My Biker Bodyguard

by Turner, J. R.

  He nodded. "But that doesn't mean what I got to say is gonna be easy to hear. You can't have it both ways."

  "I understand." She braced herself and found it easier to focus when dread filled her brain instead of lust. If she wanted to know the truth, demanded to know the truth, then she'd have to accept the responsibility of hearing the truth. No matter how bad it was.

  "I can't do this with you right now. This thing we got goin' between us." He waved a hand between them. "I want to, believe me I do, but it's not safe. Not until you and your family aren't in danger."

  "I'm so sick of this guy and I've only been living with it for three days." The last traces of wine-haze left her. Cold, clear frustration wiped it out. "How the hell did my mother take it for so long? Why isn't this guy caught yet?"

  "He's overseas, hopping around from one island resort to the next. He's a gambler, they do that. Especially if they don't want to be easy to track down."

  "He's running? Can't they figure out where he's going next?"

  "We don't know if he's running from us, or if he's running from someone else. The games he frequents are planned to be hard to find, you gotta be connected to a crew before you get in. It's not as easy as you'd think."

  "If he's on the run, from us, or because of some damned poker game, how'd he arrange to have my mother shot and send someone after me? Does he have a contact?"

  Mitch quirked one side of his mouth in a half-smile. "You're quick, you know that? Larson and I think this contact is someone who either worked for your grandfather, and is still working for the company, or joined soon after your mother took over. They'd have access to everything–itineraries, financial records, the whole shebang."

  Jess couldn't believe she'd never asked where all those millions of dollars came from. "What kind of company are we talking about?"

  "They own Weston Jewelers–mostly a chain out here on the coast, but the bulk comes from their investments in real estate. The old man bought early and bought wise."

  "Weston?"

  "Your mother's maiden name."

  "God, there's so much I don't know." Jess shoved her loose hair over one shoulder, trying to think. "Do you know how weird it is not knowing a thing about your own mother?"

  "No, but I know what it's like not to know a thing about your father." He shrugged. "We all got our stuff to deal with, Jess. Don't mean the world's gonna stop turning, or the sun's gonna stop shining, or bad guys are gonna stop bein' bad. The only thing we can do is get through it."

  She couldn't imagine a life where she'd never known Dirty Dan Owen–a mother, yes, a father, no. It occurred to her that she'd been a girl, raised by a man, and he'd been a boy, raised by a woman. It felt strange that they each lacked what the other had, as if they were designed to be one half of the same whole.

  "All right," she said, "I get that. But it doesn't make it any easier on either of us."

  "I don't miss my father. You have a chance with Beth now, so don't take it so hard. Okay?"

  She smiled ruefully. He had a point. She breathed deeply, for what felt like the first time since the diner. "Okay."

  "Good. I'm glad we had this talk."

  "Me too." She really was. Except for one small thing. As much as she saw the logic in their not giving into this thing between them, she didn't know if it was possible, but if he would insist, she had a demand of her own. "Mitch, I didn't come all the way to L.A. to just sit around and watch everyone take care of me. I don't work that way and unless you want me goin' stir crazy, I need to be involved in my own protection. I want a gun."

  "Jess, I don't think that's a good idea." He crossed his ankles and arms, as if it didn't merit more discussion. "Too many guns in the fire, and someone's gonna get hurt."

  She bit back the need to shout. "Or, someone's gonna get their butt saved."

  He started to interrupt but she held up a hand. "Listen, I'm not some kid off the street, okay? I've been around guns since my dad's parole ended. I know how to handle myself. This isn't some dumb request from a Beverly Hills shopaholic with too many action flicks under her belt. I know what I'm doing. And I've already proven that to you."

  He stared at her, hard. She waited for him to finish his scrutiny, and inwardly breathed a sigh of relief when he slowly nodded. "All right, but I don't want you carrying it on you unless I give the okay. Keep it in your room, in a drawer somewhere."

  Mitch unfolded himself and pulled the gun from his holster. He looked it over, flipped on what she imagined to be the safety, and handed it to her butt first. "This is a Glock. Are you familiar with them?"

  She shook her head, her gut tight from the feel of it's weight in her hand. It somehow made everything more real, more threatening. For the first time, she fully understood Mitch's reluctance to begin any romantic entanglements with her were not based on her background at all. "It won't take me long to get used to it. It feels a lot like the Sauer J.D. used to own."

  "I'll arrange some target practice for us." Mitch sounded so damned despondent, as if he couldn't stand the thought of her having the gun.

  Or maybe he's afraid I don't need him. If that's true, he is so very wrong.

  A strange, pregnant silence spread over them like a dismal cocoon. His stare had changed, become full of that presence, that studious inspection that went beyond watching for her reactions. Gun in hand, heart heavy, mind in chaos, she dropped her gaze first.

  The day was over. She didn't even have the energy to call her father, though she knew she would. She'd never leave him wondering and afraid. But what then? The butt of the gun grew warm in her hand, felt like an extension of her arm. She'd be expected to sleep in a strange room with only a gun to keep her company. She'd be alone. Again.

  Chapter Nine "Jesus, Larson, what the hell happened to you?" Mitch asked, eyeing the dripping wet detective standing in the foyer.

  "Can't sthhand to see a wooking gwwrunt show up in one piece, can you?" Larson spoke around the file between his teeth as he shook out of his coat, leaving a puddle of water on the floor. Once he freed a hand, he pulled the file from his mouth and scowled. "Last time it was the dogs, this time it's the sprinkler system."

  Mitch chuckled. "It ain't supposed to be easy to get up here. Why didn't you call?"

  Larson scraped his wet hair back from his face and grinned. "Gotta keep you on your toes, now don't I?"

  "Go easy on the salt, I'm wounded enough." Mitch took the wet coat and hooked it on the back of the closet door. He shut it before turning around.

  "You're gettin' sensitive in your old age, Mitch," Larson said as he came more fully into the house. He eyed everything, worrying the file in his hands. "That was supposed to be a joke."

  Mitch slapped him on the back, and straight-faced, said, "Good one."

  "Okay, it was a dumb joke, give a guy break, will ya?" He glanced up the stairs. "She up there?"

  "Who?" Mitch asked, knowing very well who he meant, and knowing the incredibly talented detective knew he knew as well.

  "The girl, the kid, what's-her-name, Jimi Hendrix something."

  Mitch cracked a smile at Larson's feigned forgetfulness. "Jess Owen."

  "Yeah, her." Larson waved. "She up there or not?"

  "She's up there." He steered Larson away from the steps, gesturing him toward the dining room they'd used the night before. "Have a cup of coffee and fill me in."

  Larson followed. Mitch poured himself a cup from the silver serving set at the sideboard, but the detective declined and sat across from him. Larson leaned back in his chair with a sigh. "It's been hell the last few days."

  "Been there. Ever seen the inside of a Milwaukee cop shop?" Mitch paused, sipped his coffee, letting that fact sink in. "Which reminds me. Who did you alert at the MPD? Some third rate desk jockey? They didn't have a clue who I was."

  Larson nodded. "I know, I heard about the stink over there. Sorry about that. But since the FBI got involved, it's been hell."

  "You meet Mordstrom and Davis yet?"

&
nbsp; "Yep, they've already crawled up my ass this morning. I wish they'd leave and let me do my job."

  "Any word on where Grady is?"

  "They traced him to this little place on the French Riviera. I wouldn't be surprised if this case ends up profiled on one of them cable shows. 'Rich People Gone Bad' or something like that. But at least they're closing in on him."

  "Great. We should be able to wrap it up in a few days, at the latest." Mitch wanted this job done, but he also wished it would never end. She would go home then, half a continent away.

  "It might be more than a few days. I wouldn't hold your breath." Larson pushed the file across the table and rubbed his eyes. "Take a look. I'm so tired of it."

  The file contained the FBI's psychological profile on Grady. Mitch scanned through. Jesus, they've even gotten his elementary school records. He flipped more pages until he got to the ending summation. Grady was not considered a threat to the Kramers or the Owens, but instead, was believed to be incapable of having masterminded the dual-state hits.

  "If they don't think it's Grady, why the hell are they still after him?" Mitch closed the file and slid it across the table.

  Larson slapped it to a stop. "They're only going to question him, eliminate him officially from our suspects list."

  "I thought he was the only suspect?"

  "He was," Larson said with a smile so pained it bordered on a grimace. "Aside from Jared…and you and Jess."

  Mitch, in the midst of chugging a good gulp of coffee, swallowed the wrong way. He coughed, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and reminded himself not to punch the messenger. "You gotta be kidding me. Are they out of their frickin' skulls? I just met her this weekend. Why would I try to kill Beth? Or go after Jess and not kill her if I was dirty?"

  "Think about it. You show up after old man Weston is dead. Everyone you've ever worked for gives you glowing recommendations, yet you have a phenomenal lapse in judgment here. Then, they check the phone records, and isn't it funny, but the number of times someone in this house called the Owen's girl jumps from twice in the last six months to three times a week."

  "I never called there." Mitch relaxed his grip on the mug before it shattered in his fist. Goddamn it, he didn't need this.

  "Oh, it gets better. Your friends, the cops in Milwaukee? They practically pinned this whole thing on you." Larson eyed him warily. "How close are you to the daughter?"

  Mitch groaned and glanced to the ceiling in a silent prayer for self-control. Jack. Shoulda decked him when I had the chance. He gave Larson a level glare and leaned forward. "There is nothing going on between me and Jess."

  "There isn't?" Larson asked, scrutinizing Mitch with a stone cold stare. "You saw Grady's profile. Imagine what yours looks like, after New York. You got some ties to some pretty hefty underworld thugs. You got something you want to tell me?"

  "What do you think?" Mitch asked. "Jesus, Larson. Of course there's nothing to tell."

  "Nothing to tell? About what?" Jess asked from the doorway.

  Mitch scowled. Now was not the time for her to interrupt. Hell, he needed to know what Larson believed. Hang the FBI, they could nose-dive into a septic tank if they wanted to. He only cared what Larson believed. Forcing himself to false politeness, he said, "Jess, this is Detective Larson, a friend from the LAPD. Larson, this is Jess."

  Larson stood, hand out. Jess gave Mitch a quizzical glance, then smiled at Larson. "Nice to meet you."

  "Likewise," Larson said, holding onto her hand longer than necessary. "The pleasure's all mine."

  "Thanks," Jess said and pulled her hand away, her gaze cast sidelong at Mitch. "What's going on? Did someone find Grady?"

  "No." Mitch wished he could say yes, that it was all over, and they'd finally gotten the bastard. His mission had been to protect this family until the LAPD and the FBI could get their man. Now he wanted Grady caught to clear his own name. It was one hell of a world. "Wish they had. We were just making plans."

  Larson gave her a toothy smile, obviously infatuated. "We'll get him soon. Don't worry about that."

  Mitch watched her. Today she'd dressed in a soft blue, short-sleeved, knit shirt and black jeans. It made her look like a college kid, younger and smarter at the same time. And damn sexy. He turned to Larson before he followed his thoughts to their sinful conclusion and burned himself in front of the watchful detective.

  "Larson, you're gonna scare her." He grinned, though it felt tight on his face. "Have a seat, Jess, we don't bite."

  "I didn't think you did." She answered slowly and sat.

  As he returned to his seat, he noticed Larson slide the file off the table, out of sight. Jess caught him, but in the moment she could have asked about it, she kept silent.

  "Mitch tells me you run a tattoo place and bike shop in Milwaukee." Larson hadn't heard that from him, but Mitch didn't correct him.

  "What about it?" Jess asked, sounding defensive.

  Larson shrugged. "Just curious. I thought you'd have more…that you'd look different."

  Mitch winced. He'd gotten the idea Jess didn't like to have assumptions made about her.

  "Oh, you expected a toothless biker babe with tattoo sleeves and a nose ring?"

  "Well, not to put too fine a point on it, but yeah." He grinned. "You are hardly that, however, and I'm glad to be wrong."

  She relaxed a little and even offered a smile. "Is there anything else Mitch said that I should know about?"

  "Nothing you don't already know. Mostly we were talkin' about his life back in New York," Larson lied in an obvious attempt to read her reaction. Her confused look was genuine. She didn't know Mitch's history.

  Mitch sent Larson a warning glare. Worse than fishing for intimate details, if he told Jess the FBI suspected them of scheming to get the inheritance, she'd flip.

  Then Mitch realized if he didn't tell her, and she found out later, she'd flip because he hadn't told her. He hated everything about rocks and hard places.

  Jess said to Larson, "Tell me what's going on with the investigation."

  "We've got an idea where Grady might turn up, just not where he is at the moment," Larson answered.

  "But that's great. How long do you think it'll before they make an arrest?" Jess asked.

  Mitch's belly tightened at her glowing smile, and he scooted his chair further beneath the table. God, this was a mess. He couldn't be in the same room with Jess before he was ready to club her over the head and drag her back to his cave. First chance he got, he'd grab a cold shower and teach his body to behave. He would become such an expert that the mere sight of an ice cube would cool him down. A Pavlovian experiment in body control.

  "Mitch?" Larson asked.

  He hadn't been listening. "What?"

  Larson gave him a knowing grin beneath suspicious eyes. "I asked if you wanted to take Jess to visit her mother."

  "Of course." Mitch nodded. What did Larson expect him to say? He wanted Beth to wake up, to give him her version of what happened. Part of him wondered if Jess's presence might somehow be felt and Beth would come out of the coma at the sound of her daughter's voice.

  "I'm sure Mordstrom and Davis will let you go." Larson's features didn't shift. "They'll probably want to see what you'll do if given the chance."

  Mitch gritted his teeth and waited.

  "What's that supposed to mean?" Jess frowned first at the detective, then turned it on Mitch.

  "Nothing." He glared at Larson. The detective had spilled too much and knowing him, he'd done it on purpose. As much as they liked each other, their friendship only went as far as Mitch's past would let it. There would always be that limit. No, Larson wasn't only engaging in a friendly little chat, he was watching, waiting for a tell-tale sign the FBI was on the right track. It pissed Mitch off.

  "I think we're done here." Mitch stood and pulled a surprised Jess up by her elbow. "We'll be in touch, Larson. You know your way to the door."

  Larson passed him a look that said he knew Mitch was on to h
im. He didn't smile, didn't start in on the long goodbyes where they yakked about when they'd next talk, he just nodded and stood. "I'll show myself out, then."

  "You do that." If Jess hadn't been there, Mitch would have called him out for giving this stupid, trumped-up theory an ounce of weight. Where the hell was his loyalty?

  Larson stopped at the door, glanced back, mouth open as if he wanted to say something. His gaze fell on Jess and he closed his yap, shaking his head. "I'll be in touch, Mitch."

  "I bet you will."

  Larson left, closing the door behind him.

  Jess shrugged free of the grip on her arm. "What was that all about?"

  "Nothing."

  "If it was nothing, then why do you look ready to run after that guy and deck him?"

  "Because that's exactly how I feel."

  "Then go do it."

  He blinked and looked at her. Had she lost her mind? Of course he wouldn't go do that, Larson was his friend, despite his recent disloyalty, and an LAPD Detective to boot. Friend or no friend, he couldn't go around beating up cops. "You know what happens to you if you assault an officer?"

  She shook her head. "No, what?"

  "You get dumped in maximum security, is what."

  "So?"

  "So, I'm not gonna beat him up, for cryin' out loud."

  Her dimple deepened. "Yeah, and you ain't so hot under the collar anymore, are you?"

  He blinked again. Now he knew how she kept those bikers in control. She was better than her mother at this. Though he didn't like being manipulated, he wasn't pissed off anymore.

  She winked, her grin revealed. "Gotcha."

  "Okay, I had that coming."

  "Yep. We're even now." Jess turned her back to the table, pressed her palms against the gleaming oak surface and lifted herself up. She sat, legs swinging. "Now, tell me what you're trying to keep from me and then I want to hear about New York."

  Chapter Ten

  Jess listened as he told her about his days as a boxer, his connection to the brutal underworld, and marveled at how close she'd come to the truth the moment she'd laid eyes on him. He had been a knee-breaker for the mob after all.