the booth across from him at the diner in downtown Detroit where they almost always met to talk business.

  Philip glanced down at his V-neck sweater and white T-shirt. Although he hadn’t taken the time to trim his beard this morning, he didn’t think it looked scruffy, and his clothes weren’t overly wrinkled, so Richard must have noticed the bags under his eyes.

  “You know what I do for a living,” Philip replied, stifling a yawn and waving at the server who was holding a coffee carafe in her hand, systematically refilling customers’ cups. “Unfortunately, most of my clientele don’t keep bankers’ hours.”

  “Philip Bryant,” his buddy drawled, “serving and protecting the bad guys since 2016.”

  The young server, wearing jeans and a green T-shirt with the name of the diner screen printed over her left breast, stepped up to their table and flipped over the ceramic mug that had already been placed in front of Philip’s seat. “Sugar and creamer’s right there,” she said, pointing at the table. “I’ll take your order in a minute.”

  She left, and Philip grimaced. “Thanks for making it sound exactly as shady as it is.”

  He grabbed the menu, even though he almost always ordered off the specials board. Today he had a choice of country eggs benedict, strawberry pancakes, or Detroit style corned beef hash. He had no idea what made it Detroit style, but he loved a good corned beef hash, so he tucked the menu behind the napkin dispenser and doctored his coffee while Richard contemplated his options.

  The server returned, took their orders, and hurried away again.

  Richard glanced around the restaurant. Philip had already scoped out the place before sliding into his seat, so he knew there were three tables of elderly couples, a few suits sipping coffee while working on their laptops, and a twenty-something couple who looked as if they hadn’t gone to bed in at least thirty-six hours.

  "Hey, at least you’re making bank.”

  Philip sighed. “I should try taking legit jobs once in a while. Working as contract security for people who don’t necessarily operate on the right side of the law definitely more than pays the bills, but it feels like my soul is shriveling up and dying.”

  Richard snorted and took a hit of coffee. “You and me, we should have switched lives years ago. You’re the do-gooder who’s rolling in dough because you babysit people who are very likely—no, they are criminals. And I’m the poor shmuck who can’t catch a break, working for the man and making peanuts.”

  “Not all my clients are criminals,” Philip argued, which he knew damn well was for his own benefit, not Richard’s. His buddy seemingly had no problem with some of Philip’s clients’ highly questionable ethics and morals.

  Shaking his head, Richard said, “And here I’m protecting the world from illegal arms deals and terrorists and I can barely pay my mortgage.”

  “That’s because you spend too damn much time at the casino and betting on your favorite football team. If you change nothing else but stopped buying lottery tickets every week, there’s your mortgage payment.”

  Richard waved off his suggestion and then leaned back so that the server could place their plates on the table. While he squirted ketchup on his hash browns, he said, “I should be able to do both. You’re able to do both.”

  Philip hated it when Richard was in this mood. It wasn’t a damn competition.

  “I don’t play the lottery,” Philip said. Which Richard already knew. This wasn’t a new topic of conversation.

  “But you could.”

  Yeah, he could do a lot of things. “It’s a choice. One you could make, too, you know. And if you feel like you can’t, then maybe you need to get some help so you can.”

  Richard dredged a triangular slice of buttered toast through runny egg yolk and crammed it into his mouth. “Stop. You sound like my ex when you talk like that.”

  Philip sighed. He was pretty sure Richard had a gambling addiction, and like most addicts, he refused to see what was so obvious to everyone around him. And got defensive when someone suggested he needed help.

  Richard’s ex, like Philip and Richard, had been a marine. She was also an exceedingly tolerant woman, but even she had gotten sick of begging him to seek help, which inevitably led to screaming arguments, and she’d divorced him two years ago.

  After another scan of the restaurant, Richard said, “Maybe I can help with that soul of yours. I have a job for you if you’re interested.”

  Richard worked for the federal government, specifically for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, better known as ATF. Richard and Philip met while they were both in the Marine Corps, and they’d become fast friends. They both got out at about the same time, and when Richard was accepted as an ATF agent, Philip had considered going that route too. Until a contract job landed in his lap and introduced him to the lucrative world of “securities.”

  Maybe this was a sign. While technically Philip had not broken the law himself, he certainly had plenty of dirt on some pretty grimy people, and Richard knew it. Richard also knew Philip was loyal, if to the wrong people.

  But if his friend was offering him contract employment with the ATF, that must mean Philip had a shot at going legit.

  He rested his forearms on the table and tried not to look too excited. “I’m listening.”

  “Frank Charles. Does that name sound familiar?”

  “Pyrotechnics. Isn’t he the guy in charge of the Detroit fireworks?”

  Richard nodded. “We’ve been watching him for a while now.”

  “How come?”

  “We believe he’s using his pyrotechnics distribution license to illegally sell explosives to terrorist groups.”

&n
bsp; Philip let out a low whistle. Frank Charles, by all appearances, had been an upstanding member of the Detroit community for decades. His fireworks displays were arguably the best in the country, and he was well-known for giving back to the residents of the city that embraced the colorful and spectacular way he lit up the sky over the riverfront each summer.

  Unfortunately, Philip knew from firsthand experience that the ones who put on the most positive public image were often the most corrupt.

  He rubbed his hand over his face. “What do you need me to do?”

  Hey, at least this one was clear-cut: he was definitely working for the good guys.

  Chapter Two

  Maecie McIntosh was a superb hairstylist, if she did say so herself. And she did. Because she was.

  Just ask her clients.

  Frank Charles, the guy who oversaw the Detroit fireworks display that was put on in honor of the Independence Day and Canada Day holidays, was one of them. Even though he lived way down in Grosse Pointe, he drove to Rochester Hills whenever he needed a haircut. Which was every two weeks, on the dot. He had a standing appointment at 10:00 a.m. every other Tuesday, including today, two days before Thanksgiving.

  Gotta look sharp for the family dinner, right?

  He was Maecie’s first cut of the day, so she made sure she arrived by 9:30. That way, she could get settled, have one last cup of coffee, check her Instagram feed, and ensure all her supplies were set up exactly as they should be. Frank didn’t like to wait. He was a lovely gentleman and an excellent tipper, so Maecie was happy to avoid disrupting his routine.

  When she walked into the lobby of the salon to let the receptionist know she was here, a lone client sat on one of the sleek black couches. He flipped through a magazine that highlighted the current trends in family haircare. He was tall judging by the way his body was folded up on that low piece of furniture. He had dark hair that looked recently trimmed. He briefly glanced up at her, and she noted ocean-blue eyes, a patriarchal nose, and a chiseled jaw covered by short stubble.

  Maybe he was here for a beard trim. Such a perfectly defined five o’clock shadow most certainly did not come naturally.

  Too bad he wasn’t her client, because wowzah. The man was seriously smokin’ hot. She’d love to run her hands through that soft-looking hair and to surreptitiously touch those shoulders and arms so she could hands-on admire the muscles under that dark blue fleece he was wearing.

  A bell chimed, the door opened, and a man walked in accompanied by a blast of chilly air. He had dark skin, dark hair, laugh lines around his eyes, and wore a thigh-length, wool overcoat over his button-down shirt and slacks.

  “Frank!” Maecie said warmly.

  Her client caught her eye, smiled, and then opened his arms for a hug, which she was happy to step into. He was such a nice man. Like your favorite grandpa.

  “Maecie, you’re a vision today,” he responded, holding her at arm’s length so he could admire her outfit. She wore a white cotton blouse with a fitted red cardigan she’d belted around the waist, paired with black leggings and a pair of russet-colored boots. She’d added a chunky necklace and a temporary red streak in her blond hair, and yeah, she was feeling pretty stylish today.

  “Thanks.” She grinned. Who didn’t love a compliment? “Come on back and we’ll get started.”

  She hovered while he hung his jacket in the coat closet, then she led him back to the wash basins. The salon was quiet at the moment. Tuesday was a late day for most of the stylists, and the receptionist had apparently forgotten to turn on the music that usually piped through the loud speakers. Maecie would have to let the young woman know when she walked Frank up there to pay his bill after his trim.

  She wrapped a black cape around him, snapped it behind his neck, and massaged his scalp as she washed his hair before getting him settled in her chair so she could commence trimming.

  As usual, Frank was chatty. Although, instead of talking about his kids—three of them, two who were fine, upstanding citizens and one who was a constant source of frustration—and grandkids—five so far, and he was ever hopeful for more—he complained about his job.

  “I swear, the government doesn’t want me to make any money. They’re forever harassing me, adding regulations, making it harder and harder for me to do business.”

  “Well, you do deal in explosives,” Maecie pointed out as she snipped.

  She looked at him in the mirror and bit back a smile when he rolled his eyes.

  “What are you doing that has them so up in arms?” she asked.

  “Trying to do business with a company in Brazil.”

  “Maybe they’re worried you’re selling stuff to terrorists.”

  “Maybe they need to mind their own business.”

  She continued trimming while he continued to berate the government, and half an hour later, on the dot, he was done. She swept off the cape, and he stood, patting his temple, checking out his reflection, and grinning. “You are the best, Maecie. Thank you.”

  Her cheeks stretched with a wide smile when he handed her a tip that was more than double the cost of the cut. “Thank you,” she said sincerely.

  She followed him to the lobby, passing the good-looking, dark-haired guy she’d noticed earlier. He’d moved to a chair at an empty station and was still flipping through that same family hairstyles book. One of the other girls must be coming in early to do his cut.

  Maecie pulled Frank’s coat out of the closet while he paid the receptionist. The door flew open and a group of people streamed into the salon. They all had on ski masks, wore black, and were carrying guns.

  The receptionist screamed and immediately leaped out of her chair and ran for the back of the salon, leaving the cash register wide open.

  Someone shouted, “FBI, everybody freeze!”

  With Frank’s coat still in her hand, Maecie lifted both arms into the air.

  She was grabbed from behind and dragged backward into the area where the hairstylists’ chairs were located and then shoved to her knees behind a half wall. Whipping around on all fours, she found herself kneeling behind the dark-haired guy she’d noticed earlier. He was peeking around the wall, avidly watching whatever was unfolding.

  “What’s going on?” she whispered.

  “This isn’t right.”

  “You can say that again. What the heck is the FBI doing in a hair salon?”

  The man glanced over his shoulder and arched a sleek, black brow. Who was his hairstylist? His regular girl couldn’t be anyone at this salon, because Maecie most certainly would have noticed him before now.

  "That isn’t the FBI.”

  She flapped her hand. “Uh, yeah they are.”

  “Why? Because they shouted ‘FBI’ as they rushed in the door?”

  “Well…yeah.”

  He rolled his eyes and turned back to face the front of the building.

  “Oh shit,” he said, and suddenly he dove, pressing her to the ground, his body covering hers.

  “What in the—?” The man was lying on top of her as if they were about to have sex right there on the floor—and she didn’t even know his name, for crying out loud. She opened her mouth again and then snapped it shut when she heard a couple of loud pops.

  She gasped. “Is that gunfire?”

  “Yeah. Come on.” He pushed himself into a crouching position and effortlessly pulled her to her feet while pressing one hand to her head so that she was crouching too. Then he wrapped his hand around her upper arm and led her toward the back of the salon. As if he was familiar with the place, he turned right into the storage room slash office slash laundry area and kept going, toward the back entrance.

  But he didn’t let her go after they’d cleared the building.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, sliding Frank’s coat over her shoulders.

  “We’re getting out of here.”

  “Why? Wait, my purse is back there. My phone. I need—”

  “You need to get in the vehicle.” He
opened the passenger side door of a full-sized pickup truck parked on the curb that looked like it was a good twenty years old, and lifted her inside. A scant moment later, he was sliding into the driver’s seat and cranking the engine.

  “Are you kidnapping me?”

  “No, I’m saving you. Potentially.”

  “I don’t even know you. How do I know it’s safe to go with you?”

  “It’s safer with me than back there with those guys.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Did you miss the gunfire?”

  “No, but they said they’re FBI.”

  “The FBI doesn’t shoot first and ask questions later. Nor do they wear ski masks. And I didn’t see anyone flash a badge. I don’t know who those guys were, but it behooves me not to be in the vicinity.”

  “What about me? Why are you taking me with you?”

  “Because you were paying way too much attention to me and I don’t want you to describe me to those guys. Especially when I have no idea who the fuck they are.”

  “They’re FBI.”

  He gave her an exasperated look. “Didn’t I just say the FBI doesn’t act like that?”

  “So you think someone was impersonating the federal government? Seriously?”

  “It’s not really all that farfetched.” He shifted the truck into gear and pulled away from the curb.

  “I can’t believe this is happening to me.”

  “I’d say the same thing, but I can. I’ve seen worse, actually.”

  She stared at the man who, despite what he said, was, in fact, kidnapping her. “What’s your name?”

  “Philip.”

  “Philip what?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “That definitely instills a sense of security in me.” She made sure her words were positively dripping with sarcasm.

  He tossed her a sour look. “Where do you live, Maecie?”

  “How do you know my name?”