His Bodyguard (4 page)

She gave him a peeved look and hoped it wasn’t ruined by her blush. How was she supposed to know somebody delivered his luggage in the middle of the night? It was a
stupid practice, stupid and dangerous. She had nothing to be embarrassed about.

“You agreed to call me before this door opened,” she insisted.

“Did I?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Yes.”

He grinned and caught her gaze with his own. “Then you’re not very trusting, Miss O’Shay.”

She stiffened her back. “What does that mean?”

He broke eye contact, shifting his gaze to the bedspread that had trailed into the hallway in her frantic lunge for Ian. “You were watching my door.”

Her face felt warm, despite knowing she had nothing to be ashamed of. “I was merely trying to keep you safe from any potential threats.”

“Or maybe you thought I would try to sneak out without telling you.”

She pursed her lips. That was exactly what she thought, but there seemed little reason to admit it. “And why would you do that, Mr. Fox?”

The smile slipped slowly from his face. Even his eyes became somber. “Maybe because I don’t want to be followed around like a damned winged grouse,” he said softly.

Her emotions were getting all muddled—guilt, empathy, frustration. “I didn’t come begging for this job,” she said, knowing better than to try to defend herself to him.

“Didn’t you?” His eyes were deadly earnest, and too damned knowing.

She refused to look away, although if the truth be known, she could easily have begged if she had thought it would do her any good. “No,” she said, “I only came for an interview.”

His gaze skimmed from her face, down her body and back up to her eyes. “Why?” His tone was breathy with honest amazement, but she’d heard that kind of tone too often. It was always followed by sneers.

“Because it’s my job,” she said, her voice rising. “Because I’m damned good at it. Because—”

A door jerked open. “Y’all don’t shut up out here I’m gonna call the cops,” a man growled. Unshaven, he scowled aggressively. His pajama shirt barely covered the gut hanging over striped trousers.

“Sorry.” Nate grinned apologetically, then turned back to Brenna. “Come back to bed, honey,” he said, conjuring up an exaggerated Southern drawl. “You’re disturbing the folks. I’ll play the wild stallion and the cowgirl again if you really want to.”

Her jaw dropped.

Nate’s grin broadened. “Come on.”

Anger boiled up inside her. “You—”

“Now, now,” he tsked, stepping into the hall to gently draw her forward. “How would it look if you got us in trouble for disturbing the peace…
again?
”

She wanted to give him a good solid knuckle punch to his ridiculously square jaw. But she’d just jumped poor Ian, and hotel security might not find a second attack really amusing, so she allowed herself to be drawn inside.

“Sorry,” Nate said again, peeking around her at the pajama man. “Sleep tight.” He turned away, then changed his mind. “Oh, if you hear any whinnying, just ignore it.”

Stepping back, he let the door swing shut, pitching them into absolute darkness.

“So,” his tone was low and amused. “Big night?”

She snorted, then reached for the light switch. Unfortunately, he was in the way. The muscles in his abdomen felt hard as sculpted marble against her fingers.

“Why,
honeybunch!
” he said, using that infuriating borrowed drawl. “I hardly know you.”

Brenna yanked her hand back, suddenly grateful for the darkness to cover her infuriating embarrassment “What do you want?” she asked.

“What do
you
want?”

She wanted him behind bars for sexual harassment. Or did they give the death penalty for that? “Mr. Fox,” she said, pleased that her voice sounded relatively normal. “I know
you think yourself quite irresistible. But let me assure you, I have no interest whatsoever in that regard.”

“I’m so relieved,” he drawled. “So why are you here?”

If she could just slap him once she would feel immensely better. “I’m here because you threatened me with hotel security,” she said.

“I mean…” She could hear the grin in his voice. “Why are you guarding my body?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Isn’t it? I think I have a right to know a little something about my employees.” He paused. All was silent “Or should I call your agency?”

No! She almost screamed the word, but managed to remain quiet for a moment, stilling her panic. “It seems to me that if you had doubts about my abilities you should have voiced them
before
you hired me.”

“I didn’t say I doubted your ability.”

“But you do,” she said softly, and even now the realization hurt, but only because she had allowed herself to hope for a moment.

The room was silent again. Fox cleared his throat and shifted away slightly, perhaps to lean against the wall, though she couldn’t tell for sure in the darkness. “Maybe I did doubt you,” he said, “but that was before I saw you with your knee jammed into Ian’s back.”

There was laughter in his voice again. It should have irritated her. Instead, it seemed to soften the room somehow. But she could hardly afford to be softened.

“Are you saying you’ll let me do my job then?” she asked.

He straightened abruptly and flipped the light on. Her eyes adjusted slowly, but when they did she was painfully aware of his state of undress. The darkness had seemed intimate, but somehow the light seemed even more so, for she could see every hard curve of his chest, every shadowed dip of his rippled abdomen.

“Do I look like the kind of man who needs a bodyguard?” he asked softly.

Sweet Mary! “No.” The word came out a bit breathier than she had intended. “But what seems and what is can be as different as a caterpillar from a butterfly.”

He was silent for a moment “What the hell does that mean?”

She had no idea. “The fact is you
do
need a guard,” she said, and turning, walked into the sitting room. Best to keep some space between them. His guitar was leaning against a wingback chair. She smoothed a finger along a single string and turned. “Appearances don’t matter.”

His gaze skimmed her. She hadn’t changed her clothes from the day before, and felt wrinkled and gritty. But his expression suggested other things. “They do to me,” he said softly.

She scowled and reminded herself to be offended. It didn’t matter that his coffee-bean gaze made her feel warm all over. She was here for the job and nothing more. “Listen,” she said, pleased by the gruff sound of her voice. “I’ve been hired to do a job and I’m going to do it.”

“Goddamn it!” he swore, pacing up to glare down at her. “I need a bodyguard like I need a hole in my head!”

“And if you don’t have a bodyguard you may very well
have
a hole in your head!” she snapped back.

He snorted. “You’ve been spending too much time with Sarge.”

“You forget that I read the letters.”

“Do you have any idea how many letters I get a month?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with—”

“Hundreds.”

“So?”

“Thousands a year. And out of them thousands I’ve got…what? Ten, maybe twelve letters that are even a shade off center. I think that’s pretty safe odds.”

“So you’re saying you’re not worried that ten or twelve guys have it in for you? You think you can handle them?”

He straightened to stare at her from his full height “So tell me, little Miss Sashay, do you think you could do better? You think you could hold twelve guys off me?”

She lifted her chin slightly. Perhaps a roundhouse kick to the chops would make him more polite, but it probably would do nothing for her state of employment, contract or no contract. So she shrugged and turned away. “It doesn’t matter, Mr. Fox.”

“Doesn’t matter?”

“No,” she said. “Because the letters were all sent by the same person.”

N
ATHAN STARED AT HER
. He tried to appear nonchalant—the superstar in control, clever, bored even. But at his best he was, generally speaking, none of those things. And this was definitely not his best, with his mind fuzzy from lack of sleep and little sports socks encasing his teeth. But that wasn’t the worst of it. He didn’t like to talk about the letters. Not with anyone, and certainly not with someone who made his brain go numb and his groin go hard. Because, despite what he said, the letters gave him the creeps—made him feel vulnerable, as if he were being watched by malevolent eyes.

“What do you mean they’re all written by the same person?” he asked, although he tried not to.

She shrugged, looking cool as a cucumber in her lime-green T-shirt and white cotton pants. Had she not slept at all, or did she always awaken this alert? Either option made him feel crotchety and irritable. Ten years ago he could play bars all night and work the ranch all day. But ten years ago he had been, well…ten years younger. No one could fault
his
logic.

“Just what I said,” she answered. “They’re all written by the same person.”

“And what made you deduce that?” He crossed his arms against his chest and hoped he looked cynical instead of merely disheveled and foolish—and strangely chilled. He wasn’t sure whether it was his shirtless state or talk of the letters that made him cold, but he was shivering. He hoped she didn’t notice his spasmodic shaking. He’d already used his best irresistible stud act on her and she had been patently unimpressed. If the truth be told, neither her disinterest nor
talk of the letters was doing a bit of good for his flagging self-esteem. Dammit! He dropped into a mauve upholstered chair and worked on his casual look. “The police never said anything about the letters being from the same guy.”

“Maybe the police haven’t had my experience.”

Experience? She didn’t look a day older than his favorite Stetson. “So you’ve been around?” he asked, letting the innuendo lie between them like Pandora’s box.

She didn’t open it, but scowled as she worked things out in her own mind. “Enough to know I’m right,” she drawled confidently.

“That’s crazy. None of the letters look even vaguely alike.”

“That’s one of the things that made me realize the truth.” Though she acted nonchalant, he could hear the edge of excitement in her tone. “They’re too different, as if they were intentionally made to
seem
different”

“A little amateur psychology, Miss O’Shay?” Her excitement intrigued him, but he knew enough of her kind to realize he’d be a fool to get involved. Despite her sweeter-than-honey looks, she was a climber, intent on getting to the top of her field no matter the cost to the others. He knew that. In fact, he bore the heel prints to prove it. “I didn’t peg you as the therapist type. Thought you were more of the jump on their backs and bring out the rubber hose kind of girl.”

“Afraid to admit I’m right, Mr. Fox?”

He snorted derisively, but suddenly he wasn’t sure. There had always been something about those letters that had felt odd—besides the fact that they were mildly threatening. Which was pretty damn odd in itself if you thought about it, because he’d never hurt a soul in his life. Not intentionally anyway. Even in a dog-eat-dog world like the entertainment business, he’d been careful to step on no toes. Sarge, on the other hand, had ticked off more people than he could count, but was
he
the one getting ugly mail? No sirree. “They’re from different people,” he said, knowing he did so just to be contrary.

“You know that?” she asked, her sassy, strawberry mouth
quirking slightly. “Or are you thinking murderers are too honest to use aliases?” Her lips were very full. Watching them move mesmerized him somehow. “’Cause I gotta tell you, Fox, most murderers aren’t always real up-front about everything.”

Nathan brought his mind back to the business at hand. “That’s crazy,” he repeated. “Nobody said anything about murder. Nobody but you and Sarge anyhow, and each letter is different The handwriting. Everything. Hell, some are typed. Some don’t have signatures. Some talk like the guy’s never even met me, and some—”

“Sounds like you’ve studied them pretty close for a man who’s unconcerned about them.”

Nathan rose abruptly to his feet and turned away. Oh yes, he’d studied them. Lots of other musicians had employees go through their mail for them, but he’d always loved that part, almost as much as being face to face with his fans. It. irked him no end that those damned letters had put a pall over it. Each time he opened an envelope now, he wondered if it would be the proverbial bad apple. But he wasn’t going to let it spook him. “I’ve read them,” he said, settling his hip against the arm of the sofa.

“And they don’t worry you?”

Their gazes met For a moment he was tempted to tell her the truth. But dammit, what kind of man would admit that to someone with…breasts. And hers were such nice breasts. Just the sight of them made him fidgety…and irritable, because he was pretty damn sure that there was nothing on his body that made
her
fidget

“If they worried me, would I have hired a guard who’s smaller than my damn boot?” he snapped.

She stiffened. Now he’d gotten her riled. But dammit, he wasn’t all that happy himself.

“You think I can’t do the job.”

“Listen. I hired you.” To tell the truth, he was tired and frustrated and just damned mad. All he’d wanted was to make music—that was all. He didn’t need the stardom. Yeah, the money was nice, but the schedule got wearing. Only the love
of the fans never dulled, but now even that had a shadow over it. “I said I’d pay you good money and I ain’t backing out Just…” He spread a hand in front of him, feeling oddly desperate. It wasn’t like him to feel cornered. “Don’t crowd me.”

“And by crowding you, you mean, don’t do my job.”

“All I’m asking you to do is keep Sarge happy and stay out of my way.”

“That’s going to be hard to do while I’m guarding you.”

He straightened away from the sofa. “I can take care of myself.”

She stepped up to him, eyes narrowed like an angry cat’s. “No, you can’t. Someone’s out to get you and they mean business.”

“Well, I sure ain’t going to be hiding behind some little girl so she can prove she’s got—”

“Little girl! Listen—”

“I’m giving you the best of everything. Lots of money and no work.”

“Maybe I want the work.”

He stared at her. Her eyes looked enormous in her flushed face, and her breathing seemed to match his own. “Why?” he asked.

“Because that’s what I do.”

There was such intensity, such need in her voice that he was almost sucked into her emotions, but he drew himself carefully back. “Not with me, you don’t,” he said softly.

“That’s too bad.” She blew out a breath, her hands balled into fists as she stepped back a pace. “Your fans will be disappointed.”

“What?”

“When I sue you for sexual harassment. When I tell the reporters that I signed on in good faith only to find out you’re a groping lech.”

He tightened his fists, letting the anger boil in him, but keeping his tone level. “I haven’t groped…” He let the corner of his lips curl and remained where he was, though he
wanted nothing more than to give her a good shaking. “Yet.”

“Nathan Fox is a legend,” she said in that sweet Southern drawl. “An all-round good guy. I’m sure the paparazzi will be interested in whatever I have to tell them.”

“Blackmail?” he asked, his voice marvelously even.

Her eyes hardened even further, though he wouldn’t have thought it possible. “I just want to do my job without any interference from you. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”

In the stillness, it seemed he could hear the thrum of his own pulse. “You just want to be one of the guys?” he asked.

“That’s right.” Her tone was stem, her small face somber. “Just one of the guys.”

“You don’t have the balls for it.”

“Try me,” she said, and turning, left the room.

O
N
F
RIDAY
, B
RENNA WATCHED
the road crew set up the stage, oversaw Nathan’s interview, took notes on a thousand minute details, and finally saw The Fox safely to his hotel room.

That night, dressed in panties and an oversized T-shirt she’d inherited from a brother, she sat cross-legged on her bed and went through more mail. There were hundreds of letters from all over the world. The majority of them were from women—a lot of gushers, a few marriage proposals, and a couple of really pathetic cases offering to bear his child.

It was long past midnight when she came across a letter that struck a familiar and disconcerting note in her sleep-fogged brain. Brenna shoved her gold-rimmed glasses farther up her nose and read it again. It was handwritten on pink stationery with a kitten at the top. The beginning read like most of the others, praising Nate’s musical talents and sexy good looks. It was just a couple of lines near the close that seemed out of place. Just a couple of lines, but it was enough.

“Take care of yourself, Nathan. Make sure you eat right A heart attack can be just as fatal as a bullet.”

What kind of woman would say that in a fan letter? And
why? Did she know about Nathan’s eating habits? And if so, how? In all the articles Brenna had read, she’d never heard any mention of his love of food—everything else, but not that.

Brenna read the letter again, then again. It was signed Angela and postmarked Eureka, Nevada, but there was no return address. That, too, was strange. Surely a fan wouldn’t discourage any kind of return mail from her hero.

Tossing the letter aside, Brenna rose and stretched, her body tense and her mind buzzing. She needed to take better care of herself, but how could she do that when she spent the whole day dogging an overcharged superstar who exuded sex appeal and raw humor with mind-numbing regularity? Her first day of following him around had explained his lack of fat.

Circling her small sitting area, Brenna rolled her shoulders and tried not to think of how he had looked while talking to the latest batch of reporters. He’d dressed in nothing more shocking than a pair of black jeans, a chamois-colored corduroy shirt, and his huge, signature belt buckle. He’d left his hat behind and his eyes had sparkled with that deadly kind of mischief that would inspire the reporters to compare his eyes to something ridiculous, like maple syrup.

But they had not looked syrupy when they turned on her. No. For her, they registered flat rejection, as if she weren’t even there, even though she’d never been more than three steps behind him all day.

There was no more of that teasing innuendo, that nervetingling closeness. Just one of the guys, he’d said, but it was obvious she was less than that And it was a good thing too, Brenna reminded herself quickly.

He was her boss. And not only that, he was a chauvinistic boss with no more faith in her abilities than her own family had. She was here to prove him wrong, to prove them all wrong. To find out who was sending the letters, to stop the threats, to solve the mystery. And the key lay in the letters.

Turning wearily, Brenna retrieved another bag of mail and hauled it onto her bed.

“H
EY
, O’S
HAY
. Y
OU AWAKE
?”

Brenna opened her eyes. Blank white made up her first view of the morning.

“Hey. Wake up.”

A minute ago the voice had come from the hall. But now it sounded from beside her bed. Brenna sat up with a start, a letter stuck to her cheek as she scrambled for a blanket. But she’d never burrowed under the covers. The paper that had been stuck to her cheek, fell away.

“Hey.” Nathan grinned down at her. “You ready to go?”

“What the hell are you doing in my room?” she rasped, trying to pull the worn T-shirt down over her knees.

“I have keys to all you guys’ rooms. We’re always getting our stuff mixed up. Makes life easier if we can just jump in there and dig it out.”

She moved her lips, trying to put words to why he couldn’t be here, but everything was foggy and dim, including her eyesight. Where had she put her glasses?

“Come on. Gotta get a wiggle on. We’re burning daylight,” he said.

“You…” She glanced frantically about Did she have a robe? Pants? What kind of panties had she worn, and were they visible from his vantage point? “You’re supposed to call me before you leave your room.”

“Yeah, well…” He sat down on the bed and casually pushed her bare feet aside. “My door was all of two yards from yours. I thought I could risk it.

“You got a little—” he motioned toward her cheek “—a little drool there.”

Brenna smacked her hand to the side of her face. The lines etched in her cheek by the letter were deep enough to plant turnip seeds. Sweet Mary! And here he was looking like something from a cowboy calendar, dressed in his usual jeans and white T-shirt.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. Her voice had all the charm of a cantankerous bullfrog.

“Time to go running. I knew you’d be madder than a bear
cat if I went without you. But you’d best hurry and get ready before I’m out of the mood.”

She felt her jaw drop. What mood? Their gazes met.

He grinned. “For running.” He slapped her leg as if they were old buddies. “Come on, O’Shay. Get your mind out of the gutter.” He stood quickly and lifted yesterday’s slacks from a nearby chair. “You gotta have something better than this.” He turned toward her suitcase, which had been cautiously left outside her door the previous night. “Sweats in here?” he asked, and flipped her case open.

“I…” she began, but he was already rummaging through her underwear to her clothes underneath.

“Now we’re talking,” he said, pulled out a pair of gray, drawstring shorts, and tossed them to her. “Get dressed.”

“Get out!” She motioned vaguely toward the door. The words were a bit more high-pitched than she’d intended.

“And risk life and limb to any passerby?” he asked. “What if I get snuffed out? How would that look on your record? Come on now. Get in them shorts. You need a bra?”