by Anita Meyer
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Excerpt
Dear reader
Title Page
Books by Anita Meyer
About the Author
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Copyright
“I want to remind you that this ‘marriage’ is in name only.
“Any displays of affection will be strictly for the public eye. Agreed?” Caroline asked.
“Absolutely.”
“And I sure hope you’re not one of those bozos who believes he’s a knight in shining armor, because I never believed in fairy tales. Bottom line—I take care of myself.”
“Anything else? Good. Now it’s my turn,” Jeff said. “First, this ‘marriage of convenience’ is anything but. And second, in deference to all the chivalrous men who still believe that helping a lady is the decent and honorable thing to do…” He offered her a gracefully sweeping bow. “Sir Bozo, at your service.”
Dear Reader,
Holiday greetings from all of us at Silhouette Books to all of you. And along with my best wishes, I wanted to give you a present, so I put together six of the best books ever as your holiday surprise. Emilie Richards starts things off with Woman Without a Name. I don’t want to give away a single one of the fabulous twists and turns packed into this book, but I can say this: You’ve come to expect incredible emotion, riveting characters and compelling storytelling from this award-winning writer, and this book will not disappoint a single one of your high expectations. And in keeping with the season, here’s the next of our HOLIDAY HONEYMOONS, a miniseries shared with Desire and written by Carole Buck and Merline Lovelace. A Bride for Saint Nick is Carole’s first Intimate Moments novel, but you’ll join me in wishing for many more once you’ve read this tale of a man who thinks he has no hope of love, only to discover—just in time for Christmas—that - a wife and a ready-made family are his for the asking.
As for the rest of the month, what could be better than new books from Sally Tyler Hayes and Anita Meyer, along with the contemporary debuts of historical authors Elizabeth Mayne and Cheryl St John? So sit back, pick up a book and start to enjoy the holiday season. And don’t forget to come back next month for some Happy New Year reading right here at Silhouette Intimate Moments, where the best is always waiting to be unwrapped.
Yours,
Senior Editor and Editorial Coordinator
Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
The Bride and the Bodyguard
Anita Meyer
Books by Anita Meyer
Silhouette Intimate Moments
Chandler’s Child #581
The Bride and the Bodyguard #754
ANITA MEYER
lives in Denver, Colorado, with her husband and two children. She devotes her time to her family, writing, tennis and square dancing—in that order. Her passion for writing and her experience as a former teacher led her to establish a publishing center at a local school, where elementary students come to edit, rewrite, illustrate and publish their own stories.
She has won a number of awards (both for writing and tennis!) and she is an active member of several writing organizations. She loves to hear from her readers, who can reach her at: P.O. Box 6074, Denver, Colorado 80206.
For Rick,
my attorney, my planner, my husband, my “Jeff.” Thanks for filling every day with happy surprises.
Prologue
Caroline Southeby glanced around nervously, then jammed the bills from the automated teller machine into her pocket. After punching the buttons one more time, she turned up the collar of her jacket against the cold drizzle and waited for the machine to register another transaction. At a hundred dollars a pop, it had taken most of the night to get the money. Five withdrawals with a guaranteed check card…Hop the subway to the next exit…another five hundred from MasterCard…Find another machine…five more, courtesy of Visa. And now, American Express. A grand total of two thousand dollars. It wasn’t much, but you could make it last if you knew what you were doing.
And she did.
Caroline pressed her back against the machine and studied the street in both directions. Nothing. No one.
A gust of wind whipped her hair and sent an icy chill through her body. For once she was glad. This was the kind of weather that kept the indigent huddled in the alleys and the gangs deep in their lairs. Even the police would gravitate to some local hangout on a night like this. Which was just fine with her. The last person she wanted to see right now was a cop.
She stooped down to tie the laces on her running shoe and covertly slipped the five bills under the arch of her foot. Next stop was the New York Port Authority Bus Terminal. She slung the backpack over her shoulder, tucked her chin to her chest, and sloshed along Thirty-seventh Street.
The rain was coming down harder now. Not the warm, gentle shower you expected in early May, but a cold, stinging rain that matched her mood. What she wouldn’t give for a cup of Johanna’s special-blend coffee and one of her own bakery confections. But The Coffee Café was undoubtedly being watched. She couldn’t go near her little shop until this mess was over.
She paid cash for her ticket to Pittsburgh, then climbed aboard the old Greyhound and took a seat in the back. Her denim jacket was soaked and she struggled out of it, then spread it on the seat next to her to dry. As the other passengers boarded the bus, she covertly watched them, taking mental stock. None of them paid her any attention. Finally the driver closed the door, and the bus pulled away from the terminal.
Caroline leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. Almost at once, echoes of her brothers’ voices sounded inside her head. Remember, Caroline. If you’re ever in trouble, use cash. Once you hit the road, there can be no credit cards, no checks, no paper trail of any kind.
“I know, Alden,” she whispered.
Move at night. Double back if you have to. You’re on your own now, Princess. So remember the stuff we taught you.
“I will, Brian. I won’t forget.”
No, she would never forget. She would remember everything—all of it—remember the pieces of Alden’s boat dragged back to shore, his body lost at sea…remember seeing Brian blown away by a single shot…remember staring into the cold, hate-filled eyes of Augie Davis. She remembered running to the police, agreeing to testify against the crime boss who had killed her brothers. She remembered being spirited off to a cheap motel, surrounded by detectives who had sworn to protect her—men who passed the time playing cards…reading books…checking their guns.
Caroline shivered reflexively. Somebody, somewhere, had been willing to tell Davis what he needed to know. Like an ugly, monstrous octopus, his tentacles stretched far and deep. Protective custody had lasted only two months. A barrage of gunfire had exploded this morning, shattering the stillness. One cop was killed instantly, two others exchanged fire with the hired assassins, while the fourth jumped out a back window, dragging her with him. She remembered running and stumbling and running again. She remembered the confusio
n, the sirens, the gathering crowd—and that was when she knew. If she was going to live long enough to put Augie Davis away, she’d have to do it on her own. She bolted into the crowd, and zigzagged her way through stores and shops, until she was sure she had lost the detective.
Caroline looked out the bus window as the cold, gray city began to slip away. She had scribbled a postcard to the D.A.’s office saying she’d be back for Augie Davis’s trial. And in the meantime, she’d spend three long months on the road, living out of a backpack, eating at greasy truck stops, always looking over her shoulder. It wouldn’t be easy, but it was a whole lot better than the alternative. She couldn’t trust the police, and she’d never again agree to being locked up for her own good. She’d do it her way or not at all. And when the time came, she would go back to New York and avenge her beloved brothers.
Raindrops streamed down the window in rivulets, and Caroline watched her reflection cry.
First Alden, then Brian.
And everyone knew bad things always came in threes.
Chapter 1
Jeff McKensie looked from the cashier’s check in his hand to the man seated in front of his desk. “Let me get this straight, Arthur. You’re offering me twenty-five thousand dollars in cash and a first-class, all-expenses-paid trip to the Virgin Islands.”
“That’s right.”
Jeff rocked back in his tall leather chair and looked skeptically at the old man. Arthur Peterson—Federal Marshal and self-appointed protector of the McKensie clan. Because Jeff’s father and Arthur had been best friends, Arthur had been a pseudo member of the family for as long as Jeff could remember. “Uncle” Arthur seemed to think that gave him certain rights—namely, the right to involve Jeff in federal business whenever he needed help. Whatever it was Arthur wanted, it was guaranteed to interrupt, disrupt, and wreak havoc with Jeff’s orderly life.
Reluctantly, Jeff studied the old man. His hair was a lot thinner than the last time he had popped into Jeff’s life, but his eyebrows were as bushy as ever. To a kid, those brows had been a source of amazement. Especially when Jeff’s brother, Mac, persuaded him they were two caterpillars who had taken up permanent residence on Arthur’s forehead. But even with those ridiculous brows, Arthur’s face was always controlled, exposing only what he wanted you to see.
Today, his face revealed nothing. And he seemed perfectly content to wait for Jeff to take the bait.
Not this time, Arthur.
Knowing the old man was watching every move, Jeff slowly folded the check in half lengthwise. Then he bent back the edges and glanced at Arthur out of the corner of his eye. He certainly had the man’s attention. Jeff finished folding the check into a neat little paper airplane and ran his thumb and forefinger along the center crease. He zipped the plane through the air, across the desk, and watched it land, nose first, in Arthur’s lap.
“Very amusing,” Arthur said, his reserve cracking ever so slightly. “But aren’t you even the least bit curious?”
Jeff clasped his hands behind his head and smiled.
“Nope.”
“You truly don’t want to know anything? Her name, her background, her life-threatening situation?”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Arthur, but I’m not interested. If I ask one simple question, I’ll be hooked. You’ll reel me in faster than a tuna off the back of Mac’s boat. Whatever it is, I won’t do it. So why don’t you leave and let me get back to work?”
Arthur crossed his right leg over his left and settled in the chair. “My dear boy, you wound me. When have I ever had anything but your best interests at heart?”
Jeff threw Arthur a look that would have silenced most men.
Arthur cleared his throat. “Well, be that as it may, I need your help.”
“No.”
“Jeff, a woman’s life is in my hands. At least hear me out.” The next word was barely perceptible. “Please.”
Jeff looked at the stack of files littering his desk. There were a hundred things he should be doing right now, and listening to some damsel-in-distress story wasn’t even in the top fifty. Jeff sighed. The least he could do was to give the old man a sporting chance. “I’m not biting, Arthur,” he warned. “But you’re welcome to dangle the bait.”
Arthur’s normally controlled features flooded with relief and he pulled his chair closer to Jeff’s desk. “Ever hear of a man named Augie Davis?”
Jeff raised his eyebrows and looked at Arthur curiously. “Every lawyer and lawman in the country has heard of Augie Davis,” he answered. “Small-time punk turned syndicated crime boss. He’s the biggest success story since Al Capone.”
Arthur nodded. “Davis clawed his way to the top, destroying everything and anyone that stood his way. For the last twenty years he’s had a very close association with an accountant named Donald Southeby. Rumor has it that Southeby did a lot more than just balance the books. Anyway, Southeby died of a heart attack. Coroner said it was completely legit. The old man’s arteries were as hard as cement. But get this—less than a month later, the oldest son, Alden, drowns in a boating ‘accident.’ And a few weeks after that, the younger son, Brian, is shot to death.”
Arthur moved to one of the large windows overlooking downtown San Diego. “Davis is into everything,” he continued with his back to Jeff. “And the NYPD has been trying for years to find something that will hold up against him in court. That something turned out to be someone.” He turned around and faced Jeff once again. “Caroline Southeby, the last of the family, witnessed her brother’s shooting. She’s willing to testify against Davis.”
“So what’s the problem?” Jeff asked. “She testifies. He goes to jail. Case closed.”
“If she testifies,” Arthur corrected. “Davis isn’t going to sit around and wait for that to happen. He wants her dead.”
Jeff came around to the front of the desk, propped one hip against it, and crossed his arms. “That’s why we have cops, Arthur. You put her in a room with someone willing to stare at four walls and order a lot of room service, while the D.A. tries to move up the trial date. Cops do it all the time.”
“Thank you, professor, but we tried that—with four men.”
“And?” Jeff prompted. The question popped out before he could stop it.
“And something went awry,” Arthur admitted slowly. “Two guys stormed the place. When the smoke cleared, one officer and both hit men were dead.”
“And the girl?”
Arthur shook his head. “One of the detectives got her out, but she took off and he lost her in the crowd.”
“Smart lady,” Jeff said. “No offense, Arthur, but I’d split, too, if someone was shooting at me.”
Arthur dropped down in the chair with an uncharacteristic resignation. “She was on the road more than three weeks before we caught up with her. She’s pretty good. Has a lot of street smarts. But if we can find her, so can Davis, and needless to say, she refuses to have anything more to do with the police.”
“I repeat,” Jeff said, “smart lady.” He pushed himself away from the desk and poured two cups of coffee.
Arthur accepted one of the cups with a grateful nod. “Word on the street is that there are a couple of heavy-duty contracts just waiting to be filled.”
“So that’s where you come in,” Jeff interjected. “You put her in the Witness Protection Program, give her a new name, a new social security number, and dump her in the middle of Iowa.”
“Wrong.” Arthur took a long, slow breath and swallowed. “That’s where you come in.”
Jeff’s cup stalled halfway to his mouth.
“Jeff, I can’t ‘dump her in the middle of Iowa,’ as you so quaintly put it, and leave her alone and unprotected. There’s got to be someone with her—someone like you.”
“Forget it,” Jeff said flatly. “Find someone else.”
“There is no one else, and I wouldn’t be here if I had other options. The raid on the motel leaves little doubt that Davis had a contact inside the departmen
t. She doesn’t trust the police, so I need a civilian,” Arthur said coolly. “Twentyfive to thirty years old, reasonably good-looking—”
Jeff laughed. “I’m flattered.”
“He needs the instincts of a cop, the experience of a bodyguard, and the talent of an actor. I say that’s you.”
“And I say you’re crazy. I’m a lawyer now, not a P.I. I shuffle papers for a living. The guy you want has an office three floors down. His name’s Bond. James Bond.”
Arthur wasn’t laughing. “You don’t lose the skills just because your license expires. Besides, your new career is perfect. No one will suspect a lawyer of being able to do anything.”
“Gee, thanks,” Jeff said. “But I’m still not interested in joining your cloak-and-dagger set.” He picked up a thick file from his desk and casually opened it. “Good seeing you again, Arthur.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Arthur replied. He leaned forward and put his cup on the desk. “Not until I convince you to help.”
Jeff clenched his teeth and steeled himself for the oncoming lecture. Any time Arthur really wanted something, he brought out the big guns.
“Jeff, I’ve been part of your life since the day you were born. Hell, you and Mac were the sons I never had. When your father died, I swore on his grave I’d finish what he started. Fact is, there wasn’t much left for me to do. Your brother was already on his own and at twelve years old, you were well on your way. But I was there for you. I made it to football games, band concerts, graduation, the whole works. I helped you get your P.I. license and watched you work your tail off to get through college and law school, and I couldn’t have been prouder if you were my own son.”
Jeff raked a hand through his hair. Arthur’s contributions to the McKensies’ success seemed to grow with the passing of time. But it wasn’t worth debating. “I know, Arthur.”
“And look at you now.” Arthur made a great show of admiring the tastefully decorated office with its walnut desk and floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with law books. “Mr. Upand-Coming Attorney, an associate in a prestigious San Diego law firm. Rumor has it you’ll be a full partner in about three years.”
