His Bodyguard (8 page)

“Really?” If Fry’s grin got any bigger, his head would split wide open.

“I just…Nathan needed…He wasn’t…” Brenna took a deep breath and momentarily wished she were dead. “I brought him some medicine.”

“Really? You sick, Nate?”

Nathan stared point blank at the fiddler. “Why are you here, Fry?”

Surprisingly, his grin could get bigger. “Sarge says it’s time to hit the road.”

“Oh, yeah. I’ll just…I’ll get my things,” Brenna said, and torpedoed from the room.

T
HE NEXT THREE DAYS PASSED
in a blur of necessary activities. They were on the road for long hours, allowing Brenna to draw away from Fox’s side while still knowing he was safe.

Nathan played with lyrics, Brian spent time on the phone with his wife, and Nuf, true to his usual demeanor, fell off the top of the couch twice and once got his claw caught in the ring of a soda can. He clanked around for a good five minutes before anyone saved him from further humiliation.

As for Brenna, she skimmed letters, studied maps, contemplated agendas, contacted a dozen security agencies, and absolutely refused to relive those few moments when Nathan’s lips had touched her own.

She was his bodyguard. His bodyguard! Nothing else. He was her employer, she reminded herself repeatedly. Each time she was forced to address him, she maintained as much physical and emotional distance as possible between them, calling him Mr. Fox, and refusing, absolutely refusing, to touch him unless there was no alternative.

Somewhere between Fort Worth and Albuquerque they
had a tire blowout. The delay threw them off schedule. By the time they reached Phoenix, Nathan had to rush to his first interview, followed by a stint with a radio station. Brenna went with him. While he was on the air, she contacted Atlas to check on the condition of the buses and insist that they be completely checked over by a reliable mechanic.

The remainder of the afternoon was just as hectic—an autographing session at a local mall, a picture with the mayor.

After Nathan’s final obligation, it was nearly dark. Brenna positioned herself as far from him as possible and tried to pretend he was short and balding and fat. But her imagination had never been that good.

Slumped against the corner of the limousine, Brenna watched Nathan pull an envelope from his pocket and thumb through a pile of photographs in the waning light.

“Which one do you like?” he asked, handing her the pictures.

Brenna took the stack from his hand. Each photograph boasted a horse, all pintos, though some were professional shots and some obviously amateur.

“A new purchase?” she asked, glancing up.

He shook his head. “Jack Simmons’ horses. For a video shoot.”

“I thought you had a ranch, complete with horses and everything.”

“Yeah, well…” He glanced out the window. “I don’t have paint horses, and paint horses are the up-and-coming thing. Fastest growing breed in America. Sarge said if they put me on a paint horse folks’ll notice.”

Brenna laughed. But when Nathan turned to her, his face was sober, though somewhat quizzical.

“I’m sorry.” She felt foolish, fatigued and underfed. She was going to have to remember to eat more. Because when her blood sugar dropped, she had a propensity for making a fool of herself. “I thought you were joking.”

“Joking?”

Sweet Mary, he was beautiful, his face chiseled and shadowed. Suddenly there seemed little reason to pretend otherwise.
“They’re not going to notice the color of your horse,” she said.

His expression softened a little. “Is that a compliment, O’Shay?”

“No!” A little too sharp. She was more tired than she’d realized. “I’m just saying, I don’t see what difference the color of the horse would make.”

He grinned a little. “So you think I could ride my own mare?”

There wasn’t a woman in America who’d give a rip if he put on a sackcloth and rode a damn camel. As long as they could stare at him they’d be thrilled, Brenna thought, but found enough control to keep her foolish ideas to herself.

“It’s not my area,” she said. “I’m sure Sarge knows what he’s doing.”

Nathan shrugged. “He’s never cared much about horses.”

She said nothing and turned carefully back toward the window. Looking at him when her inhibitions were down was not such a good idea. And the thought of him on horseback did bad things to her libido. When she was ten she’d begun taping pictures of horses up on her wall. When she was twelve she switched to pictures of cowboys. But her favorites had always been cowboys
on
horses.

“How ‘bout you?”

“What?” She nearly jumped, then sternly reminded herself that he could not read her mind. He didn’t know that they shared a common interest. And it would stay that way, allowing her to maintain her distance.

“Do you know horses?”

“No.”

He stared at her. He
couldn’t
read her mind. Could he?

“Well.” She cleared her throat “You know—girls and horses. They’re supposed to be inseparable.”

“Yeah.” He grinned. “Why do you think I rodeo?”

She tried to turn away, but he was…well…breathing. And that seemed to be all that was necessary to snare her attention. “To impress the cowgirls?” she guessed.

“You got it Skippa Lula, she’s—”

“You have a Skipper horse?”

He stared at her. “You know more about horses than you’re telling, O’Shay.”

Damn. There was something wrong with her. “I just…” She shrugged, feeling stupid. “A friend of mine’s momma raised quarter horses.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I helped out sometimes. At shows and stuff. Then they’d let me ride Pineapple.”

“Palomino, I bet,” he guessed.

She smiled, both at his deduction and at the memories. “He was older than dirt, but I loved him. When my brothers wouldn’t—” She stopped herself abruptly.

The silence was heavy as a rock.

“I think you can tell me a little about yourself without the risk of being attacked, O’Shay. Maybe even your name.”

She didn’t offer.

“This is a strictly professional relationship, remember?” he said.

“The story just isn’t very interesting.”

“Really? Why don’t you tell it to me then? Maybe it’ll put me to sleep. When your brothers wouldn’t what?”

“Oh, look at the fountain,” she said, turning to stare at the lighted cascade of water. But she couldn’t avoid his gaze forever.

“When they wouldn’t what?” he repeated.

She shrugged, hoping she looked irritable. “I was the only girl. They got tired of playing with me.”

“Don’t think that’d be possible,” he murmured.

She drew herself straighter. “Mr. Fox—”

He lifted his hands as if in surrender. “Just trying to pass the time, O’Shay. I think of you in professional terms only.” He said to the driver, “You can pull up to that first bus.”

The chauffeur did so, sweeping around a turn and coming to a halt a few feet from the tour bus.

Brenna stepped out of the car first. Nathan spoke a few words to the driver, then followed her out.

In a moment, the limo pulled away.

Brenna’s jaw dropped. “Aren’t we going to the hotel?”

“I don’t feel like eating restaurant food. Thought maybe I’d do some cooking. Then if you want, we could sleep here.”

“I can’t stay alone with—” she began frantically, then stopped herself. “I mean, I think it would be safer to—”

He grinned as he ushered her toward the bus. “I trust you.”

“What?”

“To protect me,” he said, opening the door.

“Oh.” She’d thought he meant he trusted her not to take advantage of him, but maybe even
he
wasn’t
that
foolish. She stepped into the bus, and he followed.

“I am safe with you, aren’t I?” he asked.

“Of course, you—” she began to say, but just then she noticed the laughter in his tone. She turned toward him, peeved and fatigued.

It was then that the shadow lurched over her.

T
HE SHADOW LOOMED OVER
B
RENNA
, a huge crooked figure, an extended arm. A gun! Brenna froze, terror choking her. She’d been careless, distracted. And now it was too late.

“Time’s up, Fox.”

His words mimicked Brenna’s thoughts, mocking her. And it was those words that tore her from her paralysis. Spinning desperately about, she slammed her heel into the attacker’s hand. His gun flew sideways. She swiveled in, grabbed his arm, and yanked him over the top of her bent body.

He grunted. Nuf yowled, and Nate shouted. But Brenna delayed not a moment. Dodging in, she pounced atop the intruder, her hands drawn back and ready to strike lest he make the slightest move.

“O’Shay!” Nathan yelled. “Are you all…” He switched the light on, and his words trailed off.

“Call the police,” she gasped, her gaze not leaving the attacker for a moment.

“What—” the villain began.

“Shut up!” She repeated to Nathan, “Call the police!”

“But…”

“Not now. He may have another weapon.”

“Another?” Nathan cleared his throat and stepped closer. “Another weapon?”

“Stay back! Leave the gun where it’s at”

“Gun?”

She scowled, but didn’t take her gaze from the attacker. “If you’re feeling woozy, sit down, Fox, but for God’s sake, call the police.”

“All right. But I need to ask one question. Why are you sitting on my brother?”

She opened her mouth to snap out an answer. It was then that she realized her mistake, that she saw the family resemblance.

The man she was sitting on was, perhaps, a few years older than Nathan, and his hair was a couple of shades darker, but they shared the same chiseled features, the same hard-bodied physique. Beneath her buttocks, abdominal muscles bunched like an angry bull’s.

“Your…” She couldn’t force out the word for a moment, and chanced a glance at Nathan. He stood with his arms crossed. “Your brother?”

“Tyrel.”

She winced. “You’re sure?”

“Pretty sure.” He nodded almost apologetically. “Tyrel, meet B. T. O’Shay. O’Shay, Ty.”

“But…” She flickered her attention back to the face of the fellow beneath her. Oh no. Not another person to scurry out of her way every time she walked by. “But you had a gun,” she murmured.

“Gun?” His voice still sounded a little guttural, but in all fairness, that may have been because she was sitting on his stomach.

She glanced to her left. “The gun I knocked out of your…” Oh no. A baseball cap lay at a cocked angle against the bathroom door. If she really stretched her imagination, she could see how the crooked shadow of the brim could have looked like the snubbed nose of a Beretta.

“You said, ‘Time’s up, Fox,’” she murmured weakly.

Tyrel stared at her for a moment “I said, ‘’Bout time you got back, Fox.’”

“Oh.” She cleared her throat and wondered if there were any way to look casual while sitting on a man’s abdomen. “How’d you get in here?”

“Nate gave me a key a coupla years back.”

“A key?” she gasped, flipping her appalled gaze to Nathan.

He shrugged. “He’s my brother.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“Slipped my mind.”

“My God, Fox, I could have…” She gestured wildly.

“Killed me?” Tyrel guessed.

She searched for words for a moment, then gave up. “Made a fool of myself,” she muttered weakly.

Nathan chuckled.

Tyrel grinned.

“What are you doing down here, Ty?” Nathan asked, squatting down as if this were an everyday type of conversation.

“She’s sitting on me.”

“I mean in Texas.”

“Oh. Hannah’s competing all over with Maverick this year. They jump tomorrow in Dallas.”

“Yeah? Where’s Mandy?”

“She’s with her mom. God knows you can’t get her away from the horses,” Ty said and winced.

“Maybe you’d better get off him,” Nathan said. “He’s not as young as he used to be.”

“Oh!” Brenna stumbled to her feet. “I just…” Bending quickly, she jerked his cap from the floor and handed it to him. “I thought…”

Tyrel rose more slowly, glanced at Brenna’s warm face, then turned his gaze to his brother.

There was a moment of silence, then a shrug from Nate. “She’s my bodyguard.”

More silence. “Huh?”

A self-effacing grin. That one that made Brenna forget that Nathan Fox was the kind of chauvinistic pain in the ass she detested.

“Yep. She’s here to guard my body.”

“From what?”

Nathan shrugged as he turned toward the fridge. “Sarge is fretting. What the hell were you doing sitting here in the dark?”

“I fell asleep. About what?”

“About what, what?” Nathan asked.

“What is Sarge fretting about?”

“You name it. We got a couple of Buds. Want one?”

“Nate, what’s going on?”

Nathan turned toward Brenna, still bent double. “You want anything?” he asked, his derriére inches from her.

“No.” She wrenched her gaze from his tighter-than-sin behind and tried not to squirm. “Thank you.”

“What the hell’s going on?” Tyrel demanded.

“Geez, Ty,” Nate said, toeing the fridge closed and sauntering over to the long couch that lined one wall. “You get tossed on your can by a woman and you don’t turn a hair. But I tell you Sarge is fretting and you go haywire.”

“Since meeting Hannah, being tossed on my can is the least of my problems. What’s Sarge worried about?”

Nathan shrugged noncommittally. “It’s nothing.”

“Then why’s he worried? He ain’t as dumb as he looks, you know.”

Nathan laughed as he plopped onto the couch and screwed the top off his beer. “That’d almost have to be true.”

“What’s up?” Ty asked, all seriousness now.

“Nothing.” Nathan took a swig.

Ty turned his gaze to Brenna.

She felt like backing away with her hands in the air. “I’m in Mr. Fox’s employ,” she said.

Tyrel scowled at her, and looked for all the world like an exact replica of his brother. “You just kicked me in the arm and threw me on my butt,” he said. “Seems to me you owe me something.”

Brenna would have liked to argue with that, but there was a certain amount of guilt that followed pouncing on an innocent man’s stomach, so she cleared her throat and glanced at Nathan.

He scowled at her, but she ignored it. “There have been some inexplicable accidents.”

“That’s right.
Accidents!
” Nate said. “And nothing more.”

“What accidents?”

“They’re nothing,” Nathan repeated. “A blown tire. An electrical short. On the farm we’d call that a good day.”

“What about the time you were nearly run down while jogging?” Brenna asked.

“Who told you about that?”

“
Sarge
seems to think I should be aware of a few things.”

Nate shrugged. “We were in L.A.!”

Brenna paused, watching him. He was trying to look relaxed, but she could see the tension in his body. “How do you explain the letters?” she asked.

He tensed a bit more.

“What letters?” Tyrel’s voice was low.

“They’re nothing.”

“He’s been getting threatening letters for more than a year.”

“From who?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out”

“So I get a couple of letters that talk about something other than my good looks,” Nathan said. He took another swig and grinned. “You can’t blame men for being jealous when their women whisper my name in their sleep.”

“Is that what you think?” Tyrel asked. “Someone’s jealous enough to threaten you?”

“They’re not threatening me,” Nate said. “They’re just a half-dozen letters that—”

“Ten,” Brenna corrected.

“What?”

“There are ten letters. I found a few others. They were more subtle, but I think they’re all from the same person.”

“Hell, Nate! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Geez!” Nathan rose jerkily from the couch. “Tell you what? That some guy told me to be careful when I go running? That ain’t all that significant, brother.”

“Well, if somebody tries to run you down the next week it is.”

“It wasn’t the next week. And the letter was postmarked from Ohio. You think he followed me to L.A. to run me over?”

The bus went silent.

“Maybe you should come home and lie low for a while. Pansy could fuss over you. Give the kitchen floor a break. She’s scrubbed it clean through to the basement”

For a moment Nathan looked as if he would retort, but finally he let out a breath and grinned. “How
is
Pansy?”

“Old, ornery, bossy.”

“’Bout the same then,” Nathan said.

The tension dissipated a little.

“The folk’d love to see you, Nate.”

“I’ll be there by August,” Nathan said. “In plenty of time for the rodeo, so you’d better practice so you don’t slow down my roping time.”

“But if some guy—”

“No!” Brenna interrupted breathlessly.

Both men turned to her, and she started. She hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

“What?” Nathan asked.

She let out a deep breath and stared at him. “I’ve been wrong all along.”

“What are you talking about?” Nathan asked.

Suddenly energized and certain, Brenna rushed to the back of the bus and dragged a small bag of letters from the overhead cabinet

In a moment, she had them all flipped open on the tabletop. “Look at this,” she said, giddy with excitement. “Each one says something about your good looks.” She skimmed them again, page after page. “Listen. ‘You should cut your hair.’ ‘How do you keep in such great shape?’ ‘Wear dark colors.’”

“Don’t know why, but Nate’s always drawn the women,” Tyrel said uncertainly.

She glanced up. “Those are signed with men’s names.”

“All right, that’s weird,” Ty said.

“They’re from a woman,” Brenna murmured.

Nathan scoffed, then shook his head as he stepped forward. “That’s crazy.”

“It’s not. Who else would consistently talk about your looks?”

“You’re imagining.”

“They’re really quick references,” Brenna said, almost faint with excitement “I didn’t notice them at first either. But something’s been worrying at me. I knew there was some kind of bond.” She skimmed them quickly again. “What kind of man would say those things?”

“A really weird one,” Ty said. “You been hanging around weird guys, Nate?”

“Since childhood. But you’re my brother.”

Ty ignored him, turning to Brenna. “What are you going to do now?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. Nothing immediately.”

“You’ve got time for supper then,” Tyrel said. “I could take you both out We could mull it over.”

“We just got in from out,” Nathan said, abruptly turning his back on the letters. “Too bad Hannah’s not here. She could cook us up something.” He laughed, but the sound was a little stiff.

Brenna quickly scooped the mail back into the bag. She would love to pore over them, examine them yet again, but Nathan looked tired suddenly, and though he wouldn’t admit it, she thought the letters bothered him. Time with his brother would do him more good than analyzing threatening mail.

“I’d rather starve to death in peace than eat Hannah’s cooking,” Tyrel said. “
Your
culinary talents improved any?”

“My cooking was good enough those first years at The Lone Oak.”

“That was before Hannah hired Pansy. My taste buds have blossomed.”

“Yeah, well, you’re a redneck at heart,” Nate said, and opened a door to scan his cupboards. “You’ll adjust.”

In the end they decided to make chili. Brenna secured the door, made sure all the shades were drawn, and saved Nuf from a half-opened kitchen drawer in which he’d gotten his fat head stuck searching for food. She pulled out a notebook
and sat toward the back of the bus, giving the brothers as much privacy as possible. But despite her best intentions, it was impossible to ignore them.

True, she had grown up with five brothers, and thus she should be used to their rough comradery, but nevertheless, these two intrigued her. Unlike her brothers, who had refused to learn to do so much as stir soup, they leaned over the stove with relish, arguing about everything from spices to curing hay. The domesticity should have made them seem effeminate, she thought But somehow, it did the opposite.

Seeing their rangy bodies stretch to look in the cupboard or flex to stash a bowl away, only made them seem more masculine. Nathan’s big hand on the wooden ladle entranced her somehow.

Unfortunately, he glanced up just as she was staring at him. The sly corner of a grin touched his lips.

“Figured out who the author is yet, Sherlock?” he asked.

Maybe she should have been offended by his question. But she couldn’t quite manage it “Uh-huh.”

“Yeah?” He quit his stirring.

“Sure.” She knew she should stay put, keep her distance, but he looked so touchable and charming in his stocking feet and half grin. Rising, she ventured into the small kitchen. “But I can’t tell you now or I’ll be out of a job.”

He chuckled.

“Ask
her,
” Ty said.

“Ask me what?”

“Doesn’t that need more chili powder?” Tyrel asked.

“If you have a fire hose handy,” Nathan said. “Here.” He scooped a bit of chili onto the wooden ladle and lifted it toward her.

Brenna backed away. Professionalism! she reminded herself firmly. She mustn’t get too close to this guy, especially when he was like this, homey and real and so damned attractive it made her eyes water.

Nate looked questioningly at her.

“Cooking’s not my field,” she said, though actually she was a decent chef and rather enjoyed it.

“Ah, yes, the consummate bodyguard,” Nathan said. “But you do eat.” He pushed the spoon a little closer. “I saw you—just the day before yesterday you had a raisin.”

She couldn’t help but laugh.

“Taste it,” he urged.

She finally did, chewing thoroughly before swallowing and scowling in thought.

“Well?” the brothers asked in unison.

“It needs more chili powder.”

Her statement was the start of a whole new argument, but this time Brenna was drawn into it. It seemed that not a topic was left untouched, from cutting horses to the ozone layer.