The Baron and The Bodyguard. Valerie Parv
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masked his relief. As far as he could remember, he wasn’t involved with anyone, but he hoped one day to have a wife and children, especially a son to inherit his land and titles. Jacinta’s oblique reassurance meant they were still a possibility.
Good grief, he could be married already, and not remember. The thought made him realize how much could have happened in the months he had lost. He felt awkward asking Jacinta whether or not he was involved with anyone, so he kept silent. Surely if he had, she would have been at his bedside, rather than Jacinta?
“What happened to my leg?” he asked instead.
“They removed a chunk of shrapnel from your calf muscle, so you won’t be playing hopscotch for a week or so. You’ll be on crutches for another week, but after that, with care, you should heal as good as new.”
Some of his anxiety receded. “What about your arm?”
“It’s nothing.”
“One thing I do remember is that with you, nothing can cover anything from a bruise to the need for a bionic replacement.”
A smile blossomed, lighting up her features, and Mathiaz felt his insides tighten. In the months she’d worked with him—a year ago now, he struggled to remember—she hadn’t smiled nearly often enough. When she did, it was like the sun coming out. He felt an aching need to see her smile again.
“Were we lovers?”
Instead of making her smile, his question had her looking away. He felt cheated. In his dream when he’d held her in his arms, his mouth hungry on hers, she’d laughed with happiness. She’d responded out of her own hunger, and the ferocity of what they’d shared made him ache with the desire to translate dream into reality.
“If you weren’t injured, I’d be insulted,” she said. “It wouldn’t say much for my lovemaking capability if you couldn’t remember.”
She hadn’t answered his question, he noticed, wondering if her brittle response covered something deeper. More wishful thinking? Or a memory beyond conscious reach? He decided to match her brittleness, for now. “Considering I can’t remember what I had for breakfast, it’s hardly an insult.”
“French toast and double-strength black coffee.”
He stared at her. As far as he knew, that was the breakfast he’d eaten, except that it wasn’t yesterday, it was months ago. “How did you…”
“You have the same thing every morning except Sundays when you have eggs Benedict.”
Inwardly he felt gratified at how well she knew him. Warning himself not to read too much into the discovery, he said, “Am I that predictable?”
“Bad security, but yes. When I worked for you, we argued a lot about the need to vary your routines to reduce the risk of the stalker being able to predict your movements.”
The relationship he remembered was friendly but formal, at least on Jacinta’s side. On his own, he remembered a strong wish to turn their association into something more personal. Had they done so, or had it remained another dream? “I don’t recall arguing with you.”
“Trust me, we didn’t see eye to eye on anything much.”
She had revealed more than she knew, Mathiaz thought. He rarely argued with anyone. When they were boys, his brother, Eduard, used to complain that Mathiaz preferred to use logic rather than fists to resolve their differences. No wonder Eduard had ended up a navy pilot, while Mathiaz had gone into government.
Mathiaz wondered if Jacinta knew how much she had just revealed. For sparks to have flown between them, she had to have reached him on a level few people did. Their relationship may have started out purely professional, but somewhere along the line things had changed, he would swear to it. He was still agonizing over it when a nurse came in, smiled at him, and did something to the drip feeding into his arm, before making a note on his chart. Moments later, he was deeply asleep.
Jacinta wondered if he sensed her keeping watch at his side.
Chapter Three
“This…is…not…my…idea…of…fun,” Jacinta said around a plastic mouthguard, punctuating each word with vicious right and left jabs at a leather covered punching bag suspended from the ceiling of Mathiaz’s private gymnasium.
Being surrounded by an army of servants gave her a lot of sympathy for people who needed bodyguards all the time. Until she came to work for the baron the first time, she had never understood how annoying it was to have someone shadowing her every move. She had only been back at Château Valmont for two weeks, and already she longed for the freedom to come and go without having people underfoot constantly.
The gymnasium was one of the few places she could have privacy. Attendants were on call at the press of a button, along with a personal trainer, a masseur, and for all she knew, someone to do the workout for her. But at least they weren’t in the same room watching every move she made.
Security cameras scrutinized the perimeter of the complex, but Mathiaz had vetoed their presence inside the workout rooms themselves. On security grounds, Jacinta should object, but right now she was glad no one could see her work off her frustration.
She didn’t like living in the royal compound, and she didn’t like being on call for Mathiaz twenty-four hours a day, knowing she was the only one who remembered everything they’d shared. She launched a roundhouse punch at the bag. The recoil almost knocked her off her feet, but the release of tension felt good.
The baron had been discharged from the hospital after a week, using crutches for the first week. Now his leg had all but healed and he could get around using only a stick until he regained full strength.
He had thrown himself into his recovery with his usual determination. Challenged by Dr. Pascale to get back on his feet in two weeks, he managed it in less. Confronted with a physiotherapy program that would make a lesser man blanch, he had followed it to the letter, although Jacinta hadn’t missed the clenched teeth and sweat-soaked clothing that accompanied his progress.
She only wished as much progress had been made identifying the reason for the explosion. The combined efforts of the police and the royal protection detail hadn’t turned up anything useful. No demands had been received at the château. A group of hotheads claiming responsibility would have given them some leads, but there was nothing.
The police had interviewed the employee who had threatened Mathiaz before. Zenio was on parole, but the police found no connection, although Jacinta thought there had to be one. In a country as peaceful as Carramer, two lots of threats against the same member of the royal family was stretching coincidence. But she had no evidence, only suspicions.
She took another swing at the punching bag. How did you fight an invisible enemy?
“You must have killed that bag by now.”
She shoved the mouthguard into a pocket and pushed locks of sweat-streaked hair off her forehead, then tried for an impersonal tone. “Good morning, Baron. Has Dr. Pascale finished with you already?”
Mathiaz rubbed his chin ruefully. “He accused me of wasting his time, his way of telling me I’m doing fine.”
He gestured toward the punching bag. “You’re attacking that as if it’s a mortal enemy.”
She reached for a towel and hung it around her neck. “You never know, someday it might be.”
“Have you ever tried talking your way out of a jam?” She swabbed her face with the towel. “Sometimes talking doesn’t work.” And sometimes it got people killed, she thought but didn’t say.
Mathiaz rested his stick against a wall, let his silk robe pool on the floor, and dropped onto a bench, positioning himself to perform the exercises the physiotherapist had prescribed. She saw him wince as he stretched and flexed his injured leg, but he kept up the