“Absolutely,” she said. Even her grouchy tone tickled him.
“It’s not too late to quit,” he said, “or be promoted.”
She raised one red eyebrow at him. “To what?”
He shoved his hands into his back pockets, hoping he looked boyish, and hoping even more that she wouldn’t slap him silly. “Who knows?” he said. “Make me a suggestion.”
Her full lips pursed and her brows scrunched over snapping green eyes. “I suggest you get out on the road, Fox, before I make good on my threat and slap you with sexual harassment.”
He grinned as he turned toward the door. “Slap me with anything you want, honey. Just tell me what position to assume.”
“Sweet Mary,” she murmured, and he laughed as they jogged down the hall and stopped at his room for him to change clothes.
It was a full hour later when they returned to their rooms. Sweaty, tired and sore, Brenna felt as if she’d been greased like a pig and whipped like a cur. For a man who confessed to being lazy, Nathan ran like a Thoroughbred.
“Tired?” he asked, leaning against his doorjamb as she slipped in the key card.
She shifted her gaze up to his. “You?”
He laughed. The sound seemed to come from somewhere deep inside his chest, and despite the tension between them, it made her insides go all gushy and her toes curl inside her sneakers.
“Not unless you are,” he said.
She stepped inside and he followed.
“Are you always this insecure, Fox?” she asked, glancing about the room before slipping into the next to make sure it was safe.
“Are you?” he asked.
She raised her brows in question.
He motioned toward her as she approached him again. “You planning on doing this every time I walk into a room?”
“Until I figure out who’s out to get you.”
“Will you quit sounding like Cagney?”
Despite herself, she couldn’t help but feel silly under his amused stare. And although the run had awakened her, comparing her disheveled state to his perfection for half an hour on the road hadn’t exactly put her spirits in peak form. “Maybe it’s time you start taking the threats more seriously, Fox.”
“I don’t think I could look as gloomy as you if I tried.”
“I do not look gloomy. I look professional.”
He laughed. “If you look that glum during rehearsal, there’ll be hell to pay. Paul’s as sensitive as a schoolgirl. If he looks up and sees you scowling like that he’s likely to think his timing’s off and burst into tears.”
“Rehearsal?”
He raised his brows. “In half an hour.”
“Half an hour?” She put her hand self-consciously to her hair, and he laughed, seeming to read her thoughts.
“Better get a wiggle on, honey. Who knows what evil might befall me during rehearsal.”
Brenna considered a half-dozen stinging rejoinders. But there was no time for any of them. Because she’d rather take a slug for him than look like a drowned ferret while he crooned out love songs to an imaginary audience.
THE REHEARSAL WAS MORE INFORMAL than Brenna had expected. She watched him as he hummed a couple of bars into the microphone, then she stopped a security guard as he passed by. Nathan and The Cowboys performed tonight, giving her very little time to prepare for the crowds.
But the security guard was none too helpful. He wasn’t certain how many men were assigned for that night’s performance, but managed to produce a map of the coliseum.
From up on stage, Brenna heard Nate make a couple of suggestions about lighting. She turned her attention back to the map, figuring how many guards she’d need front stage, back stage, near the exit.
“You coming?” Nathan asked, passing her at high speed, boots ringing on the concrete floor.
“Where you going?” She glanced up, mouth ajar. But he didn’t stop, giving her no choice but to hurry after him. She felt ridiculously like a snot-nosed kid chasing her big brother as she trotted along in his wake.
“Radio station. Got a car waiting.”
“I. thought you had to rehearse.”
“I did.”
The car was a stretch limousine. The driver opened the back door and Nate motioned her inside before him. For a moment she considered reminding him that she was not his date. But this hardly seemed the time, so she slipped onto the white leather seats. He slid in beside her.
In a moment, they were on their way. The upholstery was soft and cushy, the movement relaxing, making her realize how tired she was. She slumped a little deeper into the cushions. Nathan laid his arm across the back of the seat and stretched his half-mile legs out in front of him.
“Pretty cozy, huh?” he said, grinning down at her. “Kind of romantic?”
She sat up with a start. She should have known better than to relax around him. “I’ll need to have a copy of your agenda from now on.”
“Agenda?”
“Yeah. Your interviews, rehearsals, social functions…”
“Social functions? Are you saying you want me to check it out with you before I go on a date?”
She averted her gaze and glanced down at the map still in her hand. “I’m saying I need to be informed. And I’ll need a dossier on anyone you’re meeting with.”
She could feel his gaze on her face.
“Tell me, O’Shay, are you just trying to make my life hell for kicks or do you have ulterior motives?”
She lifted her gaze, and immediately wished she hadn’t, for once again the line about maple syrup eyes came to mind. How sappy was that! She raised her chin a notch. “Ulterior motives?”
“Maybe you’re just trying to make my social life so difficult that I won’t have any choice but to date you.”
“And maybe there’s not room for me in this car,” she said, keeping her voice Southern-sweet. “What with your ego and all.”
He stared at her for a moment and then laughed. “The great thing about you, O’Shay, is that you make them threat letters seem like a breath of fresh air,” he said, and turning toward the window, chuckled to himself.
5
BRENNA CHECKED HERSELF IN THE MIRROR. It was nearly time to leave the hotel for the auditorium. Nearly time for her most crucial test. She’d met with the usual security guards, discussed a hundred details with Sarge, and memorized the layout of the auditorium.
Now, dressed in a sleeveless ivory jumpsuit with a short, matching jacket, she looked professional enough, while still not resembling a pit bull. She hoped. Brenna bit her lip, wondering if she’d gone too far with her hair. She’d pinned it up at the back of her head. But it had looked harsh and old-fashioned, so she’d pulled a few tendrils loose and let them fall down beside her ears. It had only taken a few minutes. Still, she felt somewhat guilty, as if looking good was somehow at odds with her profession. But Fox had made it very clear that he had no desire to be followed around by a trained mastiff.
So surely a spritz of perfume wouldn’t hurt.
She reached for the bottle and dispensed the spray without allowing another fretful thought, then hurried toward the door.
But his knock came before she reached it.
“Hey, O’Shay, you—”
She jerked it open. “You’re supposed to call me before you leave your room!”
His mouth fell open.
“Geez, O’Shay, you look really…not like one of the guys.”
She was not going to blush, she told herself, and cleared her throat “Call me next time.”
He dropped a shoulder against the doorjamb. “Why?”
“Listen, Fox, I’m not your date. I’m your bodyguard.”
He leaned closer, looking hopelessly boyish, with his hat in his hand and his bone-colored shirt buttoned to the collar. “Can’t you be both?” he asked.
She opened her mouth to object, but he laughed and motioned her forward.
“Car’s waiting.”
The trip from the hotel to the
auditorium was quick and without incident The band talked amongst themselves, allowing Brenna to contact her counterparts by the headset which was wired to her belt.
At their destination, Brenna stepped out first, made certain the path to the auditorium was clear and safe, and allowed Nate and his band to hurry inside.
After that, the evening rushed by as if on wheels. Brenna scurried from one place to the next, watching the crowd, making certain the band’s entrance stayed clear, maintaining radio contact with the driver, Sarge, and the local guards.
The opening act wound up its performance. Brenna rushed backstage, knocked once, then spent an agonizing moment wondering if she should just pop inside. After all, it wasn’t as if Fox had wasted any respect for her modesty. But before she had found a solution to the debate, the door opened and Nathan stepped out with the others behind him.
“Ready?” she asked, tense as a fiddle string and hyped as a racehorse.
Nathan, on the other hand, looked as calm as an eggplant “For what?” he asked, leaning close.
“Your performance.”
“Oh.” He chuckled. “Yeah. You nervous?”
“No!” She said it too quickly.
“Good.” Closer still. “Would you slap me for sexual harassment if I said you look great?”
“Probably not.”
“How ‘bout if I said you smell good enough to eat?”
“Over the line, Fox.”
“How far over?” he asked.
“Get out of here,” she said, and he laughed.
They trooped through the coliseum. Brenna saw them safely to the stage, listened to the applause roar up, then scurried around the front to watch the crowd. Everything seemed to be secure, in place, safe.
Brian Mueller started playing the fiddle. The crowd fell quiet, and then Nathan opened his performance with a rowdy drinking song that had the fans on their feet and singing along in minutes.
“Ms. O’Shay?” a voice shouted above the noise.
Brenna turned to find a hulking security guard addressing her. “Smitty, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. I just wanted to double-check about them exit routes. You want more than one, right?”
“That’s right. I don’t want the whole band going out the same door.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t want—” she began, louder this time, then took the big man’s arm and ushered him to a quieter spot where she could dispense instructions. A hundred details sped by before she could return inside.
By then the mood of the music had changed dramatically. Nathan stood center stage, his hat gone and the top two buttons of his shirt undone. Perspiration shone on his face and his hair gleamed in the harsh overhead lights. But it was his expression, both in his music and on his face, that drew the attention of every soul in the place. The song was a simple melody, a story set to music, conjuring up a thousand poignant images. It was the tale of a young boy who grew up alone. As a teenager, he never fit in. As a young man, his love was rejected.
Despite herself, Brenna felt the music fill her, felt the emotion build.
Nathan lifted one open hand before him, as if in supplication for love, and though Brenna called herself a thousand kinds of fool, she couldn’t help being sucked in by the mood.
But suddenly a movement caught her attention. A woman was descending the aisle, hurrying toward the stage.
Brenna’s carefully honed battle instincts rushed to the fore. She launched forward. But Smitty was already on the job. He apprehended the woman some twenty feet from the stage and bent to talk to her.
Brenna watched from close proximity as the woman turned back. Nathan sang on, his tone no less alluring. But suddenly, the woman turned, bolted past the hulking guard, and sprinted for the stage.
Without thought, without premeditation, Brenna sprang into action. She snagged the galloping woman just before she reached her destination.
“Let me go.” The woman was, as they say in the movies, drunk and disorderly—a hard-faced gal with hair dyed blond and enough makeup to keep the trowel stock high.
“You’ll have to take your seat,” Brenna said, keeping a firm hold on her arm.
“Let go of me!” Her voice was rising.
Brenna dropped her arm. “Take your seat.”
She staggered a little. “I just want to give him my phone number.”
“I’ll tell you what, give it to me, and I’ll make sure he gets it.”
The woman looked her over, then snorted. “Right,” she said and tried to shove Brenna aside.
Brenna swept her arms away with a side block, then reached in, grabbed her by one wrist and forced it up behind her back. “Get your butt in a seat,” she growled, “or I’ll have it thrown out of here faster than it takes your makeup to gel.”
“Sorry about that,” rumbled Smitty from beside her.
“Not your fault,” Brenna assured him. “See her to her seat And make sure you get her phone number to give to Mr. Fox.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
Brenna dropped her arm, then skimmed the crowd again as Smitty escorted their runaway back up the aisle.
All seemed well, so Brenna went up the stairs and out of sight from the hundreds of people that packed the seats. Sweet Mary, she felt as if her heart was going to leap out of her chest, and her hands were shaking like wind chimes in a hurricane.
But what a rush!
“What are you doing here?” someone asked from behind.
Brenna spun toward the voice. And there, not ten feet away, stood her youngest brother.
“Brady!”
“Don’t you ‘Brady’ me. We’ve been worried sick ‘bout you.” He wore that tough-guy expression he used to use when they played commandos together. It brought back a hundred aged memories, and with them, a rush of vintage guilt.
“What are you doing—running off without so much as a goodbye? We thought you’d up and got yourself murdered or something.”
“I sent Shamus a letter,” Brenna said and glanced nervously toward the doorway to the auditorium, hoping no one would see this encounter.
“Yeah. And you said you were going to be some singer’s traveling secretary. Not a damned bodyguard! What were you thinking—lying to Bartman and everything?”
She felt herself pale. “You didn’t tell him, did you?”
“I probably should have. But he’s sure to figure it out for himself. Someone called him just the other day. Asked if they had a guard named O’Shay.”
“Someone called?” Her knees felt weak. “Who?”
“How the hell would I know?”
“Was it Fox? No! It couldn’t have been. Was it a man? What kind of voice? Did he—”
“Dammit, Brenna! I just came to bring you home.”
She straightened. “How did you find me?”
“I’m a cop, Brenna. You think I can’t track down my own sister?”
In fact, she’d known they would find her eventually. But she’d thought that by then she would have proven her ability. “Well.” She shrugged, but she couldn’t help feeling that she was five again, even with her youngest brother. “You found me. So you go on home and tell everyone I’m fine.”
He snorted again. “Not without you, I’m not. Shamus said to bring you home.”
“You told Shamus where I was?” Oh, no! It was bad enough having Brady here. But Shamus was the oldest of the six of them, and had always been the undisputed ringleader of the commando squad. It was he, in fact, who decided Brenna could no longer be a cop once their mother died. After that, she’d been lucky to be one of the robbers. Though, if the truth be known, she’d made a damn fine thief.
“’Course I told Shamus,” Brady said. “You think we was just going to let you get yourself killed somewhere?”
“I’m not going to…” One of the security guards passed by. She straightened her back and lowered her voice. “I’m not going to get myself killed, and I’m not seven years old, Brady. I’m twenty-thre
e. Old enough to make my own decisions.”
“So you decided to be a bodyguard? Brenna! What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking I’ve got a job to do and I’m damn good at it. So you hike on back to Poplar Springs and call off the hounds,” she said, and pivoted away, heart thumping and nerves jamming.
But she didn’t get fifteen feet down the aisle before Brady caught her arm. “This is crazy, Brenna.”
She yanked her arm from his grasp. “What’s crazy is that you can’t let me live my own life.”
“Shamus said to bring you home, so I’m bringing you home,” he said, and pulled her close.
“What do you think you’re doing, bub?” asked Smitty from her immediate right.
“I’m not looking for any trouble,” Brady said. “I’m just having a conversation with my—”
“Take your hands off her and back away.”
“Listen,” Brady began. “I’m a—”
“Get out of here now and I won’t cause you any trouble,” Brenna whispered. “But keep this up and I swear you’ll regret it.”
“I’ve got to do it,” he said. “Come on.”
He gave her arm a tug, but training and adrenaline made it simple to break free. Brady stepped in close, and she gave him a light knuckle punch to the belly. He doubled over in surprise, and in that second she reached around quick as light. Snatching his wallet from his back pocket, she stashed it up her sleeve.
Smitty was staring openmouthed at the doubled-over man. When he turned his gaze to Brenna, his eyes were wide with either admiration or shock, she wasn’t sure which.
“Do you want me to turn him over to the police, ma’am?”
She didn’t hesitate for a moment. “I think you’d better, Smitty. I told him twice he couldn’t bring alcoholic beverages in here. I guess he took it personally.”
“Had a little too much to drink, buddy?” Smitty asked, taking hold of Brady’s arm.
“Brenna!” Brady warned.
“I think he’s delusionary,” Brenna said. “He seems to think he knows me. Better let him sleep it off in jail.”
His Bodyguard Page 6