The Bodyguard

by Sheryl Lynn

  “I don’t have an agenda. I’m through with Caulfield.”

  “That’s what you said before.”

  “That’s what you said. I was wrong to give you the impression he fired me. I’m sorry.”

  She fiddled with the neck of the sweatshirt and shifted her weight from foot to foot. “Walk out now, McKennon. Go see your son. I can take care of myself.”

  “No.”

  “Then tell me why you’re helping me.”

  She needed an answer. A good answer to restore her faith in him and restore her trust. He did have an answer, except it had to do with the way she’d touched his heart and breathed life into his soul. Being with her made him feel alive again, as if he had more than a dreary past. Around her he sensed a future. Helping her gave him a reason to live beyond his wounded son’s bedside.

  He was falling in love.

  Telling her that would fly like a box of rocks.

  Finally he said, “You’re good in bed.”

  She startled. Her hand fluttered aimlessly, a slim white bird. “What?”

  “No, you’re better than good, you’re great. The other night was the best sex ever.” He grinned, ashamed of causing her shock, but enjoying it anyway. “You’re fire and ice all rolled up into one spectacular package. Your body is incredible. I’d swim through piranha-infested water just to look at your breasts. Just thinking about you naked makes me hard. On the off chance that I can get you in bed again I’d hitchhike to the moon.”

  The tip of her tongue darted between her lips.

  “Didn’t you think it was great sex?”

  Her face and throat flushed. “It wasn’t bad,” she muttered and stalked to the breakfast counter. As she slid onto the stool she cast him a wary glance.

  He pursed his lips and blew her a kiss. She snatched up the magnifying glass and focused on a sheet of paper.

  He’d spoken the truth, albeit not the entire truth, nor was it the truth she’d expected. Hell, he hadn’t expected it. She wasn’t trying to chase him off, though, so he considered his ploy a success. Succeeded too well. He wanted to lift her hair and kiss her neck. Run his hands up under the baggy sweatshirt and cup her breasts. Dizzy with growing arousal he jerked his attention off her. It didn’t help. The white leather couches looked soft and inviting. The furry flokati rugs invited him to tear off his clothes.

  Needing something to do he entered the kitchen. Being separated from her by the counter was sweet torture. He found coffee beans in the freezer and a grinder in a cupboard. He made a fresh pot of coffee. The scent of brewing coffee reminded him of her.

  A quick search showed the pantry stocked with staples and boxed mixes. The freezer was full of instant meals, steaks and frozen desserts. He selected steaks, frozen twice-baked potatoes, mixed vegetables and a blueberry muffin mix. After a day of eating sandwiches he was ready for a hearty meal. The stove had a built-in grill. He puzzled over the controls until he figured out how to make it work.

  “Max did not write these.” Frankie sounded disgusted.

  “How do you know?” he asked.

  “I’ve seen Max’s handwriting. This isn’t it.”

  He glanced at the sheet she examined. “Block printing. That makes a difference.”

  “Surprisingly enough, no.” She rested her chin on a fist. She appeared much calmer than before.

  Beautiful. He could spend the rest of his life exploring the texture of her full lips.

  She bristled. “What are you staring at?”

  Your mouth, your eyes, the perfection of your skin.... “I’m not staring. I’m listening.” He turned his attention to preparing a meal. “Why doesn’t printing make a difference?”

  “I use the Gestalt method. I look at the big picture, the overall effect of how the writer fills the page. Here, look at this.” She turned the page. Using a pencil, she pointed to the left-hand margin. “Look at how the writing avoids the left-hand side of the page. It swoops in and out, almost as if afraid to get too close to the edge.” She shifted the pencil to the right margin. Letters crowded the pale blue margin line printed on the paper.

  “Okay,” he said. “What does it mean?”

  “In Western civilization to cling to the right is to cling to the past. Aiming for the left is risk-taking. This writer is basically insecure and afraid of taking risks. He clings to the past. He likes routine. Change upsets him.”

  “You’re right. That doesn’t sound like Caulfield.”

  “And look at the size of the printing. Max has large handwriting, very thick and extravagant. He’s sensual. Indulgent. He fills up a page, and his words run into each other on the tops and bottoms. This writing is small, almost hesitant. It wavers all over the place. That tells me this person is disorganized. Near the right margin, the pencil pressure is heavy and certain, but it loses force the closer it gets to the left side of the page. That’s a sign of anxiety and uncertainty.”

  “You can see all that?”

  “Can’t you?”

  Mulling over her observations he returned to cooking. “Can you tell if a man or a woman wrote it?”

  “Unfortunately, no. But in context with what I see, I’ll guess it’s a man.”

  She was acting like the Frankie he knew from the office. Confident, assured and a tad condescending. Sexy. “Explain.”

  “Human nature. The writer is deeply conflicted. He shows signs of being an extrovert, but is also extremely selfish. That he’d mastermind a kidnapping, and possibly a murder, shows a degree of confidence. But it’s fake confidence. An act. It’s difficult to imagine an insecure woman going through with this. Much less, convincing two other people to help her.”

  “I disagree,” he said. He used a spoon to beat muffin mix and water into a batter. “I know a lot of women who put on pretty good acts.”

  “In general, female phonies tend to be pleasers. The worse they feel, the nicer they act.” A smile broke through like sunshine through a storm cloud.

  The spoon slipped from his suddenly numb fingers and fell into the batter. He grumbled at his clumsiness.

  “We’ll see who’s right when we catch him. In any case this is definitely not Max’s handwriting.”

  “That makes sense. He wouldn’t turn over anything that could incriminate him.” He spooned batter into muffin cups. “What about age?”

  “No telling. Ideally, I should know the age and sex of the writer before I begin analysis.” She pulled a notepad in front of her. She began to write. “Here’s what we’re looking for. A friend and or an acquaintance of Max’s. Are you sure you’ve never heard of Charles Cashorali?”

  “I’m good with names. I don’t remember any Cashorali.”

  “If Cashorali wrote these then we’re wasting time.” She shook her head firmly. “No. Max got his hands on this stuff. That doesn’t mesh with the risk factor. You know if Max doesn’t trust the kidnappers then they probably don’t trust him. He sure wouldn’t let Cashorali see his face.”

  “There are ways around it,” McKennon commented. “Caulfield could know more about Cashorali than Cashorali knows about him.”

  She wrote rapidly. “And don’t forget the Butunal. This person had access to the drug somehow. Would a doctor prescribe a barbiturate in injectable form?”

  “Unlikely. Drugs like that are hot on the black market. It could have been picked up on the street.”

  Frankie’s nose wrinkled. “How many drug dealers do you think Max knows? When I first started working for him he was managing a lawsuit against a drug dealer. Some rich guy’s kid overdosed on heroin. Max built a civil case for wrongful death against the dealer. He had me doing research on all kinds of creepy people. I know he personally conducted dozens of interviews. I typed them up myself.”

  He mulled over Caulfield’s connections. Before marrying Belinda much of Caulfield’s business involved finding missing persons, including runaway teenagers. Drug connections were valuable resources in the runaway underground.

  “We also know the
writer is highly disorganized.”

  “Not much of a description,” he said with a grin.

  “Actually that isn’t true. Highly disorganized people tend to have highly disorganized lives. We’re looking for a person with a spotty work history, poor personal relationships and financial trouble. Perhaps even legal problems.” Good humor softened her face, and a trace of a smile curved her lips. “Kind of like me lately.”

  He appreciated her ability to maintain her sense of humor. He slid the muffin tin into the oven, then set to work on the steaks and potatoes. “That eliminates Mrs. Caulfield’s employees. Her people are well organized. She insists on it.”

  “But it doesn’t eliminate Julius’s friends. Losers have loser friends.” She frowned at her list.

  He racked his brain for the names and faces of Julius’s friends. Mrs. Caulfield hadn’t liked any of her son’s friends and didn’t encourage their attendance at her social functions. Caulfield and Julius had shared the house grudgingly and maintained distinctly separate lives. If they had conflicts they kept them well buried.

  “The author being a woman is beginning to make sense.”

  She snorted softly. “Why is that?”

  “Julius had many female acquaintances. Caulfield likes women.” Concentrating on remembering, he slid the frozen potatoes into the microwave oven. “Soon after Caulfield moved into the Bannerman estate one of Julius’s exes showed up. I don’t know if she was an ex-wife or an ex-girlfriend, but she was upset. She caused a scene in her attempt to speak to Mrs. Caulfield.”

  “What did she want?”

  “Money. She was in financial trouble.”

  “What’s her name?”

  He thought for a moment. “We weren’t introduced. She never did speak to Mrs. Caulfield. Nor Julius for that matter. Caulfield handled it.” Eyebrow quirked, he grinned at her. “I don’t know how he handled it. He spoke to her privately. She went away.”

  “How come she didn’t speak to Julius?”

  “I got the impression that she’d tried, but failed. Mrs. Caulfield was her last resort.”

  Excitement made her eyes sparkle. “That’s it! You know how Max uses people. He must have recognized the ex would be useful someday. So he paid her off, but stayed in touch. He convinced her the kidnapping would be the perfect revenge against Julius. And against Belinda, too. Did you tell the cops about the incident?”

  “I’d forgotten all about her. Until now.”

  “I bet Max forgot, too.” She scanned the papers. “This writer is definitely disorganized and insecure. But if somebody is directing him, or her, that changes everything.”

  “There’s one little problem with this scenario.” He adjusted the flames on the grill and slapped on the steaks. Ice crystals snapped and crackled. The meat sizzled, and a plume of beef-scented smoke rose to the overhead vent.

  “What might that be?”

  “Caulfield wouldn’t put himself in that position. If this woman gets caught, she wouldn’t protect Caulfield. Even without evidence that could lead to an indictment there is always Mrs. Caulfield to consider.”

  “What if she’s in love with him?” She lifted her chin in challenge. “You said yourself he’s cheating on Belinda. Maybe she’s his mistress. Women in love are stupid.”

  He suspected she spoke of herself. Suddenly he wanted to argue with her. Lust could make a man act stupidly. Infatuation could make a woman act stupidly. But love? True love wasn’t blind and it didn’t wear blinkers. True love saw clearly every fault, wrinkle and foible, but accepted the loved one, anyway. True love was strength in its purest form.

  “You know I’m right,” she insisted.

  He poked the steaks with a fork. He shook his head. “He wouldn’t risk it.”

  “I think it’s worth a shot. Can you find her?”

  “With enough time, maybe. And if I didn’t have to worry about getting arrested as soon as I stepped outside.”

  She resumed studying the papers.

  He left her to her thinking while he finished putting the meal together. The savory scent of grilled meat mingled with the sweet aroma of hot muffins. He told Frankie to take a break. She left her work reluctantly. When she laid eyes on the table, her expression turned hungry and appreciative.

  “You’re tidy and you can cook,” she said. She slid a potato onto her plate. “You must have been the perfect husband.”

  “Nina found plenty of areas where I needed improvement.”

  She chewed a piece of steak and declared it perfect. “What was Nina like?”

  She sounded so normal, even friendly, he was grateful. He gave the question consideration. “She was an optimist.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She always looked on the bright side. Things always worked out.” He glanced at his silent telephone. “Usually she was right.”

  “Were you high school sweethearts?”

  He grinned in remembrance. “We met in a bar. I’d just gotten out of the Marine Corps and I took a temporary job as a bouncer. She was a bartender. The first night we met she told me we were perfect for each other.”

  “How did she know?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “She was right, as usual. We got married a week later.”

  Frankie’s mouth fell open.

  He laughed. “Sounds crazy, but we had a good marriage. Her philosophy was, if you want something, you can make it work. She never worried about the little stuffy. She saw the big picture and went for it.”

  “I bet you miss her.”

  “I do.” It struck him as odd that he was having trouble rousing an image of Nina’s face. She’d been small and blond and lively, but details eluded him. “We were good together.” He bit back the urge to add, You and I are good together, too.

  “I’ll never get married.” Her stiff posture and tone offered a challenge.

  “Hmm. Funny how never works out. I thought I’d never be interested in another woman.” Grinning, he ate a big bite of potato.

  “Because of...great sex?”

  “That, too.”

  She swiped a napkin across her mouth. “You cooked, I’ll clean up. Thanks for the meal.” She left the table and carried her plate into the kitchen.

  Her sudden departure bothered him. His appetite diminished, but he finished eating. He carried his plate into the kitchen. She scrubbed the grill. He sensed by the tension in her shoulders that she knew he was standing behind her.

  “Am I saying the wrong things? Or does it matter? You’ll get upset about anything that comes out of my mouth.”

  She hung her head. “Maybe you’re saying the right things,” she said quietly.

  Her reply pleased him. “I’ll shut up, then.” He found a plastic garbage bag and scraped the plates.

  She turned around and bumped into him. She jumped back as if burned and flung out her arm. The dishrag she held snapped like a flag in the wind, struck papers on the counter and sent them floating to the floor.

  “You’re too damned big, McKennon.”

  “For what?” To his way of thinking they were the perfect size for each other. Her eyes enchanted him, flashing with passionate emotion, concealing none of her inner turmoil. Meaning only to calm and soothe, he reached for her.

  She cringed into a corner between the counter and the stove. “I’m not having sex in a kitchen!”

  “Who said anything about sex? But as long as you’re bringing it up, why not?”

  She surprised him with a laugh. “Bringing it up? I’m not bringing anything up. Get out of here. Let me finish cleaning.”

  Hopeful about possibly salvaging their relationship, he did as she ordered. He went around the counter and retrieved the papers.

  “Were these in order?” he asked.

  “Not really.”

  “What about the words themselves? Do they mean anything?”

  “I don’t know. The only thing I noticed was that the writer had some trouble figuring out how much ransom to ask for. He, or she, aske
d for half a million in one draft and five million in another.”

  He sorted through the papers. A shadow caught his eye. Curious, he slid the paper underneath the brightest spot of the lamp. Someone writing on another sheet of paper had created an imprint on this sheet. It looked like numbers. He shifted the paper first one way than the other.

  “What do you see?” Frankie asked.

  “Digits.” Hating to tamper with the evidence, but needing to confirm his suspicion he picked up a pencil. Using the side of the lead he lightly rubbed the impression. “It’s a phone number.”

  She leaned over the counter to see. “This is great! It’s an honest to goodness lead. We can use Cole’s directory to find out who it belongs to.”

  He shook his head. Excitement built in his chest. “It won’t be listed. This has a cell phone prefix.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “What if nobody answers?” Frankie asked. She held McKennon’s cell phone. The thing felt as if it weighed five hundred pounds. Her sweaty hand was clammy against the plastic housing. Her heart pounded so hard her eardrums throbbed. She turned wide eyes to McKennon. “What if he does answer?”

  “Identify yourself. Tell whoever answers you’re looking for Penny.” He nudged the paper closer to her. The smudged number seemed to jump off the page.

  She punched in the numbers. Holding her breath, she listened for the ring. One ring, two rings, three. “Nobody is answer—”

  A cautious voice said, “Hello?”

  Frankie nearly fell off the stool. For a terrifying moment her tongue refused to work.

  “Who’s there?” a man demanded.

  “Frankie Forrest,” she said in a rush. “I’m Penny Forrest’s, uh, Penny Bannerman’s sister. I’m looking for her.”

  A long silence followed.

  Growing panicky, she blurted out, “Look, I’ll do anything to get her back. She’s my sister and I love her, and I don’t care how I get her back just as long as I do. Please, do you know Penny? Can you help me?”

  “How did you get this number?” His voice was high, almost girlish, but with a distinctly masculine rough edge.