Sharon Hartley - Accidental Bodyguard

Please, not now. Not when I’m almost there.

She tried the key again, but still nothing. Of course her devil car had chosen this exact moment to quit working.

The Mercedes proceeded down the ramp, and a ponytailed, brown-haired female ferry attendant motioned for Claudia to follow. With a sigh, she popped her hood and exited the car.

“What’s wrong, ma’am?” the attendant asked politely.

“My battery is dead,” Claudia replied.

The attendant, whose name tag read Julie, frowned. “Okay. Let me get the rest of the vehicles off and we’ll see what we can do.”

Speaking into a walkie-talkie in one hand, with the other Julie motioned for the next line of vehicles to exit the ferry.

Uneasy in the open, Claudia searched the Collins Island dock and beyond where attendants sprayed water over arriving vehicles to wash off salt residue.

No one should have her in their sights from that direction. Was she too far from the mainland for a clean shot? She glanced back across the channel. Maybe not.

As vehicles circumvented her and drove away, she moved to the front of her car, seeking the protection of the open hood.

Julie, accompanied by two male attendants, hustled toward her. Claudia flinched when one of the males slammed the hood with a loud bang.

“We’re going to push you,” Julie said. “Put the transmission in Neutral and steer off the ramp.”

When her vehicle’s wheels rolled off the ferry and onto Collins Island, Claudia offered a silent prayer and tried her ignition again. Please, please. Still just a sad click. She pounded on the dash.

Wishing she could make herself invisible—hey, if she could arrange for superpowers, why not just fly to Mr. Santaluce’s villa—Claudia climbed out of her car just as a tall, ruggedly handsome man in a blue blazer arrived.

She looked up into piercing green eyes, noticed sun-streaked light brown hair and for a moment forgot where she was.

She tried to speak, to say hello and explain, ask for help, but had to swallow to moisten her throat.

She’d had this instant, gut-churning reaction to a male once before in her life, but those eyes had been an unfathomable, brooding brown, not a lively green. She’d been foolish enough to marry that man, and he’d nearly destroyed her.

And he might still.

CHAPTER TWO

JACK EVALUATED THE stranded woman with the rusted heap of a car and arranged his expression into a mask of professional concern. This fresh-faced young woman without a speck of makeup around sky-blue eyes was a rich man’s mistress? Pretty, yes, no question, but more wholesome than seductive.

She’d pulled back her long dark hair in a casual ponytail. Hardly glamorous. She wore loose-fitting shorts and a short-sleeve blouse that revealed no cleavage from her generous breasts. No flashy jewelry; just tiny gold ear hoops.

Louise Clark was not what he’d expected.

“Ms. Clark?” he asked.

Frowning, the woman stared at him, as if confused. Didn’t she know her own name? Was she a druggie? She didn’t look like one. In fact, Ms. Clark appeared to be exactly the type of woman he was normally all over.

He extended his arm to shake her hand. “I’m Jackson Richards, Security Director. Aren’t you Louise Clark?”

Her expression cleared, and Ms. Clark clasped his hand with both of hers as if she was drowning and he was her lifeline. “Yes, yes. I’m Louise Clark.”

She offered a killer smile which transformed her face from pretty into stunning, which explained Mr. Santaluce’s interest. Jack felt an unexpected stab of envy.

“Please forgive me, Mr. Richards,” Ms. Clark continued. “I’m embarrassed by the trouble, but my demon car chose this awkward moment to quit working.”

“No trouble at all, ma’am. Mr. Santaluce requested we make certain you get settled in your new home.”

“Oh, that was kind of him,” Ms. Clark said.

Kind of him? Jack reevaluated the scenario before him. His gaze swept over the rattletrap vehicle, noting a backseat heaped with plastic bags from a local grocery. Apparently Ms. Clark wasn’t planning on expensive dinners out with her lover. Hell, maybe she was a gourmet cook and that was what had attracted the man. A looker and a cooker? If so, a far better reason for jealousy.

“Will a jump start help?” Jack asked. “I’ve called our maintenance department for an assist.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. This is the first time it hasn’t started. Usually it won’t stop running.”

“Maybe it’s time for a new car.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice. Maybe when I win the lottery.”

Jack forced a smile. “Yes, ma’am.” Damn, but Santaluce was one cheap sugar daddy. You’d think he’d want her driving a flashier vehicle onto his ritzy winter home.

The huge maintenance pickup truck approached, and Ms. Clark slid behind the wheel of her car. Jack retrieved jumper cables from the truck and hooked its battery to the clunker’s.

“Give it a try,” he yelled over the truck’s powerful engine.

The old car shook and rumbled to life. Jack let its battery run off the truck’s for a minute or two to allow a better charge, then disconnected the cables, handed them to the maintenance man and returned to speak to Ms. Clark.

“Thank you,” she said meaningfully. “Thank you so much.”

“No problem, ma’am. I recommend you get that battery checked out. It’s possible you need a new one.”

“But now that I’m here, I won’t need my car,” she said.

“I suppose not.” Jack nodded, but her words made no sense. Was the woman planning to never leave Collins Island? Considering the amount of food in her backseat—and no telling how much more in her trunk—maybe so.

Maybe Santaluce planned to keep her in the bedroom. Or maybe he’d had lured her here with promises of a shiny silver Porsche.

“Follow me,” Jack said, “I’ll lead you to your new home.”

On the short drive to the east end of the island, Jack considered Louise Clark, her rattletrap vehicle—which fortunately kept chugging along behind him—her mounds of groceries and the questionable business of one Rodolfo Santaluce.

The more Jack thought about Ms. Clark, the more his bullshit alarm sounded loud and clear. Something didn’t add up. Maybe Lola had assessed the relationship between Santaluce and Ms. Clark all wrong. Maybe the pretty young woman was indeed a paying tenant.

Jack stopped in front of Santaluce’s tall, arched, wrought-iron gate topped with the name, Villa Alma, in block letters, and Ms. Clark pulled next to him. Why would she drive that battered jalopy if she could afford the rent this spectacular villa would command? She wouldn’t. Yeah, she was moving in to the pool house, but he’d seen the so-called cabanas in these villas. A small family would have room to spare.

Clutching a slip of paper, Ms. Clark exited her car, punched a code into the alarm pad and the gate swung open. She turned and offered him another one of her brilliant smiles.

“Thanks so much for your help, Mr. Richards.”

“Let me help you carry in those groceries,” he offered.

Her smile faded, replaced by wariness. In fact, she looked afraid of him. Why was that?

“No, thanks,” she said. “I can manage.”

“Are you sure? I don’t mind.”

“Absolutely. I’ve been enough trouble already.” She waved a graceful hand, the one holding the code, which had been scribbled on some sort of preprinted memo pad with a letterhead. He could make out the word Hospital in large letters, but nothing more.

“I’m certain you have more important duties,” she continued.

Jack shrugged, disappointed. Important duties? This place practically runs itself.

His main function was to assess all possible security threats. Was Ms. Clark a threat to the security of Collins Island? Maybe. Something was off about her.