by Julie Miller
She let the warm power of Brodie's kiss and the sheltering protection of her loyal pet lull her to sleep.
How could she explain the impossible, anyway?
How could he explain his life to BJ? Brodie tucked the ends of a beach towel around his waist and ran a brush through his hair. Then he crossed the hall into the spare bedroom he had bunked in and pulled some clothes out of his duffel bag.
The early morning shower refreshed him physically, but the self-recriminations that had plagued his sleep still weighed heavily upon him. Scenes of a black sedan bearing down on BJ replayed on an endless loop in his head. His worst nightmare had nearly come true last night.
The image of BJ so close to death was relieved only by the memory of her going into shock after witnessing his miraculous healing capabilities. That damn note. She thought someone wanted to kill him. How did he tell her that no one could kill him?
Brodie pulled on his jeans and tied on a pair of work boots. Then he tugged a black T-shirt over his head and tucked it in. His regular clothes were a lot more comfortable than the civilian uniform he usually wore on a case. What did it matter now that the scars showed? He couldn't exactly hide the truth from BJ now—even if she wouldn't believe it. And nobody else's opinion mattered.
He picked up the tattered remains of his jacket and carried it to the kitchen trash can. The damn thing was too hot for a humid Missouri summer, anyway.
Brodie poured a cup of coffee from the automatic maker and sipped the hot liquid, trying to piece together the words to adequately explain himself. A long time ago…Nah. Do you believe in sorcery? An age-old enemy has followed me through time. Hell, no. BJ's a woman of science and mathematical logic.
“I can't talk to her about magic,” he said aloud.
The sound of his voice in the quiet kitchen triggered a growl and some scratching from the other side of the back door. That frou-frouey little guard poodle sensed his unusual presence again.
“Shut up, dog.”
That earned him a bark. “Listen, dog, you'll wake up BJ if you don't quit your yapping.”
Brodie strode to the door, feeling grumpy and frustrated enough to do battle with the little mutt. His hand was on the doorknob when common sense finally whacked him over the head. The mutt sleeps with her.
He plunked his coffee mug on the counter and ran to BJ's bedroom. He didn't knock. He didn't announce himself. He threw open the door and looked inside.
Her bed was empty.
It was neatly made with that mountain of stuffed animals piled on top. She must have gone while he was in the shower. She'd snuck away from him before he had a chance to tell her anything.
Brodie ran to his room and grabbed the dagger and sheath from the nightstand. He strapped it to his belt and charged out the door.
He didn't bother checking the garage for her truck. He knew where she had gone. He jumped into the Explorer and floored it as soon as the engine turned over. Once he hit the highway, he called Emma on his cell phone to get directions.
Emma plied him with questions, but Brodie hung up without answering them. If everything BJ told him about herself was true, he knew exactly where she had gone. If the man he had met last night wasn't a hallucination, he knew where to find her.
That knowledge transformed into a tidal wave of fear that tightened his gut like a vise.
BJ hugged herself, looking out the window of Damon's plush office at the spectacular view of the Missouri River near downtown Kansas City. “I don't think he meant to hurt me. Maybe I overreacted because of all that's been going on.”
Damon found the tight spot at the base of her neck and massaged the tension from her shoulders. “I agree with him that broadcasting a pirated program was a ploy to show power. But I can't help but think this Maxwell isn't the right person to help you. You said he did 'weird' things last night. What exactly do you mean?”
BJ didn't quite know how to explain what had happened.
His hands stopped the massage. “He didn't harm you, did he?”
BJ laid her hand over his and turned into his concerned gaze. “No. Nothing like that.”
Damon studied her a moment before clicking his tongue and leaving to pour them both a glass of bottled water. BJ trailed behind him and sat on his high-backed brocade sofa. She kicked off her shoes and curled her feet beneath her. Damon twisted a slice of lime into her glass and handed it to her.
By the time he sat across from her, she had prepared for his fatherly reprimand. “Mr. Maxwell struck me as nothing more than a brute last night. I daresay he's the kind of professional you need helping you right now.”
He plucked at the seam of his summer-weight wool trousers, trying to appear detached, but BJ knew he was anything but. Damon rarely said or did anything without a plan. “You know I have several contacts in the medical field. I'd be happy to arrange a meeting for you, without any publicity that could damage LadyTech's reputation.”
She took a cool, tangy sip before responding. “We've already had this discussion. You know my answer.”
“Then what about loaning you one of my technicians?”
“Damon,” she stopped him, “what are they going to find that I can't?”
He laughed then. “Of course. Nobody can outsmart you where computers are concerned.”
BJ joined him, finding the laughter a welcome respite. “You make me sound like some annoying know-it-all.”
“You'd only be annoying if you had the ego to go along with your talents.” Damon patted her hand on her knee, then grasped it in a brief display of emotion. “You are too caring and too amusing to annoy anyone.”
She squeezed his hand in return. “Try telling that to Brodie. I seem to be making a lot of wrong turns with him.”
Damon set their drinks on the coffee table, then captured both her hands in his. “Fire him. If he does strange things you can't tell me about, and makes you so edgy that you come running to me first thing in the morning, then he can't possibly be helping you. I know how terrified you've been. If this man has problems, get rid of him.”
BJ considered his advice. True, she didn't need the emotional upheaval Brodie had brought into her life right now. He scared her. He was too secretive and mysterious for her to trust completely. Yet she did trust him to a degree. He hadn't harmed her. If anything, he had gone out of his way to protect her.
He listened to her ramblings about her childhood. He witnessed two episodes and still hadn't called the funny farm to come pick her up. He tended her wounds and put up with her dog.
He kissed her with swift, uncontrolled passion that woke her to the mysteries of womanhood, and with tender, bittersweet reverence that made every bone and fiber within her pulse with feminine awareness.
He made critical gashes in his arm disappear with the touch of his hand.
“I can see even you have doubts about him.”
BJ looked into Damon's beloved, loving eyes. She had trusted this man's advice since he came into her life thirteen years ago. Should she trust reason and history? Or should she listen to instinct and the new indefinable feelings Brodie stirred to life in her? “Emma says he's the best. Jonathan depended on Brodie with his life.”
“Emma's husband is dead.” The stunningly simple statement hung in the air. Damon pulled BJ into his arms and rocked her soothingly against his chest. “I don't mean to sound cruel. I know Emma's husband thought highly of him, but a man can change in three or four years. Mr. Maxwell might not be the same man Colonel Ramsey knew.”
BJ didn't think her confusion would ever go away. She had come to Damon this morning to try and make sense of everything once more. Her world bordered on insanity. If the man who knew her better than anyone couldn't straighten things out, then where could she turn? With her history, psychiatric help was still too frightening a proposition to consider.
BJ pushed herself away and slipped on her shoes. She needed to seize these clearheaded moments and reason the mystery out for herself.
She started
by evaluating the pros and cons of Brodie Maxwell. “He's a good bodyguard, actually. He pried Rick Chambers off me when Rick got a little too fresh.”
Damon seemed willing to follow her train of thinking. “Chambers? That sleaze? I warned you about him.”
BJ smiled indulgently. “You warn me about every man I meet.”
“Isn't a father supposed to?”
She leaned over and planted a kiss on his tanned cheek. “You bet he is.”
She never minded when he called himself her father. Jake was Jake, the treasured dad every little girl wanted. Damon was her father, a loving, guiding force in her adult life.
“I'd better get over to work and help clean up the mess from last night.”
Damon stood with her. “Don't you have people to do that for you?”
“You know I like to get in the trenches with the staff. Besides, I want to take a look at that program again, see if I can figure out where the transmission came from.”
He walked her to the door. “You never quit, do you?”
She elbowed him in the side. “Now who was it who taught me that giving up without an answer is not an option.”
“Did I say that?”
“Once or twice.” Sharing laughter with Damon revived her spirits, giving her strength to open the door and face another day.
“You can't go in there! Doctor Morrisey has another appointment with him.”
“Lady, I'm not big on manners or patience.”
“Brodie?”
BJ stopped the confrontation between the stern, gray-haired administrative assistant and the scarred, unsmiling giant.
He spun around at her appearance. “Are you all right?”
Raw, blatant fear leaped from his eyes, stunning her. “I'm fine.”
Damon's calm voice intervened, dismissing his assistant. “Abby, it's all right. Shall we go into my office?”
“How the hell could you leave without telling me or without even leaving a note?” Brodie spoke over Damon, ignoring the invitation.
BJ flushed indignantly. “Am I a prisoner now?”
“Mr. Maxwell—”
“What did you tell her?” Brodie looked as if he might do physical violence to Damon.
BJ wedged herself between the two men. “Tell me about what?”
Damon's cool, cultured voice answered. “I recommended she get rid of you.”
Brodie's eyes blazed like fire behind the ice when Damon put his hands on BJ's shoulders. “Judging by your behavior today, I'm even more convinced it's a good idea.”
“Stop it. Both of you.” BJ placed herself in the age-old position of breaking up a fight, turning sideways and pushing a palm against either man's chest.
She looked first to Damon, the more reasonable of the two. “I know you mean well, but I'll make my own decisions.
“And you?” She tilted her face to Brodie. “You have no right to barge in here like that. I'm sure you scared Abby to death.”
“You weren't at home when I got up. You know what we discussed.”
“You're staying at her home?” asked Damon. “I didn't realize the relationship was so personal.”
“It's not—“
BJ lost her breath when Brodie's hand nipped around her waist and pulled her to his side.
“It's not anybody's business but ours,” Brodie finished.
BJ would have argued the point, but she was distracted by the sensation of Brodie's hard, muscular body imprinting itself so squarely against her. The change in him was subtle but tangible. His hand spanned the right side of her ribcage, his thumb resting beneath the weight of her breast.
It wasn't a protective gesture so much as it was possessive.
She grew aware of the raw virility in his changed appearance. The T-shirt and trim jeans masked little of his strength and few of his scars. What he had at first worked so hard to keep hidden, he now brandished like a challenge, the impact of which hit BJ in the chest like a freight train, stealing her breath away.
Damon evaluated Brodie's implied message and BJ's reaction to it. Then he backed off, his finely manicured hands raised in surrender. “You're right, it's none of my business. But Bridget,” she forced her focus away from Brodie, “Consider what I said. And know you can always count on me to support you.”
“I know.” Reluctantly, she stepped away from Brodie and kissed Damon's cheek. “I love you.”
Damon winked. “I know.”
The heat of Brodie's hand at the small of her back finally turned her away from Damon. When they shut the outer door of the executive offices, Brodie let go and tipped his face upward, exhaling deeply.
BJ wondered at the immensity of his relief. “Do you know Damon? I mean, before I introduced you last night, had you two met? He doesn't like you, and you certainly don't like him.”
“I know his type.” They walked down the hall to the elevator. Brodie never once looked at her while they waited for the car to return to the top floor. “I thought the worst when I couldn't find you this morning.”
She still couldn't shake the impact of his anger, nor the way her body had responded so dramatically to his possessive touch. But she felt honor bound to defend Damon. “He's family to me, Brodie. He would never hurt me.”
“I'm counting on it.”
His statement struck her as odd, but she didn't comment on it. The elevator doors opened and they stepped inside. In the small confines of the car, BJ could almost taste the palpable vitality in Brodie. Moody. Violent. Untamed.
BJ felt woefully nondescript by comparison in her cut-offs and baggy Cardinals jersey. Every time he inhaled, his cotton shirt stretched tautly across his imposing chest. Every time he exhaled, his potent masculine scent filled the car.
Her skin prickled with acute awareness of Brodie. She needed space from him. She needed to trust him again before she allowed herself to respond to her desire.
When the button for the seventh floor lit up, BJ pushed it impulsively. “You want to see where I used to work?”
Brodie paused in the elevator, obviously questioning her sudden yen for nostalgia.
She scrambled for a face-saving reason to put space and neutral people between them without insulting him or admitting her reaction to him. “You said you wanted to meet everyone I have contact with. I work here at the Institute every couple of months or so.”
“It couldn't hurt to check out every possibility, I suppose.”
With resignation, he followed her into the Morrisey Institute's main laboratory. Carpeted cubicles divided the perimeter into individualized research stations. In the center of the room were two large, free-standing fixtures that resembled telephone booths, with stainless steel side frames and top to bottom glass doors. Each unit took up about twenty-five square feet and had nothing inside but an odd-looking chair. Hundreds of round and flat cables ran from the units to the surrounding research stations.
BJ hastened past the two structures, averting her head from the always disturbing sight. She smiled a greeting that encompassed all the white-coated technicians in the room. “Hey, everybody.”
“Beej!”
She traded hugs and welcomes with several of her former coworkers, constantly aware that Brodie hung back a few steps. Even after introducing him to a couple of technicians with whom she occasionally socialized, he still kept his distance. No one made a rude comment or quizzed her about Brodie, but she grew sensitive to the number of curious looks directed his way.
A pillar of isolated strength, used to standing alone. The image haunted BJ. Growing up, she herself stood alone on playgrounds; she sat alone to study at the library. She watched from the sidelines while other, normal, people interacted with each other in friendly, everyday ways.
In a surge of protective empathy, BJ linked her arm with Brodie's, drawing him into her circle of acceptance. The curious looks lessened, then ultimately disappeared. After everyone had met Brodie, she led him to an empty research station and let the technicians get back to work.
> BJ plopped down in the only available chair and Brodie sat on the corner of the desk. Hidden from view of the others, she sighed wearily and noticed that Brodie did the same. “Sorry. I didn't realize there would be such a crowd.”
“No harm done. I wouldn't want to keep you from your friends.”
BJ absentmindedly turned on the computer in front of her, giving him time to regroup before they ran the gauntlet of small talk again.
“What's your aversion to those boxes in the middle of the room? They remind me of something out of the Inquisition.”
She glanced quickly up at Brodie, then across the floor to the steel and glass monstrosities. She measured her answer. “They're Damon's death chambers.”
“Death chambers?”
BJ tapped random keys on the computer, uncomfortable with the subject at hand. “They're the only thing Damon and I ever really disagreed on. They're why I left and started my own company.”
He shifted around the corner so that he faced her. “Tell me about it.”
BJ punched in an old command and discovered with sickening awareness that the old program hadn't been purged. She tinkered through the system and found that the subroutines she had written were still in place, even the ones she had tried to hide. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms, warding off the mental chill.
“Mastery over death,” Damon had called it. Their finest work together. His ideas and her brainpower. She'd never developed his affinity for playing God.
“Damon runs the Morrisey Institute like a think tank. He gathers groups of researchers and presents each unit with a hypothesis to test. He encourages free thinking, challenging each unit to develop alternative solutions if the original hypothesis proves inaccurate.”
“Basic scientific theory.” He jerked his chin toward the center of the room. “How do those things fit in?”
“Four years ago, Damon scored a contract with the penal system to develop more humane ways to execute death row criminals.”
