Keeping Her Close

by Carol Ross

  “Brilliant, Harper.” Lotion forgotten, she donned her carefully chosen outfit.

  When her yoga acquaintance and sort of friend, Samantha, had arranged the date, right before leaving for her six-weeks-long honeymoon, Harper declined to take his number, so she wouldn’t be able to freak out and cancel at the last minute. Like she had the last time. It had seemed like a good idea at the moment—a symbol of her courage and commitment to “getting back out there,” as Sam liked to say. The problem for Harper, however, was that “out there” only led to disappointment and heartbreak. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever recover from her last relationship. Owen’s betrayal had taken heartbreak to a whole other level. His subsequent death had exacerbated and complicated those emotions to the point that she’d wondered if she’d ever fully heal. But she had. Or at least she was way, way better. That’s what today was supposed to prove: a better Harper ready to move on.

  That’s when the next depressing thought struck her. This will likely be my last unchaperoned outing of any kind for weeks, if not months.

  What she needed to do was make this date a good one. Like epic. Technically, there was no making up for lost time, she knew that, but she could make the best of the time she had left.

  Fueled by this notion, Harper channeled her frustration into determination. Frantically, she changed out of her dressy clothes, trading skinny jeans, tunic and boots for leggings, T-shirt and running shoes. She twisted her auburn waves up into a bun and tied a long-sleeved fleece top around her waist. She was going to have a good time tonight if it was the last thing she did. Now that she thought about it, even if her date didn’t want to go along for the ride, she’d take that ride on her own. She’d enjoy her final hours of freedom, all right, and not at home fretting and pouting.

  Basic security had always been a part of her life. Her father’s house on Seattle’s Lake Washington included a state-of-the-art security system as did the offices and labs at his company, Bellaire Environmental Solutions & Technology. But Harper had always felt like that was more about the important, proprietary nature of her dad’s work and the general safety of her surroundings than about her.

  Even so, when she’d moved into her house a few months ago, Denny, her dad’s head of security, had brought the system up-to-date. She used it maybe half the time and not very well at that. The facial recognition technology functioned so that whenever a human stepped onto the property, the cameras began recording, and if it was a person who’d visited before, or was already in the system, their name would pop up on-screen. If not, a close-up still shot was recorded, cataloging the face for later. All visits were logged along with the time and date. The app chimed while Harper was tying her shoes, shooting a surge of nervous adrenaline through her bloodstream.

  The irony did not escape her that this was a blind date. Probably, in addition to getting the guy’s number, she should have looked at his photo when Sam offered it, urging her to see how “gorgeous” he was. But Mikhail was a good friend of Sam’s husband, Colin, so Harper had waved the phone away, telling Sam that was enough for her. If they liked him, no doubt she would, too. Looks didn’t matter, she’d asserted, Owen had proven that a beautiful facade did not necessarily harbor a beautiful soul.

  But now, phone in hand, she used the app to study the man standing on her porch. Sam was right; he was good-looking if a bit somber. She’d been sold on Mikhail because, like her, he was an artist, a professional musician and successful songwriter. According to Sam, he was also a microbrew master who enjoyed traveling, concerts and long rides on his vintage motorcycle. Also like her, he was a bad relationship survivor. Sam had revealed that his ex-wife had cheated with his best friend and left him devastated. This was Mikhail’s first post-heartbreak date, too. They had so much in common.

  As a photographer herself, she thought it would be nice to be with someone who understood her dedication, intense focus, odd hours and the often-transient nature of her job. Someone who could relate to the inherent challenges of putting your work on display for others to critique and value.

  A little spike of yearning accompanied this pep talk. She took a second to gauge it, trying to determine if there was more yearning than fear. When she couldn’t decide, she reminded herself that it would be good to socialize again, to find a nice guy who was exactly what he claimed to be. Unlike Owen, who had deceived her and left her way more bitter than she wanted to be. More bitter and distrustful than a woman should ever be. In retrospect, she suspected that he’d intended to use her from the start. With her history, and her dad being her dad, she should have known, or sensed, that something was off, or at least exercised a bit more caution.

  “Stop beating yourself up, Harper. Not all men are users,” she muttered and headed toward the door. Inhaling a deep breath, she put on her game face and opened the door.

  “Harper Jansen?”

  “Yes! Hi!” she said with possibly too much enthusiasm. Dialing it down a notch, she added, “I’m Harper.” Why was he frowning? Nerves, maybe? She rather liked that, the notion that he might be sharing her trepidation. “Please, come in.” She waved him forward.

  Tipping his head thoughtfully, he paused for a few seconds before moving inside where he stood stiffly, looking like he was trying to decide what to say.

  It seemed prudent to take the reins. “So, I’m just going to come right out and tell you that I’m super excited about this.”

  After a beat, he asked, “You are?”

  “Of course, I am!”

  His mouth turned down at the corners while his gaze narrowed with what might have been skepticism.

  Wow, she thought, Sam was right, he has been out of the social scene for a while. She went on, “And I have a fun idea how we can get to know each other.” Gesturing at herself and then him, she went on, “I’m glad you went with casual. Jeans are perfect for what I have in mind.”

  “Uh, okay.” Brow furrowed, voice hesitant, he said, “Generally speaking, my wardrobe will vary according to whatever activity you’re engaging in.”

  Harper felt herself grinning at this odd reply. She wondered if he’d been reading up on dating etiquette. Poor guy. She could hardly hold it against him if he’d been seeking out some tips. Undoubtedly, she could use a few of those herself. A superpower would be better though, and, as long as she was wishing, she’d like the kind that allowed her to see right into the heart of a person. Yep, super judgment, that’s what she needed.

  “Sounds like a good policy,” she said, wishing he’d relax. “I hope you don’t think this is totally outrageous, but I was thinking we’d go zip-lining and bungee jumping.”

  “Bungee jumping,” he repeated flatly.

  “Yeah, like a modern-day, adrenaline-charged parlor game. Nothing like mutually shared abject terror to break the ice, right?” she joked.

  Blank stare.

  Harper went on, “I know a guy who has a place where we can do both. I took some photos for him a while back, and he was so happy that he offered me a bunch of services for free. Isn’t that cool? Then, I thought we could head into Astoria. Have dinner, stroll around the Spring Fling Festival. Have you heard of it?”

  “No, I have not.” He appeared confused now and sounded almost surly.

  Harper swallowed, nervousness was rapidly overtaking her enthusiasm. Possibly, these epic date aspirations were overkill. She didn’t want them to be, though, and she found herself rushing to sell it. “It’s an art and seafood festival. It kicks off tonight with ships that cruise by on the Columbia River, all decorated with lights, like a boat parade. Vendors set up along the waterfront selling food, crafts, antiques...” Recalling his profession, she added, “Oh, and a band!”

  This only seemed to puzzle him further, kicking her anxiety up another notch. “Maybe you could get up there with them and sing a song or two.” Reaching out, she gave his forearm a quick little squeeze. “Ha-ha, just kidding.”


  Harper wanted to melt into the wall at this point because his eyes followed the path of her hand and he flinched at her touch. It was slight, but still, she noticed, and it was definitely a flinch. She could feel her cheeks heating with color. He’s been here two minutes, and he’s already trying to get away from me. Maybe if I tell him my dad is a billionaire, he’ll come around. That seems to impress the men I date, or maybe that’s what attracts them in the first place. Chicken, egg, Harper, heartbreak. No matter the order. Same outcome.

  Desperation had her blurting, “Oh, and there’s a beer garden featuring microbrews from all around Oregon. You’ll love that, right? I can drive, so you can sample all you want. Maybe that’ll get you up on stage. Ha-ha!”

  Okay. He was glowering now, and Harper wondered if maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe his problem was social awkwardness? Was it a language barrier? Mikhail sounded like it could be Russian or Eastern European? Although, she hadn’t noticed an accent.

  Raising her voice in that clumsy way a person does when faced with incomprehension, she enunciated slowly, “Does any of that sound fun? Or maybe you had something else in mind?” She hoped he wasn’t one of those guys who had to be the one to plan every detail. Control freaks were not in her wheelhouse.

  Finally, he shifted on his feet, gave his head a little shake and answered, “No, honestly, none of that sounds like fun tonight. Under the circumstances, this entire plan of yours sounds like a complete and total nightmare.”

  * * *

  KYLE’S FIRST THOUGHT upon meeting Harper Jansen was that she didn’t recognize him. Maybe not too surprising as they’d never met face-to-face. Although, he’d seen photos of her and figured she’d seen at least a few of him. He would have recognized her. The second thought, however involuntary and unwelcome, was that she was every bit as beautiful and alluring as Owen had claimed. But then she’d started this disjointed rambling that left him equal parts confused and concerned. No wonder Dr. Bellaire wanted him to start as soon as possible. The woman needed protection from herself.

  Owen had waxed on about Harper’s virtues: smart, beautiful, talented, fun-loving—these were just a few of the many, many adjectives he’d used to describe the woman he’d met, fallen in love with and proposed to in a matter of months. As he had then, Kyle couldn’t help but wonder if Owen had let infatuation cloud his judgment. No one could fall in love that quickly. An engagement that fast seemed impulsive, if not reckless. Now he wondered if this woman was in her right mind.

  “You don’t like bungee jumping?” Her tone had lost a touch of its previous zeal.

  “It’s irrelevant whether I like it.” In fact, he did like it, but that didn’t matter right now. They weren’t going. Did she not comprehend what had happened to her father that very morning? So much about this “plan” of hers was wrong. One element, in particular, was bothering him so he had to ask, “Why would you think I’d want to go out and drink so much beer that I’d need a designated driver?”

  Dark brown eyebrows just a touch darker than her hair dipped in confusion. “Don’t you like beer?”

  Okay. This was too weird. Before he could form a response, the doorbell rang.

  Harper frowned and glanced in that direction.

  “Are you expecting someone?” he asked.

  “Um, no, just you.” She started to move around him like she was going to answer it.

  “Then wait.” Kyle caught her elbow. “I’ll get it.”

  “What, why?”

  “I think that’s obvious.”

  “Not to me.” Blue-gray eyes narrowed in on him as her expression turned thoughtful. “Why would you answer my door?”

  “Because it’s my job,” Kyle returned flatly. “Or it will be soon if you agree to hire me.”

  “You...” She went wide-eyed, and her face lost some of its color. “You, your, job,” she stuttered, before cupping a hand over her mouth. “Oh, no...” More muffled words followed by a groan.

  Kyle shook his head and pulled his phone from his pocket. “What’s the password for your security app? Your dad said you change it weekly.”

  “Of course, you already have the app,” she said in a resigned tone, not about to admit that she never changed it. “It’s chiaroscuro and then the number 282. Chiaroscuro is spelled c-h—”

  “I know how to spell it,” he said, a bit sharper than he’d intended. But a stranger showing up at her door right now was alarming, to him at least. He held up the display for her to view. “Do you know who this man is?”

  “Maybe,” she answered hesitantly, studying the screen with an expression Kyle could only describe as painful. Seriously, what was wrong with her?

  “Maybe,” he repeated, his patience beginning to fray, “is not an answer. Yes or no?”

  “I said maybe.” Her tone held an edge now, like he’d done something to irritate her. But then she sighed, and said, “He, uh... He might be my date.”

  “You don’t know what your date looks like?”

  Her answer was quick and sharp, “Haven’t you ever heard of a blind date?”

  Kyle’s gaze met hers, and he realized then that he’d mistaken embarrassment for irritation. Cheeks splotched with pink. She was grimacing. Understanding dawned, about the odd conversation that had just transpired and her ensuing mortification; she’d mistaken him for her blind date.

  Trying not to allow her discomfort to thaw his concern, he answered, “I’m aware of the concept, yes.” He couldn’t let himself feel sorry for her because why would she be going on a blind date considering the circumstances? It was risky if not downright reckless. Until the police were done investigating the guy who’d tried to attack her father, she needed to lay low. And she needed an education about safety procedures. Dr. Bellaire was right to hire him, or almost hire him.

  The doorbell chimed again.

  “You need to stay here, please,” Kyle stated. He strode toward the door and reached for the handle only to find her hot on his heels. Pulling his hand away, he swiveled toward her, “What part of that did you not understand?”

  “Seriously?”

  He wanted to laugh at this whole unfortunate misunderstanding, except it wasn’t funny. Not really, not when he thought about what could have happened here. So instead, he quirked an eyebrow, trying to find a way to make her understand what she could have conceivably gotten herself into.

  Chin squared, a touch of indignation played on her features. “It’s not necessary to speak to me like that. I don’t care if you are my bodyguard.”

  “You’re right. I apologize. The position is for security consultant, and technically, I’m not even your employee yet.” She was right on more than one level. Not only was it unprofessional, but he also couldn’t let his preconceived notions or his personal concerns about her interfere with his job. He needed to think of this like a mission where emotion had no place. When his apology was met with a distrustful glare, he lifted a consoling hand and tried to smooth his tone. “Listen, Harper, I am sorry. My people skills are a little rusty. I’m used to giving orders. But I promise you, this isn’t some power play on my part. This is about keeping you safe. As I’m sure you’re aware, a man tried to attack your father today, and very likely would have succeeded if I hadn’t stopped him.” He swept a hand toward the door. “I don’t know for sure who this is, and neither do you. Now, would you, please, move away from the door?”

  Her head tilted, her face scrunched thoughtfully, but the meaning seemed to get through to her. “Fine,” she said, nodding and taking a couple of steps back. “I’m sorry. You’re right.”

  He pointed. “Waiting in the kitchen would be best. What’s your date’s name?” When she didn’t immediately answer, he added, “You do know that much, I hope?”

  “Yes,” she said with a resigned sigh. “Mikhail.” Then she turned and walked down the hall.

  Kyle opened the door t
o find a man standing on the porch. He made a quick assessment: thin, medium-height, dark blond freshly trimmed hair that appeared damp. The scent of soap and aftershave suggested a recent shower rather than too much product. His friendly smile and neat appearance contributed to that overall clueless, hopeful first-date air. Kyle relaxed slightly.

  “You must be Mikhail.”

  “Yes, I’m looking for Harper, we—”

  “Harper is going to have to cancel on that date tonight.”

  “Uh, okay, you must be her...?”

  Kyle stared blandly, not about to fall for the old fill-in-the-blank trick. In Kyle’s world, information was divulged on a need-to-know basis.

  “Brother?” the guy finally asked.

  Kyle declined to confirm or deny. Although, he knew Harper was an only child. The only child of a single father who’d raised her on his own from the age of four when his wife, Harper’s mother, had died suddenly after contracting meningitis. He knew this because he’d spent the train ride from Seattle to Portland reading about the Bellaire empire, and the drive from there to the coast reviewing every detail in his mind. But then, both because he could see where this initial meeting between him and Harper had gone wrong and because he felt a tiny bit sorry for the guy, he said, “Harper isn’t feeling well. She’ll call you when she can.”

  Kyle shut the door, locked it and headed to the kitchen where he found Harper staring at a tablet screen. She looked up as if seeing him for the first time, which he soon realized, she sort of was.

  “You’re Kyle Frasier,” she said, and the words were like a choke hold around Kyle’s heart because they sounded like an accusation.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “YOU—” HARPER BROKE off the word to clear her throat. “You really did save my dad this morning.” Reverent-like, she offered up the tablet in her hands. “I mean, you saved him, saved him. This guy with the salmon eggs...”