Her Protector

by Rianna Campbell

  Her Protector

  Rianna Campbell

  To my husband, who believes I can do anything.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  About The Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  He’d only been waiting ten minutes, tops, but in that time Connor had managed to make a decent survey of the security systems in place. There were four security guards posted at the main entrance, a check in desk where employees showed ID and visitors signed in, provided they’d been added to the list beforehand.

  The elevators were accessed only by keycard and the upper floors required a second swipe to get off. Every square inch of the place that he could see had video surveillance. All in all it was a tight system. Why a senior partner of Langston, Buchanan & Hughes wanted this meeting was beyond him.

  He didn’t know who was doing their security for them, but he was incredibly irritated that he’d be hard pressed to suggest any additional measures. He sure as hell wasn’t going to win new clients by admitting he couldn't improve on what they already had.

  “Thank you for waiting. Mr. Hughes will see you now.” The secretary informed him. She was petite, late twenties and blonde. She was, like the other two receptionists he’d had to get past on his way to the top floor, attractive, professional, and utterly bland.

  “Thank you.” He stood and pushed through the large wooden doors to his left. The office was almost precisely what he had expected: spacious, well lit and outfitted with what appeared to be expensive, hand-picked furniture crafted from dark wood. It was slightly more eclectic than he would have guessed, but the layout was precisely what he would have pictured, down to the large desk situated facing the door in front of an entire wall of floor to ceiling windows.

  It must be good to be the King.

  “Good Morning, Mr. Hughes.” Connor stopped in front of the desk and took the hand offered to him. Richard Hughes was perhaps sixty, but with hair that was still more dark brown than silver, intelligent hazel eyes, and a tall, athletic build he could have easily passed for a much younger man. He looked every bit the senior partner in his dark Armani suit and red silk tie with a matching pocket square.

  “Thank you for coming.” Hughes replied. “Call me Richard. Please, have a seat.” He gestured to a black leather club chair before resuming his own seat behind the desk.

  “Thank you. In that case, call me Connor.” Connor sat, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he did. It wasn’t Armani, but it was quality and fit him well.

  “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Scotch?” Hughes offered.

  “No, thank you, sir.”

  “You sure?”

  “Quite.” Connor replied with a small smile.

  “Just remember I made the offer.” Hughes said, looking amused. Connor raised an eyebrow but let it pass, without comment

  “What can I do for you, sir?” He asked instead.

  “I’ve heard a lot about your company from a friend of mine. He was very happy with your services last year and when I encountered a … similar problem, he passed along your information.”

  “Always glad to hear our clients are satisfied with our work.” Connor smiled. “Mind if I ask who referred you?”

  “Michael Pritchard. Good friend of mine, mostly because he never wins at golf or cards.”

  Connor smiled politely. He was used to these jokes from the corporate types that retained his services the most, but he hated this part of the job. He wasn’t much of a pitch man, but it was part and parcel of running your own business. He’d gotten used to it over the last three years but he still wasn’t comfortable with the gladhanding.

  He recognized the name and it only took him a moment to recall the report for that particular client. He’d hired the firm for a private protection job rather than as a security consultant. That explained why he was here, at least.

  “So, you’re in need of personal protection?” Connor asked.

  “Not for myself. I have excellent home security, and I’m sure you’ve noticed the security measures in the office,” Hughes began. “But there’s an employee, a junior partner, who has been the focus of some… unwanted attention, and we feel it would be better if they had some additional security until the situation is resolved.”

  “Do you deal with this sort of thing often with your employees?” Connor asked.

  “Not often, though once is too often if you ask me.” He sighed. “But we have handled some big cases, some more publicized than others, and we have some high profile clients. Occasionally one of ours ends up the target of some type of harassment or other.”

  “Is that what you’re talking about in this case? Harassment?”

  “I’m not entirely certain how to classify what’s happened.” Hughes frowned. He sighed and his frown deepened. The creases that appeared between his eyes seemed to age him considerably. He seemed genuinely worried.

  Hughes reached into his desk drawer and set a small manilla envelope on the edge of the desk within Connor’s reach. Connor took it. He opened it and retrieved the stack of photos, at least two dozen. They were all of the same subject, a woman, approximately thirty with dark hair that barely brushed her collarbone in the front, and landed well above her collar in the back.

  The first photo showed her exiting a black sedan from the driver’s seat, briefcase in hand, cell phone to her ear. The next photo, apparently taken just moments later, showed her entering the office building, still on the phone, but the photographer had caught her as she glanced at something over her right shoulder.

  There were photos of her coming and going from the office, and from what Connor assumed must be her apartment. Some of the photos showed her looking all business in pencil skirts or suits, hair pin straight and sleek, and others showed her coming and going in yoga pants and sneakers, hair pulled back from her face, or in jeans and boots, hair swinging in soft waves around her face.

  Someone had been watching her for at least several weeks given the variety of settings she’d been photographed in and the various conditions under which they were taken. He shuffled through all the photos a second time, keeping an eye on the details.

  “Who received these?” Connor asked.

  “I did.” Hughes scowled. Connor raised an eyebrow.

  “When?”

  “Two days ago.”

  “Any note?”

  “None. Just the photos. No return address, no postmark.” Connor raised his eyebrow again. He was doing that a lot this morning.

  “No postmark? Do you have a drop box of some kind?”

  “No, too dangerous.” Hughes replied. Connor nodded. That was smart. Drop boxes allow anyone to leave anything at any time, including everything from harmless pranks to homemade bombs.

  “So how did it get in the building?” Connor asked. Hughes merely shrugged.

  “It was handed to me with my regular mail Wednesday morning. No one seems to know how it ended up here. Mail
is dropped off and x-rayed by security before going to the mailroom for sorting and distribution. The security staff don’t recall receiving anything from anyone other than our regular delivery people and none of the mailroom staff recall seeing anyone or anything in the mailroom that shouldn’t have been there.”

  Connor pursed his lips and his brow furrowed. No demands, no blackmail, no trace. Someone wanted him to know that his employee was being watched but not why. And why not send them to the employee directly?

  “The police have seen these?” Connor asked.

  “They have. These are copies. The police, of course, insisted on keeping the originals, along with the original envelope. They’ve confirmed they couldn’t get any usable prints, but said they would do what they could.”

  Connor had a healthy respect for the thin blue line. He had friends who were cops and he knew that most of them worked damn hard and wanted to do their job to the best of their ability, but they didn’t have the resources or the manpower to cover half the cases they had on their plate. Something like this, with nothing to go on, wasn’t going to get much traction and would get dropped pretty quick if something came along that they might actually be able to solve. Not to mention the fact that harassment is usually pretty low on their list of priorities. Hughes was up a creek.

  “We’ve put our team of Investigators on it, as well.” Hughes added. Connor nodded.

  “Did she give you any ideas as to who might do something like this or why?” Connor asked, putting the photos back in the envelope. Hughes hesitated for a moment.

  “Does she know?” Connor prompted.

  “Not yet.” Hughes sighed. Connor refrained from rolling his eyes, but it was a challenge.

  “Well, sir, that would be a good place to start.” Connor said flatly. Hughes gave him a wry smile.

  “You’re certainly right. And that’s something we’re about to remedy, if you’d like to take the job.”

  Connor thought about it for a moment.

  “We’ll have to have a more thorough discussion of specifics, but we’ll take the job, sir.”

  “Excellent.” Hughes smiled, looking relieved. He picked up his handset and pressed a button. “Send her in.”

  ✽✽✽

  She was more than a little irritated with the imperial summons. If he’d interrupted her trial prep to invite her to Sunday brunch again, she would positively throttle the old man.

  “You can go in now.” Julie said with a Colgate smile.

  “Thanks.” She pushed through the doors and her phone buzzed. She pulled up the message and read it as she made her way through the gargantuan monstrosity that was her father’s office.

  “I hope this is important, old man, because-” She looked up and the words died as soon as she saw that he wasn’t alone. Her father pursed his lips in an attempt to hide his amusement. He’d done the same thing when she was little and she’d done something that he knew he should scold her for but that he found too funny to be angry about.

  “I’m sorry, sir.” She said trying to recover. “I didn’t realize you were in a meeting. Julie sent me in.” She felt a blush rising up her neck. She was twenty nine years old, a junior partner in a multi-million dollar firm who had tried more cases that she could count in front of some of the toughest judges in the state, and she still blushed like a frickin’ school girl when flustered. It was embarrassing beyond belief. She wanted to sink into the floor and disappear.

  Contrary by nature, she did the opposite. She looked straight at the man- and Holy Moses, what a man- and approached, hand extended.

  She valiantly ignored his surprised and slightly amused expression.

  “Alexandra Hughes.” She introduced herself. He took her hand and shook it firmly and immediately her heart skipped as if she’d received an electric shock. His hands were large and warm. His calloused fingers scraped lightly against her palm as he pulled away. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d met a man with calloused hands.

  “Connor MacLachlan.” He replied. She was surprised to hear he spoke with a bit of a Scottish brogue.

  He didn’t sit once the introduction was done, he merely put his hands in his pockets and waited. She gave him a more thorough inspection before taking her seat. He was tall, several inches over six feet, broad shouldered and narrow waisted. His suit was tasteful, moderately expensive and certainly tailored. They didn’t sell them off the rack in his proportions.

  His hair was dark, almost black, cut short but left a little long on top, allowing it to fall slightly over his forehead. Devoid of hair products, she wondered if it was as soft as it looked.

  The most startling thing was his eyes. They were intensely blue and framed by thick, dark lashes. He was a gorgeous man, but his eyes were warm and intelligent. It seemed he was more than just a pretty face.

  Good to know.

  She sat, crossing her legs and adjusted her jacket before folding her hands in her lap. Connor MacLachlan sat as well, crossing an ankle over his knee and assuming a relaxed pose, hands resting on the arms of the chair.

  Shoulders back, chin up, stay professional. Never let them see you rattled.

  “Can I get you anything, DD?” Her father asked, his tone solicitous.

  Damn him.

  She knew he hated it when he brought their relationship to the office. He wasn’t supposed to call her that here.

  When she was younger, he’d called her his ‘Darling Daughter.’ It had made her proud. When she became a teen and then a young woman, he’d shortened it to ‘DD’ to keep from embarrassing her in front of her friends. She’d secretly been pleased he continued to think of her as his baby girl.

  In any other setting, she would have smiled and been glad, but she had told him numerous times that at the office she was just another employee. There were enough people in the building who thought the only reason she’d gotten her job was because of her father and she didn’t want to add any more grist to the mill.

  She’d worked damn hard to make sure that no one could find fault with her performance. She might know that her father had recused himself from her interview and hiring process to be sure that the other partners made the decision objectively, but not many other people did, or would believe it if she told them.

  “No, thank you, sir.” She said stiffly. She risked a glance at Connor MacLachlan and found him studying her with unnerving focus. “I don’t mean to be rude,” She added with a half smile, trying to lighten the mood and convey a sense of calm and control. “But I have hours to bill. What can I do for you?”

  Her father returned her smile with an almost identical one. It startled her sometimes how eerily similar they were in so many ways.

  “I’m afraid something rather important has come up that requires immediate attention.”

  “What is it?” She asked, trying not to show signs of her anxiety.

  “Well, it might be easier to show you.” Her father sighed. He looked… worried. “Connor, if you would, please?” Connor picked up the brown envelope from the edge of the desk and passed it to her, watching her carefully all the while.

  She opened the envelope and removed the photos within. So many photos. It took her a moment to register that they were photos of her. Her heart began to pound in her ears and it took all her concentration not to betray her turmoil. She allowed herself nothing more than a wrinkled brow.

  She forced herself to slowly and methodically study every photo in turn. She began compiling a list of possible dates, times and locations where each photo was taken. Facts, those were the important things. Emotion solved nothing, she needed to know the facts.

  When she’d examined every photo she placed them back in the envelope, but rather than handing them back to Connor when he reached for them, she tucked them beside her in the chair.

  “Where did these come from?” She asked, focusing on her father.

  “They arrived in the mail Wednesday morning.” He replied. His eyes were nervous, searching, trying to ascertain
how she was feeling. Looking out for any sign she was about to break down. She carefully remained calm and collected. At least on the outside.

  “Here?”

  "Yes.”

  “No one in security or the mail room knows where they came from?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Did you contact the police?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do they have any leads?”

  He paused. “No.”

  She blew out a long breath, contemplating the possible implications. The wheels began spinning and she started trying to piece the puzzle together. She ran through her clients, current and past, cases, files, interviews, anything to see if she could find a reason someone would do something like this. One face appeared to her and she quickly shoved it away. She wouldn’t even entertain the possibility at this juncture.

  It had to be work related since she didn’t have a social life to speak of. There were certainly no ex-lovers out there seeking revenge for being jilted. A memory flickered through her mind, and she locked it away for consideration later. In private.

  “Assuming these photos are intended as some sort of threat-” She started.

  “That’s a big assumption.” Her father cut in. Always the lawyer.

  “I agree, but it’s the only reasonable one I can make at the moment. Was it meant for me, or for you?”

  Her father frowned. If there was one thing Richard Hughes hated, it was not having an answer.

  Connor cleared his throat, a warning that he was going to put in his two cents.

  “It’s a fair question, sir.” He pointed out. His voice was deep and rich. It wasn’t so much his subtle accent as it was the difference of cadence and inflection that she found intriguing and oddly musical.

  “The photos are of you, Ms. Hughes, but they weren’t sent to you.” He turned to her father. “The threat is obviously to her, but it may be about you. It would certainly be a more effective tactic than threatening you directly. Any father would do almost anything to protect his children.”

  Alexandra glared at her father. She was going to have it out with him the minute this meeting was over. Her father, on the other hand, was staring at Connor. He might look bored to anyone else, but she knew better. He was genuinely startled.