Bodyguards Boxed Set
Page 26
Her legs were long and tanned. They were sleek and smooth and—he’d bet—soft.
“Do you actually have to be with me every minute?” she asked casually.
He whipped his gaze away from her backside like a guilty teenager caught ogling a girl. “Trying to get rid of me?”
“Just making conversation.”
“Not every minute. But it’s a good idea, for a while, anyway. I will go to work with you this week.”
“And stand watch.” She added flour and other ingredients as she talked.
“Something like that.”
“Won’t it get boring?” Stacey dipped her finger into the bowl and brought it to her lips. Her tongue darted out and lapped up the batter.
Watching her mouth, Cord muttered, “Somehow, I doubt it.”
She smiled and continued to stir. They made small talk as she finished with the dough.
After she put the first batch of cookies in the oven, she took a seat opposite him at the table. “Cord, I know you didn’t want to do this. Because of your daughter especially. But I sense there’s another reason. Does my father know you from somewhere?”
Through sheer willpower, he schooled his features not to change expression. “No, your father doesn’t know me at all.”
“Maybe it’s the kidnapping attempt that’s got him rattled. He’s been acting strange.”
Her perceptiveness made him nervous, so he didn’t respond.
She pushed back her hair. “In any case, thanks for taking this on, despite your reservations. I’ll try to cooperate, but nevertheless, I’m sure it won’t be easy.”
No, it won’t be easy, he thought, surveying the kitchen where he’d sat eighteen years ago surrounded by the same scent of chocolate chip cookies. It would be torture every time he stepped foot in this cursed house, every time he entered another room. No it wouldn’t be easy. But he owed them.
Because the last time he’d been here, his visit had ended one life, and almost ruined three others.
* * *
IN THE LIBRARY of his huge home, Gifford Webb glared at the headline in Tuesday night’s Canfield Leader: Town Hero Strikes Again. He felt the familiar surge of frustration he thought he’d buried years ago as he read the account of how Cord McKay had saved Gifford’s daughter from abduction. The irony of it taunted him, even as he tried to stifle the associations that bombarded him. In the end, he simply slapped the newspaper down on the table.
To outrun the demons of his past, Gifford crossed to the oak wall unit and uncorked a decanter of Johnny Walker Black. Pouring himself a generous portion, he leaned against the back of a wing chair, closed his eyes and sipped.
But the Scotch did nothing to calm his soul. Instead, behind his lids, he saw again the image of Cord McKay in bed with his wife.
Forcibly yanking his mind from that scene, he went to stand by one of the five floor-to-ceiling windows that faced south, and stared out. He recalled the day Helene had stood in front of this very glass, her stomach rounded with their unborn daughter...
Oh, Gif, look at the backyard. Perfect for a pool and play set. Are you sure we can afford this?
She’d been so excited, so naive. When had she turned into a slut?
Not fair.
No, it wasn’t fair. And it wasn’t true. Unfortunately, he hadn’t know that when it mattered.
Without warning, his mind conjured another image—this time, Cord McKay stood at the windows, dressed like James Dean, complete with a black leather jacket. All expression fled his rebellious face as he listened to Gifford’s tirade about what he, an up-and-coming executive from a prominent Canfield family, could do to Cord’s working-class parents if Cord didn’t leave town immediately.
And that was only one of the mistakes Gifford had made that afternoon. He couldn’t bear to think about the others.
Was God paying him back now—after years of success—by threatening his daughter? And by making it his fault that someone was after her? No, please, not Stacey. She was his whole life. She had been for eighteen years.
Too much so . Judith, the woman he was seeing, told him that all the time.
The doorbell rang, dragging him from the vile memories.
Gifford strode through the library into the marble foyer and opened the door.
Two people who were almost as close to Stacey as he was stood before him. Lauren Sellers, a small, thin woman with a perennially sad face, was Stacey’s best friend. And Preston Matthews, tall and powerfully built, Gifford’s protégé at work and Stacey’s fiance.
“Is everything all right?” Lauren asked as soon as they were in the house.
Gifford motioned them into the library, closed the double oak doors and turned to face them. “Sit down,” he said.
When they had, Lauren spoke again. “Your message sounded urgent.”
Lauren and Stacey had been close since they’d both attended St. Mary’s Elementary School, though Gifford often wondered why. They were opposites in looks, demeanor and personality. Sometimes Lauren’s involvement in their family felt a bit suffocating. There was something odd about her attachment to them both. But Stacey adored her, so Gifford never said anything. He’d already deprived his daughter of enough.
Looking up at Gifford with her big violet eyes, Lauren once again made him uncomfortable. “Is something wrong with Stacey? I’m worried about her.”
“I feel the same way.” Preston sat back on the mammoth leather recliner. “With the tire slashing and all.” He scanned the room with shrewd, hazel eyes. “Where is she, anyway?”
“She’s upstairs,” Gifford said. “I’ll call her in a minute. Since you two are so close to her, I thought you’d be able to help me convince her of something.’’
“That sounds ominous.” Preston stood and tilted his head to the drink Gifford had poured. “Mind if I get one of those?”
“Help yourself.”
“Lauren, would you like something?” Preston asked.
“No.”
“I take it you two haven’t seen the evening paper?”
Lauren wrung her hands together. “The paper? Um, no.”
As he fixed his drink, Preston said, “I haven’t, either. I came right from the airport. My secretary phoned me in Atlanta to tell me to come here when I got back in town. Why?”
“Someone tried to abduct Stacey last night.”
Lauren gasped.
“What?” Preston’s glass hit the bar with a thud and he whirled to face Stacey’s father.
Gifford handed him the newspaper from the table. Lauren stood and crossed to Preston to read over his shoulder.
“Oh, my God, this is terrible.” Tears welled in Lauren’s eyes. “She could have been...” Her voice trailed off.
Preston shook his head. “I can’t believe it. Kidnappings aren’t supposed to happen in small towns like Canfield.”
“A lot of bad things have happened here. Tragedy doesn’t know the size of towns or the families involved. No one, no place is immune.” Gifford’s voice was rife with meaning.
Preston asked, “How is she taking this?”
“You know Stacey. She’s been calm, and brave. Too brave.”
“What do you mean?”
“I had some trouble getting her to agree to protection.”
“That figures.” Preston ran his hand through his styled black hair. “She’s so damn self-sufficient.”
Lauren’s shoulders straightened. “That’s a good trait. I wish I were more like her.”
“Well, I’d like to feel more needed,” Preston retorted.
“That’s really not the issue,” Gifford said abruptly. Preston and Lauren always seemed to be arguing, almost as if they were vying for Stacey’s attention. “The reason I asked to see you first was because I want you to support me on this. Stacey’s reluctantly agreed to cooperate, and I want you two to reinforce that she needs protection.”
“Are the cops watching her? I saw a patrol car at the corner.” Preston’s aristocratic f
eatures were set in a scowl. “I didn’t think they had the resources for this kind of thing.”
Briefly, Gifford filled them in on what had occurred at the police station that morning, and told them about Cord McKay.
“The guy from the paper?” Preston asked.
“Yes.”
Lauren stood and began pacing. “God, I hope this doesn’t bring back her nightmares.”
“Nightmares?” Preston frowned.
“Yes. I’m surprised she hasn’t mentioned them to you,” Lauren said. “You’re her fiancé, after all.”
The implicit criticism in her words caused Gifford to intervene, though he also wondered why Preston didn’t know about these stress-induced dreams. He said to Preston, “Maybe she simply didn’t want to worry you.” He turned to Lauren, “Why don’t you go get Stacey?”
Lauren’s expression softened. “All right.”
When she left, Preston faced him, scowling again. “I don’t like Stacey being around strange men, Gif.”
“Believe me, Preston, I feel more strongly about it than you do.”
Gifford looked down at the newspaper that lay open on the desk. Staring up at him was an enlarged photo of Cord McKay holding young Timmy Malone. McKay had a crooked smile on his face and grasped the child to his chest. Superimposed over that picture, Gifford saw the cocky grin and swagger of an eighteen-year-old boy.
Cord McKay’s image would always remind Gifford of his own worst failure, as a husband and as a man.
CHAPTER THREE
* * *
“DO YOU THINK we can get out of here for a while?” Stacey asked.
Cord was watching the ten o’clock news and glanced over at her standing at the den window. The last two and a half days were obviously getting to her. “I guess. What did you have in mind?”
She looked at him hopefully. “Are you hungry?”
“I’m always hungry.”
“Really? How do you stay in such great shape?”
Groaning inside, Cord stood to disguise his reaction. The woman had no sense. She’d been saying exactly what came to her mind, never thinking to censor her words. It should have been refreshing, given how most of the women he’d known practiced their timing from the cradle. It would have been, if it hadn’t made him so edgy. Geez, she’d even told him how attractive he was...
Lauren thinks you’re as handsome as Kevin Costner, but I think you’re a much better-looking bodyguard .
He struggled for an impersonal tone. “I stay in shape by working out.’’
“Can you, with your shoulder?”
“I’m supposed to exercise more now.”
“I haven’t seen you do any since you’ve been here.”
“I’ve done it at night at home.”
“Cord, you can use our gym downstairs.”
“I’m through here Saturday, but thanks, anyway.”
Stacey frowned and swallowed hard.
“You’ll be just as safe with the Anderson man,” he said, picking up her anxiety. “Maybe safer. I haven’t done this kind of work in years.”
Biting her lip, she nodded.
He changed the subject. “Where did you want to go?”
“How about Checkers? It’s such a nice night, we can get our food and sit outside.”
“Checkers is okay, but we’ll sit in the car.”
Stacey finger-combed the bangs off her forehead. “Can we at least open the windows?” A tinge of exasperation crept into her voice.
Covertly he smiled. This was hard for her, but after her initial protests, she’d been a real trouper, showing a maturity that surprised him. Grabbing his keys, he said, “I think I can handle that.” He looked her up and down. “You want to change first?”
She glanced down at her one-piece purple biking suit. Its shiny material clung to every curve, and its scooped neck emphasized her breasts. “Why?”
“Ah, you might be cold.”
“We’re staying in the car, remember?”
“At least grab a jacket.” And cover up some.
He berated himself as they made their way to the truck. He didn’t want to admit that he was noticing the way she looked. She was thirteen years younger than he was. She was innocent and he definitely was not.
She was Helene Webb’s daughter.
Catching a glimpse of her in the dim light of the cab, he shook his head. She couldn’t have looked less like her mother. Helene had been tall and willowy, with long blond hair and a carefully made-up face. Stacey was about five-three, with a womanly roundness that her mother had never had. Her short hair fell around her face in curls; it was thick and looked soft. She used no cosmetics, from what he could tell.
All right, so he was noticing her. That wasn’t a crime. He wasn’t about to let himself feel any attraction, so it wasn’t even an issue. And after tomorrow, he’d never be with her again. Thank God.
Ten minutes later, they sat in the front seat of his truck devouring hamburgers, french fries and milk shakes. Cord stared ahead of him, trying not to watch her. But she kept talking. “Tell me about your daughter.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Anything. You get this goofy, soft look on your face every time she’s mentioned. She must be quite a kid.”
“She is.”
“How old is she?” Cord glanced over just in time to see Stacey’s white teeth close over three fries.
“Um... What did you say?”
“How old is Megan?”
Cord forced himself to look away. “She’s four.”
“What’s she like?”
“She’s a pistol. Keeps her grandmother and me both hoppin’“
“Where’s her mother?”
His eyes narrowed. “Aren’t we getting a little personal?”
Stacey laughed. “McKay, we’ve been practically joined at the hip for almost three days, now. I think I’m entitled to know a little about you.”
He grinned in spite of his resolve to remain aloof, and suppressed the uneasy feeling that the emotional distance between them kept shortening. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a sassy broad?”
“Not in those exact words.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Megan’s mother?” she reminded him.
“Is dead.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Were you married long?”
Her tongue darted out to catch some drops of the chocolate shake. Then she licked her lips. “We weren’t married at all.” When he realized what had slipped out, he swore.
“What is it? I’m not a prude.”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just that I’ve never told anyone that. For Megan’s sake. Canfield’s a small town and I don’t want her branded.”
“As illegitimate?”
“I’ve legally adopted her.”
Stacey reached out and squeezed his arm. Why did she always have to touch him? “I promise, I won’t say anything. What happened?”
Cord’s gaze strayed through the windshield. “I met Colleen, Megan’s mother, in New York City. She was a waitress at the bar where all the cops hang out. We dated a lot. One day she just stopped coming to work. Six months later, she showed up at the police station with Megan in tow. Said I had a daughter. That she was mine now. Colleen had developed breast cancer—too far gone to be treated, apparently. I never knew for sure because two days later they found her in her apartment with her wrists slit.”
When he looked over at her, tears had pooled in Stacey’s eyes. “Poor Megan. I know what it’s like. My mother died when I was five.”
Guilt slammed into Cord. He fought it, just as he fought the urge to lean over and run his knuckles down her smooth cheek.
“How did you ever cope with an infant?” she asked.
A self-effacing grin tugged at his mouth and he relaxed back into the seat. “I barely survived it. She was so tiny... so foreign. I was petrified. She cried nonstop for the first few nights. Thank God the Hermans intervened.”
“Who?”
“Why did you come back to Canfield?”
Cord was surprised the hollow feeling inside him could still be triggered so easily. “Glen Herman was killed by a stray bullet in Grand Central Station one night on a routine arrest. Sarah Herman went to live with her daughter in Baltimore. Megan was six months old and I decided New York City was no place to raise a kid.”
“So you came home?”
“Yeah. My father was dead, so I...” He looked at her and blinked. “Never mind. Anyway, Megan’s the best thing that ever happened to me. Even though I did initially question if she was mine.”
“Did?”
“Yeah. But my name’s on the birth certificate. And you’ve never seen Megan, right?”
Stacey shook her head.
“She looks like me—exactly. And our baby pictures, except for the gender, are identical. Besides, I know in my gut she’s my kid.”
Stacey smiled wistfully. “I’m close to my dad, too. That’s why this is so hard for him. And for Preston and Lauren.”
Cord angled his body so could look at her better. “Tell me about them.”
“Which one?”
“Either of them.”
Her eyes drifted to Cord’s polo shirt, open at the throat, and her lips parted. “Ah, Preston. I’ll tell you about Preston.”
Ah, so she was noticing him, too.
“Good idea. Let’s talk about your fiancé. What the hell kind of name is Preston, anyway?”
“It’s a family name. I like it. Just because it’s not some tough-guy name like...”
He raised his eyebrows. “I’ll have you know, I have a very religious name.”
“Cord is religious?”
“No. My real name is Francis Xavier McKay.”
“Oh my God.”