The Bodyguard

by Sheryl Lynn

  Tears had washed away the cosmetics from her lower face, and the skin beneath was blotchy and sallow. She looked every one of her sixty-four years, and then some. Her eyes blazed with fearsome, glittering light—focused directly on Frankie.

  “Murderer,” she said, harsh and low and full of hatred.

  Realizing the woman meant her, Frankie pressed against the table with nowhere to run.

  Unwavering, Belinda pointed at Frankie’s face. Diamonds and colored gemstones sparkled on her hand and wrist. A single tear tracked her withered cheek. “You did this. You and that wretched little sister of yours. You murdered my baby, and if it takes every penny I own, if it takes the rest of my life, I will see you pay.”

  Chapter Five

  Being suspected of murder through innuendo angered Frankie; for Belinda Caulfield to accuse her directly stunned her. Unable to form a single word she stared into the woman’s tearful eyes.

  “Arrest this woman,” Belinda said, her voice ringing with command.

  Max Caulfield loomed behind his wife. Frankie’s throat went dry as awful memories collided with this present horror. To Max she’d opened her heart, mind and body, shared all her fears and joys, and offered him her trust. After so many years of battling bureaucrats and the greed of her father’s family, after sacrificing her youth for Penny’s care, she’d thought she found the one person with whom she could let down her guard.

  She searched his face for compassion and understanding, perhaps protection from his anguished wife.

  Max placed his hands on his wife’s shoulders and murmured close to her ear. Belinda closed her eyes. Her swaddling of fur jiggled as if wind brushed. The woman seemed to shrink, melting, until Max was actually holding her upright.

  “She murdered him,” she whispered plaintively. “She killed my baby. Do something, Maxie, do something.”

  Max guided her to a chair where she bent over with her face on her hands. He lifted his head and his cool, dark gaze grazed Frankie, but failed to linger.

  Frankie read nothing in his coldly handsome face. The hurt of his betrayal felt fresh again. Every muscle in her body tightened and ached.

  “My wife requires medical attention,” Max said. Still without looking at Frankie, he added, “And it might be best if you leave, Miss Forrest. You are upsetting her.”

  Hot spots flared on Frankie’s face. She sensed all eyes upon her. “I didn’t kill Julius,” she said through clenched teeth. Nobody paid her any attention. Unable to bear Belinda’s sobs she slunk out of the dining room.

  McKennon waited outside the door. He reached as if to stop her, but she stepped around him and threw up a hand to ward him away. “The boss needs you,” she snarled. She forced herself to walk, not run.

  She took refuge in Elise’s office. With both hands, she quietly closed the door. Cold from the inside out, she tucked her hands beneath her armpits.

  Feeling lonely and out of place she wandered the small office. She ached for Penny and she ached for Belinda, too. As much as she hated Belinda, the stark grief in the woman’s eyes had touched her. She dropped onto the love seat and curled her legs beneath her. She hugged a throw pillow to her chest.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered, “I know I don’t pray enough. I’m not good enough. But Penny is innocent, she’s good. Keep her safe, please? Take me, kill me, blow me up with lightning, but let her be safe. Please, God, just let her be okay.” She closed her eyes and hugged the pillow tighter, praying over and over with all her heart.

  SHAKING ROCKED FRANKIE and she muttered irritably for her tormenter to leave her alone. The shaking continued while a soft voice urged her to awaken.

  She opened one eye. Slowly McKennon’s face came into focus. Contacts, she mused. Maybe contact lenses made his eyes so green. No, at this distance his eyes were clearly without the telltale cap of contacts. He smelled like soap in a rainstorm, heavenly. She inhaled his scent which roused a strange familiarity within her breast. He smelled exactly the way she imagined a man should smell.

  “How come,” she asked, and her tongue felt as thick and sticky as week-old oatmeal, “you aren’t married?”

  “It would be too much bother to housebreak me.”

  “You have a house? I figured Max just stuck you in a closet at night.”

  He chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Wake up.”

  Realization flooded through her, snapping her wide-awake. Penny! She shoved frantically at the woolly weight over her side.

  “Hey, hey, calm down. Everything is all right.”

  She blinked rapidly until Aunt Elise’s pastel office came into focus. She struggled upright and rested on an elbow. Her neck creaked. Someone had covered her with a crocheted afghan. She’d fallen asleep on the love seat.

  Afraid she’d missed some important development, she flung the afghan away. “Is there news? Did they find her?”

  “Not yet.” He rested a hand against her cheek.

  Befuddled by the dimness—it couldn’t be dark outside! —she peered owlishly at her surroundings. A small Tiffany-style lamp cast rosy light from the desk. His fingertips caressed her cheek. Arrested by the intensity of his expression, she leaned into the warm comfort of his touch.

  A frown line deepened between his brows. He swallowed hard.

  “I should have been nicer to you before.” She swallowed hard herself.

  “I always knew your bark was worse than your bite.” He snatched his hand from her face and sat back on his heels. He turned his head, and the frown deepened.

  A funny feeling lodged in her throat. McKennon acted nice because he was nice, only she’d been too stubborn to acknowledge it before. She might not be in this predicament if she’d fallen for a decent guy like him, instead of for a self-centered, cold-blooded rotter like Max Caulfield.

  She rolled her stiff neck. Her feet were asleep, tingling with impending pins and needles. She rubbed her eyes. “I can‘t’ believe I fell asleep.”

  “You needed it.” He rose and stretched. He looked weary himself.

  He was a big man, with a deep chest and heavy shoulders, but his belly was flat and his hips were trim. Frankie liked him better dressed in flannel and denim than in his usual somber suits. Catching herself staring too intently at the way denim molded over his hips and thighs, she scowled at a scab on her finger. Cat had scratched her the other day.

  “How’s Belinda?” she asked, cautiously. She raked her fingers through her tangled hair.

  “She’s in bad shape. If she isn’t better in a few hours she’ll be airlifted to Denver. Mr. Caulfield is worried about her heart. She has angina.”

  “She called me a murderer.” She spoke with more sadness than anger. “I can’t believe she blames me.”

  “Don’t take it personally. She’s a blamer.”

  “Easy for you to say. She isn’t blaming you.” She gave up trying to order her hair. She smacked her dry lips and walked over to the ceramic watercooler in a corner. Two cups of cold water refreshed her immensely. “Is there any progress at all?”

  He sat on the love seat and stretched out his legs. Arching his back, he clasped his hands and stretched, reaching for the ceiling. Sipping water, Frankie surreptitiously admired his sinuously feline grace.

  “The state cops are handling the murder, and the FBI is handling the kidnapping. Exactly what any of them are doing, I have no idea.”

  “Do they have any leads?”

  A slight grin turned his mouth crooked. “They ask the questions.” He folded his hands over his belly. “The coroner took Julius. All the resort guests are checked out. The state police has coordinated a manhunt, but I suspect the FBI is calling the shots and keeping the police presence low-key in order to protect Penny. That’s all I know.”

  “This is killing my aunt and uncle. The resort is their whole life.”

  “Mrs. Duke said she’ll do the spring cleaning early.”

  She paced aimlessly in the confines of the office. She felt caged, helpless. “Wh
at about the media? Anything on the television? Radio?”

  “Surprisingly enough, no.”

  She passed a shaky hand over her face. Eyes closed, she pictured Max Caulfield, so icy and calm. She realized now he’d always been cold. He was the kind of man who knew what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to go after it. She’d admired him for it, once upon a time, and been dazzled by his aggressive manliness and self-control. After seeing him in the dining room, handling the situation without a trace of emotion, she couldn’t imagine why she’d ever thought him attractive. Or capable of love.

  She sat beside McKennon and crossed her arms. She looked him straight in the eyes. “It’s Max. He murdered Julius.”

  McKennon quirked an eyebrow.

  “He hates waste. Wasted time, wasted effort, wasted money. Julius is, or was, a total waste of time. Max set this up. Julius’s death was no accident.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Why? Because he signs your paycheck?” As soon as the words emerged, she regretted them.

  As if her insulting comment failed to affect him, he fingered his chin and frowned thoughtfully. “Caulfield is ruthless, but he has no motive to murder Julius. Or to hurt Penny. Besides, this is too elaborate. It smacks of an amateur.”

  “Yeah, yeah, and Max is no amateur. Which is exactly why he’d pull something like this. No one would suspect him.”

  “Julius has minimal impact on Caulfield’s life. And the risk is too great. If he messes up, he loses his wife’s money.”

  Frankie sought holes in his argument, but couldn’t find any. She didn’t have firsthand knowledge of what went on in the Bannerman estate, and McKennon did. Even so, she hated letting go of Max as the villain. He fit the villainous role so perfectly.

  “Maybe this isn’t coming from Julius’s side of the fence. Has Penny said anything to you about any threats in the past few months? Or even anything unusual? Somebody she knows might have gotten some ideas when he found out she was marrying Julius.”

  Unable to face him, she pressed a fist to the base of her throat.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Shame coursed through her and clashed with deep regrets. “Penny and I haven’t talked much in the past few months.” Her chest tightened, and a lump formed in her throat. “We had a big fight when school started. She went skiing with friends instead of coming home for Christmas.”

  “What did you fight about?”

  In hindsight, it seemed that ever since the Bannermans had entered their lives, she and Penny had done nothing except fight. She lifted a shoulder. “Julius. Her classes. Declaring a major. You name it.”

  “I see.”

  “I don’t know how I screwed up so bad. I don’t know what I did wrong.” She turned to him. “Did you see her at the chapel? She hates me.”

  “She doesn’t hate you.”

  “Then why did she get married? Why is any of this happening?”

  “You can’t blame yourself. I can’t say I know Penny well, but from what I’ve seen she’s a determined young woman.”

  Determined. That described Penny perfectly. For all her sweet appearance and charming smiles, Penny often shocked people with how stubborn she could be. Frankie remembered the battle over her mom’s grave. In keeping with practicality and their mother’s wish that her insurance money be used for her daughters, Frankie had ordered a simple brass marker. Penny had been outraged. Only a marble headstone engraved with angels and lambs would do. In a campaign lasting months, she’d pestered, pleaded and argued. When the girl began going around the neighborhood with a soup can in which to collect donations, Frankie had relented.

  She realized her biggest mistake had been in forbidding Penny to see Julius. She’d lost the war as soon as she opened her mouth.

  “It’s been awful,” she said quietly. “She wouldn’t take my calls or return them. The only time I talked to her was when I went to the university and hunted her down.”

  “You’re more like mother and daughter than sisters. Maybe it’s a necessary separation thing.”

  She held up a hand, palm out. “Don’t give me any psychobabble nonsense.” Even as she snapped at him, she sensed the truth. To her dismay, tears sprang to the fore, and no amount of will could dam them. She jammed both heels of her hands against her eyes.

  “Hey, hey, things will turn out all right.”

  All she could do was shake her head.

  “This isn’t your fault.” His weight on the love seat caused her to roll slightly toward him. Then his arm was around her, and she pressed her face against his shoulder. He petted her hair. “None of this is your fault, Frankie. We’ll get her back. I promise. You’ll make things right between you.”

  His flannel shirt made her hot forehead itch. The sensation distracted her enough to get her emotions under control. Snuffling, she rubbed furiously at her face. She managed a nod. “Sorry...don’t usually fall apart.”

  He kept holding her. Continued petting her. His lips brushed her forehead. Realization about what he did hit with a jolt. She lifted her gaze to his. He appeared as startled and discomfited as she felt. His biceps flexed against her shoulder. His hand made a convulsive movement against her back, sending shock waves down her spine. She hated herself for the impulses making her nerves jump, and worse, muddying her thoughts.

  “Uh...” Her cheeks warmed.

  His face darkened and he compressed his lips. His eyes seemed to burn, the golden flecks in the green sparking like embers. His scent, somehow luxurious, filled her head and made her dizzy.

  “I need a drink of water,” she whispered. She wanted him to kiss her again and take away all the pain.

  “I’ll get it for you.” He made no move to rise.

  She wanted him to stay—she desperately needed him to go. Confusion held her fast. Were this one of the dreams in which he starred she’d be jumping his bones. But it wasn’t a dream, it was a nightmare, and Penny was in terrible danger and J. T. McKennon was the last man on earth she wanted, or needed.

  She pressed upward, compelled by his mouth, hungry for a kiss—

  “Cute.”

  Max Caulfield’s dry voice snapped Frankie from her spell. Gasping, she shoved at McKennon’s chest and scrambled to her feet. McKennon rose, as well, but gracefully, his expression now as cool as if he’d slipped on a mask.

  Arms crossed, Max leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb. A faint smile tweaked the corners of his lips, but his dark eyes were as sharp and humorless as ever. She hated him with every fiber of her being.

  “Still sneaking around, spying on people, huh?” she snapped.

  His disdain for her came through loud and clear. He wore the same icy smirk he’d worn when he’d dumped her. The relaxed body language that said he considered her of less significance than a bug. A bug he’d squashed beneath his feet and walked away from without a second thought.

  She wanted to hurt him. Slap the smugness off his face. Knock him in the head and see some emotion in his eyes. Make him pay for the past and the present.

  He glanced at McKennon. Emotion flickered across his face, a slight drop of an eyebrow, a flash of annoyance perhaps.

  A crazed impulse gripped her. Max hated to share, and he hated even more when the bugs he crushed got back on their feet. She wrapped an arm around McKennon’s lean waist and snuggled up close to him. Forcing a smile, she said, “What do you want, Max? You’re interrupting.”

  He scratched his chin with one manicured fingernail.

  How, she wondered, had she ever thought him sexy? Wonderful? Husband material? He was slime.

  “Close the door on your way out. J.T. and I don’t care for an audience, thank you very much.”

  “Is that so?”

  She rubbed a hand suggestively over McKennon’s broad chest. “Yeah, that’s so. I really should have sent you a thank-you card for introducing us. Mc—J.T. is a whole lot better in bed than you ever were.”

  He dropped his arms. His dark eyes blazed. “Always the classy
broad.” He turned on his heel, tossing over his shoulder, “McKennon, come with me. I need to talk to you.”

  Appalled by what she’d done, Frankie sprang away from the big man. All she could do was stare at him with her mouth hanging open and her face feeling as if it might incinerate.

  McKennon passed a hand over the side of his hair. He tugged at his shirt collar, straightening it. He slid a look at the doorway then back to her. “Hope your little joke was worth it, Miss Forrest. You just got me fired.”

  J.T. FOLLOWED HIS BOSS down a long corridor. As he walked, in no hurry to catch up, he pondered the situation. He should be angry at Frankie for pulling such a stupid stunt. He doubted Caulfield felt any jealousy or insecurity about an affair between his chief security expert and his ex-fiancée, but he would not tolerate having the two of them in a position to exchange notes.

  Except, he felt no anger. By remaining silent he’d played along. He could have pushed her away or denied an affair. Instead, he’d let her poke at Caulfield, and even enjoyed it a little bit. That flare of emotion on the boss’s face had been strangely satisfying.

  Watching Caulfield’s rigid back and listening to the crisp crack of his shoes on the wooden flooring, J.T. decided he felt relieved. No more Caulfield and his increasingly arrogant attitude. No more sitting through long-winded bull sessions, during which Caulfield extolled his own prowess and wove fantasies about crushing his enemies. No more tolerating Belinda Caulfield’s self-absorbed demands.

  No more big, fat paycheck.

  He mentally ran through his financial situation. Insurance for Jamie had run out long ago, so he was stuck paying the entire monthly bill of five thousand dollars. Consultations with specialists, physical therapies and occasional emergencies added to the cost. He drove a ten-year-old car, lived in a cheap apartment and eschewed credit cards and entertainment. His only real expense was his wardrobe; Caulfield insisted his security people look like top professionals. He squirreled away any extra money for Jamie’s future. Someday his son would need tutors, then there would be college.