Guarding Miranda

by Amanda M. Holt

  She did get the sense that Waterhen looked out for their own.

  She was getting another sense.

  The sense that her Uncle Russ was being as much of a control freak as ever.

  “Still, I don’t see why he had to send you up here, just to tell me that.”

  “It isn’t just for my services as a messenger, Miranda.” Brian rose from his seat, to his full six feet and four inches. “I’m here to serve as your bodyguard.”

  The laugh burst forth from Miranda’s lips with as much humor as surprise.

  “Bodyguard? For me?” She laughed again, this time until her stomach ached. Brian watched her in silence, wondering what was so funny. “I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me why?”

  “I thought I’ve explained it already. Your Uncle Russ is certain you’re in need of my personal protection services.”

  Miranda laughed again but her green eyed gaze lost all of its humor when she stiffened her back and readied a terse reply.

  “Well, you can go back to San Francisco and tell my uncle that I’m quite all right, in no need of your personal protection services.”

  “I’m sure he’ll beg to differ, just as I would.”

  “And I’m sure I’ll save him a small fortune by sending you back to California!” She nearly shouted, the stubborn streak in her showing its vibrant color.

  “Miranda, he has reason to believe your life is in danger. That Barry may be looking to finish what he started.” Brian’s voice was even but stern. “It’s a sentiment I share.”

  “Well, then, it’s between me and the police and no concern of yours.”

  “And exactly where are you going to find a policeman in these parts?” Brian made a sweeping gesture encompassing the region. “According to your uncle, there are no police in Waterhen.”

  He intentionally didn’t mention the locally-affiliated community constable.

  “Probably because Waterhen is so small and calm and quiet and peacefull that they don’t need any.”

  Her unspoken statement was that she didn’t need any.

  And that she didn’t need him either.

  That she was safe.

  That he should leave.

  Brian frowned his displeasure. “You know, I was expecting you to be grateful toward your uncle Russ, for him loving you enough to ensure your safety.”

  “I’m grateful to him for far more than you could ever know,” she seethed, clenching her jaw. “But I’m quite safe here in Waterhen. No one – not even Barry – would think to look for me outside of California, never mind this far North in a totally different country, a place as remote as this! That is, if it wasn’t just a random home invasion and Barry really is after me.”

  “Given the state that your rooms were in, I’d say it’s safe to say that someone is looking for you and that their intentions are less than friendly.”

  Her face softened, the hostility easing away into shock. “What happened to my rooms?”

  Brian walked toward her, unwilling to be the harbinger of bad news but the only one in the position to do so. “Someone ripped your room apart, looking for something or looking for you.”

  “How bad was it?”

  “Bad enough to warrant concern. Picture frames were broken, drawers emptied, things scattered, clothing shredded, your mirror shattered, your dressers emptied unto the floor – that sort of thing.” He paused, to rake a large hand through his onyx colored hair. “Someone really took their rage out in that room. And as for your Lexus...”

  “What happened to my Lexus?”

  “The tires were slashed, the windshield shattered by an axe, along with your headlights. If it wasn’t Barry, thinking perhaps he should silence you before you can identify him to the police, then who was it?”

  “Perhaps it was a random act of violence...”

  “Possible but not likely. Not a single item was disturbed or stolen outside of your room, besides a vase in the lobby. It was an act of violence directed at you.”

  Miranda shuddered despite the warmth of the room.

  “I see.” She gave a long, steadying sigh as she processed the upsetting information. “Have the police got any leads?”

  “No. Your Uncle Russ thinks that it was Barry, the man who killed Richard and shot you. I’m inclined to agree with him.”

  Miranda’s heart lurched at the drop of her fiancé’s name.

  She felt as though the assault upon her room, her vehicle, had been assaults upon her very person.

  She felt mildly faint and very ill...

  “It still doesn’t warrant your presence here,” she insisted, her hands clenching into fists.

  “Damned right, it does!” He growled. “Unless you’d like this Barry character to finish the job he started when he shot you the last time!”

  At the mention of the wound, her shoulder began to ache, as though memory of the incident had provoked it into pain.

  Brian watched the changing expressions on her face. “Now, I’m staying, aren’t I Miranda?”

  “Fine.” She surrendered. “You can stay.”

  “Am I to take it you’ve come to your senses?” He grinned at her but she was in no mood to grin back.

  “You can take it any damned way you like,” she snapped, as viciously as she could manage. “I really don’t care.”

  Glaring at him the way she was, she couldn’t help but notice how virile masculinity was stamped into every line, every curve of Brian’s physique.

  Even now, at his most relaxed, the smile of satisfaction on his face, there was a fierceness to him that she had never noticed in other men.

  Realizing that she was staring, Miranda looked away.

  “There are two guest bedrooms,” she began to say. “One through there and one up there. Which would you prefer?”

  He stared down at her porcelain pale face, into green eyes that were softened by something he could not name.

  He saw the signs of her submission, her downcast gaze.

  Her submission would do, for now.

  He suspected that she would not co-operate in other ways, that she would likely rebel against his being there.

  “I’ve already put my things in the guest room up there.” He uncrossed his strong arms. “Thank you.”

  “I need a drink.” Miranda said flatly, heading for her uncle’s well-stocked liquor cabinet. “A strong one.”

  She opened the cabinet wide to reveal several bottles of liquor. “Brian, can I interest you in a whisky, scotch, vodka, rum or gin?”

  “Maybe later.” He replied, clearly amused by her invitation. “Look, Miranda, I know you’re not too happy with my presence here -”

  “- you’re right,” she said, pouring herself a hefty vodka. “I’m not.”

  “Well, then, let me clear the air between us. I’m here to do a job, perform a task and that task is to protect you to the best of my ability. I’ll try to stay out of your way as much as possible but it is imperative that you abide by my advice.” Brian paused, before launching into the part he knew she was going to hate. “Rule number one-”

  “Rules, huh?” She glowered at him.

  “-is simple: wherever you go, I go. You aren’t to leave without letting me know where you’re going, so I can accompany you.”

  “Wonderful!” She seethed, closing the liquor cabinet.

  “Rule number two is: always abide by rule number one. To ensure you comply, I’ll take care of your car keys for you...”

  “Like hell you will!” She snapped, wheeling around but it was too late. He was already dangling the keys from one huge, burly hand.

  “It’s for your own good, Miranda.”

  She stomped toward him, until she was face to face with the towering bodyguard, one angry palm extended, “You can kindly give me back me keys.”

  “No. I can’t.”

  “I’m not going to run away like some foolhardy teenager.”

  “Consider me your chauffeur from here on in.” He jiggled the keys a momen
t before tucking them into his jeans.

  “Fine!” She snapped, stalking to the fridge to add a splash of ginger ale to the half glass of vodka. “Just so you know, I’m going to watch a DVD. Care to accompany me?”

  It was more of a dare than an invitation, from the tone of her voice.

  She was handling the transition rather well, he figured.

  “Certainly.” He followed her into the living room. “So where were you, anyway?”

  “The community potluck supper.”

  “A potluck?” He laughed. “I didn’t think you’d be the type to mingle with the locals.”

  “I happen to like the locals. A lot.” She paused and viciously added: “You know nothing about me, Brian.”

  “On the contrary, I know quite a lot.”

  He considered the size of a certain red satin bra with lace trim, upstairs…

  “Like what?” She challenged.

  “Like that you’re innocent of all the accusations the newspapers are making. You weren’t involved in any way with Richard’s drug dealings.”

  Her eyes narrowed with anger as she beheld him. “How perfectly ignorant of you to automatically assume he’s guilty of the charges!”

  Now was not the time for Brian to tell her the truth, as much as part of him wanted to tell her what a vile bastard her fiancé had been.

  Instead of confessing all, he instead tried to be compassionate and said: “You must have loved him very much.”

  “I did love him, I still do. With every fiber of my being, every part of my soul.”

  “Then he was a lucky man.” Brian supposed, with a startling pang of jealousy churning inside of him.

  He knew himself too well to ignore the simmering irritation he felt at her admission.

  He couldn’t possibly be jealous of the dead drug dealer, could he?

  The look in her eyes had softened some, from outrage to deep-seeded hurt.

  “Richard wasn’t so lucky the night he was murdered...”

  “Would you like to talk about it?”

  “Not with you!”

  “No need to be cross, love.” He said softly, taking the armchair he had been sitting in when she entered. “I’m just trying to be friendly.”

  “I’ve already seen a grief counselor. You can knock it off with the sympathy routine.”

  He didn’t dignify her nasty tone with a response.

  “So what else do you know about me?” She finally asked, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had come between them.

  Everything from your birth date to your bra size, sweetheart, thought Brian with a grin.

  “I know enough.”

  “Like what?”

  He decided to show his hand. “Like that you’re twenty seven, never married, once engaged, with a college diploma in graphic arts and a university degree in Fine Arts. As for the schools you went to, you attended college at the San Diego Institute of Technology and attended California State University in San Francisco. You’re an archery and tae kwon do enthusiast with several trophies and medals under your belt. You’re a fan of Claude Monet, like your uncle and – surprisingly – a big fan of Luis Royo, Dorian Cleavenger, Boris Vallejo and H. R. Giger, all modern artists that don’t quite fit with your snooty Fine Art education.”

  “Go on,” she said sarcastically, when he paused.

  “You prefer mocha-cappuccinos over regular coffee and have your hair and nails done regularly. You’ve inherited a king’s ransom from your parents but you’ve barely spent a penny of it but for regular contributions to charities and the occasional personal expense. As educated as you are, you have yet to seek employment in your chosen field. You’ve been coasting through life for a handful of years. You’ve lived with your Uncle Russ and Aunt Nancee since your parents’ passed away and were intending to move once you married Richard. Your wear a size eight shoe and have a twenty nine inch waist. Shall I go on?”

  She seemed upset at his vast and varied knowledge of her affairs.

  “As I don’t believe my uncle filled you in on even the half of that, I’ll kindly ask how it is you’ve come to know so much about me?”

  “It’s a talent.” He grinned at her frown.

  She took a large swallow of her vodka laden drink. “Have you been following me around? Has my uncle been paying you to follow me around?”

  “Did I mention how intelligent you are?”

  “Why?” She demanded, sitting up in her seat, her face pale. “Why did he hire you?”

  “Out of concern for your safety.”

  “My safety!” She exclaimed, incredulously.

  Perhaps it actually was a good time.

  Time to tell her all that he knew.

  Time to bite the bullet and just spit it out, Brian decided.

  “Miranda, your uncle was mortified by my discoveries. He suspected that you were engaged to a drug dealer. It turns out, from my investigations, that he was right.”

  “You were following Richard around too?” Then she realized what he had just said. “Drug dealer? You’re lying!”

  “Am I?” He arched an inquisitive brow.

  She was not so sure herself any more.

  Could there be any truth to the rumors?

  Surely not!

  Not Richard!

  “Richard was a good man!” She insisted. “An honorable man who made an honest living…”

  “I’ll be back in a minute, with proof.” He said and rose from his seat to seek out the thick manila envelope in his room.

  “Yeah, you do that mister,” she grumbled into her vodka.

  Yet her stomach lurched with nausea at the thought that their might in fact be truth to Brian’s claims.

  To the newspaper headings.

  To the Blog feeds.

  No, no, please no, she vented psychically.

  Brian was a capable, competent man.

  If he was so certain of his findings, then?

  He walked back down the stairs, aware of her angry green eyes upon him, condemning him a thousand times over. “Russ said that you would probably like to see the photos and video for yourself.”

  He set the thick envelope on the coffee table before her.

  “What’s in a picture?” She asked, sarcasm in her voice.

  She feared the worst, feared that it was all true.

  She glared at the manila envelope as though the flap of it was ready to bite her.

  “A thousand words.” He replied and then scratched his chin in thought. “I also have a DVD of the recordings you might want to see.”

  The DVD, in its case, was the topmost bulge in the envelope.

  “I don’t believe you.” There were angry tears now, in her eyes, as she finished the last of her drink with a shaking hand.

  “You don’t believe me or you don’t want to believe me?”

  When she didn’t answer, he gave her a moment to collect her thoughts.

  Her angry tears flowed unimpeded.

  He wanted for all the world to wipe those tears away.

  She set down her vodka glass, her eyes locked on the envelope.

  “Would you like to see for yourself?” He asked gently, sliding the pictures from the manila sheath.

  The DVD clattered unto the coffee table.

  There was courage in her voice as she said, “Absolutely.”

  With a shaking hand, she accepted the thick pile of photographs from him and began to flip through them, one by one, her horror growing with each new image.

  There were pictures of Richard, Richard and more of Richard.

  Richard with the stereotypical briefcase full of money, Richard examining discreetly wrapped packages, Richard Bent over snorting what appeared to be cocaine through a straw.

  She could not believe her eyes.

  “Oh my God.” Her words were barely a whisper.

  “You think that’s bad,” said Brian softly, as he rose to put the DVD in the player that took up the midst of the high tech entertainment equipment. “Wait ‘t
il you see the video.”

  Turning up the volume, he set the DVD to play...

  Chapter Eight

  Miranda was still crying into her pillow when Brian came to check on her two hours later. She lay face down on the bed, her sobs just audible enough for him to hear.

  He opened the door wider, to let himself in.

  “Miranda?”

  “Leave me alone.” Her voice shook with her, as she spoke.

  “Miranda, if you need to talk about this-”

  She pulled herself up into a sitting position and glared at Brian, her face puffy and pink from crying. “I said leave me alone!”

  He closed the door before the pillow she had thrown could make contact with his head.

  It was past one o’clock in the morning and he had a sinking feeling that she would be crying all night.

  “Couldn’t you have broken it to me easier?” She yelled, her voice cracking under the toll of the last few hours.

  “I figured honesty was the best policy.” He told her through the closed door, knowing his voice would carry. “There was no point in sugar coating something that would cut so deep.”

  “Well thanks for nothing!” She yelled, coughed and added: “Jerk.”

  Brian went to his bedroom and closed the door.

  Setting the gun, in its holster, on the nightstand, he stripped down to his boxer shorts and slid between the crisp blue sheets.

  He listened to the sobbing that tore and shred at his heart, until finally, she fell silently asleep from exhaustion.

  Then and only then, did he allow himself the luxury of the same.

  He woke later that Thursday morning to his watch’s alarm at six thirty.

  He was as refreshed as could be expected on four hours’ sleep.

  Dressing in a pair of Bahama shorts and a black T-shirt, he checked in on Miranda.

  The dark haired beauty was sleeping peacefully, all traces of her hours of tears gone, save but for a slight bit of puffiness around her eyes.

  He watched her breathe for a long moment and then physically forced himself away from the door, closing it softly behind him.

  He went for a quick jog, several treks up and down the long driveway. It wasn’t as long as his usual daily run but he would have to make some personal sacrifices now that he was on duty around the clock with Miranda.