Guarding His Body

by KS Augustin

  , on the edge of the Chinatown district, and waved him off after a quick word that she’d be in touch, but not for several more days.

  After watching the red lights of the sedan disappear into the traffic, Helen took a quick look around, and crossed the road. This part of the city was run down and faintly menacing, but its denizens seemed to somehow recognise who belonged in their territory and who didn’t. Helen, confident but watchful, strode down the street to the brightly lit, multi-level car-park halfway up the block. There were no footsteps behind her and no figures loitering in front of her. It seemed she was safe for the time being.

  The car-park had an elevator, but Helen, still keyed up from the fight and distrustful, took the stairs, bounding up them two at a time. She didn’t draw attention to herself by running across the concrete of the second level but walked swiftly, keeping her eyes straight, alert to any peripheral sound and movement. It was almost midnight and it appeared that, except for the two staff at the booth on the ground level, the building was entirely deserted.

  She walked over to her car, a white, Japanese four-door sedan. It looked ordinary, but was overpowered—just the way she liked it. She unlocked it from a distance, slipped into the driver’s seat and paused. Every criminal movie she had ever seen ran through her head, a litany of potential disasters. Car chases. Deliberately punctured tyres. A car bomb.

  The last one resonated the most, and her fingers trembled as she inserted the key into

  the car’s ignition. She took a deep breath, turned the key with a quick jerk. And exhaled in relief as the engine throbbed to life.

  She reversed out of her reserved car bay, exited the car-park and headed back to the city. The urge to analyse the messy details of the last half-hour was strong, but that would only fritter away her concentration. It was bad enough that, in the ten minutes it took to reach Heritage House again, a whole parade of nightmare scenarios crowded into her head.

  What if there were two teams of attackers? What if the second team had already attacked the house and done their job? She imagined Yves on the floor and bleeding, his eyes staring blindly at the ceiling. Her grip on the steering wheel tightened.

  No! She wouldn’t think of such things. But the images refused to go away, and Helen felt herself consumed by fear. Fear? That was a shallow word for the panic that seized her. A thick band of cold steel coiled itself around her chest, tightening its grip, making it difficult to breathe. She opened her mouth and took hurried gasps into her lungs to try and break the feeling of suffocation, but it only helped a little. Her hands, knuckles white as they clenched the driving controls, were as chilled as ice, yet slippery with sweat. With every turn and gear change, she thought she’d lose control of the vehicle and plunge it into a building or send it careening across a deserted city street.

  If anything happened to Yves, she didn’t know how she would live with herself afterwards. It wasn’t just that he was her responsibility for as long as he was on Australian soil. And it wasn’t the money. She slammed to a halt at a pair of red traffic lights at the same time as the truth hit her. Could it be true? Could she be in love with Yves de Saint Nerin?

  She let go of the steering wheel with her right hand and hit it a couple of times. No, no, no! What kind of fool was she to do a stupid thing like that? In love with a client, who happened to be one of the richest men in Europe? On a scale of one to ten for stupidity, this certainly rated a few thousand!

  The lights turned green. Helen jerked the gear stick into first and continued driving. When had it happened? When she’d thought of him, broken and bleeding, back at Heritage House? When she’d demonstrated her expertise on him, keeping as close to him as a lover even as she pounded lightly into him? Or when she’d first caught sight of him, standing nonchalantly off to one side, on her first visit to Heritage House?

  Whenever it had happened, it was idiocy on a level she had only previously dreamed about. In less than two weeks, assuming he was alive—Helen pressed more heavily on the accelerator pedal at the thought—he would be safely back in France, dining at those Michelin restaurants he’d told Scott about, and no doubt getting ready to escort the next incomparably beautiful model or member of European nobility to some glittering event.

  She was Helen Collier, reasonably good-looking, reasonably successful, but nonetheless, a woman who worked for a living. She had no business even considering a relationship with someone like Yves.

  The car slowed to a stop just outside Heritage House, and Helen beeped the horn twice, softly. At first, nothing seemed to happen—oh no! He’s dead! The breath caught in her throat and refused to let go, cutting off passage so she couldn’t even swallow past it. Then the front door opened, and two figures strode purposefully down the footpath, each bearing a small piece of luggage. Yves got in the front, passing his bag back to Guy to rest on the seat next to him. Helen pulled away from the curb before both doors had slammed shut.

  They had enough sense to keep quiet as she negotiated her way onto the freeway, heading south. It was only when they had cleared the inner city completely, whizzing past dark suburbs lit only by the regular white glow of street lights, that they spoke.

  “Who were those men?” Guy asked.

  “I don’t know,” Helen replied, “but I’m not taking any chances.”

  “You think they’re from Alexandrov,” Yves stated.

  Yes, that had been her first thought, but there was still much about the incident that didn’t make sense to her. She checked her rear view mirror, noticing some distant pairs of headlights behind them. Hopefully, they would drop to nothing as she continued the drive.

  “I’m really not sure, but we’re not hanging around to find out.”

  She reached for her mobile and tapped out a number she knew in her sleep. It answered on the third ring.

  “Ryan, we’re on the move,” she said before he could bark out a greeting.

  “You got jumped again?”

  “Three men. Nobody hurt on our side. I’m on the way to the safe house.”

  “Where did they jump you?”

  She gave him detailed instructions of the corner near which they were ambushed.

  “I’ll call only if it’s urgent,” he told her. “If I don’t, contact me in a few days.” And he terminated the call.

  “Where are we going?” Yves asked.

  “To a safe house. Did you wrap up affairs at Heritage House?”

  “I left instructions with the staff to continue as normal, but told them Guy and I were going on a short trip and didn’t know when we would be back.”

  She nodded. “That’s probably safest.”

  Could he feel the tense thrumming of her body as she drove southwards? He must have. They seemed to be attuned to each other’s bodies, whether they liked it or not. Correction, whether she liked it or not.

  “Where is this safe house?” he asked, after another silence of ten minutes.

  “Somewhere safe.” Only her tone belied the flippant words.

  “Is it far away?”

  She glanced quickly at the clock on the dashboard. It was twelve thirty-five in the morning. “Another two hours, maybe a bit more.”

  “Quite a way out of Brisbane.”

  “Yes it is.”

  There was only one place Helen could think of that she regarded as remotely secure, and that was her parents’ house—no, it was her house now—at Byron Bay. Ryan knew about it, but even he didn’t know exactly where it was. It would be after two in the morning by the time she reached it, and she would be exhausted. Already, she felt the tiredness creep up on her, as the adrenaline washed out of her system. She knew she would be asleep before her head even touched the pillow.

  The outskirts of Brisbane flashed past, and they were in that nebulous area between cities, the highway bounded by large acreage properties, one or two rooms illuminated by lights that remained on long into the early morning hours. What little traffic there was behind her had disappeared completely. In the back,
Helen heard heavy, steady breathing and knew Guy had fallen asleep. But Yves remained awake and alert beside her.

  “How long will we be staying at this safe house?” Yves voice broke the silence. It was good having him around as he stopped her from falling asleep with his disturbing presence and questions that demanded answers.

  “As far as I’m concerned, until you fly back to France.” There was a bitter-sweet quality to the thought—to have him all to herself, until she lost him to his home country.

  “ C’est impossible.” His answer was quick and direct. “At the very least, I have to be back in Brisbane next week to sign the initial agreement with Scott Nelson.”

  She gave him as long a look as she dared before turning her attention back to the road. She didn’t have to say a word. Yves knew exactly what she was thinking.

  “Alexandrov has already affected my business, my family, myself, far more than I like or am comfortable with,” he explained. “I have to make a stand.”

  “And get yourself killed in the process?” She said it lightly, with coolness, to hide the clench of her stomach as she conjured up images to match her words.

  “Both times we were attacked, they were nothing but thugs. Perhaps the attackers tonight were a little more skilled, but the chance of me getting killed is remote at best.”

  Did he really believe that? How could he be so frivolous about his life? Even a lucky punch could knock him out and send him tumbling over a balcony...or a drunken tackle could smash the back of his skull against a kerb.

  “Pete,” she whispered softly, staring straight ahead.

  “I’m sorry, did you say something?”

  “I’m just thinking how foolish you are,” Helen told him bitterly. “Maybe you think it’s your money that keeps you invulnerable, but you can lose your life in a heartbeat and not know it. A life’s worth of potential gone in the blink of an eye, and not a thing you can do about it. You’re dead, but the people who cared for you are still alive, wondering how the hell it happened and wishing they could somehow turn back the clock.”

  She tried to keep her tone as impersonal as possible—even though she knew that was no way to talk to a client, and certainly no way to talk to a man like Yves—but knew she failed. Their assaults, following so closely after Pete’s death, was too much pain to ignore. Maybe it was a good thing that she was burying herself at Byron Bay and giving up the potential for lucrative bodyguard contracts like this one. At this point in life, after losing such a close friend, she didn’t think she was tough enough to continue in the profession. She would stick to teaching children how to finesse their kicks and to helping adults keep up their fitness, and leave the life and death decisions of someone involved in personal security behind her forever.

  “Was he a good friend?”

  Helen’s hand jerked on the wheel. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to send the car jolting close up to the lane boundary for a moment before she corrected the action. It was enough to tell Yves that he’d scored a direct hit.

  “Yes, he was,” she finally said when he didn’t break the silence. “He was a good instructor and a great human being.”

  “Did you love him?”

  How should she answer that? That, once, she’d thought she did? Or that she’d felt, with time and a deepening relationship between the two of them, she would have grown to love him? How could she talk about her lessened expectations, considering the profession she had chosen? Of gentle men, too frightened to approach her, and ungentle men who were too ungentle in all things? And then Pete had been there like a warm, solid refuge in a storm. He wasn’t afraid of her and didn’t have anything to prove. She hadn’t gone searching for love, because only those two conditions, confidence and respect―impossibly hard, it seemed, to fulfil―were enough. So, she’d thought Pete was enough and had even started imagining a tentative future that included more than just herself. How wrong she had been!

  It wasn’t enough that she had lost Pete. Now, when she had only just begun picking up the pieces of her life again, along came Yves de Saint Nerin. Tall, dark, and handsome. Wealthy and charming. As hypnotising as a king cobra fixated on a mouse. And he was so far out of her league, he might as well have come from another planet. Of all the men, in all the situations, in all the places of the world, she thought wryly, shamelessly breaking the quote from a famous movie, why did it have to be him she fell in love with?

  And it was love, of that she was sure. There was nothing else that could explain the uneven staccato of her heart whenever she caught sight of him. Or the equally strong urges to run towards him and away from him, at the same time. Maybe if she was in a different situation, a wealthy socialite in her own right, she might be more confident about exploring the attraction that crackled between them, but she was only one of his staff, and a temporary member at that. She couldn’t believe how strong the impulse had been to give in to what he offered, to entwine their bodies in mindless pleasure for long stretches of hours, and reality be damned. And, while it had lasted, it had been heaven.

  But she also knew that letting her fantasies and actions distract her from her job were putting him in incredible danger. That increased her sense of culpability. Maybe, once he was gone, she could regain her self-respect. She’d be miserable. But she’d be herself again. Surely that was something to cling to?

  Her musings took time. In fact they took so many minutes that by the time her thoughts finally circled back to the present, it was too late to answer Yves’ question. She knew he would take her silence to mean that yes, she had loved Pete. And she had, as a trusted friend. It would do no harm for Yves to think that there was more to the story than that.

  * * * *

  She loves him still.

  Yves was not a fool. He knew what that long pause, stretching almost to eternity, meant. Whomever she spoke of with the heartbreak still lodged in her throat, whose death she still grieved over, was someone she had loved dearly. He had taken a chance, alluding casually to a man, hoping that she would explain it was a brother or cousin or acquaintance, who had lost his life in such a meaningless fashion. But the stab of pain he’d felt in his chest as he uttered the words deepened with Helen’s answer.

  He was a good instructor, and a great human being.

  Of course. He should have known that she would have fallen in love with someone from her world, someone who protected and taught other people. Whereas he…he had only one real student, only one person he was deliberately training, and that was the young man snoring softly in the back of the car. His greatest gift was the ability to make money, but what benefited others―expansion of businesses, employment of staff―also had the result of benefiting himself. In contrast, when Helen shared her skills and expertise, it was all given away, selflessly, with no thought of her own safety.

  Against someone else like that, a man she both loved and respected, a rival whose name he did not even know, what chance did he stand?

  He looked out the window at the dark smudges of trees, indistinct beyond the bright arc of the freeway lights, and brooded. By thinking of the dead man as a rival, that meant that Yves had already decided to pursue Helen himself. He cast a quick glance her way. And why not? She was like a breath of fresh air to him. She was lively, intelligent and self-confident. He admired the way she was able to take care of herself, even as he wanted to shower her with gifts and tell her that she didn’t have to.

  But, merde, how did he go about defeating a memory, a ghost? If he could have fought dirty, Yves would have done it without hesitation. After all, he was a man who saw what he wanted and went after it. It wouldn’t have pricked his conscience at all to hire a team of investigators to probe the background and dealings of a potential rival...or partner. All was fair in love and business. But what did one do when that man was dead? How could he compete with the hallowed memory of this mysterious fellow instructor and ‘great human being’ without making himself look like an insensitive idiot in the process? That was if he stood even t
he slightest chance of success. All he could be sure of was the attraction between him and Helen. But that could be an attraction based only on physical chemistry. At least on Helen’s part. She was too well schooled to give away too much with those stormy blue-grey eyes of hers. Maybe the memory of her dead lover still exerted a hold too strong to break? But how could this be, he wondered in sudden bewilderment. Women found him irresistible. Usually.

  What he needed, he decided, was more intelligence. He needed to find out exactly who this ghost was from Helen’s past. Maybe by getting her to talk about it, it would ease her pain and give him a better insight into her character. There was still much about her that intrigued and puzzled him, and that was in addition to their incandescent combination in bed. It made for a potent mix.

  The landscape streamed past in shadowed monotony. Yves felt tired but not enough to fall asleep. Also, he didn’t think it right to doze off while Helen still drove. He would have offered to take over the driving of the car, but he didn’t know where they were going. If this had been Europe, he wouldn’t have hesitated. Besides, she liked being in control and wouldn’t relish relinquishing it to his grasp. He had noticed that about her, almost from the first moment he saw her. He had wanted to see a bit more of Australia but not under these conditions, settled next to an attractive but prickly female bodyguard, racing off into the night. He glanced at the clock. They would reach their destination in a little more than two hours, she had said one and a half hours ago. Well, at least they were more than halfway through their journey.

  He knew he should be making small talk, keeping her awake on the long drive, but every question that popped into his head somehow, inevitably, snaked back to her dead boyfriend, and that, for now, was a fruitless avenue to explore.

  “I’ve been thinking about that group of three men waiting for us after our dinner with Scott,” he finally ventured. There, the hint of an intellectual puzzle should keep her awake. And keep him away from the topic he most wanted to explore.