Undercover Bodyguard

by Shirlee McCoy

  All Ryder had to do was look in her eyes, and he saw it. All he had to do was listen to her with her employees and with Dottie, and he heard it.

  She was soft, and he was soft for her, and there was nothing he could do to change either of those things.

  Nothing he would do to change it.

  “I’ll call you next week,” Shelby said, and Eileen nodded.

  “I’ll be around. Now, you two go on back to what you were doing, and watch out. It seems to me that Maureen would have been a lot better off if she’d stayed out of things that weren’t her business.”

  “It was her business. She was writing your granddaughter’s story, remember?” Ryder said as they walked to the door.

  “Not Catherine’s story. That scum Peterson’s story. A poor choice. Better make sure you’re not making any, or you might wind up the same way she did. You both seem like nice kids. I wouldn’t want to see you hurt.”

  Shelby stiffened at her words, her muscles tightening beneath Ryder’s hand. “We’ll be careful.”

  They stepped outside, the wooden floorboards of the porch giving a little under Ryder’s weight. Obviously, Eileen was falling behind on the upkeep of her property. The clapboard house was faded, its paint peeling and gray. Maybe it had been beautiful a long time ago. Now it simply looked tired, the overgrown yard edging in and threatening to overtake the house and rickety porch. He’d send some of his men over to straighten things out. A little overtime wouldn’t hurt any of them.

  “That was…interesting,” Shelby said as she climbed into the Hummer, her borrowed jeans hugging curvy hips and long, lean legs.

  He tried not to notice, but that was difficult when the breeze carried hints of berries and vanilla. Difficult when every moment of every day seemed to be filled with Shelby.

  Every thought.

  Every decision based on what would keep her safe.

  “I’d say it was informative. I think that a meeting with Dr. Peterson will be even more so,” he responded, shutting the door and shutting down his errant thoughts.

  “That means we’re not going to the bakery yet, doesn’t it?” She brushed stray curls from her cheek, watching him as he got into the Hummer and started the engine. He shouldn’t feel her gaze the way he felt the sunlight pouring in the window, but he did.

  “Sorry, but we need to visit Dr. Peterson. I want to get his take on things. We should still have plenty of time for that cake you need to build.”

  “Stack. Not build. And I have to put flowers on it, too.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “You can help me by getting me back to the bakery by three.”

  “I’ll give it my best shot.”

  “Do you really think the doctor will be willing to talk to us?”

  “We won’t know until we ask.” He grabbed his cell phone and dialed the office, waiting impatiently while it rang.

  “Personal Securities, Inc—”

  “It’s Ryder,” he cut in, and Paisley Duncan huffed.

  “You could have waited until I finished, boss,” she said, and he knew she was fidgeting at the desk, wishing she were out doing something more exciting. That had been her M.O. since he’d hired the twentysomething office temp. She wanted to be a bodyguard. Not office help.

  Too bad she didn’t have any training.

  Too bad she couldn’t fire a gun.

  Too bad there was no way ever that Ryder would assign her a case.

  “I have more important things on my mind than manners, Paisley. I need you to track down a doctor named Christopher Peterson. He works at Good Samaritan in—”

  “The valley. Right. I know it. My grandmother was there for a couple of years.”

  “Call them and see if Peterson is in today. If he is there, let me know. If he’s not, ask when he’ll be in next.”

  “You want me to set up an appointment for you to meet with him?”

  “I’d prefer he not know I’m coming. I don’t want him taking off to avoid a meeting.”

  “I can find his home address, too. We could—”

  “We’re not doing anything.”

  “You take all the fun out of this job, you know that, boss?”

  “Call Good Samaritan. Let me know what you find out. I should be hitting town in an hour. I need the information before then.” He disconnected before Paisley could beg him to bring her to the interview. Fresh out of college with a master’s degree in English, she had no business doing anything but writing the next great American novel she was working on and sitting at a desk, and that’s exactly what he’d told her on too many occasions to count.

  “We’re not just going to show up at the convalescent center without warning and confront the doctor, are we?” Shelby sounded appalled.

  “We’re going to show up there, his home, the hospital. Wherever he is, because I need to talk to him, and letting him know I’m coming will only give him time to compose his thoughts.”

  “I have a wedding cake to prep and deliver, Ryder. I can’t spend the afternoon chasing down a doctor. If he’s not at Good Samaritan—”

  “Then we’re going to have to keep looking. Your life is more important than a wedding cake.”

  “Maybe not to the bride,” she grumbled, and he patted her knee, his hand resting on worn denim.

  She stilled, her muscles taut, and he was sure she was holding her breath, waiting for him to move away.

  Or to claim more than a pat on the knee.

  Velvety lips, whispered sighs, sweet smiles.

  He wanted more of them all when the time was right, but it wasn’t right. Not yet.

  “We’ll be back at the bakery in plenty of time for you to do what needs to be done.” He lifted his hand, ignoring the warmth that thrummed through his veins.

  “I’m already behind, so there’s no way I’ll have plenty of time.”

  “Two hands will cut the time by half.”

  “Or double it. You don’t know your way around a wedding cake any more than I do the revolver you’re carrying.”

  “It’s a semiautomatic, Shelby Ann, and I can teach you anything you want to know about it the same way you can teach me about wedding cakes.”

  “But—”

  His cell phone rang, and he grabbed it, knowing exactly who it was before he answered. Paisley was overly eager, but she was also smart and quick.

  “Ryder, here.”

  “I have the information you want, boss. Peterson is stopping in at the convalescent center today. He’s scheduled to be there from noon to three.”

  “Then we’re in business. Thanks, Paisley.”

  “Thank me by taking me wi—”

  He disconnected, cutting her off before she could ask. He’d trained people to work as security contractors, but he didn’t plan to train her. She was too eager and too young, and that could get her or a client killed.

  “He’s there?” Shelby asked, and he nodded.

  “He’ll be there until three.” Which worked out perfectly. They’d find him while he was working his shift and ask a few questions before he knew why they were there. Hopefully they would throw him off balance and prevent him from formulating polished, practiced replies.

  Ryder would know if the doctor was lying. Gaze shifting, hands fidgeting, stance tense, subtle clues that would give him away, and Ryder would be watching for them.

  Maybe the doctor wouldn’t lie, though.

  Maybe he’d tell the truth.

  Maybe, but Ryder thought another possibility was more likely.

  The doctor would lie, and he’d keep on lying.

  Because, Ryder thought, Dr. Christopher Peterson probably had a very good reason for doing so.

 
EIGHTEEN

  Christopher Peterson didn’t look any more like a cold-blooded killer than Catherine had. The thought flitted through Shelby’s mind as she followed Ryder and the doctor into a small office.

  Peterson didn’t look like a killer, but he didn’t look happy, either. As a matter of fact, he’d been looking decidedly unhappy since Ryder had introduced himself and Shelby and asked if they could speak to him.

  “I appreciate you giving us a few minutes of your time, Dr. Peterson,” Ryder said as the doctor closed the office door.

  “You should, because I don’t have a few minutes. As a matter of fact, I don’t have any time at all.”

  “Then that makes us even more appreciative,” Ryder responded, but there was little sincerity in his words. He looked predatory and fierce, focused and dangerous, his attention never wavering from the doctor’s face.

  “Right. Whatever you want to ask, ask quickly.” Dr. Peterson dropped into a leather armchair, his receding hair standing up around a broad, slightly jowly face, his emerald eyes flashing with irritation.

  “We were hoping you could tell us a little bit about the murders that were committed here.” Ryder didn’t beat around the bush, and the doctor tensed, his eyes narrowing.

  “That’s old news, and you can find whatever information you need by requesting the case file from the police or visiting the library and looking at back issues of the local newspaper. Every horrible detail is there.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, age spots marring the too-smooth skin on the back of his hand.

  “I’m not interested in what the police or the newspaper have to say, Doctor. I’m interested in what you have to say. The way I’ve heard it, Catherine Miller wasn’t the only employee who worked every shift that a patient died on. You were working those shifts, too.”

  “The police knew that. The prosecutor knew it, but none of them cared, because they already had their murderer. Like I said, it’s all old news.”

  “You were called away from the hospital during three of the shifts, right? When you returned, you found the deceased.”

  “It’s been a long time, but that sounds about right.”

  “I wouldn’t think any amount of time could make it difficult to remember. Eleven people died.”

  “Did you come here to accuse me of something, Mr. Malone?” The doctor leaned forward, his eyes narrow with anger.

  “I just wanted your take on things. Catherine Miller is still insisting she’s innocent. Maybe she’s telling the truth. What do you think?”

  “I think she’s crazy. I thought it the first day we met, and I thought it every day I worked with her.”

  “Even the day you asked her out?” Ryder asked, and the doctor stood.

  “I think this conversation is over.”

  “You did ask her out, right?”

  “What does that have to do with the death of eleven innocent people?”

  “I’m just trying to get the facts straight.”

  “The facts are that Catherine Miller injected potassium chloride into eleven patients over the course of her two years here. They died, and she went to prison for her crimes. Justice was served, and we’ve all moved on.”

  “Not everyone is convinced Catherine is a murderer.”

  “I’m convinced. People who work here are convinced. The families of her victims are convinced. What the rest of the world thinks doesn’t really matter.” The doctor paced to a small window that looked out over the parking area, his back ramrod straight.

  “Do you know Maureen Lewis?” Ryder asked, and Dr. Peterson swung around, his eyes cold and hard.

  “She’s the woman that died in a house fire a few days ago, right? The true-crime writer?”

  “She was investigating the Good Samaritan murders for a book she was working on. We thought maybe she’d interviewed you.”

  “She was here. We only had a minute to talk, though. A few days later, she was dead. A shame. It’s one thing for a person to live a full life and then go peacefully, knowing they’ve lived long and happily, and that they won’t be burdens to their families any longer. It’s another thing for someone to die young.” The doctor’s hot, angry gaze settled on Shelby, and her skin crawled. She resisted the urge to step behind Ryder, meeting Peterson’s eyes head-on.

  “You think the fact that someone is elderly means he’s a burden?” she asked, and Peterson frowned.

  “Not at all. I’m simply saying that death is inevitable, but it’s much easier to accept when the person who dies has lived a long and fulfilling life. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some patients to see.” He walked out of the room without a backward glance.

  “He’s not very warm and fuzzy. I wonder what his bedside manner is like,” Shelby said as Ryder led her out of the office.

  “I’m thinking that I’d rather not find out.”

  “For someone who works at a convalescent facility, he didn’t seem all that compassionate toward the elderly.”

  “I was thinking the same thing. As a matter of fact, I can’t think of any reason why a guy like that would be committed to keeping the infirm or dying alive, and I can’t help wondering why he’s working here.”

  “Because it pays the bills?”

  “Or because he gets a kick out of playing God,” Ryder said quietly as they walked through the corridor, his words just loud enough for Shelby to hear.

  “Do you really think he’s a murderer?” she whispered back, and Ryder shrugged.

  “He had the means, and I’m not sure how good his alibi was. The patients aren’t hooked to monitors here like they are at the hospital. Peterson could have administered the poison and left the hospital before the deaths were discovered.”

  “I’m sure the police thought of that.”

  “I’m sure they did, too, but remember what Peterson said? They knew a lot of things, but it didn’t matter because they already had their suspect. One who had the murder weapon hidden in her car, her locker and her purse. It would be interesting to know if the police were as thorough in their investigation of Peterson as they were of Catherine once they found those vials. When we get to the bakery, I’m going to call the sheriff and see what he has to say.”

  “So, we’re finally going to the bakery?” Shelby’s heart jumped with anticipation, the anxiety that had been gnawing at her for the better part of the day easing slightly. It was late, but she still had time to put the cake together and deliver it.

  If she hurried, and she would, because people were counting on her and she couldn’t bear to let them down.

  “I told you I’d bring you there when we finished here.”

  “You told me you’d bring me there after we finished at the prison, then after we finished at Eileen’s, then—”

  “I get it, Shelby Ann. You’re disappointed that I didn’t follow through on what I said, but I’ll make it up to you.”

  Disappointed wasn’t at all how she felt.

  Scared.

  Anxious.

  Worried.

  Those topped her list.

  Compelled and intrigued rounded out the end of it.

  Or maybe they were the beginning.

  When Ryder was around, she didn’t know up or down or sideways. She only knew that being with him felt better than being with any other man she’d ever known.

  That couldn’t be a good thing, but it felt as if it was.

  Ryder got in the Hummer, his dark eyes skimming over her, and her heart beat hard for him, her pulse racing.

  She turned away.

  She didn’t want to look into his eyes, not wanting to see her longings reflected in his face.

  Shelby had always believed that if she worked hard, prayed hard and tried hard, she’d get the things s
he wanted in life. Now, she was on the cusp of her thirtieth birthday, and she had a murderer chasing after her and a too-handsome bodyguard that was bound to break her heart if she let him. She had a dog she’d inherited from a friend who should have lived way longer than fifty years and a pile of ash instead of a house.

  But she also had Dottie and Zane and Rae. She had her mother and sister and her friends. She had her bakery. She had her faith.

  And maybe, just maybe, she had Ryder, too.

  For now.

  But not forever.

  As long as she remembered that, she’d be just fine.

  She rubbed the itchy, achy area surrounding the stitches in her back, remembering the firm, hot touch of his hands as he’d massaged the spasms out of her muscles.

  For now.

  Not forever.

  She really did need to remember that.

  Which was why she needed to forget his touch, his kisses, his gentleness, and she needed to concentrate on what had to be done to get the wedding cake ready for delivery.

  She grabbed the door handle as Ryder pulled up in front of Just Desserts, ready to hop out of the Hummer and run into the building, but he grabbed her shoulder, pulling her back.

  “Wait until I come around.”

  “The door is—”

  “Wait,” he growled, and she decided to do what he asked rather than waste more time arguing. Finish the cake. Deliver it. Then she could retreat to the safe house, lock herself in her room there and pretend her life hadn’t completely fallen apart.

  Several customers stared out the bakery’s front window as Ryder rounded the Hummer, his jacket swinging open to reveal his side holster and gun. He looked tough, handsome and a little terrifying, and more than one woman leaned close to the glass, ogling him as he opened the door and ushered Shelby out of the vehicle.

  She couldn’t blame them.

  She’d be ogling, too, if she weren’t so busy running beside him as he hurried her into the bakery.

  Conversation ceased as they entered the building, three dozen pairs of eyes following them as they walked around the glass display case and into the service area where Dottie worked shoulder to shoulder with Rae and Zane.