“What do you mean they’re all written by the same person?” he asked, although he tried not to.
She shrugged, looking cool as a cucumber in her lime-green T-shirt and white cotton pants. Had she not slept at all, or did she always awaken this alert? Either option made him feel crotchety and irritable. Ten years ago he could play bars all night and work the ranch all day. But ten years ago he had been, well…ten years younger. No one could fault his logic.
“Just what I said,” she answered. “They’re all written by the same person.”
“And what made you deduce that?” He crossed his arms against his chest and hoped he looked cynical instead of merely disheveled and foolish—and strangely chilled. He wasn’t sure whether it was his shirtless state or talk of the letters that made him cold, but he was shivering. He hoped she didn’t notice his spasmodic shaking. He’d already used his best irresistible stud act on her and she had been patently unimpressed. If the truth be told, neither her disinterest nor talk of the letters was doing a bit of good for his flagging self-esteem. Dammit! He dropped into a mauve upholstered chair and worked on his casual look. “The police never said anything about the letters being from the same guy.”
“Maybe the police haven’t had my experience.”
Experience? She didn’t look a day older than his favorite Stetson. “So you’ve been around?” he asked, letting the innuendo lie between them like Pandora’s box.
She didn’t open it, but scowled as she worked things out in her own mind. “Enough to know I’m right,” she drawled confidently.
“That’s crazy. None of the letters look even vaguely alike.”
“That’s one of the things that made me realize the truth.” Though she acted nonchalant, he could hear the edge of excitement in her tone. “They’re too different, as if they were intentionally made to seem different”
“A little amateur psychology, Miss O’Shay?” Her excitement intrigued him, but he knew enough of her kind to realize he’d be a fool to get involved. Despite her sweeter-than-honey looks, she was a climber, intent on getting to the top of her field no matter the cost to the others. He knew that. In fact, he bore the heel prints to prove it. “I didn’t peg you as the therapist type. Thought you were more of the jump on their backs and bring out the rubber hose kind of girl.”
“Afraid to admit I’m right, Mr. Fox?”
He snorted derisively, but suddenly he wasn’t sure. There had always been something about those letters that had felt odd—besides the fact that they were mildly threatening. Which was pretty damn odd in itself if you thought about it, because he’d never hurt a soul in his life. Not intentionally anyway. Even in a dog-eat-dog world like the entertainment business, he’d been careful to step on no toes. Sarge, on the other hand, had ticked off more people than he could count, but was he the one getting ugly mail? No sirree. “They’re from different people,” he said, knowing he did so just to be contrary.
“You know that?” she asked, her sassy, strawberry mouth quirking slightly. “Or are you thinking murderers are too honest to use aliases?” Her lips were very full. Watching them move mesmerized him somehow. “’Cause I gotta tell you, Fox, most murderers aren’t always real up-front about everything.”
Nathan brought his mind back to the business at hand. “That’s crazy,” he repeated. “Nobody said anything about murder. Nobody but you and Sarge anyhow, and each letter is different The handwriting. Everything. Hell, some are typed. Some don’t have signatures. Some talk like the guy’s never even met me, and some—”
“Sounds like you’ve studied them pretty close for a man who’s unconcerned about them.”
Nathan rose abruptly to his feet and turned away. Oh yes, he’d studied them. Lots of other musicians had employees go through their mail for them, but he’d always loved that part, almost as much as being face to face with his fans. It. irked him no end that those damned letters had put a pall over it. Each time he opened an envelope now, he wondered if it would be the proverbial bad apple. But he wasn’t going to let it spook him. “I’ve read them,” he said, settling his hip against the arm of the sofa.
“And they don’t worry you?”
Their gazes met For a moment he was tempted to tell her the truth. But dammit, what kind of man would admit that to someone with…breasts. And hers were such nice breasts. Just the sight of them made him fidgety…and irritable, because he was pretty damn sure that there was nothing on his body that made her fidget
“If they worried me, would I have hired a guard who’s smaller than my damn boot?” he snapped.
She stiffened. Now he’d gotten her riled. But dammit, he wasn’t all that happy himself.
“You think I can’t do the job.”
“Listen. I hired you.” To tell the truth, he was tired and frustrated and just damned mad. All he’d wanted was to make music—that was all. He didn’t need the stardom. Yeah, the money was nice, but the schedule got wearing. Only the love of the fans never dulled, but now even that had a shadow over it. “I said I’d pay you good money and I ain’t backing out Just…” He spread a hand in front of him, feeling oddly desperate. It wasn’t like him to feel cornered. “Don’t crowd me.”
“And by crowding you, you mean, don’t do my job.”
“All I’m asking you to do is keep Sarge happy and stay out of my way.”
“That’s going to be hard to do while I’m guarding you.”
He straightened away from the sofa. “I can take care of myself.”
She stepped up to him, eyes narrowed like an angry cat’s. “No, you can’t. Someone’s out to get you and they mean business.”
“Well, I sure ain’t going to be hiding behind some little girl so she can prove she’s got—”
“Little girl! Listen—”
“I’m giving you the best of everything. Lots of money and no work.”
“Maybe I want the work.”
He stared at her. Her eyes looked enormous in her flushed face, and her breathing seemed to match his own. “Why?” he asked.
“Because that’s what I do.”
There was such intensity, such need in her voice that he was almost sucked into her emotions, but he drew himself carefully back. “Not with me, you don’t,” he said softly.
“That’s too bad.” She blew out a breath, her hands balled into fists as she stepped back a pace. “Your fans will be disappointed.”
“What?”
“When I sue you for sexual harassment. When I tell the reporters that I signed on in good faith only to find out you’re a groping lech.”
He tightened his fists, letting the anger boil in him, but keeping his tone level. “I haven’t groped…” He let the corner of his lips curl and remained where he was, though he wanted nothing more than to give her a good shaking. “Yet.”
“Nathan Fox is a legend,” she said in that sweet Southern drawl. “An all-round good guy. I’m sure the paparazzi will be interested in whatever I have to tell them.”
“Blackmail?” he asked, his voice marvelously even.
Her eyes hardened even further, though he wouldn’t have thought it possible. “I just want to do my job without any interference from you. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”
In the stillness, it seemed he could hear the thrum of his own pulse. “You just want to be one of the guys?” he asked.
“That’s right.” Her tone was stem, her small face somber. “Just one of the guys.”
“You don’t have the balls for it.”
“Try me,” she said, and turning, left the room.
ON FRIDAY, BRENNA WATCHED the road crew set up the stage, oversaw Nathan’s interview, took notes on a thousand minute details, and finally saw The Fox safely to his hotel room.
That night, dressed in panties and an oversized T-shirt she’d inherited from a brother, she sat cross-legged on her bed and went through more mail. There were hundreds of letters from all over the world. The majority of them were from women—a lot of gu
shers, a few marriage proposals, and a couple of really pathetic cases offering to bear his child.
It was long past midnight when she came across a letter that struck a familiar and disconcerting note in her sleep-fogged brain. Brenna shoved her gold-rimmed glasses farther up her nose and read it again. It was handwritten on pink stationery with a kitten at the top. The beginning read like most of the others, praising Nate’s musical talents and sexy good looks. It was just a couple of lines near the close that seemed out of place. Just a couple of lines, but it was enough.
“Take care of yourself, Nathan. Make sure you eat right A heart attack can be just as fatal as a bullet.”
What kind of woman would say that in a fan letter? And why? Did she know about Nathan’s eating habits? And if so, how? In all the articles Brenna had read, she’d never heard any mention of his love of food—everything else, but not that.
Brenna read the letter again, then again. It was signed Angela and postmarked Eureka, Nevada, but there was no return address. That, too, was strange. Surely a fan wouldn’t discourage any kind of return mail from her hero.
Tossing the letter aside, Brenna rose and stretched, her body tense and her mind buzzing. She needed to take better care of herself, but how could she do that when she spent the whole day dogging an overcharged superstar who exuded sex appeal and raw humor with mind-numbing regularity? Her first day of following him around had explained his lack of fat.
Circling her small sitting area, Brenna rolled her shoulders and tried not to think of how he had looked while talking to the latest batch of reporters. He’d dressed in nothing more shocking than a pair of black jeans, a chamois-colored corduroy shirt, and his huge, signature belt buckle. He’d left his hat behind and his eyes had sparkled with that deadly kind of mischief that would inspire the reporters to compare his eyes to something ridiculous, like maple syrup.
But they had not looked syrupy when they turned on her. No. For her, they registered flat rejection, as if she weren’t even there, even though she’d never been more than three steps behind him all day.
There was no more of that teasing innuendo, that nervetingling closeness. Just one of the guys, he’d said, but it was obvious she was less than that And it was a good thing too, Brenna reminded herself quickly.
He was her boss. And not only that, he was a chauvinistic boss with no more faith in her abilities than her own family had. She was here to prove him wrong, to prove them all wrong. To find out who was sending the letters, to stop the threats, to solve the mystery. And the key lay in the letters.
Turning wearily, Brenna retrieved another bag of mail and hauled it onto her bed.
“HEY, O’SHAY. YOU AWAKE?”
Brenna opened her eyes. Blank white made up her first view of the morning.
“Hey. Wake up.”
A minute ago the voice had come from the hall. But now it sounded from beside her bed. Brenna sat up with a start, a letter stuck to her cheek as she scrambled for a blanket. But she’d never burrowed under the covers. The paper that had been stuck to her cheek, fell away.
“Hey.” Nathan grinned down at her. “You ready to go?”
“What the hell are you doing in my room?” she rasped, trying to pull the worn T-shirt down over her knees.
“I have keys to all you guys’ rooms. We’re always getting our stuff mixed up. Makes life easier if we can just jump in there and dig it out.”
She moved her lips, trying to put words to why he couldn’t be here, but everything was foggy and dim, including her eyesight. Where had she put her glasses?
“Come on. Gotta get a wiggle on. We’re burning daylight,” he said.
“You…” She glanced frantically about Did she have a robe? Pants? What kind of panties had she worn, and were they visible from his vantage point? “You’re supposed to call me before you leave your room.”
“Yeah, well…” He sat down on the bed and casually pushed her bare feet aside. “My door was all of two yards from yours. I thought I could risk it.
“You got a little—” he motioned toward her cheek “—a little drool there.”
Brenna smacked her hand to the side of her face. The lines etched in her cheek by the letter were deep enough to plant turnip seeds. Sweet Mary! And here he was looking like something from a cowboy calendar, dressed in his usual jeans and white T-shirt.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. Her voice had all the charm of a cantankerous bullfrog.
“Time to go running. I knew you’d be madder than a bear cat if I went without you. But you’d best hurry and get ready before I’m out of the mood.”
She felt her jaw drop. What mood? Their gazes met.
He grinned. “For running.” He slapped her leg as if they were old buddies. “Come on, O’Shay. Get your mind out of the gutter.” He stood quickly and lifted yesterday’s slacks from a nearby chair. “You gotta have something better than this.” He turned toward her suitcase, which had been cautiously left outside her door the previous night. “Sweats in here?” he asked, and flipped her case open.
“I…” she began, but he was already rummaging through her underwear to her clothes underneath.
“Now we’re talking,” he said, pulled out a pair of gray, drawstring shorts, and tossed them to her. “Get dressed.”
“Get out!” She motioned vaguely toward the door. The words were a bit more high-pitched than she’d intended.
“And risk life and limb to any passerby?” he asked. “What if I get snuffed out? How would that look on your record? Come on now. Get in them shorts. You need a bra?”
Her eyes popped. His dropped to her chest.
“Yep. You do.” He turned away to rummage about in her luggage again.
For a moment she was beyond thought, but sitting here in her underwear didn’t seem like the best of options, so she slipped into her shorts and pulled the drawstring sloppily tight. She considered shoving her glasses on, then decided against it and hated herself for doing so.
“This it?” he asked, holding Victoria’s best secret in one hand. “Wow!” He examined it from close proximity, fingering the black lace and the thick underpadding. “You could use that for a body shield if you’re ever in a shoot-out huh? I really don’t think you need the extra—”
“Give me that!” She rose with a start and snatched it from his fingers.
“You’re kind of touchy for one of the guys. And pretty messy. You always like this?” he asked, sweeping his hand over the pile of loose letters.
“I was busy reading,” she said, and headed for the bathroom, but in a moment, she realized her mistake. Tromping back to her suitcase, she dropped the lacy article he’d retrieved and snatched up a sports bra.
“Yeah?” He watched her head back toward the bathroom. “How many marriage proposals were there?”
She slammed the door shut behind her. Nathan let his shoulders droop. Geez! Being around this woman was more likely to kill him than save him. First, he’d tried to act as if she were one of the guys. That had been a patent failure. So then he had attempted to pretend she simply didn’t exist. But it wasn’t in his character to ignore someone who had…well…breasts, and certainly not anyone like her.
The truth had been painfully obvious. He couldn’t ignore her or treat her like one of the guys. The guys didn’t have legs like that And the upper body thing! Geez! He paced around the corner of her bed. He was acting like a sex-crazed teenager. But there was just something about this woman. Okay, yeah, there was no shortage of women who were interested in him. But life on the road wasn’t exactly the wild orgy people thought it was. Early in his career he had been rather overwhelmed by his female fans’ adoration, and perhaps he’d done a few things he shouldn’t have, especially after Shauna Summers dumped him to move up the musical ladder. But he’d learned soon enough that that kind of nostrings-attached relationship wasn’t for him.
He was just a farm boy from North Dakota, and if his mom thought he was playing fast and loose with the wom
en, she’d march down here and box his ears.
The truth was, he no longer knew how to treat women, because he only met two types these days. There was the Shauna Summers type with all the ambition of a bulldozer and the emotional tenderness to match, and there was the type that saw him as some sort of traveling stud. In the end, he’d found it safest to simply concentrate on his music. To enjoy the good parts, get through the bad, and return each year to Five Crow Farm, his thousand-acre haven in the North.
He wished, in fact, that he were there now. Suddenly he felt decidedly melancholy. Turning toward the bed, he scowled at the letters. Even now they made his stomach feel vaguely sick, but dammit, he wasn’t going to let one harebrained lunatic get to him. He scowled at the thought Two days ago he would have said he wasn’t going to let a dozen harebrained lunatics get to him.
He turned brusquely toward the bathroom door, determined to improve his mood. And how better to do that than to harass a beautiful woman?
“Hey, O’Shay, what you doing in there?”
She didn’t answer. The thought that she might be as uncomfortable with the situation as he was brightened his mood considerably. So he knocked on the door with two knuckles. “I’m not going to have to come in there and make sure you’re all right, am I?”
He heard the water turn off just before the door opened with a jerk. “Has anyone ever told y’ you’re extraordinarily irritating?”
He drew back as if startled. “No, mostly they tell me I’m just a damned nice guy,” he said. He couldn’t help but grin, because she was the cutest little security guard he’d ever seen, what with her face fresh-scrubbed and her hair pulled back in a crinkled ponytail. He leaned close. She smelled like apricots. “You sure you’re thinking of the right fella?”
His Bodyguard Page 5