Lisa Childs - Guarding His Witness

“Are you hurt?” Parker asked her.

She shook her head. “No. But he needs stitches and a tetanus shot.” Despite her hostility toward her bodyguard, there was concern in her voice. There was also knowledge; the hospital badge dangling from the pocket of her scrubs identified her as a registered emergency medicine nurse.

“I’m fine,” Clint said, but as he slid out from beneath the steering wheel, he flinched again. He was not fine. But he was clearly focused on protecting the witness regardless of his injury and her resentment of him. He pushed past Parker and the other bodyguards to open the passenger’s door.

“You need to go to the hospital,” she told him, and she stayed seated as if she intended to go with him.

“The chief of the River City Police Department is waiting to talk to you and the others,” Parker said. And he felt a rush of pride that that man was his stepfather. His mother had married a good man this time. “I’ll have someone else take Clint to the ER.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Clint stated albeit through gritted teeth. “I am fine. I can do my job.”

Parker sighed. “I can’t argue that—not after you saved her from getting shot and made sure you weren’t followed getting here.”

Yes. He had chosen his team well. Too well to lose any of them. And one of them was already hurt, no matter how damn fine he swore he was.

He’d known when he’d accepted this assignment from the chief that it would be dangerous. But he’d had no idea that the danger would start almost immediately.

* * *

Heat rushed to Rosie’s face. She must have sounded ungrateful to the bodyguards who’d gathered around the SUV. Clint Quarters had saved her from getting shot, and instead of thanking him, all she’d done was complain.

But it was easier for Rosie to complain about Clint than to be grateful to him. She just couldn’t do it.

Not after what he’d cost her. And no matter how many times he might save her life, he could never bring back the life lost because of him.

Javier...

She had no intention of going along with his being her bodyguard. That was the reason she walked into the Payne Protection Agency with him and the others. She intended to tell the chief of police exactly what he could do with his protection.

Not that she could deny that she needed it. What had happened to that young officer who’d escorted her home? Had Luther really gotten to him? Either paying or threatening him? Or had the shooters taken him out first before Clint came to her rescue?

And he had rescued her. But that didn’t mean he had to be the one to protect her until she testified. It looked as though the Payne Protection Agency had many other bodyguards. Several patrolled the parking lot and the outside of the brick building while many more stood inside the doors.

She should have felt safe seeing all those armed and trained bodyguards. But the danger became even more real than when those shots had rung out. That had been so surreal and Clint had reacted so quickly that she was almost able to believe that it hadn’t happened at all.

But then he stepped around her, and she could see his shoulder in the bright interior light. His jacket and shirt were torn and so was his skin, the edges of the wound ragged and oozing blood yet.

It had definitely happened. They had come under attack and nearly been killed.

“You really need medical attention,” she persisted.

He shrugged off her concern. “I’m fine.”

“You’re stubborn,” she said with frustration, that he wouldn’t listen to her. He might know about being a cop and a bodyguard. But she, as an ER nurse, knew about injuries like his.

It couldn’t go untreated.

“You have no idea,” another man murmured. It was the one who’d pulled open Clint’s door. He was tall with dark hair and blue eyes. “I’m Parker Payne,” he introduced himself.

And she realized he was the boss.

He led her toward another room, a conference room, and when that door opened, she saw who was really running the show. At least this show...

Chief Woodrow Lynch. She’d met him before. He’d come to Javier’s funeral to express his condolences. Unlike Clint, he hadn’t been thrown out. He’d seemed sincere and determined to make certain that her brother’s killer was finally brought to justice.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Ms. Mendez,” he greeted her. “We were getting worried about you.”

“You weren’t the only one,” she murmured.

“Clint thwarted an attempt on her life,” Parker said.

Jocelyn Gerber, the assistant district attorney, jumped up from her chair. She was tall and thin with pin-straight black hair.

Rosie envied all of that—the height, the weight and the straight hair. Rosie wasn’t much over five feet tall. And if not for her busy schedule at the hospital, she would probably be carrying more than a few extra pounds. And even a straightener couldn’t get rid of her stubborn curls.

“Are you all right?” Ms. Gerber asked.

Rosie wasn’t certain if the woman was concerned about her or just about her case against Luther Mills. The young ADA was blatantly ambitious.

Rosie nodded but turned back toward the chief. “What about your officer?” she asked. “The one you had protecting me?”

The chief looked over her head at Clint. “There was no one at her door when I arrived at her apartment,” Clint informed him. “I’m not sure what happened to the officer.”

“I’ll find out,” someone said before the chief could. The detective who’d arrested Luther made the offer as he jumped up from his chair at the long conference table.

Rosie felt sick with concern that the officer could have been hurt because of her.

Like Clint had been hurt...

“You’re not going anywhere,” the chief told Detective Dubridge.

“But you heard them—there’s been a shooting,” he said. “I need to investigate.”

“Someone else is taking that case. You’re not the only detective with River City PD. But you are the only one with a hit out on you. You need to sit back down,” the chief said, and his tone brooked no argument.

The detective must have sensed that as well because the tall, dark-haired man sat back down next to a small blonde woman.

The chief turned back to Rosie. “Please, take a seat as well,” he directed her. He didn’t wait for her to comply before he stepped back from the conference table, took his cell from his pocket and made a call.

Despite his injured shoulder, Clint pulled out a chair for her. Her knees shaking suddenly, she sank onto it and glanced around the long table.

Jocelyn Gerber and Detective Dubridge were not the only people Rosie recognized. Judge Holmes sat at the table, too. He looked a lot like the chief, with iron-gray hair and an expressionless face. She couldn’t imagine anyone threatening that intimidating man. But then she remembered that Clint had said the person in danger was his daughter. She must have been the girl sitting between him and a burly bearded man. Despite the late hour, the young blonde looked as though she’d just stepped off the runway of a fashion show. In a sparkling evening gown, she was supermodel-status glamorous.

Which made Rosie feel tired and dirty in the scrubs she’d worn for a double shift. They hadn’t been very clean even before she’d wound up in the dumpster.

At least one of the other women around the table was dressed as if she’d already been in bed for the night—and alone, as Rosie had intended to be. She wore loose yoga pants and an oversize T-shirt. Her short red hair was tousled around a face devoid of makeup—of any color at all but for a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks. She was still prettier than Rosie felt, though.