Undercover Bodyguard

by Shirlee McCoy

  It’s okay.

  You’re okay.

  Everything is going to be fine.

  And somehow, despite the smoke and flames and frantic fire crew, despite her fear and worry, while Shelby leaned against Ryder’s chest, inhaled his familiar scent, she could almost believe it was true.

  FOURTEEN

  They drove an hour to go five miles.

  Shelby only knew that because she knew the area, recognized River Walk Plaza and the swank apartment buildings there.

  She knew she should be thankful that Ryder had whisked her away from the charred remains of her house, from the endless questions of the sheriff, from the sympathetic but nosy stares of her neighbors, but all she felt was tired.

  “Is this it?” she asked, as he pulled into a parking garage.

  “Yes.”

  “You said it was a safe house. Not a swank apartment complex downtown.”

  “A safe house is anywhere that you’re safe.”

  “I know. I just pictured an old farmhouse in the middle of a barren field. Somewhere out in the open with armed gunmen standing at every window, waiting to shoot intruders.”

  “You’ve watched too many movies, Shelby Ann. Come on. Let’s get inside and get you settled. We have a few hours before our appointment with Catherine. You should be able to get some sleep before then.”

  “I’m not going to be able to sleep,” she responded as he helped her out of the Hummer.

  “We’ll see.”

  “I won’t.” She lifted Mazy, and Ryder scooped the dog from her arms.

  “I’m not sure my apartment manager will be happy about having a dog in the building, but we’ll give it a try.”

  “Your apartment manager? I thought this was a safe house.”

  “It’s my place and a safe house.”

  “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea, Ryder.” She dragged her sore, blistered feet. She hadn’t mentioned the burns, but maybe she should. Maybe that would keep her from staying in Ryder’s apartment.

  With him.

  “You were fine with it an hour ago.”

  “That was before I knew you were going to be staying in the safe house with me.”

  “You’re making more of this than you need to. You’re not the first client I’ve brought here, and you won’t be the last,” he said calmly, taking Shelby’s arm and hurrying her to the building, keeping his body between her and the parking lot as they moved.

  The 1920s facade opened into a three-story foyer and a wide marble staircase, the art-deco architecture speaking of bygone eras and attention to detail. Against one wall, a bank of elevators offered a quick ride to one of four stories, but Ryder led her to the stairs, ushering her up to the second floor, down a quiet hall and into a stairwell. Another two flights of stairs, and Shelby was panting, her back aching, her feet burning and bleeding.

  “This is it, right?” she asked as he opened a door and led her out into another quiet hall.

  “Almost.”

  “Almost? Where else is there to go?”

  “I rent the loft.”

  “Loft? You mean penthouse?”

  “I mean loft. Used to be the maintenance man’s place back when this was a hotel, so it’s more like an attic apartment than a penthouse. This way.” His hand settled on her lower back, his fingers brushing her side as he steered her around a corner and to an unmarked door. He unlocked it, gestured for her to walk up a narrow flight of stairs.

  A very narrow flight.

  So narrow, her shoulders brushed against the walls. Her feet rubbed raw on the cement stairs, but she kept walking because if she stopped, Ryder would bump into her, and then she might turn around, throw herself into his arms and beg to be carried the rest of the way.

  Finally, she reached another door, a small, locked metal box attached to the wall to one side of it.

  “Hold on.” Ryder reached around, his body pressed close as he unlocked the box, punched a code into a keypad, then pushed the door open.

  She stumbled into an oversize living area, anxious to be away from his heat and his scent and him.

  Anxious to sit down, too, because her feet hurt, her back hurt, and if she thought about the embers of her house, she might just start crying.

  “Glad you finally decided to show up,” someone said, and Shelby whirled, her heart pounding as she stared into emerald-green eyes and a tan, handsome face.

  “I took the long route. Just in case. Are we hooked into the building’s security system?” Ryder responded as he closed the door, locking Shelby into the loft.

  “Hooked in and functioning. We have a clear view of the exterior perimeter and the lobby.” The man moved with lithe grace, his slender runner’s build powerful beneath a white dress shirt and black slacks. A gun holster hugged his chest and side, the black handle of a gun brushing his arm as he walked out of a small galley kitchen and into the living room.

  “Glad to hear it. Shelby, this is Darius Osborne. He’ll be working security detail with me tonight. Darius. Shelby Simons.”

  “Nice to meet you, Shelby. Sorry it has to be under these circumstances.” Darius shook her hand, his grip firm and strong, his gaze direct. Comforting. That’s the vibe Shelby got from him, but she also sensed a dangerous edge beneath his vivid green eyes.

  “Nice to meet you, too.”

  “You’re probably exhausted. Why don’t you settle in? Get some sleep?” He took her arm, moving her down a small hall as Ryder bent over a computer set up on the kitchen counter.

  “I’m not really tired.” She limped into the room he indicated, stepping back as he closed shades and blocked off her view of the brick side of another building.

  “Ryder has the place set up for situations like this, so you’ll be comfortable for however long you need to be here. Check in the dresser and closet for clean clothes. They might not fit well, but they’ll be functional.” He ignored her protest, walked through an open doorway and turned on a light. “There’s a bathroom through there. If you need anything, just let me or Ryder know. We’ll get it for you. No phone calls to friends, okay? No texting. No emailing. Nothing to give anyone any idea of where you are or who you’re with.”

  “Like anyone would believe me if I told them,” she said, and he frowned.

  “You’re in a very dangerous situation, Shelby. Someone wants you dead. If you want to stay alive, you’ll do exactly what Ryder and I tell you to do. Go ahead and get some sleep.” He walked out of the room, the soft click of the door sealing her in with Mazy and her thoughts.

  Too many thoughts about too many things she had no control over.

  As a matter of fact, it seemed she had no control over anything in her life lately. Not where she went, who she went with or what she did.

  Be tough. Don’t rely on anyone but yourself.

  If her family had a motto, that would be it, and Shelby was trying really hard to live by it.

  No more letting someone into her life. No more allowing another person to influence her decisions, determine her happiness.

  No more putting her heart in someone else’s hands.

  Did putting her life in Ryder’s hands count?

  She sighed, limping across the room, the stench of smoke drifting around her, reminding her of the house she’d labored over, the dreams she’d built with every nail hammered, every wall painted.

  Gone.

  All of it.

  She searched the closet and the drawers, found clothes in a variety of sizes, the tags still on all of them.

  Darius was right.

  Ryder was set up for this kind of thing.

  Why wouldn’t he be? He made a living protecting people.

  She grabbed dark jeans and
a T-shirt, took a quick shower in the white-tiled bathroom, washing away soot and smoke, cleaning her sore and blistered feet. Wishing she could wash away her fear, clean away her worries just as easily.

  God was in control.

  He’d work things out for His best.

  That was the truth of the situation, so there was no reason to fret or worry or wonder how she’d ever run a business from Ryder’s safe house, or how Dottie and the four teens who relied on steady work and paychecks would fare if she had to close the doors for a few days.

  No, she shouldn’t worry and fret, but she was worried and fretting and upset, and no matter how much she didn’t want them to, the tears she’d been pushing away slid down her cheeks as she towel-dried her hair and lay down on the bed.

  What if she did have to close the bakery for a day or a week or a month?

  Would she lose the bakery?

  Would the people she cared about be forced back out on the street, begging for food and places to stay?”

  And what about the house?

  She had a mortgage to pay on the pile of ashes that remained. Ashes of the house and of the million dreams she’d built into it.

  Dreams of a normal family with normal kids and a normal husband. Not the glamour and glitz and showiness of Shelby’s childhood. Just a simple day-to-day routine, all of it lived out with a backdrop of love and acceptance.

  A soft knock sounded on the door, and she ignored it, hoping that whoever it was would go away.

  It had to be Ryder or Darius, and she wasn’t up to facing either of them.

  The door opened anyway, and she closed her eyes, pretending to sleep as someone walked across the room.

  “I know you’re awake,” Ryder said, the mattress compressing as he sat on the edge of the bed.

  “I’m trying not to be,” she responded, opening her eyes as he touched her foot.

  “You should have told me you were burned.”

  “It’s not bad.”

  “It looks bad from where I’m sitting.” He walked into the bathroom, came out a minute later with a first-aid kit. “This may hurt a little.”

  “Then don’t do it.”

  “Sorry, Shelby Ann. I don’t want you to get an infection.” He rubbed antibiotic cream into the bottom of her foot, and she nearly jumped off the bed, pain shooting up her leg.

  “That did not hurt a little,” she gasped, and he patted her shin.

  “Sorry. The other one isn’t as bad, so it shouldn’t be as painful.”

  “I’ll do it.” She grabbed the ointment from his hand, sitting up cross-legged and examining her untreated foot. Two large blisters had popped and were oozing fluid, but things could have been worse.

  She braced herself, smearing the ointment onto the blisters and loosely covering both feet with gauze, Ryder’s gaze steady, focused and distracting.

  “It’s been a rough night. How are you holding up?” He brushed hair from her forehead, his touch just as distracting as his gaze.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Don’t tell me what you think I want to hear. Tell me the truth,” he said gently, and Shelby’s throat tightened.

  “If I tell you the truth, I’ll start crying, and then I might never stop,” she responded, because she couldn’t look in his eyes and keep saying that she was fine, keep trying to hide what she really felt.

  “Crying because of your house?” His fingers trailed down her cheek, skimmed down her arm until they were palm to palm.

  “A little, but I’m more worried about the bakery. The people who work for me depend on it being open. If I can’t be there, I’m not sure how long they can keep it running. I organize everything, prepare the orders for the day.”

  “You’ll still be able to do that. This is our base camp, but it isn’t the only place I can keep you safe. I’ll take you back to the bakery tomorrow. I’ll go with you while you deliver the wedding cake. Then we’ll come back here, and I’ll take you back to work the next day. Nothing will change.”

  “Everything has changed, Ryder,” she said, because it had. Her life. Her business. Her home.

  Her heart.

  He’d changed it, made it yearn for him in a way she couldn’t be comfortable with. Not if she was going to keep it whole and safe.

  “It’s going to be okay,” he murmured, his lips brushing her forehead, and she closed her eyes, afraid he’d see how deeply his tenderness affected her.

  “I’m really tired. I think I should try to sleep now.” She moved away from his comforting touch and turned on her side, listening as he walked into the hall and closed the door.

  A tear trickled down her cheek.

  Then another and another until the pillow was soaked with them, her cheeks and neck soaked with them.

  Shelby didn’t bother wiping them away.

  There was no one to see.

  No one but God.

  Shelby was sure He understood.

  FIFTEEN

  Dawn came early in Spokane, the sun rising in a blaze of yellow-gold light. Ryder watched it as he worked kinks out of his bad leg, the computer behind him, Darius leaning over it. Three hours of staring at the monitor, and Ryder had seen nothing. Not a bird. Not a dog. Not a person.

  Too bad.

  He’d been hoping the arsonist would show up looking for Shelby, hoping he’d have a chance to take the guy down and bring him in to the police.

  He grimaced as he rubbed a knot from his thigh and eased into a stretch that would lengthen the muscles.

  “What time are you taking off?” Darius asked, and Ryder glanced at the clock, sweat beading his brow as he slowly increased the stretch.

  “Ten minutes.”

  “I’ll let Shelby know,” Darius offered, and if the client had been anyone other than Shelby, Ryder would have agreed. He had another five minutes of easy stretching and exercise to do before he started the day.

  But the client was Shelby, and he had a personal interest in making sure she was okay, an interest that went far beyond protecting her.

  “I’ll get her.” He stood, ignoring the sharp twinge in his leg.

  “I knew you would.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You have a lot more interest in her than you ever had in Danielle,” Darius answered, his gaze still focused on the computer monitor, but Ryder knew his friend noticed every twitch, every nuance. It was what had made him a good SEAL, and what made him a good security contractor.

  “Shelby is…different,” he said truthfully.

  “She’s pretty, but not as beautiful as Danie—”

  “Is there some reason why we’re discussing this?”

  “Just curious as to what you’re thinking long-term.”

  “All I’m thinking about is keeping Shelby safe. Everything else will work itself out,” Ryder responded, and Darius grinned. The two had been friends since they’d slipped through inky darkness and made their way into enemy camps in Afghanistan together. Both had been forced into retiring after sustaining injuries during their service to their country. It had been a no-brainer for Ryder to ask Darius to join the Personal Securities team, but Darius knew him better than almost anyone, and he knew Ryder had more than a job on his mind.

  Too bad.

  Ryder didn’t discuss his personal life on company time, and until Maureen’s murderer was caught, every minute was company time.

  “You can wipe the smile off your face, Darius. We both have jobs to do, and we need to keep focused on that.”

  “Point taken, boss.” Darius bent over the computer again, but Ryder didn’t miss the amusement in his voice.

  He ignored it.

  Shelby’s door was closed and he knocked, waiting as M
azy snorted and sniffed at the bottom of the door. He shoved his foot against the crack, and the little dog barked.

  “Hold on. I’m coming,” Shelby called out. Seconds later, she opened the door, her eyes shadowed and dark with fatigue.

  “Did I wake you?” he asked, and she shook her head, silky brown curls sliding across her cheek and down the slim column of her neck. He knew just how it would feel if he touched it, could imagine himself giving in to temptation and brushing an errant curl away.

  “I never fell asleep.” She lifted Mazy, held the little dog to her chest, more vulnerable and less animated than he’d ever seen her.

  “Why not?” He moved into the room, catching a whiff of berries and vanilla as she backed away.

  “I don’t sleep well when I’m away from home.” She dropped onto the bed, patting Mazy rhythmically.

  “Is that the only thing that kept you awake? Being away from home?” He dropped down beside her, and she shrugged. She’d found a fitted black T-shirt and dark jeans that gapped in the back, her creamy skin peeking out between denim and cotton, her bandaged feet peeking out from brown sandals.

  “Yes. No. Maybe.” She offered a brief smile and placed Mazy on the floor. “I guess you didn’t just knock on the door to ask if you’d woken me. What’s up?”

  “We’re leaving for the state prison in ten minutes. I wanted to give you a heads-up.”

  “You only planned to give me ten minutes to get ready to go?”

  “Why not? You don’t need to be fancy to go visit a felon.”

  “Not fancy, but presentable is nice.” She limped to the dresser, frowning at her reflection in the mirror above it.

  “You’re always way more than presentable, Shelby Ann,” he responded as Mazy nipped at his ankle. “I don’t think this dog likes me.”

  “I wish I could say the same.”

  “You don’t want her to like you?”

  “I don’t want me to like you.” She paced to the window covered with a thick shade and stood with her back to Ryder.

  “Because you’re afraid of being disappointed again?”

  “Because I have terrible taste in men, Ryder, and if I like you, there’s got to be something wrong with you.”