The Bodyguard & Ms Jones. Susan Mallery
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nearly two years ago.
“Daddy doesn’t care about us, stupid,” Jonathan said.
“He does care, and I’m not stupid. Shelby says you’re stupid.”
“At least I’m not dumb enough to talk to invisible people.”
“She’s not invisible. She just doesn’t want mean boys like you seeing her.”
“Children!” Cindy said loudly. “Please. No name-calling. I mean it.”
They both looked at her. Cindy raised her gaze toward the ceiling. It was only the first weekend of summer vacation. It was going to be a long three months.
“Sit,” she said, pointing to the floral-print sofa in the family room. They both sat.
Cindy picked up the duffel bags, walked through the formal living room and into the master bedroom. After Nelson had moved out, she’d redone her room in cream and rose. The heavy oak furniture he favored had been replaced with bleached pine and lacy curtains. She put down the bags and, working quickly, she pulled back the decorative pillows and comforter, then smoothed the sheets. Thank goodness she’d changed them that morning.
When that was done, she approached the two duffel bags. She hated to go through Mike’s things, but Jonathan had a point. She couldn’t keep a gun in the house with her children. Mike was a bodyguard. It made sense he might carry a weapon with him. Sending out a mental apology, she unzipped the first bag.
Five minutes later, she knew that Mike Blackburne wore only button-fly jeans, had an eclectic taste in reading material, owned one pair of dress shoes and had a passport that had been stamped by every country she’d ever heard of and several that she hadn’t. But he didn’t carry a gun.
She exhaled the breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. A week ago, her neighbor Grace had asked her to look after her older brother while he recovered from his injuries. After all Grace had done for her, Cindy was pleased to finally have an opportunity to pay her friend back. At the time, however, she hadn’t thought looking after Mike would turn her life upside down.
Beth stuck her head in the room. “Darren’s ready, if you are.” She pointed to the bed. “Where are you going to sleep?”
“Upstairs in the guest room.”
“You are so conventional. As my only single friend, I count on you to allow me to vicariously experience the thrill of the mating game. I must tell you, I’ve been very disappointed in your performance to date.”
Cindy pushed her friend from the room. “I’ll try to do better.”
“Starting when?”
Cindy ignored her. As they passed her children, she said, “We’ll be right back.”
When they were outside, Beth leaned close. “Are you going to take his clothes off?”
“I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“Can I watch?”
“I thought I might ask Darren to do that.”
Beth pouted. “And you call yourself a friend.”
Cindy led the way into Grace’s house. Darren was already raising Mike into a sitting position. Even unconscious he looked dangerous. His brown hair was short, with an almost military cut. His muscles were powerful, his body as much a weapon as any firearm. All he owned fit into two duffel bags. She was willing to admit he might be handsome, but he was also lethal. Not just because he knew how to kill, but because he knew how to leave. Cindy had learned early in life that men who left were the most dangerous of all.
Mike opened his eyes because he could hear breathing. It was faint but there. In the moment before his vision focused, he wondered what he would see. Maybe a nurse. Certainly a stranger. He wouldn’t have been too shocked to see the devil himself. Instead, the person next to him was a child. A little girl.
“‘Morning,” he said and was pleased that his voice worked.
She wasn’t very tall or very old. He didn’t know enough about children to guess their ages, but figured this one was more than five and less than ten or eleven. She had short blond hair that was curly on the ends and big green eyes. She wore a ribbon in her hair—a blue one that matched her blue-and-white T-shirt. When she smiled at him, he knew exactly who she was—the daughter of that woman. Cindy Jones. The dimples were identical.
“I’m Allison,” she said. Her voice was faintly singsongy, and high-pitched. If he’d had a hangover, he would have winced at the sound. But surprisingly, the pounding in his head had reduced from a jackhammer pounding to a dull knocking and he was able to ignore it.
“Hi, Allison. I’m Mike.”
“Mommy says you’re hurt. That we have to be real quiet while you get better. Mommy said you fell off a building. You shouldn’t do that.”
“Gee, thanks.” Advice always came too late to do any good. He glanced around the room. This wasn’t his sister’s living room, and if his memory was working any better than his body, it wasn’t her bedroom, either. “Where am I?”
“Mommy’s room.” Allison held a doll clutched to her chest. Her green eyes regarded him solemnly. “She had to go to the store, and she asked me to watch you. You’ve been sleeping.”
“You’re watching me?”
She nodded. “I’ve never watched anyone big before.”
He wondered if Cindy had meant for her daughter to stand at his side staring. “You seem a little young to be baby-sitting.”
Allison dimpled. “I’m seven. Jonathan’s watching TV, and Mrs. Davis is watching us. She was here until a minute ago, but she had to go start her dinner. The front door is open and she screams across the street all the time. Mr. Davis has a seizure if his food isn’t on the table at six. But he has other ’deeming qualities.” She paused to draw in a breath. “Do you know what ’deeming means?”
“Sorry, no.” He didn’t know what she was talking about. Or why a seven-year-old had been left in charge of him. He also wondered what day it was and how long he’d been out. He’d arrived on Saturday morning. So today was... “It’s Sunday, right?” he asked.
Allison shook her head. “Tuesday. You’ve been asleep for a long time.” She tilted her head. “You say bad words in your sleep. And you get all twisted up in the covers. You had a fever, too. Mommy had to take care of you and I was very quiet.”
Tuesday? What the hell happened to Sunday and Monday? He couldn’t have been asleep that long. He reached up and rubbed the stubble on his face. Only the innocent stare of the child kept him from grinding out another bad word. He’d been out of it for over seventy-two hours. Then he wondered what else he’d said.
“Could I have a glass of water?” he asked.
She smiled. “I’ll get it.” She placed her doll on the bed and ran out of the room. “He’s awake, and he asked me to get him a glass of water,” he heard her call as she ran through the house.
Footsteps clattered on the hardwood floor. Mike tried to sit up. His body didn’t want to cooperate. He compromised, stuffing a couple of pillows behind his head so he could see more. He did a quick survey of the room. It was spacious, maybe twenty feet square, with a big bay window at one end. The walls were a pale pink, trimmed in cream. The light-colored furniture was large, but simply designed so the big pieces appeared more feminine. An armoire sat across from the foot of the bed. A dresser was next to that. Opposite the window was a doorway that led to a bathroom. Beside the door stood a highboy.
Someone approaching the room interrupted his inspection. The footsteps didn’t sound like Allison’s