“Right?” Tyler nodded in agreement.
“An author, you say?”
“Rachel French... R. French. You know–”
“The crime writer?” Max pushed the folder away and exhaled through pursed lips. If there was one thing he hated, it was authors who wrote about detectives as if they had even the slightest clue what it was really like to track down criminals for a living.
“That’s the one. Her books got turned into that T.V. show. It won awards. So, I guess she’s a pretty big deal now.”
“I guess so.”
Tyler sipped his coffee, wrinkled his nose at it, then continued to drink it anyway. “Well?”
Glancing at Rachel’s picture, jutting out from the folder just far enough to show him a flash of her blonde curls and bright white smile, Max sighed. Rachel French and her wealthy family were exactly the kind of people he despised. But he needed the money. So, gritting his teeth, he nodded. “Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll guard Miss French while you track down her stalker. On one condition...”
“Ah ha?”
“Brandi goes with me.”
3
Rachel
For the first five minutes of the car journey, Rachel didn’t say a word. Max took up a lot of space – he was broad, muscular, and had an aura that implied he wasn’t even a little bit interested in being friendly.
He drove with one arm resting on the truck door just below the window, which he had rolled down despite the fact it was freezing.
Rachel pulled her plaid coat closer and wriggled her shoulders, trying to loosen the tension in her neck. As she folded her arms, Max glanced in her direction. But he still didn’t wind the window back up.
Eventually, after staring out at the increasingly bleak countryside, Rachel cleared her throat and said, “So, how does this all work?”
Max drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Work?”
She tried to smile. “Well, I’ve never had a bodyguard before, so...”
Max shrugged. “It’s quite simple. I’ll watch over you at the cottage until the perpetrator is found.”
“Right.” Putting it like that, it sounded ridiculously simple. “And, I mean I know it’s probably impossible to say, but... how long do you think that might take?”
Max breathed in slowly and Rachel noticed his jaw clench as if he was finding her questions extremely irritating. “It will take as long as it takes, I’m afraid. There’s no way to know.”
“Of course.” Rachel threaded her fingers together in her lap and sighed. She already missed London, and she wasn’t sure how she was going to adapt to writing in such solitude. Usually, when she got writer’s block she would visit a busy cafe and let the hum of movement and chatter nudge her brain back into action. Here, there was a distinct absence of chatter. In fact, all she could see for miles were dreary hills and misty mountains.
“Is there a village nearby to the cottage?” When she’d taken herself on writing retreats in the past, she’d always picked places that were close to somewhere busy with coffee shops and delicatessens, usually a beach too.
Max almost, almost smiled. “No. It’s quite isolated. But I’ve stocked up on supplies. There should be no need to visit civilisation for a few weeks at least.”
“A few weeks?” Rachel stifled a nervous laugh. “Is that really necessary?”
Max moved his hand from the window to the steering wheel and looked at her pointedly before returning his eyes to the road. “Miss French. My job is to keep you safe. So, yes. It’s necessary.”
Rachel nodded. She remembered how scared she’d been when she called her father and said she couldn’t take it any more – because of the phone calls and the letters and the emails from different untraceable addresses – but now she couldn’t help wondering whether she’d exaggerated it. Maybe the fact she wrote crime novels had simply blown the whole thing up in her mind and made her imagine the worst. Maybe whoever it was would have just gotten bored and stopped if she’d given it some more time.
As if he could read her mind, Max added, “Stalkers rarely just stop, Miss French. In many, many cases – far too many, in my opinion – their behaviour escalates until tragedy strikes. Usually because the victim wasn’t taken seriously enough by the police or because there just weren’t the right laws in place to put a stop to it.” He tilted his head sideways and rubbed the back of his neck as if to ease the tension in his muscles. “You did the right thing by getting away.”
“Did you ever deal with stalking cases when you were a detective?” Rachel had angled herself towards him and realised she was talking to him the way she would if she were interviewing him as part of research for a new book.
“No,” Max replied sullenly. “I was a homicide detective.”
“Oh, I see.” Rachel felt both relieved and nervous at the same time; in some ways, Max reminded her of the main character in her newly televised series of books – brooding, ruggedly handsome, and clearly very strong. But the star of her novels, Detective Tom Ridley, could be charming and funny when he wanted to be. If Tom Ridley was charged with taking care of a not-bad-looking woman, alone in a cottage for who-knows-how-long, he’d have already started flirting by now.
Rachel smiled to herself and picked at her jeans as she pictured it. Beside her, Max reached over and flicked on the radio. Loud, irritating static filled the truck and after fiddling for a signal and failing to find one, he turned it off again.
“Nearly there,” he said, pointing into the distance. “Just to warn you, Brandi will be all over you the second we walk in the door.”
Brandi? Rachel frowned. He was talking as if she should know who that was.
“My dog.”
“You brought a dog with you?” Rachel almost smiled. She’d wanted a dog ever since she’d moved out of her parents’ home and left her beloved cocker spaniel Nibs behind. But, living in an apartment and travelling for book tours every other month, it wasn’t really possible. So, she’d settled for a cat and pretended it was just as good as a canine companion.
“Tyler didn’t check with you that it was okay?”
Rachel shook her head. “Maybe he asked my father. It’s fine. I love dogs. What kind is she?”
“A Belgian Shepherd. A retired police dog.” Rachel was studying Max’s face and noticed his eyes soften as he spoke about his pet. “She used to be much more professional but these days all she wants is fuss and treats.”
“Well,” said Rachel, feeling as if maybe this wouldn’t be quite so bad after all, “that sounds great. I’m glad you brought her.”
Max looked over at her. His expression changed, just for a second, but then it settled back into being straight and gruff. As they pulled into a long narrow road that led towards a copse of trees, Max nodded. “The cottage is just beyond the trees. Ground’s muddy. You have any other shoes?”
Rachel jiggled her feet. Her high-heeled boots were probably totally inappropriate. But the only alternatives she’d packed were white trainers or black low-heeled pumps. “I do. But I’m not sure they’re–”
“No matter,” Max said, stiffly. “Just be prepared for them to get dirty.”
“I’m okay with that,” she said, raising her eyebrows at him because she got the feeling he thought she was somewhat snobby, and it was starting to irritate her.
“Okay then.” Max slowed the truck and followed the now-even-thinner dirt path around the trees. They stopped outside a small flint cottage with a thatched roof. Trees pinned it in on either side and a plume of smoke puffed gently from the chimney.
Max turned off the engine, flung his door open, and pulled out her case. “Wait here. I’ll check the house.”
She was about to ask if that was really necessary but stopped herself. He was doing his job. She should let him get on with it. But as Max disappeared inside, she couldn’t help swinging her legs out of the truck.
She landed with a squelch on the muddy driveway. At the side of the cottage, a small stone path wound out of
view beside the trees. Rachel stepped forward. She’d looked at the cottage’s location on a map when her father told her about it and she was certain she’d seen something that looked like water nearby. Gingerly, she dragged her feet through the mud and then scraped them on the stones to clean them a little. She stood for a moment, straining her ears for signs of movement inside.
And then, as it always did, her curiosity got the better of her and she tip-toed around the corner of the building. Following the path, she ran her fingers along the wall of the cottage until she emerged out back.
In front of her, the path stopped and became grass. But, just a short distance ahead, the grass gave way to pebbles and a small cold-looking lake. Straight ahead, a thin wooden jetty led to a moored-up rowing boat and Rachel smiled as she looked at it. The lake was clouded with an icy, thin mist that almost felt like rain. But being near water somehow made her feel calmer. Happier.
She was about to walk down to the jetty when thick heavy fingers gripped her arm.
“I thought I told you to wait?” Max whirled her around, glaring at her incredulously.
“I...” Rachel blushed. She should have waited, of course she should. And she couldn’t explain why she hadn’t.
Max sighed and brushed his fingers through his super-short hair. “If this is going to work, you’re going to have to listen to me, Miss French. If I tell you to do something–”
Rachel lifted her palms at him and nodded fervently. “I know. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again, I promise.”
Max shook his head. He was biting his lower lip as if he was contemplating driving off and leaving her to fend for herself.
“Listen, why don’t we go inside, have a cup of tea, and set out some ground rules? I’m clearly hopeless at this, so...” Rachel smiled and shrugged her shoulders. And when Max didn’t disagree, she started back towards the front of the cottage. “Why don’t we start with you calling me ‘Rachel’?” she asked, stepping sideways to allow Max through the door first.
He stopped, nodded at her, then said, “Kitchen’s this way, Rachel.”
4
Max
As soon as he saw her, Max knew that Rachel French was going to be hard work. Dressed as if she was going out for cocktails on a fancy skiing holiday, she sat beside her designer suitcase with wide, nervous eyes.
She was wearing slim black jeans, high-heeled boots and a white checked jacket that she’d probably chosen purely because it felt a little bit ‘Scottish’. In London, she’d have fitted right in. But up in the Highlands, miles away from anywhere significant, she was totally at odds with her surroundings.
She didn’t look too much like an author, either. At least, she wasn’t how Max had always pictured crime writers to look. If anything, she was the opposite. Too... shiny.
Luckily, they were heading straight for the cottage. But if they did venture close to civilisation, he’d have to talk to her about the clothes. Dressed like that, she’d stick out like a sore thumb.
When he stopped in front of her, she looked up. For a moment, she seemed afraid. But then she stood up and smiled, flicking her thick blonde curls over her shoulder and offering to shake his hand before even confirming that he was who she thought he was.
Max tried not to let irritation show on his face. But as she followed him to the truck, and they made their way towards the cottage they would be sharing for the next however-many weeks, he could feel it bubbling away inside like a cooking pot that was about to boil over.
Leaving her in the truck, he went inside to check that everything was as he’d left it. Predictably, Brandi trotted into the hall, stopped in front of him, sat down, and waited for instructions.
“All okay, girl?” Max patted her head, and she licked his wrist. Yep. Everything was okay. Doing one last sweep of the property, even though Brandi was never wrong, Max took a deep breath, reminded himself that this was a job. A job that was paying good money. Money he needed. And went back to fetch his new ward.
Except, Rachel French was no longer in the truck.
Max found her at the back of the cottage, staring wistfully at the lake as if she was on vacation and looking forward to a swim if the weather changed. He almost quit. Right there and then, he almost yelled at her, “If you’re not going to listen to me then I’m out!”
But he didn’t. She said she wanted to understand the ground rules. So, Max decided, he would spell them out. Loud and clear. And then whatever she did was on her. Not him.
Inside, he led Rachel through to the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove. In the corner of the room, Brandi was settled in her bed; they had arrived the previous day and Brandi clearly already felt at home. Immediately, Rachel trotted over and bent down in front of her.
“Oh, she’s beautiful.” She ruffled Brandi’s ears. “What a gorgeous girl you are.”
Max watched as Brandi rolled onto her back, exposed her belly, and waved her paws in the air, the way she used to when she was a puppy. He tutted. “Professional, Brandi. Real professional.”
Rachel stood up and walked over to the large wooden table in the centre of the kitchen. Sitting down, she unzipped her knee-high boots and flicked them over towards a nearby cupboard. They clattered onto the floor and Max had to restrain himself from wanting to pick them up and set them down in the hall, where shoes should be kept.
Rachel was rubbing her heel and when Max noticed that her socks didn’t match – one was rainbow colours and the other was plain blue – he frowned. Mismatched socks did not fit with the put-together image that Rachel had constructed on the outside.
Noticing his gaze, she shrugged and rolled her eyes at herself. “I know. It’s pathetic. A grown woman should have matching socks, shouldn’t she? To be honest, it’s a hangover from before my divorce.”
Max’s brow twitched. He hadn’t realised she was divorced, and he didn’t know why it surprised him.
“My mother-in-law. Ex mother-in-law. Used to hate it. I’d catch her scowling at them every time she saw them, so I started doing it deliberately. And now...” Rachel leaned forwards, resting her elbows on the table. “I guess I realised there are more important things in life than having matching socks.”
“Indeed.” Max put a mug of tea on a coaster in front of her and sat down opposite. She liked to talk, which he already knew he was going to find hard to live with. He spent most of his time alone; he was not a talker.
Rachel shrugged off her jacket, slung it over the back of her chair and sighed, looking at her surroundings as if she was only just – finally – taking in where she was. “So, these ground rules? Do I need a pen and paper?”
She was joking. But as Max folded his arms in front of his chest, he said, “Given that you seem to have a rather unreliable memory, Miss French. Yes, I think you do.”
5
Rachel
Inside, the cottage was larger than it had seemed at first glance. The hallway was wide and inviting; pictures hung on the old stone walls, and a long soft grey rug stretched across the flagstone floor. At one end, an open door revealed what Rachel assumed was a study. She smiled. She could see bookcases, a desk, and a large bay window that looked out onto the back of the property. It would be the perfect room for writing in.
At the other end of the hall, Max indicated doors that led to a downstairs bathroom, a lounge – with stairs up to the bedrooms – and a large farmhouse-style kitchen. It was the kind of kitchen Rachel always swooned after when she saw one on television or in magazines, with wooden countertops, cream cupboards, a large old-fashioned stove, and a stable-style backdoor.
Stepping inside, she realised that the door frame into the kitchen was unusually low and she wasn’t sure how Max was going to avoid banging his head; he must have been over six foot tall. And large.
As she bent down to stroke Brandi, a stunning Belgian Shepherd with sticky-up ears and a big wet nose, Rachel glanced up at Max and wondered what her sister would say about him. He was exactly Emma’s type. Broad shoulders
, thick arms – as if he spent far too much time in the gym – and a brooding frown. The type Rachel usually avoided.
Rachel had encountered detectives before. But Max Bernstein wasn’t like the detectives she’d met on her research visits to police stations. He was more like an action figure. Or a Navy SEAL.
As he turned and put a mug of tea down on the table in front of her, she noticed a small scar above his right eye. It sliced into his eyebrow like a less fanciful version of a Harry Potter scar. If she’d wanted to create a character for an action-packed private detective series, she might have dreamed up someone like Max. Except her version might have been a tad more conversational.
She’d been joking about needing paper and pen to take notes, but Max quipped back at her that it was probably a good idea. Being an author, she always had writing tools handy, so she reached into her jacket pocket and took out her small leather journal and a fine-tip black pen.
“Alright,” she said expectantly, tapping her pen on the table. “Rule One?”
Max sipped his tea and then returned his mug slowly to the table. “If I tell you to do something, do it.”
Rachel tilted her head at him and scribbled the instruction down. She felt like she was in school, waiting for a rather stern teacher to crack a smile. “Okay. And Rule Two?”
Max was already getting up from the table. “Always follow Rule One.”
Rachel expected them to sit and drink their tea together; that’s what normal people would do if they’d just arrived for the start of a long and undefined staycation. Get to know one another, make polite conversation, ask about each other’s lives and circumstances. But Max drank his tea unbelievably quickly then got up and strode towards the door. He patted his leg and Brandi followed him.
“I’m going to take her for a walk around the property.”
The True Love Travels Series Box Set Page 2
