by Kara Lennox
He’d forced himself to laugh at her. “You don’t actually imagine I would be interested in a spoiled little brat like you,” he’d said, deliberately filling his voice with derision.
The insult had cut, as it was meant to do. Her eyes filled with tears. “You kissed me back,” she accused.
“I’m a man,” he said harshly. “I have hormones. But I also have a brain, thank God, and I’m not stupid enough to get it on with Muffy Patterson’s daughter.”
“She would never know,” Sonya said in a last-ditch effort to salvage the situation. And it almost worked. Seeing her standing there, more sober now than drunk, her blond hair mussed, her lips full from kissing, he’d almost grabbed her and kissed her again. And he wouldn’t have stopped with kissing.
Savagely he turned his back on her and opened the passenger door of her BMW—her high school graduation present from Muffy. “Get in the car. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?” she asked, sounding devastated at the thought.
“That’s none of your business.” He hoped she would think that meant yes.
“I’ve never seen you with a girl.”
“No girlfriend of mine is going to watch while a child orders me around.”
He hadn’t had a girlfriend. When would he have had time to find one? He’d spent every hour either watching over Sonya or dealing with the disasters his father created. But his ploy had worked. Sonya didn’t say another word. And she never again tested her feminine wiles on him.
Back in the present, he took one final swing at the bag. He was out of breath and dripping with sweat, more so than the easy workout should have caused. Time hadn’t lessened the intensity of his memories one bit.
Unfortunately, his formerly easygoing friendship with Sonya had been a casualty of that ill-begotten evening. She’d never forgotten, or forgiven, his rejection. For almost ten years, he’d had to endure her coldness and hide the desire he felt for her, a desire that had only grown fiercer as she’d matured into an intriguing woman.
He’d tried to resign, and Sonya had tried to fire him—numerous times. But gradually, John-Michael had come to understand the complex dynamics of his job. If he wasn’t employed in a position that kept him constantly on hand to handle Jock, then Jock would have to go.
And to send Jock away from the Patterson estate, the only home he’d ever known, would kill him.
SONYA HADN’T REALIZED how tired she was. When next she woke, it was dark outside. She checked her clock and was horrified to discover it was after two in the morning.
Her first thought was that they’d been protecting her from bad news—“they” being John-Michael; Tim, the chauffeur; June, the secretary; and possibly Matilda, the housekeeper. Muffy’s staff had always sheltered Sonya from all unpleasantries.
She sat up, rubbed the sleep from her eyes and switched on a lamp. Her cell phone was right there next to her, with no messages. Grateful that she’d had the foresight to put the ICU’s phone number into her cell’s memory, she dialed.
“Your mother is actually doing much better,” the night nurse told her. “The new antibiotic therapy is working. She’s been drifting in and out of sleep, but she did wake up long enough to drink some water. She asked about you.”
Sonya was already on her feet. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“No, you don’t have to do that,” the nurse said firmly. “I asked your mother if she wanted me to call you, and she said no, absolutely not, that you needed your sleep.”
That sounded like Muffy, Sonya thought with a frown. The benevolent dictator, issuing orders from her sick bed.
“She’s fine, really,” the nurse insisted. “In fact, they’ll probably move her out of ICU tomorrow.”
That news brought a flood of relief. Sonya hesitated, then decided it probably would serve no good to rush to the hospital in the middle of the night if Muffy was sleeping and in no immediate danger. “If she wakes again, tell her I’ll be there first thing in the morning,” she said. “Unless she needs me sooner.”
After the call, Sonya felt better, but there was no way she was going back to sleep. She was, in fact, hungry. She’d hardly eaten a bite since Muff’s surgery several days ago. She threw on a robe and wandered downstairs to the enormous, restaurant-grade kitchen, certain there would be several tasty dishes in the fridge. That was something she could always count on.
As she entered the huge white-tile-and-chrome room, she flipped on a light so bright it hurt her eyes. The stainless steel appliances gleamed with a recent polish, and the room smelled faintly of fresh-baked bread. As top dog among Houston society mavens, Muffy often gave elaborate dinner parties, for which she had Eric, a Cordon-Bleu-trained chef, prepare gourmet delights that were sure to be written up on the society page and in the food section. And for every day, they had Eric’s mother, Matilda, a traditional Southern cook down to her bones.
The glass-fronted refrigerator was crammed with dozens of ceramic storage dishes, neatly stacked and labeled with the contents and the throwaway date. Sonya perused the labels, wrinkling her nose. She was not in the mood for Eric’s dill-crusted sea bass with Parmesan cream sauce, or marmalade-glazed pork medallions and shiitake mushrooms. Then she spotted something that appealed to her—Matilda’s macaroni and cheese. Pure comfort food and a guilty indulgence she and her mother sometimes ate when they were dining alone.
She pulled it out and stuck it in the microwave.
Slowly she realized she was no longer alone in the room. John-Michael stood in the doorway, looking adorably rumpled in gym shorts and an old T-shirt bearing the logo of Close Protection, Inc., where he’d gotten his bodyguard training.
“Are you okay?” he asked. He had this uncanny ability to know whenever she stirred at night. He always noticed when lights went on or if anyone made the slightest noise. She wondered if he ever slept or if he sat up all night, ever vigilant.
“I got hungry,” she answered. “I don’t think that’s any reason to call out the National Guard.” She immediately felt guilty for sniping at him, though. “Sorry. It’s been a rough few days. You want some macaroni and cheese?”
“Sure.” He went to the fridge and poured himself some milk. Without asking, he pulled out a bottle of her favorite cherry-flavored mineral water, uncapped it and set it out for her.
He knew her so well, probably better than her own mother did. And it irked her. She’d actually been looking forward to escaping his knowing eyes once she was married. Now that wasn’t going to happen. She saw herself in twenty years, thirty years, fifty, still single, still living in Muffy’s house, McPhee still watching over her with his eagle eyes. Still waiting for those few moments when he could escape her and go to whatever girlfriend he would undoubtedly have. He’d probably still be shadowing her every move when they were both in the nursing home. Gawd, what a depressing thought.
“I called the hospital,” she said. “Mother’s doing better. She drank some water and told the nurses not to call me.”
“Already back to her bossy self, huh?” But McPhee’s smile was of pure relief. She didn’t blame him. Muffy was a kind employer, if a tad inflexible. She paid her staff far more than the going rate to inspire their loyalty, and it worked.
But McPhee was genuinely fond of Muffy, too. As hard as Sonya was on McPhee, she knew he wasn’t completely self-serving.
When the microwave dinged, Sonya took out the dish and scooped generous portions onto white, bone-china plates with gold rims, the only kind Muffy would have in her house. She had a thing against plastic and thought stoneware was almost as bad. Sonya and McPhee sat at the kitchen table and ate with monogrammed sterling forks.
“Mmm, I love this stuff,” McPhee said.
“We better enjoy it while we can. I imagine we’ll see some changes around here when Muffy gets home. Matilda and Eric will have to prepare heart-healthy meals.”
“Matilda will screech like a banshee over that,” McPhee said.
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br /> “She’ll have to get used to it. I’ve been telling Mother for years that her diet is impossibly unhealthy. She’ll have to listen to me now.”
“Muffy never listens to anyone.”
Sonya sighed. “I know. She has her ideas about the way things should be, and nothing’s going to change them.” Certainly not Sonya, whose opinions Muffy had always considered superfluous. Muffy knew what was best, and that was that.
“Maybe if we join forces?” McPhee suggested. “Two against one.”
Sonya laughed harshly. “That would be a first. We haven’t agreed on anything since…well, since we were children.”
Since that night at the sorority party, she’d almost said. Sonya’s skin prickled at the memory, still vivid after all these years.
“I think if we present a united front,” McPhee said, “Muffy will have to pay attention.”
“Since when do you call her Muffy, anyway?”
He shrugged. “I don’t, not to her face. Just to you.”
“To irritate me.”
He didn’t deny it, just flashed that inscrutable half smile of his that drove her crazy. “Don’t worry, you’ll be rid of me soon. You haven’t officially postponed the wedding, have you?”
“No.” Another wave of guilt washed over her. But she could hardly announce she was going to call off the wedding when Muffy was still so ill. “Mother said to wait and see how she did after the surgery. Are you counting the days?”
“Only forty-nine days to go.”
She tried to hide her surprise. She’d only been kidding about counting the days. Was he that unhappy? He often aggravated her, but she wasn’t miserable with their arrangement. “Just what are you planning to do with your newfound freedom? I assume Muffy has another job for you.”
McPhee shook his head. “I’ve already applied and been accepted at the Harris County Sheriff’s Department.”
This was news to Sonya, and it shook her to the core. She had a hard time visualizing this house, this estate, without John-Michael as a constant fixture. “What about your dad?”
“Dad’s on the wagon.”
“Yes, but for how long?”
McPhee pushed his plate away without finishing, alerting Sonya to the fact that she’d ticked him off. He always cleaned his plate. “I’ve spent ten years as a virtual prisoner,” he said, “to my father, to Muffy and to you. That’s long enough. If my father does something crazy and gets himself fired, I’ll deal with it. But I’m not going to let the fear of that stop me from living. Not anymore.”
Sonya hadn’t heard much past the word “prisoner.” “If conditions are so wretched here, why didn’t you quit?” she challenged him.
“You don’t think I’ve tried? But your mother made it pretty clear. If I left, Jock had to go, too. I couldn’t do that to him. He has nowhere else to go.”
“How are things different now?”
“Your mother is being a bit more flexible, now that your future is secured and my dad’s behaving himself. I think he finally understands the consequences if he messes up again. Maybe he won’t this time.”
Sonya wanted to believe that Jock McPhee’s drinking days were over, but she found it difficult. She recalled all too well the sort of mayhem that ensued when Jock went on a bender. Once he’d driven the riding lawnmower right through the living room window and into the middle of one of Muffy’s tea parties. Another time he’d gotten a chainsaw and lopped off half of an ancient oak tree because he was tired of fishing its leaves out of the pool; he’d nearly chopped off one of his arms, as well.
Muffy should have fired Jock long ago, but she had such a soft heart she couldn’t do it. Besides, when Jock was sober, he was the best gardener in all of Houston and a very nice person. Sonya, as well, had always had a soft spot for Jock. He’d been especially kind to her when she was grieving over her father’s death.
So had McPhee. The teenage boy who’d had no use for a ten-year-old girl had suddenly stopped tormenting her. He’d started showing her small kindnesses, offering to drive her to visit friends if Tim was busy, playing volleyball with her in the pool.
That was when she’d first fallen in love with him.
Oh, hell, she didn’t want to think about that now. “Well, I wish you luck in your new career. And I’m sorry we’ve made your life so unpleasant.”
“No, you’re not,” he said with a little grin. “You did it on purpose. You’ve resented me watching your every move as much as I’ve resented having to play nursemaid to a spoiled debutante.”
Sonya laid down her fork. “Boy, you’re really taking the gloves off.”
“I feel a certain recklessness, knowing I’ll soon be free.”
“Now is not the time for me to find out you hate me,” she said. “I have enough to deal with.”
“I don’t hate you.”
“You just think I’m spoiled.”
“Anyone who doesn’t have to work for a living is spoiled. It’s not your fault you were born with so much money.”
Sonya wanted to continue the argument. Unfortunately, she knew he was right. She’d never wanted for anything in her life, something she’d taken for granted. Did that make her spoiled?
Without a good comeback, she returned her attention to her macaroni and cheese, hoping he would go away.
He did. He rinsed his plate, put it in the dishwasher and left the kitchen without another word.
Sonya felt guilty, though she didn’t know why. McPhee was such a thorn in her side, always lurking, nosy about everything she did, every person she saw. But she’d known for a long time that being her bodyguard wasn’t his dream job. It was boring. He’d never once had to protect her from anything more threatening than a pushy salesman. Yet he’d tried to make the best of it.
What a relief it would be for both of them, she supposed, if he went away. Once her mother found out Sonya wasn’t getting married, she would try to keep McPhee on the payroll. But she had a feeling his mind was made up. This time, he was really going, really moving out of her life.
A noise at the kitchen door startled Sonya. The Patterson estate had security up the wazoo. At night the gates were locked up tight, and electronic sensors around the perimeter fence would detect any intruder. But Sonya had inherited some of her mother’s paranoia, she supposed. Whenever she heard a strange noise at night, or even if a stranger looked at her funny, she mentally reviewed escape routes and the location of the nearest weapons for self-defense.
The sound at the door came again, and then the door opened. Sonya tensed, then relaxed when she recognized the nocturnal visitor. It was just Jock McPhee, John-Michael’s father, who was harmless as a baby bird so long as he hadn’t been drinking. And even drunk, he wasn’t mean, just a bit reckless.
“Hello, Jock,” Sonya said, alert for any sign that the gardener had been drinking. Jock was probably no more than five-ten, small and wiry. There was some resemblance to John-Michael in the lean face and the shape of his jaw, but that was where the resemblance ended. His coarse hair, once a dark brown, was salt-and-pepper, and it stood out from his head in unruly tufts, as if he’d just gotten out of bed. His cheeks bore a dayold, silvery beard, and his front teeth were slightly crooked, though still a bright white.
His most startling feature was his eyes, a vibrant sea blue. They hadn’t faded with age. And in this instance, they were clear and alert. No sign that he’d fallen off the wagon. His work pants were old and faded, but clean, held up by his trademark rainbow suspenders.
“Hello, Miss Sonya,” he said with a tentative smile. He spoke with the faint trace of an Irish cadence, a legacy from his home country. “I couldn’t sleep, and I saw the light. I hope you don’t mind the intrusion.”
“Of course I don’t mind. Would you like some macaroni and cheese?”
He shook his head. “I’m not very hungry these days. I just can’t seem to settle down since they carted Miss Muffy to the hospital. Nothing bad’s happened, has it?”
Sonya’s he
art went out to the man. He’d lived on the Patterson estate since he was a baby, when his mother came here to work as a cook. He and Muffy had grown up together. They often fought like a couple of bulldogs over what should be planted and where. Muffy had some old, decrepit camellia bushes that she absolutely refused to let Jock replace or even prune, though they were overgrown and past their prime, and they argued about those silly bushes on a monthly basis. But Sonya knew there was a deep, mutual fondness between the two. No one had given Jock much thought the past couple of days, but he was probably devastated over her mother’s health crisis.
“My mother is doing better,” Sonya said. “I just heard from the hospital. They might even move her out of Intensive Care tomorrow.”
“Oh, praise the heavens,” Jock said, sinking into a kitchen chair. “I’ve been just sick with worry. Is there anything I can do? Oh, of course there isn’t, but that’s what everybody asks at a time like this.”
“I’m sure my mother would appreciate your kind thoughts and prayers,” Sonya said gently.
“Do you think—would it be all right if I visited her at the hospital? I wouldn’t stay long. I could bring her a few blooms from the greenhouse.”
“She would love to see you, I’m sure. I’ll let you know as soon as she’s allowed visitors.”
“Thank you, Miss Sonya. I imagine this has put a kink in your wedding plans.”
“We may have to delay the ceremony,” she confirmed. Every time she said it, she felt relieved. When would it be appropriate for her to call the church and give up the date she’d selected, January eighth? Once the wedding was no longer scheduled, it would be easy just to never reschedule. Then it would be easier still to convince her mother she’d changed her mind about tying the knot with Marvin. Maybe she would never have to tell Muffy what a fool she’d been, allowing Marvin to fleece her. The whole subject of Marvin could just quietly disappear.
“I was looking forward to making your wedding bouquet myself,” Jock said quietly. “I know you’ve hired a big fancy florist to do all the arrangements, but I was hoping…well, I have some of the most beautiful roses you’ve ever seen in the greenhouse.”
