A Bodyguard of Lies

by Donna Del Oro

  In 1939 in the midst of her Abwehr training, she’d considered spying for the Third Reich an honor and privilege. They’d chosen her because of her special linguistic gifts and her theater work. Her father and his Nazi party friends, high officials in the government, had painted the assignment in glowing, romantic colors. Now, three years later, the horror of war had settled into her psyche. Whatever the cause or whoever the enemy, human suffering was not a pleasant thing. Mary knew, if she survived, she’d bear the scars forever.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Meg gave her grandmother the last of her evening pills, then went over to the mirror above the low dresser to brush her hair. She began her nightly ritual, necessary to keep her long, thick locks from tangling into a nest for mice, as her grandmother would say. Her eyes met Gran’s in the mirror.

  Something wasn’t right. She felt a kind of fraying in the strong bond that linked the two of them. She sensed her grandmother had lived a far different life during the war than what she’d told them over the years.

  “You feeling okay, Grandma?” She tried to put a note of cheer in her voice. Difficult to carry off. Meg had been moping all evening and was so subdued over dinner, she barely spoke a word to her table companions. Her grandmother must’ve noticed her mood but probably didn’t realize the real reason.

  “It’s been a stressful day,” Mary Snider said, getting settled in bed, smoothing down the sheet and blankets about her. The wrinkle between her eyes creased into a deep furrow. “The ferry—it seemed to take forever. Then all those questions that Bernstein fellow asked. And that horrible man—who was that man? Why did he speak to us like that?”

  Meg shrugged. “You’re right, Granny, it’s been a bad day. A very bad day. I was thinking of the German word, weltschmerz. You know it, of course. Doesn’t it mean world weariness? Or weary of the world? That’s the way my German teacher explained it. That’s what I think you have, Gran. I think you’re weary of the world.”

  Her grandmother’s deep blue eyes seemed to darken and sink within their sockets. One edge of her thin, creased mouth curled up into a brittle smile.

  “Weltschmerz. I haven’t heard that word in a long time.” The elderly woman’s eyes focused on Meg. “Don’t worry about me, Meggie. Weltschmerz comes with old age. You’ll feel it, too, one day. One day when all the promise and hope in your life is suddenly behind you. You look back and if you’re cursed with my kind of memory, you see the past too clearly. Then you wish you had it to do all over again. A cliché but true, what they say. You wish you could live your life all over again. Make other choices.”

  Meg frowned at her grandmother. The woman’s intellect sometimes frightened her, certainly continued to awe her. Along with her abiding admiration, the young woman felt an unwavering obligation. And the need to protect her.

  “Gran, if it weren’t for you and Grandpa Snider, Jack and I—well, God knows what would’ve happened to us. You saved our lives, don’t ever forget that. Whatever else happened in your life that you regret, just think of that. You saved a few lives. Maybe more than a few, with your War Office work.”

  “Hmmm, yes. I think you’re right. What is that saying, about history books being written by the victors?” Mary closed her eyes, sank more deeply in her pillow. She sighed. “Imagine if the Germans had won. I’d have come home to a victory parade. And an Iron Cross medal.”

  Her grandmother’s voice had faded with the last sentence, so much so that Meg wasn’t sure she heard correctly. A chill ran up her spine to the base of her skull and sent a shiver rippling up to the crown of her head. Meg put down her hairbrush and stared at her grandmother, whose drowsiness was quickly subsiding into another early night of sedated sleep.

  “Gran, what did you just say?”

  Her grandmother mumbled something, her words incoherent. Meg frowned and sat down on her bed. “You were right about Jake. I think he’s a private detective and I think he’s investigating you. It might have something to do with your work during the war. Because you were engaged to that German spy. They—whoever hired him—must think you spied for the Germans, too.”

  Meg looked at her grandmother’s gloves, which she insisted on peeling off herself every night. It was a tedious, painful process but her grandmother refused to let anyone help her; her one remaining display of dogged independence, she’d explained once. Saying nothing now, Mary Snider turned her head to the wall. She looked shrunken and thin in her double bed as Meg stared across the little divide from her own bed. In about five or ten minutes, Meg knew, the sleeping pill would put the elderly woman into a deep sleep.

  “Gran, tell me. Did you spy for the Germans?”

  The elderly woman rallied her energy one more time but kept her head turned away. “G’night, Meggie. Don’t worry…no one can prove a thing.” A long pause, then, “I love you, child.”

  “Night, Gran. I love ya, too.” Meg covered her face with her hands and inhaled a long, shuddering breath. Oh God, I should never’ve brought her here. She sat there quietly, listening for her grandmother’s soft, even breathing as the pill took effect.

  An addiction, those sleeping pills. Her grandmother’s physician had prescribed the sedatives as a way of dealing with the woman’s anxiety and wakefulness at night. For years now, her grandmother suffered from insomnia, anxiety attacks and dangerously high-blood pressure. Stroke was an omnipresent risk. Her blood pressure pills helped, but of course were no guarantee against a stroke.

  The insomnia was another problem. Her grandmother would pace at night, muttering at the shadows, turning on every lamp in the house as she moved from room to room, as if she was haunted or consumed with fear. It was a paranoia that Meg used to think was just an old person’s affliction. Now she wasn’t so sure.

  No one can prove a thing.

  It explained a lot, Meg realized. The trauma of war had saddled her grandmother with something like PTSD. Was her deep-seated anxiety based on the fear the British would accuse her of treason, just because of her German fiancé during the war?

  How could someone love the enemy of one’s country, Meg wondered. How could she, someone who’d never known war, even begin to understand what propelled people to do what they did in wartime? What drove them together? How could she judge her grandmother for something that happened so many years ago?

  Meg thought of their shared house in a safe, upper-class neighborhood outside of Dallas; it was as secure as one of the downtown city banks. There were motion-sensor detectors for the windows and doors. Lights surrounding the two-story contemporary were on sensors, too. Deadbolts and multi-locks were on every door as well, and there was a locked, wrought-iron gate at the end of their short driveway. It was the most thorough home security system Meg had ever seen.

  And her grandmother had insisted that Meg learn how to use a gun. They kept two pistols and one pump-action shotgun in the house at all times. Always loaded and ready to fire.

  Like Grandma was expecting the Gestapo to burst in and take them both away to death camps, like Meg’d seen in the movies—wrenched from your home in the middle of the night. Marched out in the street with just the clothes on your back. Forced onto cattle cars for the terrible journey to Auschwitz, synapses of hope still sparking in your brain. All the while, clutching your loved ones tightly to your side.

  Her grandmother’s even breathing reassured Meg. She stood and went back to the dresser. The reflection in the mirror stopped her. From old photos of Gran shortly after she’d married Grandpa Snider, Meg knew she resembled her, with pretty features, dark blue eyes and blonde hair. What she saw in the mirror was an Irish miss, eager to help the war effort. Lend her mind and talents to the Allied cause.

  Mary McCoy, the young, idealistic Irish woman, had worked for the Allies, hadn’t spied for the Germans. She’d told Meg and Jake that very day. She’d turned down Horst, her German fiancé; refused to spy for him. Meg believed her grandmother. Why shouldn’t she?

  Maybe Jake believed her, too, and he’d co
nclude his investigation or whatever it was he was doing and pronounce her grandmother—what, innocent of any wrongdoing?

  A pounding on the hotel door interrupted Meg’s thoughts. Half naked in a short nightie with spaghetti straps, she wasn’t about to open the door to anyone.

  She listened and said nothing. Another loud pounding sounded on the door next to hers. More pounding, then strident calls from a male voice faded as the man must’ve moved on. That crazy man was back! But how had he known where they were?

  After the noise at her door stopped, Meg got up. She listened intently, opened the door a crack and peered down the hallway to her left. The same gray-haired man from before with his monk’s haircut was running down the hall, pounding on each door, yelling, “Mary McCoy, I know you’re here somewhere on this floor. We need to talk! You have something that belongs to me!”

  Instantly, her heart leaped into overdrive and she was glad his back was to her. Meg quickly closed the door, made sure it clicked shut. Her thoughts awhirl, she rushed to the phone on the desk beside the dresser and automatically punched in Jake’s room number.

  “Jake, that crazy man’s back! He’s in the hallway—”

  “I know, I heard him, too. Stay inside your room, Meg. I’ll be right there!”

  She exhaled the breath she’d been holding, then contacted the desk. The line was busy; everybody on the floor, all of the motor coach passengers, were probably calling in panic. Seconds later, she heard heavy thuds down the hallway—as if the man were hitting the walls in a rant of fury—more shouting followed by a mixture of male voices. A woman screamed, then another. It sounded like men running. More shouting. More male voices raised in anger. Curiosity spiking, Meg couldn’t stand the suspense any longer. She opened the door, just as Jake sprinted up.

  He wedged himself in as Meg stepped back, her eyes wide. “People are having a shit-fit out there,” he said, “but it’s taken care of. Hotel security’s taking—what?”

  Jake was bare-chested and barefoot, wearing tight jeans that hung low, waistband unsnapped, which showed the tops of his white briefs. She’d never before seen him entirely bare-chested. His shoulders were broad, pecs defined, the muscles in his upper arms rippled from the tension. His wet hair clung to his head like a swimmer’s dark cap. Lord, he was gorgeous—all six-foot-plus of him. At the very sight of him, all her pent-up anger vanished. Lust replaced the fear that had caused her pulse to race.

  In his right hand, he gripped the stock of a large black pistol. She stared.

  “Nothing! I’m just…shocked the guy came back,” she covered, stepping back a foot. It was his turn to stare.

  His gaze took her in as well, roaming over her bare shoulders and cleavage, her breasts as they spilled over the snug, Grecian-styled bodice of her short nightie. Her bare thighs, legs and feet. His stare stopped at her long hair, several long locks curling about one shoulder. For a long moment, he just stared and was silent. Then he blinked and smiled as if waking himself up.

  “Hotel security caught him. The Garda just arrived—” Jake glanced down at the pistol in his hand. “Guess I overreacted. Thought he might be armed this time. Your grandmother…is she okay?”

  “Yes,” Meg breathed, “asleep. She didn’t hear all the ruckus, thank God. She takes a sleeping pill every night.”

  “She takes a lot of pills, doesn’t she?”

  Meg sighed and nodded. “She suffers from insomnia…and a whole slew of health problems.”

  Jake peeked around the corner of the small foyer, looking satisfied at the sight of the sleeping figure of the old woman, then he moved back to the door. He stroked Meg’s bruised cheek with a forefinger, gave it a peck, then straightened up to leave.

  “Well, I’m glad you don’t hate me, at least. Call me anytime…believe it or not, I’m here to help.”

  She frowned. “How can you help? You’re prying into my grandmother’s life. You think she was a Nazi spy, don’t you?”

  “I’m hoping she wasn’t.” His eyes ran over her again from top to bottom. He cleared his throat and glanced to the door. “Excitement’s over. I’ll get back―”

  No, don’t leave! In one swift, fluid motion, Meg flung her arms around his neck, thrust her body against his, her hands clinging to his nape as though she were hanging off a cliff and he was her only fingerhold. Her hips nestled against his, her mound crushed against his groin. She pressed her lips against the side of his bruised jaw, trailed down to his neck. God help her but it was hopeless! She shouldn’t be doing this but with every inch of her body, she telegraphed her desire.

  She had a fragment of a thought. Jake was her own personal bodyguard and she was crazy about him! What more was there to this equation?

  “Let’s finish what we started last night,” she whispered. She pulled her head back to gauge his reaction.

  Jake blinked twice and swallowed. His strong arms enfolded her and squeezed hard; he kissed her and then relaxed his hold. Finally, he let her go. The expression on his face was bordering on frantic.

  “My room. Ten minutes.”

  Then he was gone.

  Her heart flipped over. Twice. Thrice. She smudged on some lip gloss, grabbed her card key, then sat down to wait. Jumped up to slip on her lightweight bathrobe. Not that she’d be wearing it for long, but she had a length of hallway to traverse.

  Ten minutes. Time enough to think and chicken out. Maybe change her mind. No! No more thinking. Just feel!

  Time for action. And tons of pleasure.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Jake signed off, having cut short his report by a page or two. Amazing, how succinct he could be when he was pressed for time! He closed his laptop, slipped it into the carryon, then noticed his FBI-issue pistol lying on top of his suitcase. Putting it safely away in its blue-plastic case took a mere 30 seconds, locking up his suitcase took another minute or so, when he misplaced his keys and couldn’t find them. Finally, he tossed them on top of the suitcase, sprang up to turn off all the lights except the one in the bathroom and the bedside lamp. Mood lighting. Good.

  The blood was pounding in his ears. His cock was wood hard.

  A quiet knock sounded. Despite his eagerness, he greeted Meg with a diffident smile and open arms. She walked readily into his embrace. Even then, he felt it necessary to give her a chance to change her mind. All the while wishing, of course, she wouldn’t.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” he murmured into her hair.

  Her reply was silent. She slipped out of her bathrobe, hesitated for a second before shedding her nightie top. There she stood like a blonde goddess in all her naked beauty except for a small strip of black panties. They came together, kissing, touching, clutching each other like playful tigers. Aggressive but with claws sheathed. He shucked his jeans before lifting her and carrying her to the bed. Meg cried in surprise at the small pile of condom wrappers her bottom rubbed against.

  Damn! In his haste to get out a couple of condoms, Jake had yanked a ziplock bag out of his suitcase-lid pocket, which violently opened and let fly onto the bed a supply of condoms, bottles of antacids, Advil, and vitamins, deodorant tubes and other grooming needs. His ready-to-travel pharmacy. He’d swept them all back into the bag except the dozen or so square-shaped wrappers.

  She started to laugh. “You’re very optimistic, Jake!”

  His humor intact, he smiled at her barb. With one arm, he swept them all onto the carpet at the foot of the bed, except for one. He yanked off his briefs, sheathed himself and gently slid on top of her. They kissed, threaded their hands through each other’s hair, then began to explore each other’s body. His lips trailed wetly down her neck, kissed the hollow of her throat. He cupped her breasts and, artfully using his tongue, circled her nipples, then laved them as if they were the luscious tops of ice cream cones. They even had a slightly vanilla flavor, he decided. When she moaned, Jake came undone. His gentle sucking turned to nips along her waist and belly.

  Mentally, he turned off all
thoughts, worries, concerns—surrendered to tasting her delicious body, feeling its texture, the dips and hollows, the fleshy curves and mounds. He felt her shift her legs, inviting him in; felt her fingers close around his sheathed cock, pulling tenderly, urging him to consummate. When he finally slid inside her, his entire being was shouting, Yes! Yes! Yes!

  This was right, this was good, this was where he belonged. Elation, a feeling he’d never before felt with a woman, overtook him. It was the strangest damned thing…

  He was swamped with sensations of pleasure, ecstasy, and release as they spasmed in syncopation. They nuzzled awhile and whispered sweet nothings to each other. Her voice, sounding happy and content, lulled him. So relaxed, he dozed off.

  Much later, he half-awoke to find her facing him, staring at him with wonderment. They were snuggled together, their arms and legs tangled, rubbing together. Under the covers, warm and drowsy, he reached down to cup her bottom with one hand. She stirred, brushed her hair back, draped one long leg over his hip, claiming him.

  “Jake, I need a wakeup call for six. I’ve got to be back in my room by then. Before…y’know…”

  He understood and set his watch-alarm to buzz softly. She relaxed again and let him scoop her up and roll her on top of him. Meg understood what he wanted, and scooted down his body until her lips and tongue had left a wet, enticing track down his torso. When she demonstrated what else her tongue and mouth could do, Jake groaned with pleasure, succumbed to the total mindless trip Meg was taking his body on.

  When at last she sheathed him and impaled herself, his pelvis, hips, and legs responded instinctively, letting the ride of pleasure spiral them up and outward. Not once during their night of mindless sex did Jake utter the words he always dreaded using. They implied such permanence. Women liked to hear them but he’d rarely spoken them in his thirty-two years.