The Sinner. Kathleen O'Brien
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jacket, a white ruffled kerchief at her throat pinned by a simple sparkling diamond. A red ribbon gathered her long, dark hair at her neck and let it spill down her back all the way to her fantastic butt.
Bryce shifted and tightened his jaw. Ted from Iowa might be right. Lara Lynmore really wasn’t just an ordinary person. She was dangerously potent, the female equivalent of heroin. People who ventured too close could get addicted, get crazy, get hurt.
Bryce wondered what Ted would think if he knew that, just last night, Bryce had taken a willing Lara Lynmore down to her lacy under-nothings, right there on her living room sofa—and had chosen to stop there. To walk away empty-handed.
He’d think Bryce was nuts, that’s what he’d think. Bryce half thought so himself. He still wasn’t sure what had stopped him. God knew this job had teased every one of his hormones into a raging fury. It was like some kind of torture, standing within inches of this high-octane beauty 24/7, trying to keep those hormones on a leash. No wonder they’d ended up panty-dancing on the sofa last night.
Maybe what had stopped him was the thought of Darryl, Lara’s lawyer. Darryl, who had roped Bryce into this bodyguarding gig by playing on an old law-school friendship. Just for a little while, Darryl had begged, just until California’s best professional bodyguard was free and could take over.
You’re the only one I can trust to control this until the professional can take over. It’s serious, Bryce. This nut wants to kill her.
A few days, like hell. That had been six weeks ago. Finally, last night, just in the nick of time, just before the panties came off, the new bodyguard had called to say he could start tomorrow.
Which meant Bryce just had to get through today, and then he was home free.
And, thankfully, today looked like a piece of cake. He’d already vetted the help, everything from the waiters and chefs to good old Ted here. He’d made the setup crew change the position of Lara’s podium—they’d set it up in the center of the dais, but he needed it closer to the wings, where he’d be stationed.
And then, making himself truly popular, he’d made them remove the first row of tables, which were much too close to the dais.
That had improved the situation, though even now, things were a little too tight to be ideal. But when he looked out and saw the hundreds of pink hats and light-blue, yellow and pink party frocks in the audience, he felt better. The Breast Cancer Awareness luncheon was an ocean of estrogen punctuated by a few slim, white-clad waiters circulating gracefully among the tables.
A cocky muscle man like Kenny Boggs would stand out in this crowd like a circus clown in a cemetery.
“And, in conclusion—” Lara’s voice sounded good over the microphone, which accentuated its throaty undertones. “I’d like to thank all of you for—”
Bryce had seen a copy of her speech. Three more sentences, and they were out of here.
Suddenly, without apparent reason, his heartbeat quickened, instinct sending a jolt of adrenaline through his system. Something was wrong.
His eyes narrowed, scanning rapidly over the smiling crowd. Damn it. Every instinct he owned was telling him something was wrong. What was it?
It was… Scanning… Scanning…
It was that waiter. That waiter near the front, the one who was just a little broader in the shoulders than the others. The one who had a tray in his hand, but was walking between tables instead of slowly rotating around just one, as all the other waiters were doing, picking up uneaten fruit tarts.
Bryce edged forward for a better look. What in hell was the guy doing? His serpentine movements were bringing him ever closer to the dais. Still, it wasn’t Kenny. Kenny Boggs had blond hair, and this guy was…
Shit. Bryce came out from behind the curtain just as the waiter looked up. It was Kenny, what a fool, what a maniac, here of all places, even with dyed hair and a uniform he should have known—
Their eyes met for one broken edge of a second, but it was enough to warn the muscle-bound psycho that he’d been made. His huge shoulders clenched.
Bryce moved forward, reaching for Lara, who hadn’t noticed anything yet. “Get back,” he barked. She looked over at him, horror instantly digging a jagged furrow between her lovely brows. Her grip on the podium tightened. She looked as if she weren’t sure which way to run, as if she were frozen.
Kenny wasn’t frozen, though. All in one lightning movement, he dropped his tray with a clatter and began to run toward the dais, a large knife gripped in his left fist, point down.
At least it wasn’t a gun.
Still—Bryce knew about crazy people. Often they were able to beat smarter, stronger, saner people because they didn’t think in predictable patterns. They didn’t fight according to even the most subconscious of rules. Sometimes they didn’t feel pain. Sometimes they liked it.
Bryce had his gun out before Kenny took the first step, but everywhere he looked women were screaming, scurrying around the tables like squealing mice. If Bryce shot and missed Kenny, the bullet might bury itself in the crowd, in one of those terrified, well-meaning ladies in their stylish pink hats.
Some of them were even scrambling closer to the dais instead of toward the exits, as if fear had robbed them of their sense of direction. They stumbled on the short rise of stairs, on the hems of their expensive dresses. It was pure pink-and-blue chaos.
Damn it, damn it. He didn’t dare shoot.
Kenny moved fast, but Bryce got to Lara first. He shoved her toward the wings, even though she still gripped the podium so hard he could hear her fingernails rip on the wood.
“Ted,” Bryce called roughly, and thankfully the love-struck Assistant Event Manager was still there—and still thinking. Ted caught Lara as if she were a well-tossed football. He wrapped his skinny arms around her and began to drag her behind the curtain.
Bryce was the only thing that stood between Kenny and the curtain. Kenny rammed into him, shoulder first, trying to go right through him. But Bryce held his ground, and Kenny cursed with a hoarse fury that made Bryce’s blood run cold.
“You can’t keep me from her, you bastard,” Kenny said, or maybe it only sounded like that, Bryce wasn’t sure. His voice was crazed, his syllables more like the grunts of an animal than a human being.
“She’s mine,” he said, slashing wildly. “Mine, mine—”
Bryce kept the knife blade away somehow. Should he have holstered his gun? It was more of a liability now. The fight had become primal, hand-to-hand. He could smell Kenny’s breath. Foul. It seemed to carry the stench of his psychosis.
The struggle lasted about ten seconds. He felt Kenny’s knife finally find a home, sinking into the flesh of his upper arm as if it were a piece of pie.
The cold blade radiated fire out in all directions. And then it hit bone. Bryce’s vision exploded, red and starry, but he refused to faint.
The split second it took Kenny to work the knife free was the second Bryce needed. Ignoring the pain, he dropped his gun into the sweaty inch between their bodies. He jerked Kenny around so that the gun pointed toward the back of the dais, where no one could get hurt if something went wrong.
And then he pulled the trigger.
Kenny frowned, and for a minute Bryce thought maybe, somehow, he had missed. He had his finger on the trigger again, ready to pull, when Kenny’s mouth opened and blood spilled out like liquid words.
Kenny shook his head, as if rejecting the truth, but his body knew. He began to slide to his knees. Some absurd instinct made Bryce catch him under the arms and break his fall, lowering him toward the floor, careful of crooked legs and lolling arms.
Kenny’s abdomen was pulpy, red, and sickening. Bryce looked at it only a second before training his eyes on the man’s face. Kenny’s breath was coming in small, choking