Cindy Gerard - [Bodyguards 04]

by Over the Line

  He lifted his head. Found her ruined and semi-dozing with her head against the wall, her hair falling every which way over her eyes.

  He reached up, brushed away a fall of blond silk so he could see her face. Slowly she opened her eyes, reacted to his dark scowl with a sweet, sleepy smile.

  “Janey—”

  She touched her fingertips to his mouth. It was all he could do not to suck them inside.

  “No talking, Iowa. The rest of tonight, no talking, okay?”

  She unlocked her ankles, sort of melted off of him as she slid down the wall until her feet touched the floor.

  “Just more of this. Just much, much more of this,” she murmured, leaning into him and wrapping her arms around his waist. “We can deal with the fallout in the morning.”

  Fallout. Lord help him would there be fallout. Radioactive fallout.

  “Deal?” She tilted her head back. Her hair tumbled over his arms as she met his eyes with such a sweet, searching plea.

  So sweet, so searching, he said the only thing he could. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

  Her smile was silky and slow. “Don’t worry, country boy. I won’t let it come to that.”

  What could he do? What could he do?

  Nothing. Nothing but kiss her.

  And kiss her and think about kissing her forever.

  Finally, he picked her up and carried her to the shower, where he held up his end of the bargain. He didn’t think about right. He didn’t think about wrong.

  He just thought about her. How she looked with the water sluicing down her body. How silky her skin was beneath the tattoo above her breast. Low on her belly.

  How she tasted when he went down on his knees and touched the sweet spot between her thighs with his tongue. How she sounded when she came.

  But mostly he thought about how he felt when he was inside her. Like he was somewhere he was always supposed to be. Like he was finally the best man he had ever been.

  Much later, he lay awake with her sleeping beside him. Her head rested on his shoulder, her hair spilled over his arm. And he knew.

  She was going to be the death of him, all right. At least she was going to be the end of his life as he knew it. He was never going to be the same. She’d taken him somewhere he’d never been before. Had never even known existed. He didn’t know where it was or what it was; he just knew it was somewhere he’d always want to go.

  Was it love? Hell, he didn’t know. What did he know about love? All he knew about was war.

  He’d thought he’d loved Sara. Thought he’d always love her.

  But then there was Janey.

  He reached down, lifted a fall of silken hair, rubbed it between his fingers.

  Sweet. Sexy. Tough.

  And she’d been celibate for two years.

  That blew his mind.

  Why him? Why had she picked him to end the fast?

  Maybe . . . shit. He shouldn’t even let himself think it.

  But as she stirred in her sleep, whispered something that sounded like “Baby Blue” against his shoulder, and snuggled closer, he did think it. Dared to even believe it.

  Had tonight been more than sex for her, too? More than an outlet for a tension prompted by terror and fatigue and grief?

  Could she . . . was it possible . . . had she picked him because she did have feelings for him? Maybe even loved him? Just a little?

  He rubbed a hand over his eyes.

  Get real, Wilson. You’re doing it again. Falling for a woman in trouble. And thinking with your heart instead of your head. Confusing chemistry with happily ever after.

  Think, man. That’s how it had been with Sara. They’d been friends. Hell, she’d been married. He’d never thought of her as anything but his buddy’s wife. And then she’d been a widow. Helpless and hurting. And he’d stepped in, stepped up. And ended up losing his heart.

  Sara had never loved him. Not that way. And he knew better than to ever fall into that stupid trap again.

  Yet here he was. Thinking about love and . . . and lifetimes . . . and . . . and hell.

  Forget about it, Wilson.

  You’re chasing an impossible dream.

  The next morning, Wednesday, July 19th, West Palm Beach

  “How’s it going?”

  Dallas Garrett looked up from his laptop at the E.D.E.N. Securities, Inc., office at the sound of his brother Nolan’s voice.

  “It’s going. Ran those names. You’ll find this interesting.” He handed Nolan a printout of a police report filed in Peoria, Illinois.

  “Kathy Wallace.” Nolan glanced at the report, then handed it back to Dallas. “She’s on the list Jase found in Alice Perkins’s lockbox, right?”

  “She was.”

  Nolan’s gaze sharpened.

  “The woman died two days ago.”

  “Sonofabitch. How?”

  “It’s early for the final report, but all indications are it was an accidental electrocution. Hair dryer fell into the bathtub.

  “Already on it,” Dallas added when he saw that Nolan was gearing up to suggest he dig a little deeper. “I’m waiting for a call back from the Peoria PD. And yeah,” he added, figuring he knew exactly what Nolan was thinking. “I’m stepping up the search for the other three women.”

  “This is way too much of a coincidence, that both Alice Perkins and a woman whose name just happened to appear on a list in her lockbox are dead,” Nolan said. “Accidental death or not, I’ll be interested as hell in hearing what the officer who handled the case has to say.”

  “Right. In the meantime,” Dallas said, a niggling concern tightening in his gut. “You want to call Jase with this or should I?”

  “I’ll call him,” Nolan said, and left the room.

  For the next several hours, Dallas buried himself in online searches. It was where he felt the most comfortable these days. Buried in work.

  That way he didn’t think about other things. Things like what-ifs and too-bads and where in the hell was she?

  His eyes were burning when he leaned back in his desk chair, linked his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes.

  But even closed, he could see her.

  Amy Walker.

  Not a day went by that he didn’t think about her. Wonder if she was well. If she was whole. Physically and mentally.

  Wonder if he could have done something to make her stay.

  And do what, Garrett?

  He stared at the ceiling. Damned if he knew.

  A month. One full month had passed since she’d left and not a word. Not that he’d really expected one. He’d known her all of what? A week? Two? Didn’t matter. They’d shared a lifetime of experience in that short, dangerous snippet of time. It seemed like a dream sometimes. Make that a nightmare. So much of a nightmare he wondered if Jolo had actually happened.

  Then he’d take a look at Ethan. His once stoic and unhappy older brother was a changed man. And he was changed because Ethan, Dallas, Nolan, and their buddy Manny Ortega had formed a rogue rescue team and rescued Darcy Prescott from an Abu Sayyaf terrorist cell hiding out on the remote Philippine island. She’d be Darcy Garrett again soon. Ethan and his ex were getting remarried in a couple of months. They were working things out. Working things through.

  Yeah. Ethan was a changed man. Dallas was changed, too. After finding Darcy—finding Darcy and Amy Walker—in the hands of those scum, they’d all been changed.

  Dallas rocked forward in his chair, determined to get back to work. Tried to shake Amy’s image from his mind. Tried and failed.

  He could still see her when they’d found her a captive of those terrorists. She’d been like a wild animal. Her blond hair filthy and snarled and matted. Her body covered in jungle grime and bruises. Her face flushed with fever from infected cuts and insect bites.

  He still had nightmares about what she had to have gone through at the hands of those murdering jackals who hid behind a call to jihad that broke all peace-leaning beliefs of their Mus
lim brethren.

  Yeah, he still had nightmares.

  And he still wondered where Amy was.

  Told himself he was just concerned was all. It wasn’t as if . . . well, it wasn’t as if they’d had a future or anything. Christ, she came with more baggage than he could carry in a train of boxcars. He didn’t do baggage. So no. It wasn’t like they’d had a future.

  But damn. He wished he knew where she was.

  Right now, though, he had more pressing questions. He agreed with Nolan. Those other three women were in potential danger. And Janey Perkins was in a helluva lot of trouble. His main goal now was to find those women and to give Jase some help to keep the multi-million-dollar franchise alive.

  He’d think about Amy Walker later.

  And think about her . . . and think about her.

  Same morning, July 19th, Los Angeles

  Max wiped the sweat from his upper lip, dragged deep on his cigarette, and eyed the bar in the corner of his living room. A very nice living room. In a very nice condo with an ocean view. A view that had been paid for thanks to Janey. He owed his living to Janey.

  And soon he would owe her his miserable life.

  A shot of gin might steady his nerves. And fix exactly nothing.

  He was going to betray her . . . all under the grand auspice of keeping her alive.

  It was 9:00 a.m. His hand was still shaking. He’d just hung up from talking with Herb Meyers. And the stink of the man he’d just reduced himself to seeped from his pores like toxic waste.

  He pressed the heel of his hand against the spot in his chest that never seemed to let up these days. He was officially a thief. Or would be by the end of the week.

  It was either steal from Janey or . . . Herb’s words came back to haunt him.

  “Be a damn shame if something was to happen to little Janey now, too, wouldn’t it?. . .”

  His gut had been giving him hell ever since Wilson had called yesterday and filled him in on the motel break-in. Yeah, the twin hearts pointed to Grimm. But Max wondered. It would be easy to implicate Grimm—easy for Meyers and the mob he worked for.

  Bastards. Meyers couldn’t have known about the cash in Alice Perkins’s lockbox, though. Hell. Even Janey hadn’t known about it, so Max was certain it hadn’t been Herb or one of his thugs who’d showed up at the bank.

  At the bank, he thought again. Where Janey had found the little windfall that was going to save him.

  It was too easy. As her business manager, he handled all of her money. As soon as he’d gotten back to L.A., he’d started the shuffle of funds. In a few days two hundred K would magically disappear from Janey’s account and land in an untraceable account in the Caymans. An account Max would empty with a wire of funds to Meyers and his mob.

  Jesus. He couldn’t think about it now. It had to be done. He’d convinced Herb to give him a few more days. Assured Herb he’d get his damn money. As soon as the transaction was complete.

  Max would cover it somehow. He’d repay it. Little by little from his own salary. Or maybe . . . maybe . . .

  His cell phone rang.

  He jumped. Jumped, for God’s sake.

  “Yeah,” he growled after fishing the phone out of his pocket.

  “Max?”

  Janey. He took a stab at settling himself. “Hey, snooks. How . . . how’s my best girl?”

  Okay. That was a new low. He was about to steal from her and now he was acting like he didn’t have a care in the world.

  “I’m okay. How are you? You sound . . . I don’t know. Funny.”

  “Can you blame me? I mean, I let you out of earshot for twenty-four hours and look what happens.”

  Silence. “You know about last night?”

  “Yeah. I talked to Wilson earlier. He filled me in on the break-in at your motel. You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Really. I was a little shook, but I’m fine now, so before you suggest it, we are not canceling the Boston show tonight.”

  “Janey—”

  “No. That’s why I called. I knew you’d be thinking about it, but it’s not going to happen.”

  “And Wilson’s okay with this?”

  “Wilson’s not calling the shots regarding my career. Look, I’ve got to go. We’ll be back in plenty of time for sound check.”

  “You’re too stubborn for your own good, kid.” And too trusting, he thought, guilt burning a new hole in his gut.

  “Love you, too, Max. I’ll see ya later.”

  “Janey—wait. I won’t be in Boston when you get there.”

  “You won’t?”

  “I’m already back in L.A. I had to fly back, deal with that one-point-three mil, remember?”

  “Oh. Yeah.” She paused. “I actually forgot about that for a minute there. You get it handled?”

  Yeah, he thought grimly. He was handling it all right. “I’m getting there.”

  “Okay, well, look—I’ve got to go. John just gave the warning to kill the cell phones. See you in a few days. I’m looking forward to the downtime.”

  “Yeah. In a few days,” he said, and hung up.

  Max stood there for several long moments. Hating himself. Hating his habit.

  And wondering what kind of a spread he could get on tonight’s Dodgers game.

  15

  Janey hung up from talking with Max, then turned off her cell phone as her Gulfstream taxied down the tarmac and got in line for takeoff. She was tired, she was grumpy, and she was sore. After the most incredible sex of her life.

  And sex, she’d decided, seemed to be all it had been for Jason Baby Blue Wilson. He sat as mute as a stump beside her; his eyes were closed, but she knew he wasn’t sleeping. He was faking it. So he wouldn’t have to talk to her.

  And it had been more than sex for you? she asked herself with an uneasy look out the jet’s porthole.

  No. It hadn’t been more.

  She stared at her thumbnail.

  Okay. Maybe. Maybe it had been more.

  All right. Yeah, she admitted, closing her eyes. Maybe it had started out as sex. She’d been fascinated by him from the moment she’d first seen him.

  But she also understood herself well enough to know that casual sex—no matter how common it was in her circle—wasn’t casual to her. Never had been. Never would be. And it hadn’t been casual with Baby Blue. It had been something . . . more. Something deeper. An emotional connection. At least it had felt that way.

  His eyes. God, he’d be buried deep inside her, and he would look at her with those clear blue need-you eyes and it felt like he was looking into her soul. Seeing her for who she was, not the image she presented onstage or on album covers or in magazines. Seeing her like a man who thought she was someone special, not like a man whose only reason for being with her was because he was being paid to protect her.

  He’d been so amazingly sensitive. To her needs. To her pleasure. To how far he could take her until she couldn’t take any more. And she’d learned things about him, too—like the answers to several burning questions. He went commando. And he loved it when she was on top.

  She fingered the now familiar and somehow comforting weight of her mother’s cross and reminded herself of one major factor: All of that was last night. Last night when the only words were urgent whispers and the only world was the one she and Baby Blue created in that motel room. On the floor. In the shower. In the bed.

  She clenched her knees together to counter a sharp, electric ache that pulsed through her when she thought of the way he’d touched her. Kissed her. Made dizzying love to her.

  Yeah. That was last night. Since he’d awakened her early this morning already showered and dressed and back in bodyguard mode, he hadn’t said a word that hadn’t had to do with food, transportation, or security.

  “I can’t take the gun on a commercial flight,” he’d said with a grim scowl when she’d asked him to get her to Boston ASAP. “And I’m no longer sure I can protect you without one.”

  “Then I
guess you’ve got a problem.” Angry and hurt and confused by his cool distance, she’d settled herself into the rental’s passenger seat beside him. “Take me to the nearest airport, because we’re making that concert and that means we’re flying.”

  In the end, he’d called her pilot, John Cummings, who had flown the Gulfstream to Columbia, Mississippi, to pick them up. The drive to the airport had been silent and tense.

  And filled with misgivings.

  So. Now she knew what the fallout was like with Baby Blue. After everything they’d shared last night, he couldn’t even look her in the eye today, let alone touch her.

  Like she was a leper or something.

  Or the single biggest mistake of his life.

  Maybe if she wasn’t so tired—he’d worn her way past out—she would have dug a little deeper. Tried to pin him down on what he was thinking.

  Or maybe she didn’t want to know. Maybe it was best to just let it be. She’d taken a huge leap of faith last night. Crossed a line she’d drawn between self-esteem and self-gratification.

  So you made a mistake, she told herself. Wasn’t the first one she’d made where a man was concerned. She’d given herself over to Kevin Larson three years ago, hadn’t she?

  It had been a match made in music-land heaven—so said the tabloids. The reigning queen of rock and the heir apparent to the king’s crown. They’d been the industry’s royal couple. And she’d believed she loved him. Believed he loved her.

  She’d been wrong. It still burned sometimes. But it no longer hurt.

  She heard the landing gear clunk up into place and settled in for the ride. And a harsh dose of the truth.

  Men had fragile egos. Men did things for reasons she’d never understand.

  Like leave women.

  She thought of the Polaroid from the lockbox that she’d tucked in her purse. Most likely it was a photo of the first man to ever leave her.

  And then she thought of Baby Blue and added him to the list of men who had left. At least emotionally. Oh well. Another lesson learned. Trust words. Trust deeds. Don’t count on some intangible something she’d thought she’d seen in Baby Blue’s eyes last night. Something that she’d been feeling at the time. A closeness. A connection. An emotional tug that had been nearly as cataclysmic as the physical pull.