“I thought maybe.”
“Yeah, I’m drunk as a skunk. I mean, I’m sloppy drunk. So I don’t know. Could be I still got feelings for her, or maybe I’m still in love with the idea.”
“What idea?”
“Of having a woman. A woman who cares, you know, ’bout me. Not about The Fox. ‘Bout me.”
Somehow his wrist had flopped over her thigh, and her hip was pressed quite firmly against his waist His dark hair was damp and brushed away from his bruised forehead, and his discolored face looked painfully vulnerable.
“You think that’s too much to ask, O’Shay? Love, marriage, maybe a couple of kids that call me dad. Or daddy like you say down here. Ty and Hannah, they got them a little daughter—Amanda,” he said dreamily. “If I had me a daughter I’d spoil her rotten.”
He made it sound achingly sweet Her heart did a painful little twist in her chest But it wasn’t her dream, not her dream at all. This was her dream—to be in law enforcement, to prove herself. She swallowed and didn’t even try to talk.
He lifted his hand to her cheek and brushed his nail pads, soft as thistledown, against her cheek. She closed her eyes to the shiver of feelings.
“I can imagine you as a little girl,” he whispered. “All giggles and hugs. Little…” He thought for a moment, his expression somber, his eyes intense. “Brenda? Bonnie? Bridget?” he guessed.
She didn’t help him out, but he didn’t seem to care.
“Your daddy must of been so proud he could bust.”
She closed her eyes, trying to hold back the emotions, but it was no use. He drew out some horribly weak part deep inside her. There was no hope for it. Leaning forward, she touched her lips to his.
He slipped a hand behind her neck, urging her gently closer. The caress deepened. Brenna’s heart slammed against the hard plane of his chest. She trembled in his arms. His fingers slipped over her shoulder, down her arm…and fell to the bed.
She started, glanced at his hand, limp against the coverlet, then hurried her gaze to his face.
Damn it all. He was asleep.
“FOX.” BRENNA KNOCKED LIGHTLY on his door. It was only seven in the morning. But she’d been up for hours. Now, showered, dressed, and composed, she swore she could face him like a professional. She knocked again. “Fox?”
“If you don’t have a medical diploma, go away.”
“Fox,” she called again, but he didn’t answer, so she pushed her key into his lock and let herself in.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed and glanced up when she stepped into his sleeping quarters. He looked like hell.
“How do I look?”
“Not bad,” she lied.
He laughed, but it sounded rather like a croak. “You ought to take lying lessons, O’Shay. I look like hell.”
“I wouldn’t say hell…exactly.”
He dropped his face gently back into his hands and chuckled.
She grinned and stepped forward. “I brought you something.”
“Is it a forty-five?”
“I don’t think suicide’s the answer.”
“You’re right, I might as well just wait and die a natural death. I don’t think it’ll be much longer.”
“Here.” She sat down beside him and nudged his elbow with the ceramic cup she held in her hand.
He peeked at it through his swollen eye. “What is it?”
“My secret weapon for hangovers.”
“You an expert?”
“Kind of. My brothers liked for me to play nurse.”
“You got brothers?”
“Five of them. All big-drinking Irishmen and not a casualty yet”
“Yeah?” He straightened slightly, trying to see into the cup. But she kept the top carefully covered with her hand. “What’s in it?”
“I told you it’s a secret. You have to drink it all right down.”
“Then I’ll be cured?”
“Well, pretty soon.”
“Promise?”
He looked pathetic. Almost pathetic enough to make her warn him that the cure was nearly as bad as the malady. “Promise,” she said.
“Okay.” He reached for the cup.
“Plug your nose.”
“Huh?”
“Plug your nose. Swallow it all.”
“Got it,” he said, took the cup, downed the contents, then sat there with his eyes as big as dinosaur eggs as he gasped for breath.
Brenna pried the cup from his fingers, then quickly stood and cleared a path to the bathroom.
It took only a couple of seconds before he launched from the bed and sprang for the toilet
Brenna turned her back and made faces at the wall as disgusting sounds echoed through the room. Finally, there was a lull, then the sound of running water and tooth-brushing.
Nearly five minutes passed before Nathan emerged. He dragged himself to the bed, curled up on the mattress, and stared blankly at the wall. “It was you, wasn’t it?”
Brenna stepped carefully closer. She’d learned early on that some people appreciated her cure more than others. “Me what?”
“You sent the letters, didn’t you? You’re the one trying to kill me.”
She laughed a little. “It’s not that bad. Really. You’ll feel better in a minute.”
“I’ll be dead in a minute,” he croaked.
Nervously, she sat back down on the mattress. “I wanted to apologize.”
“So I really am going to die?”
She smiled, knowing she shouldn’t sit so close. Knowing she was playing with fire and was fresh out of asbestos. “I, um…I think I was overzealous.”
The room was silent.
“At the gas station,” she added. “I shouldn’t have decked that guy.” She glanced at his muscular torso where his shirt flopped open, baring far too much skin for her to think properly. “I know you could have handled him. It’s just that…” She let out a breath. “Sometimes people don’t take me seriously. Y’ know…my being a bodyguard. It could be I’ve been trying too hard.”
Nathan remained as he was for a moment, then reached up to gently brush his knuckles along her cheek. “Could be I’ve been acting like an ass,” he said, his voice a soft caress.
Desire sparked through her. She looked away, trying to calm her hormones, but that was about as effective as a garden hose on an inferno. “I was thinking we could start over.”
“Good idea,” he murmured.
One kiss. Just one kiss, her mind whispered. She shushed the nasty little voice. “On a strictly professional basis.”
He brushed the ridge of her lower lip with his thumb. A shiver ran through her, fine as gossamer.
“Professional,” he whispered.
“I’m, um…” She tried to keep breathing as his fingers skimmed her jaw then ran up the outer shell of her ear. “I’m your bodyguard.”
“Right.”
His hand slipped beneath her hair. Brenna closed her eyes to the delicious feelings.
“We won’t let it be anything else,” she whispered.
“Of course not” He gently urged her closer.
She was breathing hard through her parted lips. “No matter how badly I want to.”
“I want to, too,” he murmured, and she was lost His lips touched hers.
“Fox.” Knuckles rapped on the door a moment before it was swung open.
Brenna jumped like a cat from a skillet The cup flew out of her hand, bounced off the wall, and landed spinning on the carpet.
“Whoa!” Fry said, his eyebrows out of sight
“This isn’t…I didn’t…This isn’t what it seems,” Brenna stuttered.
“Really?” If Fry’s grin got any bigger, his head would split wide open.
“I just…Nathan needed…He wasn’t…” Brenna took a deep breath and momentarily wished she were dead. “I brought him some medicine.”
“Really? You sick, Nate?”
Nathan stared point blank at the fiddler. “Why are you here, Fry
?”
Surprisingly, his grin could get bigger. “Sarge says it’s time to hit the road.”
“Oh, yeah. I’ll just…I’ll get my things,” Brenna said, and torpedoed from the room.
THE NEXT THREE DAYS PASSED in a blur of necessary activities. They were on the road for long hours, allowing Brenna to draw away from Fox’s side while still knowing he was safe.
Nathan played with lyrics, Brian spent time on the phone with his wife, and Nuf, true to his usual demeanor, fell off the top of the couch twice and once got his claw caught in the ring of a soda can. He clanked around for a good five minutes before anyone saved him from further humiliation.
As for Brenna, she skimmed letters, studied maps, contemplated agendas, contacted a dozen security agencies, and absolutely refused to relive those few moments when Nathan’s lips had touched her own.
She was his bodyguard. His bodyguard! Nothing else. He was her employer, she reminded herself repeatedly. Each time she was forced to address him, she maintained as much physical and emotional distance as possible between them, calling him Mr. Fox, and refusing, absolutely refusing, to touch him unless there was no alternative.
Somewhere between Fort Worth and Albuquerque they had a tire blowout. The delay threw them off schedule. By the time they reached Phoenix, Nathan had to rush to his first interview, followed by a stint with a radio station. Brenna went with him. While he was on the air, she contacted Atlas to check on the condition of the buses and insist that they be completely checked over by a reliable mechanic.
The remainder of the afternoon was just as hectic—an autographing session at a local mall, a picture with the mayor.
After Nathan’s final obligation, it was nearly dark. Brenna positioned herself as far from him as possible and tried to pretend he was short and balding and fat. But her imagination had never been that good.
Slumped against the corner of the limousine, Brenna watched Nathan pull an envelope from his pocket and thumb through a pile of photographs in the waning light.
“Which one do you like?” he asked, handing her the pictures.
Brenna took the stack from his hand. Each photograph boasted a horse, all pintos, though some were professional shots and some obviously amateur.
“A new purchase?” she asked, glancing up.
He shook his head. “Jack Simmons’ horses. For a video shoot.”
“I thought you had a ranch, complete with horses and everything.”
“Yeah, well…” He glanced out the window. “I don’t have paint horses, and paint horses are the up-and-coming thing. Fastest growing breed in America. Sarge said if they put me on a paint horse folks’ll notice.”
Brenna laughed. But when Nathan turned to her, his face was sober, though somewhat quizzical.
“I’m sorry.” She felt foolish, fatigued and underfed. She was going to have to remember to eat more. Because when her blood sugar dropped, she had a propensity for making a fool of herself. “I thought you were joking.”
“Joking?”
Sweet Mary, he was beautiful, his face chiseled and shadowed. Suddenly there seemed little reason to pretend otherwise. “They’re not going to notice the color of your horse,” she said.
His expression softened a little. “Is that a compliment, O’Shay?”
“No!” A little too sharp. She was more tired than she’d realized. “I’m just saying, I don’t see what difference the color of the horse would make.”
He grinned a little. “So you think I could ride my own mare?”
There wasn’t a woman in America who’d give a rip if he put on a sackcloth and rode a damn camel. As long as they could stare at him they’d be thrilled, Brenna thought, but found enough control to keep her foolish ideas to herself.
“It’s not my area,” she said. “I’m sure Sarge knows what he’s doing.”
Nathan shrugged. “He’s never cared much about horses.”
She said nothing and turned carefully back toward the window. Looking at him when her inhibitions were down was not such a good idea. And the thought of him on horseback did bad things to her libido. When she was ten she’d begun taping pictures of horses up on her wall. When she was twelve she switched to pictures of cowboys. But her favorites had always been cowboys on horses.
“How ‘bout you?”
“What?” She nearly jumped, then sternly reminded herself that he could not read her mind. He didn’t know that they shared a common interest. And it would stay that way, allowing her to maintain her distance.
“Do you know horses?”
“No.”
He stared at her. He couldn’t read her mind. Could he?
“Well.” She cleared her throat “You know—girls and horses. They’re supposed to be inseparable.”
“Yeah.” He grinned. “Why do you think I rodeo?”
She tried to turn away, but he was…well…breathing. And that seemed to be all that was necessary to snare her attention. “To impress the cowgirls?” she guessed.
“You got it Skippa Lula, she’s—”
“You have a Skipper horse?”
He stared at her. “You know more about horses than you’re telling, O’Shay.”
Damn. There was something wrong with her. “I just…” She shrugged, feeling stupid. “A friend of mine’s momma raised quarter horses.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I helped out sometimes. At shows and stuff. Then they’d let me ride Pineapple.”
“Palomino, I bet,” he guessed.
She smiled, both at his deduction and at the memories. “He was older than dirt, but I loved him. When my brothers wouldn’t—” She stopped herself abruptly.
The silence was heavy as a rock.
“I think you can tell me a little about yourself without the risk of being attacked, O’Shay. Maybe even your name.”
She didn’t offer.
“This is a strictly professional relationship, remember?” he said.
“The story just isn’t very interesting.”
“Really? Why don’t you tell it to me then? Maybe it’ll put me to sleep. When your brothers wouldn’t what?”
“Oh, look at the fountain,” she said, turning to stare at the lighted cascade of water. But she couldn’t avoid his gaze forever.
“When they wouldn’t what?” he repeated.
She shrugged, hoping she looked irritable. “I was the only girl. They got tired of playing with me.”
“Don’t think that’d be possible,” he murmured.
She drew herself straighter. “Mr. Fox—”
He lifted his hands as if in surrender. “Just trying to pass the time, O’Shay. I think of you in professional terms only.” He said to the driver, “You can pull up to that first bus.”
The chauffeur did so, sweeping around a turn and coming to a halt a few feet from the tour bus.
Brenna stepped out of the car first. Nathan spoke a few words to the driver, then followed her out.
In a moment, the limo pulled away.
Brenna’s jaw dropped. “Aren’t we going to the hotel?”
“I don’t feel like eating restaurant food. Thought maybe I’d do some cooking. Then if you want, we could sleep here.”
“I can’t stay alone with—” she began frantically, then stopped herself. “I mean, I think it would be safer to—”
He grinned as he ushered her toward the bus. “I trust you.”
“What?”
“To protect me,” he said, opening the door.
“Oh.” She’d thought he meant he trusted her not to take advantage of him, but maybe even he wasn’t that foolish. She stepped into the bus, and he followed.
“I am safe with you, aren’t I?” he asked.
“Of course, you—” she began to say, but just then she noticed the laughter in his tone. She turned toward him, peeved and fatigued.
It was then that the shadow lurched over her.
8
THE SHADOW LOOMED OVER BRENNA, a huge crooked figure
, an extended arm. A gun! Brenna froze, terror choking her. She’d been careless, distracted. And now it was too late.
“Time’s up, Fox.”
His words mimicked Brenna’s thoughts, mocking her. And it was those words that tore her from her paralysis. Spinning desperately about, she slammed her heel into the attacker’s hand. His gun flew sideways. She swiveled in, grabbed his arm, and yanked him over the top of her bent body.
He grunted. Nuf yowled, and Nate shouted. But Brenna delayed not a moment. Dodging in, she pounced atop the intruder, her hands drawn back and ready to strike lest he make the slightest move.
“O’Shay!” Nathan yelled. “Are you all…” He switched the light on, and his words trailed off.
“Call the police,” she gasped, her gaze not leaving the attacker for a moment.
“What—” the villain began.
“Shut up!” She repeated to Nathan, “Call the police!”
“But…”
“Not now. He may have another weapon.”
“Another?” Nathan cleared his throat and stepped closer. “Another weapon?”
“Stay back! Leave the gun where it’s at”
“Gun?”
She scowled, but didn’t take her gaze from the attacker. “If you’re feeling woozy, sit down, Fox, but for God’s sake, call the police.”
“All right. But I need to ask one question. Why are you sitting on my brother?”
She opened her mouth to snap out an answer. It was then that she realized her mistake, that she saw the family resemblance.
The man she was sitting on was, perhaps, a few years older than Nathan, and his hair was a couple of shades darker, but they shared the same chiseled features, the same hard-bodied physique. Beneath her buttocks, abdominal muscles bunched like an angry bull’s.
“Your…” She couldn’t force out the word for a moment, and chanced a glance at Nathan. He stood with his arms crossed. “Your brother?”
“Tyrel.”
She winced. “You’re sure?”
“Pretty sure.” He nodded almost apologetically. “Tyrel, meet B. T. O’Shay. O’Shay, Ty.”
“But…” She flickered her attention back to the face of the fellow beneath her. Oh no. Not another person to scurry out of her way every time she walked by. “But you had a gun,” she murmured.
His Bodyguard Page 9