Bodyguard Daddy

by Lisa Childs

  There was no snort now. No laughter. Frank Campanelli knew who he was. For the first time, Milek found an advantage to being as infamous as he and his family were.

  Frank said, “You worked for Chekov.”

  Garek had. But Milek would let the man believe whatever he wanted.

  “Your family...”

  “Is basically a bunch of criminals,” Milek finished for him. “Maybe that’s what it takes to catch one...”

  The saying was actually it took a thief to catch a thief. But maybe it was also true that it took a killer to catch a killer.

  Milek had killed before. And in order to protect Amber and Michael, he would willingly kill again.

  Frank laughed, but the chuckle was gruff and shaky with nerves. He must have realized he wasn’t dealing with a Fed or a regular bodyguard.

  He probably thought he was dealing with a man like himself—one with no scruples or morals or conscience. Unfortunately, Milek had a conscience. But he doubted it would bother him if he took out a hired assassin—a man who’d killed again and again for money.

  Milek cocked his gun.

  This was it. His last magazine. His last chance to take out the Ghost—even though he risked becoming one himself. He didn’t care, though. He didn’t care about anything but Amber and Michael. To save their lives, he would gladly give up his own. So even knowing he would draw Frank’s gunfire, he straightened up from where he’d been hunched over between the cars. He would rather have Frank fire at him than into the hotel any longer.

  And now Milek was close enough to the Ghost that the hit man might not miss him when he fired back. As Milek squeezed the trigger, gunfire erupted again.

  * * *

  They were gone. Nicholas Rus had searched the entire hotel. But he found no trace of them. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing—since he had found no bodies. Of course, that didn’t mean they weren’t dead.

  It would be more of a surprise if they had survived.

  The hotel looked like a war zone. Shattered glass. Broken vases. And the parking lot was even worse.

  Cars had been destroyed, their windows broken, the metal dented with bullets. Could anyone have survived such an onslaught of gunfire? Even Milek Kozminski...

  Nick shone the beam of his flashlight on the asphalt. The fragments of glass sparkled in its glow—except for those fragments spattered with blood. The blood, thick and dark, pooled around the fragments, too.

  Someone had been hit. Maybe badly.

  He hoped like hell it had been Frank Campanelli. But if the Ghost was dead, where was his body? Where were Milek and Amber and the boy—if they hadn’t been hurt?

  His cell rang; he felt it vibrating inside his pocket. But he hesitated to reach for it. He knew who it would be and what they would want to know.

  He had already answered enough questions for the night—when he’d had to explain the accident scene to the local authorities. He hadn’t admitted to them who’d been driving the van, though. He hadn’t wanted any more people to know Amber Talsma wasn’t really dead. That was why he’d convinced her and Milek to leave the scene—why he’d driven them to this hotel—thinking they would be safe here.

  He had been a fool—a fool to let someone follow him and a fool to think that anyone, even Milek, could have protected Amber from as highly skilled an assassin as Frank, The Ghost, Campanelli.

  He’d been a fool to think he could keep it from getting out that she was alive. On the way back to the hotel, he’d heard the report on the radio—the news of their empty graves and the speculation that she must have faked her death. Everybody knew she was alive now.

  His phone stopped vibrating before he ever reached for it. But that was fine. Whichever one of them who’d called would leave a voice mail—like all the voice mails they’d left before demanding information from him.

  But Nick had no answers for the Payne/Kozminski family. He didn’t know where Milek and Amber and the child were—let alone if they were all right.

  Had Frank taken them—taken their bodies? Maybe after he’d let his targets get away last time, he had needed the evidence of their deaths in order to get paid.

  “Son of a bitch...” he murmured into the darkness.

  An officer glanced over at him. The local authorities had been called here. Nick had heard the calls come in to Dispatch while he’d been talking to a detective.

  Shots fired at the Harbor Hotel.

  “Why do you want to go to that call?” the detective had asked when Nick said he needed to leave.

  He’d said nothing.

  “Who are you protecting?” the detective had asked.

  But that was just the thing. Rus hadn’t protected anyone. He’d left them behind—with the killer, who must have followed him to the hotel. They hadn’t even had a vehicle in which to escape. He’d taken the shot-up SUV to the police department. So where were they?

  Maybe Milek had utilized the skills his father had taught him and stolen a car. Nick found himself actually hoping the guy had committed a crime. But nothing had been reported stolen. The only report had been of those shots fired.

  Shell casings gleamed in the darkness, illuminated when crime scene techs took flash pictures of the casings beside which they had already placed evidence tags. So many shots had been fired.

  And the blood...

  He should have been here. He shouldn’t have left them alone—not with a notorious killer after them. He cursed again, but silently—the words echoing inside his mind.

  His phone began to ring once more—vibrating madly inside his pocket. He didn’t need to answer it; he could feel the anger and frustration of his family.

  They probably didn’t think of him that way. But he had begun to think it—that they were his family. He had never had a real family before. Until she had died a year ago, it had been just his mom and him, and she’d been no Penny Payne. There had been nothing maternal about her.

  Nick had gotten more love and attention from the neighbors. Of course, as an adolescent he’d been annoyed to have the younger kids tagging along; Gage had even followed Nick into the marines and then into the Bureau. Recently he’d quit the Bureau, though, and reenlisted in the marines.

  And Annalise...

  Nick’s heart contracted in his chest. He couldn’t think about Annalise anymore—not the way he used to think about her. He had destroyed that relationship just as he’d probably destroyed the one he’d been building with the Paynes. He stared down at the puddle of blood and felt as if his own was draining away.

  Nick hadn’t just lost the woman and child he’d been trying to protect for the past year. He had lost his family, too.

  Chapter 6

  Her heart pounded hard and fast with nerves as she clasped her arms around her son and held him tightly—protectively—while they cowered inside the janitor’s closet she’d found unlocked. She had locked it from the inside, after pulling Michael into the closet with her. It wasn’t dark. A bare bulb hung over their heads, illuminating the small space.

  She would have fumbled for the switch. But Michael was afraid of the dark. If she shut it off, he might begin to cry.

  “Mommy, this is a good hiding place,” he whispered.

  “Shh,” she said, her voice shaking with fear. “We have to be very quiet.” So the killer did not hear them. Was he out there? The gunfire had stopped. But that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. What if Milek had been wounded, or worse?

  Now fear clenched her heart. What if he hadn’t survived? What if she’d lost him again?

  Not that she’d ever really had him. If she had, he wouldn’t have broken their engagement and her heart. But she didn’t care about the pain he’d caused her. She didn’t want him in any pain—especially because of her. And she wanted him alive—even if he was never with her
again.

  Please, be alive...

  The door rattled as someone tried the knob, and her breath caught. Michael let out a soft cry of surprise, then slapped his hand over his mouth. Tears welled in his eyes.

  She had locked the door. Surely that would keep out whoever was out there. But the knob continued to rattle. Then it turned. He had unlocked it.

  Maybe it was the janitor. But she doubted it. All the staff had been hunkered down behind the front desk. It was someone else. Someone who meant her and Michael harm.

  So as the knob turned, she screamed.

  And jerked awake from the nightmare she’d lived just hours ago. She’d only been dreaming about what had happened back at the hotel. She wasn’t dreaming now. A hand covered her mouth. It wasn’t hers. It was big and strong and slightly calloused.

  Disoriented from sleep and the dream, she had no idea where she was or where Michael was or who held a hand over her face. Panic overwhelmed her, and she struggled, grasping the hand to pull it away as she tried to rise.

  But a big body covered hers, pushing her down into the mattress on which she lay. “Shh...” a deep voice advised.

  Or warned?

  But then she recognized the voice and stilled.

  “Shh,” he said again. “You’ll wake Michael.”

  The thought of her son, and wanting to hold him, had her struggling again. But Milek had carried their sleeping child into another room of the warehouse he’d converted into a condo years ago. Then he’d brought her in here—the master bedroom. He’d left her alone, though. She had no idea how long ago. Had she been asleep for hours or minutes?

  “You’re safe now,” Milek assured her—just as he had when he’d opened the door to that closet back at the hotel.

  Just like then, she wanted to believe him but she couldn’t bring herself to trust. She couldn’t trust him or the situation—not completely. She shouldn’t have agreed to come back to River City with him. And she really shouldn’t have agreed to come back to his condo.

  But would it matter where they were? The killer had found them and was more determined than ever to kill her.

  She shook her head.

  He moved his hand, finally, but just from her lips. That big palm cupped her cheek. And he continued to lie partially on top of her, one heavy thigh covering both her legs, his muscled chest pushing against her breasts.

  She didn’t remember him being so big. He’d always been tall, but he was broader—with bulging muscles. He was a bodyguard now. The man she’d known and loved had been an artist—sensitive and moody. She wasn’t sure who this man was. Yet her body didn’t react as if he was a stranger. Despite his new muscular build, despite the years they’d been apart, her body recognized his. Her skin flushed with heat, and she began to tremble with desire.

  He must have mistaken her trembling for fear, because he assured her again, “You’re safe...”

  She didn’t feel safe. She felt betrayed—even by her own body. How could she want a man who had hurt her so badly? But she couldn’t deny the desire building inside her. She wanted to kiss him, to touch him...

  Her hands were trapped, though—beneath him. She couldn’t move them. But she could feel his heat—his strength. He was strong, but he wasn’t invincible.

  “How can you say we’re safe?” she asked. “You were nearly killed.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You were hit.”

  He touched his fingertips to the cut on his chin. “It was just flying glass.”

  “It could have been a bullet.” So many of them had been fired. She shuddered now as she thought of it, thought of how close she’d come to losing Milek. “You could have been killed...”

  He shook his head. “I’m fine.”

  He didn’t look fine. Dark circles rimmed his eyes. Stubble darkened his jaw. And that cut marred his chin. He must have seen the doubt in her eyes, because he chuckled. “Maybe I look like death,” he said, “but I’m alive.”

  Those silver eyes darkened with emotion and his fingers stroked along her cheek. “And so are you...” His breath shuddered out on a ragged sigh of relief. “You’re alive.”

  “Because of you,” she said. And finally she was able to wriggle her hands around, so she slid them up his chest. “You risked your life for ours.”

  He shrugged those broad shoulders. “That’s what bodyguards do.”

  She tensed beneath him. Of course it hadn’t been personal. She was only another assignment to him. He would have risked his life for any other client. While she had been hiding the past year, he’d been willingly putting his life on the line for others.

  “I can’t believe you’re a bodyguard,” she mused.

  “A lot of people can’t,” he said, his voice gruff with bitterness.

  “Why not?” she asked. “You saved me and Michael from two attempts on our lives.”

  “A lot of people suspect a Kozminski to make attempts—not stop them.”

  She snorted. “A lot of people are idiots.” And Stacy and Garek had never cared what those people thought. Milek had cared, though, and apparently he still did. Too much...

  He laughed, though. Maybe in agreement, maybe just in amusement. “You’re not an idiot,” he said.

  She wasn’t always so sure about that.

  “So why can’t you believe I’m a bodyguard?” he asked.

  “You never expressed any interest in it,” she said. “Not like your art...”

  Now he tensed and pulled away, rolling onto his back beside her. “My art never saved a life.”

  She wasn’t so sure about that, either. She had seen his work and, while she was no expert, art critics had agreed the work was powerful. But he hadn’t had a show for years—not since he’d broken their engagement. Maybe he didn’t paint anymore.

  “Thank you,” she said. She couldn’t remember if she had said that when he’d pulled open the door to the janitor’s closet. He’d explained he had picked the lock because he hadn’t been sure if it was she and Michael hiding inside or the killer. So while he’d assured her she was safe then—with him—he’d rushed her and Michael from the shot-up hotel. There hadn’t been time to thank him then.

  And during the drive in the vehicle he’d bought from the room service waiter, he’d been so focused on the road behind him—on making certain no one had followed them—she hadn’t dared to speak. He probably wouldn’t have been able to hear her anyway, since the rusted old truck had lacked a muffler. He’d bought it before looking at it, before he’d started walking her and Michael across the parking lot. He had been that desperate to get them away from the hotel and from that town. But the killer had already found them.

  If Milek hadn’t acted as quickly as he had...

  She trembled as she thought of what would have happened to them all. The least she owed him was her gratitude. So she said it again now, “Thank you for protecting our son and me.”

  But words of gratitude didn’t seem enough for his saving their lives, so she pushed herself up on her elbow and leaned over where he lay on his back next to her. And, giving in to the desire she could no longer deny, she pressed her mouth to his.

  The minute their lips met she realized the mistake she’d made. While she’d wanted to kiss him, to touch him—he obviously didn’t feel the same way. But then he never had or he wouldn’t have broken their engagement.

  His big body tensed even more than it had when she’d mentioned his art. He froze beside her...until she tried to pull away.

  Then his fingers tangled in her hair as he held her head close to his. And he kissed her back. He kissed her thoroughly and passionately, his lips pressing tightly against hers before parting them. Then he slid his tongue into her mouth—tasting her, teasing her.

  Desire overwhelmed her, and she moaned. She ha
d missed him and not just the year she’d been dead. She had missed him all the years they’d been apart. But he wasn’t back with her. He was only protecting her. He was only doing his job.

  She needed to find her pride and pull away from him. But she’d missed him too much—because once she had loved him too much. And when he had broken their engagement, he’d nearly destroyed her. She had survived the attempts on her life and creating a new life more easily than she had survived losing Milek. Her heart began to pound, but not just with passion. She felt a fear nearly as intense as when those shots had been fired at her and Michael.

  Because if she kept kissing Milek, it wasn’t just her life that would be in danger; her heart would be, too.

  * * *

  His face flushed with anger and pain, Frank Campanelli stared into the mirror over the double sink in the spacious bathroom. He looked like hell and had nearly wound up there. During the first shoot-out, a bullet had grazed him. But the second one in the hotel parking lot hadn’t. It had hit him. The son of a bitch had shot him.

  Milek Kozminski.

  Frank knew the name. Anyone who’d ever lived in or had passed through River City knew the name. The kid’s old man and uncle were renowned jewel thieves. The old man had gunned down a cop and spent the rest of his life in prison. If Frank remembered right, the kids were killers, too. They’d just been too young at the time they had killed to do hard time. They’d also claimed they had only killed in self-defense.

  Frank snorted. He doubted that. Milek Kozminski had taunted him in the parking lot. Then he’d shot him. He pressed his hand to the bandage on his shoulder. Blood was already seeping through the white gauze, and the flesh beneath it throbbed painfully.

  “Don’t touch it,” the doctor advised. He straightened up from mopping Frank’s blood off the marble tiles of the opulent bathroom.

  They weren’t in a hospital. Or even a clinic. The doctor had let him into his house—into his damn mansion—and patched him up in one of the bathrooms. Dr. Gunz wouldn’t have had that mansion if Frank hadn’t helped him out—hadn’t taken care of a couple of witnesses in a potential career-ending lawsuit. So he owed Frank—like so many other people did.