The Butler's Daughter. Joyce Sullivan
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mean one thing. Ross and Lexi Collingwood were dead.
SICK WITH FEAR over the safety of her father and the Collingwoods, Juliana called the police and reported the explosion, then punched in the number she’d been asked to memorize in the event of an emergency such as this.
“Yes.” The voice that answered was curt and concise. One word, but totally male and in charge. She knew instinctively that he was the enigmatic security consultant Ross Collingwood had hired to head up the search for Riana. The man known only as The Guardian.
Juliana had never met him. But then, few people ever met The Guardian in the flesh or knew his real name. His existence and the services he supplied were a closely guarded secret of the world’s upper class.
“Operation Guardian,” she replied numbly, the code word falling from her shocked lips like a blunt instrument onto a table. She gripped the phone tightly as tears seared her eyes.
Please God, this wasn’t happening. Not to her father. Or Ross and Lexi. They couldn’t be dead.
Tremors wracked her body in undulating waves of disbelief and grief. If not for Cort’s ear infection, she and the baby would have been caught in the explosion, too!
A softly muttered curse whispered over the line, the hint of raw emotion it conveyed so genuine it snagged her heart like a hook, connecting her to him. “Tell me your name,” he commanded.
The clear authority in his tone evoked a comforting image of an indomitable muscle-hewn Marine sergeant. Juliana caught the tiny precious foot of the child who lay on the bed beside her. Cort’s golden gossamer eyebrows arched over his sooty blue eyes in surprise as he gnawed on a teething ring of plastic keys. She swallowed hard and glanced nervously over her shoulder toward the door, half expecting someone to kick it open. Whatever fate had been dealt her charge’s parents, Cort was not alone. Not while breath still remained in her body.
“My name is Juliana Goodhew,” she said as calmly as she could.
“Juliana, I’m The Guardian. Tell me what’s happened.”
Wanting to tear her hair out with the fear that was expanding in her until she thought her skin would burst, she told him about the secret rendezvous with the Collingwoods at a rented home in the Adirondacks and the horrible explosion she’d heard a few minutes ago when she’d called her father to inform him she and the baby would be delayed until morning.
“My father believed it was a bomb. He told me to call you. I called the police first to get them some help….” Her voice broke.
After all her problems with her father…was this how it was going to end? I’m sorry, Papa.
A sharp stab of guilt lanced her side, torturing her with memories of a rainy autumn afternoon and a gleaming banister—a forbidden and irresistible temptation to two young children. The day that had changed their lives forever.
She fanned her fingers over Cort’s plump belly, her heart melting at the snugly warmth of his compact body and his gummy irresistible smile. Tears slipped down her cheeks, splashing onto his sleeper. I won’t let the baby out of my sight, Papa. I promise.
The Guardian’s voice penetrated her thoughts. “You did the right thing, Juliana. Your father is wise to be cautious. Until we have more information confirming the cause of the explosion, I’m going to implement measures to keep you and the baby safe. Where are you now?”
“A motel in Utica.” She gave him the name and room number.
“Stay inside, away from the windows. Don’t go out to your car. I’ll catch a chopper and be with you in an hour and a half, two hours tops. Did you call your father or the police from the phone in the motel room?”
“No, I used my cell phone.”
“Good. So only the police know of your location.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t tell them who the child is with you?”
Did he think she had the IQ of an idiot? “Of course not,” she said shortly. “I told them I was the butler’s daughter, and I’d been talking to my father when the explosion occurred.”
“Are you armed?”
The implication of his question slid over her like the blade of a razor. He thought the danger was real.
“Yes. Mr. Collingwood insisted I be trained properly in how to use a gun.”
“Excellent. I’m on my way. Stay alert and be ready to move.” The line clicked off.
She dropped the phone onto the bed as if it had burned her.
Be ready to move.
But moving with a baby required thinking ahead. She’d given Cort his second dose of antibiotics when she’d stopped for gas at 10:00 p.m., but he would need a bottle. Wary of casting a shadow across the window, she crawled on her hands and knees to the bathroom to grab the bottle from the warmer she’d set up earlier on the counter. Then she unplugged the device so she could pack it back into the diaper bag.
Returning to the bed, she pulled the semiautomatic pistol from the diaper bag and laid it on the floor beside her within easy reach, then pulled Cort into her arms and leaned her back against the wall so she could keep an eye on the door while she fed him. Cort took the nipple of the bottle into his mouth, sucking greedily. His fingers curled and uncurled blissfully around the bottle as his eyelids slowly drifted downward.
Juliana kissed his sticky-sweet forehead as terror brutally clutched her heart in a white-knuckle grip. “Please, God, let them be okay.”
Beyond Cort’s sucking noises an ominous silence hung outside the thick drapes covering the window.
EXACTLY ONE HOUR and forty-two minutes later, Juliana heard a light tapping on the door.
Leaving Cort sleeping on a pillow on the floor, she approached the door stealthily with the gun in hand. Surely, it could only be The Guardian, but she wasn’t taking any chances.
Through the peephole she saw a man standing in the exterior hallway—his posture rigid and controlled as if his body were formed from black steel, his head turned in profile to scan the corridor and the parking lot below.
He was younger than the image she’d conjured from his voice. But no less intimidating. Instead of the military fatigues she’d imagined, he was dressed all in black. The black leather of his jacket gleamed almost malevolently in the muted glow of the corridor light piercing the chilly autumn night. He tapped again lightly on the door.
Juliana jumped, her heart dropping to her stomach. “Who is it?” she called softly, staying to one side of the door.
“Operation Guardian.”
Relief whisked through her. There was no mistaking his voice. “Just a minute.” Tucking the gun into the waistband of her jeans at the small of her back, she unhooked the chain and opened the door. His brown hair was cut short and combed back, revealing every bone and hollow in a face that was hard and uncompromising. His eyes were the azure blue of a Mediterranean Sea.
The instant their gazes connected she knew the news wasn’t good. His face was grave, each tight line carved in stone.
She fell back two steps, instinctively retreating from the harsh truth in his eyes. “M-my father?”
He entered the motel room, closing and locking the door with fluid efficiency, then put his hands on her shoulders. His firm fingers held her captive, upright, though her knees threatened to sink right to the carpet. “Juliana, I’m afraid your father has been seriously injured.”
Her fingers twisted into the cold supple leather of his jacket, felt the impenetrable hardness of his chest beneath. “He’s alive, then?”
“They found him unconscious. He was apparently outside when the explosion occurred.”
“Oh, thank God! He was