His Bodyguard (3 page)

“Miss?”

“Yeah?” The waitress jerked from her reverie, her eyes wide.

“I’ll have some toast.”

“Oh. Sorry. Sure. Are you Nathan Fox?” she blurted out.

“What?” Brenna said, but the other woman had already yanked her attention back to Fox.

“You’re Nathan Fox, ain’t ya?”

He smiled up at her. “Yeah.”

“I got all your tapes.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. If I…” Her face was red. Brenna shifted slightly toward the aisle, ready to catch her if she collapsed like an
axed pine. “If I got one from my car would you autograph it?”

“I’d be tickled.”

“Huh?”

“I’d like that,” he said.

Amazingly, Brenna thought, he sounded sincere. What a guy! Too good to be true, stunning, talented, charismatic. And he was nice, with a butt as hard as…Her
boss!
Boss!

The waitress hurried away.

Brenna forced her gaze down to the table. She was beyond the age of hormonal overdrive. Besides, that sort of thing had never worked well for her anyway. Even without her brothers’ constant interference, her love life had never been really phenomenal.

Pulling a notebook out of her purse, Brenna flipped it open and cleared her throat. “We’d better get started before she comes back. I need to know—”

“You were going to thank me.”

“What?”

He smiled. A couple of brain cells melted on impact and sizzled into nothingness. “You said you were going to thank me for something.”

“Oh.” She glanced at the metal spiral of her notepad, then met his gaze. “For hiring me.”

He was silent for a moment. “It was my pleasure. Believe me.”

She was tempted to ask him why he had done it. What he had seen in her that all the other men in her life, her family included, had failed to understand. But that would surely not be professional. Best to pretend that she had
assumed
he would recognize her ability.

“I appreciate it,” she said instead. “I won’t disappoint you.”

“I know.”

Would throwing herself onto his lap and kissing him senseless seem unprofessional? Probably. “Well then…let’s get started. I’ll need to know what kind of security problems you’ve had in the past.”

“Your order, Mr. Fox.”

Brenna’s jaw dropped as the waitress bustled up. She was loaded down like a pack mule, but still beamed as she kicked a stand into place and slid a heaping tray onto it.

“Hope that didn’t take too long.”

Too long? They had either cooked this stuff with a blowtorch or they’d stolen someone else’s orders. Or more likely, they’d stolen
five
other people’s orders.

“No. I hadn’t even started gnawing on the table yet,” Nathan said.

The blonde laughed. “I told Sharon it was for you.”

“Sharon?”

“The cook. She’s a fan, too. And she was wondering—”

“Bring me more butter and an extra cup of syrup and I’ll autograph her stuff in blood,” he said, eyeing the tray of steaming food.

“Really?”

“Well, no. But—”

“I mean…not the blood part, but will you sign hers too?”

“Sure. Soon as I’m done eating.”

“Oh! Yeah!” She began sliding the food off the tray and onto the table. “There you go. Anything else?”

“The butter and syrup.”

“Right.” She hustled away.

Fox, already cutting up his steak, glanced up and grinned. “Good thing you got that toast so I don’t look like an oinker.”

She laughed, unable to help herself.

His fork stopped in midair. “You got a really pretty smile.”

She sobered immediately, reminding herself with bubbly panic that her dream was on the line here—years of preparation, hundreds of hours of practice on the shooting range, the workout floor, in the classroom. She could not afford, under any circumstances, to be distracted by a handsome face.

“We’d better get down to work,” she said.

“Right.” He took a bite of steak, closed his eyes as if
concentrating, then opened them and nodded. “What did you want to know?”

“What kind of problems you’ve had in the past.”

“Oh, well, my cholesterol’s a little high. Don’t know why. Could be ‘cause of them midnight snacks. But, you know. We’re on the road. There’s nothing to do…”

“I meant
security
problems.”

“Oh.” He took another bite, washed it down with a gulp of milk and began mashing up his eggs. “None.”

She stared at him. “What?”

“I’ve been really lucky. My fans are great. You want to taste these eggs? They’re…” He took another bite. “Wow.”

“But Sarge said you’ve been having trouble. Something about threatening mail.”

Nathan waved at her with his fork. “Sarge is…Sarge. He doesn’t sing with the band anymore. So he’s got too much time to fret There’s nothing to worry about.” The pancakes were beginning to disappear.

“Then why did you want a bodyguard?”

“I didn’t,” Nate said. “But Sarge insisted.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “There have been a couple of accidents. A few letters.”

“Could I see them?”

“You don’t need to worry about it.”

She stared at him. A warning bell clanged in her head. Don’t worry about it? As in, don’t worry your pretty little head? Brenna forced herself to relax. There was no reason for her to get angry. Nathan Fox was, by all accounts, a good guy. Still, something had knotted in her gut, and the tension wouldn’t go away until she’d learned the truth.

“Can I ask you a question, Mr. Fox?” she said, her lungs aching with tension.

“Sure.”

“Why did you hire me?”

“You mean, why did I hire
you
or—”

“Why did you hire
me!
” She exhaled slowly, calming herself. But she had waited so long for this opportunity. Had
put up with so much, had held her temper at Bartman no matter how many times “the boys” had complimented the fit of her blouse or the color of her hose.

When she’d met Nathan, she’d felt a flicker of hope. Losing that hope might well be the death of her dream.

“When there was a room full of men with more experience and far more bulk, why did you hire me?” she asked, dreading the answer, but needing to know.

“You laughed at my joke. I can’t work with someone with no sense of humor.”

She forced her muscles to relax. “So you really
do
plan to let me do the job.”

He watched her as if trying to read her thoughts. “Hell yeah,” he said softly. “You don’t have to worry about that. You’re already on the payroll. Guaranteed a job till the end of the tour at least. Sarge tells me it’s an ironclad contract, so I better be sure.”

That wasn’t exactly what she had meant, but he seemed to think he had reassured her.

His eyes were warm, sincere, somber for once. “It doesn’t matter why you applied for the job. All you have to do is hang around and keep Sarge happy.” He took a swig of coffee. “And maybe, if you don’t mind, we could take in a couple of movies or something.”

Beneath the table, Brenna tightened her hands into fists and tried to breathe normally. “So you don’t think you need protection?”

He paused for a moment, then, seeming unable to resist, grinned and said, “Oh, I always use protection, honey.”

Her dream shattered like a porcelain vase. Rage flew up with the piercing shards. She jerked to her feet.

“My name is not honey,” she rasped.

He rose more slowly, his expression befuddled. “I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said. “Fact is, I was wondering about your name. B.T. What does it stand for?” He stuck his hands into the pockets of his jeans, looking young and vulnerable. “It’s not Bambi, is it?”

“Bambi!” She choked on the word. She had to get away,
had to leave, collect her wits…before she killed him. She spun around…and crashed into the waitress who was watching them, mouth agape.

Tapes flew in every direction. The waitress staggered backward, and Brenna, thrown off balance, careened sideways only to be caught in Nathan’s arms.

He drew her slowly erect, his gaze locked on hers, his right arm tight about her waist.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine!” she choked.

His expression was sober as he watched her. “Listen. It don’t matter why you’re here. Maybe you’re in some kind of trouble. Maybe you gotta get out of Mississippi. Maybe you need an interview.” He shrugged, still holding her. “Truth is, I couldn’t care less if you don’t know a Winchester from a water pistol. I’m just happy to have you…” he tightened his arm slightly about her waist
“…here.”

The rage turned cold. “Really?” she said, then leaned closer, hugging her arm to her chest.

“Really.”

Her gun seemed to leave its arm holster of its own accord, and suddenly its barrel was pressed against his jaw as it pointed toward the ceiling.

“Well, it isn’t a water pistol, Fox,” she said through gritted teeth. “It’s a semi-automatic, 40 caliber, blued Glock 27 with a 10-round magazine, and if I hear another hint of sexual harassment, it can blow your earlobes off from twenty-five yards. Anything else you’d like to know about personal handguns?” she asked, and behind her, the waitress fainted dead away.

T
HE BUS RIDE TO
C
HARLOTTE
, North Carolina was interminable and tense. Despite Brenna’s outrage at discovering Fox’s latent chauvinism, she had neither killed him nor quit. Instead, she’d calmed down as best she could, then proceeded to do her job with all the dignity she could muster.

But just about now, her muscles felt like mush and her eyes as if they’d been sandblasted. Even so, she’d refused to remove her contacts, though she assured herself her reasons had nothing to do with vanity.

It was in the wee hours of Thursday morning when she finally stumbled out of the bus and onto the sidewalk. She’d survived for nearly a day and a half as a security officer. A day and a half of poring over the questionable letters Sarge had given her to read, of wondering whether the seemingly inconsequential accidents Sarge told her about were accidents at all, of ignoring the band’s curious stares, of being hopelessly worn down by her own self-doubts.

Although The Cowboys had two buses, most of the band had ridden together. It gave Brenna the perfect opportunity to learn more about them, or so she had told herself. In actuality, she’d learned little more than their names—Paul Grand, the drummer, Jimmy Fry, the fiddler; Rover, the guitarist; and Brian Mueller, who played keyboard. Oh, and there was the driver called Atlas, and the cat, a gargantuan tom called Nuf. Other than that information, she’d gained nothing except for the beginning of an ulcer and a pounding headache.

The lobby of the hotel they trooped into was empty except for a balding fellow who stood behind the counter in a
slightly shiny, one-size-too-small suit and a plastic rectangular badge that proclaimed him to be Gregory. Sarge pushed past the others, exchanged a few words with the man and came back to pass out key cards.

There were yawns and mutters as The Cowboys wandered groggily off.

“Thought you’d want the room next to Nate’s,” Sarge said, handing Brenna a key and staring at her for a moment.

“Oh. Thanks.”

Sarge turned away, leaving her alone. Self-conscious, she lifted her overnight bag from the floor and stumbled up the stairs after the band.

The men filed off to their own doors, Nathan stopping before number 1026. Brenna remained where she was for a moment, but if there was ever a time to be assertive, now was it Steeling herself, she stepped up to Nate’s door.

“Here.” Without glancing at his face, she slipped the key from his hand. “I’ll do that.” The plastic card slid into the slot. She turned the latch, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

Nathan, however, remained in the hallway, his brows raised, and his head slightly canted.

She flipped on the light, glanced about the sitting room and motioned him inside.

He came, letting the door close behind him. But Brenna refused to look at his face. Instead, she hurried through the next doorway, glanced into the bathroom and assured herself there was nothing even vaguely threatening. Going on, she shoved open the closet door. Certain that small space was empty but for the usual apparatus, she continued into the bedchamber. The curtains were drawn shut, the bed perfectly made. All seemed quiet, but what seems and what is can be as different as a caterpillar from a butterfly. Master Leong, her judo instructor, had a propensity for expounding on such drivel. He had shared that tidbit of wisdom with her the first day a ten-year-old boy had effortlessly flipped Brenna over his head.

Striding over to the bed, she lifted the eyeletted dust ruffle
and peered underneath. A walnut-stained board closed off the underside of the bed. She tapped it with the toe of her shoe, made certain it wasn’t loose, then hurried around to the other two sides to do the same.

Turning toward the window, she swept the curtain aside. All was secure, so she paced back to the door. Nate remained where he was, his brows still raised as he stared at her.

“Making sure we’re alone?” he asked, his lips quirking into the suggestion of a grin.

“Making sure
you’re
alone,” she corrected coolly and brushed past him to reach for the door handle. “Hook the security chain,” she ordered and pulled the door open.

“What about the bathtub?”

She turned back to him with a scowl. “What?”

“You didn’t check behind the curtain.”

“There is no curtain. There are glass doors. You can see right through them.”

“Yeah?” he said, and grinned slightly, as if he were thinking something lascivious.

The expression carved deep grooves into his tan cheeks and set his eyes sparkling. But he did not look sexy, she promised herself. Even though his T-shirt was pressed smooth over his chest and his faded jeans clung to his thighs like a possum on a limb, he wasn’t the least bit appealing. Irritating was what he was.

She repeated that in silence and came up with a reasonably effective scowl.

He grinned, then paced to the bathroom and squinted inside as if nearsighted. “The glass is frosted. There might be someone in there.”

“There’s no one in there.”

He twisted around to look at her again. “She might be really little.”

Gritting her teeth, Brenna let the door swing closed and returned quickly to the bathroom. Pressing past him, she slid the tub door open and peered inside.

“No one,” she said.

“Phew!” He shook his head and let his shoulders drop as if he’d been holding his breath. “That’s a relief.”

“Uh huh,” she said, but when she exited the bathroom, he still hadn’t moved, forcing her to brush past him again. She pursed her lips, refusing to acknowledge the spattering of feeling caused by the contact. “What time will you be leaving your room in the morning?”

“Gee. I hadn’t decided,” he said and stuck both hands into his back pockets. “What sounds good to you?”

That innocent act was hardly going to work on her. Not now that she knew his real reasons for hiring her. Not now that she knew he was a male chauvinist oinker who didn’t believe in her abilities any more than the other men in her past.

“Call me as soon as you wake up,” she ordered.

“What?”

She stopped at his shocked tone and turned to glare at him. “I need to know when you’re no longer safely in your room. Call me before you open this door. I’ll be in 1027.”

“You mean…” He widened his molasses eyes as if shocked. “You’re not going to sleep in here?”

Her jaw dropped. He thought…He believed…

But in an instant she saw the gleam in his eye. She gritted her teeth, but she couldn’t stop the color that diffused her face.

“Hook the chain,” she said and turned away.

“What about the window?”

“What?” she snapped, pivoting back around.

He stepped back as if frightened, but his grin was bigger now, not little boyish but full-blown. “You didn’t check the window.”

“Yes, I did.”

He shook his head. “You just moved the one curtain a little. There might be someone hiding behind the other one.”

She tightened her fists. Violence was never the answer, she reminded herself. But that old saw had never seemed less true. “If there was someone hiding behind the curtain, wouldn’t he make a bulge?”

“Maybe it’s a really tiny woman. Them little ones…” he eyed her up and down, as if noting her small size “…they can be tricky.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but he raised a palm. “Sarge hired you in good faith. I’d hate to give Bartman Security a less-than-stellar report about you, B. T. O’Shay.”

Brenna snapped her mouth shut Bartman Security! Roger Bartman didn’t know anything about this. In fact, she’d told her boss she was quitting, was leaving Jackson to marry a cotton farmer near Mobile. She’d gone to great pains to type up an official-looking contract that told Sarge she was to be paid directly. All was going smoothly—sort of. But if Fox called Roger all hell would break loose.

“I’ll check the window,” she said, and turning, marched across the room.

“I appreciate this, B.T.,” Nate said.

Pushing the curtains aside, she glared at every inch of the wide panes. Everything was perfectly in place.

“By the way, what does the B.T. stand for?”

“You can call me O’Shay,” she said coolly. In a moment she was by the door. She pursed her lips, waiting for him to speak again, but he didn’t

She turned the latch.

“Miss O’Shay?”

“What!” She jerked back toward him, her nerves stretched tight.

The right corner of his mouth quirked up in unison with one eyebrow. “Sleep tight,” he murmured, and she fled.

I
NSIDE THE SOLACE
of her own private room, Brenna paced. She must be out of her mind! What had made her ever believe she could be a bodyguard? And why in heaven’s name had she chosen Nathan Fox’s body to guard? He
deserved
to be attacked. Besides, he resented her very existence. He was never going to accept her presence here. She’d told him to call before he left his room, but she couldn’t trust him to do that, and if she couldn’t trust him, she couldn’t do her job. She stopped and scowled at the watercolor seascape above
the bed. Master Leong used to say that trust was like the sea. It could go out as fast as it came in.

Brenna had no idea what that meant. Never had. But the fact was, she was lying to herself. She didn’t require trust to do her job. In fact, maybe she’d be more effective if she
didn’t
trust him, if she was suspicious of everything and everybody. Glancing at the bedcover, she narrowed her eyes and made a decision.

B
RENNA SQUIRMED
. Her youngest brother twisted her arm more tightly behind her back. “Say uncle,” he demanded in his pubescent voice.

But Brenna O’Shay never said uncle. She jerked forward…and awoke with a start.

It took her a moment to remember her circumstances, to realize she was scrunched up in a padded chair in a strange hotel room. She’d propped her door open with a phone book to allow herself an unobstructed view of Nathan’s door.

Or it
would
be unobstructed if that man would get away from Fox’s door.

Hey! There was a man by Nate’s door! His hand was on the latch. The door was swinging open.

Brenna launched into the hall like a loose cannon. Mind foggy, eyesight blurry, legs unsteady, she slammed into the intruder’s back, but managed to grab his arm, twist it upward, and yank him back into the hall.

“Hey!” he squawked.

“What are you doing here?” she growled, pushing his arm up higher.

“Let me go!”

He tried to wrench away. They scuffled sideways and bumped into the wall, but Brenna’s adrenaline was pumping. She hung on like a bulldog.

“What are you doing here?” she rasped again.

“Let me go!” His voice was rising.

“Who gave you the key?”

“None of your business!” he cried. Spinning, he jerked his arm from her grasp and made his escape.

He didn’t get twelve inches before she tackled him. He landed with a muffled grunt, her knees in the small of his back, and her grip already hard on his bent-up arm.

“Lie still and I won’t hurt you.”

He lay panting hard beneath her, but didn’t try to struggle.

“I’ll have some answers.” Her own body was trembling, whether from excitement or fear, she wasn’t certain. She could only hope he couldn’t hear the quaver in her voice.

“O’Shay?” Nathan’s voice startled her.

She jerked around to see him standing in the doorway, his eyes sleepy and his hair tousled.

“Get back inside!” she snapped.

“Okay,” he acquiesced. “But…why are you sitting on Ian?”

She blinked. Adrenaline drained from her body like water down a drain. “Ian?”

Nathan nodded. “Ian. One of the road crew. He, uh…” Nate nodded toward the right to a pair of suitcases she hadn’t noticed. “He brought up my luggage.”

She squinted at the suitcases. Her stomach flipped over. “Oh.”

Nathan nodded. “Maybe you should let him up.”

She hesitated. How did she know what this man’s intentions were? She took a long slow breath and remained where she was.

“Where’d you get the key, Ian?”

“Sarge gave it to me.” His voice was muffled by the carpet and broke when he said it.

Poor Ian was neither very large nor very old, Brenna noticed suddenly. Guilt settled in. But, dammit, she’d been hired to do a job, and do it she would. If this man habitually brought up luggage in the wee hours of the morning, she sure as hell should have been informed.

“Why?”

“Sarge likes Nate to have it first thing in the morning. I just set it right inside his door. That’s all.”

“How long have you been in Mr. Fox’s employ?”

“Huh?”

“How long have you been working for Fox?”

Brenna felt him tremble beneath her. “Two years going on.”

“Oh.” Brenna slipped off his back, feeling stupid as a drowning duck and refusing to admit it.

Ian rolled over and pushed his white-blond hair away from a face plagued by acne.

“Do you always bring up Mr. Fox’s luggage, Ian?” she asked, still crouched beside him.

He nodded jerkily.

“Well, you won’t be doing that anymore. From now on you bring the suitcases to me. I’ll make sure Mr. Fox gets them.”

“To you?” He shifted his gaze to Nathan as if for affirmation, but now was not the time to lose her edge. If she was going to gain the crew’s respect she’d best start now.

“That’s right. I’ve been hired to see to his security.”

“But Sarge—”

“I’ll talk to Sarge,” she interrupted abruptly. “I’m sure he’ll see things my way.”

“I…I believe y’,” Ian said, then scrambled to his feet and fled.

The hall went silent. Reaching forward, Brenna retrieved the card key from where Ian had dropped it She rose more slowly.

Not surprisingly, Nathan’s brows were somewhere in his hairline again. She made a valiant effort not to blush and reminded herself that she was here to protect him.

“So when were you going to tell me about
this,
Mr. Fox?”

He leaned up against the doorjamb. His gray sweatpants rode indecently low on his hips, his torso was bare, and she noticed without meaning to that there was a crescent-shaped scar in the center of his chest. She tried not to wonder how he’d gotten it. “Tell you what, Miss O’Shay?”