Susan Mallery: The Bodyguard & Ms Jones

New York Times bestselling author Susan Mallery delivers a fan-favorite tale about how a moment’s kindness can lead to a lifetime of love.

Bodyguard Mike Blackburne can’t get enough of the job, especially the danger. After taking a bullet in the line of duty, he accepts his most difficult assignment yet: a peaceful recovery in the suburbs. He manages to avoid the small town and its boring ways…until the charming woman next door slips past his defenses.

When single mom Cindy Jones offers to look in on her neighbor’s injured brother, she isn’t expecting him to be so difficult…or so drop-dead gorgeous. His won’t be the easiest recovery to handle, but it might just be the best favor Kelly ever agreed to!

The Bodyguard and Ms. Jones

Susan Mallery

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text New York Times bestselling author Susan Mallery delivers a fan-favorite tale about how a moment’s kindness can lead to a lifetime of love. Bodyguard Mike Blackburne can’t get enough of the job, especially the danger. After taking a bullet in the line of duty, he accepts his most difficult assignment yet: a peaceful recovery in the suburbs. He manages to avoid the small town and its boring ways…until the charming woman next door slips past his defenses. When single mom Cindy Jones offers to look in on her neighbor’s injured brother, she isn’t expecting him to be so difficult…or so drop-dead gorgeous. His won’t be the easiest recovery to handle, but it might just be the best favor Kelly ever agreed to!

Title Page The Bodyguard and Ms. Jones Susan Mallery www.millsandboon.co.uk

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

“Mister. Mister! Are you dead?”

The voice was insistent and faintly whiny. Mike Blackburne tried to block out the noise, along with the pounding in his head and the painful throbbing that pulsed through his body. He failed miserably on both counts.

“I think he’s dead,” the voice proclaimed.

“He’s not dead. He’s sleeping.”

“No way. I can’t wake him up. See?”

Mike felt a jab in his side. The poking continued, hitting right above the bruise on his ribs. The pain increased, and the black haze he’d been fighting for God knows how long began to descend.

“Leave me the hell alone,” he roared. Or at least it was supposed to be a roar. Instead, his mouth barely opened and he mumbled something that sounded like “Ve m’ll own.”

There was a moment of blissful silence. The jabbing against his ribs stopped. Then his peace was shattered by a high-pitched call.

“Mo-om, he’s not dead.”

Whatever he was lying on shook slightly, as if it had been bumped. There were footsteps, then silence again.

Mike told himself to sit up. The pain flowing through his body like liquid torture warned him that wasn’t advisable. Trying for a lesser goal, he started to open his eyes. His lids felt as if they’d been glued shut.

He tried again and this time was rewarded by a sharp stab of light. He blinked, attempting to bring something, anything, into focus, then wished he hadn’t. Some ugly green creature with flaming eyes was staring at him.

He jerked back, causing his head to swim and the cadence of agony to increase. He felt like roadkill. Blinking again, he studied his guardian.

“Hell,” he muttered. It was a two-foot-long statue of a dragon, about the ugliest piece of art he’d ever seen. It was just as well he wasn’t dead, because he expected the good Lord to have better taste than that.

One corner of his mouth curved up, pulling at his split lip. He grimaced and raised his hand to touch the spot. Tender but not bleeding. Besides, who was he to assume that on his death he was going north?

Footsteps caught his attention. He tried to turn toward the sound. He could see a massive marble fireplace, wing chairs that looked more decorative than comfortable and a small lacquered table supporting a smaller version of the dragon staring down at him. However, he couldn’t locate the owner of the footsteps. He hoped it wasn’t that kid again. He was in bad enough shape without being poked and prodded.

His eyes closed involuntarily. He didn’t want to sleep anymore. He didn’t know how long he’d been out. He didn’t even know where he was, although something about the room was familiar.

“Mr. Blackburne?”

Soft, sweet tones recalled him to consciousness. She didn’t sound like any nurse he’d ever met. But then, he wasn’t still in the hospital. Maybe she knew where he was and what he was doing here.

He forced his eyes opened. As everything swam around, he felt a cool touch on his forehead. He blinked.

Directly in front of him were a pair of long, curvy legs. Her honey-colored thighs were about two feet from his face. He could see the bare skin, a freckle above her right knee and a faded scar, probably from some run-in she’d had years before with a curb.

“Mr. Blackburne?” she repeated.

Did angels go around naked? He raised his gaze slightly, hoping to encounter more bare skin. Much to his disappointment, she was wearing pale blue shorts with a white gauzy shirt tucked into the waistband. Leaning over him the way she was, her shirt gaped slightly. He saw the curve of her breasts. A weak but nearly audible flicker of male interest told him he was not only alive, but more than likely on the road to recovery.

Before he could move his head back far enough to see her face, she moved closer and sat next to him. The action took her legs out of his range of vision, but now he could see her features without straining.

She had shoulder-length light brown hair with a fringe of bangs falling to her eyebrows. Her mouth was wide and turned up at the corners, as if she was on the verge of smiling. Her eyes were green, with a hint of gray smoke. He’d never seen her before.

“I hope you feel better than you look, Mr. Blackburne, because you look pretty bad.”

“Where am I?” he mumbled. The words came out garbled.

She frowned, a faint line appearing on her forehead. “I can’t understand you, but you probably shouldn’t be talking, anyway. My name is Cindy Jones. Your sister, Grace, is my neighbor. You’re in Grace’s house now. You arrived sometime last night, but I wasn’t expecting you for another week. If you hadn’t left the front door open, no one would have known you were here.”

She touched his face again. Her fingertips were cool as she traced a line from his temple to the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got a fever, and you’re bleeding. I don’t think you should have left the hospital.”

“Hate hospitals.”

“Now you sound like Jonathan.” He must have looked confused. She smiled. Her lips parted and curved up, exposing white teeth and a dimple in her right cheek. “Jonathan is my oldest. He’s nine. He hates anything to do with the doctor. Last summer he broke his arm. You should have heard him complaining every time we took him in to be checked.”

Now he knew where he was. He didn’t remember much about getting here, although the faint memory of a plane trip made sense. Last time he recalled being fully conscious, he’d been in a hospital in Los Angeles. Grace lived outside of Houston. Why had he gone there? He had his own place....