“Yeah, I was glad I had a nickname.”
“Where did it come from?”
He half smiled in remembrance. “Know what a whipcord is?”
“A tough, thin rope?”
“Yeah. When I was a kid, I was pretty hard to handle. My fath... someone called me a whipcord once and the name stuck. Even in high school.”
“Let me guess. You were incorrigible.”
“I was a hellion. I gave every single teacher I had trouble. Even the principal turned the other way when he saw me coming.”
“Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.”
He grasped her arm. “Be respectful of your elders, young lady.”
“Oh, yeah, right.”
He smiled. “Where did you get the name Stacey?”
She faked a yawn and said, “I’m a little tired. Maybe we should go home.”
“No way, sweetheart.” He held on to her arm, then slid his fingers to her wrist. “Confess.”
“I’m named after my grandmother.” She giggled. “Her name was Anastasia Keller Webb.”
“Anastasia?” Cord hooted.
“I know, isn’t it awful?”
“Actually, it’s kind of pretty. Okay, back to Preston the Third. He works at Canfield Glass Works?”
Stacey stared at his hand around her wrist. His callused thumb was unconsciously fingering her pulse point. He ceased the motion immediately and let her go.
“Uh-huh,” she said after a moment. “He’s vice president of finance. I used to work for him. And he works for Daddy.”
“Somehow, you don’t look like an accountant, even though you seemed pretty proficient at work the last two days.”
“Oh, what do I look like?”
He remembered her pictures taped to a refrigerator door long ago. “An artist.”
Stacey frowned. “How could you know that?”
“Know what?”
“I started out at the Chicago Art Institute.”
“How did you end up in business?”
“After a semester, I found out—” She stopped herself, then went on, “I decided the art world was too Bohemian for me. I transferred to the University of Chicago, got my CPA and went to work for CGW when I was twenty-one.”
Cord shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with their easy sharing, their natural camaraderie. “Well, as long as you’re happy.”
For a moment, something like indecision—or dissatisfaction—flickered across her face, then the look vanished. “Of course I’m happy. Except for all this stuff going on now.”
A good out. “Speaking of which, we should get back.” And get the hell out of this truck that suddenly feels a little too cozy.
“Okay, if you want.”
The patrol car was at the house when they returned. “Well, looks like Ferron’s here,” Cord said when they pulled into the driveway.
She said nothing.
“Don’t you like him?”
“No, it’s not that. I, um, don’t feel as safe with him as I do with you.”
A clutch of guilt got him in the gut. “Stacey, I need to be home for Megan when she wakes up.”
“I know. I don’t mean to complain. I hate the thought that I take you away from your daughter as much as I do. I really appreciate the time you can give me.’’ Her smile was genuine. She leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek which surprised him. “Thanks.”
Opening the door, she climbed from the truck, just as Ferron exited his car.
Before she was out of earshot, Cord rolled down the window. Into the semidarkness, he called, “Good night, Anastasia.”
She grinned back at him over her shoulder. “Good night, Francis.”
* * *
A BRIGHTLY COLORED clown smiled at Megan and tweaked her nose, sending her scampering into Cord’s arms. He scooped her up, cuddled her into his lap and nuzzled the long flaxen hair that he’d done in two braids. He savored its baby scent and thickness. “Are you enjoying your school’s family fair, honey?”
“Uh-huh,” Megan mumbled around the two fingers jammed in her mouth. “I wanna make a colored bottle.”
“Sure. Lead the way.”
As he put her down, his daughter stood and adjusted the straps of her red jumper. Combined with her purple shirt and yellow sneakers, she was a sight. Even at four, Megan had decidedly unique tastes in clothes; she refused to wear anything sedate and insisted on picking out all her own outfits. Cord had learned that trying to dissuade her was a waste of time; besides, he wanted to show her he approved of her just the way she was. Not like his father, who’d always tried to change him.
“Hi, Cord,” one of the preschool aides said at the bottle booth.
“Hi, Cindy.” Benefit of a small town. Everyone knew everybody else.
“I read about you in the paper. You were great, again.”
Cord smiled weakly, then glanced at Megan. “Thanks, but I don’t think this is the place...”
Cindy nodded. “Oh, sure. Megan’s doin’ fine at Time to Grow Preschool. She’s the friendliest child here and seems so well adjusted.”
At great cost. Although Cord never discussed it with anyone, leaving New York City to move back to a small town had been horrendous. The pace was slow, the work routine and unexciting—a tough change for a Big Apple cop. Then, when he’d gotten hurt and couldn’t work at all... “Yeah, Megan loves preschool.”
“You know, you’re the only father who brings his child and picks her up. All the mothers talk about it.”
“Fathers should take more interest in their children.” His tone was cold, and he tried to lighten it. Nathan McKay’s shortcomings were not Cindy’s fault. “They miss out.”
Turning his attention to the bottles, Cord fought the bitterness that welled inside him. To do it, his mind flicked to Stacey. Ironic that her father had time for her now. Eighteen years ago Gifford Webb hadn’t been there for either his daughter or his young wife.
Not my business, he told himself. Stop thinking about it.
He could do that a lot easier than he could stop thinking about Stacey herself. Despite his resolve, he wondered if she’d left work yet. He glanced at the clock. Six-ten. Quickly, he reviewed her schedule in his head. She had a date with Matthews at eight, so she’d probably be on her way home now.
As he opened a jar of bright pink paint, he thought about the upcoming evening. Ferron was relieving Cord from five to eight tonight so Cord could attend the preschool fair with Megan, but Cord would be the one around for the date. At least until midnight.
That hadn’t happened yet—Stacey dating and in need of a bodyguard, as Matthews had been out of town for two days. But Cord could handle it. This kind of situation was awkward sometimes, but he’d done it before. Mostly, he didn’t care what two people did behind closed doors.
Yet he had to admit the image of Preston Matthews holding Stacey, touching her curves, bothered him.
None of my business, he reiterated silently.
“Daddy, I want some cookies now.” As she grasped his hand in hers, Cord teased Megan about her sweet tooth. They went over to the cookie booth where he let her have more treats than would have been allowed by Nora McKay, who was working at one of the booths. Cord and Megan made their way to a picnic table set up in the small gym. His daughter plopped down next to her friend Susie. As the girls invented a story, using the cookies as characters, Cord checked the clock again. Maybe he should call to see that Stacey had arrived home all right. No, that was stupid. Ferron was more than capable of guarding her for a few hours, even though Stacey didn’t think so. It was typical in these cases for the victim to get attached to one person. Since Cord had saved her from abduction, she seemed to have more confidence in his ability.
She could be attracted to you.
Well, that was typical, too. The movies were right, romance often developed between a bodyguard and his charge. They were also right in that it could be fatal—you got distracted, your timing was off, you got careless.
<
br /> Restless, he stood and looked down at Megan. “Want more juice, honey?”
“Yes, Daddy. Susie does, too.”
“Be right back.”
On his way to the juice counter, he took out his cell phone. He shouldn’t call her, he knew it. But he felt uneasy about something tonight, and a good bodyguard never ignored his hunches. Before he could change his mind, he punched in the number of the Webb house, keeping an eye trained on Megan. No answer. He took a quick glimpse at his watch. Six-thirty. She could still be on her way home, he thought as he dialed her cell phone. He waited. No answer there, either.
He sighed. The Anderson guy was coming tomorrow to relieve Cord of his duty. He was thankful that he had only a few hours left of this job.
He was thankful.
It was best for all of them if Stacey had someone guarding her who didn’t have any connection to the Webb family. Who didn’t have to constantly fight his attraction to her sassy mouth, her curves and her quick wit.
Yeah, he thought as he returned to his daughter with two glasses of apple juice. It was best that he get out of Stacey Webb’s life as fast as possible and return his own to normal.
* * *
STACEY GLANCED AT the clock in her office for the third time in ten minutes. Six twenty-five. Where the hell was Ferron? She was meeting Lauren at seven and it would take at least fifteen minutes to negotiate the winding curves that led up to Canfield Community College where her friend worked as a secretary. Ordinarily, Stacey would have just called and canceled, but Lauren had telephoned at four o’clock and sounded really upset. Stacey knew it was man trouble, and not for the first time. Her boyfriend, Mark Dunn, treated Lauren like dirt, and Stacey lectured her constantly about him. But Lauren had grown up with an alcoholic father, a weak mother, and now she was repeating the pattern. The old syndrome happened all the time.
Except to Stacey. She certainly wasn’t repeating any parental patterns. She was totally unlike Helene. Thank God.
No, Stacey believed in loyalty and being there for people. Which was why she’d agreed to meet Lauren. But at six o’clock, Ferron had gotten an unexpected call from the police station and had been summoned to the scene of a bad accident. He’d told Stacey to stay put until he returned.
Don’t go, Stacey. Cord will kill you if you do.
She smiled at the thought of her reluctant bodyguard. He’d be furious if she left work unescorted. His temper would flare, as it often did, without much provocation. His blue eyes would blaze like the flame of a gas stove. All his upper body muscles would tense. She wondered briefly what it would be like to have that intensity focused on her for a different reason.
When she realized the direction her mind had taken, she stood abruptly, crossed to the couch, sat down and chided herself. She was engaged to Preston, and she had no right to be thinking about Cord McKay. What’s more, the fact that she did appalled her.
You are not like your mother, Stacey. You’re not like Helena.
She’d spent a lifetime proving it, too long to let burning blue eyes and a daredevil smile change that.
Stacey rose from the couch, claustrophobic with thoughts of Cord. To escape them, she made a decision which she knew was foolish, even as she switched off the lights, grabbed her jacket and left her office at Canfield Glass Works.
Unescorted.
Not hesitating, she walked down the newly carpeted hallway, noting that most of the building was dark. Here and there a light indicated some other employees were also putting in long hours. At the elevator, she pressed the button. Humming, she waited.
And waited.
Nothing happened. Checking her watch, she saw again that she was running late. Damn. What was going on? These elevators never malfunctioned. Her department was on the fifth floor of the glass tower that held CGW’s corporate headquarters. Without a second thought, she strode to the stairway and was halfway down the first flight when she realized that it was dark, very dark, and very isolated. She clutched the iron railing, seeing that she’d placed herself in a situation she always avoided—dark, closed-in spaces. Her father had even installed two skylights in her bedroom because of her fear. She let go of the handrail and took the stairs faster, the clap of her pumps echoing up several flights. As she rounded each landing, she noticed the pipes jutting out of the walls, and smelled a faint musty odor hovering in the air. Quickening her pace even more, she flew down the rest of the steps.
She was breathless by the time she reached the bottom, and not from exertion. Reaching for the bar of the iron door that opened onto the ground floor, she was startled when it wouldn’t budge. Her heart hammered in her chest at the thought of being trapped in this sinister stairwell. With her whole body as leverage, she pushed.
The door swung open, and Stacey practically toppled into the reception area.
Get a grip, she told herself firmly. Trapped! Sinister! She was being stupid.
Shoring up her confidence, she walked to the front door with as much poise as she could muster, bade the security guard good-night and crossed to her Miata, which was parked in the front, well-lit row, within sight of the security man. Cord had insisted she have this spot for safety.
Cloaking herself with bravado, she swung into the low car, started the engine and pulled out just as it started to drizzle.
“Oh, great, now I get the eerie atmosphere... ‘It was a dark and stormy night...’”
Cord would yell at her for being flippant. Sexy, attractive Cord with the small scar to the left of his mouth... Stop it, Stacey. She decided to concentrate on her driving. After work on a Friday night, even Canfield was hopping. She maneuvered through the town traffic, and managed to reach College Hill in minutes. She hoped Lauren had waited. She should have called her friend’s cell before she left, and now it was too late. She promised her father she’d never talk on the phone while driving.
The gloom was like a shroud. And the fog had begun to creep in. When the windows clouded, Stacey shivered, and flipped on the defroster. The gentle back-and-forth motion of the windshield wipers soothed her a bit, and she thought about turning on the radio. No, best to stay alert. All her senses were heightened and she didn’t want to lose that awareness.
Watching the road carefully, she glimpsed the trees swaying ominously in the wind that had picked up. “Oh, sure, and any minute, they’re going to talk... ‘Lions and tigers and bears, oh my.’“ At least she could still laugh at herself.
The grin faded when she saw the headlights behind her. It was only dusk, and even with the misty rain, it was too light outside for the bright beams the driver had on. Great! All she needed was some jerk behind her. The dark car came closer. She placed her foot on the brake. Maybe he’d pass her, though this wasn’t the ideal road for it.
He didn’t. Now he was tailing her closer.
The hair on the back of her neck bristled. All the muscles in her throat clenched and she gripped the steering wheel.
In a split second, she felt the first bump against her back fender. Oddly, it reminded her of being at Rose Land and driving the bumper cars as a kid. But this was no amusement-park ride, and it was surely no game. When the second thump came, she realized the driver meant business.
Stifling panic, she held on to the steering wheel, and let her foot off the accelerator slowly.
Bump. Bump.
Her little Miata swerved with the force of the car that was at least twice its size. Why hadn’t she listened to her father and bought a bigger, safer car?
Because you didn’t know some lunatic was going to try to run you off the worst road in Canfield.
Please, God, get me out of this. I promise I’ll get a bigger car, I’ll listen to what everyone tells me, I won’t be so headstrong...
Another, harder thump.
That one did it. The sports car veered to the right and headed for the shoulder of the road. A line of old maple trees was directly in its path. She knew she was going to hit them. And maybe die.
Oh, God, no. Sh
e’d die before she got that promotion she wanted. Before she saw Paris again. Before she ever made love.
With a brief flash of insight, she pumped the brakes. The car spun right, toward the trees, but Stacey turned the wheel just enough to sideswipe them. She heard a crunch and the engine died. Her head pitched forward onto the steering wheel, even though she wore her seat belt. Pain sliced through her on impact. When she rebounded, she looked up to see the dark sedan whiz past her.
Inhaling deeply, she thanked God the man hadn’t stopped. When she looked in the rearview mirror, she saw why. Another car whipped to the side of the road and came to a jarring halt behind her. Leaving the lights on, a big, muscled figure stalked over to her car. Dazed, she held her breath, frozen by the thought that the driver of the dark sedan had an accomplice.
Suddenly, her car door flew open. The man dropped onto one knee, and Stacey stared into the face of Cord McKay. “Stacey, are you all right?” His voice was gravelly.
Eyes glazed, she nodded.
He reached in and touched the bump on her head. She flinched. “The bastard.” His hand rested on her shoulder, then flicked open her seat belt. “Can you get out?”
She nodded again. Easing from the car, she drew herself up, her hand braced on the door. She was trembling, and didn’t even try to control the shivers.
Stacey couldn’t have said who reacted first. She didn’t know whether she threw herself at Cord, or whether he stepped toward her. But suddenly she was engulfed in his arms. They banded around her and held her so tightly it robbed her of breath. Neither spoke; Stacey buried her face in the hollow of his neck. Closing her eyes, she savored the safe feel of him.
“I was so scared,” she murmured into his skin.
His grip tightened. “I know.”
Stacey didn’t let go immediately. After a few seconds of his wordless comfort, she drew back, though she kept her hands on his arms and his remained on her waist. She could feel them flex on her a few times. His face was drawn, the skin stretched tightly across his cheekbones, his jaw clenched. This man was controlling his anger, she reflected. At what had happened? At her?
“I shouldn’t have left without Ferron,” she confessed, her voice raspy and laced with fear.
Bodyguards Boxed Set Page 27
