YULETIDE PROTECTOR

by Julie Miller

  Bailey buckled her seat belt and turned on the heat. “What about the other reporters? At the very least, Mother will want them to take a family picture.”

  “Pictures are fine. And you can talk to the other guests. Just don’t say more than ‘Merry Christmas’ or ‘Where’s your checkbook?’ to anyone.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out his cell phone as he stepped back. “You’ve got my card, right?”

  She flashed it from her coat pocket before tucking it back inside. “Wait a minute.” She could talk to the other guests? Bailey tilted her head up to the detective who was punching a number into his phone. “Mr. Knight’s boss is the editor of the Kansas City Journal. She’ll be there Saturday night. The editor is Brian Elliott’s ex-wife, Mara Boyd.”

  “And she posted Elliott’s bail.” Spencer waved his phone, letting her know he’d already made the connection. “If she’s willing to post a half-million-dollar bond for the man she divorced, then she may be willing to do a lot more.”

  Was Brian Elliott’s ex-wife The Cleaner? Or was she being blackmailed into helping her ex like so many of The Cleaner’s accomplices had done? And if Mara Boyd-Elliott showed up at her mother’s fund-raiser this weekend, should Bailey avoid the woman or ask what the hell she was thinking by helping such a vile, violent man? Or maybe she could find out if Mara needed some kind of help to get away from him?

  “Bailey.” Granite eyes demanded her attention. “Leave the detective work to me,” he warned, as if reading her thoughts. “You just show up at the courthouse Monday morning. Remember the rules and stay safe.” He grabbed the car door as he put the phone to his ear. “Hey, Nick. I need you to run a check on—”

  He pushed the door shut and waited for her to lock it before he strode away, turning his attention to his partner on the phone. But when he stopped at the elevator, he faced her again, pulling back his coat to prop a hand at his waist, continuing his conversation—completely impervious to the winter air or sneaky reporters or eyewitnesses who wouldn’t go away.

  Do what you’re told. Let someone else handle the tough stuff.

  Understanding the unspoken message in his watchful gaze better than she wanted to, Bailey shifted the car into Reverse and backed out of her parking space. Reluctantly, she drove around the pillar and down the ramp to the garage’s lower level, losing sight of that beacon of red-gold hair and the man who’d taken over her life for the past hour or so.

  The weather looked far more drab, her world felt far more lonesome, than it had just a few minutes earlier. Spencer Montgomery irritated her with his cool, emotionless obsession with duty. But it was that same undeniable strength and grace under pressure that she had clung to when she’d been afraid or unsure of herself this morning.

  Bailey braked at the garage’s exit and waited for traffic to pass. She couldn’t help glancing at the stairwell and elevator, wondering if she’d catch another glimpse of the man she found so compelling. But the street cleared and Bailey pulled out, leaving the fireworks of her time spent with Spencer Montgomery behind.

  She shook her head at the irony of being attracted to a man who held himself in such control. During the time she’d spent in Spencer’s company, she’d felt anger, security, frustration, strength, uncertainty, excitement and fear. In short, everything a normal woman should feel.

  But that was the curse of her life, wasn’t it? Until the trial was finished and Brian Elliott was behind bars permanently, she had no real chance at normal.

  Chapter Four

  Bailey shoved open the front door of the restored 1910 brick office building that had looked so charming an hour ago and hurried away from the suffocating atmosphere inside.

  Not even the blast of cold through her coat or the swirling snowflakes that stuck to her hair and melted against her cheeks could temper the frustration brewing inside her. The heels of her leather boots clicked a quick staccato down the salted concrete steps until she crunched into the pristine layer of new snow masking the half-frozen slush and grimy cinders in the parking lot.

  Her face ached with the smile she’d glued on her face, and for what? The executive she’d just met with was probably trading blonde jokes with his assistant right now. Imagine, thinking heiress Bailey Austin really wanted to get down in the trenches and work like any other young woman eager to launch a meaningful career.

  Bailey pulled her sunglasses from her purse to protect her eyes from the brightness reflecting off the white landscape of cars and concrete. She trudged toward the row of denuded dogwood trees, their branches brushed with snow and decorated with clear Christmas lights. The decorations had made her festive and hopeful an hour ago. Now they were simply a bunch of trees that separated the parking lot from the street, reminding her how far away from the building she’d had to park—and how the long walk and the anxious nerves had all been a waste of time and emotional energy. The end result of her job interview was the same as it had been last week, and two weeks before that.

  No experience? No chance.

  Apparently, she had only one thing going for her. And that was only because her mother had married a wealthy man.

  Bailey punched the remote engine start on her key fob and grumbled against the wrap of her navy wool scarf, mimicking the foundation chairman she’d left upstairs. “We’re so pleased the Mayweathers are interested in our museum.” Bailey unlocked her car as she approached, dropping her voice to its regular pitch. “But you’re not interested in me, are you?”

  She opened the door to drop her purse on the front seat and retrieve the windshield brush and scraper. When she slammed the door, a glob of snow and slush plopped onto the pointy toes of her boots. Feeling the ultimate indignity, she turned her face to the upper window of the office where she’d interviewed. “All you’re interested in, Mr. Stern, is Jackson’s checkbook.”

  The accusation traveled up into the air on a warm cloud of breath, dissipating far more quickly than the emotions simmering inside her. Turning her attention to the necessities at hand, Bailey brushed the snow off the windshield and lifted the wiper to scrape away the icy bits that had frozen underneath. The physical exertion stretched her muscles and deepened her breathing, giving her an idea of where she’d head to next instead of finishing up some Christmas shopping as she’d planned. Her trauma counselor had recommended regular physical activity to combat any signs of depression or post-traumatic stress. These bursts of frustrated anger certainly qualified as a symptom of PTSD. Bailey could tell a good workout would go a lot further than a shopping expedition toward dispelling the self doubts and helplessness that were crushing her today.

  Circling the hood of her car, Bailey tackled the other half of the windshield, anxious now to get to the gym to find the catharsis she needed—to reclaim some control of her life. She felt trapped somewhere between uselessness and a mockery of the woman she wanted to be. She had to be good for something in this world besides having money and being a gracious hostess. That resumé hadn’t done her a bit of good the night of the rape.

  Maybe if she’d been smarter. Braver. Wiser about the world. In control of her own life. Maybe if she’d been independent enough to stand up for herself that night, Brian Elliott never would have pegged her as an easy victim.

  That was the reason she had agreed to testify at his trial. The walls of helplessness and frustration that had been building up around her since the assault had grown so tall that they were collapsing in on her, burying any spirit, any self-confidence she had left. She needed to take care of herself, not be taken care of. She needed to be necessary to someone else—vital to some cause.

  She’d survived that night for a reason. But beyond testifying, she’d yet to find what that reason might be. She desperately needed to find some purpose, and soon. Or she was going to go stark, raving, absolutely stinking crazy.

  A bright flash of light darted across the lenses of her sunglasses
, startling her like a gunshot.

  “What the...?” Instinctively, she spun her back against the solid protection of the car.

  A second flash turned her attention to the far end of the parking lot. She glimpsed a small circle of glass reflecting the brightness of the sun and realized it was a camera’s zoom lens.

  Pointed at her.

  “Hey!” she called out. Seriously? Some reporter had tracked her to a job interview? Probably Vanessa Owen or Gabriel Knight trying to scoop their competition again.

  It could be some version of publicity for this weekend’s Christmas Ball. It wouldn’t the first time a paparazzo had snapped a picture of the Mayweather heiress. But she plain old wasn’t in the mood to be rich or famous or somebody else’s ticket to success right now. “What do you want...?”

  The dark figure, more like the blur of a shadow, ducked down behind the row of cars, pulling the camera with him. She heard a car door slam and Bailey instinctively ran to the trunk of her car and stretched up on tiptoe, trying to get another glimpse of the photographer. But there was no one to see. She couldn’t even be sure which car or truck he’d gotten into.

  She sank back onto her heels and glanced up and down the lane of parked vehicles. There was no movement anywhere except for the lines of traffic on the street behind her.

  “Where did you go?” she whispered, backing her hip against the cold, wet fender of her Lexus. Since when did the paparazzi want a picture of her at anything other than a high-profile social event? And how did this particular photographer know who she was, all bundled up like this, or where she’d be?

  “Call me if anything makes you feel nervous or you sense any kind of threat.”

  Spencer Montgomery’s terse warning from the day before echoed in her head. She slipped her fingers into her coat pocket, closing them around his business card.

  Was this a threat? Should she call the detective?

  She’d been an assignment for him yesterday—and an annoying one at that. He’d delivered Chief Taylor’s warning about keeping herself safe. He’d drilled it into her head more than once that she was woefully unprepared for the challenges of the trial. Spencer Montgomery didn’t think she could take care of herself. But she could. She had to.

  Bailey’s gaze darted to the sound of an engine turning over in the distance. She had no doubt the photographer’s attention had been on her. That he’d taken one or more pictures of her.

  She heard wheels squealing against the pavement, burning away the snow and slush until they found traction. The noise drew her attention to the smoky exhaust rising from a black car some thirty yards away.

  She watched the black roof of the sedan backing out of its parking space and turning, not toward the exit at that end of the parking lot to make a quick getaway, but down through the long lines of cars between Bailey and the building. He might be one row over, but the driver was creeping closer. He was coming toward her.

  “Idiot.” The air whooshed out of her lungs as sense returned. She didn’t waste a moment trying to figure out the driver’s identity, whether he might be someone with the legitimate press or more gossipy tabloids, or even if he was something much more sinister. Bailey dashed around the car and climbed inside, locking the doors behind her.

  Take care of yourself, Bailey.

  Swearing at her own foolishness, she tossed the scraper to the floor boards and squeezed her hands around the steering wheel. Counting her breaths so she wouldn’t hyperventilate, she flipped on the lights and wipers and shifted her car into Reverse, repeatedly checking her side-and rear-view mirrors to track the position of the black car.

  The driver hadn’t reached the end yet, hadn’t turned the corner to either take the south exit or come up the lane where she was parked.

  Sensing some sort of short reprieve, Bailey quickly backed out of her parking space and shifted into drive, heading in the opposite direction without giving any thought to her destination. Away was all she had in mind. Get away.

  Her pulse rate quickened when she spotted the car in her rearview mirror. Bright lights. Dark windows. No chance to see the driver inside.

  Bailey pressed harder on the accelerator as the car behind her picked up speed. The driver hadn’t exited the parking lot. He was following her. He wanted something more.

  She turned a quick left toward the north exit but had to pump her brakes and slide to a stop at the beginnings of rush-hour traffic clogging the street. She needed to go left to get to her gym and apartment, and turned on her signal. But until the stoplights switched at the nearby intersection, there wasn’t going to be a break in traffic.

  And the black car was coming closer.

  “Come on, red light.” Bailey’s fingers drummed against the steering wheel. She didn’t even have an opportunity to turn right if she’d wanted to. All the people who weren’t heading home to the suburbs were apparently eager to get to the shopping and nightlife districts near downtown K.C.

  Five lanes of traffic, all blocking her escape.

  “Come on.” Unless she was willing to cause a wreck, she was trapped.

  How long had the man in the car been spying on her? He must have been lying in wait, biding his time until she emerged from the building. How could he have known she was even coming here at all unless he’d followed her from her lunch date with her mother at the Mayweather estate to the interview? Or even longer than that? Had he been at her apartment? Did he know where she lived? Why hadn’t she sensed his presence earlier?

  Maybe she was the only thing that was off today. She’d been so angry, so unsettled by another argument with her mother and the outcome of the interview, that she’d forgotten the cardinal rule of personal safety—be aware of your surroundings. Know where you are and who’s there with you. Detective Montgomery would be saying “I told you so” right now. She knew better. She’d let this happen.

  Could there be a longer red light anywhere in the city? “Come on!”

  She pounded her fist on the steering wheel. She’d been angry that night, too. Angry that her mother and Harper were taking over the plans for her wedding, that her future was spinning out of her control. She’d stormed away from the Fairy Tale Bridal Shop, wanting fresh air, needing time alone. She hadn’t been aware of the danger stalking her until it was too late.

  Maybe she did need someone to take care of her.

  The black car was close enough that she could make out the shape of the driver, if not his face. His window was sliding down. She spotted the narrow camera lens again. Just the flash of reflected sunshine on glass. Aimed her way.

  That was a camera, wasn’t it?

  Could that be the scope of a rifle instead?

  With a desperate sound that was half groan, half scream, Bailey stomped on the accelerator and fishtailed out into the nearest lane of traffic. Horns honked, cars skidded. But she managed to put three vehicles between her and the black car before the light finally turned red and she was forced to stop.

  She checked her rearview mirror, then turned all the way around in her seat to verify that the black car had leisurely pulled out of the parking lot and turned left, merging into traffic and heading in the opposite direction.

  Not following. Not interested. Not a gun. Not threatening her in any way.

  Sinking back into her seat, Bailey closed her eyes. The relief coursing through her was so intense that it made her lightheaded.

  It took another blast of honking horns to open her eyes and pull forward at the green light. Remembering the relaxation techniques Dr. Kilpatrick had taught her, Bailey breathed in deeply, in through her nose and out through her mouth. She organized her thoughts as she settled into the normal flow of traffic. Had she ever been in any danger at all? Had the only threat been inside her head? She’d been in the papers before, and probably would be again.

  Perhaps her mother
had even leaked Bailey’s name to the press. Just like the Blue & Gold Ball a decade earlier, where she’d been presented as a debutante, Loretta’s Christmas Ball would be Bailey’s reintroduction to Kansas City society—and a huge publicity coup in the name of charity. The press’s interest in her might be annoying, but it wasn’t dangerous.

  The photographer’s appearance probably merited a heart-to-heart with her mother about avoiding the spotlight, not a phone call to Detective Montgomery about imminent danger. Thank God she hadn’t called him. He’d probably shake his head at her paranoid imagination, blowing the perceived danger all out of proportion. If she overreacted like this any time someone showed the least bit of curiosity about her, then he was right to worry that she wouldn’t make a credible witness on the stand.

  And she didn’t want Spencer Montgomery to worry about her competence. Tempting as it might be to surrender herself to the detective’s protection, it wasn’t Spencer Montgomery’s job to drop everything and come to her rescue anytime something spooked her. Besides, she’d probably only look more like a child in his eyes, like that poor little rich girl who couldn’t fend for herself Gabe Knight had accused her of being. And she definitely wanted Spencer Montgomery to think of her as a competent, capable woman.

  Because she was thinking far too often about him—even when she didn’t need a cop.

  A smile curved her lips as panic dissipated and calmer, more intimate thoughts replaced her fear. Despite the difference in their ages, Bailey had felt that subtle spark of interest from the red-haired detective, just as surely as she’d felt those ribbons of heat warming her skin when he’d touched her, waking something feral and feminine inside her.

  What the man lacked in warm fuzziness, he made up for in rock-solid dependability. Spencer Montgomery was a steely-eyed warrior in a suit and badge. He was all male. All mature. All the time.

  He was definitely a man she could lean on. What would her life have been like if she’d been engaged to Spencer a year ago? Would she have stormed away from planning a wedding with him? Would he have allowed her to get hurt?