by Kay Lyons
The question was why?
Chapter 3
Denz watched as Claire Simmons practically sprinted down the rickety stairs after her father. Sensing he was being studied, he turned and found the kid staring up at him, a deep frown on the boy’s glowering face.
Denz raised an eyebrow in the kid’s direction, which the boy ignored. The trio moved toward the back of Tom’s one-level home, their voices so low Denz couldn’t hear what was being said.
He stepped back into the apartment and shut the door, wincing when he bumped his shoulder against the narrow doorframe. He needed to check around and find a trainer familiar with PT for such injuries, something he’d promised his doc he’d do the moment he’d arrived.
He’d put it off, thinking the exercises he did on his own would be enough, but obviously that wasn’t the case given the way his shoulder had stiffened up after fishing off the pier. Maybe he had briefly wrangled a shark, but four days later, he was still paying for it. Not a good sign.
He walked toward the small bedroom.
The sixty-something man had noticed Denz struggling to fish one-handed and helped reel in the four-foot shark. They’d celebrated over lunch at the nearby diner, and they discovered both worked within the Wilmington film industry. That’s when Tom mentioned having an apartment to rent.
Denz got dressed and left the apartment in time to see Claire walking toward her Jeep. He met her at the rear of the vehicle and silently offered a hand, which she eyed like a snake.
“Thanks. But I have it.”
“Just being polite, seeing as how I apparently took your apartment.”
He watched as she squinted up at him, her blue eyes the color of a dark sky. “I had to cancel on him a few weeks ago but told him we’d be coming soon. It’s fine. We’ll make it work.”
“The offer stands,” he said, indicating the bags.
Her full pink lips twisted in a semblance of a smile.
“Fine. But nothing with your bad arm. I don’t want to be held responsible if you reinjure it.”
“Roger that.”
Claire froze in the act of pulling a duffle from the back of the Wrangler. “You’re military?”
“Used to be.”
“So you were medically discharged after being shot?”
Her gaze dropped to his shoulder and the sling he now wore. “I left the military five years ago.”
“Oh. I-I… You’re a cop?”
“Bodyguard.” He reached out and grabbed the duffle, sliding it to his good shoulder. “You planning on staying a while?” If she wanted answers, maybe she ought to answer a few questions herself.
Claire side-eyed him as she grabbed another bag.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
He grabbed another bag.
“No, leave that. It’s Tommy’s. He can unload his own.”
He frowned, noting the tote bag full of gaming equipment she held. “But that’s yours?” he asked, indicating the tote.
“For now. Tommy’s grounded,” she said, “and gaming is off-limits. But since we weren’t sure how long we’re staying, he asked if he could bring it just in case.”
“Smart kid.”
“Yeah, well, it stays with me.”
Denz followed her to the back door of the house and inside.
“Tommy, go get your stuff,” she called.
“Grandpa said I had to help him,” Tommy said from somewhere in the house.
Denz paused behind Claire as she stalled just inside a bedroom, watching as the kid tried to place a fitted sheet on the mattress only to discover it was too short.
A four-letter word escaped his mouth and earned a gasp from Claire. “Scott Thomas.”
“It slipped.”
“Not acceptable,” she said, shifting toward the left to drop the bags beside the wall opposite the bed.
“I can’t even keep it in my room?” the kid asked, eyeing the bag with the game system.
“What do you think?”
The kid grumbled, yanking the sheet so hard Denz waited for it to rip.
“Here we go,” Tom said, coming into the small bedroom behind Denz. The man eyed Denz and the bags he carried before tossing the additional linens on the bed. “Try those. I think the ones you have are for your bed in the other room.”
Thankfully Tom missed the look that flashed over the kid’s expression at the mix-up, but Denz met the kid’s gaze and held it until the kid looked away.
Denz had only known Tom a matter of days, but he was a decent man, one who didn’t need disrespecting by his grandson.
“Denz, put those down before you rip those stitches,” Tom said. “Denz here is a bodyguard. He’s worked with some of the celebrities here in town.”
“I’m going to my room,” Tommy said.
“Make your bed,” Tom said. “Don’t make your mama come do it for you.”
Denz met the kid’s gaze as he passed by and caught another flash of anger. The kid was a walking powder keg.
“I see,” Claire said, her tone measured, as though she didn’t quite believe it.
“It’s not a bad gig,” he told her. “I get to travel, and the pay is good.”
“It ought to be if getting shot is in the job description,” Claire said dryly, glancing at him before focusing on the tote bag remaining in her hand.
She shoved that one into the closet and tossed another bag on top as though trying to hide it.
“He may have caught a bullet but he saved a life,” Tom said.
“I did my job,” Denz corrected.
“And you obviously did right by it since the guy’s walking around today,” Tom said, sliding a quelling look at his daughter.
Denz took a step back, not wanting to participate in the tension he felt in the room. “Well, I’m going to head out,” he said to Tom. “You folks enjoy your evening.”
“Thanks for the help,” Tom said.
“Yes, thank you,” Claire added.
Denz walked out of the bedroom when he heard Tom speak.
“Don’t you be giving Denz a hard time,” Tom said.
“I wasn’t.”
“You were,” Tom said.
“I simply asked about his profession.”
“Well, now you know.”
“Dad—”
“Why are you here, Claire?”
Denz paused in the hallway and waited to hear her response.
“I thought you wanted us to visit. Is that not okay? If not, we can go.”
Okay then. No tension there.
Tom mumbled something in his gruff voice as Denz walked away.
Chapter 4
Claire yanked the sheets apart and began making the bed, aware of her father watching her every move.
“You’re here. Might as well stay.”
Oh, that was a welcome, wasn’t it? “I told you we were coming to visit, Dad.”
“And then you cancelled.”
“Something came up but I said we’d come soon.”
“I saw on the news where your company fired people. You one of them?”
She inhaled and ran a hand through her shoulder-length hair, wishing the world wasn’t as connected as it was nowadays. “Yeah, I am. They sold out and made cutbacks. I got a small severance.”
Her father pursed his lips and made a grumbling noise.
“Been a year since Scott’s death, too.”
Did her father have to be so in tune with everything?
“Military housing money dried up, didn’t it? That’s some bad timing,” he continued, even though she hadn’t answered.
“I’m just here to regroup while I get my resume in order and put in some applications.” She’d wanted to talk to her dad about selling her house but now wasn’t the time. Especially not when he was in one of his anti-Scott moods. “Tommy and I both needed a break, and we hadn’t been back to visit for a-a while, so I thought we’d come to the beach…and visit.”
Her father watched her as she smoothed the bedsheet b
efore moving to the opposite side.
“Boy’s grown a full foot since last I saw him.”
Glad for the change in topic, she nodded. “Tommy’s a bottomless pit, too. I actually caught him eating sardines straight from the tin one day because I hadn’t gone to the grocery store.”
“That’s disgusting.”
She laughed, knowing full well her father’s take on them. “I couldn’t agree more.” There, something they agreed on. Sardines were Scott’s thing, though, and he’d loved them on pizza, as did Tommy. To her it was the most unappetizing thing ever, but to each his own.
“How’d he do in school this year? Still making good grades?” her father asked.
Finished with that side, she grabbed the flat sheet and began again. “Um, not entirely. He struggled this year, which isn’t surprising given the circumstances. Tommy couldn’t seem to find his groove. But he managed to move on with his class.” Barely.
“It was that bad?”
If she wanted her father’s help with Tommy during their stay, she knew she had to be honest with him. Too bad it couldn’t have waited until after her beach walk and a little decompression time. “Yeah, it was.” She ducked her head and made a show of palming the sheet perfectly smooth and tucking it quarter-bouncing tight.
“Maybe I can talk to the boy while you’re here. See if I can talk some sense into him.”
Talk some sense into him? She swallowed hard and nodded, hoping that was her father’s way of being sympathetic rather than controlling. “He needs a good male role model,” she said. “I think he misses that, you know? It’s tough for a kid his age to only have his mom.”
Awkward silence filled the room, and her father shuffled his feet in that way he always did when he was uncomfortable or his mind was on other things.
“Dad, I took it for granted that the apartment would be free and I shouldn’t have. Thanks. For letting us stay with you.”
“You think I’d kick you out? My own daughter and grandson?”
Hearing the rising tone in his voice, she hurried to deflate the tension. “No, of course not. I just meant… We’ve stayed in the apartment ever since Scott and I got married. Not in the house. I…don’t want to intrude.”
“This is your room. Always has been. You’re the one who left it. By choice, I might add.”
A trembling began deep inside of her when faced with the anger her father had toward her decision to marry so young. One would think, sometime over the years since, tensions would have eased, but they hadn’t. “You and Denz seem to have formed a fast friendship over that shark.”
“I suppose. Your mama always said men were strange that way, bonded over unusual things like war and fights and fishing,” he said.
“Dad, I don’t want to sound paranoid, but what do you know about him? I mean, that’s obviously a bullet wound in his shoulder, so yeah, he’s been shot, but are you sure that story about being a bodyguard is legit?”
“Why would he lie?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because he committed a crime? Is in a gang or a cartel?”
Her father’s chuckles filled the small bedroom she’d used from her birth until she was seventeen and snuck out the window to run away with Scott.
“You’ve got quite the imagination.”
“It’s not such a leap these days, especially when you say you’re always watching the news. Drug running, human trafficking… People get shot all the time. It’s very possible. People lie.” Even husbands.
Not that she’d admit that to her father.
“I got a copy of his license and a business card for the company he works for, and before you ask, yes, I called it. He’s legit.”
The air left her lungs in a rapid exhalation as relief poured in. She still didn’t like the man’s chosen profession—or any profession equating to danger—but at least her father didn’t have a fugitive in the garage.
Bed made, she straightened and looked at the array of bags lining the wall and atop the chair. She should unpack before things got too wrinkled, but more than anything, she wanted some sand between her toes and salt air in her lungs. “I think I’m going to check on Tommy and go take a walk on the beach before I tackle those. I’ll help with dinner when I get back. Or would you rather order something? Go out to eat?”
“I’ll make something.”
Her father loved to cook, which was why his food service business did so well. She might be a little biased, but she thought he made the best shrimp tacos on the East Coast.
Claire moved toward the door only to stop when her father cleared his throat.
She met his gaze and waited.
“Never mind.”
“What did you want to say?”
“Nothing that can’t wait. Go check on your boy and make sure he’s not up to no good. I need to know if I need to nail his windows shut like I should have yours.”
Claire lifted her chin, a hot rush of tears prickling her eyes to the point heavy blinking almost didn’t do the trick. “I’m sorry for the embarrassment I caused you with my teenage pregnancy, but had it not happened, I wouldn’t have Tommy and I’m not sorry about that, so if you think I should be…shame on you.”
Chapter 5
Denz walked into Reels, a restaurant and bar near the marina, and quickly spied the group he’d come to meet.
“Denz!” Marsali Beck cried, her sweet voice full of welcome and a smile on her face.
“Hey, Mrs. B, how are you?”
“Are you ever going to call me Marsali?” she asked.
Denz shared a look with her movie star husband and shook his head. “No, ma’am. Mr. Beck, it’s good to see you.”
“You, too, Denz,” Oliver said, shaking Denz’s hand.
The table was filled with Marsali and Oliver’s friends, including Marsali’s brother and Reels’ owner, Mac, and his beautiful new fiancée—a former ballet dancer from New York City turned ballet teacher and business owner here on the island last he’d heard.
“Sit, sit!” Marsali said. “It’s weird to see you in an unofficial capacity. A good weird, though. You’ve been with us so much you’re practically family.”
He chuckled along with the rest of the group at Marsali’s attempt to soften the weirdness comment. “I appreciate that. And I understand. When I ran into Mr. Beck on the street a few days ago, it seemed a little odd.” He’d been exploring downtown Wilmington, walking along the sidewalk outside the Cotton Exchange building, when he’d stumbled onto a movie set.
He’d watched along with the crowd gathered while Oliver had sat in the director’s chair and the actors did their thing. Once finished, Denz had grinned when Oliver did a double take on spotting him in the crowd.
After motioning him to come behind the barriers, Oliver had chatted him up and invited him to tonight’s dinner.
“How’s the shoulder?” Carter asked.
Marsali and Oliver’s neighbor had his hand resting on the back of his wife’s chair. Eliza looked preoccupied, no doubt thinking of a wedding plan in the works. Most probably for Mac and V, as Victoria liked to be called. “It’s healing. Thanks for asking.”
“Any idea when you’ll be cleared for work?” Oliver asked.
“No. Not yet.”
“What happened again?” Marsali asked. “I mean, Oliver said you were shot while working but…”
He smiled at the questions bombarding him. “Right place, wrong time. Or right time as the case may be.”
“You got the guy?” Mac asked.
Denz nodded. “He’s awaiting trial and everyone is safe.”
“You know,” Marsali said with her girl-next-door tone and sweet expression, “you’d have a lot easier time finding someone special if things like that weren’t an everyday possibility.”
“Watch out,” Lincoln said.
“Here we go again,” Carter said with a grin.
“Seriously, Marse, do you ever stop trying to matchmake?” Eliza asked.
“She does have a
point,” Amelia added.
Denz lowered his head and chuckled at the friends’ many comments and inputs on his life.
It was risky seeing them as anything more than acquaintances or associates, but given that he was off-duty and simply a guy meeting a former client for dinner, he tried to keep it in perspective. “I like what I do, Mrs. B. I’m good at it.”
When Denz had first started working in Oliver’s protection rotation, Amelia and Lincoln were the only ones coupled up.
As the months passed, the group grew as Marsali, a professional matchmaker, did her thing with Eliza and Carter. Not long after, Marsali had an on-air blunder and mistakenly told the world Oliver Beck was her perfect match.
The media storm had been intense, with Oliver flying to Carolina Cove to protect his best friend’s little sister from the paparazzi. It wasn’t long before the two fell in love and married last fall.
The last single of the group, Mac, had given in to Marsali’s requests to match him last summer, and now Mac and V’s wedding date grew closer by the day.
“I’m just saying,” Marsali continued. “If Denz is going to be in town for a while until he heals, he might get lonely. I could match you up with a lovely—”
“No,” he said firmly. He was a by-the-book kind of guy, and some boundaries were too personal to cross. Marsali setting him up was one of them. “Thanks, though, Mrs. B. I appreciate the offer, but like you said, most women don’t particularly care for my profession or the travel and time it requires. My relationships tend to be…brief.”
Marsali’s freckled face and expression revealed her displeasure at his words, but it was the truth. He wouldn’t be in town long enough to form an attachment, and if he did, it would end badly. Like Marsali said, women tended to want stability and presence, and he couldn’t offer either at this point. Nor did he particularly want to.
There were people meant for houses and picket fences, roots. His belongings fit into a single duffle and suitcase that allowed him to travel the world at a moment’s notice. Why put himself or the woman through that? That’s why casual dating worked for him. A nice dinner or two, maybe some fun. He’d yet to meet a woman who made him want more than companionship with no strings.