by F F Perez
The Bodyguard
A Fake Marriage Romance
Table of Contents
Prologue: Nancy
Chapter One: Nancy
Chapter Two: Lance
Chapter Three: Nancy
Chapter Four: Lance
Chapter Five: Nancy
Chapter Six: Lance
Chapter Seven: Nancy
Chapter Eight: Lance
Chapter Nine: Nancy
Chapter Ten: Nancy
Chapter Eleven: Nancy
Chapter Twelve: Lance
Epilogue: Lance
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This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental.
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Prologue: Nancy
Rain spilled out of the sky, soaking the large crowd of people rushing into the ancient church in front of me. I gazed at them numbly through the tinted back windows of the spacious black car I was sitting in. I had been sitting there for a half hour watching as people shuffled into the church, trying to psych myself up to going in myself. Funerals had always been difficult for me, but the funeral of my father, well, that was incomprehensible. Ever since my mother had died, my father had been everything to me, both mother and father. I loved him more fiercely than anything in this world. And now he was gone, ripped from me sooner than either of us had anticipated.
“Miss Corrigan, it’s almost time,” my driver, Jim, called from the front seat.
I steeled myself against his sympathetic look and took a deep, shuddering breath. I could do this. I had to do this.
“Yes, thank you, Jim. I’m ready,” I said, shocked that my voice sounded calm when a tempest of grief raged through me, shredding my insides and making it difficult to breathe.
Jim stepped out into the cascading rain, unfurling a large, black umbrella before opening my door. I took his offered hand and schooled my features into the same blank look I had practiced for hours in front of the mirror. My mind flitted back to that long ago day when I stood beside my mother’s grave, my father’s hand clasped in my own.
“Never let the world see you cry, Nan,” my father had said gruffly, wiping away my tears.
“Why?” I had whispered my five-year-old voice small and scared.
“Because the world will use those tears against you,” my father had answered, pulling me away from the dark hole in the ground that would soon hold my mother’s cold body.
I had taken the advice to heart, and that had been the last day I had ever cried in front of another person. The memory brought a sharp dagger of pain to my gut and I stumbled, slipping off one of the stone stairs leading to the oak doors of the church. A firm grasp on my arm stopped my fall, and I looked around to see my savior. I managed not to jerk my arm away with a hiss of disgust, but only just barely.
William Jameson stood next to me, his hand gripping my arm. I had never pinpointed exactly what I thought wrong with him; all I knew was that William Jameson made my skin crawl and my blood freeze. Today was no different, and I was glad I had spent hours in front of the mirror practicing my poker face, as my dad called it. Used to call it, I thought grimly.
Clenching my jaw into a tight smile, I wriggled my arm from William’s clutch. He was wearing a dark grey suit with a pinstriped shirt and a red necktie. He had slicked his brown hair back from his forehead; displaying the wrinkles of age that remained no matter how often William got Botox to remove them.
“Thank you,” I said my voice still calm and emotionless.
He gave me a smile that looked more like a leer. William was a partner in my father’s company and had been a constant visitor to our sprawling family home. It didn’t make him any more likeable. And yet, my manners forbid me from doing more than nodding politely before walking up the rest of the stone steps. I paused for just a moment at the threshold before pushing through the oak doors and striding up the long aisle of the chapel. Friends, family, and strangers stopped whispering long enough to watch my progression toward the open casket waiting at the end of the aisle.
Hot tears escaped down my face as I gazed at the last member of my family, lying peacefully in silk. I reached down and grasped my father’s cold hand in my own. The long years of my life seemed to stretch before me in a narrow road of loneliness and isolation. My father had been all I had for so long; I wasn’t sure how I could survive without his steady presence.
With a shuddering breath, I pulled myself together. It took three steps to get from the casket to the front pew. I kept my eyes trained on the floor as I took those steps and sat down.
The preacher stood at the pulpit and spoke about my father’s charity and kindness. He spoke of a life brought to a close too soon and a legacy that would stand the test of time. I suppressed a shudder as every eye in the cavernous room turned to me.
Legacy, I thought bitterly. Who gives a damn about legacy?
The organist began playing as six of my father’s employees stepped forward, lifting his casket on their shoulders. Every note that fell was like a pierce to my heart. Swallowing a sob, I stood and followed my father out the door for the very last time.
I gazed out the car window the entire ride to the cemetery. My mind raced with memories, chasing themselves around my brain until I couldn’t remember which came first. Jim helped me out of the car once again before handing me the umbrella. I focused on the pit pat of rain on the umbrella as I walked toward the people crowded around the casket. The preacher droned on for a few more minutes, mentioning the same buzzwords as before. When the bagpipes played the first notes of Amazing Grace, I jumped.
Was it time already?
I watched numbly as the machine lowered my father’s cold body into the ground with audible clicks and pops from the belts. Grasping a handful of wet dirt, I walked to the edge of the grave and gazed down at the lily-topped casket. I tossed the dirt in with a loud sniff. Adjusting my grip on the umbrella, I turned my back and walked away. Whatever we had just buried, it wasn’t my father. My father was gone.
I let Jim help me back into the car and had him drive me to my father’s house. Or, my house now, I guess. I stood in a daze, welcoming sympathetic guests and mourners into my childhood home, drifting among them like a ghost. They brought enough food to last two months, but I couldn’t bring myself to eat a bite. Grabbing a bottle of wine, I escaped into the kitchen, allowing the caterers to flit by me. It was there that our faithful housekeeper, Elsa, found me. I had drunk half the bottle of wine, and was seriously contemplating opening the good stuff, when she bustled in like a mother hen.
“Miss Corrigan,” she said in her familiar southern drawl. “There are some detectives here to see you.”
I blinked up at her. She gave me a sympathetic cluck, swiping the half empty bottle off the counter and gesturing behind her. I squinted at two middle-aged men in dark suits.
“Yes?” I asked with a slight slur. They exchanged a glance, but were too polite to say anything about my obvious drunkenness
.
“Miss Corrigan?” one of them asked. “Nancy Corrigan?”
“Yes?” I repeated stupidly.
“My name is Tom Jacobs,” the same one answered. “And this is my partner, Jesse Smithwell”—he gestured beside him—“We would like a few minutes of your time.”
“I’m a little busy,” I answered, scowling.
“It’s about your father’s death,” Detective Smithwell said, not unkindly.
That sobered me a little. “What about my father’s death? The doctors said he had a heart attack.”
The detectives exchanged looks. “We found evidence that suggests someone poisoned your father,” Detective Jacobs said bluntly.
I slipped off my chair in shock, landing with a thump on the floor. Both men moved to help me up, but, swearing, I waved them off.
“Are you telling me,” I snapped. “That someone murdered my father?”
“We believe so,” Smithwell answered. “We also think your life may be in danger.”
I blinked at him.
“We would like to offer you police protection,” Jacobs said gently.
I shook my head. “I have personal security.”
Jacobs nodded. “We’ll need the number of whoever’s in charge of that security. Until we catch your father’s killer, you’re in danger, Miss Corrigan.”
I stared at him blankly for a moment before turning and rummaging through my purse. I brought out my phone, looked up the number for Malcolm Shieldman, and scribbled the number on a sheet of paper.
“This is the number of Malcolm Shieldman. He’s the owner of Shields United, our security firm,” I explained, handing the paper to Detective Jacobs.
He took it, nodding.
“We are very sorry for your loss,” Detective Smithwell said. “We’ll do everything we can to catch the person responsible.”
I nodded, too numb to feel scared. Elsa came and saw them both out, leaving me to my thoughts. I gazed around the empty kitchen.
When did everyone go home?
With a choking sob, I sunk to my knees. I let the tears stream down my face in hot streaks. Grabbing my stomach, I rocked back and forth, a strange keening in my ears. It wasn’t until Elsa came running in, wrapping her soft arms around my shoulders, that I realized the keening was coming from me. I let Elsa hold me as grief and rage wracked through my body. There would be time enough for blank faces and dry eyes. Tonight I would let go. Tonight I would grieve. Tomorrow… well, tomorrow I would plan.
Chapter One: Nancy
Three Months Later
My stomach flipped as my sleek, black car pulled up to the skyscraper that housed my father’s legacy. Corrigan Enterprises was the largest real estate development company in the Western Hemisphere. We owned hundreds of hotels, casinos, and resorts around the globe. My father had also begun branching out into military and government buildings before he died. It was a daunting legacy to inherit.
I had taken the last three months off, working remotely and allowing the board to make most of the day-to-day decisions. Then, I got a phone call last week from my father’s most trusted advisor and friend, Jackson Warrick. He had asked to meet, and, feeling lonely, I had jumped at the chance to connect with anything to do with my father.
The meeting hadn’t been the comforting rendezvous I had imagined, however. Jackson had told me how William Jameson was attempting to bully the board into selling off and cancelling multi-million dollar contracts that my father had worked tirelessly to obtain.
It was the kick in the pants I needed to come out of my self-imposed exile and grasp the reins of a company I had been born to lead. I knew the task ahead of me was a daunting one, but I had a new determination to see my father’s work mean something. I would do his legacy proud while using all the resources I could to find his killer.
Sighing, I allowed Jim to help me out of the car. He gave my hand a gentle squeeze before dropping it. I smiled my thanks and gazed up at the 76-story building in front of me.
“Miss Corrigan?” a deep, husky voice asked, drawing my attention back to earth. I glanced at the owner of the voice, my breath catching in a silent gasp.
Standing over six feet tall, a Viking warrior gazed down at me with dark, unreadable eyes. I took a step back, eyeing the expensive black suit that did absolutely nothing to hide his muscular body. His face was rectangular with sharp lines and a strong jaw. A dusting of a beard caressed that jaw, traveling around and above his full lips. His dark hair was long, trailing a little past his ears, and slicked back from his handsome face.
“Yes?” I croaked.
“My name is Lance Savage,” he replied, smirking slightly. He hadn’t missed my intense inspection of his body a few seconds ago.
“And?” I answered, flushing.
“I’m the new head of your security detail.”
“What happened to Finn?” I asked, frowning. Finn had been in charge of my father’s security and no one had discussed this last minute change with me. It was unlike Malcolm Shieldman to change things up without notifying me first.
“Finn got called away last minute,” Lance answered, glancing around us. “Malcolm assigned me as a replacement. We should get inside, Miss Corrigan.”
“It’s Nancy,” I snapped. “And why didn’t Malcolm tell me this himself?”
“He had trouble getting in touch with you,” Lance answered, studying me. “You weren’t answering your personal phone, so he called the main office. That man Jameson coordinated my replacement in your stead.”
I narrowed my eyes. While I had turned my personal phone off a lot and hadn’t bothered to answer or return any calls but the ones from Jackson and Elsa, it galled me that Jameson had coordinated my personal security rather than Jackson.
“Jackson Warrick approved the switch as well,” Lance replied as if reading my mind.
That Jackson approved of him made me feel a little better. I nodded, averting my gaze from his near perfect face. “Is there anything else I should know?”
“Just that we’ve increased your security since the news of your father’s murder,” Lance answered, taking me by the elbow and steering me toward the glass doors of the building.
I flinched at the casual mention of my father’s murder. “What does that mean?” I asked, swallowing hard.
“Just that instead of us securing you from a distance, you will have a constant bodyguard,” Lance shrugged, pushing me through the doors and into the cool interior of the building.
“The same person?”
“Precisely,” Lance said.
“Let me guess,” I snapped. “You are my new bodyguard?”
Lance smirked and nodded, leading me to the elevators. “And I can assure you, Nancy,” he murmured, leaning dangerously closer, and I shivered as my name dripped from his sensual lips. “I will thoroughly enjoy guarding such a beautiful body.”
He winked, making me flush. I intended to tell him off, but the intensity of his gaze caused the words to die on my lips. His dark blue eyes drew me in, mesmerizing me with the inferno locked deep within their depths, promising me something primal I had only ever found in my darkest dreams.
The ding of the elevator broke whatever spell he held over me. I cleared my throat and backed away from him quickly, disconcerted that I had gotten so close to him in the first place. Scowling at him, I stomped onto the elevator, ignoring his deep chuckle and the shivers it sent down my spine. He followed me onto the elevator, still smirking. He swiped his security tag over a small black box and pressed the button for the top floor.
“Hold the elevator!” someone shouted from the lobby.
I flung an arm between the doors reflexively, allowing a tall, dishevelled man with a briefcase into the elevator with us. An awkward silence descended as the stranger swiped his tag over the same box and pushed the button with the number 75 on it, for the floor under ours. I frowned. Jackson had told me that that floor was under construction.
“What’s wrong?” Lance asked his breat
h hot in my ear.
I turned to answer him and barely had time to register the flash of metal before Lance slammed me into the wall behind him. I watched in growing horror and shock as Lance’s arm shot out, blocking the assailant’s large knife. Lance’s other arm swung around, his palm flat and fingers extended. He thrust the flattened hand hard into the stranger’s chest, flinging him back into the opposite wall of the elevator.
With a snarl, the assailant jumped toward Lance, slicing the back of his arm with the knife. Blood dripped from the wound, but Lance hardly seemed to notice it. He used the same flat-handed manoeuvres to disarm the stranger. The knife dropped to the ground with a clatter while Lance ducked under a furious fist aimed at his face. Using the other man’s weight and momentum against him, Lance pushed the assailant to the floor, swinging the snarling stranger’s arm behind his back.
“Stop the elevator!” Lance barked at me.
Scampering over to the key pad, I slammed my hand down on the emergency stop button, bringing the elevator to a screeching halt. I turned back to Lance, my heart pounding in my chest.
“Who sent you?” Lance growled at the assassin in a low, dangerous voice.
The man swore at him. Lance put more pressure on his arm.
“Who sent you?” Lance repeated, his voice sending shivers down my spine.
“Fuck you,” the man spat from his trapped position on the floor.
It was the wrong thing to say because Lance pushed the man’s arm a little harder, and a sickening pop echoed off the elevator walls. The assailant screeched in pain.
“Who sent you?” Lance roared, shoving his hand into the dislocated shoulder.
“Go to hell!” the man shouted.
“Hand me his knife,” Lance ordered me, never taking his eyes from the attacker’s face. I hesitated for two heartbeats before leaning down and grasping the large knife in shaking hands. I handed it to Lance and quickly backed away, bumping against the elevator door.