Guardian Groom

by Shelley Cooper

  In addition to the cap and glasses, she wore a pair of baggy, three-sizes-too-big jeans and an oversize T-shirt her niece had left behind on a recent weekend visit. Her legs teetered precariously atop a pair of wedgies with six-inch heels. A canvas bag served as a makeshift purse. Hopefully, the outfit was different enough from her normal apparel that even her own family would have to look twice in order to recognize her.

  Though she would have preferred looking a bit more mature when she saw Steve, the only other disguise she’d been able to scrape up on such short notice was the Cruella de Vil costume she’d worn last Halloween to the party her oldest brother had hosted at his restaurant. While it had scored a ten on the approval scale—at least, according to the party’s attendees—on the blending-in scale, the best it could hope to achieve was a dismal minus five. And the point of the exercise was not to attract unwanted attention. Hence, the outfit preferred by four out of five teenage girls. God forbid, though, she would have to run. She’d probably break her neck.

  On that thought, Kate promptly tripped over the hem of the jeans and nearly fell against her car. Her car...

  It suddenly occurred to her that if her biggest fan had been keeping tabs on her, he probably already knew the make and model of her car. Which meant that the minute she drove away in it, her disguise was blown. Damn!

  She briefly considered taking the subway before discarding the idea. Even if her cover was blown, she felt safer behind the wheel of her dependable Subaru as opposed to crowding in next to who-knows-who on the subway. She really was no good at this cloak-and-dagger business, which was all the more reason to get to Steve. Fast.

  Grimacing, she tugged at the waistband of her pants. Though she had her belt cinched as tightly as it would go, the pants still threatened to slide over hips she’d often cursed as being far too generous. How did her niece, with her slender, hipless figure, manage to keep the darn things up? Kate couldn’t imagine. What she did know was that, if she wasn’t careful, she’d be adding more scrapes and bruises to the ones she already had.

  While she drove toward the parkway that would lead her into downtown Pittsburgh, she kept her gaze focused on the rearview mirror. Not one to waste time, she normally used her infrequent stretches behind the wheel to generate ideas for her column. An alien in a purple flying saucer could follow her, and she’d never notice.

  Not today. Today, Kate made it a point to inspect every car and driver that came into view.

  The sensation of being watched itched across the back of her neck. Was someone following her? How on earth was she supposed to tell? Her only experience with spotting tails was what she’d read in books or seen on television. She wasn’t about to start weaving in and out of traffic to see if another car followed suit. The way her luck was running, if she tried that particular ploy, she’d most likely wind up ramming head-on into the concrete barrier dividing the four-lane road.

  Biting her lip, Kate clenched the steering wheel. Relief coursed through her when she finally reached her destination and no one followed her down the ramp into the parking garage located beneath the skyscraper, which housed, among others, the firm of Three Rivers Security, Inc.

  What did follow her during the elevator ride some thirty floors up were a whole host of doubts and reservations. In just a few minutes, she would be face-to-face with the one person she’d never thought she would see again. Steve Gallagher. Her ex-husband. The man who had shattered her heart into a million tiny little pieces.

  The galling thing was, in some perverse way she didn’t understand, she was actually looking forward to their meeting. What did she hope? That he’d take one look at her, get down on his knees, tell her that the past eighteen months had been empty and meaningless without her, and beg her to come back to him? A glance at her outfit had a welcome chuckle bubbling in her throat. Not even her vivid imagination could conjure up that scenario.

  Just before the elevator reached its destination, Kate removed the baseball cap and shook out her hair. After a moment’s hesitation, she decided to leave the sunglasses on. She didn’t want Steve to see how scared and vulnerable she felt.

  Above her head the number thirty-four lit up and the elevator doors slid open to reveal a wide lobby. Feet aching from trying to maintain her equilibrium on the wedgies, she nearly twisted her ankle when she stepped onto thick beige carpeting that covered a huge room bisected by four twelve-foot-tall columns. Awestruck, she surveyed her surroundings.

  The columns were painted the same stark white as the walls, which were adorned with modern art. The few pieces of furniture scattered about were sleek, monochromatic and obviously expensive. The whole combined to give a feeling of light, airy openness.

  It was as far removed from the crowded Victorian atmosphere of Kate’s house as green cheese was from the moon. But then, she and Steve always had favored different things, which was probably why their marriage had been doomed from the start. She’d favored communication and time spent together, while Steve had leaned more toward the tight-lipped, workaholic school of thought

  By the looks of it, he was doing very well. Very well, indeed. Now that she thought of it, it was ironic how well they’d both done since they’d been apart.

  She was glad, she told herself, as her gaze took in the details of what appeared to be a Native American sculpture. Deep down—despite the time or two in her darkest moments, when she’d wished a plague or pestilence would descend upon him—she truly was happy for him.

  “May I help you?” a pleasant voice greeted.

  Kate recognized the dulcet tones of the woman she’d spoken to on the phone. Abandoning her memories of the past, she made her unsteady way to the chrome-edged desk holding court in the center of the four pillars.

  There was only one word to describe the woman seated there: gorgeous. Mouth-watering, testosterone-rising gorgeous. She was everything Kate was not: large breasted, tiny waisted, ivory skinned, face a perfect oval, eyes an incredible azure blue, hair a delicate blond. The entire package was set off to advantage by a peach-colored suit.

  Never in her life had Kate felt more inadequate. Her sense of inadequacy was intensified by the fact that she teetered before this stunning creature in baggy jeans and a T-shirt that had If You’re Not Wasted, The Day Is stenciled across the front.

  “Yes,” Kate said, forcing her lips into the semblance of a smile and trying to infuse some confidence into her voice. “My name is Kate Garibaldi. I’d like to see Mr. Gallagher.”

  Expecting resistance, Kate was surprised by the spark of sympathy that flared in the other woman’s eyes. “You’re here about the ad in the paper, aren’t you?”

  The ad again, Kate thought, bemused. Was Steve advertising for help? If so, it wouldn’t make sense for her to show up dressed as she was. Still, if that was what it took to gain entrée into his inner sanctum, she was willing to play the part.

  “Yes,” she lied. “I’m here about the ad.”

  “Just a minute.”

  The woman picked up a telephone receiver and spoke quietly. Then, nodding at Kate, she said, “Straight through the doors over there, last office on the right.”

  Second thoughts assailed Kate, and her steps grew progressively heavier as she walked down the long, narrow hallway till it felt as if she were trudging through molasses. Now that she’d had some time to think with a clearer head, she decided this wasn’t such a good idea, after all. She really wasn’t up to seeing Steve today. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be.

  Wouldn’t it be easier all around to let her fingers do the walking through the listings of bodyguards in the Yellow Pages? Surely there were dozens of firms offering the same services Steve did. And all of them had the plus of coming without the emotional chains that simply walking down this hallway hung around her neck.

  Unfortunately, she didn’t know those faceless men and women. She didn’t know their work ethic, or their degree of skill. While it might be fine to occasionally take potluck when it came to hiring a plumber or a
carpenter, it wasn’t fine to do so when her life was on the line.

  There were worse things than hiring your ex-husband to protect you, Kate decided. Offhand, she could easily think of three. Developing an allergy to all foods but green beans. Having a root canal without benefit of anesthesia. Premature, preventable death.

  Kate set her chin at a defiant angle. She needed a bodyguard, and Steve was the best. That they shared a personal history was irrelevant. Her heart was dead to him. This was business. Important business. Even though she wasn’t dressed for it, she would conduct herself in a businesslike manner.

  And she would feel nothing.

  At the end of the hallway, she stopped in front of a closed door with a raised gold plate that announced it as the office of Steve Gallagher, President and CEO. Kate’s heart beat faster, and she tried to rub some warmth into suddenly clammy hands. Before her courage entirely deserted her, she knocked once, softly.

  “Come in,” a familiar voice called.

  Though Kate had told herself she was prepared for it, she was powerless to halt the jolt of awareness that shot through her like an electrical current when she saw Steve standing stiffly behind a desk similar to the one in the lobby. He looked different: harder, cynical, incredibly remote. It felt strange to see him in a gray suit, white shirt and tie. He’d been an undercover cop when they were married, and she’d gotten used to seeing him in jeans and leather. Stranger still was the close-cropped blond hair that, except for one stray lock, hugged his-head, accentuating intelligent blue eyes and a hawkish nose. Last time she’d seen him, his hair had been almost as long as hers and pulled back in a ponytail.

  He wasn’t the prototypical bodyguard. This was no hulking giant with gold chains around his neck, a bald head, barrel chest and bulging arm muscles. At six foot one, he was tall, but not overbearingly so; slender without being skinny; muscular without being brawny.

  Nor was he handsome. Not in the traditional sense, anyway. His forehead was too broad, his nose too prominent, his chin too stubborn. What he was, was compelling. There was an intensity about him that demanded attention. An intensity that told the world he was not a man to be trifled with. Confident and uncaring of what other people thought of him, Steve Gallagher was a man who would not be ignored.

  Kate tried to tell herself that she was totally unaffected by him, and knew immediately it was a lie. One thing she’d made a point of never doing after she’d ended her marriage was to lie to herself. She’d done enough of that for a dozen lifetimes while they were together.

  Looking at him now, his features set in the hard, uncompromising lines that had grown so familiar to her over the last tense weeks before she’d left him, it was hard for Kate to believe that this was the man she’d laughed with, made love with, planned to spend the rest of her life with. It dismayed her how fresh her memories were, how easily she could recall all the pain and disappointment. During their marriage, she’d never been privy to his private thoughts or emotions. She’d never known him at all. She still didn’t know him. What was he thinking? What was he feeling?

  One thing was certain: she couldn’t read him any better today than she could eighteen months ago. It took all her willpower not to squirm as his gaze roved slowly over her. Thank goodness she’d left the sunglasses on.

  “This is a new look for you,” he drawled.

  She almost smiled. Leave it to Steve to ignore the formalities. Not even a “How are you?” or an “It’s been a long time.” He didn’t extend his hand in greeting, for which she was heartily grateful. She wasn’t ready for his touch.

  “Look who’s talking,” she replied lightly, taking a seat in one of the chrome-backed chairs positioned in front of his desk. “For your information, this is a disguise.”

  She watched as Steve leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. What was it all the body language experts said about crossed arms? That the person doing the crossing was physically distancing himself. Closed off. Uncommunicative. It could be Steve’s epitaph.

  “Works for me,” he said. “No one would ever guess you’re—what?—twenty-nine now. In that getup you look like jailbait.”

  He’d said much the same thing to her the day they met, a day Kate remembered far too well for her peace of mind. It was a Garibaldi family tradition to share Thanksgiving dinner with those who would otherwise be alone. On that particular Thanksgiving day, her brother Antonio had invited a fellow police officer. Kate had taken one look at Steve and known he was the one.

  She brought herself up short. Now was not the time for those memories.

  The problem was, she’d never been much good at resisting him. From the moment they’d met, she’d found herself lost to the tug of a powerful physical attraction, the likes of which she’d never encountered. Before or since. Even during the most painful moments of their marriage, all he’d had to do was reach out for her, and she’d burn for him. Despite the eighteen months yawning between them, she knew that, if he touched her right now, the emotion she would feel would be far from indifference. Unbelievably, after everything that had happened, the tug was still there.

  That scared her more than the thought of her biggest fan.

  “The point was not to be recognized,” she told him.

  “I see.”

  Just what was proper etiquette here? Kate wondered. She could hardly say, “Hi, I know I left you, but eighteen months have passed, and we’re both a little older and wiser. By the way, I think someone’s trying to kill me.”

  Because she didn’t know what to say, and because Steve didn’t seem to be in any hurry to discover the reason for her visit, she took refuge in small talk. “So, you’re a bodyguard.”

  “We prefer to call ourselves personal protection specialists.”

  She looked around the room. Same white walls and beige carpeting as in the lobby. Same wall hangings. Despite the expensive furnishings, the room was cold, impersonal. Like its owner.

  “I was surprised when I heard you’d left the police force. You always seemed to love your work.” It was the one thing she’d been certain he did love.

  “The decision was a long time coming.”

  Since he’d resigned three weeks after she left him, it meant he’d been thinking about it during their marriage. Why hadn’t he told her? She didn’t know why that should amaze her. After all, he’d never let her get close. He’d never shared his deepest thoughts and feelings. The only thing he’d ever truly shared with her was his body. For a while, it had been enough.

  “I never got to tell you how sorry I was about Quincy,” she said.

  Quincy Ellis had been Steve’s best friend. They’d grown up together, joined the Pittsburgh police force together, and together had risen quickly through its ranks. But somewhere along the way, Quincy had made a wrong turn. The lure of money, the downfall of many an undercover cop, had proven too much for him. He’d become heavily involved in the drug trade. One night, a deal had gone very wrong, and an innocent child had been killed. Steve had been the major force behind the sting that nabbed his friend. Though Quincy was being held without bond, because of legal maneuvering by his lawyers the case had yet to come to trial. When it did, though, she knew Steve would have to testify.

  She also knew how much Quincy’s friendship had meant to Steve. It must have dam near killed him to realize Quincy had been corrupted.

  “Quincy made his own bed.” He spoke without a trace of emotion.

  “Still, it must have been hard for you to turn him in.”

  He shrugged. “I was just doing my job.”

  Even for Steve, the comment was unfeeling. She had a sudden flash of insight. “Did your leaving the force have something to do with Quincy?”

  Leaning forward in his chair, he folded his arms on his desk and leveled his gaze on her. “I don’t think you came here to talk about Quincy. Or my career change.”

  She drew a deep breath. “No. No, I didn’t.”

  Once again, his gaze roved over her. H
e had a photographic memory, she recalled. Was he cataloging the changes that had taken place since he last saw her? Was he comparing her to the sleek, beautiful woman who graced his reception area?

  “Does the reason for your visit have something to do with the bruise on your cheek and your split lip?” he asked.

  Kate’s fingers tightened around the canvas bag. “Yes.”

  “Liza told me you’re here because someone beat you up.”

  Kate started. “Liza? The woman out front?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would she say a thing like that?”

  “You did tell her you were here in answer to the ad, didn’t you?”

  That blasted ad. She wished she knew what this was all about. “Yes, but that was just because I thought it would make it easier to get in to see you. What does my supposedly answering an ad have to do with your receptionist assuming I was beaten up?”

  “It’s not important,” he sidestepped. “Want to tell me why you’re here?”

  Deciding to leave the question of the ad for another time, Kate plunged straight to the heart of the matter. “I need a bodyguard. Someone pushed me in front of a bus.”

  “You were pushed?”

  For the first time she heard a hint of emotion in his voice. His lips thinned, and his jaw tightened.

  “Yes.”

  “By whom?”

  She slid the straps of the canvas bag off her shoulder and delved a hand inside. When she withdrew it, she held a pile of letters secured by a rubber band. On top, she’d placed the letter that had been taped to her front door.

  “The man who sent these. He calls himself my biggest fan.”

  Steve reached for the packet, and she carefully handed it to him, making sure their fingers didn’t touch. While he read through them, she recited every detail she could remember of the incident.

  When he looked up, he asked, “Have you shown these to the police?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Until this morning, Martha and I just assumed they were written by some harmless crank.”