Bodyguard (33 page)

Allie spent about half an hour each morning organizing the work orders by proximity, and making sure the trucks were stocked.

Then she went out in one of the trucks and worked her butt off, hustling from one assignment to the next until she went home at about seven, showered, and collapsed into bed with a book. And tried like crazy not to miss Harry.

In the past week, he hadn’t approached her, hadn’t said so much as a single word to her. He just followed her.

She was still furious with him. When she’d first spotted
him trailing her, she’d dared to hope that since he was still in town he was trying to work things out with his kids. But she’d run into Marge in the supermarket, who’d told her Harry wasn’t staying with them. He hadn’t stopped in, didn’t call, didn’t come by. He was staying at the motel up by the interstate.

Except Allie knew he wasn’t really staying there, because he was sitting in his car outside her house when she went home in the evening, and he was still there, in the exact same place, when she woke up the next morning.

His single goal seemed to be to make absolutely certain that Alessandra was safe. He’d apparently been serious when he’d signed the papers giving up custody of his children.

As mad as she was at him, she missed him terribly. She missed his ceaseless conversations, his raunchy sense of humor. She even missed his foul language.

She spent most of her days and all of her nights completely alone. Except for the fact that she was working hard, the lack of company was much as it had been when she was married to Griffin. He’d been gone during the day, and when he was home at night, they talked very little. He spent much of his time reading or watching TV. If they spoke at all, it had been about social engagements and his work schedule.

Yes, she’d spent seven years with very little conversation, and certainly no debating or arguing. It was funny that after only such a short time, she should miss it so much, that she should miss Harry so much.

But she was not—was not—going to approach him. If he wanted to come to her and apologize, well, that would be one thing. But for her to go to him … No, she wasn’t going to do that. She was strong enough not to do that, strong enough to know that as much as she missed him, she didn’t need him in her life. She was better off
without him. He had far too much emotional luggage attached—anything more than the most casual of friendships would be a complete disaster. And before she’d walked away from him, Allie had been well on the verge of blasting past all pretense of casualness.

She would not let herself love him. Absolutely not.

“I bought some butter cookies from the bakery.” Mrs. Gerty opened a tin of cookies that was nearly as large as she was, as Alessandra finished washing her dishes. “You need to eat about forty of ’em—fatten you up a little.”

“Oh, no, thanks,” Allie said. “But I can’t. I’m …” Allergic. She wasn’t supposed to tell people she was allergic to milk and butter. “Not hungry,” she finished lamely.

Mrs. Gerty didn’t believe her. “I’ll put some in a baggie for you to take. I can’t talk you into coffee today, can I?”

“I’m sorry, no. But thank you anyway.” Alessandra finished cleaning out the sink and took off the rubber gloves Mrs. Gerty insisted she wear to save her hands. She had to run to the next job and then to the next, or she wouldn’t get home until after eight tonight.

She felt bad for not being able to stay and keep the elderly woman company, though. Clearly Mrs. Gerty wanted someone to talk to as much—or perhaps even more than—she wanted someone to clean her house. She paid for service four times a week. Allie had been there three times this week already, and the place was immaculate.

“I guess I also can’t talk you into taking a walk with Hunter and me.” Mrs. Gerty sighed.

“I’m sorry, no.”

Mrs. Gerty was about eighty pounds, four feet eight and birdlike. Her enormous dog, Hunter, weighed nearly twenty pounds more. And while Allie didn’t know his exact breed, he was definitely of the attack-dog variety.

She had to walk past his fenced-in yard to get to Mrs.
Gerty’s door. The first time she’d come over, she’d stopped short at the sight of him. She would have turned around and had another of the Merry Maids assigned to this house, but she knew that Harry was watching her from his car.

She had to be strong and tough. She had to prove that she could do things that were difficult. She had to show him that she wasn’t a quitter. Like some people she knew.

So she’d held her breath and she’d walked past Hunter, and she’d survived. She’d survived seven times now. Four trips into the house, and three trips out. And while she knew it wasn’t the same as letting a dog lick her face, it was a major step for her.

“Mrs. Gerty, I’m going over to a friend’s house for dinner tonight. Marge Novick, do you know her? She teaches English at the college. We were going to order pizza and salad and then maybe rent a movie. I bet she’d be thrilled if you joined us.”

The elderly woman turned away, pretending to be completely engrossed in trimming imaginary dead leaves from her African violets. “Oh, I couldn’t just …”

“Sure, you could.” Alessandra knew what it was like to be lonely. “I’m not taking no for an answer. I’ll pick you up around seven.” She’d have to borrow the Merry Maids truck, but she’d done it last night to get groceries, and Natalie had had no problem with it. It meant walking home from the Merry Maids parking lot after dark, but with Harry following her, she’d be perfectly safe. “Is it a date?”

Mrs. Gerty actually had tears in her eyes. “It sounds … lovely. Thank you, Alice.”

“My friends call me Allie,” she said. “See you at seven.”

She let herself out, and as she went past Hunter’s yard, she forced herself to stop and look into the dog’s
eyes. They were deep brown and filled with intelligence and possibly … friendliness? He cocked his head inquisitively, trotting close to the fence and wagging his stubby tail.

He seemed to recognize her, even to like her.

But then he started to bark, and she jumped back, her heart pounding.

She ran down the driveway and climbed into the truck, slamming the door behind her. She dug for her keys in the front pocket of her jeans but then lifted her bottom off the seat as she realized she was sitting on something.

It was an envelope. A very thick envelope.

Inside was a Social Security card with Alice Plotkin’s name on it and nearly four thousand dollars in crisp, new, big-headed hundred-dollar bills.

There was a note scribbled on the outside of the envelope. “Don’t use your old Social Security number ever again.” There was no “Dear Allie,” no “Love, Harry.”

But she knew it was from him.

She could see Harry in the side mirror, parked about forty feet back from the truck. She took the Social Security card and carefully put it in the glove compartment with her wallet, and then she climbed out of the truck and marched over to him.

She threw the envelope onto his lap through the open window. “I don’t want your money.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself. I thought you might appreciate being able to get an apartment in a slightly better part of town.”

“I happen to like my apartment, thank you very much.” It was all hers, completely hers. She and she alone had picked it out, and she alone was responsible for paying the rent. That was a good feeling, an empowering feeling. So what if it wasn’t the Taj Mahal.

“I’d feel better if you’d take a few bucks and put some locks on the windows, maybe a dead bolt on the door. That place is a security nightmare.”

He looked awful. His eyes were rimmed with red and his face was nearly gray with fatigue. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in a week. He certainly hadn’t shaved in at least that long.

“Yeah, well, it’s my nightmare,” she told him tightly. “Not yours.”

He looked up at her, looked at her oversize Merry Maids T-shirt, her dirty jeans, the bandanna she’d tied around her head to keep her hair out of her face. “You’re working too hard. You look like shit.”

“I look like shit, because that’s my cover, remember? God, Harry, you just always know exactly what to say, don’t you? As to whether I’m working too hard, that’s none of your business.” Allie crossed her arms. “It’s been a week. When are you going to stop following me around?”

“Hey, it’s not like I want to follow you. I just … I need to be sure that you’re safe. Forgive me for being diligent and doing my job.”

“I’m safe. Besides, I stopped being your ‘job’ when we left New York.”

“New York.” He ran his hand down his face, rubbing his eyes. “I’ve gotta get back there, but …” He shook his head and made a sound of complete, intense exasperation. “I don’t know why I’ve got this weird sixth-sense thing happening—you know, like somehow I know something bad is going to go down. It’s driving me fucking nuts. There’s no way Trotta could track you here now. I know that, but still …”

He rubbed his forehead with one hand, as if he had a massive headache, and Allie’s anger softened.

“Maybe the sixth-sense thing isn’t about me,” she
said. “Maybe it’s because you know if you leave, you’ll never patch things up with Shaun. Look, Harry, I’m having dinner at Marge’s house tonight. Why don’t you—”

He held up his hand. “Don’t start,” he said. “Just … go back to work, Allie. You can’t save me. You were smart to walk away when you did. I’m going to … Yeah, I’m definitely going to leave on Monday. You’re going to be fine. I’m just going to give it a few more days.”

Monday. Monday was in four days.

“Will you …” She swallowed and had to start over. “I hope you’ll come back sometime soon, to see your kids.” And me. She couldn’t say the words aloud. She had far too much pride, too much self-respect.

Harry smiled, but it was a smile filled with pain. “That’s one of the things I like best about you, Al. Even when a situation is utterly hopeless, you still find a way to hope.”

“Harry, your situation is not—”

“I’m going to say good-bye now,” he said. “I think it’s probably easier that way.”

Kim paced the living room while George took a nap.

He’d gone into the bedroom to lie down more than three hours ago, and he was still sound asleep.

She wanted to wake him up. She was going to wake him up. Soon. She had only a few hours before she had to go to work, and she had to talk to him.

She had to tell him about Michael Trotta.

She would be honest. She would tell him how Michael made her approach George at the Fantasy Club. She would tell him that at first she was only doing a job. But she would make him understand how that all changed when she’d fallen in love with him.

George would understand. She knew he would. He
would kiss her gently, the way he always did, and he would smile at her and for the first time in her life, everything would be all right. He would figure out a way to keep her safe from Michael. If anyone could do it, George could.

She made another circuit around the living room, slowing as she approached George’s bookshelf. He had tons of books, more than twenty times the number of books she’d read in her entire life, maybe. He had books on every subject—medical books, books about guns, books about World War II. They were neatly arranged in groups according to subject. She smiled. George had an entire shelf of books about Star Trek. He was a science-fiction nerd. She should have known.

Another shelf was devoted to what looked like a collection of photo albums, yet another to fitness and diet books. One of the titles caught her eye. Better Buns in Thirty Days. Now, had George bought that book simply to look at the pictures of women’s butts, or did he have a secret wish for self-improvement?

She pulled out the book and flipped it open.

It was definitely a book written for women, and the pictures were nothing special. Any Victoria’s Secret catalog had far better thrills.

But then she saw handwriting on the cover page—a note, written right on the book.

She angled it toward the light.

“To Nic, the best piece of ass in the agency. Happy Anniversary. Your husband, G.”

Kim stared at the words, wishing they didn’t make quite so much sense.

Nic. Nicole. G. George. Anniversary. Husband.

Oh, God.

She could be wrong. She might be wrong. Although suddenly things started to click into place.

Nicole dropping over at all times of the day and night. The barbed comments they both made, the simmering tension between them.

And last night …

Last night Nicole had come over expecting that Kim wouldn’t be home, because George had told her Kim wouldn’t be home.

George was cheating on Kim with his ex—the woman he’d all but confessed to being still hung up on. The woman he still loved.

Maybe she was wrong.

She reached for the photo albums, hoping to find a clue.

The first held pictures from a vacation. Scenery. Mountains and valleys. Who the hell bothered to take pictures of only scenery?

She snapped it shut, fighting tears she refused to let come—after all she could be wrong. She put it back, drawing out the album with the white cover. White, wedding …

It was a professional album, with thin paper protecting the photographs. She pulled the paper back, and …

George and Nicole. Gazing into each other’s eyes. George looking heartbreakingly handsome in a black tuxedo, Nicole, the bitch, in a white dress and veil.

Oh, God. George was still in love with Nicole. Except their relationship was so perverse and twisted, he had to use her to make Nicole jealous enough to want him back. He didn’t love Kim, he’d never loved her, he would never love her.

As Kim stared at the photo, all of her hopes of everything finally being all right crashed and burned.

Shaun found Mindy at the basketball courts by the high school.

She was playing Around the World, all alone, and to his surprise, she was sinking most of the shots.

He knew exactly when she spotted him—she started missing.

He’d said some awful things to her. It had been over a week, and she still hadn’t shown up back in his playroom. She was the one who now avoided him at school, running if she saw him coming.