by Shayla Black
Far enough away that her son won’t be distracted. “No problem. Lead the way.”
“Come here, little man.” She bends to him again. When he lifts his arms to her, she folds him against her chest and holds him tight for a precious moment, kissing the top of his head before stepping away. “Now go to sleep. Or no trucks when you wake up.”
He stomps his foot again, but to her credit she ignores his tantrum and heads for the door, turning off the recessed lights overhead and ensuring his nightlight snaps on to illuminate the shadows.
“Ma ma!” Oliver sounds mad.
“Sleep tight,” she croons. “Mama loves you.”
When I file out, she breezes into the hall and guides me to the bedroom next door. Her bed looks barely slept in, and I wonder how exhausted she must be. Her suitcase sits in the corner on a luggage rack. Other than that, it appears as if she’s hardly stepped foot in here.
“Thank you for coming so quickly.” She sits on the edge of the bed, then gestures me to a plush chair nearby. “And thank you for your patience.”
She’s unfailingly polite. Have tonight’s events rattled her…or do I make her nervous? Either way, I need to set her at ease now or we’re going to have a long few days together. But that won’t be easy. Every time I look at Amanda, I think things I shouldn’t. There’s something about her I’ve never encountered. She’s so soft and female—seemingly vulnerable—but I’m seeing that when it counts, she’s strong.
And the way she’s looking at me, like I’m the answer to her problems, only makes the tug of attraction between us stronger. Or maybe that’s in my head?
“I’m just sorry things got so out of hand that you need me here,” I say as I sit.
“I didn’t expect that. I’d had this problem in California, where my son’s father ruined more lives than mine. But now that he’s gone…I seem to be the next best target. I never imagined these people would follow me across an ocean.”
Since I have no idea who her son’s father was or what’s going on, I have to ask. “I hate to make you tread old ground, but do you mind clueing me in? When Trace called me, he was short on details. To protect you, I need to understand the threat.”
She gives me another of those oh-so-polite smiles. “I figured this was coming. Do you know who Barclay Reed was?”
“Sorry. No.”
“Head of Reed Financial. He was an investment broker to a lot of wealthy people. I was his assistant for a couple of years, starting right out of college, though I’d known him most of my life. Our fathers were, I thought, the best of friends.”
“Your father?”
“Douglas Lund, head of Colossus Investment Corporation.”
I’ve never heard of him either, but clearly she grew up wealthy. “Go on. And Barclay Reed fathered your son?”
“Yes.”
If he was her father’s best friend, how much older was this guy? “I see.”
“Just like I see you doing the mental math. Everyone does. I was twenty-four when I got pregnant. Barclay was fifty-seven. How it happened is a long story. I won’t bore you.”
A long story…how? “Did he rape you?”
She presses her lips together. “You’re not the first person to ask. No. Unfortunately, I was naive and very willing.”
I can’t imagine how or why this beauty would have allowed a man more than twice her age into her bed, but it’s none of my business. I’m here because she and her son are in danger, so I shelve my curiosity—and my more than vague sense of annoyance that this guy touched her.
“What do the attacks have to do with Barclay Reed?”
“In a nutshell, he swindled all of his clients out of their fortunes and was arrested for it last June. He left them all virtually penniless. I had no idea what Barclay had done. When the FBI raided his offices, I was recovering from childbirth. But Barclay had let me go months before that. Shortly after I told him I was pregnant, in fact. Still, I’d been his most recent mistress, so when he was arrested, the media had a field day with our ‘salacious’ affair.”
“He was married at the time?”
“Yes. He had been for nearly thirty-five years.”
She doesn’t bat an eye. Doesn’t blink. In fact, nothing Amanda says tells me how she feels, but disillusionment and heartache simmer under her surface. She cared about Barclay Reed. Despite the fact he stole from others, cheated on his wife, and used her, she had feelings for the scumbag.
Why?
I don’t understand, but it’s not my place to judge. I need to stop letting this sudden, stupid interest blindside me and do what I promised.
Amanda sends me a tight smile. “I see what you’re thinking. It’s what everyone thinks. How could you sleep with a married man your father’s age? I had my reasons. They’re my own. I also have sins I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life. And if I had a do-over, no. I wouldn’t change a thing because Barclay gave me Oliver. He’s my world now. But I would like the peace of mind of knowing I can keep my son safe.”
“Of course. I’ll make sure nothing happens to either of you. What does this mob want?”
She shrugs. “Revenge, I guess. Barclay’s oldest daughter, Bethany, worked as his right hand. She didn’t know anything, either. She’s already returned all the money to his former clients since she recovered it, so these people aren’t after cash. And I don’t have any information to give them. They assume that Barclay’s secrets were our pillow talk, but he told me almost nothing. And the few things he did say were lies. I shared what I thought I knew with the FBI. When they were done laughing, they dismissed me.”
Every word carries a brittle edge. She made some bad decisions. The man she trusted betrayed her. Then life chewed her up and spit her out. I’ve had a shitty few years, too, but hers have been far worse. I’ve also got a dozen years more experience handling bullshit. She was barely a young adult when her world blew up in her face.
“I’m sorry.”
She softens and shakes her head. “I apologize if I seem bitter.”
“How do you think the angry hoard found you?”
She sighs. “I should have guessed this was the first place people would look. Nia is my half-sister; we share a father. Long story. But that’s not the only connection. Evan, her husband, and Oliver are both Barclay’s illegitimate sons.”
Not only was the thief a habitual cheat, but her own father couldn’t keep it in his pants, either? Nice. “Since you have connections to both Mr. and Mrs. Cook…”
“People assumed I would come here after leaving California.”
I make a mental note that any safe house for Amanda can’t be with family—on either side. “We’ll get you to safety soon.”
“Thank you. But I can’t hide forever. I won’t. I hear you’re a firearms instructor.”
“Yeah. I owned a range in Colorado for about ten years. I’ve taught for longer than that.”
“You don’t own the range anymore?”
I shake my head. “Sold it when I filed for divorce awhile back.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. My soon-to-be-ex and I are both much happier. And I’m thinking about opening a range in Maui soon.”
“When did you move here?”
“I really haven’t yet, but I think I’m going to.”
A little furrow appears between her brows. “Maybe I should consider a move, too. I can’t go back to LA. And I won’t go to New York, where I grew up. My father still lives there. I don’t need his meddling. Hell”—she tosses her hands in the air—“maybe I’ll stay here, too. My brother, Stephen, just relocated to the island for his wife, Skye.”
“You two close?”
“Yeah. He’s always been there for me, especially when my dad wasn’t.”
“Did your dad travel a lot or something when you were a kid?”
I should stop asking irrelevant personal questions. It’s none of my business, and has no bearing on how I protect Amanda. But they keep slipping out
of my mouth. I can’t deny I’m curious.
“I suppose, but that wasn’t really the problem. He can be a real bastard, which is probably why he and Barclay were friends. Stephen assures me Dad has mellowed with age. Maybe.” She shrugs. “Anyway, while we’re together, I was hoping you could teach me to shoot. I’ll pay you.”
“Sure.”
“If it wasn’t clear, I’ll pay you for all your time.”
“I appreciate that, but I can only stay a few days.”
Amanda shakes her head, and it’s impossible not to notice the way her pale waves skim over breasts that I’d bet a hundred bucks aren’t restrained by a bra.
“Then you should go. I need someone who’s willing to commit a bit longer.”
Maybe so, but… “Who else are you going to find at barely six a.m. on a Sunday morning?”
“I don’t know, but I need someone for more than a day or two.”
“And I need a steady, long-term job. You’re going to want someone with more experience, anyway. But I’ll be here until we can find you that guy.”
“Fine.” She doesn’t sound happy about it. “How much would it take to entice you to stay for the week?”
“We’ll work it out.” Normally, I wouldn’t let a negotiation go. It’s stupid and irresponsible to agree to work before coming to financial terms, but Amanda, despite holding her own and standing up for herself, looks exhausted. And I feel like shit for wondering what she looks like under those pajamas. Even now, I’m picturing her. I have no doubt her body would both take my breath away and kick my libido into overdrive.
Stop being a lech, dude. Do your job.
“Why don’t you go back to sleep while Oliver seems to be out?” I suggest. “That will give me time to figure out where I can take you that’s safe.”
She shakes her head. “I’ll need to pack and find a crib or playpen for my son. I can’t take Nia’s. She’ll need it soon.”
Probably not in the next few days, but I sense Amanda hates imposing on anyone, even her own family.
“All right, if you change your mind…”
“I won’t. Coffee?”
“Sure. Black, please. I’m going to walk the perimeter and find Trace.”
She nods my way, then shoulders past me and pads down the hall. I try not to notice that the top of her head only reaches my shoulder or that she’s got a lush, round ass, visible even under the too-big pajama pants. I definitely try to ignore my ill-timed erection.
Note to self: Find someone else to bodyguard her ASAP. She’s a distraction I don’t need.
Easier said than done. Who the fuck else do I know on Maui? I’ve only been here eight days.
Cursing under my breath, I head out the back of the house, glimpse more evidence of the angry crowd, then head for Trace. He’s still talking to Harlow and Nia when I stroll up.
“How did it go with Amanda?”
“Fine.” What else am I supposed to say? Why didn’t you tell me she’s so gorgeous it would fuck with my head?
“Good.” Trace nods. “I’ve been giving the safe house situation some thought. I have an idea, but I need to talk to someone. Give me a couple of hours?”
“Sure.” I figure no one will come back in broad daylight. Bitching mobs are usually made up of cowards who prefer to slink under the cover of dark. “We just need to get out of here before sundown.”
Trace grimaces. “You think that’s soon enough? The guy who broke into the house last night—”
“What?” That’s the first I’m hearing of an intruder.
“Yeah.”
Nia adds her two cents. “He cornered Amanda in the hall and threatened her. He had a knife. If she hadn’t—”
“Knife? Fuck! We need to leave—now.”
“And go where?” Trace asks.
No idea. “I’ll think of something.” I turn to Nia. “I need a connection for a crib or playpen. She won’t take yours.”
“I figured. I’ll make some phone calls. I think Griff and Britta have a spare.”
No idea who they are, and right now, I don’t care. “Thanks. One of you let me know when you have some information.”
“Sure.” Trace nods.
I’m barely listening as I haul ass back inside. Amanda shouldn’t be alone right now. Neither should Oliver, not until the threat is behind bars.
I find Amanda in the kitchen, watching the drip of the coffeemaker. “You didn’t tell me there was an intruder.”
She raises her brows at my accusing tone. “You didn’t ask. Besides, I handled him with a swift kick to the balls and a vase over the head.”
This little thing took on someone unhinged enough to break in with a knife and the intent to kill? “You what?”
“Yes. What was I supposed to do?” She cocks a hand on her hip. “I wasn’t letting him anywhere near my son.”
I’m both horrified and impressed. “Call 911 before they’re in your face.”
Amanda shakes her head. “Even if I had, the police would have come too late.”
I see her point…I just don’t like it. “You don’t have to worry about that anymore. I’m here. Get your stuff. We’re going.”
“But Oliver—”
“Can sleep later. Get it. I’ll stand over you until you’re done. Now move.”
Chapter Two
In fifteen minutes, Amanda manages to pack everything up in two rolling suitcases and a diaper bag. She hugs Nia and Harlow, both of whom glare suspiciously. Now that I’m hustling Amanda out the door, they’re obviously skeptical that calling me was a good idea. I’m not trying to be an asshole, but they don’t understand. A nut job willing to break in and kill with a knife is far more serious than a chanting, flower-trampling mob.
“Is this everything?” I ask, taking hold of Amanda’s luggage.
She hoists her son against her chest. He’s obviously going to be a big boy. Against her small frame, he looks massive. “Yes.”
“Then let’s go.”
When I turn, Nia grabs my sleeve. “Where are you taking her?”
“Someplace temporary.”
“You need to be more forthcoming. I can’t let you just take her wherever when there’s someone out to kill her.”
“With all due respect, if this would-be killer comes for her again, he’ll come here first. If he thinks you know where she is, he’ll threaten you. Since Amanda thwarted him the first time, he’ll come more prepared. Trace says your husband is in London.”
“Yes.”
Nia clearly doesn’t like what I’m saying. Too bad. That won’t change my message.
“Then I suggest you find somewhere else to stay until he comes home. You’re not safe, either.” Then I reach for Amanda, put a guiding hand to the small of her back, and nudge her toward the Mustang.
“Be careful. I’ll call you,” she promises Nia over her shoulder.
“Please. I’ll be worried. We’re supposed to have lunch with Skye and Stephen today. What do you want me to tell them?”
“Damn it. Um, tell them Oliver has the sniffles.” She turns to me. “Is the car seat set up?”
Trace said he’d do it before he left. I assume he knows how. I sure as hell don’t. “Should be.”
A minute later, Amanda straps in her sleepy son, then slips into the front seat. As I get behind the wheel, she sticks her head out the window at Nia, now standing on the porch, watching us. “I forgot my purse. Will you grab it for me? It’s in the kitchen.”
“Getting it.” She darts back in the house, white robe swishing behind her.
She emerges a minute later, absently caressing her belly and carrying a small shoulder bag. She approaches Amanda and hands her the purse.
Then she bends to glare at me. “If anything happens to her, I’ll be pissed as hell. But if you hurt one hair on her head, they’ll need tweezers to find all the parts of your body.” Then she turns to her half-sister. They might look like polar opposites, but they clearly have strong backbones in common. “Take car
e, honey. Call me if you need anything.”
“I will.” Amanda squeezes her hand. “Please don’t worry about me. I don’t want you stressed and upsetting your little one.”
“Bye.”
Finally, I drive off. As we leave Nia’s neighborhood, the sun begins climbing the sky. If anyone is watching the house, they’ll see me taking Amanda away. In a car like this, we won’t be hard to follow.
I’m going to need to stash this vehicle quickly.
“Now what?” she asks over my music as she rolls up her window.
“For now, we go to the apartment where I’ve been staying. I need to pack up. While we’re there, I’ll see if I can find a safe house. Trace is looking, too. As soon as something pops, we’ll get over there and hunker down.”
“Fine. Can you turn that—I guess you’d call it music—down?” She glances back at Oliver. The poor kid is so worn out he’s sleeping through every note.
I adjust the volume. “You don’t like ‘Heart-Shaped Box’? Or are you objecting to Kurt Cobain?”
“I’ve never heard this song, and I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
Is she kidding right now? “Kurt Cobain, lead singer of Nirvana?”
She shrugs. “Sorry.”
“No. I didn’t realize…” But it makes sense once I think about it. Was she even alive when he died?
There’s roughly a dozen years that form the chasm between our ages. This is a shitty reminder. With a shake of my head, I sigh.
“How do you listen to that stuff?” she asks. “It’s depressing.”
“I grew up with it. Since today is the anniversary of Cobain’s death, it felt apropos to play some Nirvana, but…who are you into? Charlie Puth? Or are you more of a Taylor Swift type?”
She looks at me like I’m somewhere between crazy and insulting. “I’m not sixteen anymore.”
“So what do you like?”
“Luke Combs. Dierks Bentley.” She sighs and pats her heart. “Jake Owen and Blake Shelton.”
Aren’t those guys more my age? “You like…country music?”
“A lot of people do.” She’s defensive, and I never meant to make her feel that way.
“Sure.” Even though I grew up in Colorado, and folks I knew who worked on ranches played it, I never listened to it much myself.
