Bodyguard Under the Mistletoe (3 page)

Jesse shifted his thinking from speculation to action. If there really was an intruder at Fiona's house, they needed to act fast to make sure he didn't escape.

“Wentworth, call the Carlisle ranch for backup. Tell them we're heading to the Grant house.” He opened the back door of the SUV for Fiona. “Climb in.”

In the few moments it took to reach the turnoff to her ranch, Jesse formulated a simple plan. He and Wentworth would cover the front and back of the house, keeping the intruder trapped until backup arrived. With more manpower, they could search the house, then spread out and search the entire property.

Wentworth got off the phone. “Agent Burke and some men from the ranch are on the way.”

“How long until they get here?”

“Five or ten minutes.”

They drove up the packed dirt road leading to the house. Unlike the other ranches in the area, there was no fence circling Fiona's property. Her long one-story log cabin nested in a stand of aspen that would be beautiful in the fall when the leaves turned to gold. Behind the cabin, he saw a barn and a couple of outbuildings.

“Fiona, how many entrances does your house have?”

“Only front and back.” Her voice was soft but not breathy. The tone reminded him of gentle notes played by a wooden flute. “But there are windows. If somebody wanted to escape, they could go out a window.”

“Stay in the car, Fiona.” Jesse glanced at Wentworth. “I'll take the front. You go around back. Don't enter until backup arrives.”

As soon as Wentworth parked outside the detached garage, Jesse got out of the car. The adrenaline rush masked his pain. His gun felt natural in his hand. He could handle this. No problem.

Moving as quickly as he could with a bum leg, he took a position at the corner of the house beside a long, one-step, wood-plank porch covered by a shingled roof. From this position, he could see the entire front of the house and another side in case the intruder decided to exit through a window.

Leaning against the logs of the cabin, he felt his heartbeat drumming inside his head. His blood pumped hard. He was sweating. In his peripheral vision, darkness began to close in.
Not a good sign
. He shook himself.
Stay awake. Stay alert
.

If Fiona's intruder was, in fact, one of the kidnappers, they were armed and dangerous. They hadn't hesitated before opening fire on him when he tried to rescue Nicole.

His knees began to weaken. Wentworth had been right. He needed more time to recuperate.
Too late to turn back now
. No way in hell would he allow himself to collapse. This was his job. His life.

When he glanced toward the car, he was surprised to see Fiona dart across the yard toward him. What the hell was she doing? Didn't she know it was dangerous? She flattened her back against the log wall beside him.

“What can I do to help?” she asked.

“You could have stayed in the car,” he said dryly.

“This is my home. I need to be ready to defend it.”

In different circumstances, he would have read her the riot act about why she ought to leave the business of security to professionals. But he wasn't exactly a shining example of rational behavior. Not today. Not when he'd left the hospital only an hour ago. Not when he was taking prescription painkillers. He wasn't fit for duty.

Later, he'd reprimand himself. For now, the best he could hope for was to avoid getting himself or Fiona shot.

“Stay close,” he said to her.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine.”
Damn it, I'm fine
.

“I've thought about you often, Jesse. I never got to thank you in person for saving my husband's life.”

“You sent me flowers in a handmade vase.” A strange gift for a man like him whose job meant he was seldom home. “And a note.”

“Which wasn't enough. That was such a crazy time. I was pregnant, and the doctor told me I had to stay in bed. Then I had the baby.”

“Boy or girl?”

“My daughter's name is Abigail. Abby.” As she spoke her child's name, her voice turned musical again. “She's with the babysitter.”

As he focused on Fiona's delicate face, the dark edge of unconsciousness receded. Conversation might be what his brain needed to stay alert. “You said this cabin was your home. I thought you lived in Denver.”

“Not anymore.” She peeked around him to see the front door. “Shouldn't we be rushing inside or something?”

“We're waiting for backup.” He didn't tell her that the idea that he could rush anywhere was just about as likely as sprouting wings and flying. “Why did you move up here?”

“Not by choice,” she said. “I lost the house in Denver. And the Mercedes. And the boat. Pretty much everything, actually.”

Her problems distracted him. He couldn't imagine that Wyatt Grant, a savvy attorney, would have left his widow in such bad shape. “Everything?”

“Forget it. I shouldn't have said anything.” Her gaze turned downward. “I haven't told anybody.”

“You can tell me,” he said. “It won't go any further.”

“Are bodyguards confidential? Like lawyers.”

“Not in a legal sense. But I wouldn't have many clients if I started telling them their business.”

“I'm not your client,” she pointed out.

“As of this minute, I'm working for you. No charge. Pro bono.”

“Deal.” She held out her hand for him to shake before realizing that he was holding a gun in his right, and his left was in a sling. Her confusion ended with a fist bump against his left elbow.

“Now you can tell me anything,” he said.

“There's not much to say, really. Wyatt had an ex-wife, and two adult children from that marriage. They weren't happy with the terms of his will. Their attorneys froze everything that was jointly owned, including our checking and savings accounts. When I couldn't pay the bills, they swooped in. The only reason I have this cabin is that Wyatt signed the deed over to me on our first anniversary. It's in my name only.”

“You must have contested the family's actions.”

“Not as much as I should have. Obviously.” There was an edge of bitterness in her voice. “I didn't have a taste for arguing. Nothing seemed to matter, except for my daughter. It took all my energy to crawl out of bed and take care of her.”

“You let everything go.” Probably even that diamond necklace she'd been wearing in the photograph.

“Didn't seem worth the effort to hold on. Not when I'd already lost the most important thing in my life.”

A caravan of vehicles from the Carlisle Ranch made the turn off the main road and poured toward them. Jesse would have liked to be the man in control; leadership was natural to him. But he was in no shape to be calling the shots.

He looked down at the slender, delicate woman who stood beside him. “I'm sorry, Fiona.”

“Don't be.” A mysterious Mona Lisa smile lifted the corner of her mouth. “Starting over isn't the worst thing that could happen.”

Two trucks and a Jeep parked beside the Longbridge SUV. Nine or ten armed men disembarked. Through a blurry haze, Jesse watched the guy who seemed to be in charge disperse the other men to surround the house. Then he ran across the yard toward Jesse and Fiona.

“Special Agent J. D. Burke,” he introduced himself. “You must be Jesse Longbridge.”

“Must be.” Burke was a big guy, as broad-shouldered as a linebacker. Standing next to Fiona, he looked like a giant—a competent, intelligent giant. “You got here fast.”

“We were already planning to come over here when Wentworth called. Carolyn mentioned that Fiona heard voices last night.”

“But I haven't actually seen anyone,” she piped up.
“Agent Burke, you're not going to break my front door down, are you?”

“I'd rather not.”

“The back is unlocked.”

He gave a brisk nod. “We'll enter through the back. You both stay here and keep an eye on the front. Does that sound all right to you, Jesse?”

“It does.”

He appreciated the way Burke had consulted him before taking action. Jesse wanted to think he was still capable. Like all marines, he was a sharpshooter. Even with blurred vision, he trusted his aim. “Stay behind me, Fiona. If I need to open fire, you should run to the back of the house.”

“I've never done anything like this,” she whispered.

“You shouldn't have to. You're a mom.”

“That's exactly why I should know how to protect myself and my daughter.”

From the rear of the house, he heard Burke making his entrance. Jesse's muscles tensed. He raised his handgun and stood ready to shoot.

No one came out.

After a long couple of moments, he heard Wentworth call to him, “All clear, Jesse. There's nobody in the house.”

Staying focused had been a strain. His gun hand dropped to his side. He sagged against the wall. As soon as his eyes closed, darkness welled up around him. Sweet and silent. For three days, he had rested in the embrace of darkness, peaceful as a tomb.

He felt a hand against his cheek. Her touch was cool, soothing. He blinked and focused on her wide gray eyes.

“Jesse? Are you all right?”

“Fine,” he mumbled.

As she studied him, her face filled with concern. Though her lips didn't move, he heard an echo of her soft voice inside his head.
Starting over isn't so bad
.

After his failure to protect Nicole, he wouldn't mind having a fresh start. A new direction for his life.

He'd been looking for a sign, a reason he had come back from death. And he sensed that Fiona might hold the answer to his deepest questions. She might provide him with a reason to go on living.

Standing in her front room, Fiona wasn't sure whether she should be scared or embarrassed that she'd reported an intruder who didn't exist.

She couldn't turn to Jesse for guidance; he'd disappeared into the kitchen, moving slowly. When they were outside and he leaned against the wall with his eyes closed, she'd thought he was going to keel over, which wasn't surprising considering his injuries. Carolyn had told her that he was unconscious for three days. Jesse was still weak and ought to be in bed. Not that he'd ever admit it. Typical man! When men got sick, they either put on a macho attitude or curled up in bed and whined like babies.

Agent Burke was giving the orders. “Everybody out,” he said. “We need to spread out and search.”

It went against her instincts as a hostess to have these men troop through her house without offering hospitality. “I should make coffee.”

“Later,” Burke said.

Turning away from her, he spoke to the man who had been in the car with Jesse. Wentworth? Burke rattled off
instructions about how the outbuildings should be searched and reminded him that they should proceed with caution.

Fiona could see why Carolyn had fallen for this big, rugged FBI agent. Not only was Burke a fine-looking man, but he seemed strong-willed enough to stand up to Carolyn's dynamic personality. These two would strike sparks off each other for sure.

While the searchers dispersed, she asked, “Is there something you'd like me to do, Agent Burke?”

“I'll get the sheriff over here to dust for prints, but I doubt we'll find anything. You keep a tidy house, Fiona.”

“Except for the enclosed porch off the kitchen. I'm using that as my pottery studio.”

“Let's take a look around and see if anything's missing.”

Dutifully, she scanned the living-room furniture and the shelves near the door where she stored some of her finished pottery. The TV was still there. And the computer. Nothing seemed out of place.

Burke followed her down the hall to her bedroom where she checked the contents of her jewelry box that rested on the knotty pine dresser. “Nothing appears to be missing, but the door to my walk-in closet is open. I didn't leave it that way.”

“It might have been opened when we searched,” he said. “Take a look inside.”

Against the back wall was a neat row of dressy clothing, still in plastic dry cleaner's bags. Matching shoes were stored in their original boxes. She never wore those clothes anymore. They were part of her old life.

Jesse joined them. Though still pale, he seemed to have regained some of his strength. “I'll take over in here,” he said to Burke. “You might want to keep an eye on the search.”

“Thanks. Except for your man Wentworth, these guys
aren't trained in forensics. They wouldn't know a clue if it jumped up and bit them on the ass.” He gave Fiona a wave. “I'll be back.”

Jesse came toward her. In spite of his slight limp and the black sling on his left arm, he moved with confidence.

“You seem better,” she said.

“I'm getting a handle on these pain pills. Just a little foggy around the edges.” He peeked around her into the closet. “Tidy.”

“I haven't touched most of those things since I unpacked.” She looked up into his eyes. His pupils were so dilated from the medication that she could barely see the dark cognac brown of his irises. “Maybe you should rest.”

“When I need a nap, I'll let you know.” He flashed that killer grin. “In the meantime, I'm your protector.”

In spite of his light tone, she took him seriously. Her instincts told her this was a man she could trust with her life. In a way, she already had. Within moments of meeting Jesse, she'd told him the secret behind her move to the mountains. None of her friends in Denver knew how much she'd lost. Fiona's story was that she and Abby were going to live at the cabin and seek a more peaceful life. Peaceful? Not today!

She cleared her throat and said, “Burke told me to look for signs that someone had been in my house.”

“Keep at it.”

She closed her closet door and led him into Abby's room, which was more cluttered than the rest of the house but didn't seem to have been ransacked.

“I can't imagine why anybody would want to rob me,” she said. “I don't keep valuables here.”

“From what you told me, you don't keep valuables at all.”

“Things aren't important to me. I care about people. People matter.”

He mattered. She'd only just met Jesse, but he mattered to her. Why was she so drawn to him? Very likely, because he was an incredibly good-looking man. His straight black hair was combed back from his forehead. He had high cheekbones, deep-set eyes and a firm jaw. But his features weren't perfect. His nose looked as if it had been broken more than once. And he had a scar on his chin. An interesting face.

“Let's go to the next room,” he said.

The guest room with the colorful handmade quilt was neat as a pin. Again, the closet door stood open. It was the same in the den.

The only rooms left to search were the kitchen and her studio. She backtracked through the living room, passing the dining table where she and Abby had begun their Christmas decorating with a centerpiece of handmade clay elves and reindeer.

In the kitchen, her gaze went to the top of the fridge where she'd left the antique Colt .45. The rectangular box appeared to be unmoved. She should take it down and make sure the gun was still inside. But something else caught her attention.

“The apples.” She pointed to a bowl on the table. “There are only three, and I'm sure I had four. I remember because I was going to run in here and grab an apple for Elvis.”

“Elvis?”

“Carolyn's horse. She dropped by earlier.” It seemed crazy that someone would break into her house for a healthy snack. “I could be wrong. Nothing else is out of place.”

That left only her pottery studio. She went through the
laundry room attached to the kitchen and stopped outside a closed door. “I always keep this door locked so Abby can't come in here unsupervised. Too many sharp implements. And a kiln.”

She reached up for the key that hung from a hook near the top of the door frame. It was gone. Had she misplaced it?

Jesse reached past her and turned the doorknob. “It's open.”

She stepped inside. Her potter's wheel was in one corner. The kiln in the other. The long table between them was cluttered with sketchbooks and current projects. On the opposite side of the room, tall storage cabinets against the wall were opened. The larger boxes had been dragged out to the center of the room and opened. “Someone was in here.”

“Don't touch. There might be fingerprints.” Using one of the sketching pencils, he opened the lid on one of the boxes and peered inside at an assortment of small kitchen appliances that she didn't use anymore. “Anything missing?”

“Hard to tell. That's just clutter.”

“Your intruder didn't come here to rob you. He didn't take the flat-screen TV or the computer. I'd say he was looking for something specific.”

But her house hadn't been torn apart. The drawers and cabinets in the kitchen were untouched. “He was searching for something big enough to fit into one of these boxes.”

“Something that's about the size of a suitcase.” With the fingers of his right hand, he raked his black hair off his forehead. “Something that's gone missing.”

Fiona realized that she should have been frightened. The unlocked door and the boxes were evidence.
An intruder had been inside her house
. Instead, she felt angry and confused as she imagined a stranger wandering through
her house, poking into her things. “I'm not in the mood for guessing games. What was he looking for?”

“The ransom,” he said. “A million dollars in cash. That much money in small bills would fill a suitcase.”

“Why would anyone think the ransom was in my house?”

“That's a million-dollar question.”

“How about an answer?”

“Your property is close to the Carlisle's. If the kidnappers were on the run and had to stash the money, they might have stopped here.”

“If so, they wouldn't have to search,” she said. “They'd remember where they stashed it.”

“There are two of them.” He rested one hip on a high stool beside her worktable. “One of them might have decided he didn't want to share with his buddy. So he hid the money in your house. Now his buddy is looking for it.”

She remembered the voices she'd heard last night. It has been late, after two o'clock. She couldn't make out the words but they sounded angry.

Her awareness of fear became reality. The danger—real danger—had come too close.

She stared through the window of her studio and saw the searchers approaching the barn. If anything was hidden here, they'd surely find it. But if they didn't, what should she do?

“Fiona.” He spoke her name softly. “It's all right. Nothing bad is going to happen.”

“How can you say that? Those men could have come into my house last night. How would I have protected Abby?”

“I'm here now. I'll keep you and your daughter safe.”

Panic shivered through her. She wanted to run, to get as far away from here as possible. But where could she go? She
didn't have a house in Denver anymore, didn't have enough money to stay in a hotel. “I can't afford to hire you, Jesse.”

“You already did. Remember? Pro bono.”

She wasn't too proud to accept charity, especially when her daughter's safety was involved. Still, she asked, “Why?”

“I owe you,” he said simply. “Your husband took a chance on hiring Longbridge Security when I was first starting out. Because I proved myself capable of protecting Wyatt Grant—the district attorney of Denver—my reputation was established. I've been busy ever since.”

His calm tone and steady gaze bolstered her confidence. Her fear began to recede. “You'll stay with me and Abby until this is over?”

“Your guest room looks comfortable.”

Gratitude urged her toward him. Avoiding his sling, she hugged the right side of his body. “Thank you.”

His right arm encircled her. For a long moment, they held each other in a clumsy embrace. Fiona had touched plenty of other men since her husband's death; she was an unrepentant hugger. But being this close to Jesse was different. His nearness awakened long-suppressed feelings of sensual warmth, the memory of what it was like to be a woman.

She stepped away from him. “There's something I need to give you.”

She saw a subtle change in the way he looked at her. Had he felt it, too? The tiny sparks of passion that might ignite into a wildfire?

“You don't need to give me anything, Fiona.”

“It's a bequest. Something Wyatt wanted you to have.”

She turned on her heel and went back to the kitchen. Reaching up, she removed the polished oak box from the top of the refrigerator. It didn't seem right to just plop the
box into his hands. This occasion required some kind of ceremony. “Are you well enough to walk?”

“Not for a twenty-mile trek,” he said. “But I'm mobile.”

“I'd like to take you to the place where I scattered Wyatt's ashes. That way I'll feel like he's with us.”

Jesse nodded. “Lead on.”

She took him out the front door and followed a single-file path that led through the white trunks of aspens surrounding the south side of the house. Over her shoulder, she said, “This property has been in Wyatt's family for generations. His great-grandfather built the cabin.”

“But they weren't ranchers.”

“Definitely not. The Grants were always professionals. Lawyers and doctors. They used the cabin as a hunting lodge, a vacation place where they could get away and relax.”

Wyatt had loved coming up here. Every time they made this trip from Denver, he told her it felt as if he'd shoved his daily hassles and responsibilities in a bottom drawer and locked it tight. At the cabin, he was free.

When he died, she knew this was where he would want to be laid to rest—eternally a part of the mountain landscape that fed his soul.

She turned to watch Jesse making his way along the path. There was a slight hitch in his stride, not even a full-fledged limp. His strength was returning, but she didn't want to push him too far.

At the edge of the aspen grove, she stood on a rise overlooking a knee-high fence that surrounded a small plot of land. Four weathered wooden crosses marked the graves of past generations. The hand-carved cross she'd made for Wyatt still looked new. “In the summer,” she said, “I plant flowers here. It's a nice view, don't you think?”

“Beautiful.”

“Wyatt never forgot what you did for him, Jesse. In his will, he specifically requested that this gun be given to you.”