Bodyguards Boxed Set

by Julianne MacLean

  Until he had to watch her on the floor. The black dress was short and tight and hugged every curve he knew so well. As she undulated on the dance floor in soft, sensual rhythms, he thought he might swallow his tongue.

  Finally, a slow song began. He was thankful when Eileen stood and tugged him out to the floor. Now he wouldn’t have to watch Stacey sway to the music. Unfortunately the song was one that had played over and over on the patio on the night he’d courted Stacey. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the vision. But it bombarded him, was more acute behind closed lids— Stacey in the blue dress, crushing her body to his; Stacey bringing his head down for a long, slow kiss.

  When the song ended, and another one began, he was ready to jump out of his skin with the memories. Which was why he didn’t control the impulse to say, “You don’t mind if I dance with Stacey, do you, Eileen? Joe?”

  “Of course not, you two are old buddies,” Ferron said, grabbing Eileen from him for a dance, and handing Stacey over.

  Cord noticed Stacey came to him without a struggle. He tried to keep his face inscrutable as she all but melted into him. One of his arms banded around her waist—it felt thinner—as he took her right hand in his. Her left hand went familiarly to his neck and locked onto it.

  After a minute, he murmured into her ear, “You feel like heaven.”

  “So do you.” No coyness here, not his lady.

  “Oh, God, I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too.” Unconsciously, or at least he thought so, she arched her lower body into his.

  “I miss that, too,” he confessed. “What are we going to do, Stace?”

  “Nothing tonight,” she said, bonelessly swaying into him. “Hold me for a little while and forget about everything else.”

  He did. Just for tonight.

  * * *

  CORD SLAMMED THE file down hard and turned to the carpet installer. The sound echoed around the empty interior like a gunshot. “I don’t care how busy you are. This was supposed to be finished today. I painted until three this morning so it would be done in time for you to get in here and finish up.’’

  Cord had gone to school with Jack Summers, who now owned Canfield Linoleum and Carpet Center. He’d been an acquaintance, not a friend, but Cord had never had a problem with the guy. He didn’t know why he was yelling at him about something so stupid as a delay in the carpet installation.

  Except that he was yelling at everyone these days.

  Jack said, “All right. I’ll call my wife and tell her to go ahead to Parents’ Day without me.”

  Cord felt like a slug. “Parents’ Day?”

  “At my daughter’s dance school. We get to watch today.”

  Cord rammed a hand through his hair. “Aw, hell, I don’t want you to miss that. Go on, go, you can finish up on Monday.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  After Jack left, Cord went to the boxes that had been delivered this morning and were stacked against the back wall. He opened the one from National Art Supply, only to see that they had not had the color paint he’d ordered for the window. “Damn it,” he said just as the front door opened.

  “Daddy,” Megan yelped as she streaked across the floor and into his arms.

  An unopened bottle of paint fell onto the newly installed carpet. He saw a sleek hand pick it up as he scooped his daughter into his arms. “Got a problem?” Stacey asked.

  Yeah, and she’s standing right in front of me. The sight of her frayed his nerves further. “Do you have a lifetime?” he asked. Stacey cocked her head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be sarcastic.” He looked at his daughter. “How was your afternoon, Meggie?”

  “Fun. Stacey and I made cookies and read books and played with my new bead kit.”

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  “It was.” She put her arms out to Stacey, who took her from Cord. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

  “Soon, love. I promise.”

  “I miss you, Stacey,” Megan said, nestling into Stacey’s shoulder.

  “I miss you, too.” Stacey’s voice was hoarse.

  Cord felt a lump in his throat.

  After a hug, Stacey set Megan down, and his daughter danced away into the empty space of the store. Taking in a deep breath, Stacey looked at the bottle of paint she held. “What’s this?”

  “I finally got someone to do the lettering, and now they send me the wrong paint.”

  Stacey looked back at the bottle in her hand. “Why is this wrong?”

  “Damned if I know. The supply store said they didn’t have the order the artist placed.”

  Examining the paint, then looking at the invoice, she said, “It’s not the color you ordered, but it’s pretty close.” She unscrewed the cap and looked inside. “Get me some paper and a small brush.”

  Cord went into his office, retrieved the materials and returned to Stacey. He spread a small drop cloth on the floor and they both sank onto it. Fascinated, he watched Stacey take the brush and letter McKAY SECURITY on the paper.

  “The guy we hired was going to use the gold to outline the logo.”

  “Open that for me,” Stacey said absently, still working the brush.

  Cord picked up the gold paint. Of course, it was stuck. It strained his shoulder—like everything did these days—so he yanked hard.

  The bottle opened. All over his navy blue T-shirt.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said, and jumped up. Gold lamé soaked him. He saw Stacey turn her head, but not before he caught the wisp of a smile. “Damn,” he said, whipping off his shirt.

  The amusement on Stacey’s face died quicker than a fall sunset. Confused, Cord tracked her gaze. It riveted on his chest—or rather his shoulder.

  Raising moist eyes to his, she stood and ran her delicate fingers along the five-inch scar caused by Dunn’s knife. “It’s so red and puckered. God, it must have hurt badly.”

  “It’s okay,” Cord said, trying to ignore the feel of her hand on his bare skin for the first time in weeks.

  “I...I’ve never seen it. Does it still hurt?”

  “Right now it feels like a million bucks.” He smiled sheepishly.

  She held his gaze. “Cord, I...”

  “Daddy, look, there’s a clown out on Market Street.” Megan had stopped her gymnastics to stare out the window. Then she whirled, and flew across the room to him.

  Right into the open paint nestled on the rug. Her foot was little but had momentum behind it. She managed to kick both bottles, one after the other, sending them flying across the brand-new carpet, and spattering one entire newly painted white wall.

  No one spoke for a few seconds. Then Megan’s eyes snapped to her father. “Oh Daddy...I... I...” The little girl choked with sobs.

  Cord bent down and dragged her into his arms. His knees landed in a puddle of gold, coating his blue jeans and hers. “Meggie, it’s okay. Honey, it’s only paint. It can be fixed.”

  Burrowing into him, he felt little hands grab him tight. “Can it?”

  “Sure,” he said, smoothing her hair. “Everything can be fixed, Meggie.”

  “Even big mistakes?”

  Cord looked over Megan’s shoulders, at Stacey. “Yes,” he said firmly.

  “Are you sure?”

  Never taking his eyes off the woman he loved, Cord said with resolve, “Yeah, pumpkin, I’m sure. Even big mistakes can be fixed. If people want it bad enough.”

  Stacey’s eyes misted and she turned away.

  Cord phoned his mother to come and get Megan, then Stacey stayed and helped him clean up the wall and carpet as much as they could.

  He walked her to the door when she was ready to leave. “Thanks for helping. You didn’t have to stay.”

  “Are you kidding? I was afraid you’d put your hand through the window once Meggie wasn’t around to see you lose your temper.”

  He grinned and leaned against the wall. It had gotten darker and the lights from Market Street cast intimate shadows into the office. �
�I might have.”

  “Been on edge lately?”

  He frowned. “Did Megan tell you that?”

  Stacey reached out and touched his arm. He felt the gentle pressure right down to his groin. “No, she didn’t. You’re a wonderful father.”

  He swallowed hard. He wanted to touch her so bad he thought he’d go crazy. Lifting his hand, he rubbed his thumb along her full lower lip and felt a shudder go through her. “So, what do you think, Stace? Can anything be fixed if you want it bad enough?”

  She took in a deep breath. “I don’t know, Cord.”

  He could have let the comment blindside him, indicate that he hadn’t made any headway with her. But he chose not to. Perhaps it was time to fight for what he wanted. “Maybe this will help you figure it out.”

  Sliding his hand to her neck, he lowered his mouth to hers. He brushed her lips with his, back and forth, back and forth until she stirred restlessly. Then he pulled her to his bare chest, and teased open her lips with his tongue.

  He reveled in the familiar taste and touch of her. It had never been this right with anyone else, never would be with another woman. He pressed his mouth and his body to her, and took the kiss he’d been dreaming about for six weeks.

  He was the one to break off the contact. He’d use what he could to sway her, yet he wouldn’t overdo it. They had more going for them than sex. He drew back and smiled. “Good night, Stace. Think about me.”

  She stared at his face, then her eyes fell to his shoulder. “I will, Cord,” she said huskily.

  Well, he thought as he watched her go, maybe even big mistakes can be fixed.

  * * *

  SOMETIMES A FATHER had to do what he had to do . Gifford entertained the clichéd thought as he climbed the staircase to Stacey’s apartment. She and Cord were trying, but Gifford had given them eight weeks and as far as he could tell, they hadn’t made much progress. They needed a nudge.

  The door was ajar to the sitting room. His daughter perched at a small desk in the corner, poring over some paperwork.

  “Hi. Back from the hairdresser’s already?” he asked from the entrance.

  She looked up at him, brushing the locks out of her eyes. “I...um, didn’t go.”

  “You said you were overdue for a haircut.”

  “Yes, well.” She fidgeted with the papers. “I decided to let my hair grow out for the winter.”

  “Ah, I see.” Gifford came into the room and his eyes strayed to the catalogs she held. “What are those?”

  “Some information Melissa Fox got me from Elmore College. She teaches a course there.”

  “Going back to school?”

  Stacey nodded. “They’re just starting an art therapy program. It’s connected with their Teacher Education division, so the courses are mostly about art therapy for young children.”

  “You’d be great at it, honey. You’re so good with Megan.”

  “Well, I’m going to try it out. Part-time, anyway.” Stacey stood and stretched, then leaned back against the desk, facing him. “Where is the little rascal, anyway?”

  “She’s eating some chocolate chip cookies in the kitchen. I have to drop her off in a half hour.”

  “Did you find the gypsy stuff she wanted for her school play?”

  “Yes.” He gripped the book he held tighter. “In the basement.” He drew in a heavy breath. “I found something else, honey. Something you should see.”

  Stacey looked down. “Another sketchbook?”

  Gifford slid one hand into his pocket and fingered the paper there. “Among other things.”

  She smiled. “Mine?”

  “No. Another of Helene’s.”

  “I thought we looked at all of hers.”

  “No, this one was packed among her personal things. I don’t know why it wasn’t with the others.” Gifford handed her the pad. “Look at it, honey.”

  Stacey sat back down and opened the book. Gifford stepped closer to watch over her shoulder.

  “This is Grandma,” Stacey said. “She looks mean.”

  “She was, sometimes.”

  Stacey flipped past three more pages of Ana. “Who’s this?”

  “Our housekeeper when you were young.”

  “And this?”

  “A friend of your mother’s. I think her name was Suzanne.”

  Suddenly, Stacey gasped. “Oh, Dad.”

  Looking down, Gifford saw the eighteen-year-old face of Cord McKay staring up at him. His throat clogged. Cord looked so real—with his square jaw and windblown hair—that Gifford thought he might speak right from the paper.

  “He looks so young,” Stacey said, devouring the sketch with her eyes.

  “There’s more.”

  Stacey turned the page. Another sketch of him, next to his motorcycle. “I used to think, he looked like James Dean,” Gifford said.

  She chuckled. “He looks like a kid with a new bicycle.”

  “Yes, Stacey, he does.”

  His somber voice made his daughter look up at him. “Dad?”

  Reaching out, Gifford squeezed her shoulder. “He was a kid. Just a boy.”

  Stacey glanced back down at the pad and slowly ran her fingers over the sculpted cheek of the charcoal sketch. “And my mother saw him like that.”

  For a moment, Stacey stared at the impression of Cord, flipped through and saw only blank pages, then closed the book and stood. “Why did you show me this? It can’t be easy for you to remember it all.”

  “No, it hurts. Because it reminds me of how I blew it. How foolish I was.”

  “So why torture yourself with the memories?”

  He folded his arms across his chest and plunged in. “Because I never had a second chance with your mother. And you have one with Cord. I don’t want you looking back at your life and regretting what you didn’t do.” He felt his eyes mist.

  His lovely daughter reached out and gave him a huge, comforting hug. Again. Gifford wondered what he had done in his whole misbegotten life to deserve her.

  When she pulled away, he scrubbed his hands over his face, and she did, too. “Well, I’ve got to drop the squirt off on my way to Judith’s.”

  “Oh, I thought I’d take her back,” she said.

  “No, I’ve got some business to discuss with Cord, anyway,” Gifford told her.

  “All right. Tell Megan to come give me a kiss before she leaves.”

  Heading for the door, Gifford stopped when he heard his daughter say, “Dad?”

  Pivoting, he looked at her.

  “You’re quite a man,” she said. “I wish you wouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”

  He smiled sadly. “Someday.” Maybe when this is all settled.

  * * *

  GIFFORD WAS GLAD the child kept up her usual stream of chatter as he maneuvered the short distance to the McKay residence.

  Cord scooped Megan up when she bolted out of the car and sped to where he was raking leaves. “Hi, Daddy, can I jump in those?”

  “No way, kid. I’ve spent all afternoon piling these up.

  “That’s what you always say. Then you jump right in with me.”

  He laughed, then looked up at Gifford. “Thanks for bringing her back.” His gaze strayed to the car.

  “She isn’t with me,’’ the older man said.

  Cord put Megan down then leaned on the rake. “Oh.”

  These two were a pair . “I wanted to come by myself.”

  Cord whipped off his sunglasses, revealing worried eyes. “Go into the house and talk to Nana, Meggie,” Cord said. When she scooted off, Cord asked, “Is Stacey okay?”

  “That depends. She’s unhappy.”

  Cord threw down the rake and walked to the porch. “Look, I know Stacey’s unhappy. So am I.”

  “Well, maybe I can help. I came here today to shed a little light on something. Maybe it will get you past this hump of self-flagellation you can’t seem to cross.”

  Temper flared in the young man’s eyes. Good, Gifford thought. They both
needed a kick in the pants. Gifford withdrew a piece of paper from his pocket and held it up.

  “What’s that?”

  “A letter. I found it when I was looking for something for Megan.”

  Cord stared at the paper again, then his eyes whipped to Gifford’s face. “That isn’t...”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I don’t want to hear this.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  Gifford saw Cord swallow hard. “No, Gif, I can’t.”

  “Yes, Cord. I’d like to read some of it to you. Not everything, because a lot of it is personal.” He held the younger man’s stare. “Trust me.”

  Sinking to the step, Cord nodded. Gifford propped his foot up on the step, and carefully opened the pink parchment. He took a quick glance at Cord. The younger man’s jaw had tensed and his neck muscles throbbed. Gifford lowered his eyes and again felt a stab of pain as he began to read the last words Helene ever had for him.

  Dear Gif,

  There are things that must be said before this goes any further. You’re in a rage and can’t think clearly. But please, please read this, for all our sakes.

  I have much to say to you about me and you, but first I have to set the record straight on Cord McKay. Of the three of us—yes, Gif, you bear some guilt in this too—Cord is the most innocent. He’s simply a young boy who got caught up in a volatile and emotional situation. When you left for the airport today, I feared our relationship was over, that you might do as you threatened and not come back. I felt—and have felt for a long time--that our marriage was in serious trouble. I was overwrought. For Cord’s part, he’d just had a wrenching argument with his family, and he was questioning whether anyone cared about him. He turned to me at the exact moment I needed him. We came together, not in passion but in desperation. Not in love. Not even in lust. What happened was not rational, not premeditated. I know this doesn’t excuse what Cord and I did. As the adult in the situation, I bear the guilt and the shame for it. Though you’ll never forgive me, you must forgive Cord. Please do not punish him.

  When Gifford looked up, his eyes were watery. So were Cord’s.