Her Secret Bodyguard

by Misha Crews

  Her Secret Bodyguard

  Misha Crews

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and is not intended by the author.

  Copyright 2010 by Misha Crews

  For Kristin and Craig (finally!), with many thanks for loving every word, and always asking for more.

  And for Bob Seger, just because.

  Chapter One

  Blake awoke to the sound of screaming.

  She catapulted out of her sound sleep and sat straight up in bed. The cry seemed to be coming from all around her, splitting the air, rising to a breaking pitch before ending as abruptly as it had begun.

  Outside the open door to the balcony, the ocean was beating relentlessly against the sand. Blake’s head felt thick and full of cobwebs. It had taken her a long time to get to sleep – it always did, these days – but eventually she had fallen into a deep, heavy slumber.

  Now she struggled to push sleep aside. She held her breath and closed her eyes against the moonlight that fell across the wide expanse of her bedroom floor, straining to hear past the roar of the waves.

  Nothing. Silence.

  Blake pushed the blond hair out of her blue eyes and blew out her breath in a frustrated oath. This wasn't the first time she had heard strange yelling in this house. And she knew she wasn't imagining it, no matter what Rube tried to tell her.

  Suddenly there was a thump that she felt more than heard, followed by a muffled cry. Both had come from downstairs. Heart pumping, Blake threw back the duvet and put her bare feet against the cool wood floor. Sinister visions of various kinds of criminal activity were dancing through her head like sugar plums, filling her with dread. Rube was a nice guy, but she couldn't say the same about all his friends. God only knew what was going on downstairs.

  She stayed where she was, poised at the edge of the bed, as if trying to sense through the soles of her feet what was happening beneath her. But silence reigned again, and she knew that she had to get up to see what was going on. This might be Rube's house, but she lived here too, damn it. There was something strange going on, and she had a right to know what it was.

  She took a deep breath and stood up resolutely. Her dressing gown was hanging silkily over the arm of a nearby chaise lounge. She slipped it on and belted it firmly. It provided more a sense of security than a feeling of warmth, but that was fine with her.

  Part of Blake – the part where common sense lived – cautioned her to tiptoe to the door, so that whoever was downstairs wouldn't realize that she was awake. But a larger part shunned the idea of sneaking around her own bedroom in the middle of the night. She had a right to be here, so why should she be the one to creep around?

  With her head held high and her shoulders back, she strode upright across the bedroom floor and put her hand boldly on the doorknob. But there her nerve failed, and she turned the knob slowly and quietly. Before pulling the door open, she put her ear to the crack to see if she could hear anything. Again, there was nothing.

  There's a whole lot of nothing going on around here, she thought, with a bravado that she absolutely did not feel. She opened the door.

  The hall stretched dimly in front of her, towards the second-floor sitting area which overlooked the living room below. She took a deep breath and stepped forward, moving silently down the short hallway, Adrenaline had made her feel almost supernaturally alert, but the fear that was streaming its way through her veins had the opposite effect, making her clumsy and shaky. Suddenly worried that she would trip over her own feet, she stopped, pressed herself against the wall and closed her eyes.

  Fear was not a natural emotion for her. Her mother used to joke that, given the choice between fight or flight, Blake would pick fight every time. But this was different. She didn't know what she would find downstairs, but it couldn't be good. The temptation to run was seductively strong. At this moment she wanted nothing more than to turn herself right around, lock herself in the bedroom and pull the covers over her head until the bad men went away. Her legs trembled with the need to carry her away to safety.

  But that was when she heard the voices.

  They were coming from downstairs, and there were at least three of them. She opened her eyes and realized that she could see light flickering at the end of the hallway. She crept forward again until she reached the end of the corridor.

  The beach house was built with typical Malibu-modern architecture. Downstairs was one big open space – living room, dining room, kitchen and a sort of game-room that housed the TV and Rube's beloved antique billiard table. Stairs led to the second floor where there was a lounge area filled with deep furniture and large potted plants. On each side of the lounge was a short hall which led to a bedroom suite. One suite was Blake's, the other was Rube's.

  Blake hovered at the end of her hallway, not sure what to do next. Skylights in the lounge filled the upstairs with a cold, dim glow of cloud-covered moonlight, adding to the flickering light which must have been coming from the stone fireplace downstairs. There was practically zero chance that she could get across the lounge to the stairs without being seen, and a minus-zero chance that she could actually make it to the first floor. What was she going to do?

  She crouched down and peered around the wall. Her eyes swept the lounge, Rube's hallway across from her, and the narrow slice of living room that she could see. When she was relatively certain that there were no eyes looking back at her, she moved forward, scooting ungracefully along the floor until she reached one of the large, square wooden planters that sat along the edge of the upstairs sitting room.

  She raised up slightly, peering over the edge of the planter, through the banister and down to the living room below. She had to stifle a gasp at what she saw.

  It could have been a scene straight out of a low-budget gangster movie. A man that she had never seen before was sitting in front of the fireplace in the far corner. He was tied to one of her imported cane-back chairs. Even in this low light Blake could see that his face was bruised and bleeding. In front of him, with their backs to her, stood Rube and his executive assistant, Greg Betch. She could recognize Greg by his hair and Rube by his lack of it.

  Blake had known Rube for almost ten years, and until lately she had thought that there were very few secrets between them. Sure, she'd known that some of his business dealings were somewhat shady, but that had never bothered her. For Pete's sake, they lived in Hollywood. With all the backroom deals that went on in this town, you might as well name the place Shady Acres. But recently Blake come to realize that she'd been hopelessly naïve to trust him so completely.

  This whole nauseating scenario – waking up in the middle of the night to cries of pain and fear – had played itself out before. Afterwards, Rube would disappear for a week or more. She wouldn't know if he were alive or dead. And when he finally did come back he'd refuse to tell her what had happened.

  "Don't ask me about my business," he'd say, doing his best Pacino impression and giving her a weak smile. It was times like those that she was afraid she might be close to hating him.

  What exactly was going on in this house? Did she even want to know?

  Downstairs, Rube had leaned over and was talking to the man in the chair. Although Blake couldn't see him very well, she heard his words, recognized his posture and she easily guessed what he was doing. He was lecturing. His hands were undoubtedly templed in front of him, and he was waving them up and down in an almost beseeching gesture. She had been on the receiving end of his lectures too often not to recognize it.

  "Jake, why are you lying to me?" Rube was asking. Blake shifted so she could hear a bit better. "Greg says he saw you with his own eyes."

 
The man in the chair – obviously Jake – shook his head wearily. "It wasn't me, Rube, I swear to you. On my mother's life I swear to you…."

  "You were talking to the Feds," Greg shouted. He gave Jake a vicious backhand across the mouth to punctuate the last word. Jake's head flew to one side and stayed there as he wept quietly.

  Blake flinched as if she had felt the slap stinging her own skin. She'd known Greg almost as long as she had known Rube, and she'd never even heard him raise his voice before tonight.

  A chill of fear crept over her as she looked down at the men she thought she knew so well.

  "Hey, Greg, keep it down, will you?" Rube said. "My lady's upstairs asleep."

  "Sorry, Rube," Greg replied, straightening his coat. "I thought you said she never wakes up."

  "Hardly ever." Rube was using his don't-challenge-me voice. "And I don't want her involved in this mess, so you do what I tell you and keep it down."

  "Sorry," Greg said again. "This guy just ticks me off." He took a deep breath and ran his hands over his hair, as if to calm himself.

  In an unconscious answering gesture, Rube touched the bald spot on the back of his head. "Yeah, well, me too, but let's keep it quiet, okay? Jakey here – " Rube kicked Jake's foot lightly. "Jakey here is going to tell us what he told the Feebs, and that's going to be the end of it."

  "And it's going to be the end of him, too," Greg said hotly.

  "Not necessarily." Rube's voice was almost soothing. "The important thing is to find out where we are. Then we can figure out where we're going. Jake is going to tell us everything. And you know why? Because he's a good boy." Rube turned to Jake and kicked his foot again. "Isn't that right, Jakey? You're a good boy, right? You're going to tell us everything."

  Jake began nodding his head fiercely. "I'll tell you, Rube. I'll tell you everything you want to know."

  And he started talking.

  Chapter Two

  The first time Caleb McKenna laid eyes on Blake Sera, he just knew she would be trouble.

  He held her photo in both hands and looked down at it. It was an eight-by-ten color glossy, obviously a professional headshot, showing an absolute knockout of a woman, with a heart-shaped face, silky blond hair and an impish smile that matched the mischief in her blue eyes. With a face like that, this woman could get away with anything – and probably had.

  His gaze travelled from her photo to the city that sprawled out below him. This was his first trip to Los Angeles. Usually he avoided big cities like the plague, and so far LA was living all the way up to his low expectations. But his best friend, Steve Peterson, had asked him for a favor, and Caleb couldn't say no. He had never been one to take his obligations lightly, and some debts were heavier than others. Some you could never pay back.

  So now here he was, in Steve's office on the umpteenth floor of some glass-and-steel monstrosity. The carpet under his feet was so soft that he could feel the cushioning right through his boots. The glass in front of his nose was so thick that sound didn't penetrate it. And the city outside the window was dense and brown, making Caleb long for the wide green spaces of home.

  "Quite a view, isn't it?"

  Caleb grinned and turned at the sound of Steve's voice. Steve, formerly the best Little League shortstop in their home town, presently the owner of a high-class security agency, was sitting behind a desk that was roughly the size of a barn door. He and Steve had known each other forever – from their first day in Kindergarten all the way through Special Forces, with many tragedies and triumphs along the way.

  Not wanting to insult his friend's new home, Caleb merely said, "Not too shabby, at that," as he made his way across the wide floor. He limped a little as he walked. His knee had stiffened up on him after his long ride. When he was in his twenties, he could've ridden his old motorcycle across country and back without feeling it. But a man's body changed after thirty, and that was the truth.

  If Steve noticed Caleb's limp he gave no sign of it. He waited until Caleb had settled into a deep leather chair across the desk, then he dropped a sheaf of photos on the table in front of Caleb with a resounding whack.

  Caleb hoped that the sound wouldn't turn out to be prophetic for little Miss Blue Eyes, there.

  "That's Blake Sera," Steve said. "She's Rube Jeffries' girlfriend."

  "Her?" Caleb held up Blake's photo. Then he picked up another photo, this one of a bald man who was bulging with muscles. The guy had a nasty scar down one side of his face and a mean look in his steel grey eyes. "And him?" He looked over at Steve. "Are you kidding me?"

  Steve shrugged. "Hey, man, twenty mil a year can seriously affect a lady's judgment, you know?"

  "What about her gag reflex?" Caleb murmured.

  "That's her own business." Steve reached over and tapped a few keys on his computer. Caleb could see the changing screen flicker in Steve's glasses. "Blake is a former model. She was big stuff about ten years ago, but her fame was fleeting. Her career had reached its shelf life by the time she was nineteen, and we figure that that's when Rube came into the picture."

  "And he is…?"

  "Dangerous," Steve said emphatically. "The guy's a major broker in this area – his fingers are into everything. Drugs, guns, you name it."

  Caleb leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. He could feel Blake's eyes boring into him from where her photo lay on the desk. "So why am I here?"

  Steve eased forward and templed his hands under his chin. Caleb recognized that look. It meant that something was up.

  "My company has been hired to watch her."

  That told him nothing. "Why? And hired by who?"

  Steve sighed. "I don't know, to be honest. This client – we've done work for them before. They're some big conglomerate with offices all over the world. We've covered their corporate officers when they've come to town, handled security for a couple of their board meetings, but I don't really know much about them beyond the fact that they pay their bills on time."

  "And now they want you to watch her."

  "Right."

  Caleb squinted at his old friend. He wasn't getting the whole story. "So why am I here?"

  "I want you to take this one for me," Steve said. He was tapping his fingers nervously on the desk. "To use an old cliché, there's something fishy about this job, and – well, frankly I don't want to use my own people for this. They're good men, but even a good man has his price. I trust them to a point, but not like…." He trailed off as he caught Caleb's eye.

  Memory flashed between them. A rainy highway, twisted metal. Blood and glass.

  "Enough said." Caleb straightened in his chair. "You think this girl's in trouble?"

  "I think she's being set up," Steve said flatly. "But for what, I have no idea. I've been talking to my contacts in the LAPD. There's something big building in Rube Jeffries' world. Something's about to pop. The police are hearing whispers, but no one's sure exactly what's going on. I think this job – 'watching' Blake Sera – I think that somebody just wants to know where she is at all times."

  "So they can do what?" Caleb asked. "Kill her?"

  "It's possible." Steve's lips tightened. "And I didn't start this business to get innocent people killed, Caleb."

  "Nobody's innocent." The words were out of Caleb's mouth before he could stop them, and his eyes flicked upward guiltily.

  But Steve didn't seem to take offense. "Maybe not," he admitted. "But nothing that I have on this woman indicates she's involved in any of her boyfriend's criminal activities."

  "A sheep amidst the wolves," Caleb murmured. He picked up Blake's picture again, taking in those big blue eyes and dimples. Beauty like that was bound to be trouble, with a capital "T." But he couldn't ignore that there was innocence in those eyes, an honest sweetness that even years as a crime boss's girlfriend hadn't taken away. He wondered how it would feel to have those eyes looking up at him, to have her smile at him with those dimples punctuating her creamy skin.

  Then he looked up at Steve. "What do y
ou want me to do?" he asked.

  Chapter Three

  Blake pressed the rubberized lid onto the blender and pushed liquefy, frowning with annoyance when she realized that her hand was shaking. She clenched her offending fingers into a fist and crossed her arms, watching the blender.

  Why was it that watching the creation of a late-morning margarita was so comforting? The frozen strawberries gave themselves so agreeably to the tequila and lime juice; all that icy sweetness melting into the perfect consistency to calm and comfort even the most jagged nerve endings.

  She let her eyes wander away from the carved mahogany bar, across the beach and over the ocean waves. She breathed deeply, allowing the rhythmic whir of the blender to drown out the shrieks that still echoed inside her head.

  Jake had talked for a long time last night. Blake had understood some of what he was saying, but much of it – names, dates, places – had meant nothing to her, and she had known she wouldn't remember it later. She had crouched behind the planter, listening, until her eyes had closed of their own accord, and her legs had started to cramp. She knew that it would be dangerous for her to fall asleep where she was, so she'd dragged herself back to her bedroom, locked the door and wedged a chair under the doorknob.

  She had tried to stay awake, to wait for the dawn, but eventually sleep had claimed her. And when she'd woken up this morning, Rube was gone.

  Blake had wandered through the empty house, touched the place where Jake had sat tied to a chair, examined the chair itself. There was no sign of the violence that had taken place the night before. And that was the most frightening thing of all.

  To Blake, standing on the redwood deck of this posh Malibu beach house, with three hundred dollar thongs on her feet and six hundred dollar sunglasses to shade her eyes, it seemed impossible that she could actually live this close to anything so ugly and dangerous.