Guardian of Her Heart

by Linda O. Johnston

  His cover for being there? Right now, he was a stalker of sorts. The juggler had a crush on his would-be employer. Any fool who got a look at Dianna would understand that.

  He sat up and watched when he heard a sweet, grumbling engine. A Jag drove by. The driver looked balding, middle-aged and damn proud of his place in the world. Travis stroked his vehicle’s dash to reassure the aging hunk of horsepower. Not all wheels could be Jags.

  He looked back outside. His scrutiny ended where he’d last seen the woman who set his teeth—and other hard body parts—on edge. Nice house. It didn’t hide behind foliage, though maybe it should, for security. He studied it, squinting in the meandering row of lights illuminating the path up the lawn.

  Its facade was attractive. Looked European, half-timbered along the second story. It rambled a bit on a rambling lot, must have cost big bucks up here where the view doubled the price.

  Maybe one day he’d bite the bullet and put a down payment on something like it, and—

  Who the hell was he trying to kid? Yeah, it was a nice house, inside and out. Way out of his class. Just like the lady who lived there was way beyond his dreams.

  “Where the hell are you, Perez?” he muttered, speaking of the team member who was supposed to take his place.

  He was ready to leave, the sooner the better.

  SITTING IN HER downstairs den at the front of the house, Dianna didn’t let herself look out the blinds. She figured Travis was gone, but he’d left someone watching her house. Watching over her. That, she supposed, was good. But she was still kicking herself for not asking him to stay. To sleep in a guest room, of course, but at least that way she’d be able to sleep, knowing Travis was there to make sure she was all right.

  She made a self-mocking sound. Right. As if her wayward body would have allowed her to sleep, with the sexy cop only a wall or two away. Not that she considered herself a seductress, but she’d surely have had the urge to go knock on his door. Throw herself at him.

  After all, his cover was that she was attracted to him….

  “Good thing you’re there and I’m here,” she muttered to the absent Travis, wherever his “there” might be right then.

  She sat back on the couch and pressed the remote button to turn on her television. Mistake, for the channel she’d put on ran local news for hours, starting early.

  And there, before her very eyes, was that morning’s evacuation of Englander Center.

  “Oh, no,” she cried. But what had she expected?

  Fortunately, the segment was short. She sat up straighter when the on-the-spot reporter shoved a microphone in Wally Sellers’s face, in front of one of several bail-bond shops along Van Nuys Boulevard. When had he agreed to a media interview, and why hadn’t he told her? She was the Center’s media contact.

  “It was an unfortunate situation,” Wally said into the microphone. Dianna had always heard that being on camera added ten pounds to a person’s girth, which appeared true with chubby Wally. His suit jacket bulged, and his extra chins pleated further as he lowered his head to talk into the sound equipment. “But no harm was done,” he continued. “Englander Center is fine, and so is the wonderful work we do to help people resolve their problems. Your viewers are welcome to come to our anniversary celebration next week to see for themselves.”

  Dianna had to grin despite her concern. Wally was making the proverbial lemonade out of a lemon, turning what he called an “unfortunate situation” into a promotion for the Center. Good move, Wally, she thought.

  But her grin faded as she recalled her conversation with Travis about the so-called joke bomb, the note—and the Center’s anniversary celebration.

  Maybe Wally had just invited the entire television viewing audience to celebrate by being blown up along with Englander Center, courtesy of Glen Farley.

  TRAVIS WHEELED THE BRIGHT yellow, large-wheeled miniature pushcart down the hall of the sixth floor at Englander Center—the same floor that had been the focus of yesterday’s excitement.

  He pushed open the door of the offices of A-S Development—Alberts and Sellers, Jeremy and Wally. The developers and managers of the building. And employers of Dianna Englander.

  “Hi,” he said to Beth, the attractive receptionist who stood at the indoor hallway. “Up for coffee and doughnuts this morning?” He hadn’t revealed his real job to her and hoped no one else had either—or to anyone else.

  “Yes to coffee, no to doughnuts.” Beth’s laugh was melodic, her bright smile contagious as she drew nearer. “Though I’m tempted.”

  “Let me coax you to give in to temptation.” He gave a teasing leer, which caused her to laugh again.

  Unlike the more somberly-clad professional types around here, she was dressed in a sweater of bright magenta over a dark skirt. Looked good on her. He’d dressed for the occasion, too. No T-shirt today, but a blue denim work shirt.

  “The answer is no!” A shrill male voice hurtled from somewhere inside the offices. “We’re not going to cancel.”

  Sharing a glance with Beth, Travis tried to hear the more muted response, with no success. Sounded like Wally, he thought, but it could have been a rattled Jeremy.

  “Someone needs a cup of coffee.” He wheeled the cart over the plush carpet toward the office’s inner sanctum.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Beth protested.

  But Travis maneuvered around her. He guessed that the office from which the voice had issued was the second one. He knocked but didn’t wait for an answer before pushing the door open. “Breakfast!” he called.

  The office was Wally’s, or at least he was the one standing stiffly behind the desk. His face was so scarlet that Travis wondered if he had burst a blood vessel.

  Facing him, standing on his Berber rug, were an equally angry Jeremy, and Dianna, who looked pale in her blue suit.

  Travis resisted the urge to grab her and squeeze, though she looked like she could use a hug. And he would have enjoyed being on the other end of that embrace.

  But not then. And not at all, if he was smart. Physical closeness could lead to mental closeness. He was already more attracted to her than was good for him. Or her.

  He knew she’d not been bothered last night by prowlers or prank calls. With her consent, her phone was monitored, and he’d checked with his guys who’d been on duty. Things had been quiet, including on the way here this morning, for she’d been under protective surveillance then as well.

  But things around her were not quiet now.

  “You guys hungry?” He grinned into the angry glowers of the two men. He didn’t give them time to answer before gently closing the door in Beth’s scowling face. “So, what’s up?”

  “Not your concern, Bronson.” Jeremy Alberts seemed to force himself to relax, if someone who always looked like he had a stick up his butt could ever loosen up. He sat in one of the mismatched chairs facing his partner’s desk and glared at Wally.

  Wally sat down, too. “It’s just company business, Lt. Bronson,” he said. “Nothing you need to be concerned about.”

  “Is that right, Dianna?” he asked. She had remained standing, and her soft blue eyes had widened with what Travis would guess was exasperation. Maybe even a hint of incredulity.

  “We need a professional’s opinion,” she said, only obliquely addressing his question. “I suggested that we not make a big deal about the Center’s first anniversary celebration next week. If we cancel the fund-raiser and ceremony—”

  “Then that damned Farley will have won!” Wally exploded. “And it’s not like that bomb threat was real. In fact, it put us in the news. Just think of the turnout we’ll have, all the extra people we can introduce to the good work we do here.”

  “And all the extra people we’ll put in danger,” Dianna said, her expression fragile and bruised, as if she took the blame for hurting every single one of them.

  Her vulnerability had the power of a serrated knife as it slashed Travis in the gut. He held on to the mini-
pushcart to keep from getting closer to her.

  “My opinion,” Jeremy said before Travis could offer his own, “is that we could postpone the celebration or cancel it, but why bother? If Farley wants to create chaos here, he’ll find a way, whether on the actual one-year anniversary or some other time. Don’t you agree, Lieutenant?”

  Travis looked again at Dianna for her reaction. Damn. The expression on her face was pleading. She undoubtedly hoped he would demand that they cancel the event. Maybe even shut down the building for the next month.

  But what she really wanted was for him to find Farley.

  He wanted to find Farley, too. Lock him up, cast him so deep into the legal system that he’d never see daylight again.

  If Travis weren’t a cop, sworn to uphold the law, he’d even consider personally exterminating the vermin, to save the taxpayers’ money. But law enforcement all over the country hadn’t caught the guy. Travis wanted to be the one. Hell, he intended to be the one. But not at the expense of other lives.

  Especially Dianna’s.

  Yet Jeremy Alberts had a point. What was one day among thirty-one this month, three hundred sixty-five this year? Farley would make whatever damned statement he wanted, whenever he chose. It was better to act as if he didn’t scare anyone. Maybe that would make him angry. And anger begot carelessness.

  And so, ignoring the plea in Dianna’s gorgeous, sad, fearful eyes, he poured a cup of rich-smelling black coffee, handed it to her and said, “I’m with Jeremy. Let’s toast the Englander Center’s birthday celebration.”

  Chapter Six

  Dianna paced her office. Anger—she wasn’t about to admit even to herself that it was fear, too—made her want to hurl something against the wall. Better yet, against Travis.

  If he’d insisted, half an hour earlier, on postponing the celebration, her stubborn bosses would have listened. He was, after all, authoritative. A cop.

  Even if he hid that fact behind the persona of a juggling magician.

  A too-sexy juggling magician, whose solid, sensual physique, as he performed his engaging tricks, made Dianna feel like pulling pranks of her own.

  Like last night. Maybe if she’d played her own cards right, he’d have stayed in her house, and—

  And they’d have spent the time rehashing the bomb scare. Platonic stuff. Which would have been one heck of a lot better than yearning after the hunk who kept telling her what to do.

  Who was permitting the birthday celebration despite her disapproval…

  Enough. She couldn’t hang out here all day pouting like a child who hadn’t gotten her own way.

  Besides, she couldn’t help the niggling thought that going forward was the right thing. It would shove Farley’s threats back in his vicious, murderous face. The face only she had seen. Over and over, from the day he killed Brad, and intermittently for months afterward.

  With a noise of combined anxiety and exasperation, she slung over her shoulder the jacket to the deceptively cheerful royal-blue suit she’d donned that day, grabbed her purse from a drawer and fled her office.

  “I’m going downstairs,” she told Beth, who looked up from her computer in the reception area. “Bill Hultman of Legal Eats left a message that he wanted to talk to me.”

  Legal Eats, a small restaurant, was one of three retail establishments on the Center’s first floor. The others were a bank and a convenience store. Plus, there was a large community room. All were intended to promote good relations between Englander Center and people frequenting the Van Nuys civic area.

  Normally, Dianna would return Bill’s call before heading to see him, but she needed to get out of her office. To concentrate on something besides Farley and the way he toyed with her.

  And on something besides Travis…

  “Have you talked to the police today?” Beth asked, startling Dianna.

  “Yes…er, no.” She had talked to Travis, of course, but Beth didn’t know he was a cop. The receptionist had been with A-S Development since Englander Center had opened, but Travis had been blunt, as usual, about warning Dianna that she wasn’t to tell anyone who he really was. He would share that information when he found it wise or expedient. Meantime, she had to pretend to flirt with him.

  Pretend?

  “Why do you ask about the cops?” she continued to cover her near-blunder.

  “I wondered if they know more about yesterday’s bomb scare. How did you keep so cool about a ticking package on your desk?”

  Dianna’s mind immediately lurched into suspicion. “How did you know about that?”

  The information released to the media, despite Wally’s over-eager interview, hadn’t been specific about the nature of the suspected bomb. According to Travis, that would ensure, if they heard from the usual crazies who confessed to everything from jaywalking to terrorism, that the cops could cull the crank calls from people who might have genuine information.

  Beth hadn’t been on the need-to-know list.

  Beth’s large, dark eyes grew somber with hurt. “Wally told me.” She stood, crossing her arms. Beneath the curve of her wavy black hair, the tiny filigree balls dangling from her ears vibrated, indicating her quivering tension. “How did you think I knew?” she asked defensively. “Because I put it there? Why would I?” Despite the defiance in the jut of her full, pouting lips, Dianna saw hurt there, too.

  “Of course not,” she said quickly. Since she’d spotted Farley in the crowd, she knew who’d planted the bomb—as if she’d had any doubt even before. It wasn’t a matter of opportunity. Dianna wouldn’t be surprised if a terrorist toting an AK-47 could get into the building past Cal Flynn’s shaky security detail, screening machines notwithstanding. Piece of cake for the elusive Farley, who’d gotten away with murder—several times.

  Brad’s murder…

  “Sorry, Beth,” Dianna said. “I didn’t mean to imply anything. It’s just that I didn’t really keep my cool after that scare.”

  “Guess not.” Beth didn’t sound mollified as she turned back to her keyboard.

  Did she protest too much? After all, how easy would it have been for her to come in with a package containing a ticking clock and put in on Dianna’s desk?

  Pretty darned easy, if Beth had a reason.

  But Dianna couldn’t think of any. No, it was Glen Farley. He was out there somewhere, waiting for her….

  “See you later,” she said to Beth, then hurriedly fled the office. Too bad she couldn’t leave her disturbing thoughts behind so easily.

  WHY WAS TRAVIS THERE? Dianna thought five minutes later as she entered Legal Eats.

  In contrast with the Center’s resplendent lobby, the restaurant was small, a glorified lunchroom where people who were part of the building’s legal system and their clients, the litigants, could grab coffee and a snack while on breaks.

  Travis ostensibly worked on an outside pushcart that brimmed with food and drinks. He had no business sitting at one of the small glass-topped tables nursing a cup of coffee while reading the paper.

  It was almost as if he knew she’d be there.

  That impression was bolstered by the fact that he immediately looked up and winked, as if he’d expected her arrival at that precise moment. Which annoyed Dianna all the more.

  No matter how that slow, suggestive wink had sent shivers of sexual awareness up her back.

  It’s his cover, she reminded herself. She ignored the feeling, but she couldn’t ignore Travis—even as she realized the most obvious reason for his being here. She’d seen no one keeping an eye on her since she’d arrived at work. Her unwanted bodyguard must be on duty once more.

  Irritation warred with relief. For the moment, at least, she was safe. Maybe.

  She shot Travis a nod of greeting, then headed for the counter.

  The restaurant was nearly empty. Only one table beside Travis’s was occupied. The people there appeared to be an attorney and client, discussing a case.

  Bill Hultman, owner of Legal Eats, stood behind the coun
ter facing three customers seated there. Out of habit these days, Dianna looked them over. One was female. The others looked familiar, people who worked in the building.

  None was Farley.

  Bill, in his forties, was a former lawyer himself who’d had a heart attack and jogged out of that rat race into a different kind with stresses of its own. His long, dour face was perpetually ruddy, which could indicate high blood pressure. Dianna, who’d helped to negotiate his lease, had wanted more than once to talk him into slowing down.

  He looked up as she approached, and his expression was not welcoming. Drat. A good reason to have called first: she’d have come armed with knowledge of what he wanted to discuss.

  “How’s a business supposed to survive, Dianna,” he demanded with no preamble, “with all this nasty stuff going on?”

  “I’m sorry, Bill,” she soothed, “but fortunately bomb scares don’t happen every day.” She hoped. And she hoped even more fervently that the next time wouldn’t be a bomb blast instead of merely a scare.

  She felt Travis’s attention bore into her back. She’d no doubt he was taking in this conversation, while appearing to be engrossed in his newspaper.

  “I don’t just mean bomb scares!” The explosion in the restaurant at that moment came from its owner. “That’s one thing, but then there are those damned pushcart peddlers. I know you can’t do anything about their being outside, cutting into my business with their stupid tricks that draw customers, but I’ve seen them wheeling food upstairs, right inside this building. That you can control. And as your tenant, I demand that you put a stop to it.”

  “Er—I’ll see what I can do,” Dianna dissembled. But since Travis’s pushcart venture was a means of scrutinizing the building and its occupants, she was unlikely to end it. Or want to. Didn’t Bill recognize his current customer Travis from the cart? Probably. His vituperative outpouring was likely aimed at the man he considered his competition, who just happened to be patronizing his restaurant. “I think there’s an agreement between my bosses and the vendor,” she continued. That was more or less true.

  “I don’t care about any other damned agreements!” Bill shouted. “I’m losing so much business that maybe a bomb wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all. It might be the only way to get out of your damned lease.” And then, as if he heard what he’d said, he muttered, “I didn’t mean that.”