Because a Husband Is Forever

by Marie Ferrarella

  That we will, Dakota thought.

  Reaching the perimeter of the soundstage where her show was taped, she saw that the crew had already assembled. Billy Webster, a comedian she’d seen at one of the local comedy clubs and liked instantly, was out in front of the curtain, warming up the audience for her. He was nearing the end of his monologue.

  That meant that they were going to be on the air in less than five minutes. Dakota glanced at the last-minute fill-in at her side. Standing ramrod straight, he looked even taller than he was. And more foreboding, if that was even possible. She needed this man to be more fluid, or at least in some kind of condition that didn’t immediately bring Dutch elm disease to mind.

  Usually, the touch of her hand and the warm look in her eyes was enough.

  But not today.

  Positioning herself so that he was forced to see only her, she tried again. “Look, the process is a lot easier if you forget about the audience and just talk to me,” she coaxed. “Tell me why I’d want to hire your firm instead of some other. Most important, I want the audience to understand the difference between what you do and what they’ve seen in the movies.”

  “I get it. Kind of like reality TV,” Randy interjected.

  Her eyes shifted to Randy’s face for a moment. “Something like that.”

  Instincts she’d been blessed with told her that she would undoubtedly have a better show, or at least a better chance of attaining one, if she directed her questions and the interview toward tree man’s partner. Unless she missed her guess, Randy Taylor seemed to be a live wire, capable of talking the ears off an African elephant.

  But she was her parents’ stubborn daughter. Given a choice, she had never picked the easier way. If she had, she’d be lolling on some absurd flotation device in her parents’ Beverly Hills pool, absorbing the California sun and letting life just drift by.

  She lived for challenges, and right now the close-mouthed Ian Russell was her challenge. Besides, although both men were notably good-looking, it was Ian Russell who rightfully earned the label of tall, dark and handsome.

  Dark. Dakota couldn’t help wondering if that went clear down to his soul. From the look in his eyes, she was willing to bet that it did.

  The show’s director caught her eye and nodded. Which meant her introduction was coming. She gave the bodyguard’s arm a quick squeeze.

  “My cue’s coming up,” she said suddenly. “Zee will send you two out as soon as I announce your names.” She paused to add, “Remember, this is going to be fun.” With this, Dakota vanished from the small space, leaving him behind the curtain with Randy and the production assistant.

  Ian frowned. It was obvious that he and the incredibly perky blonde had completely different definitions of the word fun. To be honest, he wasn’t sure if he defined anything as fun. The absence of tension was good enough for him. And right now he wished he was in that state.

  It annoyed him that he could feel his adrenaline kicking in. That was supposed to happen when he was faced with a fight-or-flight situation, not because he was going to be sitting on some overly warm soundstage, looking into the eyes of some motor-mouth talk-show hostess while he was waiting to be humiliated.

  Actually, that had already happened. And it would only get worse.

  He looked at his partner accusingly. “Don’t know why I let you talk me into this,” he growled, his deep voice even lower.

  Unfazed, Randy shook his head. “Because, at bottom you know I’m right.”

  “At bottom,” Ian echoed. The soft buzz of the woman’s voice floated backstage. He couldn’t make out the words, only that the audience was laughing in response. His discomfort grew.

  “Right now I’d rather be at the bottom of some lake than waiting to be stripped bare in front of—” he turned toward MacKenzie suddenly “—how big did you say that the audience was?”

  Her expression told him that didn’t think this was the time to repeat that particular statistic. She probably thought he’d get stage fright. If that was the case, she was dead wrong. It didn’t matter to him if there was one person sitting out there or one million. The numbers didn’t change the fact that he didn’t like the prospect he was about to face.

  “We need the publicity,” Randy had insisted when he’d brought the idea to him. He’d presented it right after a week had passed with both of them staying at the office, waiting for the phone to ring. It didn’t seem to matter to Randy that the week had come on the heels of three very hectic months where neither of them had had more than a day off at a time.

  Even when they’d been on the force together, his partner’s mind was always racing ahead, always thinking about the next case that would come their way. In a moment of weakness, Ian had given in to his partner about this show. Giving in to Randy was something he rarely did and never with this kind of consequence.

  Makeup. He’d been asked to wear makeup, for pity’s sake. He should have walked out then, leaving Randy holding the bag, instead of allowing that Delany woman to take over and actually apply some to his face. He didn’t care what the reasons were, a man’s face was not made to have makeup on it.

  As if to reinforce his convictions, he could feel his skin growing itchy. Could feel himself growing itchy, as well. Itchy to get the hell out of here.

  Ian turned on his heel, ready to put thought into action, only to find the little production assistant blocking his way. The look in her green eyes forbade him to move.

  Like that could actually stop him, Ian thought. It would have taken no effort at all just to place his hands on her shoulders and lift her out of the way.

  “Don’t even think it,” MacKenzie warned, digging the heels of her soft leather boots into the floor.

  Ian’s eyes narrowed even as he fought back a grin. He always admired displays of courage, even baseless courage. But before he could say anything to Dakota’s second-in-command, he heard his name being called. Ian instinctively stiffened. The fledgling grin faded.

  Taylor clapped his hand on his shoulder. “That’s us, Russell.”

  Turning to look toward the set, Ian felt the little brunette’s hands on the small of his back. The next moment she was pushing him in the direction of the set. Rather than take the lead the way he was so inclined to do, this time Randy fell into place behind him. Which meant that if he wanted to leave, he was going to have to send them both flying out of his way.

  All right, so not today.

  Muttering an oath about Taylor’s not-so-distant lineage under his breath, Ian squared his shoulders and began to walk out toward the set.

  The noise level seemed to grow with each step he took.

  “You owe me, Taylor,” he growled at his partner. “Big-time.”

  “We’ll settle up later,” Randy promised through lips that barely moved. The next moment he smiled broadly. “Smile, damn it, Ian,” Randy hissed. “We’re not exactly walking out to face a firing squad.”

  “Might as well be.”

  Stoically Ian pushed back the curtain and walked out, blinking as he tried to accustom his eyes to the bright lights. He forced himself to endure this and made an effort to change his expression. He wasn’t about to become some grinning hyena. But he knew that if he continued to look as somber as he felt, not only would business not grow, it might even drop off.

  Dakota deliberately made eye contact with the taller of the two men, smiling warmly and willing him to loosen up. He looked as if he expected her to start poking at him with a hot branding iron.

  “And here they are now, folks.” Placing herself temporarily between the two men, she escorted them the final ten steps to the set.

  An arm hooked through each of theirs, Dakota nodded first to the right. “I want you to meet Ian Russell,” she said warmly, then nodded to the left, “and Randy Taylor, the two men who pooled their considerable abilities to form Bodyguard, Inc.” Gesturing for the men to take a seat on the cream-colored Italian leather sofa, she sat down on the overstuffed armchair that faced
them. Only then did she glance toward her audience. “Not a very flashy name, I know, but it gets its message across, and I’m a firm believer that sometimes simple is best.”

  The woman probably wouldn’t know simple if it bit her, Ian thought. Because of the nature of his work, he was more than passingly acquainted with celebrity types. The moment any kind of fame came their way, they lost all perspective, became little demigod dictators without any sense of reality. Opulence became their king, not simplicity.

  “What these men provide,” Dakota was telling her audience, “is a very basic service.” A chuckle rose from the middle of the crowd, swelling and working its way to the outer perimeter until it seemed to encompass most of the room. “Okay, minds out of the gutter, people,” Dakota instructed with a laugh. “It’s not that kind of service.” Although, she could see why her audience, comprised predominantly of women, would think so, given the men they were ogling at. “It’s protection. These men are modern-day white knights. Ian,” she said, suddenly turning toward him, “why would I come to you?”

  “What?”

  He’d allowed his mind to wander, and Dakota had caught him completely off guard with her question. He’d been convinced that for the most part, since she appeared to be a savvy-looking woman, the talk-show hostess would know to focus her attention on and direct her questions to Taylor. Anyone could see that his partner was obviously the more gregarious of the two. Scratch that. “More” had nothing to do with it. He was the only gregarious one of the two of them.

  Maybe Ms. Dakota Delany wasn’t as savvy as he thought she was.

  Dakota shifted in her seat, her body language telling him that despite his hesitation, she wasn’t backing off. Her attention was completely focused on him.

  Damn you, Taylor, he thought, hating the trapped feeling that threatened to possess him.

  “There are a lot of other companies out there,” she persisted, her blue eyes never leaving his face. “Companies that are more established than yours. They all offer bodyguard service—something,” she said in an aside to the audience, adding a familiar wink, “that I would personally never avail myself of.” Her audience must be aware she had an aversion to having a paid-for shadow following her every move. She looked back at Ian. “Why come to you?”

  His eyes met hers dead-on, letting her know he didn’t appreciate being placed on the spot. He was here as a silent support, a nonverbal backup. He wasn’t the firm’s spokesperson. “Because we’ll get the job done,” he told her simply.

  Randy finally rode to the rescue. “Between us we’ve got fifteen years of experience on the force,” he interjected. “And we know the kind of precautions that need to be taken.”

  Dakota glanced at the silver clipboard MacKenzie had shoved into her hands at the last minute. Typed notes in neat, short paragraphs summarized the men and their firm. Already familiar with what was written there, she looked only to reinforce herself.

  “That’s right, both of you are former homicide detectives.” Turning toward the audience, she winked and said in her intimate way, “I do believe I feel safer already.”

  If Ian was hoping to catch a respite, the next moment found him disappointed. Dakota’s attention was back on him.

  “Being a former homicide detective makes you more familiar with the criminal mind than the average bodyguard might be.” She leaned into him, effectively blocking out the audience and making this a conversation between the two of them. “Tell me, why did you leave the force?”

  Randy was ready for this one. He had a pat answer all prepared, dealing with their wanting to grow as people, with their feeling that it was time to strike out on their own, etcetera.

  But just as he opened his mouth to reply, Ian was the one who replied, “Too much paperwork.”

  Delighted by the honesty, the studio audience roared in response.

  The laughter surprised Ian. He hadn’t expected this kind of reaction. He certainly hadn’t said it to be clever. He’d said it because it was true. Too much paperwork and too much red tape had driven him and then Taylor away from NYPD. There were too many rules to follow, and in his opinion a great many of them got in the way of doing decent police work.

  Some of the other rules were just too damn frustrating. He’d seen too many bad guys go free on technicalities. So much so that one day, he, the son of a cop and the grandson of a cop, didn’t want to be part of that system anymore.

  Protecting people, men, women, and especially children, from any impending dangers meant something. He felt it made a difference. Enough of a difference for him to change what he’d thought was his life’s calling in order to form this partnership with Taylor.

  Actually, the company had been Taylor’s idea, fashioned one lazy, sweltering-hot New York summer afternoon as they sat in O’Hara’s, nursing two well-deserved beers.

  The moment the suggestion had come out of Taylor’s mouth, he remembered taking to it wholeheartedly. Ian knew that Taylor had espoused the idea because he felt that there was a great deal of money to be made, protecting the rich and famous. His own reasons were different. He’d taken to it because, the way he saw it, there was a difference to be made. Even the rich and famous deserved to be free of fear.

  The laughter died down. Ian wasn’t following up his words so Dakota pushed a little bit more, hoping to get the reluctant guest to speak on his own volition. She had a feeling that once this man finally became vocal, he would have things to say that were worth hearing.

  “Any other reason than your dislike of putting things down on paper?” she asked innocently.

  Ian realized that just for the tiniest slice of a second, he’d gotten lost in her eyes, lost in her expression. Had to be the hot lights. They were all over the place and so intense they could make a grown man dizzy if he wasn’t careful.

  “Yeah, I like keeping people safe.”

  The smile Dakota gave him in response to his answer made him feel as if warm butter flowed in his veins.

  Reorienting himself to the immediate situation, he glanced at his watch. Only three minutes had gone by. That meant there were seventeen more minutes to endure, seventeen more minutes pregnant with sixty seconds apiece.

  Eternity loomed before him like a dark specter.

  Suppressing a groan, he sincerely began to miss his stakeout days.

  Chapter Three

  Dakota knew in her bones that the segment would be good.

  She knew if she could just move her less-than-talkative guest in the right direction, the audience would meet him more than halfway. Once that was accomplished, this portion of her program would be off and flying.

  She did what she could to make it happen.

  Rather than ask what the audience could do to protect themselves against a potential stalker, Dakota had given her question a more personal ring by asking what he, Ian Russell, would do to protect a woman who came to him seeking help. As he cleared his throat, a hush fell over her normally boisterous audience. It was as if every woman there was hanging on his every word, probably envisioning herself as a damsel in distress being rescued by this modern-day Galahad.

  Everyone loved this kind of fantasy. Dakota was counting on it.

  Ian didn’t disappoint her.

  Even though his response was mostly technical, it was enough to arouse the imaginations of the women in the audience. Randy was quick to chime in, augmenting points here and there, adding layers to the audience’s daydream. And it didn’t hurt any to have the two men casually mention successfully foiling a kidnapping attempt of one of their clients.

  As she listened, the details had a very familiar ring. Her eyes widened.

  “That was Rebecca Anderson,” Dakota suddenly realized out loud. Six months ago the story about the A-list actress and her would-be kidnapper had made all the major papers, not to mention the rounds of evening tabloid TV. “You two were responsible for saving her?” How could she have missed something like that? Dakota upbraided herself silently.

  “Act
ually, Ian was.” Randy looked at his partner with the kind of pride that only the closest camaraderie bred.

  Well, that explained why she didn’t know, Dakota thought. The man probably vanished at the first sign of a reporter, like any superhero caught slipping into his secret identity.

  Dakota looked at the man on the sofa, no small amount of admiration flooding through her veins. She recalled that the kidnapper had been a burly, giant of a man who must have had seventy pounds and five inches on Ian. The lightest thing about the stalker had been his mind, which had clearly taken a holiday when it came to the subject of the glamorous Rebecca Anderson. When the police took him away, he was screaming that Rebecca was his wife, that she’d promised undying love to him and he was going to see to it that she never looked at another man ever again.

  Dakota leaned into Ian and asked in a stage whisper, “Want to talk about it some more?”

  If there was a man who was less uncomfortable than Ian Russell at this moment, she would gladly have paid for his passage to oblivion.

  “No,” Ian replied.

  “Okay then, it’s time for questions and answers,” she glibly informed her audience.

  The moment the words were out of her mouth, a veritable sea of hands shot up, all waving madly to catch her attention. Dakota didn’t recall ever having seen so many hands raised as she did this afternoon. Delighted, she got started, selecting women at random.

  Ten minutes later there was no indication that the questions were going to abate in the near future. Addressing questions to both men, the audience was leaning sixty-forty toward Ian.

  Dakota briefly debated terminating the segment, then decided to go for it and let it continue. When you had a hit on your hands, you just kept going. Wasn’t that something her grandfather had once taught her? So, Dakota “just kept going.”

  It was evident to her that the last-minute interview would go down as one of her best. There was no doubt in her mind that the segment was an unqualified hit.

  As it ran over its allotted time slot, Dakota made a quick decision to ask Joe Lansing, their musical guest, to return the next day in order to showcase his new CD. A twenty-year veteran of the business, Lansing was far too much of a professional not to know that when you found yourself holding lightning in a bottle, you didn’t set it down.