by Moira Reid
Closed up inside a car with him again, sitting even closer to him this time, as her seats were closer together than those in his Mustang? Breathing his scent again? She was not up for this, she thought as her head continued to pound.
But she couldn’t leave him standing in the rain either. She slid her hand over the electronic lock button just as he gave her the old-fashioned rolling motion with his hand, still oddly used, though she hadn’t owned a car in years with manual windows.
She ignored the door lock and cracked the window a little over an inch.
“What’s the holdup?”
“How did you find me?”
Water dripped off his head and down his forehead over his face. “Your perfume stuck with me.”
She forced herself to ignore that comment. Was he coming on to her, or was she just wishing he would? Talk about something that would make her father send him packing.
Talk about something…
She snapped the door lock. “Well, don’t stand out in the rain! Or are you afraid to get too close to me, Mr. Bodyguard?”
He ran his fingers through his hair, swiping the black dripping tendrils from his forehead. “I’ll soak the interior. Is something wrong with the car?”
“No, nothing’s wrong with the car. I saw a piece of paper…” Suddenly the idea of trying to explain how she’d come to pull over while he stood outside in the downpour was too ludicrous. Besides, she needed him in here if she was going to get this plan under way. A plan that was foolproof, if perhaps a little foolhardy. He kissed her once, she told her father, he was gone. Simple enough. He would never hire a bodyguard who would come on to her, that was for sure. This was one quick and easy way to solve the problem once and for all.
Of course, that did mean she’d have to get him to kiss her for it to work.
“Get in here! You’ll get pneumonia.”
His eyes glittered in the moonlight. “I’m fine. What piece of paper?”
“Butch, you boneheaded man!” She leaned over and opened the car door, shoving it toward him, a huge gust of rain splashing all over her arm and the passenger-side interior. “Now, the seat is good and wet. Get in.”
He climbed into the car, surprisingly slowly for someone getting more and more soaked by the minute. But as he sat down and she saw that his jeans, his sweatshirt, his hair, and even his lips were wet, she guessed after you’re soaked, you can’t really get any wetter.
She stifled the thought that popped into her mind in that instant and forced herself to focus on the task at hand.
His lithe body moved like a cat, and she tried not to take note of how easy it would be to simply kiss him. Would it really make a difference if she made the first move? Stepping over the line was stepping over, no matter who did it, right?
He closed the door, then leaned against it.
“Okay, what piece of paper?”
“You must be freezing. Would you like me to turn up the heat?” She ignored his question and slowly moved her hand toward the controls, wondering if this was how a woman turned a man on. Slow the pace, move with the rhythm of heartbeats, talk slowly. She’d never seduced a man in her life, but she had a general idea of how it could be done if she had the nerve to do it. Deciding to go with her instincts, she turned the knob to high, then leaned across his legs, resting her hand on one of his knees to hold herself in place as she slowly adjusted both vents to blow over his wet skin.
She straightened, pushing on his knee as she righted herself. “Is that any better?”
His eyebrows rose; then he nodded slowly. “Sure. Great.”
They sat together for a long, quiet moment, the sound of the raindrops on the roof pounding around them reminiscent of being inside a half-lit cave.
Kind of cozy? You look good wet? Want to kiss me? She couldn’t think of what to say next that would move things along. She certainly didn’t want to sit here all night waiting for him to pick up on the hint and kiss her, thus ending his short-lived bodyguard career.
She tried to imagine just leaning over and kissing him.
Uh, no.
“The paper?”
Man, this was harder than it looked. How do you get a guy to want to kiss you anyway? She turned to him and smiled. That had to be a good first step. “Butch.”
His eyebrows rose again. “Yeah?”
Closer. That was it. Move closer. She leaned back against her seat and rested her hand on his headrest, trying hard not to flinch. She’d had no idea this would be so tough. And her hormones certainly weren’t helping. She needed to keep a clear head to pull this off and not get lost in the part. Normally, she might take weeks to plan something like this, to attend to every detail. Flying by the seat of her pants might not be her strong suit either, she thought ruefully. What in the name of heaven was her strong suit?
Straight to the heart of the problem. Play those cards if you want to win.
Finally her subconscious was telling her something useful and sadly, even truthful. “I am attracted to you.”
His eyes widened this time. His lips opened, then closed and turned to a thin line. “No kidding.”
“What do you mean, no kidding?” Isn’t this what she wanted to happen? So why did it feel so odd?
“I mean that your pulse is racing, your face is flushed, your hands are trembling. You’re either attracted to me, or you’re having a heart attack.”
Her face burned, but she wouldn’t turn back. The die was cast. “Do you find me attractive at all?”
He laughed, then cleared his throat. “You must know that I do.”
Well, now what? “So…”
He shifted in the seat and rolled the window down a few inches. “So? Were you planning for us to get to it in the front seat of your car?”
The pouring rain splashed on his head and shoulders as he continued to watch her. Maybe there was nothing to say. Maybe saying nothing was the answer. She watched him carefully, trying to pick up on any indication that this crazy scheme might bear fruit.
For a time, he didn’t move, his gaze steady on her face, and when he finally spoke, his voice was so low she barely heard him over the sound of the rain.
“It’s not going to work, Claire.”
“What’s not going to work?”
“The paper, Claire. What paper were you talking about?”
Well, this was humiliating. She shook her head with a jerk and pointed to the tiny edge of the yellow paper visible through the windshield. “That one.”
He nodded, then, taking one last look at her, quickly opened the door, planted a foot outside, and leaned across the windshield. He lifted the wiper and extracted the saturated paper, then dropped back into the seat and closed the door.
Spreading it out over the dashboard, he leaned closer to it. “Turn on the light.”
She flicked the button and stared at her reflection in the driver’s-side window. Her face burning with mortification, she took a deep breath and blew it out.
Butch stared at the piece of paper. “Hmmm.”
“I was driving and then I turned on the wipers, and well, I was going to get the sheet of paper off the windshield. Then it started raining for real, and I was waiting for the rain to slow down a little…” Okay, now she felt completely ridiculous, not to mention brainless.
“So you haven’t seen your note yet.”
She turned around. “Note? I thought it was a flyer.”
He wiped his eyes, then ran his fingers through his hair again, pushing all the water away from his face. “No, it’s not.” He pointed at the yellow slip now stuck like a piece of wallpaper to her dashboard.
She leaned forward to stare at the words, trying hard to make sense of them. Even soaking wet, the black letters were stark against the sheet of yellow paper. The writer had used something waxy, possibly even a crayon. The words were not the words of a child, however.
Butch pursed his lips. “Still think you don’t need a bodyguard?”
Chapter Two
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��You are not leaving this house again until he is caught. I wasn’t awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor by being an idiot, Claire. I know personally the difference between idle threats and the real deal. This guy means business!”
Claire stood in the middle of her living room. Her father, wearing his pajamas and robe, was in front of her, his face as red as a blazing fire. He’d been shouting for about ten minutes now, ever since Butch had handed him the soaking-wet slip of yellow paper.
And now Captain Dirk Simonson had pulled out the Congressional Medal card; things were about to take a turn for the worst.
She felt like she was ten years old again, her mother standing nearby saying nothing while her father read her the riot act. “If you don’t improve these grades, you’ll think you’re in prison, young lady! I will not tolerate mediocrity! I hear once more that you’ve not been giving one hundred and ten percent to your studies, I’ll take a belt to your backside and restrict you to this house until you are collecting Social Security!”
Never once had her father struck her, but she’d always suspected if she didn’t fall in line, he wouldn’t hesitate to do so. He’d meant it then, and he meant what he was saying now. Back then she’d kept the peace and did as she was told. The difference tonight was that she wasn’t afraid of him punishing her anymore, and she was not staying inside this house and hiding. She was not afraid of the man with the crayon either.
“The note said I’d be sorry for what I did to him. You cannot possibly be taking that as a serious threat. It means nothing! He was just pissed off that I got away. And guess what? He was wrong. I’m not sorry. Besides, I’ve got a bodyguard now. That was the whole purpose of you hiring him, wasn’t it, to keep me safe?”
“I think there’s a possibility that Claire knows this person.” Butch’s voice startled them both. Her father’s head swiveled toward him in time with her own. She’d forgotten that he was in the room.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her father clasp his hands together on his lap. Claire recognized the gesture; her father was attempting to regain some semblance of calm. It seldom worked, but she’d seen it enough to know the level of his fury. This was step three in a four-step process. Step one was absolute silence and a belligerent frown, followed quickly by step two: the shouting. She’d rarely had to see past step two. But today, step three followed: the attempt to regain his temper.
And step four. She didn’t know how well Butch knew her father, but no one should have to see step four unless they had blood ties.
“Anything is possible, Butch,” her father said. “What are you thinking?”
“The note is personal. He called her by name. And the scrawl is one of an outraged serial killer.”
For the first time since that crazy thing’s hands had grabbed her, she felt something besides anger. The tips of five cold fingers of dread settled around her throat and squeezed until she couldn’t breathe. Claire dragged oxygen into her lungs and tried to quiet her nerves. If there was one thing she would not do, it was live in fear. Yes, she was stunned by the note and by the attack. She was no idiot, but these two men were trying to turn her into a terrified child dependent on two strong men to protect her—by imprisoning her.
They might have been trained by government professionals to protect at all costs, but she’d learned something else from her military father: you can’t beat the pursuit of freedom as a motivator. Even if she did agree with them on some level, this was no time to show weakness and ultimately end up under their control. No matter what they said, she refused to stay inside and hide.
“A serial killer?” Claire forced a self-assurance into her voice that she didn’t feel. “Is that your expert opinion, Mr. Military Man, or is this just some added drama to make me fall in line?”
Butch’s left eyebrow rose, and that same quirky smile came to his lips. “Both, with any luck.”
“Butch has worked with my unit for ten years, and he’s an expert on handwriting interpretation. If he says the guy is a serial killer, then he’s a serial killer. Are you honestly going to stand there and argue with people who may know more than you do?”
“I didn’t say he was a serial killer,” Butch said. “I said he has the handwriting of one.”
Claire ignored Butch’s attempt to calm her father down. She opened her mouth to speak, but Butch spoke again.
“I’d like to talk with Claire for a moment alone, if that’s all right with you, Captain.”
Her father continued to stare at her for one solid, completely quiet minute before unclasping his hands and putting them on the wheels of his wheelchair. “That’s a good idea. Maybe you can talk some sense into this girl. I’ll be in the library fixing myself a drink. Claire, if you manage to see reason, you are welcome to join me at the conclusion of your meeting.”
He wheeled himself smoothly across the room, the air stirring the hem of his robe. She and Butch watched him until he moved out of the room and pushed the door closed behind him. They remained silent then Butch finally spoke.
“I didn’t say he was a serial killer.”
Claire looked from the door back to Butch. He stood watching her, almost like a scientist examining an unusual specimen. Being under his microscope was not what she’d had in mind for how this evening was going to go. When she thought back to her lame attempt at seducing him in her car, she wanted to cringe. Well, at least that moment was over. She had plenty more to deal with without reminding herself of that.
Even if her father hadn’t hired this man to be her bodyguard, she would have hired someone after the note. Talk of serial killers aside, anyone who went to the trouble of returning to leave her a threatening message was one nut job she didn’t want to run into without someone nearby—preferably someone carrying heavy, metal weaponry.
“The guy who attacked you, I said he had the handwriting of a serial killer.” Butch’s voice was almost apologetic. “A little edgy, isn’t he?”
“I thought you knew him.” She sat down on the edge of the sofa’s arm and took another deep breath. “If you did, you’d know he’s always a little edgy.”
“Point taken. He might soften up one of these days.”
“Which part of that tirade makes you think he’ll soften up?” Claire wanted to work up the will to be embarrassed, to care about what this man thought of her and her father, but she couldn’t. If her earlier humiliation in the car weren’t enough, venturing into their complicated relationship would seal the deal.
“He’s still the same controlling tyrant he’s been my entire life,” she muttered. “Sometimes I wonder if „one of these days’ will come in my lifetime.”
Butch looked around the room, then back to her. The smile had vanished, replaced by a dour scowl. “For a tyrant, he’s pretty generous. This place is nicer than the White House.”
Claire didn’t bother to look around; nothing had changed in this room since her mother left. The same expensive antique furniture, the same rich, luxuriant drapes, and the same original art pieces filled the room. She was so used to it, she didn’t even notice it anymore, and her father seldom came into this part of the house at all. When she’d landed her first big client, she’d taken the money and had a large addition built on. Her father seldom left it. Of course, tonight he’d made an exception.
Butch had likened it to the White House, but from where she stood it was a well-apportioned if not self-chosen prison in a lot of ways. She couldn’t leave her father alone; he needed her, no matter what their personal differences might be. He was her father, and she loved him. That’s all there was to it, and she didn’t expect this guy to understand.
Butch walked toward her, his movements those of a stalking cat. He came to rest directly in front of her, his eyes piercing. “He’s a hard-ass, but he cares about you. There are people who would kill to have a dad like yours, a dad who would provide a mansion for his grown daughter to live in, one who cared enough to spend his hard-earned money to keep her safe.”
“Y
ou don’t know anything about it.” Claire rose from her perch on the sofa arm and walked toward the fireplace. She had to get away from those piercing eyes. Her life with her father was complicated and hard enough without having to explain it to someone who had no business discussing it.
“I know what ungrateful, spoiled, and difficult looks like.” Although her back was turned to him, she could feel him moving toward her once more. The expansive room had grown smaller ever since he’d come into the house. He took her arm and spun her around. “And I’m looking at it.”
Claire jerked her arm out of his grasp and refused to back away as he stared down at her. “This house belongs to me! If it weren’t for me, he’d still be living in the veterans’ hospital! He helped me get the money to start my business, but my business saved this place. He’s here because I want him here, not the other way around.”
The stunned look on his face satisfied her, but like wolfing down a big meal, left her feeling a little sick. Why had she told him that? Just to get that smug look off his face? She was a better tactician than this.
She wanted her father here with her; despite all his controlling faults, she couldn’t bear to think of him living in a hospital, or anywhere else but this house where he’d lived for her entire life. One day, she would move out when he was well enough to be on his own. But with his health the way it had been over the past two years, she just couldn’t depend on a hired nurse.
She lowered her voice and hoped that her father had not heard that outburst. “That information is private. I would appreciate it if you would keep it to yourself.”
He nodded slowly, then scratched his chin. “Okay. Let’s talk about your stalker, then.”
She laughed. Since there seemed to be no way around this conversation, she might as well deal with it head-on. “Stalker? He’s been upgraded to stalker? Or have you downgraded him from serial killer?”
Why did he have to stand so close? The woodsy scent of his cologne mingled with the smell of the rain on his clothes and had a peculiar effect on her body temperature. In this cool room, her skin and clothing still wet from the downpour, she should be cold but instead grew warmer with each passing moment.