Loving the Bodyguard

by Noelle Adams

  Maybe it was unprofessional, but Claire desperately wanted to see it again.

  Since she could hardly admit that to her bodyguard, she said instead, “If you really want to be unprofessional, you might think about cracking a smile every once in a while.”

  Three

  Claire ducked into a small anteroom off the entertainment areas of her father’s mansion and took a few ragged breaths.

  Her heart raced brutally, and she was momentarily nauseated as she fought another wave of anxiety.

  She walked over to an ornate wall mirror and pretended to be primping, just in case one of the guests wandered in and wondered what she was doing.

  At the moment, however, the room was blessedly empty.

  She’d made a last-minute appointment at her salon that afternoon so she would be presentable for the party. She’d gotten some lighter blond highlights in her hair, which they’d blown out into a smooth, shiny fall around her shoulders. They’d given her a manicure and pedicure and even done her makeup. She wore a slinky chocolate brown sheathe gown and her favorite gold-tone heels. She thought she looked as pretty as it was possible for her to look.

  But her cheeks weren’t as rosy as usual now, and her eyes looked unusually large. It felt like she was staring at a sexy, sophisticated stranger.

  She took a few minutes to catch her breath. Then knew she needed to go back out.

  She’d been standing near her father for the last half-hour, trying to reply sensibly to the hordes of guests who came over to talk to her. She’d become more and more tongue-tied and self-conscious as the minutes passed until she’d finally had to escape. If she didn’t return soon, though, her father would worry. And people would wonder why she’d barely put in an appearance at the party before she disappeared.

  She sucked in a deep breath and tried to gird herself for battle.

  She would go back now. She would smile and be charming. She would casually chat about the latest movies, debate local politics, and complain about taxes. She wouldn’t freeze up or shut down mid-conversation.

  She would pretend to be someone else—someone who was able to work the room and be the center of attention.

  She gripped the back of a chair and didn’t move.

  The door to the anteroom swung open, and she gasped before she realized it was just Michael. He’d been waiting outside the door for her, but maybe he was worried because she was taking so long.

  He wore a dark evening suit, and he wore it so well she’d lost her breath earlier when she first saw him. His suit looked expensive—she even wondered if it had been tailored to fit his broad shoulders and long limbs so smoothly. He must have shaven again that afternoon because otherwise he’d be bristly this late in the day. His eyes looked startlingly blue.

  She’d seen him in eveningwear before, but ever since she’d experienced that bizarre attraction earlier today, she couldn’t look at him without feeling it again.

  “Ready?” he asked with his normal expression of bland inquiry. He nodded toward the party, the buzz of voices audible through the closed door.

  She nodded, trying and failing to smile as the instinctive attraction was smothered in a new wave of fear about reentering the room full of strangers.

  She managed to take two steps toward Michael but then stalled again.

  “We can leave in another half-hour.”

  She looked at him blankly for a few seconds until she realized he was trying to be encouraging. She appreciated the rare gesture, so she nodded again. This time, when she tried to smile, she took a loud, raspy inhalation instead. Embarrassed, she stared down at the floor. Her pretty toe nails were peeking out of her shiny shoes.

  She usually did better than this—even at cocktail parties, which were the worst of her social horrors. She could usually put on a mask that hid her real feelings. The stress from earlier in the day and from the last two months of being surrounded by bodyguards must have intensified her normal responses, and she couldn’t maintain her mask this evening.

  “Do you need me to talk to your father?”

  She wasn’t looking at him, but she recognized his voice as gentler than normal. He felt sorry for her. He thought she was going to cave.

  She wasn’t going to cave.

  She shook her head urgently and stiffened her shoulders as she met his eyes.

  “Okay. Then let’s get out there.” He stepped over to her side and put a familiar hand on her back, urging her out of the room.

  She let him guide her to the door but, just before they reached it, she resisted the force of his hand.

  She dropped her eyes and shut down for a few seconds.

  When she looked back up, Michael was waiting patiently. “Who do you know out there?” he asked, unusually quiet.

  She swallowed. “No one.”

  “That’s not true. Don’t think of it as a room full of people. Think of the individuals. Tell me who you know. Who have you liked talking to in the past?”

  She scowled at him, since he was being bossy, but he stared at her like he was expecting an answer.

  Because she wasn’t in any state to argue, she thought about the question. “Parker Bowles is here. He has eleven grandkids he likes to talk about. One of the girls is really shy and never wants to do anything but read.”

  Michael nodded. “Who else?”

  She tried to remembered, but the room outside was just a blur.

  He opened the door halfway so she could look out. “Who do you know?”

  She took a quick look around the room before she pulled back. “Rosemary Turner has two huge Neapolitan Mastiffs. They’re like big teddy bears. I went to a party at her place with my dad last year and spent the whole time playing with the dogs.”

  “Good. Who else?”

  “Gino Martin and his wife own an art studio. They’ve got a really good eye for contemporary art.”

  “Okay,” Michael said. “You’ll go talk to Bowles about his grandkids. Then you’ll talk to Rosemary about her dogs. Then you’ll talk to the Martins about any new art they’ve acquired. By then it will be time for you to leave.”

  It sounded easy. It sounded simple. It sounded like something she could do. She liked talking to people when they were by themselves and not all gathered in a huge mob in the same space.

  “It’s not a room full of people,” Michael murmured, placing his hand beneath her shoulder blades again. Her dress was cut low in the back, and she was suddenly conscious of the feel of his palm against her bare skin. “It’s three private conversations with people you know and like. Bowles. Rosemary. The Martins. Then you’re done.”

  She straightened up, taking one more breath. “What if they don’t want to talk to me?”

  “Of course, they’ll want to talk to you.” Michael’s voice sounded inexplicably thicker so she looked up at his face, not very far from hers.

  “Believe it or not, I’ve never been the most popular person at any party.” She tried for a wry smile and almost managed it.

  He shook his head. “That’s only because you hide from people. You don’t let them get to know you. Claire, if you let them see who you really are, every person in that room would adore you.”

  She gulped and gazed up at him with wide eyes, her heart racing again but for an entirely different reason.

  She saw something in his eyes—something real, deep, irresistible. “Really?” she breathed stupidly.

  “They would adore you. I promise you it’s true.”

  Claire swayed toward him, wanting to kiss him so much she almost just pulled his face down toward hers. Her blood coursed through her veins, and a ripple of excited pleasure swept over her. Only a loud laugh from not far outside the door stopped her, distracted her.

  Michael gave his head a strange little shake, and that very particular look disappeared from his eyes. “Ready?”

  She was a bit disoriented by the swell of feeling she’d just experienced, but at least she wasn’t panicking anymore. “Ready.”

&n
bsp; Then she walked out into the room.

  ***

  She made it forty-seven minutes, rather than just a half-hour. She would have made it even longer because Parker Bowles wouldn’t stop talking about his grandchildren. She’d had to talk to Rosemary and the Martins first because Parker was occupied when she’d first come back out.

  Claire was mid-conversation with him—not incredibly stimulated by the good-hearted elderly man but at least comfortable in a secure conversation, which was rare for her in such a gathering—when Michael stepped to her side unexpectedly.

  “It’s time for us leave, Ms. Kenyon,” he murmured in the low voice he always used in public. “If you’ll please excuse us, Mr. Bowles.”

  Parker gave her a friendly farewell and said he hoped to see her soon, even sounding like he meant it.

  Claire went with Michael without argument. He’d never pulled her away like that before, so he must have a good reason for it now.

  Michael had his hand at her back as they walked to the front door of the house, pushing more than supportive. When they reached the car parked at the front entry, she grinned at Pete, one of the bodyguards, who was getting into the front passenger seat.

  “Hey,” she said, “Did you get stuck with night duty today?”

  “Something like that.”

  Claire didn’t get a chance to follow-up on the greeting because Michael put his hands on her waist and hoisted her bodily into the backseat of the car.

  She gave a surprised huff as she straightened up, since she’d almost face-planted into the cushy seat. She didn’t get a chance to settle, however, since Michael got into the car right after her, forcing her to scoot over to make room for him.

  She tried to roll down the window between the front and back seats to say hello to Roger, but Michael stopped her by putting his big hand over hers.

  “What the hell?” she snapped, scowling at him.

  Michael raised his hand in a silent gesture that she should wait.

  She tightened her lips but didn’t protest. She waited until Roger had started the car and driven out through her father’s front gates.

  Michael’s phone must have vibrated because he pulled it out and glanced at it, but he immediately slid it back in his pocket.

  “Can I talk now?” she asked, sounding just a little testy.

  “Yes.”

  She rolled down the front window and said hello to Roger, asking if his wife was feeling better. When she’d been assured that she was making some improvements, Claire rolled up the window and gave Michael a challenging look.

  He just returned her gaze blandly.

  “There’s no way you’re getting away with not giving me an explanation,” she bit out.

  “There was potential danger, so we needed to get you out quickly.”

  “Thanks for that very helpful piece of information. Obviously, I knew that much. I want to know what this supposed danger was.”

  “Is.”

  She stared at him. Her pulse was racing a little, but it wasn’t really from fear. She still couldn’t imagine a random threat from two months ago could really pose a danger to her.

  But being with Michael excited her in a way it really shouldn’t.

  “Was. Is. Whatever. Tell me what happened.” She lifted her hips to straighten her slinky skirt, which had bunched up around her thighs. When Michael didn’t answer, she groaned in frustration. “Damn it, Michael. What’s going on? Did my dad get another threat? Is he all right?”

  “Yes, and yes.” He paused a beat. “The threat wasn’t directed at him.”

  She made a face. “I guess that means it was aimed at me again. This all sounds very sketchy. Is there any evidence at all that I’m in real danger. He gets crazy letters all the time. One guy wrote to him and demanded he make a movie about the Titanic but have Leo play the iceberg this time—and if he didn’t this guy would start killing all the Bichon Frises in L.A. I really don’t think you need to be wasting your time responding to every wacko who sends my dad a note.”

  “It’s not a waste of time. It’s my job. Your father ordered me to protect you, so that’s what I do. It doesn’t matter if he thinks the threat is coming from a rabid squirrel, my job is to make sure you’re safe from it.”

  There was nothing light or warm about Michael’s unreadable expression, but his choice of words made her choke on a surprised laugh.

  Michael’s phone must have vibrated again because he pulled it out to check it again.

  As he did, Claire glanced out the car window. “Wait a minute. Where are we going? I need to go home.”

  “You can’t go home.”

  “What? Why not?” She was starting to get nervous for the first time.

  “Your apartment is too difficult to secure, since so many other people live in the building.”

  “Where are we going?” Her main thought was not fear that she would be killed but fear that she would have to go to a strange place with people she didn’t know—after what had been a very hard day for her. She wanted the familiar comfort of her home.

  “To the cabin. This person is not following us at the moment and will have no idea that’s where we’re going.”

  She let out a breath. “Oh. Good.”

  Her father had a cabin in the desert—it was in the middle of nowhere and she absolutely loved the feeling of privacy and peace it offered. When life stretched her too much, she always went to the cabin to recover.

  Michael might not have chosen it because it would make her feel safe, but she appreciated his choice anyway.

  “It’s safe enough?” she added.

  “I had the security system upgraded last month. It’s as safe as your father’s house.”

  “Okay then. I’m fine with going to the cabin, but I’m going to get out of the car at the next red light if you don’t tell me what the hell is going on.”

  For the first time, Michael’s mouth twisted with what looked like reluctance.

  Sensing he was caving, she persisted. “I’m not a child, Michael. And—despite what you might think based on my behavior at social functions—I’m not psychologically impaired.”

  He jerked slightly, as if she’d slapped him. “I’ve never though that,” he gritted out. “And I don’t appreciate your implying otherwise.”

  “Then tell me what kind of threat my father got. It had to be bad to rate this sort of overreaction, and I can’t help—I can’t do anything—if I don’t know what it is.”

  He looked away briefly.

  “Michael,” she said, reaching over to put a hand on his arm. “I need to know.”

  “I know you do. I told your father we should tell you. But it’s ugly. And he didn’t want it to touch you in any way.”

  Claire let out a long breath, her chest hurting a little as she thought about how hard this must have been for her father. “So it’s ugly. I can deal with it. I’m shy. I’m not weak, Michael.”

  “I know you’re not.” He seemed almost to be speaking to himself, still looking out the window. Then he must have decided his course of action because he turned back to face her. “It hasn’t just been one threat two months ago and another tonight. There has been a whole series of them.”

  “What are they?”

  “At first, it was a series of gifts sent to the house but addressed to you. Seemingly romantic gifts but with something wrong with each one—like two dozen roses with one dead one in the bunch or a box of chocolates with a dead mouse in one wrapper.”

  She shuddered slightly at the image but just prompted, “What else?”

  “After that, there were photographs sent to your father. Of you. Photographs this person should never have been able to taken.”

  “Me doing what?”

  “Shopping in the art store. Teaching at the Center. Walking into Maria’s building.”

  She swallowed hard. “So someone was stalking me?”

  “Is stalking you. Yes.”

  “What does he want?”

&nbs
p; “What does a stalker ever want?”

  “But his insanity is directed at my dad, isn’t it? I might be the subject, but all the communication has been addressed to my dad. Is my dad going to be all right?” She felt a different sort of urgency at the thought of her father being in danger, more intense than any fear about being in danger herself.

  “He’s fine. I’ve doubled his security.”

  “But you should be with him.” She shifted nervously in her seat. “Can you assign someone else to me and go take care of my dad?”

  “I’ve got good men on your dad.”

  “But not as good as you. I’d rather you be with him.”

  “He wouldn’t have me. He’d send me back to you. And he’s the one who pays me.”

  She dropped her eyes and tried to reason herself out of her fear for her father. If it hadn’t been for the party, she could have just stayed with her father tonight, so their security wouldn’t be split. But Michael wouldn’t have left her father unless he was sure he was safe.

  Michael waited for a few moments before he said quietly, “All signs indicate that this person will go after you before your father.”

  “Oh. Okay. What happened tonight that worried you?” When he hesitated, she insisted, “You have to tell me, Michael.”

  Michael had his phone in his hand, since he’d just gotten another call he didn’t answer. Reluctantly, he pulled something up on the screen and handed it to her.

  She looked down at the high end smart phone. Saw a photo of herself at the party this evening, sipping a glass of red wine and trying to pretend she was comfortable there. She slid her finger across the screen to pull over a second photo—her leaving the anteroom with Michael. They almost looked like a couple, since his hand was on her back. She dragged over the next photo—her laughing with the Martins.

  Her hand trembled around the phone. “He was at the party.”

  “Or she. Yes.”

  “How?”

  “It was one of the invited guests. Or one of the temporary staff. There was no other way for someone to get on the premises.”

  He sat tensely, and she suddenly realized he was angry at himself for letting it happen—for allowing someone into the fortress he was protecting.