Bodyguard (9 page)

She wanted someone to take care of her—she probably didn’t particularly care who. He’d bet she’d even trade sex for his protection.

The possibilities loomed above him for a moment as he sat gazing at her. He could stand up and set the process in motion. And within a matter of days, maybe even hours, he’d find himself in bed with this beautiful woman.

But Harry didn’t stand up. He didn’t move. He’d never paid for sex, and he wasn’t about to start now. Even if the payment was in protection, not U.S. currency.

“Maybe you can give me a list of names—people who
might want to see you dead,” he said to her. “Irate neighbors who object to your lighting the shrubbery on fire, perhaps?”

She glanced up quickly at him, and he knew he’d been right about the fire. “Or maybe you want to start by explaining why the word on the street has your name at the top of a very short list of people with contracts out on their lives. You’re marked for death, sweetheart. Someone wants you cold and dead. I’m not a gambling man, but I’d put my paycheck on the fact that it’s Michael Trotta who’s behind that.”

“I gave the money back,” Alessandra whispered. “I don’t understand. I did what he wanted. I found the money—all of it. One million dollars. And I gave it back.”

She gave the money back. “Jesus, lady, you are without a doubt the Queen of Bad Judgment. That million dollars was evidence we could have used—”

“They told me they’d kill me if I went to the police!”

“Yeah? Well, it looks as if killing you is on their agenda regardless.”

“It doesn’t make sense!”

“What doesn’t make sense is you giving the money back.”

“I saw what they did to a man who’d gone to the police,” Alessandra told him, her voice shaking. She was scared to death, but her pretty blue eyes were dry. Apparently the only thing that made her weep was the thought of all those great bargains she’d picked up at Saks Fifth Avenue and Victoria’s Secret going up in smoke.

“So why’d you wait so long?” Harry asked harshly. “Why not just return the money when Trotta first approached you?”

“I didn’t know where it was. I had to find it first.”

“You found it.” Harry let his skepticism ring in his voice.

“It was under the azalea.”

“You found it,” Harry repeated. “All by yourself? Under the azalea?”

“It was the only thing Griffin asked for in our divorce settlement,” Alessandra told him. “That, and the fact that he planted it himself got me thinking. I didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to know that I should dig under the azalea.”

She may not have been a rocket scientist, but she had stopped to think during her search for the missing money. Most people never bothered to stop and think. Most people just let themselves be swept along by the chaos, acting and reacting.

Yeah, Alessandra Lamont was definitely smarter—and stronger—than he’d first thought.

In fact, as she sat there, across from him, chin lifted in pitiful defense against his skepticism, Harry almost found himself liking her.

Almost.

But regardless of his newfound admiration, he still didn’t trust her. There was something else she’d left out, something she wasn’t telling him. Had to be. Why else would Trotta want to kill her? The mob boss had to know he’d scared her enough for her to stay silent about the money. So why the car bomb? Why the contract on her life?

“What happens now?” Alessandra asked softly.

Harry gazed at the streaks of soot on her delicately featured face. “We take you into protective custody.” He gave it to her as if she had no choice in the matter, steeling himself against the guilt of his deceit. “We keep you safe, and in return, you testify after we get enough evidence to bring down Trotta.”

It wasn’t really as simple as that. George’s ex, Nicole Fenster, had set up a plan to take Alessandra into custody
then leak her whereabouts to Trotta. According to the plan, Trotta would attempt a hit that the task force would intercept. They’d have Trotta on charges of attempted murder and everyone would be happy.

Of course, Alessandra probably wasn’t going to be happy to find she’d been used as bait. But by the time she did find out, it would be over and done with.

“Is there any chance …” She hesitated, glancing up at him and blushing slightly. “I don’t have any clothes. I know you … know that. And I … thank you for giving me your coat, but, I was wondering how …”

“We’ll get you something to wear first thing in the morning,” Harry reassured her. “Your needs will be taken care of—as part of the deal we make with the DA and the Witness Protection Program.”

She nodded, obviously embarrassed but determined to get it said. “I’m sorry if I … hurt you. When you were trying to pull me out of the house.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Harry said quietly. He refused to feel bad about using Alessandra as unsuspecting bait to catch Trotta. After all, she’d married Griffin Lamont. She’d had to know at least some of what was going on. She was no innocent bystander, despite her attempt to play that part.

“Yes, I do. You saved my life,” she told him. “If you hadn’t pulled me out of there … When the second car exploded …”

“Luck,” Harry told her. “It was all dumb luck.” He smiled, and she managed a very small, very shaky smile back.

But it quickly faded, and she looked away.

Harry knew despite his promises, she didn’t trust him any more than he trusted her.

And rightly so.

A
PAIR OF
pajamas were out on the bed, waiting for her, after Alessandra got out of the shower.

They were men’s pajamas, made of stiff new flannel, boxy and oversize, in a green plaid print.

She looked about twelve years old in the bathroom mirror, wearing those pajamas, her pale face scrubbed completely clean of makeup. She went out into the other room of the suite still combing her hair, self-consciously aware that she was by no means looking her best. But she had no makeup, no hair gel, no perfume, no clothes besides these green plaid pajamas.

And that raincoat, which hung on the back of a chair.

This whole wretched scene had to be a mistake.

The sight of FBI agents Harry O’Dell and George Faulkner sitting in her hotel suite made this entire situation seem even more absurd.

There had to be some kind of mistake. A misunderstanding. She’d returned the stolen money, but somehow the wires had gotten crossed. Someone hadn’t gotten the word and her name had been put on the “still owes a million dollars or her life” list instead of the one marked “paid in full.”

Maybe all she’d need to do was make a simple phone call to Michael Trotta, explain about the confusion, and let him straighten everything out.

Because why would Michael order her to be killed? It didn’t make sense.

Harry O’Dell was on the phone again. He’d made a beeline to the telephone to make a call the moment they’d stepped into this hotel room. Then, as now, he hung up in frustration, as if his call hadn’t been answered.

He turned, hesitating only very slightly as he saw her standing there. But then he forced a smile, choosing to pretend he didn’t notice the magnetic pull of attraction she, too, felt every time she so much as looked at him.

“Feeling any better?” he asked.

She was exhausted. It had been nearly forty-eight hours since she’d last slept, longer than that since she’d last eaten, and she was barely standing. She’d completely missed the morning meeting with Social Services—not that she had any hope of getting care of Jane now. Her home had been burned to the ground, and according to Harry O’Dell, there was a contract out on her life. Was she feeling better?

Could it get any worse?

Still, she nodded politely. “Yes. Thank you.”

What was it about Harry, anyway?

He may have been solidly, muscularly built, but he was short. If she wore her usual three-inch heels, she’d be at least an inch taller. Even under the best of circumstances, she’d be hard-pressed to call him handsome. And with his rumpled, ill-fitting suit, permanent five-o’clock shadow, the puffy bags underneath his eyes, and his lawn-mower-styled hair, this could hardly be considered the best of circumstances.

Still there was something about him …

As she watched, he shrugged out of his jacket. His button-down dress shirt had short sleeves. Dear Lord, Harry was definitely one of the top ten most-wanted fugitives on the run from the fashion police.

“Did you get a chance to look at the room service menu?” he asked.

She was holding both the menu and the list she’d made of things she’d need. Clothes, underwear, shoes, moisturizing lotion, a notebook to write in, something to read, a jacket. Her stomach growled and she glanced at the menu again. Unfortunately, it hadn’t changed while she was in the shower. “Isn’t there somewhere else we can order from?”

Harry laughed aloud. “Look, princess, I know it’s not gourmet food, but it’s here in the hotel and it’s what we’re going to eat. So suck it up and order a burger.”

“I don’t eat red meat,” she said coolly.

“Now, there’s a surprise.”

“The fish chowder’s pretty good here,” George suggested, glancing up from the TV, where he was watching a basketball game with the volume muted.

“Perfect,” Harry said. “Have the chowder. If George says it’s good, it’s good. Are you going to get all bothered if I have a burger?”

“No—”

“Great. Then we’re set.”

Alessandra shook her head. “The chowder won’t work. I know it’s not on the menu, but maybe they could grill some chicken, plain. That and a salad—”

“This isn’t luncheon at the country club,” Harry interrupted. “You’re on the run from Michael Trotta. It’s in your best interest to keep a low profile—and that includes reducing the pain-in-the-ass factor for the kitchen staff. The menu’s not that short. Pick something from the menu.”

“But everything has cheese in it, or some kind of heavy cream or—”

“Go crazy. Have an extra thousand calories. After surviving that blast, you deserve to celebrate.”

“I can’t—”

“Sure, you can.”

“No,” Alessandra said. “You don’t understand. I’m allergic to milk—to all dairy. Does the word anaphylactic mean anything to you?”

“Oh, shit,” Harry said.

“Anna-what?” George asked.

“Phylactic,” Harry said. “It means the princess here is so allergic to milk that if she accidentally has any, her body starts to shut down. My ex’s cousin had an anaphylactic reaction to peanuts. If there was so much as a quarter of a teaspoon of peanut oil in something she ate, she’d be dead within a matter of minutes. She carried around this special little injection thing filled with adrenaline that she’d shoot into herself if she felt a reaction coming on. It would supposedly give her enough time to be rushed to the hospital.”

“An Epi-pen,” Alessandra said. “Mine was in my purse.” Her purse and its entire contents had no doubt gone up in flames. “I thought it would be a good idea to have one, so I put it on the list of things I need for tomorrow morning.”

Harry took the list from her, glancing at it quickly. “Christ,” he said. He turned the paper over, but there was nothing written on the back. “Is this all? I mean, it looks like you forgot to include the plane tickets to Paris and the pet ferret. And what about that autographed poster of John Travolta you always wanted?”

Alessandra felt herself flush. Her list was long. But he’d told her to write the things she needed, and she needed every one of the items on that list.

“If there’s a problem …” she started to say.

“Nope,” Harry said, handing the list to George. “No problem. The FBI has plenty of money for three new
pairs of shoes. We don’t need to buy silly little things like bullets.”

Alessandra’s temper flared. Instead of quietly burying it, the way she’d done for years with Griffin, she let it snap loose. “I don’t know the rules,” she told him hotly. “Don’t expect me to be able to play this game without telling me the rules. I’ve got nothing. My feet are bare. I need sneakers, something to wear with a dress, and boots for when it rains. You told me to make a list—”

“I imagined it would be necessities. Things like a toothbrush and maybe a stick of deodorant.” He took the list back from George. “What the hell is Neutragena soap? Can’t you use the stuff from the hotel? And what the hell do you need with three different kinds of lotion?”

“One’s for night, one’s for day—it’s got a sunblock—and the third is a hand lotion. Not that it’s any of your business.” Being mad—and showing it—felt good.

Except Harry didn’t seem to care that she was mad.

“From now on,” he told her, “and until you get settled in the Witness Protection Program, everything you do, every molecule of air you breathe is my business. It has to be, if I’m going to keep you safe.”

Harry sat down, rubbing his forehead as if it ached. “I don’t suppose it’s too much to hope that you kept your milk allergy secret from everyone you knew—including your ex-husband?”

His question was absurd. Alessandra didn’t answer.

He glanced at her, his dark brown eyes glinting with self-mockery. “Yeah, sorry. Stupid question.” He sighed. “So we’ve got to assume Michael Trotta knows. And all he’ll have to do to find you is have his men make some discreet inquiries, find out if any of the local hotels have been asked to prepare any special meals with no milk, no
butter, no cheese.” He shook his head. “Shit. Why couldn’t this be easy? Just for once.”