“At least I know that you’ve been listening to me.” Cruz laughed a little, surveying a second large crowd of people passing on their right. “You named every reason I’ve ever given for not letting you walk around town, so sure, let’s walk. But we aren’t going through the zoo. Too far from a main road, and you’ll never make it up the hill in those shoes. We’ll go down Calvert and up a side street, and Bukowski can stay close in the car.”
It took them a few minutes of maneuvering through the siren-blaring city traffic before they left the busy commercial district. The quieter residential streets were lined with mature trees and pots of mums in full bloom to showcase the stone row houses and apartment buildings that made up many of DC’s classic neighborhoods. September in the city still brought warm breezes to tickle her skin, and a few lights sparkled on porches and in big bay windows, countering the long shadows spiking out of the setting sun. Other than the few couples and small families out for an evening walk, the only disruption was the occasional car that didn’t even slow down.
With her hair pulled back in a chignon and sunglasses protecting her identity, she allowed the momentary fantasy that she and Cruz were just friends out for a walk. But he never stopped looking. With her at the center, his full attention was divided in about a hundred different directions, constantly on alert and communicating directly with Bukowski every ten minutes. She’d long since been taught to keep her distractions to a minimum when he was working, but she was thinking about a conversation starter when a lean jogger in his mid-fifties turned the corner to approach them. In an almost imperceptible move, Cruz tensed. “Move to my other side, Victoria,” he said quietly.
She did as he demanded and the middle-aged jogger moved past them with a polite nod of acknowledgment in his sparkling blue eyes. She glanced over her shoulder to stare at his retreating back, but seeing nothing that would cause her concern, she smirked. “That was pretty lame. He looks just like every other guy out here.”
“Before you get bratty, think about it, little girl. What was different about him?”
She pressed her brows together, but couldn’t think of anything. Feeling a little stupid, she shrugged. “I dunno. They all looked the same to me. As a matter of fact, he looked older and less threatening than the two young guys we saw jogging back there.”
“This guy had baggy shorts and a baggy t-shirt,” said Cruz patiently. “The other guys were in form-fitting bicycle clothes. So, what does that mean?”
“He wasn’t metrosexual?” she said teasingly, but he glared with enough force to bring her back to some sense of propriety. When the answer hit her, she felt like even more of an idiot and lowered her gaze to stare at the cracks in the sidewalk. “It would have been easier to hide a gun, wouldn’t it?”
“That’s it. Keep an eye on their clothes and their hands. Are they right-handed or left-handed? Figure that out so you can watch how their hands move across their body. Guns have weight, so, are they tugging at their clothes strangely? Or are they favoring one side of their body?”
She wasn’t sure if the information was comforting or scary, so she moved a tiny bit closer to his side before asking, “I know where you keep a weapon when you’re wearing a suit because your holster’s pretty obvious, but you don’t have it on under your shirt. Are you carrying a gun now?”
“Of course I’m carrying a gun.” Cruz nudged her shoulder with his. “As a matter of fact, I have two of them. I also have a bulletproof vest, a few magazines of ammo, and the radio that’s keeping me in touch with Bukowski. They make holsters that are a little more, let’s say, hidden.”
Checking out his frame, she saw nothing that could hold a bulging weapon until her eyes settled on his crotch. She glanced up, and he winked. “I’ve got an ankle holster, too,” he said with an exaggerated whisper.
“Oh,” she said lightly. The weight of a small munitions store on his person made their quiet little walk seem a lot less fun, and without totally thinking, she put her hand to his chest to feel the bulletproof vest. He didn’t correct her, but she was subdued even further. “I’m glad you’re wearing that, and I’m sorry that you have to. I can’t imagine what it must be like to go to work every day thinking somebody might shoot you.”
“I’m no different than any other law enforcement agent out there. Besides, we go through a lot of training to make sure we don’t take a bullet. Only one guy in the entire history of the Secret Service ever died protecting somebody, and that was almost seventy years ago in a shoot-out on Pennsylvania Avenue in broad daylight. We wear the vests, but we don’t want to wear uniforms when we don’t have to because it doesn’t send the right message for the leader of a democracy to be surrounded by military personnel, and we’re pretty good about blending in while still maintaining a presence.”
“Is that why you guys always wear sunglasses? To blend in more?”
“No,” he said with a grin. “We wear sunglasses because it’s sunny.”
“Oh.” She eyed his crotch to see if she could see the outline of any weapon. Literally. Any. Weapon. But when she caught him looking at her with an arched eyebrow, she rushed to say something intelligent. “Can you teach me to shoot a gun? I think I’d like to learn.”
“Eyes up here,” he said with a chuckle that turned her face beet red. “Sure, little bit. As long as you don’t learn to shoot me when you get mad. My mother wouldn’t like it.”
In all of their time together, Victoria had never heard him talk about his personal life, and the possibility that she’d been lusting after some father of six with a wife in the suburbs left her feeling like a spoiled, selfish brat for never taking the time to ask. “Is all of your... family... around here?” The damned stutter betrayed her insecurity every time.
“I grew up a little south of Jacksonville. Immigrant Catholic family, oldest of six kids who live all over the country right now. I’m the product of public schools and did two stints in the Air Force who kindly paid for college. My parents run a landscaping business.”
“That’s about my polar opposite,” she said sadly. “I’m from Boston, Protestant, private-school educated, who’s an only child with one parent from founding father descendants. I can speak some Spanish, though. Can you?”
“Reasonably well. My parents were bilingual as children, but they wanted us to have some idea of their culture so we spoke both languages at home. But having a big family isn’t all that it’s made out to be. In my family, it doesn’t matter what language they’re speaking; most of the time, they never shut up.”
“Believe me,” she said with a sigh. “I’ve never been encouraged to speak my mind. When your father is as well-known as mine, you learn to keep your mouth shut because nobody really gives a fu—a rat’s ass what you have to say.” She waited a second before smirking. “Because if you cause too many problems, they send huge goons from the Secret Service to live on your couch.”
“Goons, huh?” he asked, trying to conceal a grin. “I wouldn’t want to put Bukowski in the position where she’d have to protect you... from me, so I’ll store that snarky little comment for later.”
“Later,” she parroted with exasperation. “There is no later in my life. Later is the same as yesterday and last year, and it’ll be the same as an hour from now, a week from now, and five years from now.”
Cruz shot her a skeptical expression. “You know that it’s not always going to be like this, don’t you? Your father’s going to finish this term, and you’ll fall off the grid, too. How many former president’s children can you identify a few years after they’ve left the White House? Somebody else will come along to fill the media’s needs, and you’ll live a normal life again.”
“It can’t come fast enough,” she grumbled. “And I don’t even know what a normal life looks like.”
“You need to appreciate the here and now a little more. I wouldn’t want you to look back on all of this someday and be sorry that you didn’t enjoy the historical front row seat that you’ve had.”
That was probably the worst day in her life. She’d shouted at everybody, swearing and screaming until they’d finally left her alone in her third floor bedroom with her yellow quilt and Mr. Monkey Face, but her father’s disappointed face and the relentless media critics still haunted her.
Cruz took her elbow, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry that happened to you. I know it’s hard for you to see it now, but you didn’t do anything wrong that day. You had every right to mourn the way you wanted to, and that whole experience must have been really rough. And I’m sorry I didn’t recognize how deep your pain was when I scolded you. It’s tough to appreciate what we have when we don’t understand anything else.”
And he left it. There were no ‘buts’ and no attempts to make her verbalize what she should have done differently. It had been a long time since anybody had validated her feelings with so much honest simplicity that it took a few seconds for the support to sink in. She was so lost in her own thoughts that she missed the uneven pavement and stumbled. Always alert, Cruz caught her in his arms before she hit the ground. “Are you okay, little bit?” he asked seriously.
Leaning into his embrace, she allowed her head to rest against his chest, not to gain any strength, but to feel his power, his muscled biceps wrapping her in a blanket of safety while the late summer breeze blew across their skin. After a long, wonderfully intimate second or two, he tried to release her, but she held onto his arm, refusing to give up his security. “Let go, Victoria,” he said softly. “I need both of my hands to do my job. Is your ankle okay or should I get the car?”
“I’m fine,” she responded, desperately trying to internalize the warmth of his skin and his scent, like sweet vanilla and salt air. He set her on her own two feet before pulling away to continue his vigilance, but she was so unsettled that she challenged him. “You’re always looking away from me. Do you ever actually see me to do this job?”
“Of course I do.” His voice was husky, but his gaze remained focused to his hard right.
“Then close your eyes.” She willed herself to sound as though she were teasing. “What am I wearing right now?”
“I’m not closing my eyes,” he said with a laugh, still looking away from her. “Because that pretty much defeats the purpose of me being here. But you’re wearing a yellow printed sleeveless top and black capris with a pair of black sandals that will probably leave blisters on your feet. You have a small yellow leather handbag that has a lipstick and a few tissues since it’s allergy season, plus your thin gray wallet. You’re wearing your diamond stud earrings in white gold, but that’s a no-brainer because you wear them every day, and a silver and black onyx necklace that you only bring out when it matches your outfit.”
The diamond earrings had been a sixteenth birthday present from her mother and the leather wallet had been a Christmas gift the year before she’d died. Both gifts meant a great deal to her, and she was thrilled that he recognized their significance. “Okay,” she responded with a giggle, covering her eyes and forcing him to put his hand on her shoulder. “My turn. You’re wearing khaki pants with a bulge in your crotch that looks like you’re a very happy man. And...” Oh, the hell with it, put it out there. “You don’t have a wedding ring.”
“Open your eyes, brat,” he said sternly, but when she did, the touch of a smile and his warm, dark eyes didn’t match the no-nonsense tone. “I don’t want you walking into traffic. No, I don’t have a wedding ring because I’ve never been married. I can’t even find the time to date with this job. And leave my crotch out of your visualizations, if you don’t mind. I’m working today; we aren’t hanging out at a sex club.”
“And how many sex clubs have you been to, Agent Cruz?” she asked innocently.
“Stop, already.” He tried to sound stern, but his grin continued to give him away. “I’m not going to discuss my sex life with a person in my protection.”
“You’re the one who said I have to sleep alone at night. The least you can do is appease me with a few stories of your escapades. I like stories. Unless...” she drawled with mock sadness, twisting her hand as though she were in great thought. “Unless you don’t know any stories like that.”
“You need stories about rainbow unicorns and fairy princesses,” he said, choking back a laugh. “They help little girls sleep better than anything about sex clubs with spanking benches and restraints that tie naughty subs to toys so their daddies can play with them.”
Her core temperature spiked with the visualization, swelling her channel and flooding her panties with a wet dew. His innuendo was leading them down the same road as hers, to the magical place where he’d unveil the chiseled secrets under his clothes and the driving force behind his dominance. Another layer of her defenses went down, and she opened herself to the possibility that this was more than a simple working relationship.
She considered grabbing his arm a second time when the man approached them from about twenty-five feet away, his speed putting Cruz on immediate edge, and he stepped between them. She’d seen him before, slim build in baggy, torn jeans and a washed-out t-shirt, his long, dirty blond hair pulled away from his gaunt face in a stringy ponytail. Cruz dropped his hand toward his weapon, and she cried out with the full, terror-filled possibility that he was in danger.
He stopped going for the gun about the same time she categorized the threat as a camera, but Cruz remained on edge. “Back off,” he growled toward the intruder with the confidence she’d grown to expect. “You’re close enough.”
But he continued to take her picture, the electronic shutter’s rapid fire sounding tenfold louder than it probably was. Her hand instinctively covered her face, and her emotions remained too raw to allow anything except a whimper. Cruz shielded her, keeping the man at arm’s length, but the photographer continued to violate her privacy without speaking anything more than her name, over and over, as though he’d earned the right to destroy her day.
From nowhere, Bukowski approached them at high speed, but before Victoria could reorient herself to Cruz’s physical location, the female agent spoke sharply, taking her firmly by the elbow to lead her away. “Get in the car, Victoria.”
“No,” she shouted, pulling back to Cruz’s side. “Leave me alone.”
She belonged with him. She grabbed his arm to reconnect to his safety, but he shouted at her, an angry, ugly tone that left her as cold and vulnerable as she’d ever felt in her life. “Let go of my arm and get in the damned car, Victoria. I need to do my job.”
It was almost the exact phrase he’d used with Amanda when she’d flirted with him at the restaurant. Her head still spinning, she looked blankly at Bukowski, who was nudging her with more force toward the waiting car, but it wasn’t until she was deposited in the backseat with the door firmly shut that she realized exactly what had transpired. Despite the time they’d shared, she was no different than any other person he’d ever protected. Another job. Part of his paycheck and nothing more than a line item on the checklist of responsibilities that he went through every morning to detail his day’s chores.
As Bukowski drove away, Victoria stared at Cruz, still engaged in an antagonistic conversation with the photographer. She was safe, but the two heavily armed Secret Service agents could never defend her from the emotional loss that she felt at that moment.
Chapter Seven
Knowing that she was safely in the car helped him to breathe, but the only reason he didn’t beat t
he photographer to a pulp was the multitude of cell phones gathering on the street corner that would have put her on the front pages. And the man had done nothing illegal. The damned photographer had no affiliation to any reputable agency, which meant that he relied on whatever scumbag media outlet would pay him the most money for the worst and most damaging pictures. After they’d exchanged a few angry words, Cruz had verified his press credentials, leaving the intruder with an ominous warning to stay away from his charge.
His need to see her for himself was so strong that he jogged the remaining distance to her apartment and let himself in with his key. Rivers had already arrived to relieve them for the night, but Victoria was nowhere in sight, and his grim-faced colleague nodded toward the closed bedroom door. “She ran in there as soon as they got back. She’s pretty shook up, so we thought it was best to give her a little privacy, but she’s not physically hurt.”
The muscles in Cruz’s neck continued to pulse, but it was an inefficient release of his anger. He should have seen the guy coming. He’d been so embroiled in the conversation with Victoria, dripping with sexual references and innuendos that his cock had hardened against his damned gun. He’d never even noticed the potential threat until he was about twenty-five feet away, and his stupidity and lack of professionalism could have gotten her killed.
“I’m sorry, Cruz,” said Bukowski. “I don’t know what happened. I had eyes on you the whole time, but he came out of nowhere. One minute you two were completely anonymous and the next, he was jumping out of the damned car and taking your picture. He didn’t even slow down, like he knew exactly where she was. But I have the make, model, and plate number.”
“I’ve already got the guy’s name,” he replied. “It’s Johnny Morningstar, but how the hell did he even find her? She wasn’t easily identifiable, wearing sunglasses, and her hair was up in a knot. I didn’t even make up my mind which street we were going to take until we got to the corner.”
Under His Protection Page 7
