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

by Beauman, Cate

  What was she doing? She set her brush down with a snap. Tucker was just a man. There were a million more out there. This didn’t have to be a big thing. She reached for the doorknob, then stopped. But it was a big thing. He told her he loved her, and maybe she loved him too—desperately—but how could she pretend everything was okay? He’d hurt her. She never wanted to feel like this again—like the world was falling out from under her. He’d promised his trust, and she’d given hers. He’d agreed to full disclosure and never followed through. Any building blocks to something more were irreparably eroded. There was more to a relationship than love, and Tucker couldn’t give her what she needed—plain and simple. So that was the end. Time and distance would take care of the worst of the pain.

  Bolstered by her own thoughts, she opened the door and stepped into Tucker’s scent. He walked past the kitchenette doorway, talking on his cellphone, barefoot in snug blue jeans and no shirt, his hair still damp from his shower. She clenched her teeth against the violent longing to run her fingers over smooth skin and muscles, to hug him close and hang on. He was doing that on purpose, walking around shirtless—being too damn sexy. She turned away in defense, grabbed the outfit she’d forgotten and hurried into the bathroom. Today she would need every ounce of confidence she could muster if she was going to fight against Tucker and herself. It was time to put “relaxed Wren” away and step back into the real world. She was hours away from going home and starting over. Things had been different for a little while. She had let her guard down, and her career hadn’t mattered quite so much. But it mattered now—more than ever. Interior design had seen her through tough times before, and it would again.

  Craving to get back to the life she understood, she slid on her frilly black panties and put on the matching bra. Her cranberry colored cashmere sweater came next, then snug dark-wash jeans. She applied a soft application of makeup, playing up her eyes. She blow-dried and styled her hair and suddenly the vulnerable woman vanished and the ambitious career woman was back. “Much better.”

  Steadier, she gathered her items and stepped from the bathroom far more prepared to deal with the long day ahead. She zipped her cosmetic bag in her suitcase, sat down, and pulled on heeled brown leather boots. The extra inch added to her stingy height, boosting her confidence further. She took a deep breath and stood, smoothing down her top as she started toward the kitchenette. She paused in the doorway, meeting Tucker’s eyes. Her stomach lurched and her heart slammed in her chest as she continued to the counter, perusing the small selection of bagels and muffins delivered fresh each morning.

  “Let me call you back. Okay. Bye.” Tucker hung up.

  Wren reached for an oversized blueberry muffin, pulling back, too riddled with nerves to eat. She darted Tucker a glance, realizing he was staring at her. She pressed her lips firm, steeling herself, and turned to face him.

  He leaned back in his chair, his long leg resting on the bench—the picture of relaxation, except for the clenched jaw and tensed shoulders. “Morning.”

  She clasped her hands, hoping he couldn’t tell they were trembling. “Good morning.” Swallowing, she took a step closer to the counter as he continued to hold her gaze.

  “Sleep well?” he asked.

  “Uh, yes. Fine.”

  He nodded.

  Biting her lip, she turned back to the breakfast selections.

  He stood, unfolding his powerful body from the chair, and started toward her.

  “What are you doing?” She asked in a rush, backing up, slamming into the counter.

  He paused. “I’m grabbing a muffin. Rogers and Franklin are coming by in a few minutes. We’re going up to the house before we head to the airport.”

  “Oh.” She closed her eyes and pressed her palms to the cool granite counter top, trying to pull herself together. “Sorry.” “Professional Wren” wasn’t handling this situation any better than “vacation Wren” had.

  Big hands rested on her shoulders, and she jumped, whirling, staring up into hazel eyes, realizing she should have stayed facing the counter.

  “Wren, please let me explain.”

  She breathed him in and itched to touch, to taste, to vanish the last twelve hours from her memory, but facts were facts. To give in now meant losing herself, and she was all she had. “No.”

  He stepped closer.

  She pushed at his chest. “Leave me alone. Please.”

  He captured her hands and pressed her palms to his heart. “Don’t make me walk away from you.”

  To her horror, her eyes filled.

  “I made a mistake.”

  “Stop.”

  “Wren—”

  There was a knock at the door. Tucker immediately dropped her hands and reached for his gun on the table.

  “It’s Detective Rogers,” came a muffled voice.

  “Step back,” he said as he peeked through the security hole and opened the door. “Detective.”

  “I’m early. I know we said we would meet in the lobby, but I thought I should tell you Franklin called in sick—flu bug going around.”

  “We were just getting ready.” Tucker opened the door wider. “Come on in.”

  “Good morning, Ms. Cooke.”

  Wren blinked her emotions back. “Good morning, Detective.” She gave him a small smile, grateful for the distraction. “Can we offer you coffee and a muffin?”

  “Oh, no, I’m all set.” He patted his rounded belly. “My wife made a fine breakfast—still stuffed, in fact.”

  She nodded and looked at Tucker. “I guess I’ll go get my stuff.” She hurried away and picked up her suitcase as her cellphone rang. She lunged across the bed, reaching the side table, grabbing the phone on the third ring. “Hello?”

  “Wren?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wren it’s Clayton Mills from Clayton Designs.”

  She rolled over and sat up on the edge of the bed. “How are you? I haven’t talked to you in months.”

  “It’s certainly been awhile—the Rodeo project we collaborated on.”

  “We knocked their socks off.” She grinned.

  “We absolutely did. I’m going to cut right to the chase, Wren, and ask you if you would like a job here with us. I could hardly believe it when I saw your resume on my desk.”

  “Yes, well—”

  “I heard about your situation.”

  She winced. “It’s been difficult.”

  “I spoke with Lenora Cartwright myself. Luckily I rarely believe a word that comes out of her mouth.”

  “But others might.”

  “Perhaps, but then they’ll see your work. I want you here, Wren. Top salary, full benefits as soon as you’re available.”

  She pressed her fingers to her temple, hardly able to believe what she was hearing. Clayton Designs was one of Southern California’s top firms. “How can I possibly say no? Yes, of course I accept. I’m heading into LA tonight. I plan to spend a few days with Patrick and my brother and his family, but I’m all yours Monday morning.”

  “I was sorry to hear about Patrick.”

  She’d always wondered if she’d sensed a sexy vibe between Clayton and Patrick. “Thank you. He’s making improvements every day. I’m hoping he’ll be raring to go sooner rather than later.”

  “You’ll have to be sure to tell him I said hello.”

  “I’m stopping by the hospital tonight. I’ll be sure to give him the message. He loves having visitors.”

  “Maybe I’ll make a trip down.”

  She smiled. “I think he would like that.”

  “Okay then, well, I’ll scan the necessary paperwork and send it over; we’ll get the ball rolling. I also have a couple of projects I would like your thoughts on. Do you mind if I send those along as well?”

  �
��No, no, please do.” Her system revved with excitement. “I have several of my supplies on hand. I’ll get started right away.”

  “Sounds like we’re all set. Welcome to Clayton Designs. My staff and I look forward to helping you settle in here in Santa Barbara.”

  “I can’t wait. I’ll have some mockups for you by this evening, and I’ll see you Monday morning. Santa Barbara or bust.”

  Clayton chuckled. “I can already tell we’re going to make history together.”

  “You better believe it. Bye, Clayton.” She hung up, laughing as she fell back against the mattress. “I can’t believe this.” There was so much to do—mockups, packing, home sales, Patrick… First she would start with a call to Greta. She caught site of a movement and scrambled up, realizing Tucker was in the room.

  He pulled his snug black sweater over his head as they looked at each other. “Sounds like you’re off to Santa Barbara.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, Sunday night.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.” She’d already told him she couldn’t be with him, but somehow this felt like goodbye.

  “We should go. Rogers and I want to check out a couple new developments.” He grabbed a pair of socks and picked up his duffel bag, turning to leave.

  Her enthusiasm for her new job vanished as a wave of loneliness overwhelmed her. She suddenly didn’t want to work for Clayton or move to Santa Barbara. She wanted the man walking out the door. “Tucker.”

  He stopped.

  What should she say? I love you, but I don’t know if I can trust you? “I—I’ll be ready in a second.”

  “Okay.”

  She clutched the edge of the bed as tears tried to escape again. Time, she reminded herself, would make this horrible ache go away. Her phone rang, and she ignored it. But what if Patrick’s nurse was calling? She snapped the cellphone up, looking at the readout. Greta. “Hello?”

  “We’ve got an offer.”

  “That’s excellent—”

  “Full asking price, plus payment for furnishings—everything but the master suite.”

  “What?”

  “I got a call from the bank this morning. Some lady wants the house. She’ll pay cash.”

  She shook her head, certain she didn’t hear that right. “Cash?”

  “Cash,” Gretta confirmed. “She wants all papers signed by Thanksgiving.”

  “Good heavens my head’s spinning.”

  “I understand.”

  “But what about the eager couple?”

  “They haven’t called me back yet.”

  “Who is it? Who wants my house and everything in it?”

  “Honey, I have no idea. All the banker would say is she’s some old rich eccentric. She saw the pictures of your place on my website and has to have it.”

  She hated the thought of some stranger having her things, but maybe this was for the best. This was her chance for a completely fresh start, and the extra money her furniture would bring wasn’t a bad thing. “I guess—I guess she can have it.”

  “I’ll call the bank now. You’ll be staying with your brother for awhile?”

  “Until Sunday evening.”

  “I’ll get some appraisals on all saleable items, and I’ll drop the papers by tonight or tomorrow at the latest, and you can look everything over.”

  “Great. I have two more requests.”

  “Name it.”

  “I don’t want the bedroom furnishings either. I would like to give them to charity—whichever foundation you prefer.”

  “Okay. I’ll arrange for pickup today, if you’d like.”

  “Sounds good.” She would never be able to sleep on the bed some sick man had touched. “Also, I accepted a position with Clayton Designs. I’m going to need an apartment sooner than we thought.”

  “You’re head must be spinning.”

  “I want my new home to be right, so I don’t mind staying in a hotel for a couple of weeks until we find what I’m looking for.”

  “I’ll get right on it. I’ll e-mail you what I can find currently available.”

  “Thanks.” She hung up and stood.

  Tucker stuck his head in “Cooke, we need to go.”

  “All right.” She shook her head, still trying to take it all in.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yes. My house… My house sold.”

  His eyes grew wide. “Already?”

  “I know. I can hardly believe it.”

  “Guess you’re on a roll.”

  “I guess so.” So why didn’t she feel like it?

  Tucker drove up the steep road long since cleared after the last snowfall. He took the sharp curve, moving ever closer to twenty-twelve Mountain View, more than ready to get this over with. The next hour or so was bound to be hell while he and Rogers dissected the ME’s reports, replaying his sister’s final horrifying moments exactly as they happened—or as closely as they could estimate while they stood around Staci’s old room.

  Even with Johnny Simmons officially in police custody after a surprise seven-thirty a.m. LAPD swoop, Tucker wasn’t about to miss this opportunity to see for himself that the authorities hadn’t missed any vital details. Until hard evidence was found or DNA results came back officially placing Simmons at the scene, he would continue on with his investigation.

  He passed JT’s old house and glanced at Wren as she stared out her window. She was gorgeous and city-slick in her cream-colored beret and leather jacket—ready to take on the world, like the cool, career-focused woman he’d arrived with three weeks ago.

  He barely suppressed a sigh as she pulled her phone from her purse, her thumbs flying over the keypad as she typed herself another reminder. She was slipping through his fingers, and there wasn’t much he could do about it. In less than a week’s time, she would be in Santa Barbara, starting a new life that had nothing to do with him. He gripped the wheel tight, wondering how he was going to let her go.

  He glanced her way again, catching her looking at him. There was so much hurt radiating in those big eyes. Despite her best attempts, she could no longer hide all her sweet spots and hints of vulnerability—not after what they’d had.

  Goddamn he hated this—categorizing their relationship as if what they shared was in the past. There was something here, right now—powerful and real whether she wanted to accept it or not. He planned to remind her as soon as their plane reached altitude and there was nowhere she could run to get away—a last ditch effort to repair everything that mattered. Perhaps his tactics were slightly underhanded, but too much lay on the line to play completely fair. But first he had to help Staci.

  Slowing as they approached the house, he pulled in the drive, studying the glass and timber structure he once called home, looking toward his and Staci’s wing, dreading the next little while. He waited, craving the moment when “cop mode” would kick in and his personal problems would disappear until he surfaced again.

  Rogers parked his unmarked car behind the Jeep, got out, and met him at the driver’s side door.

  Tucker readied his weapon as he rolled his window down halfway, habitually sweeping the trees surrounding the property.

  “Guess we should get on with this. It’s damn cold out here.” Rogers pulled his hat farther over his ears.

  “Cooke, I want you to stay close. We’re pretty sure our man’s back in LA, but we’re not taking any chances.”

  She nodded.

  Tucker got out on his side and hurried around to Wren’s door. The brutal winds blew strong, cutting right through the thickness of his coat. “Son of a bitch. We’ll start inside.”

  Wren stepped from the Jeep, hunching against the unyielding chill. Tucker wrapped an arm around her shoulders, catching whiffs of her p
erfume as the three of them hustled to the entrance.

  “I got a call from Detective Owens on the way here,” Rogers said as he gripped the edges of his coat close to his cheeks. “He told me—”

  Two blasts rang out, and Hayes crumbled to the ground, blood spurting from the wound in his neck, pooling from the hole in his face.

  “Oh my god! Oh my god, Tucker!” Wren tried to turn away from the gore puddling on the pristine snow.

  “Fuck!” He grabbed Wren, yanking her around and closer to his side, shielding her as he reached for his weapon, then he ran with her to the door. They were wide open. There was nowhere to go but inside. “Unlock the door!” He held the keys in his left hand, next to her elbow as he kept aim, pointing his pistol in the direction the shots were fired. Seconds passed like days as Wren’s trembling fingers struggled to send the key home. “Come on, Cooke. Come on.”

  “I’m trying,” she shuddered on wheezing breaths, and finally the key slid in the lock.

  “Hit the panic button and head for the bathroom,” he said as she twisted the knob.

  Another shot echoed through the air, grazing the arm of his coat. “Goddamn. Get inside.” He shoved her into the entryway as he caught sight of a figure moving in the trees. He fired twice, and a man fell with a piercing scream.

  “Panic button,” he said, slamming the door shut behind him, locking them in.

  “Nice moves,” JT said as he appeared from the coat closet, pointing a Glock 22 at Tucker’s forehead, the muzzle mere inches away. “Very Rambo-like. I guess I won’t have to pay him, not that I was planning to anyway. Don’t press the button, Wren, or your boyfriend here will lose his pretty face.”

  “JT, what—what are you doing?” Wren asked, taking a step closer to Tucker.

  “Executing a well-thought-out plan. I knew you’d come after I dangled Johnny in your face. Now drop your gun, Tucker, or I will shoot.” He wiggled his index finger against the trigger, giving them a cool smile.