Читать книгу: «A Bodyguard for Christmas»

To Ray & Geri, Steve & Debbye, Mike & Sheila, Terry & Janice, Trish & Ed, Matt & Robbie. For your humor, love and immense support, I love you guys!

Chapter One

Timothy Severs was wired.

Cocaine-wired.

The shock sent his heart into overdrive, pumping blood until it sizzled and snapped in his veins. A high-pitched hum set his teeth grinding, his muscles twitching.

A split second later, euphoria hit. And with it, the rush of confidence, the heightened senses, the understanding he could live forever.

Ironic really, considering his plans for the day.

Using his finger, he rubbed the excess white powder over his gums, then clicked his tongue against the numbness.

He could have done the line in his apartment before coming to work that morning. But the prospect of snorting coke under Big Brother’s eye added a sharp, seductive edge to his buzz.

Unhurried, he flipped the latch open and stepped out of the bathroom stall. A quick glance told him he was alone.

With a laugh, he leaned over the sink and adjusted his tie in front of the beveled mirror. He was not an attractive man, with glazed, bulging eyes of watery blue and a receding hairline. Small, red splotches appeared on his pale, slightly pitted skin, betraying his drug habit, which he tried to hide beneath a thin layer of makeup.

He washed his hands, ignoring the slight tremor in his fingers when he grabbed a nearby paper towel. Well, his reputation was about to change.

The only child of David Severs, a prominent Supreme Court Justice, Timothy had been expected to continue the tradition of law in his family. But a drug bust and the accidental overdose of an underage girl—the daughter of a senator—in his dorm room, created a scandal that even his family’s connections couldn’t cover up.

But with his father’s help, Timothy eventually secured an assignment as junior aide to an obscure British attaché. He should be grateful, his father lectured. After all, Timothy had thrown away a promising future. And for what? His father demanded. Sex? Drugs?

Nothing wrong with either, Timothy mused. After a final check in the mirror, more for vanity than necessity, he opened the restroom door and stepped into the hallway.

“Mr. Severs?”

Timothy jumped, slightly startled by the hand on his shoulder. He turned, noting the marine’s uniform more than the man wearing it. With short cropped hair and flat, heavy-boned features, the soldier stood a good six inches over Timothy’s five-nine frame.

“Yes?” Timothy demanded, taking a deliberate moment to scan the battle-scarred lines and leathery skin before dismissing the man to look at the name badge on the soldier’s chest. “Cooper.”

The soldier’s eyebrow rose. “I was instructed to tell you that your new chair has arrived,” Cooper said quietly, but a sickle-shaped scar on his cheek flexed with the tightening of his jaw.

The chair. Excitement caught in Timothy’s chest, but he managed to keep his features schooled. “Good,” he replied, his tone arrogant. With a dismissive wave, he continued down the hallway to his office.

The other staff called him the Fish behind his back. He heard their smirks, saw the women’s features before they could hide their repulsion.

Even the British Ambassador, Sir Christopher Beck, couldn’t always conceal his distaste.

Only one person ever understood him, appreciated his talents. And sadly, that one person would never witness his moment of triumph.

When Timothy reached his office, he closed the door and carefully turned the lock. The room wasn’t the smallest in the British Embassy, but it certainly was the ugliest. No family pictures hung on the wall or sat on his desk. No plants—artificial or living—cluttered the corners.

He required nothing more than a small metal desk with a computer to do his job. And now behind it, the high-back, leather swivel chair.

For a moment he ran his fingers over the seat, enjoying the cool smoothness, recognizing the top quality of the grain. He let out a small laugh and flung himself into the chair, sending it spinning.

Finally, dizziness forced him to stop. He folded his arms on the desk and leaned forward until the room tilted back into place.

Smugness swelled inside him, riding high on the back of the cocaine. He jerked his desk drawer open and grabbed a pair of scissors. He stood and with shallow slashes, he hacked at the leather until it shredded beneath the blades.

“Come to daddy,” he gasped, out of breath from the exertion. Murky drops of sweat and makeup rolled down his face. He wiped away the trickle from his cheek, ignoring the tan smear against his suit sleeve.

Underneath the shredded leather lay a slim, flat clay brick of C-4 wrapped in wax paper. With shaky hands, he picked it up, enjoying the weight of its power. He opened his briefcase and placed the plastic explosive inside. From a nearby drawer, he pulled out the electronic detonator.

Delta had ordered him to use a timer, but the power behind being the human detonator was too seductive to resist. Practically giddy, he inserted the detonator into the clay and punched the code into his cell phone.

Delta had assured Timothy that his identity would be protected. But Timothy understood that if Delta’s plans went awry, Timothy would be the fall guy.

A glance at his watch told him he had less than an hour before his meeting with Ambassador Beck.

Plenty of time. He set his phone down on the desk and pulled a small foil-wrapped package from his pocket, along with a razor and straw. He shook the packet out and used the razor to create a long, perfect white rail of powder.

Slowly, he guided one end of the straw to his nose and leaned toward the cocaine. “Here’s to a very promising future, Dad,” he murmured, his lips tightening with derision. He pressed his finger against his free nostril and inhaled.

Chapter Two

Two weeks later

The storm struck downtown Baltimore with icy contempt. Slapping and spitting, the gusts of sleet battered the red brick buildings trimmed with Christmas cheer. White lights, wreaths and ruby-red bows were left tattered on the near deserted streets.

From a darkened doorway, the man called Beck watched a pseudo-Santa scurry from his coin bucket into a nearby diner.

Smart chap, he thought with derision. Smarter than me.

The frigid air burned like acid in Beck’s nostrils. Bits of ice pelted his face, each with the snap and sting of a whip. But the storm couldn’t match the rage inside the man. A rage that, if freed, would have set the snow and sky on fire.

But for now, it blazed inside until his eyes burned a blue inferno, and the heat hardened his heart into a heavy stone.

As if to taunt him, church bells tolled—their clang muffled, but their warning clear. Saturday evening services had ended.

Beck stepped back farther into the doorway, letting his black jeans and leather jacket blend with the inky shadows.

He was English aristocracy by birth. A fact that meant little in the modern world—much less in his world. Still, lineage reinforced the long, lean lines of his body, the hard set of his broad shoulders.

As an added precaution, he pulled a dark ski cap from his pocket and slipped it over his head. His light brown hair had enough blond threaded through to draw more than a casual glance.

But it was the nobility of his features that made most glances become outright stares. The pale, blue eyes set deep beneath a broad forehead. The high, prominent cheek bones cut lean into the square jaw that only hinted of a cleft chin. A hard mouth that over the years tended to smirk with the disdain of his ancestors, rather than soften in humor—or compassion.

Beck was born with the proverbial silver spoon. One that corroded long before he’d ever become a man.

Up the street the church bells ceased clanging, leaving in their wake the hum of conversation.

Most people, the smart ones in his opinion, stayed indoors. Others—the more devout, maybe—braved the elements in huddled groups of two and three, searching for their cars through knee-high drifts.

As people drew closer the hum morphed into a spattering of laughter and a few verses of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” from those caught up in the spirit of the season.

Cheery buggers.

Beck made note of some nearby pedestrians—a handful with their heads down, their arms hugging their coats close—making their way past the bookstore across the street.

The bookstore he’d been observing for the last hour.

Menlow Books.

Owner, Regina Menlow. Single. American. Age, twenty-eight. Graduated Princeton.

Not exactly a second-class education, he thought with derision. Although, from her file, Regina Menlow used a trust fund left by her deceased parents for most of the tuition and then worked her way through college for the balance.

She had lived off campus, kept to herself. No friends.

Only one estranged aunt for family. Aida Pullman.

An image flashed through Beck’s mind. The only photograph from Miss Menlow’s file—a driver’s license picture.

Her brown hair had been tied back into a long, glossy tail that lay over one shoulder. Shorter hair fringed her heart-shaped face, framed big green eyes that flashed impatience just as the camera clicked. The same impatience that showed in the generous slant of her mouth, the inevitable lift of one delicate brow.

It was safe to assume that Miss Menlow had a temper.

But was she capable of treason?

Beck caught a faint flicker of light in the bookstore’s display window. A silent warning pricked at the back of his neck. He straightened from the doorway, his stance turning predatory.

The sounds of the evening faded into a fuzzy void. His ears strained to hear a cry of fear or pain, while his eyes narrowed on the lighted glass and beyond.

The dim glow flashed, bursting into a frenzy of orange hues that spread from the front door to the front display window.

Fire.

Suddenly, a man—a silhouette really—slipped from the side alley by the store.

Rage worked its way up the back of Beck’s throat, forcing him to take short, frigid breaths through his mouth. He palmed his pistol, thought about shooting the man, only to disregard the idea because of the people still on the street.

The shadows shifted back and forth until the fire outlined the intruder’s features—caught the slide of the man’s hand, the bulge of the book shoved under his overcoat.

“Come on,” Beck urged, his words clipped. Shifting toward the doorway steps, he willed Regina Menlow to appear in her doorway. “Get the hell out of there, damn it.”

Inside the store, the flames shimmered, growing in height behind the door’s window. In his mind, Beck visualized the blaze greedily consuming the dry kindling of books and wooden shelves.

Seconds sped by. The intruder slipped around a nearby corner, kicking over Santa’s bucket in his haste. The coins scattered, making little sound on the snow-covered sidewalk.

Beck willed himself to follow the man, then cursed himself when his legs wouldn’t obey.

Swearing again, he hit the wall with the side of his fist. After taking one last glance at the corner, he pulled his cap from his head, ripped a hole in the top and created a tube.

He raced across the street, yanking the tube over his face while he ran, until the material covered his mouth and nose.

The heat blasted him before he hit the sidewalk. He didn’t waste time on Menlow’s door, the glass having already turned black with smoke. Instead, he heaved the coin bucket through the display window. Alarms punched the night, but he barely registered the noise. He jumped over the broken glass, shoved books and shelves to the side and slid to the floor.

Quickly, he pictured the blueprint of the store in his mind. If she was as smart as her file claimed, she’d be in the loft upstairs or the office in the back.

Beck glanced up. Flames licked the ceiling, then spread in a bloom of crimson and orange—the loft above already engulfed. If she was upstairs, she was already dead.

He started toward the office.

Smoke and heat choked the air. Fire fed off the books, turning the shelves into blazing walls of hell. Cinders stung his eyes, pierced the cloth until the heavy weight of ash coated his throat and lungs.

He coughed in convulsive fits, battling the heat for oxygen.

He heard it then. An echo of his cough. Haggard, rough. Muffled.

Beck discovered her under a desk in the back office, her body clenched in a tight ball. Grudgingly, he gave her credit for having enough sense to crawl out of harm’s way.

When he reached her, he realized she hadn’t found safety easily. Her hands and feet were bound in duct tape, her mouth covered with the same. He carefully removed the tape from her mouth, making it easier for her to breathe. When she coughed, he fought the relief that rolled through him. Quickly, he shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over her head. He lifted her into his arms, cradling her face to his shoulder.

The office held no other exit or windows, forcing Beck back through the flames. Dread raked his gut as he fought through the inferno. Hot sparks burned his neck, smoked his clothes.

Five steps from the front, a crack of thunder exploded over his head. He charged the broken display seconds before the ceiling crashed at his heels. Beck dove out onto the sidewalk and rolled, hitting the snow packed cement with his back, cushioning the woman against his chest.

For a moment he could do no more than drag in oxygen to his lungs, ignoring the raw burn in his throat. Tears filled his eyes, setting off a thousand needle pricks beneath the lids.

With an impatient hand he wiped the blurriness away and shoved the woman down beside him. He placed two fingers to the side of her neck. A flutter of her pulse beat against the pressure, reassuring him she lived.

The urge to protect speared through him, cutting him clean to the bone.

The feeling was familiar. Controllable. A person didn’t do what he did for a living without dealing with the instinct now and again.

Beck grabbed his switch blade from his pant pocket, and within moments sliced through the tape that bound her. Gently, he peeled it back, not wanting to mar the skin beneath the adhesive.

She was a little thing, he noted. The top of her head not even coming to his shoulder. Her hair was dark and shoulder length now, the color masked by the low light of the evening. According to the file, her eyes were hazel. But the file didn’t mention the pale skin—now smudged with ash and blood—the sprinkle of freckles across her nose, or the slender line of her neck.

Blood thickened in his veins, slowed the flow to his brain. It was the only excuse, he thought, for the sharp tug of attraction that pulled at the deepest part of his gut.

The wind blew a strand of hair across her cheek. With a gentle hand he brushed it away.

At his touch, her eyes fluttered opened. The irises were more mossy than hazel beneath heavy lids. Huge, somber eyes that drew on him.

“Chris?”

His father’s name hit him—a slap that stung worse than wind and ice.

He shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, he looked like his father and this, of course, was his father’s mistress.

“No.” Anger ripped through him, forcing him to tighten his jaw. Grief edged his temper.

“Chris?” A frown creased her brows, but she said nothing more as her eyes closed once again.

Like father, like son. How many times had he heard that in his lifetime?

Jordan Beck swore in disgust even as he picked her up, cradled her in his arms.

Instantly, a hand grabbed his arm.

“Shouldn’t you wait for the ambulance? We’ve called them.” A couple stood next to him, both bundled against the cold, like two misplaced Eskimos, in pea-green parkas.

Jordan dismissed the cell phone the man Eskimo waved in his face with a mitted hand.

“She’s my fiancée,” he replied instead, adopting an American accent. A British one would be remembered later. He tugged his shoulder free and stepped quickly into the street before the man could react. “I’ll take her to the hospital myself.”

For a split second, he almost gave in to the temptation to leave her and follow the street where the attacker escaped.

And if the guy had a partner waiting in the crowd for another opportunity to murder her?

He’d given his word to protect her. And she wouldn’t be protected well by the police.

Sirens sounded in the distance. The eerie sound blended with the crackle of the fire, the howling of the wind.

Even on snow-packed streets, it wouldn’t take them long to reach the fire.

“You’d better be bloody worth it,” Jordan muttered as he reached the car, opened the door and shoved the woman onto the front seat. “Or I’ll kill you myself.”

Chapter Three

Smoke and tape choked her screams, smothered the oxygen she so desperately needed. The flames licked her skin—jagged knives that sliced a downward swipe, flaying a path through skin and nerves.

Suffocating, Regina struck out with her hands, defending herself against the swipe of blades, the bogged down fog that surrounded her.

“Wake up, damn you. Before you hurt yourself.”

Chris.

Relief flooded through her, intensifying the burning in her throat. But when she tried lifting her eyelids, they remained stubborn and heavy.

A string of curses floated above her head, then suddenly the weight was gone and in its place a cool rush of air.

Slowly, her eyes fluttered open. Light burst, bringing tears that stung under the lids. Regina looked down, waiting for her vision to adjust and for the first time, she realized her arms refused to move.

“So you’re finally awake?”

It took effort to turn her head. Chris Beck stood next to the bed, holding a wet washcloth in one hand.

“Well? Are you okay?”

Regina blinked. No, not Chris.

This man wasn’t her friend. She noted sharp cheekbones, the hard line of his mouth, the rigid set of his jaw.

What did Chris say about his son?

The man had no give.

“I asked if you were okay.”

“No, I’m Regina.” She glanced down for the first time, taking in the tan cotton slacks and gray cardigan with a scooped-neck tee beneath. All smudged with ash, all reeking of smoke. “Do I look okay?”

“You look like hell.”

No humor, either.

She almost sighed. Almost. But when her gaze met his, she actually forgot to.

The eyes were the same. Chris’s and Jordan’s. Both pale blue, cut laser-sharp with specks of silver that flashed little bolts of lightning-edged emotion. Pleasure, sadness, anger, impatience. It didn’t matter which, the intensity never diminished.

Harnessed, yes. Controlled, certainly. But never diluted.

“I guess this pretty much defines ‘in the nick of time,’ doesn’t it, Jordan?”

“Yes—” He stopped, surprise flashed in the blue eyes, just before they narrowed.

Regina bet not many caught this man off guard. A huge dose of satisfaction eased some of the frustration—and admittedly, a small bit of fear—stewing in her belly.

“You know who I am?”

She grimaced more from the pounding pain in her head, than his reaction. Know him? She wondered what the man would do if she told him the truth.

Instead, she settled for another truth. “Chris carried your picture in his wallet. You were younger and in uniform. You’d just received your Royal Air Force pilot’s wings.”

“Considering our relationship, it’s hard to believe he carried a picture of me around anywhere.”

“He was proud of you.” Slowly, she eased up on one elbow. Her gaze skimmed over his jeans and sweater, noting the anger that rode the hard-lined muscles beneath.

“You’re taller than Chris. Leaner, too.” Regina spoke without thought. Something she tended to do. A habit people developed when they spent most of their time alone.

“I’m not here to be compared to my father, Miss Menlow. In or out of bed.”

“Bed?” Confused, she frowned. The sledgehammers in her head had scrambled her brain more than she’d thought. “You think Chris and I were lovers?”

“Weren’t you?”

“This is my hard-earned tax dollars at work?” Annoyed, she brushed her hair back over her shoulder. “Your father collected books. First editions. I sold books. First editions. It’s really quite simple. Even for a government man like yourself.”

“My father told you quite a lot, it seems.” His tone was flat with disbelief. “What was in the book?”

“Book?” She froze, remembering. “Your father’s journal. Do you have it?”

“No,” Jordan replied. “The guy who attacked you left with it. I wasn’t able to follow him.”

“He grabbed me from behind and shoved a gun at my head.” She rubbed her right temple, remembering. “I don’t know how he broke in. I had already closed up. Maybe a window in my loft. Although I usually keep both locked.”

“If he was a professional, a locked window wouldn’t have stopped him.”

“He demanded the journal and I told him where to find it. He must have hit me with the pistol right after because I don’t remember anything until I came to in the office. I saw the fire and managed to roll under the desk.” Automatically her fingers went to her head and she winced when she found the top of her skull tender. “I honestly didn’t expect to survive. Thank you.”

“Just your tax dollars at work,” he commented wryly.

Her head jerked up, her mouth tilted in self-deprecation. “I deserved that. I’m sorry. I guess my only excuse is that I’m not at my best right now.”

The apology caught Jordan off guard. She had surprised him for the third time in less than three hours. The fact that she crawled under the desk, then knew he worked for the government and now the apology.

His gaze skimmed over the dark chestnut hair, liking the way the thick waves drifted over the graceful line of her neck, drawing his eye to the delicate spot just above her shoulder.

But it was her eyes—big, somber, moss-green. Pools of liquid that swallowed a man whole.

“I cleaned the wound. The bruise is minor.” He sat on the side of the bed. When she continued to probe the cut, he pulled her hand away. “Stop playing with it or you’ll make it bleed again.”

“I’m sorry.” Her fingers fluttered beneath his, just for a moment before she tugged them away.

Nerves?

“What did your intruder look like, Miss Menlow?”

“Regina,” she corrected him automatically. Slowly, she sat up and drew her knees to her chest.

The woman intrigued him. She was soft, feminine, intelligent. She stirred something he hadn’t experienced in a long time. Desire. Interest.

Another surprise.

“He was football-player big. Linebacker size. Cool, mercenary type. Six-two. Dark brown hair. Crew cut. Dark brown eyes. His features were flat. Almost like his face had been pressed by glass.”

“Identifying marks?”

“No tattoos that I saw, but he wore a black corduroy coat. So if he had any on his arms, they were covered. He had a scar, though. A crescent one. Right here.” She stroked the side of her left cheek. “But he didn’t escape with anything important.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he doesn’t have the journal. I made a fake after I read the original. I gave the fake to him.”

“Where is the original?”

“In my loft. Under the sink in my bathroom.” She wrapped her arms around her knees, bracing herself. “How bad was the fire?”

“The bathroom, along with the rest of your loft crashed into the store just after we escaped.”

Her forehead dropped to her knees. Everything gone. Not that she owned much. But there were photographs, small treasures her parents had left for her. The letter Chris had given her.

The pain wasn’t sharp, but a dull throb just under her heart. Or maybe she’d just gotten used to it over the years and didn’t notice the sharp edges anymore.

“Did you read my father’s journal?”

“Yes.” Actually, she’d read it front to back, twice, before she’d been satisfied she’d committed it to memory. “Chris sent it with a letter. He told me to read it then wait for you to contact me. He said you’d know what to do.”

“His message told me to find you. To protect you until I could decipher the information he’d given you. I had no idea the information was a book until tonight.” He walked over to the window, split the curtain apart barely an inch and peered out. “When I saw Scarface walk out of the store with it. I just knew.”

“You watched him?” Regina asked. “How long were you outside the store?”

The curtain dropped back into place as he turned back to her. “Not long. I decided to wait for you to lock up. I didn’t want any interruptions.”

“So you preferred to wait in a snowstorm rather than a warm office while I dealt with my customers? Which I didn’t have,” she rationalized, frowning. “That doesn’t make sense. Now if you were to tell me I was under surveillance, that you wanted to make sure I was legitimate before you approached me…”

He ignored her comment, simply because it hit too close to the truth. “The only lead we have now is the guy who left you for dead.”

“Not necessarily.” She shook her head, only to stop mid-motion, dizzy. “How well did you know your father, Jordan?”

“Bloody well,” Jordan responded, smoothly. “The question is, how well did you know him, Miss Menlow?”

“Bloody well,” she quipped in a perfect British accent, mimicking him. “Or at least I thought I did.”

“Well enough to sleep with?”

With his temper, came hers. “Do I look like the mistress type?” She snapped the question back, expecting the epiphany to dawn on him any moment.

His eyes raked over her, and Regina’s cheek’s flushed when the blue eyes lingered over her breasts, then her face.

“Yes,” Jordan drawled; the deep timbre of his voice set her trembling, but not from temper or fear, she realized. “You do.”

“Well, I’m not.” The fact that she managed to look down her nose at him surprised them both. “I was his friend.” She scooted to the edge of the bed. Her muscles protested with some aches and stiffness, forcing her to move slower than her anger demanded. But once her feet touched the floor, knowing she could run if needed gave her a sense of bravado.

“You’re lying,” Jordan bit out the words. “And you’re not very good at it.”

“I’m not lying. Because you’re right, I’m not good at it.” She turned away, not wanting to deal with the contempt that flashed in his eyes. Instead, she studied her surroundings, cringing.

Roses spattered on the wallpaper all four sides of the room—their image faded until the flowers were no more than red splotches on the walls. The only thing that broke the dizzying monotony was the black lacquered bed and matching nightstand, both scuffed and cigarette scarred.

“Where are we, anyway?” A shag carpet—crimson and orange-speckled—covered the floor, its traffic pattern worn bald from the door, to the bathroom, to the bed.

“We’re in downtown D.C.”

“I must have been out of it quite a while.”

“Almost two hours.”

“No wonder I’m dizzy.” On the nightstand, she saw the matches. “The Carltonesque? That’s catchy,” she murmured, suddenly grateful for the scent of her smoke-filled clothes. “Your father never brought me here, that’s for sure. Of course, if I had been his mistress, I would have insisted. Can’t beat a place that comes with a scarlet shag carpet and matching velveteen bedspread.” She plucked at the bedding to prove her point.

“If you’re trying to convince me, lady, that you’re telling the truth, you’re going about it the wrong way.”

“I’m not trying to convince you of anything, Jordan.” His attitude, his problem. Not hers.

He raised an eyebrow.

“I already told you the truth and I don’t have the energy to defend myself.” The pounding in her head picked up its tempo. “Could I get some aspirin?”

“I don’t have any.”

“Then your accusations are going to have to wait five minutes.” Regina sat cross-legged on the bed. She raised her right arm and bent her elbow. She found the pressure point two fingers above her elbow and pressed with her thumb.

“You have a bump on your head, not on your arm.”

With her eyes closed, she slowly turned her head from one side to the other. “I know that. But it isn’t the skull that hurts so much as the muscles at the neck that have tightened to fend off the pain,” she explained patiently, before returning to a simple form of meditation breathing.