Guardian For Hire

by Christine Bell

  greater Chicago area as one witness, a neighbor of the victim, claims to have seen her leave the premises in a dark sedan.”

  Shit.

  “We’ve got to call my grandparents. Let them know I’m all right,” she whispered.

  “Owen is en route to Chicago now to take care of that, but understand we can’t tell them any specifics. Not who you’re with, not where you’re going. The less they know, the better.”

  She hesitated, but then nodded. “I understand.”

  She was stubborn, but she was smart. That was something, at least.

  “The stress of being splashed all over television again is going to send my grandmother into a fit, though,” she said with a half smile.

  He studied her face. There was pain in her eyes and a tightness to her voice that belied that smile. He was very familiar with what it was like to have a parent who didn’t live up to the potential the job required. There was more to the young doctor than met the eye. A steel in her he was beginning to appreciate in spite of himself. “She’ll get over it. The important thing is that you’re safe, and I’m going to keep it that way. That’s a promise.”

  As he uttered those words, they settled over him like a lead blanket. He’d broken a promise once, and it almost killed him. He hadn’t made one to another person since, but something about this woman made him want to protect her.

  And damned if he wasn’t going to do it or die trying.

  Chapter Four

  “Is there really nothing else on television besides SportsCenter?” Sarabeth stretched her legs across the fiberglass-textured hotel comforter, trying desperately not to even think the word “bedbugs.” Judging by the way he was sprawled on his bed, Gavin clearly didn’t have the same concerns.

  “Nothing worth watching,” he muttered.

  It had been two straight hours of nonstop flicking through channels, catching snatches of the news, and waiting in the questionable comfort of their dismal economy “suite.” Although the light choking its way through the filthy window was dimming, it was way too early for sleep, and the boredom broken only by random bursts of panic was slowly killing her.

  Now that the shock had worn off—mostly—she realized what this whole kidnapping-murder-target thing actually meant: fearing for her life while she hid out in motel rooms, watching ESPN in silence until her eyes bled.

  With the surliest brute in history.

  She felt a tickle on her arm and swiped at it frantically, letting out a squeak. When she looked down, there was nothing there. “How can you be sure these beds aren’t infested with bugs?” she asked, trying not to let her panic show.

  He didn’t look away from the television. “I can’t.”

  “Then how can you possibly look so comfortable laying there like that?” The flesh on her arms prickled, and she shivered, sitting up straighter. “They could be laying eggs in your ears as we speak.”

  “If it makes you feel better, strip the bed and search the sheets. They’re white, and if there are bugs, you’re sure to see them if you look hard enough.” He shrugged. “Either way, it’s not going to kill me, and I’d rather not know.”

  She stared at him incredulously. “Well, that seems a little silly.”

  His jaw clenched, and his voice went from put-upon to ice cold as he met her gaze. “We didn’t grow up the same, me and you, Doc. Until you’ve had to cover your eyes and pretend the sound of rats scurrying over the rotten floor of the one-room hovel you call home are just mice because that’s the only way you could fall asleep at night, don’t tell me what’s silly. We all do what we have to do to get through our shit. If you’ve got to strip your bed, go for it.” He turned his focus back to the grungy screen. “Me? I’m good.”

  Her stomach took a dive as she imagined a young Gavin curled up on a bare, dirty mattress, fists balled at his sides, trying to sleep under those conditions. And here she was, poor little rich girl whining because the motel room he’d secured for them wasn’t up to her standard.

  She’d always tried to stay grounded, offering pro bono services for clients in need, and volunteering to serve on the board of several charities, but clearly her grandparents’ upbringing had affected her more than she’d realized. Resolved, she leaned back against the propped pillows and shifted until she found a comfortable position. Gavin was right. Even if there were bugs, and there probably weren’t, they weren’t going to kill her.

  Other things might. Like the guys with the bombs and whatnot…

  “So, have you heard from Owen?” she asked lightly, desperate for something to break the silence as panic surfaced again, even if it was the sound of her own voice. She already knew the answer to her question, though.

  Gavin didn’t tear his gaze from the soccer match on the tiny TV. “Not yet.”

  “Oh.” She blew out a sigh and looked around the room, starting in surprise when her now-short brown locks whipped around to bristle at her nose. That would take some getting used to.

  “Well, there was this CSI marathon I had been planning to watch tonight.” She peered down at her watch. “It started ten minutes ago.”

  “Hits too close to home now, don’t you think?” he asked drily, still staring at the TV.

  Visions of white chalk outlines on the avocado motel room carpet filled her head and she swallowed hard before responding. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  Maybe she hadn’t hidden her angst as well as she’d hoped, because a few seconds later he flicked off the TV and turned to face her.

  “Bad joke. I apologize for that. But I’ll tell you again, I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

  The sincerity in his voice rang clear and true, and she turned to face him.

  “You’re safe with me.”

  Oddly enough, those four simply spoken words instantly calmed her. He was rough around the edges, but there was something solid and real about him that part of her found oddly soothing.

  She opened her mouth to thank him again when a loud, shrill chime rent the air. Gavin’s black brick of a phone buzzed along the nightstand between their beds, and in an instant, he reached out to answer it.

  “Hey.”

  She could hear a low male voice on the other end. Owen. Maybe he’d gotten in touch with her grandparents. Dread mixed with relief as she waited for the verdict. She’d feel more settled if they knew she was all right, but experience told her that talking to them was going to wind up making her feel worse than she already did somehow.

  “Yeah, okay.” Another interminable pause. “Good. Put them on.”

  Gavin held the phone out to her. “It’s for you. Your grandparents. Remember what I said, though.” He held her gaze. “No details, yeah?”

  She squared her shoulders and took the phone with a single nod, a quiver running through her when their fingers brushed. The man was like a machine. Even his hands were hard.

  She covered the receiver, rolled to her feet and nodded toward the door. “I’ll just be right outside, then.”

  “Are you crazy? You can’t go outside alone and unprotected. I don’t think we were followed, but I sure as hell have no plans to test that theory.”

  His face was as grim and unyielding as the rest of him, and she frowned. What was the point of chopping off all that hair? What was the point of ruining her natural color? What was the point of dressing like dance-club Barbie, or any of it, if she couldn’t even leave the room? Judging by the set of his superhero jaw, he wasn’t budging, and making her grandparents wait while she attempted to argue was pointless.

  With a long-suffering sigh, she settled back onto the bed before clearing her throat. Okay, showtime. Shoulders back. Grace under pressure. She removed her hand from the receiver and held it up to her face.

  “Hello.” She smiled into the phone, her voice going so shrill that she was pretty sure only dogs would be able to hear it.

  “Sarabeth.” Her grandmother’s voice sounded tinny and far-off. Like she was yelling at her from the end of a
tunnel.

  “Is Granddad on the line too?” She could feel Gavin’s gaze burrowing into her, and it was a struggle to keep from squirming.

  “He’s in the other room on business. He’ll be with us shortly.” There was a sternness to her tone that contradicted the mundane sounds in the background. Snatches of tinkling china, the pouring of drinks into glasses.

  Speakerphone. Excellent. That meant Owen might be listening in as well. Apparently privacy was hard to come by when one was on the lam.

  She cleared her throat again and tried to focus on sounding normal. “Business?”

  “Your little…situation has caused some serious issues on our end as well. Did you think you’d be the only one affected here, missy?”

  “No, I—”

  “There’s a great deal of damage control, you know.” The reedy tone clanged against her ear. “Your grandfather has been on the phone since this morning, calling clients and investors, trying to offset any negative publicity.” The sentiment was punctuated by her grandmother commanding a maid to do something in a pathetic attempt at Spanish, which really just consisted of her adding the letter O to the end of her words.

  Rage bubbled inside her, and she counted to ten and tried to focus on her surroundings. The TV was back on, but the sound was turned low, and she had the distinct impression that Gavin wasn’t paying much attention to it. He’d stopped eyeballing her, but she could tell by his posture that his attention was still focused her way.

  Tears pricked her eyelids, and she cleared her throat. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but it should have been exactly this. She was their burden, always had been. They would always treat her that way. It was part of life…one that, for some sad reason, she just couldn’t get used to. Still, she kept her voice light as she spoke into the telephone.

  “Well, it’s nice that Granddad…cares so deeply. And don’t worry, I’m certain everything will be fine.” In spite of the inner turmoil, she kept her features serene. She’d had a lifetime of training, and hiding hurt feelings was something she’d gotten pretty good at.

  “Of course everything will be fine. We handled it when your mother pulled her little stunts, and we’ll have to do the same with yours. No matter how many reporters tromp all over my azalea bushes in an attempt to get the inside track in this scandal,” Grandmother added with a sniff.

  Sarabeth took another deep breath, trying not to wince at the low blow. Her mother, twenty-something socialite Alexia Lucking, had famously gotten pregnant out of wedlock. Tabloids covered the whole “disaster,” and Sarabeth’s first baby picture had been sold for six figures by her deadbeat dad. Grandmother had barely recovered her social standing at the club when, three years later, flighty Alexia had hit the road and left her in the dust to get a new name, new identity, new life with her new shipping magnate lover, who, incidentally, didn’t like or want kids.

  Her grandparents had never forgiven Alexia for it, and their resentment bled into every word they spoke to Sarabeth, the child they’d never intended to raise.

  “Yes, well, family is so important.” Her words sounded stiff, even to her, and it took a moment before her grandmother even bothered to respond.

  “Indeed. Now, this…Irishman”—her grandmother said the word as if she’d stepped in cat vomit as she spoke—”whose phone I’m using. He says you’re with a man who is keeping you safe.”

  “Yes.”

  “See that he does. And be sure that he handles this whole thing quickly. Lord knows the last thing we need is a drawn-out affair. The shareholders won’t have it.”

  Sarabeth bit back a scathing promise to make sure her little “potential death by firebomb” situation didn’t ruin their next charity gala, and hummed her agreement.

  “Sarabeth?” Her grandfather’s voice boomed. Obviously, he was closer to the speaker than her grandmother.

  “Hello, Granddad,” she murmured.

  “Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I say?” he huffed.

  “You did, Stanley. You certainly did,” her grandmother agreed.

  “This whole business was a bad idea from the start. If I said it once, I said it a million times. You never should have taken that job.”

  “And you did say it.”

  Sarabeth could practically see her grandmother, nodding furtively and straightening her starched skirt as she spoke.

  “And he did say it,” she repeated, apparently for Sarabeth’s benefit, because that was how speakerphones worked.

  Not.

  “Damn right, I did. Been on the phone all day. Chasing reporters off of your grandmother’s prized azaleas.”

  “They did win quite a few prizes,” Grandmother replied primly.

  “They’re lovely flowers, dear.”

  “Thank you. I think it’s the soil, you know. I had the gardener try—”

  “So, ah, yeah, everything is going well.” Sarabeth cut her grandmother off, all too aware of the way Gavin was staring at her from the corner of his eye. Maybe he was a security guard or Army Ranger or whatever the heck he was. But supersleuth, he was not. There was a long silence but for the crackle of static, and she racked her brain for something to fill it. “And I,” she hesitated, pushing the last of the words from her mouth, “miss you.”

  There. That wasn’t so hard.

  “Yes, well”—her grandfather coughed loudly—“we’ll deal with everything accordingly.”

  “Just as we always do,” her grandmother added with no small dose of exasperation. “You’ll contact us when this whole sordid thing is taken care of.” It wasn’t a question, so Sarabeth didn’t respond. “And for God’s sake, if you give an interview, give it to the New York Times. If our name winds up in the Post, we may as well shut the doors on the hotels now.”

  She closed her eyes and resisted the urge to hurl the phone at the wall. “Always. I’ll be sure to be careful.”

  “Yes, do that,” Grandmother said.

  A second later, a dial tone buzzed in her ear, and she bit her lip hard at the wave of sadness that enveloped her. When was she going to learn?

  She opened her eyes to find Gavin staring at her, not even trying to feign disinterest anymore. No way was she going to let him know how that call had just ended. What would a normal family say in this situation? She gripped the phone tighter.

  “I know, I know. And I love you guys too, Gram.” She chuckled, not for his benefit, but at the mental image of her grandmother’s reaction if she had ever referred to her by the affectionate nickname. The Martha Stewart look-alike would probably have laid a Fabergé egg. If Sarabeth ever had kids, she was going to float the idea of Nana Banana. That’d get her good.

  She counted down from five to leave space for the nonexistent reply before speaking again. “No, Granddad, don’t worry about me. Really, you’re too sweet. Just be safe, okay?”

  She nodded and pasted what she hoped was a wistful smile on her face.

  “Sarabeth.” Gavin’s deep voice cut into her thoughts, and she turned toward him. Her cheeks ached from the effort of smiling as she sent him a questioning glance, pointing to the receiver to let him know she’d be right with him.

  “No, I love you more,” she murmured into the dead phone, and rolled her eyes at Gavin conspiratorially, like, “Oh, grandparents, what can you do?”

  “Sarabeth.”

  His tone was hesitant. Careful.

  “You can stop now.”

  Her cheeks burned, and the smile felt frozen to her lips. He couldn’t possibly know—

  But the pity in his eyes said otherwise. “There’s a green light on the side of the phone that turns red when it disconnects.”

  Of course there is.

  Humiliation, sadness, and anger came crashing in on her all at once, and suddenly the tears she’d managed to hold back since almost being blown to smithereens came pouring out.

  …

  Gavin stared at her with growing horror. He didn’t know fuck-all about how to handle a crying woman, especi
ally one he’d met only eight hours before. It was his own fault. He should have done the gentlemanly thing and left the room so she could have her call in private, but he’d been on enough protection details to know that some people couldn’t follow directions for shit. He’d needed to make sure Sarabeth didn’t give away their location somehow. Still, as sad as it was, he should’ve kept his fucking mouth shut and just let her ramble on into the satphone. Calling her on it had been his mistake.

  One he was paying for now that he was stuck with a huge mess on his hands and no clue how to fix it.

  “You…want to talk about it?”

  She snuffled again and shook her head violently. “Not even a little bit.”

  He shifted on the bed restlessly, wondering what he could possibly say to make her feel better. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been around crying women. It was an occupational hazard. But the kind of hysteria he usually dealt with had more to do with security breaches that had resulted in theft. Even then, though, he typically found “something important” he needed to check out in another room and handed them over to his partner Maddy to take care of until the storm of emotion had passed. She was a top notch security professional, but she also had a softer touch than he did.

  This thing with Sarabeth was different, though. Somehow, it felt more…personal. While he appreciated the business, and usually felt bad for the people who came to him after a burglary, most of the time everything they’d lost was replaceable. Temporary damage. What Sarabeth was dealing with was so much more permanent than that. And so much worse. He knew what it felt like to be unwanted, and it fucked with your head. Made you feel “less than” your whole life. He hated that she knew that feeling, in spite of the platinum spoon she’d been fed with.

  He made a mental note to ask Owen if her grandparents were as shitty to her as he was starting to suspect, and another to himself not to underestimate her. She was turning out to be a lot different than he’d pegged her right off. She might have been crying but up until now, she’d handled all this like a champ. Even the threat of bedbugs.

  Another twinge of pity niggled at him, and he realized that staring at her while she sobbed probably wasn’t helping matters. He peered over at her again and opened his mouth to say something, but closed it with a snap when she sucked in a shuddering breath and sniffled. Maybe he couldn’t spare her the humiliation he’d inadvertently caused, but ducking into the bathroom for a few and letting her keep whatever dignity she had left might be the best course of action.

  That decided, he set the remote down and rolled to his feet. “I’m going to take a quick shower,” he murmured softly. He’d barely had a chance to close the bathroom door when her soft squeaks ramped up to gut-wrenching sobs, and his stomach clenched.

  Fuck.

  He met his reflection’s gaze in the cracked mirror and groaned at the judgment he saw there. “Yeah, yeah, I know,” he muttered.

  Scooping up the box of generic tissues off the chipped green sink, he swung the door open again. “Hey, uh, you want some Kleenex?”

  She’d buried her face in her hands and her shiny, newly darkened hair gleamed as she nodded. He tossed the box toward the empty side of her bed, but she picked that exact moment to turn to her side, looking up just in time for the box to smack her squarely on the bridge of her nose.

  “Ah!”

  The box toppled to the floor, and he winced as her hands darted to the offended spot.

  Yeah, he was like The Notebook when it came to cheering women up. All warm fuzzies here. What a comfort.

  “Shit, sorry about that.” He crossed back to kneel by her feet and scooped the box from the floor. He pulled a few tissues out and shoved them toward her. “Are you bleeding?”

  “A little.” She reached for the wad and he could see the blood trickling from the split in her otherwise perfect skin.

  Lovely. She’d been under his protection for less than a day and already she was hurt. And he’d done the hurting, to boot. Renowned security specialist at your service, lass. If Owen found out, he was going to break his balls mercilessly over this. “I guess it’s lucky that was today’s only injury.” He half smiled.

  “Huh?” Her brows knit together as she peered at him through watery eyes over her makeshift bandage.

  “Well, with your car, your whole body could’ve been blown to pieces. So. In all, it was a good day.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized just how much better they’d sounded in his head. Because in his head, it had sounded nothing like, Hey, remember when you almost died a horrific, fiery death? Good times, right?

  She stared at him like he’d lost his marbles, but mercifully, she’d stopped crying. Instead, she seemed focused on patting at her nose gingerly like she was blotting out a stain.

  “That’s cartilage, there. You’ll need to apply more pressure than that,” he offered.

  “It stings.”