Waiting For Wren (Book Five In The Bodyguards Of L.A. County Series)

by Beauman, Cate

  He shut the glass door behind him and glanced at Staci once more before he went to bed.

  “Tucker, you need to get up.”

  He blinked his eyes open in the bright sunshine and pulled off his headphones, which were still belting out Pearl Jam as he looked at his mother. She was all done up for the day in her designer skirt and top. He and Staci had her eyes and black hair, but the rest of their looks were definitely Campbell traits. “What time is it?”

  “Just about nine, honey. I’m on my way out. Linda and I are meeting with the interior designer to get some ideas for the living room, then we’re going to have lunch. I should be back around two.”

  His mother redecorated the house every other summer. Mr. Sphen would blow in here in another week or two and rip the rooms to shambles before he set them right with something new.

  “Ms. Hayes already brought the groceries by this morning, so there’s plenty of food in the fridge.”

  He sat up. “Good. I’m starving.”

  “Well that’s nothing new.” She winked and kissed his forehead. “Have fun today. Dad will be home tomorrow. We’re having dinner as a family, so don’t make any plans.”

  “Got it. I’m busy tonight though. I’m going out.”

  “Isn’t it your sister’s turn to have the car?”

  “Yeah, we made a deal. She gets the Mustang for the next two weeks.”

  His mother blinked her surprise. “Must be something special.” She tossed a pair of dirty gym shorts in his hamper. “Where are you off to?”

  “Baseball and swimming.” He knew she wasn’t asking about what he and Staci were doing today.

  She paused as she reached for a wrinkled cotton t-shirt on the floor. “Where are going tonight, Tucker?”

  He threw the covers back and stood. “Oh, I’m taking Jasmine on a date.”

  “Jasmine? Staci’s friend down the street?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She seems like a nice girl. She’s very pretty.”

  “Yeah,” he said again, not wanting to have this conversation.

  “What do you plan to do?”

  “Probably catch a bite to eat or something.” He avoided his mother’s stare and reached for his towel on the back of the door. He wasn’t stupid enough to tell her he was taking Jasmine to the lake so they could…do whatever.

  “Well, you make sure you mind your manners, sir. I’m raising a gentleman.”

  “I will.” He’d never planned to be anything but.

  She looked at the clock on his bedside table. “Shoot, I need to go. I’ll see you this afternoon. Wake your sister. Tell her I said I love her and to have a good day and I’ll take a dip with her after dinner—a girls’ night in.”

  He frowned. “She’s not up yet?”

  “No, I haven’t seen her. I guess she decided to sleep in. Bye, honey.” She left.

  “Bye.” His frown deepened. Staci never slept in. She was always up at dawn, no matter how late she went to bed. He walked from his room to the next door over and rapped his knuckles against the wood. “Stace, time to get up.” He turned the knob, opening the door a crack. “Get up, Stace. We’re going to be late.”

  Tucker continued down the hall to the kitchen, opened the bag of bagels on the counter, and pushed the plastic lever down. He shoved another in the slots for Staci and got out the cream cheese. Breakfast, a quick shower, then they had to leave. Moments later, the smell of toasted bread wafted through the air, and the bagels popped up. He spread lavish amounts of soft cheese around the doughy disks and licked the edge of his thumb, then he sandwiched Staci’s pieces together, took a huge bite of his own, and started toward their wing.

  He stopped outside Staci’s room, expecting to hear the shower running and Staci’s off-key singing, but there was silence instead. “What the hell? Come on, Staci, get up.” Annoyed, he barged in. “We’re going to be—” He stopped, gaping at Staci lying on the floor, pale, naked and spread eagle, her dark purple hands raised above her head.

  “Staci?” Tucker dropped the food and rushed to kneel at his sister’s side, staring in horror as his heartbeat throbbed in his skull, struggling to take in the milky green hue of her once-dark hazel eyes and the pinpoints of blood marring the whites. Bruises on her cheekbones and wrists blackened her usually creamy skin. A deep violet indent circled her neck, and a line of dried crimson trailed from her bluish lips to her ear and kept going. Cold sweat beaded his forehead and dribbled down his back as he reached out. This was wrong. Everything about this was wrong. He wanted to shake her and make her blink and breathe, but her long, slender neck was gouged with the ugly purple marks. “Staci?” he shuddered out again as he touched her shoulder, flinching as his trembling fingers made contact with her icy skin. He jerked away, wanting to scream, but the sound stuck in his throat as his stomach revolted. He turned, puking up his bite of bagel and bile, then looked at his sister and hurried from the room for the phone.

  He didn’t remember picking up the receiver or dialing 9-1-1, but a woman’s calm voice echoed in his ear like a loud buzz. He walked back to the room, unable to clear the fog from his mind while he stared at his sister’s lifeless body and crouched down, holding her cool, rigid hand. “My sister’s dead,” he said dully. “Staci’s dead.”

  Chapter 2

  Los Angeles

  October 2014

  Chaos reined at the Cooke Estate, but that was nothing new. Children ran about—two bullets with blonde hair, screaming and laughing as they dashed from room to room. Beautiful women in different stages of pregnancy or parenthood held pretty-eyed babies, standing in noisy herds chatting away. The men of Ethan Cooke Security hid from the pandemonium, playing a round of poker on the windblown deck as waves crashed against the cliffs below.

  Tucker sipped his beer, glanced at his crappy hand, and continued his study of the sassy black-haired goddess cooing at Morgan and Hunter’s new son, Jacob, in the living room. No one wore a pair of jeans the way Wren Cooke did. Her slim, petite body was a work of art. She grinned at something Morgan said as she handed Jacob back to his eager mother, and her gray eyes met his through the panes of glass. Her smile faded as he held her gaze. Seconds passed before she looked away. A small smile touched his lips, and he took another sip of the dark brew, focusing on the game and his friends crowding the table.

  “You in?” Ethan asked.

  Tucker glanced at his pair of threes. “Nah, I’m folding.” He set his cards face down and leaned back in his chair, watching as the hand played out. He didn’t have jack shit to work with; neither did Jackson, he could tell. His fellow bodyguard kept sliding his shiny wedding band round and round with his thumb. Ethan appeared to have something. He licked his lips like a damn lizard—little darts here and there—whenever he had good cards. Hunter, however, had a champion poker face. He wasn’t giving anything away. Tucker had been scrutinizing his pals’ ‘tells’ for the last hour. Never hurt to keep them in mind for the next time.

  Hunter threw another chip to the center of the table. “I’ll raise you.”

  Austin sighed and set down his hand. “I’m out.”

  Ethan chuckled sinisterly and tossed in two more chips.

  “Son of a bitch.” Jackson shook his head. “Folding.”

  “Call it,” Hunter said smirking as he laid out a royal flush.

  “Fuck.” Ethan set down his four-of-a-kind and Hunter snickered as he pulled the tidy pool in his direction. “One of these days you’ll beat me, Cooke. Maybe.”

  “Kiss ass, Phillips.”

  Kylee and Olivia pounded on the window, smiling and waving at their fathers. Jackson and Ethan smiled and waved back. Then the girls took off again.

  “Looks like they’ll sleep well tonight,” Jackson said.

  “Sleep? What’s that?” Hunter stretched and peer
ed through the glass, staring at his wife and infant son. “Jake’s up every two hours pooping and snacking.”

  “It’ll get better,” Ethan assured him. “Couple more months and you and Morgan will be catching a solid six or seven. Emma’s sleeping again now that those teeth finally poked through. The last few days sucked around here.”

  Hailey’s laugh carried through the air, and Austin glanced toward the bright lights of the living room. “I just want my wife back. Her emotions are all over the place. One minute she’s smiling, the next we’re mopping up tears.”

  “Four more months,” Hunter reminded Austin. “Four more months and things will be normal again.” He smiled at Morgan. “Actually, they’ll be better.”

  “Thank god,” Austin said as he picked up his Corona and took a swig. “So, we had our ultrasound yesterday.”

  “And?” Ethan restacked his chips.

  “It’s a boy.” Austin beamed. “We’re having a boy.”

  Jackson paused mid-shuffle and grinned. “Congratulations, man.”

  Hunter slapped Austin’s back. “Way to go. We’ve gotta even things out around here. The females are taking over. Jake’s going to need a playmate.”

  Jackson dealt out the next round. “Alex and I might be able to help out, unless we have another girl.”

  Tucker reached for his cards, stopping midway. “Alexa’s pregnant?”

  “Ten weeks yesterday. Alex finally gave me the okay to tell people. My parents are going ape shit, and Liv can’t wait to be a big sister.”

  “Good stuff, man.” Tucker bumped his knuckles. “Damn good stuff.” He knew how much Jackson wanted this. Things were finally settling down at the Matthews household. Abby got a place of her own shortly after the wedding in August. Even though security was still a priority for the Matthews/Harris women, life appeared to be moving in the right direction.

  Tucker reached for the cards again as he caught sight of Wren talking to her Ken-doll date. Then she started down the hall toward the kitchen.

  “I’m going to sit this round out and grab another beer,” he said. “Anybody else want one?”

  Hunter grunted, Ethan and Austin shook their heads, and Jackson flat-out ignored him while he swiped a hand through his hair. Tucker grinned. Matthews actually had something this time.

  He strolled down the long deck and opened the French doors to the spacious kitchen. Loaded party platters, chafing dishes, soft drinks, plates, napkins and utensils cluttered every available inch of marble countertop. The Cookes knew how to entertain. He scanned the leafy green salads and mounds of fruit in a bowl, then zeroed in on what he really wanted.

  He studied yards of wavy black hair cascading down a slim back, a small firm ass in snug jeans, and a fitted black blouse hugging generous curves while Wren stood on her tiptoes, struggling to free something from the refrigerator.

  “Come on. Being short really sucks sometimes,” she muttered.

  Never one to miss an opportunity, Tucker walked up behind her, enjoying the sexy French perfume that immediately invaded his nose. His body brushed hers as he reached for the dill pickles crammed in the back on the top shelf.

  Gasping, Wren whirled and looked up. Her perky breasts pressed against his solid chest, and her generous lush lips he wouldn’t mind tasting firmed in disapproval. He stared into her striking pale gray eyes, which were accentuated by dark rings, watching her straight black brows furrow as she frowned. “What are you doing?”

  “Helping you out.” He leaned forward, pushing their bodies closer. He stared at her mouth as he grabbed the pickles. Electricity hummed and snapped, vibrating through his body as her breath shuddered out once, twice. “Here you go.”

  “I—” She took the jar. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  She gave him a one-handed push to the chest. “Back up.”

  He took a step back as he continued to study his boss’s baby sister—the female replica of Ethan Cooke, except Wren’s cheekbones were sharper and her nose smaller and more feminine. The Cookes were no slouches in the looks department. “Ethan should get a stool in here.”

  Her eyes narrowed a fraction as she smiled and stepped forward, closing the gap between them. “Who needs one when I’m surrounded by so many fine studs?” She traced her well-manicured finger down his chest.

  He clenched his jaw as her smoky voice caressed his libido—as did her finger still traveling south. He grabbed her wrist, stopping her an inch above the button on his jeans, and held her gaze. “Easy, Cooke. I’m not that kind of guy. I like to be wined and dined before I move to the bedroom.” Like hell. He’d clear the counter off here and now. They rarely saw one another—barely knew each other, but there was something about Wren Cooke that got his blood moving. He’d been attracted to her since the first moment he’d laid eyes on her several months before.

  She shot him a sly smile as she scoffed and pulled her arm free. “I bet.” She walked over to the small sandwich station, which held a large variety of meats and cheeses to choose from. “You don’t strike me as a strawberries and champagne kind of guy.”

  He followed her and leaned against the countertop. “Maybe not, but I’m willing to try anything once.”

  She glanced up from the roasted turkey and avocado on whole wheat she was building, then looked back down.

  He smiled.

  She peeked up from under her long lashes, and his smile turned into a grin.

  “Why do you do that?”

  “What’s that?” He grabbed a piece of Colby Jack from the platter, folded it in half, and bit in.

  “Stare at me. Every time I see you, you’re staring in my direction.”

  He shrugged.

  “If you didn’t work for my brother, I would think you were a creep, but he screens his guards too well for that to be an option.” She started laying ham slices on a thick cut of rye.

  “Maybe you fascinate me.”

  She paused with another piece of meat in her hand, then continued her work. “Maybe you’re full of crap.”

  He certainly wasn’t—not in this case anyway—but he grinned again when her movements turned jerky as she piled cold cuts too high. Damn, there was something about her.

  “And that. Why do you have to do that all the time?”

  He shook his head. “You lost me.”

  “Smile that smug smile.”

  He chuckled this time. “What can I say? I’m happy.”

  She muttered something under her breath as she smooshed the top piece of rye onto the gargantuan sandwich.

  “That’s quite a sandwich. You make that for me?”

  “No.” She picked up the pickle jar and struggled with the lid.

  He pulled the damp glass from her hands, popped the top with little effort, and handed it back.

  Her fingers brushed his as she yanked the jar away, and green juice sloshed dangerously close to the top. “I would’ve gotten it eventually.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She huffed as she stabbed a fat pickle with a fork. “Aren’t you playing poker?”

  “I think I’m talking to you.” Christ, this was fun. “You were going to tell me who that sandwich is for.”

  “My date. I made it for my date.”

  He nodded. “New guy since the last time. In fact, I’ve never seen the same man twice.”

  “So?”

  “Just an observation.”

  She glared. “Are you trying to insinuate something?”

  He arched his brow, surprised by how defensive she was becoming. “No.”

  “Let me clue you in on a little secret. This is 2014, mister. I’m a successful businesswoman and have no desire to settle down. I don’t believe in soul mates, and I think marriage is a bunch of crap—for some
people, especially people like me. I realize I descend from the infamous Grant and Rene Cooke of Beverly Hills, but my parents don’t define me. I date around, but that doesn’t mean I sleep around. Got it?”

  He winced. Sensitive subject. “Easy, tiger. I just came in for a beer and conversation. I didn’t want to start World War Three.”

  She picked up the two plates and turned, but not before he saw the flash of misery in her eyes.

  He grabbed her arm, turning her back. “Hey, I don’t care who you date. It’s none of my business.”

  “I agree.”

  “So what gives? You don’t strike me as the type of woman who gives a shit about what other people think.”

  “I don’t.”

  But she did—clearly. “Good.”

  She gave him a small smile. “I should go.” She started toward the door.

  “Hey, Cooke, wanna grab a bite to eat sometime?” Never hurt to ask.

  She stopped in the doorway. “I don’t date cops.”

  “I’m not a cop.”

  “You were. Besides, I’m happy with Mark.”

  He frowned. Who the hell was Mark?

  “I think we have something going—a connection. We just met a week ago, but he’s…important.”

  Bullshit. He didn’t know her very well, but he’d figured out awhile back that Wren didn’t let men become important. He grinned. “Got it.”

  “See you around.” She took a step.

  “Hey, Cooke.”

  She stopped.

  “His name is Mike.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re date. His name is Mike.”

  His eyes held hers as she turned and walked away without another word.

  Mike pulled into the driveway and rolled to a stop behind Wren’s sleek Mercedes Roadster. The ten-minute drive from Ethan’s had been long enough for him to start his spiel on capital gains and investing. She tried to focus on the conversation, but her mind kept wandering to dark hazel eyes and a slow, sexy grin. She remembered the way Tucker sandwiched her between the cool air of the refrigerator and the sizzling heat of his tough, muscular body. Wafts of his cologne still tickled her nose, curling her belly into a tight ball of lust.