Bodyguards Boxed Set

by Julianne MacLean

  He was Truman. Her Truman.

  He brushed her hair away from her face. Jessica touched her necklace—the one Truman had returned to her just before he died.

  The pain of that day still ached inside her, but as she looked at this man before her, she realized it was fading fast. Truman had indeed come back to her. He had promised her forever, and he had kept that promise.

  She reached up and touched Jake’s cheek. In his eyes, she saw the ageless connection they shared.

  He held his hands out in front of him, turned them over and looked at his palms. “These hands…they’ve never held a gun, and they never will.”

  She trembled with joy. Everything that had happened made sense now.

  “It’s not going to be just us, you know,” she said, grinning mischievously, resting her hand on her belly.

  The news registered on Jake’s face, and Jessica saw the faint memory of his own demons disappearing. “I know.”

  “How do you know?”

  He gave an apologetic shrug. “I’m a doc. When they brought you in, I was involved. I followed your progress, but I couldn’t say anything to anyone. And I knew I had to give you time to recover before I dropped this on you.” He pulled her close and buried his face in her hair. “I’m so happy,” he said. “This time, I promise, everything really is going to be all right.”

  A gentle sigh of a breeze blew across their faces, hinting at hope and contentment.

  Jessica stepped back and nodded. “I think it’s going to be better than all right.”

  Then her cell phone rang, and his BlackBerry vibrated at his belt. They reached for them quickly, then looked at each other and laughed.

  “Let’s shut these off,” he said, moving close to her again. He slid his warm hand up under the hair at her nape and whispered in her ear. “It’s high time we got out of here, don’t you think?”

  She glanced up at him flirtatiously as a delicious rush of desire shivered through her. “That depends. What did you have in mind, Sheriff? And dare I ask—will handcuffs be involved?”

  He smirked and led her toward his Mustang. “I’m game if you are.”

  He opened the door for her and waited until she was comfortably seated on the leather upholstery before he shut the door, circled around the front, and got into the driver’s seat. He slid the key into the ignition, started the engine, and pushed a button to lower the top.

  “Do you remember Angus Maxwell?” he said, while the top retracted and folded away.

  “Yes, of course. Why? Is there some news about him?”

  Jake turned down the volume on the radio. “Nothing recent, but when I was researching I came upon some announcements in the old newspapers. He married Wendy Smith, and they had three children. All of his descendants are living right here in Dodge.”

  A tiny thrill moved through her. “Have you tried to contact them?”

  He shook his head. “No, but I’ll be willing if it’s something you want to do.”

  Jessica smiled at him as a fresh breeze blew through her hair. “We’ll have to think about that.”

  He revved the engine and adjusted the rearview mirror.

  “Did you know I’m a writer?” she asked.

  “Of course. I read your column religiously. I especially liked the one about how to train for the New York Marathon. I’m thinking about doing that.”

  “Yeah?” She sat up straighter as her passion for running sparked in her veins. “Me, too. But we’d have to qualify.”

  He shifted into reverse to back out of the parking spot. “I’m sure we could help each other out. You strike me as the competitive type. How early do you like to get up on a Saturday morning?”

  “Very early,” she replied, “unless there’s a reckless consumption of moonshine the night before, which shouldn’t happen too often, I hope.”

  “I’ll try not to be a bad influence.” He hit the gas and headed toward the exit.

  “I’m also thinking about writing a book,” she added.

  He drove under the museum archway, pulled out onto the street, and shifted into second gear. “Really?” He looked her square in the eye. “That sounds amazing. What kind of book?”

  “A romance novel,” she replied. “Maybe a time travel.”

  Jake put on his sunglasses and grinned at her. “What would you call it?”

  She slipped off one of her red stilettos and massaged her calf and arch while she thought about it. “Taken by the Cowboy,” she said at last, “and I shouldn’t have to do much research at all.”

  He chuckled softly. “That sounds like something I might like to read. Just make sure you work in those red stilettos somehow, because they’re really hot.” He shifted into second gear and sped up the street. “Now let’s go to the costume shop and see if we can rustle up a pair of handcuffs and a leather gun belt.”

  “And a hat,” Jessica added as she leaned close and laid her hand on his gorgeous muscular thigh, “because there’s just something about a man in a Stetson.”

  They turned a corner, and he shifted smoothly into third.

  -THE END-

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  If you enjoyed Taken by the Cowboy, be sure to check out Julianne MacLean’s adventurous Highlander romances:

  Captured by the Highlander

  Claimed by the Highlander

  Seduced by the Highlander

  The Bodyguard

  * * *

  By Kathryn Shay

  CHAPTER ONE

  * * *

  “LOOKS LIKE YOU’VE been stood up, darlin’,” the bartender drawled.

  Stacey Webb peered up at Bobby as she nursed her glass of wine. “Yeah, I guess it does.”

  “Think somethin’ happened to Lauren?”

  “No.” Mark Dunn probably wouldn’t let her come.

  “She’s been in here a couple of times lately with that jerk she dates. She doesn’t look too good.”

  “I know. She doesn’t.”

  Sighing, Stacey leaned against the high back of the stool while Bobby poured draft beers for two guys at the end of the mahogany bar. She glanced at the clock. Cutter’s Bar and Restaurant was quiet, not unusual for ten o’clock on a Monday night. Nibbling on popcorn, she tried to watch the baseball game on the large-screen TV, but it didn’t distract her from thoughts of Lauren. Stacey was worried about her friend, whose recent unreliable behavior was out of character.

  The door whooshed open, allowing in the warm June air, and Stacey turned to see if Lauren had come, after all. But instead, a tall, broad-shouldered man filled the doorway.

  Surreptitiously, Stacey watched him as he scanned the room. His gaze landed briefly on her; he nodded in a common-courtesy way and took a seat several feet down the bar.

  Cord McKay.

  She knew who he was. Everyone in Canfield knew who he was. He’d been in the news about a year ago for saving a four-year-old boy who’d fallen into an abandoned well. McKay had maneuvered himself down the narrow shaft when efforts to coax the toddler into a harness failed. On the way up, with the child in his arms, his shoulders became wedged between the walls and one had been severely dislocated. The injury ultimately forced an early retirement—he was only thirty-six—from the police department he’d joined three years ago after he’d returned to Canfield.

  Stacey had been impressed when she’d read about the rescue, and moved by the picture of little Timmy Malone hugging McKay in a death grip as they emerged from the well. But her father had had a strange reaction to the media-touted event.

  She thought of Gifford Webb. He’d never have gone on his business trip if he’d thought for one minute she’d be spending the night alone. Especially after all that had happened to her in the past few weeks. She’d promised him that Lauren would be staying at their house tonight.

  “What can I get you, Cord?” Bobby asked congenially, as McKay settled onto a stool with the grace of a tra
ined athlete.

  “A draft.”

  “How’s the shoulder?”

  “It hurts.”

  “You workin’ yet?” Bobby seemed oblivious to the other man’s clipped tone.

  McKay scowled. “No.”

  “Decided what you’re gonna do?”

  “Nope. Who’s ahead?” McKay asked, his eyes flicking to the screen.

  Stacey pretended to watch the game, but stole a few glimpses at the town hero. He wasn’t exactly handsome, more craggily attractive, she decided. His thick hair—growing out from its regulation police cut—was the color of ripe wheat. In profile, his nose had a slight bump, indicating it had probably been broken. There were deep grooves bracketing his mouth; stubble lined his jaw.

  “Want another one, Stacey?” Bobby asked when he came down to wipe the counter in front of her.

  “No, I’ll just sip this and wait ten more minutes for Lauren.”

  “The police ever catch the guys who slashed your tires?”

  Stacey wasn’t surprised at the question. There were no secrets in Canfield, a small upstate New York town in the Southern Tier, but she loved the place, anyway. She’d always felt safe here. Until now.

  “No. It was probably just some prank.”

  “Your father didn’t think so. Heard he raised a ruckus at the police station.”

  What Bobby hadn’t heard about was that she’d been followed, and gotten strange phone calls where no one had spoken when she’d answered. But Stacey had assumed they were all coincidences and hadn’t reported them to the police.

  “Well, my father overreacts sometimes.”

  “Your daddy just cares about you.”

  And, Stacey thought with reluctant affection, as CEO of Canfield Glass Works, her father was used to getting his way. Like insisting someone stay with her tonight.

  Well, she’d tried.

  Glancing down the bar, she saw Cord McKay take several long swigs of his beer, then stand up. His navy blue T-shirt rippled across his muscles, and Stacey felt a little jolt in her stomach. She tore her gaze away from him and fingered the ring on her left hand. She hadn’t looked at another man since she’d gotten engaged to Preston Matthews six months ago. She was annoyed at herself for noticing McKay’s body tonight. If there was one thing she believed in, it was fidelity.

  Unlike her mother, she thought bitterly.

  Just then, Stacey heard the door slam. She waited a few minutes to ensure she wouldn’t run into McKay as she walked to her car, then got up to leave, too.

  * * *

  “DAMN!” CORD MCKAY bent down to rescue his car keys from the mud puddle where he’d just dropped them. It was dark on Bridge Street, so he fished around for a few seconds until he came up with them. He’d been thinking about Stacey Webb and hadn’t been watching what he was doing. Wiping the keys— and his hands—on his denims, he pictured her sitting alone-on the bar stool, waiting for her friend. She’d looked worried. And what the hell was that about slashed tires?

  He scrubbed his hands over his face. The last thing he’d wanted tonight was an encounter with her. He’d seen her around town a number of times. She was easy to spot, with her dark sassy hair, knockout body and wild clothes. He’d made a point of keeping his distance. Though she seemed blissfully unaware of his tension when they met, it coiled within him like a snake ready to strike whenever he simply saw her. Thank God there hadn’t been many encounters.

  Tonight, he’d only stopped at Cutter’s to take the edge off his restlessness. He’d been up for three consecutive nights with his daughter, Megan, who had a raging case of chicken pox. And his shoulder was giving him trouble again. He’d been too tired to sleep and needed to get out of the house for a while. So he’d left Megan with his mother and gone for a beer.

  Just as he jammed the keys into the lock of his truck, Stacey exited the bar and headed straight for her small, metallic blue Miata without noticing him. He eased open the door and was about to climb in, when he glanced over his shoulder and saw a figure leap from the alley and dart toward Stacey. The man was dressed in dark clothing, with a ski mask over his face. About Cord’s height, and as muscular, the guy quickly overtook her and slammed a hand over her mouth.

  Pivoting sharply, Cord reached behind his back for his gun. He cursed when he remembered he no longer carried it. Unarmed, he bolted across the sidewalk.

  Before he could get to her, Stacey twisted her body and elbowed her attacker in the gut.

  “Bitch,” the man snapped just as Cord hurled himself at them.

  Headfirst, he clipped the assailant behind the knees.

  “What the fuck… “ The guy released Stacey and whirled toward Cord, but lost his balance and smashed face first into the concrete with a bone-crunching thud.

  Cord straddled his prone body and twisted the man’s arm behind his back. With a knee on the guy’s spine, Cord yanked the attacker’s head up by the ski mask. Though the position strained Cord’s shoulder, he pressed and pulled mercilessly. Suddenly, a car screeched to a halt at the curb in front of Cutter’s. Its headlights illuminated another dark-clad figure bounding from the alley.

  Without warning, Cord felt something slam into his temple. His head exploded with bright colors and blinding agony.

  Then the world went dark.

  * * *

  STACEY WATCHED CORD McKay toss his head on the utilitarian emergency-room pillow and listened to him moan low in his throat. After the doctor and nurse had tended to him and left, Stacey had suffered a delayed reaction and had been shivering for at least ten minutes. She was just now getting herself under control. Though there was no way she could rid herself of the ball of fear that had settled in her stomach like a dead weight.

  She shuddered again at the thought of what could have happened if McKay hadn’t been at his truck when she’d left Cutter’s. She tried to stifle the panic that came when she realized tonight’s attack probably meant the incidents of the past few weeks were not coincidences. Oh, God. Someone was after her!

  Stacey forced herself to concentrate on her knight in shining armor. She picked up the ice pack the attendant had given her with instructions to apply it to Cord’s head—ten minutes on, ten off—and gingerly placed it over the lump on his right temple, which was already turning purple around the raw spot where the gun butt had broken the skin. His body jerked at the touch, and his left arm flailed, socking her in the stomach. Recoiling, Stacey clutched her middle until she could take in more air. After a moment or two, her breathing evened out and, restraining his arm with her other hand, she reapplied the cold compress. He twitched, but was unable to strike out again.

  While she held the ice pack to his head, she studied the curtained cubicle. Canfield’s hospital was only about twenty years old, but its emergency ward was small, cramped and understaffed. Tonight, the ER was packed with victims of a highway accident. The white drapes that isolated them from the other patients were opaque and tattered with overuse. The smell of antiseptic, along with other acrid odors Stacey chose not to identify, stung her nostrils.

  “What the hell...”

  Stacey peered down at the source of the curse. Blue ice stared up at her.

  He watched her for a minute, then said, “Would you mind letting go of my arm? The angle you’re holding it twists my shoulder.”

  Surprised by his clipped words, she scooted back. “Sorry, but you hit me in the stomach when I put the compress on your head.”

  Dark blond eyebrows knit together. “Oh.”

  Not, I’m sorry. Not, thanks for the help.

  Of course, she was the one who owed him, she reminded herself. Big-time.

  Stacey watched him brace his good arm on the mattress and push himself up. His biceps flexed beneath his T-shirt, and the tendons in his hand tensed, but he was sitting up in seconds. Leaning against the wall, he winced as he rubbed his shoulder.

  “The nurse said to keep ice on that,” she told him, indicating the goose egg.

  He closed his eyes
and grunted.

  She leaned over and applied the compress again.

  “Thanks,” he said, not opening his eyes, but taking the ice from her.

  As he relaxed fractionally, Stacey watched him. He was silent, breathing deeply, fighting the pain, she guessed.

  “Why are you playing nurse?” he asked, still not looking at her.

  “They’re overcrowded and understaffed here.”

  “As usual.”

  “There was a huge pileup on Route 17 just before midnight and lots of people were hurt.”

  He grunted again.

  His attitude was abrasive. To be expected, Stacey thought, given the amount of pain he must be in. But she sensed something deeper. His responses to her were almost angry. Was he annoyed that she’d caused trouble for him? “Um...thanks for what you did,” she said hesitantly. “Though I’m not exactly sure where you came from, or what happened.”

  Cord opened his eyes and scanned the curtained room, then looked at her. “I saw the guy jump you outside Cutter’s.” He scowled. “Last thing I remember is tackling him.”

  “But you’re not a cop anymore.”

  “No, I’m not.” His tone could have cut glass.

  “Why didn’t you just call the police? Why did you get involved?”

  A storm of emotions passed through his eyes. “Beats me,” he said flatly. “Look, tell me what happened when I passed out.”

  Stacey leaned against the chair and shivered again, remembering. Rubbing her arms up and down her thin windbreaker, she said, “Another guy jumped out of the alley after you grounded the first one. He hit you on the head with the butt of a gun. By then, some other people had come out of Cutter’s, and I was screaming and yelling and kicking. The two men dived into the car that pulled up and got away.”

  Cord frowned.

  Stacey stared at him. “I’ve seen you around town, but we haven’t formally met. I’m Stacey Webb.”