Julie Miller - The Bodyguard

Feeling trapped but a fraction more secure in here than she did on the other side of the door, she huddled against it, slinking down behind Max while Trip started the engine. “I never said you were stupid.”

“Nice distinction.” Trip scrubbed his hand over his face, taking the rain and his frustration with it, before turning to look at her across the seat. His deep voice rumbled inside the cab of the truck. “You’re my only concern, Charlotte. What I say to you will always be the truth. I’ve got your back. I won’t hurt you. And I won’t let you get hurt.”

“You can’t promise something like that.” She pulled off her fogged-up glasses and squinted to keep him in focus. “I know I’m a bit of …” an odd duck? a crazy lady? “a paranoid freak—”

“You’re not.”

“—but I have reason to be. It’s hard for me to trust anyone besides Dad … or Richard.” Her eyes lost focus as the grief and injustice of the day took hold again.

Trip put the truck into gear, honked to clear the road and pulled out. “Honey, I don’t need you to walk and talk like every other woman on the planet. I just need you to believe that I’m one of the good guys. Have a little faith.”

Hearing a grown man call her honey diverted Charlotte’s thoughts long enough to lose her grip on Max. The traitorous dog had no confusion whatsoever about Trip Jones. He walked right over to Trip’s lap and sniffed his face.

With a muttered reprimand and a tussle around the ears, Trip pushed him away. “Your dog likes me. Why can’t you?” He braked the truck before taking a hairpin turn toward the cemetery’s main gate. “Now hold on.”

As they picked up speed, Trip called his captain on his ear mike, giving something called a “twenty” and promising an ETA as soon as he confirmed a destination.

Like him? So she was a little fascinated with his taste in reading and the way he handled her dog and why on earth he’d call her honey . And she was more curious than she should be at the self-deprecation she’d heard in his “stupid bully” line.

But trust him?

Charlotte kept her eye on Trip’s stiff expression, held tight to Max and prayed.

The craziness they’d left behind at the cemetery was waiting for her at home, too.

A team of Gallagher Security guards was sorting out the traffic jam at the front entrance to the Mayweather estate, asking for IDs and punching in security codes to allow expected guests through the gates, while filtering out any paparazzi or curiosity seekers posing as mourners and trying to sneak in. Jeffrey Beecher, wearing a clear plastic raincoat over his suit and tie, carried a clipboard and his cell phone. He greeted each vehicle, checked his guest list and either signaled to the guards to let the people inside pass, or got on the phone to verify whether someone should be allowed to enter.

Charlotte was still hunkered down in the passenger seat of Trip’s truck, absently stroking Max’s fur, barely peeping through the bottom of the window. They were seven vehicles back, with more cars and limousines pulling into the queue behind them. A television news crew had a camera and antenna set up on top of its van across the street, and another was filming a live feed with its reporter on the street. Trip was on his phone, calling in a situation report, telling his captain that she was fine but that he was going to need backup on the scene if they had any hopes of securing it. Not an encouraging thought.

There were whistles and bright lights, shouts and honking horns. The strident echo of sirens pierced the thick air, probably in answer to neighborhood complaints about the streets being blocked. The windshield wipers beat at a steady cadence and her heart thumped in the same quick rhythm. Her feet hurt. And every time she tried to inhale a calming breath, her nose filled with the pungent scent of wet dog fur and something even more unsettling that had taken her ten miles of riding in the truck to identify—the earthy scent of wet, warm, male skin.

“This is my own home,” Charlotte murmured, wilting at the assault on her senses. “My sanctuary.”

She needed quiet, alone and safe right now. But there was nothing outside the truck or inside her own head that could generate any sense of calm.

“Yeah, it’s a real zoo here.” Even as he continued to speak on the phone, Trip’s right hand moved across the center console.

Was he reaching for her? Offering comfort? For one disjointed moment, Charlotte pulled her fingers from Max and let them drift across the seat toward the long, bruised fingers.

“You okay?” he mouthed the words and Charlotte looked into those unflinching eyes and almost nodded.

But just as she imagined she could feel the heat emanating from Trip’s big hand, the screech of tires on the wet pavement drew her attention back outside. The crunch of metal on metal grated against her ears as she sat up in time to see one of the cars ahead of them plow into the rear bumper of another.

“Son of a gun.” Trip sat up straighter, too, his taut posture instantly putting her on guard. “Gotta go, sir. Fender bender. Could be the tension of the day, could be a diversion. I’ll keep you posted.” The captain said something else and Trip glanced over at Charlotte. “Like glue. Jones out.”

Trip’s promise to Captain Cutler as he disconnected the call should have reassured her. But now people were out of their cars, inspecting the damage. One of the guards hurried over to assess the situation.

“You think the wreck was deliberate?” Charlotte asked, hating the possibilities.

Trip checked his rear-and side-view mirrors, his suspicions fueling Charlotte’s own. “Half of Gallagher’s men are leaving their posts, and there’s no way a traffic cop could get in here fast. We’re stuck.”

“So what do we do?”

“Stay put.” But Trip ignored his own edict and unfastened his seat belt. “Ah, hell.”

Charlotte curled her fingers around Max’s collar when Trip leaned forward. “What is it?”

“Are you sure that guy’s working for you?”

She followed his gaze to see Jeffrey Beecher pointing to her in the truck and saying something to the guards. He might as well have shot up a flare because a pair of guards was now heading toward the truck. Even though Jeffrey’s gestures indicated that he wanted to get Charlotte inside the gate as quickly as possible, car doors were opening, windows were going down and the line of cameras parked across the street swiveled their way.

“It’s happening again,” Charlotte despaired, feeling the unwanted attention crawling across her skin. “Why do they care so much about me being here?”

“They don’t care about you. They want to sell papers.”

“My father has friends at the Kansas City Journal and local TV stations. Ever since the kidnapping, they’ve agreed not to publish pictures and stories about me. Why would they risk their relationship with Dad to get a couple of pictures?”

“Steve Lassen’s a tabloid photographer. He’s independent, like a lot of these bozos. I’m guessing your daddy’s influence hasn’t reached the rags he works for yet.” Trip scanned from side to side, and she could almost see him checking off one observation after another. A wary energy pulsed around him, filling the truck, stirring Max to his feet and adding an edgy blend of excitement and trepidation to Charlotte’s fragile nerves. “You’re a national story. After ten years of being a mystery woman, you made a public appearance at your chauffeur’s funeral. Sounds like a headline to me. I’m guessing, in their minds, Daddy’s influence only covers the privacy of your own home.”