Waiting For Wren (Book Five In The Bodyguards Of L.A. County Series)

by Beauman, Cate

  “…best option was to sell.”

  She came to attention as Mike smiled. What did he just say? “Sounds like a good plan,” she tried, hoping that was the right answer.

  “I agree.”

  She sighed her relief when that response seemed to work and opened her door.

  Mike met her at the hood and walked with her to her front entryway. “I really like your friends and family.”

  “Me too. They’re pretty great.”

  “Thanks for bringing me along.”

  “No problem. I’m glad all the noise didn’t scare you away.” Although that might have been the plan. As much as she hated to admit it, Mike bored her cross-eyed. He was more of a cigar jacket and Chopin kind of man, and she wasn’t interested.

  He smiled and leaned in for a kiss.

  Warm lips touched hers, but she felt nothing. Her heart didn’t beat faster. She didn’t see stars. The mocking hazel eyes of another taunted her, and she put a little more effort in to the embrace, pulling him closer with her hands on his shoulders, but it was no use. Michael Collins was a dud. Wren eased back. “Thanks for coming along. I should get inside. I still have work to do.”

  “Okay. I’ll call you soon.”

  No he wouldn’t. She’d played this game too many times not to recognize the disappointment in his eyes. He wasn’t feeling anything earth-shattering either. “Mike, I think we should probably think about keeping things friendly. I’m not really looking for anything romantic.”

  He blinked. “You’re not?”

  She shook her head.

  “That’s great. God, that’s great.” He winced and patted her arm. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. You’re a nice guy, but I don’t think we have a lot in common.” She took his hand. “It was nice meeting you.”

  He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “You too. Maybe I’ll see you around some time.”

  “Okay. Bye.” She pulled her keys from her purse as Mike walked down the lighted path, letting herself into her spacious four-bedroom, five-bath masterpiece she’d painstakingly redesigned herself. Bold, jewel-toned colors welcomed her, a perfect match for her personality. She set her Gucci bag down on the solid wood entry table, slipped off her heels, and wrinkled her nose as she looked at the alarm system she’d once again forgotten to arm. If Ethan found out, she would never hear the end of it. She punched her code into the panel and glanced at the clock in the living room, groaning. Ten-thirty and she had at least two more hours of work to plow through before she could call it a night.

  Whining wasn’t going to get it done. She walked in the dark to the kitchen and poured herself half a glass of red wine, then took the stairs to her home office. She booted up her computer, pressed the button on her phone to retrieve her voice mail, and made herself comfortable in her soft leather chair. Leaning back, she closed her eyes and flexed her aching toes while she listened to her assistant list off her schedule for the upcoming day. Patrick had jammed each hour full as usual—the price of a thriving business. Thank god she loved it. She could do without the fifteen-hour days on occasion, but they came with the territory. Patrick clicked off and the next message started. “Hey, Wren. Rex here.”

  Her eyes popped open and she rolled them as the deep, gritty voice filled the room.

  “It’s been two weeks and you haven’t called me back—still. I know I had a little too much to drink and acted like a jerk, but I want to make it up to you. I—”

  She skipped to the next message, cutting him off. “Buy a clue, buddy, and stop calling.” He’d called every day for the last two weeks. She had no intention of seeing Rex Richardson again. He was handsome and successful. His grandfather was Los Angeles’s infamous hard-hitting DA. Too bad Rex didn’t inherit DA Richardson’s manners and integrity. Instead, he was a slimebag who didn’t understand that dinner out didn’t automatically lead to a romp in the sheets. An elbow to the solar plexus and a knee to the balls had cleared that up when a simple ‘no’ hadn’t done the job. Ethan taught her how to take care of herself long ago. She’d never had to defend herself before, and hoped she wouldn’t have to again.

  She logged on to her computer as the next deep voice filled the room.

  “Hi, Wren. It’s JT Cartwright.” He cleared his throat. “Uh, I don’t want to be forward. Okay, yes I do, or I wouldn’t be calling…”

  She stopped scanning her mile-long list of unopened e-mails and smiled at his friendly candor.

  “I was wondering if you might want to grab a meal together sometime this week. I’ve enjoyed talking to you over the last couple months. I’d like to get to know you better. It’s getting pretty late, so I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I’ll be at my parent’s estate for most of the morning. I’m sure I’ll see you there. We can talk then. Bye.”

  JT Cartwright, son of one of her biggest clients. He was sweet, good looking, and one of the city’s top defense attorneys. And she wasn’t the least bit interested. Sighing, she pressed her fingers to her temple. “What’s wrong with me?”

  She caught another whiff of cologne and covered her face with her hands. “No,” she scolded herself. Tucker Campbell was not the issue. His in-your-face sexy barely affected her. That slow grin and powerful underwear model’s body of his was no big deal. “Damn,” she murmured as she lied to herself.

  How long would it take her to get him out of her mind this time? If she had known Tucker was going to be at Ethan’s tonight, she would’ve bowed out of the evening. His broody distance, thick black hair, and firm chin constantly darkened with five o’clock shadow should’ve been considered a crime against humanity. No one had the right to be so devastatingly…hot. He was downright irresistible, with his subtle, wounded charm and lips that begged to be kissed. And he knew it. He knew he made her jittery when he stood too close and stared at her the way he did. “No,” she said louder as she opened the first set of pictures Patrick had taken of her newest client’s bedroom and bath. This is where she needed to focus: on her job.

  She clicked from photo to photo, and visions of how the drab rooms could be transformed overshadowed her unsettling inability to forget about a man she didn’t want to be interested in.

  Chapter 3

  Wren studied the inventory sheet she pulled from the FedEx box and grinned. “Perfect.” The final touches she ordered for the Cartwrights’ fireplace had arrived. She had put a rush on the antique gold mantle clock and matching candleholders, thankful her supplier had come through again on short notice.

  Lenora Cartwright decided at the last minute to throw a gathering in her newly decorated library, despite Wren’s not-so-subtle hints that she wasn’t ready for the big reveal. Lenora assured her a piece missing here and there wasn’t a big deal. The space was beautiful—everything Lenora had hoped for—and she wanted to show it off, but Wren’s vision wasn’t complete, which meant it wasn’t perfect. Cooke Interiors accepted nothing less than perfection for their clients.

  She glanced at her watch and winced. She had two hours to make everything right before the florists and caterers invaded the mansion. With time ticking away, Wren cut the tape from the largest box and pulled the flaps back. She gasped as she freed the gorgeous, overly extravagant timepiece from layers of bubble wrap. “I knew it. This is exactly right.” She stroked the gold leaf, which had just a touch of old European flair, then set it gently down and dove in the next parcel for the rest of the contents. Gasping again, she suppressed the need to do a victory dance as she caressed ornately twisted candlesticks. “Wait ‘til Lenora sees this. She’s going to flip.”

  She brought the delicately feminine clock with her to the old-fashioned fireplace and set the piece dead center on the custom-made white marble mantle. Eyes narrowed, she took a step back, scrutinizing the enormous painting of an elegant English tea garden occupying several feet of the huge wall, the oriental rugs she
’d chosen, and the newest gold accents pulling all the pieces together.

  Mrs. Cartwright wanted her library to reflect her passion for old world Europe, and she was getting it in spades. This one room had taken Wren months to design from demolition to candlesticks. It was hands-down one of her best accomplishments. She blinked back tears of pride as she walked to the table and placed tapered candles in leafy holders, finishing the job once and for all.

  “Wow.”

  Her gaze flew to the door, and she stared in utter surprise. What was he doing here?

  “Look at this place, Cooke. It’s incredible.” Tucker strolled through the book-laden room in black boots, snug, dark blue designer jeans, and a form-fitting white long-sleeve shirt rolled halfway up his powerful forearms. Holy god, he looked amazing. And she could already smell hints of his cologne. Two encounters in less than twenty-four hours was completely unacceptable.

  Frowning, she gripped the slim, tapered wax too tight. “How did you know I was here?”

  “Oh, when I’m not working I’m a part-time stalker.” He sent her one of his slow grins.

  She stabbed the last candle in its designated spot and turned with the candlestick in hand. “Why are you here, Tucker?” She set the heavy antique on the right side of the mantle and hurried back for the second as her euphoric moment from a job well done quickly nosedived into lustful nerves.

  “Sarah asked me to drop something off.”

  “Sarah?” She frowned again as she set the accent in place. “Why would Sarah ask you to drop something off at my client’s home?”

  “Technically, Ethan did—sort of. I stopped by the house—forgot my wallet last night. Sarah was running around trying to get the girls ready for their checkups when she remembered she never gave you the earrings you wanted to borrow.” He held up a small felt jeweler’s case. “Ethan was on his way out the door. He handed me the box, hollered an address, and told me to bring these to you.”

  She’d forgotten about the diamond dangles herself after her encounter with Tucker in the kitchen. She’d thought of little else while she tossed and turned throughout the night, showered this morning, ate her breakfast, and drove to work. Lenora’s impromptu party and her scramble to come up with the final missing accents had been an excellent distraction. She’d been back on track, then he walked in here smelling like sin, fuddling her brain once more. “Thanks.” She turned back to her candlesticks, dismissing him, hoping he would get the hint as she moved the chunky gold ever so slightly. One of the tall tapers fell, and she reached out, catching the candle mid-flight.

  “Good hands.”

  Ignoring him, she stood on her tiptoes, struggling to put the smooth white wax back where it belonged.

  Strong hands wrapped around her waist, lifting her off the ground. She gasped, glancing over her shoulder, finding herself eye to eye and inches from Tucker’s firm, kissable lips. “What are you doing?”

  “Helping you out.”

  She turned back and placed the candle in the empty space. “All set.”

  He lowered her the six or so inches to the floor, and she turned to face him. “You didn’t have to do that. I would’ve gotten it.”

  He nodded. “I’m sure. This place has plenty of ladders and stools, but this was faster.” He studied the two-thousand-square-foot space. “Why the hell does anybody need something so big? Three floors’ worth of books. There’s gotta be at least two million volumes in here.”

  Sometimes she wondered the same thing, but how people spent their money wasn’t her concern. “Good tax write-off I guess.”

  He zeroed in on the fireplace and took a step back, measuring the space with narrowed eyes.

  “What?”

  He shrugged. “The gold doodads and fireplace are foo-fooey and kinda ugly, but somehow they complement each other and work really well. You did a nice job.”

  She met his gaze and her brow winged up. “‘A nice job?’ I did an excellent job. I’ve eaten, breathed, and dreamed of this room for the last five months of my life, and I still have the pool area, the master suite, six bedrooms, and the ballroom to handle.”

  “How big is this place?”

  “Twenty-two thousand square feet, including the twenty-car garage.”

  He whistled through his teeth and rubbed his index, middle finger, and thumb together. “The insanely rich. Good stuff.”

  “Good enough.”

  He glanced at his watch. “It’s past lunch time.”

  Her stomach grumbled. The bowl of yogurt she’d scarfed down at five a.m. was no longer doing the trick. “I know. I’m starved.”

  “I was going to grab a sandwich. Wanna come?”

  “No.” She smirked. His physique in that outfit and cocky hazel eyes had already packed all the punch she could handle for one day. “I brought a salad.”

  “No to dinner. No to lunch.” He sniffed his pits. “Do I stink or something?”

  She bit her cheek to hide her smile. She would not give in to his charming persistence. “You smell fine. I’m just not interested.”

  He sat on the edge of a study table. “I’m not sure I believe you, Cooke.”

  She didn’t believe herself, so she clung to her favorite excuse. “I’ve already told you, I don’t date cops.”

  “Ah, that’s right.” He crossed his arms at his chest, settling in. “Is it LAPD or all officers in general?”

  She didn’t actually have a problem with the police. She’d made the whole thing up months ago when she rushed into Sarah’s temporary hospital room and spotted Detective Tucker Campbell perched on the side of her sister-in-law’s bed, interviewing her after her horrifying experience with her stalker. He’d turned his head, met her eyes, and effectively knocked her breathless with one look. She’d never experienced such a raw, primal attraction to anyone the way she did Tucker. The moment had shaken her up, but she’d dismissed the entire thing, certain she would never see him again, until Ethan shared with her that Tucker had quit the force to join the staff of Ethan Cooke Security. Her ‘cop rule’ had been implemented right then and there—present officers, retired officers, but more importantly detectives. Policemen were officially off the list of potential candidates for a night out on the town. “Pretty much all boys in blue.”

  He tilted his head. “Why?”

  Why? Crap. What was she supposed to say? “You have god complexes.” Yeah, that was it.

  “God Complexes?”

  “Mmhm. You’re used to giving orders and having them followed. Most of you think you’re above the laws you work so hard to enforce.” She cleared her throat, looking away as she realized how lame she sounded.

  Tucker grinned. “I see. What if I promise to put my complex on hold for a couple hours?” He yanked her forward with his hands on her waist, nestling her between his legs.

  Surprised, she stared in his eyes. Their mouths were inches from one another, and they breathed each other’s breath.

  “Come on, Cooke.” His gaze darted from her eyes to her lips and back again as his thumbs traced slow circles along the bottom of her ribs. “I won’t even frisk you—unless you want me to.”

  Delicious tingles traveled from her spine, to her tummy, to her center. Tucker Campbell would be a hell of a frisker. She moved her hands to rest on his firm shoulders. “I—”

  “It’ll be fun,” he whispered. “Promise.”

  She licked her lips, craving his. One lunch. How bad could one lunch be? “I—”

  Someone cleared their throat, and Wren looked toward the doorway. Her sexual fog dissipated enough to recognize the Cartwright’s son.

  “JT!” Shaking her head, she sprung away from Tucker and grabbed hold of the distraction like a lifeline. “JT, come on in.”

  “Sorry to interrupt.” He smiled.

 
“No. You weren’t. You weren’t interrupting anything,” she said too quickly as she glanced at Tucker.

  He grinned and stood.

  She pressed a hand to her temple in an attempt to gather her scattered thoughts. “Um, Tucker Campbell, this is JT Cartwright.”

  Tucker’s grin vanished into a look of surprise. “JT? Son of a bitch.” He walked forward and held out his hand. “I didn’t recognize you.”

  “Well what do you know?” JT grabbed Tucker in a quick “guy hug.” “My man, Tucker.”

  Wren frowned at the odd combination: Tucker, with his sinful bad boy looks, and JT with his horn rims, slightly receding hairline, and two-thousand-dollar designer suit. “You know each other?”

  “Tucker and I go way back.”

  “Oh.”

  “We used to spend summers together in Park City—played ball, went to movies, had a hell of a time,” JT supplied.

  Tucker shoved his hands in his pockets. “Yeah.”

  “How’re your parents?”

  “Pretty good.”

  Wren studied Tucker. Something was wrong. Something had changed. Tucker’s cockiness had vanished.

  Tucker peeked at his watch. “I should probably head out—gotta work tonight.”

  “Detective, right? Mom said she ran into your dad a couple years ago.”

  “No. Bodyguard. I work for Wren’s brother.”

  “Huh. We should grab a beer sometime and catch up.” JT pulled a business card from his slacks and a pen from the table and scribbled something on the back. “That’s my cell. Give me a call.”