His Bodyguard

by Greiman, Lois

  But once outside, he stood still and listened, listened for the sound of her zipper, the drop of her shoes, and grinned. Then, remembering to play smart, he padded away.

  It was difficult to tell exactly how long to wait before he reentered his bedroom. He didn’t want to appear too early and scare her off. So he counted to twenty, tossed his jacket on the couch, unbuttoned his shirt so she could see his scar, and paced once around the sitting room. Then he hurried back to the bedroom door.

  One quick knock with his knuckles. “O’Shay?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You decent? I forgot my toothpaste.”

  “Um, yeah. I guess.”

  Oh God! She wasn’t sure. That could only be a good sign, he thought, and cracked the door. “Sorry,” he said and stepped inside.

  She was wearing his flannel shirt. The sleeves drooped past her fingertips and the green plaid made her eyes seem to swallow her face. Beneath its hem, her legs were bare and smooth.

  He tried to control his breathing. But a little demon had taken control of his lungs, squeezing them like a bellows. She stood beside the bed where she’d neatly piled her clothes, shoes on top, and blinked at him like a fawn ready to scamper for cover.

  “Well…” He moved past her to the case beside the bed, but the space was narrow, and their arms brushed. He remembered to breathe and move on. Dipping his hand into his case, he found his toothpaste and straightened. He knew he shouldn’t stare at her. He knew he shouldn’t. And yet…“Lucky shirt,” he said softly.

  Her lips parted slightly, and for a second he thought she might come to him, but in a moment her fists tensed.

  “Sorry,” he said quickly and took a step toward her. “I…uh…I’d like to thank you.”

  She remained where she was. It was funny—she could be as fierce as a badger in a pinch, or she could be like this, all feathery softness and eyes as big as the sky.

  “I’m just doing my job,” she said.

  He almost smiled, because her words were so adorable when she was standing there in his oversized shirt and silk boxer shorts.

  “This may be above and beyond the call of duty,” he said and grinned a little.

  The corner of a smile tilted her lips.

  He took two more steps nearer and now, because he couldn’t help himself, he touched her face. “I won’t forget it,” he murmured. “Not for as long as I live.” Her hair was soft, conjuring up a hundred tactile images in his mind.

  “When I was a boy we used to go trail riding every fall. Sometimes I’d find milkweed pods and break them open. The down was as soft as silk. I’d slide my fingers through it and feed it to the wind as I rode along.” He smoothed her hair gently back, skimming his fingers along her jaw and across her ear. “Your hair feels like that. Like freedom and wind and homespun dreams.”

  Her shiver was almost imperceptible, but he felt it nevertheless. There was nothing he could do but touch his lips to hers. The caress was like magic, like the spark of a firefly, bright as hope, warm as summer. But he didn’t rush it, didn’t dare.

  And she came to him. Her lips moved gently against his, and her hand, narrow and delicate and cautious as a fawn, slipped beneath his shirt. He almost moaned against the ecstasy of that simple touch, almost lifted her in his arms and carried her to bed. But he did not. Instead, he let her lead the way.

  Their kiss deepened, her hand slipped sideways, rippling across his abdomen. He pulled back slightly and sucked in his breath, forcing himself to remain still beneath her tentative touch. Her fingertips were like magic, setting him ablaze as they trailed upward, exploring, touching, brushing over his pectoral, his nipple. He gritted his teeth at the fierce sensations. Her hand cupped his chest, trailed along the muscle, taut with tension, beneath his arm and then around to his back.

  Nathan could wait no longer. Gently brushing aside her collar, he kissed her throat. The softness of her skin was like Scotch, hot, rich, and intoxicating. He moved lower. Her top button sighed open and he kissed her there. Another button, another kiss, at the top of her breast this time.

  She gasped, but didn’t move, one fist clasped tight in his shirt, the other lying flat against his burning side. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Too fast.” He felt taut with desire and the burning need for discipline. “Sorry. I’m doing my best…” He fought to control his breathing. “Trying not to scare you.”

  “What?” The word was a whisper against his cheek.

  He snapped his gaze to hers, knowing immediately that he’d made a mistake. “I mean, I’m sorry I was scared. It’s not very…macho.”

  “That’s not what you said. You said you’re trying not to scare me.”

  Oh damn! “I’m trying not to be scared,” he said. “Having you here makes me forget—” he scanned for possibilities “—forget that someone broke into the sanctity of my room. Dared—”

  “You were never scared,” she said, her tone tight.

  Damn! It was the word sanctity that had given him away. It was too big for a simple guy like him. Cowboys should stick to words like “shucks” and “dang.” “I was scared. I am scared,” he countered. And it was true. He was afraid she’d never let him near her. Never let him past her guard, into her trust, into her heart

  “Tell me the truth,” she rasped.

  “Well…”

  “You weren’t!” she said, pushing him away. “It’s all a game to you. Nathan Fox, superstar—lionized, idolized, invincible. You don’t believe you need a bodyguard, and even if you did, you wouldn’t believe in me. You never did.”

  “That’s not true,” he said, stepping toward her, hand outstretched.

  She slapped it away, stirring frustration up inside him.

  “Yes, it is. You just think I’m a…woman!”

  He raised his brows at her, trying to control his own latent temper, but frustration was taking its toll, especially when he was watching her breasts rise and fall beneath the soft fabric of his shirt. And in the sharp V where he’d released the buttons, he could see the soft curves of her breasts. “You’re not a woman?” he asked, trying to lighten the mood.

  She ground her teeth and grabbed her clothes from the bed.

  “I’ve got to admit you had me fooled,” he said.

  She growled something unintelligible and threw a shoe at him.

  He ducked. It glanced off his shoulder.

  “I’m leaving!” she snarled and stormed toward the door.

  He trailed after her, trying to think of something clever to say, but “I’m sorry” seemed pathetically weak, and “Please stay” seemed dangerous. So he kept silent, but in a moment she stopped on her own and pivoted wildly toward him.

  “No, I’m not leaving,” she said. “It’d be just like you to think it funny to go and get yourself killed. And I’m too good a bodyguard to let that happen. I’m sleeping on the couch. And if you so much as touch my toe—” She stabbed a finger at him. It barely reached past the plaid cuff. “They’ll have to carry you to the stage on a gurney. You understand me?”

  He should keep his mouth shut, march into his bedroom and stay there like a whipped cur. But his temper drained away in the face of her delectable cuteness.

  “I know it’s a cliché, but you really are—” he began.

  “If you say I’m beautiful when I’m angry, I’m going to beat you to death with my shoe!”

  “Oh. Well…” He backed toward the door, trying to contain a smile. “Good night then.” Slipping inside, he pushed the door nearly closed, then peeked past the edge. “But you really are cute when you’re mad,” he said and thumped the door shut.

  Her shoe hit it dead center.

  Yep, Nathan thought from the safe side. He’d handled that pretty damn well.

  12

  BRENNA TOSSED AND TURNED that night, but there was no need, for no one disturbed her. By the time Nathan stepped out of his room in the morning, she was fully dressed and emotionally armed. Or as armed as she could be against his
sleepy allure.

  He made no reference to the night before, neither to the letter nor to his own duplicitous behavior. Instead, he shifted back into casual banter, as if she were one of the boys again.

  They went running. She followed him down the streets of Omaha and watched his back. He asked her to join him for breakfast She refused, and he refused to allow her to stand by his table like a proper guard, so she sat across from him and watched him eat. Late that morning, he ordered a car around and they drove to the nearest Western store, where he stood for an hour and tried on hats and shirts and jeans, and asked her opinion about the fit of each. So she watched his…well, pretty much everything. In the end, he purchased a Western cut jacket he hadn’t even tried on and insisted on buying her a pair of snakeskin boots. She refused, of course, but he swiped away her objections and kneeling down in front of her, insisted on helping her try them on.

  It was a bad idea, because her legs were one of the few places that weren’t already tingling from watching his everything all day. Refusing to sit down, she stared down at his bent back, watching his cotton shirt stretch tight over his flexing muscles and his tight backside press against the seams of his jeans.

  By five o’clock that night, Brenna was cranked tighter than The Fox’s guitar strings. She was primed for trouble, almost hoping for it, but Nathan’s performance went without a hitch. Still, revved with energy, she made certain she was everywhere at once, checking everything from the electrical wiring to the security systems, and interrogating everyone but Nuf if he so much as crossed Nathan’s path.

  Outside, it was raining hard and steady. Lightning crashed, making her jumpy and tense.

  But finally, she heard the beginning of The Cowboys’ final song. It was a soft, romantic number. She felt herself lulled by the magic of his music, remembering his touch, the look in his eyes, the…

  No. Damn it! He didn’t believe in her. Never believed in her. Thought she was a silly girl pretending she was a man, and she—

  “Brenna.”

  She jumped at the sound of her name.

  “Patrick!” Her brother’s dark hair was dripping wet, his expression somber. “What are you doing here?”

  He scowled. “You know exactly what I’m doing here. The question is, what the hell are you doing here, girl?”

  She straightened her back slightly. Being called “girl” was only slightly preferable to being called “butch.” “I’m doing a job, Patrick,” she said, keeping her tone even. “Go away.”

  He had always had a quick temper. It shone in his eyes now. “You’re being idiotic, is what you’re doing,” he said. “I came to bring you home.”

  The anger boiled higher. “What?”

  “Listen, maybe you don’t know it, but we’ve been worried terrible about you, and I’m not gonna let you get yourself killed because of some wild notion you got—”

  “Wild notion?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wild notion? Listen here, Patrick Kevin O’Shay, I am not going back with you. So you can just march back to—”

  “I’m not marching anywhere without you. Shamus said to bring you home and that’s just what I’m gonna do,” he said and grabbed her arm.

  She struck without thinking, jabbing him one hard strike to the xiphoid process. He stumbled back.

  Brenna winced, but her back was still up. “Now you go home, Patrick,” she ordered him, knowing Nathan would soon be exiting the stage. “Go home and leave me alone.”

  She turned away, but in that moment, he launched toward her from a bent position. She heard him coming and swung around, but he was already upon her. Her elbow hit him square in the nose. He skipped to a halt, but his shoes were wet, and the floor slippery. His feet slid out from under him. His arms windmilled for an abbreviated second, and then he fell, flat on his back on the concrete floor.

  The back of his head hit an instant later. He lay there still and limp.

  Brenna gasped and rushed up to him. But when she dared touched her fingers to his throat, she found his heartbeat normal and his breathing regular.

  “Jesus, O’Shay, what happened?” asked Fry, the first to exit the stage.

  Brenna rose, bit her lip, and tried not to wince as the other musicians gathered behind him.

  “He refused to leave,” she said lamely.

  “Leave where?”

  “The backstage. No one’s allowed backstage. You know that.” Her voice was getting stronger, and a good thing too, because it looked as if Patrick was beginning to come to.

  “Maybe he’s the guy who’s been writing the letters,” Mueller suggested.

  “No!” Brenna’s voice sounded a bit panicked to her own ears. Her brothers might be an overbearing clan of Neanderthals, but it was bad enough she had gotten Brady in trouble. She didn’t want to do the same to Patrick. She smoothed out her voice. “He was just a little overzealous.”

  “He’s waking up,” Paul said.

  Brenna turned her attention to Patrick and realized the drummer was right. “You guys better get out of here,” she said.

  “Shouldn’t we hang around? Make sure he’s all right?”

  “Go call the paramedics from the bus,” Brenna said. “If the media shows up, it’s best if you’re nowhere in sight.”

  Talk of the media made the drummer back away with wild eyes. In a moment, the band had disappeared, leaving only Nathan beside her.

  “What’s going on?” His voice was low.

  “I told you. He refused to leave. Said he was looking for a girl.” She turned away to find help, but Nathan grabbed her arm.

  “And he mistook you for one?” he asked wryly.

  “No! He grabbed me,” she said and tried to yank out of his grasp, but he held on tight and moved in close.

  “What? He touched you? Why? Do you know him?”

  Anger and concern and frustration shone in his eyes and sounded in his voice. Brenna fell silent, transfixed by the sight

  He blew out a breath and narrowed his eyes as if steadying himself. “You all right?” he asked, his voice softer but still gruff.

  For a moment she was lost in his eyes, but she pulled out with an effort “I can take care of myself, Fox.”

  He stood unspeaking for an instant, but then he dropped her arm. “Yeah. Who is he?”

  “I…I don’t know. Just some guy. Probably looking for his girlfriend. Maybe one of the road crew was with her here in town.” It was a pathetic cover-up if she’d ever heard one. “You’d better go.”

  “What happened?” Patrick’s voice sounded gravelly, and he didn’t try to sit up.

  “You fell,” Nathan said, stepping forward into Patrick’s line of vision. Brenna winced, wanting to snatch him back, but it was too late. “You okay?”

  “Feel like I’ve been kicked by a mule.”

  “She can act like one,” Nathan said, squatting down.

  “What?”

  “You better lie still. Were you looking for someone?”

  Patrick was silent for a moment, then, “Brenna. I think…” He lifted his head from the floor and tentatively felt the back of his cranium. “Should of known better.”

  “She your girlfriend?”

  “My sister. She—”

  “Stand back! Let us get in here,” called a paramedic, rushing in.

  Nathan moved regretfully aside as the troop circled the downed fellow.

  Brenna dared a quick exhalation as orders and questions were thrown at Patrick.

  Nathan stepped away from the orderly chaos. “He was looking for his sister,” he said.

  “Yeah. Guess so.”

  “Probably had too much to drink.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You know, he looks a little like that drunk you tangled with in North Carolina. It’s not him, is it?”

  “No!” Too sharp. She softened her tone. “No. It’s not The other guy was blond. Younger. I, uh…checked into his history after we left Charlotte. He’s not the same guy.” She shuffled
her feet and refused to shift her gaze from his.

  “You sure?” He watched her carefully.

  “Yeah. Uh-huh. I’m sure.”

  “Okay. Well, I don’t think this guy meant any harm. No need to call the police. Do you think?”

  “No.” She tried not to say it too quickly. “I think he’ll be fine…when he sobers up.”

  Nathan nodded and turned away, but in a second he glanced sideways toward her. “What was his sister’s name?”

  “I, um…I don’t remember.”

  “Really?” He put a hand gently to her back as he ushered her through the first door. “You usually have such a good memory.”

  THEY WERE ON THE ROAD within an hour. Although The Cowboys wouldn’t perform for another two days, the band had interviews and personal appearances in Minneapolis on the following day.

  Brenna fretted the whole way as a thousand worries tore at her. Okay, so her Neanderthal brothers had been begging to be belted. Still, guilt gnawed at her. But the thing that worried her most was the note found in Nathan’s room. How had it gotten there? No one had access to his room. She’d checked with the front desk and made absolutely certain that no other keys had been given out, and that none of the hotel’s employees had delivered the note. None had.

  It was as if a ghost had walked right through the walls to slap her on the face, to threaten her client. And yet her client seemed unconcerned Brenna realized, glancing over at him where he strummed his guitar and hummed a few bars.

  The days passed without incident, and although Brenna wouldn’t have thought it possible, Nathan seemed even more relaxed than ever. His performance in Minneapolis was to a sold-out crowd. Everything went like clockwork, and yet Brenna was nervous as she escorted Nathan to his bus.

  Atlas was already behind the wheel. From the back of the bus, Nuf gave his grumpy call, but didn’t come forward to meet them.

  Nathan plopped onto the couch, and Brenna, nervous and fretful, took a seat on the other side of the aisle. Within minutes, they were on their way, but the silence stretched on.

  Brenna pulled out her agenda, ready to get to work, but still she could feel Nathan’s gaze on her.