The Guardian: DARYL (Cover Six Security, #2)

by Lisa B. Kamps

  She was going to die. Maybe not here. Maybe not by the hands of the man staring down at her with anger flashing in his eyes. But soon. She was going to die and there would be nobody left to protect Paige. Nobody to keep her safe from the madman who wanted her for his own.

  She stared up at the man straddling her. Oh God, how could she have ever felt sorry for him? How could she have ever pitied him? This wasn't the man she remembered. That man was gentle. Kind. This man was deadly. A warrior created for death. She saw it in his eyes, in the steel set of his jaw. Felt it in the restrained strength and power thrumming through his body.

  He shifted, adjusted his hold on her pinned wrists, using only one hand now to keep her in place. Kelsey struggled, fought back a cry of desperation at her ineffectiveness. One hand. He was only using one hand! She should be able to break his hold, should be able to free herself—

  "Stop it before you hurt yourself." He didn't even look at her when he issued the harsh command, like he knew she was no threat. She struggled again, winced when his hand pushed harder against her wrists.

  "You're hurting me."

  His amber gaze shot to hers and for one brief second, she thought she saw humor in their depths. He was laughing at her! At her struggles, at how easily he'd been able to overtake her. Then he blinked and the humor was gone.

  "Hurting you? Lady, I'm not the one holding a gun to your damn head." The gun in question rested less than a foot away. He reached for it, ejected the clip. Hard amber eyes met hers in silent warning for a brief second before he freed her hands and sat back, slid the rack back and ejected the chambered round. He caught it in his free hand, stared at it for a brief second, then met her gaze one more time.

  "Shit." The muttered oath fell from his mouth a split-second before his strong jaw clenched. He shook his head then pushed to his feet, refused to help her as she scrambled to her elbows and tried to stand. She struggled to her knees, was trying to get her unsteady legs under her when he held the gun out to her, grip first.

  "Next time, just pull the fucking trigger. Don't hesitate. Don't give a warning."

  She stared at the gun, looked up at him as a wave of nausea washed over her. "You'd be dead if I did that."

  "Yeah—and I would have deserved it."

  Kelsey pulled her gaze away from his, stared at the gun he was still holding out to her. She hesitated, finally took it, looked up at him once more. "Can I have the clip back?"

  He laughed. He actually laughed at her! The sound set her nerves on edge, caused anger to settle in her stomach. She pushed to her feet, glared at him until he finally stopped laughing and shook his head.

  "Lady, do I look that stupid to you?"

  "Stop calling me lady! I have a name."

  "Do you?" He advanced on her, anger flashing in his eyes—anger she didn't understand. She took a hasty step back, collided against the edge of the woodpile. "Care to tell me what it is?"

  She frowned. His question made no sense. He knew her name—had said it a second before he tossed her to the ground. Had murmured it in her ear through the long hours they had spent together that night in the Caribbean. "You know my name."

  "Do I? Is that really your name, or just something you made up when you were playing your little game a few months ago?"

  "Game?" She shook her head, confusion warring with uncertainty, anger, weariness, and sorrow. It was too much, all of it. Being on the run. Hiding. Worrying about Paige. Finding her father.

  She blinked back the tears burning her eyes and shook her head again. "I wasn't playing a game."

  He stepped closer, the anger in his gaze scorching her. "Weren't you? I guess I'm just supposed to believe that meeting this summer was nothing more than a fucking coincidence. Is that it?"

  "I—" She stopped, fought desperately to calm her mind, to think. Why was the man holding her prisoner with nothing more than his presence so angry at her?

  Kelsey gave herself a mental shake, forced herself to focus on something much more important. Not on the man's anger—but on his presence.

  Here.

  Now.

  At this hiding place that nobody else was supposed to know about.

  She adjusted her grip on the pistol, felt the reassuring weight in her hand even though she knew it was useless for self-defense now. The most she could hope to do with it was swing it hard enough to catch him in the jaw. Maybe in the temple, if she was lucky. Hit him and then run. Keep running as she followed the escape route she had planned more than a week ago when she first got here. Keep running and hope that she could stay ahead of him.

  But not yet. He was expecting her to do something like that, she could see it in the way he watched her. In the way his entire body seemed so attuned to hers. She needed to distract him. To get him to let his guard down, if only for a few seconds.

  "What are you doing here? How did you find me?"

  "Your father sent me."

  His answer knocked the breath from her lungs. Brought tears to her eyes. She'd only meant the question as a distraction—but it had backfired. She was the one reeling now, trying to catch her breath. Her balance.

  He was lying. Her father couldn't have sent him. Her father was dead.

  Which meant he was one of them. One of Grady's men.

  She swung her arm up sideways, aiming the broad side of the gun at his head. He jerked back before she could make contact. She took advantage of that small reaction and shoved both hands into his chest, pushing him away before darting to the side and tearing off at a run. Legs pumping, feet sliding as they sought for purchase against dirt and dead leaves.

  Run. Move. Escape.

  Those three words echoed in her mind, screaming, urging her forward. But it was useless, she'd been doomed to fail before she even started. Strong arms wrapped around her waist from behind, lifted her as she kicked back with her feet. As she thrashed and swung and tried to break the iron grip squeezing her.

  The grip didn't budge and she felt herself being carried around the side of the cabin. She kept kicking with her heels, aiming for his knee, his thigh, anything. Her heel connected with something hard and she heard him grunt, felt warm breath brush against her ear as he swore.

  But his hold never loosened, his steps never faltered. And oh God, where was he taking her? Was he going to kill her now? Or would he torture her first, make her tell him where Paige was before he killed her?

  Would he believe her when she told him she didn't know?

  An image of Paige's face from the last time she saw her flashed in front of her. Thick auburn curls and wide green eyes—eyes that had once been filled with laughter and happiness but were now too serious. The perfect bow of her pink mouth, a mouth that hadn't smiled in far too long. Tears filled Kelsey's eyes, trailed down her cheeks at the thought of never seeing her daughter again.

  At the realization she had failed the most important person in her life.

  "Please don't hurt her. Please. I'm begging you, please don't hurt her." The words ripped from her throat, over and over, filled with the same desperation that made her keep fighting him. She had to keep fighting, she couldn't give up, not if there were even a small chance she could escape.

  The arms around her didn't budge as he carried her, not toward the woods as she had first feared but toward the front of the cabin. Toward the door. Renewed panic seared her and she struggled even harder to break free.

  "Dammit, Kelsey, stop fighting me! I'm not here to hurt you. I'm not here to hurt anyone so just stop!"

  She heard the words but didn't believe them. He was lying, the same way he had lied about her father sending him. He was going to hurt her and then he was going to go after Paige—

  And there was nothing she could do stop him.

  She kicked out with her legs when he reached the door of the cabin, tried to catch the doorframe with her foot. Anything to slow him down. Anything to keep him from dragging her inside. But it was useless. He simply turned to the side and stepped through, carrying her like
she was nothing more than a sack of rice.

  He kicked the door closed with his foot then moved to the center of the room, pausing as he looked around. A different kind of fear erupted in her chest when he walked toward the bed and she kept fighting, raking her nails over the heavy jacket covering his arms, over the bare flesh of his hands and wrists.

  He swore again and tossed her to the bed, fell on top of her and caught her hands and pinned them above her head. She shook her head from side-to-side, arched her back and kicked out with her feet but it was no use. She couldn't move, not with the way he was pressed against her, using the weight of his body to pin her to the bed.

  "Please. Please don't. Please—"

  "Dammit, Kelsey. Stop! Listen to me." He caught her face in one hand, the gentleness of his grip surprising her into stillness. "Look at me. I'm not. Going. To. Hurt. You. Do you understand that? I'm not going to hurt you. But you're going to hurt yourself if you don't stop fighting me."

  She struggled to catch her breath. Struggled to understand his words. Told herself she couldn't believe him. He was lying, she'd be a fool to believe him. But there was something in his eyes, something besides the anger that had flashed in their depths when she tried to hit him earlier.

  Concern. Worry.

  No! No, it was an act. She couldn't believe him. Couldn't fall for whatever game he was playing now.

  She shook her head. Tried to free her wrists from his one-handed grip. "Let me up. Please."

  He hesitated, the doubt clear in that deep amber gaze. To her surprise, he released her hands—but he didn't move from the bed. She was still pinned in place by his body, stuck between one strong arm and his hip. Could she move fast enough to escape? No. The only thing she could do was wait. Hope he let his guard down. Hope he moved away from the bed long enough that she could make a desperate dash for the door.

  She held her breath, scrambled toward the headboard. He still didn't move, just kept watching her as she pushed herself to a sitting position and eased away from him. Surprise filled her again, that he would allow her to move that far away from him.

  Far.

  She was only kidding herself. That hard body was mere inches from hers and that amber gaze never wavered. Yes, she was sitting up now, resting against the headboard, but she wasn't far away from him.

  And she was nowhere near being free.

  She slowly bent her legs, still waiting for him to stop her. He didn't so she drew them against her chest and wrapped her arms around them. "Why are you here?"

  "I told you: your father sent me."

  "You're lying. My father's dead."

  Sympathy flashed in his eyes. "I know. I'm sorry."

  She swallowed against the tightness in her throat that threatened to strangle her. Repeated the question, more forcefully this time. "Why are you here? Don't say Dad sent you. We both know that's a lie."

  Instead of answering, he shrugged out of his pack and placed it to the side. Then he reached into a side pocket of his tactical pants and pulled out a crumpled envelope. He held it out to her, waited patiently for her to take it.

  She reached for it with trembling fingers; tears burned her eyes when she saw the bold handwriting on the front. There was no mistaking it as her father's handwriting. The name on the front was Daryl's.

  She opened the envelope, pulled out the single sheet of paper and carefully opened it. The note was in her father's handwriting but she couldn't read it, any more than she could read the letter that was in the small packet she had taken from his house that night almost two weeks ago.

  The night her father had died.

  Kelsey blinked back tears then looked over at Daryl. He still watched her, his gaze guarded despite the sympathy she saw in his eyes. "Where did you get this?"

  "From a woman named Theresa."

  Was he lying? She couldn't tell. She didn't think so but how could she be sure? She didn't know Daryl, not really. She didn't know him at all. "When?"

  "Last night. When I went to see your father."

  "Why did you go to see him?" Kelsey expected him to lose patience at her questions but he didn't. He just sat there, his gaze never leaving hers, as if they were doing nothing more than catching up on gossip after months of not seeing each other. And God, how she wished that was true. How she wished life could be that simple again. But it wasn't.

  And it never would be. Not anymore. Not for her. Not for Paige.

  "Your father sent me a message, asking for my help. I didn't get it until yesterday afternoon."

  "You were too late."

  "I know. I'm sorry." He hesitated, moved away from her the tiniest bit. "I got to your father's place last night. Spoke with Theresa. She told me what happened and gave me that."

  Kelsey looked at the note again, at the bold letters that were jumbled together and made no sense to her. Did she believe him? Could she believe him?

  She was surprised that part of her wanted to—and that was dangerous. Very dangerous.

  "You can read this?"

  "Yeah."

  "How do I know you didn't write this? How do I know this isn't a trick of some kind?"

  "You don't."

  He wasn't foolish enough to say she'd have to trust him, which was a point in his favor. She didn't trust him. She didn't trust anyone.

  But she didn't think he was lying, either. Her father had been the one who had told her to find Daryl. Had been the one to reassure her that he'd help her when she needed it. It was because of her father that she had taken that impulsive trip in July. She had needed to see the man her father spoke so highly of, needed to form her own impression of him before she made any decisions.

  And then she'd slept with him and any impressions she may have formed were forever clouded in those long hours she'd spent in his arms.

  "You were there that night. The night he was killed."

  Kelsey's head snapped up before she could stop herself, before she could hide the surprise at his words. It was a statement, not a question. "How do you know that?"

  He leaned forward, reached out and snagged the chain draped around her neck. He tugged, pulled her father's dog tags from beneath her shirt. "Theresa said his dog tags were missing, along with his jump wings and motorcycle. She told me she thought you had been there. That you had found him."

  She freed the dog tags from his hand and tucked them back into her shirt. Ignored his unasked question—she didn't have to answer, not when it was obvious he already knew—and asked one of her own.

  "If Dad sent you, if you knew it was me, why were you sneaking around the cabin? Why not just knock on the door?"

  "The only thing your father gave me were the coordinates to this place. I had no idea what—or who—was here." A muscle jumped in Daryl's jaw and for a brief second, those amber eyes hardened as he watched her. "And because I didn't know it was you. Your father never mentioned your name. Even if he had, there would have been no reason for me to think it was you. To connect it back to some random woman I'd met three months ago."

  Some random woman.

  Both the words—and the tone of his voice—made her flinch. Kelsey swore to herself, told herself there was no reason to let the words to bother her. After everything that had happened, everything that could still happen, she had no business being upset at what he said. His opinion of her paled in comparison to everything else, held no importance whatsoever. Let him have his dig—it meant nothing to her.

  She ignored his jab and held the letter out to him. "Will you read it to me? Tell me what he said?"

  Daryl's gaze held hers for so long that she thought he was going to say no. He'd take the letter back, fold it up, and tell her it was none of her business.

  But he surprised her again because he reached for the letter, carefully smoothed it out against one hard thigh. "It lists two sets of coordinates. The first one is this location. He was very clear that I needed to come here first."

  Excitement filled her and she leaned forward, her eyes scanning the n
ote. "The second set. Do you know what they are? Where they're for?"

  "Yeah, I do."

  Kelsey looked up, wondered if he could see the excitement she was trying so hard to hide. "Where?"

  Daryl shook his head, the finality of the movement shocking her. "No. Not until I get some answers and you tell me what's going on."

  Kelsey sat back, crossed her arms in front of her and said nothing. He watched her for a long minute then looked back at the note.

  "The rest of the note is fairly brief. Straight forward." He cleared his throat, started reading. "'If you're reading this, it means I'm not around and my girl is on the run. I told her to go to you but I don't think she will—she's not one to trust easily, not even on my say-so. Find her. She needs you, whether she admits or not. Yeah, she knows who you are and she'll have to learn to trust you. She has no choice. She can explain everything to you then, including that second set of coordinates.'"

  God, that sounded so much like her father. Kelsey could actually hear his voice, picture the frown that had probably been on his face when he wrote it. Could see him sitting at the beat-up old desk he refused to replace as he scribbled the note in that ridiculous code.

  And she got the message meant for her as well, whether it had been deliberate or not.

  She needs you, whether she admits it or not.

  She'll have to learn to trust you. She has no choice.

  Kelsey squeezed her eyes closed in a vain attempt to stop the tears, felt them trailing down her cheek anyway.

  I'm scared, Daddy.

  I know you are, Katydid. But you have to trust him. He can help you.

  Her father's voice was close. So close. If she opened her eyes and looked to her left, would she see him? Would he be standing next to her, the reassuring smile on his face somehow easing the stern frown she knew she'd see? Kelsey was so sure she'd see him that she actually opened her eyes, turned her head—

  But there was nobody there.

  Nobody except Daryl Anderson, the man her father had sent to her.

  He watched her, his face void of any emotion, his eyes carefully blank. Minutes passed by, marked by nothing more than the sound of their breathing. Daryl finally looked away, giving her time to wipe her face as he carefully folded the letter and placed it back in the envelope. He shifted away from her, finally giving her much-needed space.