Murdock's Last Stand. Beverly Barton
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the weather. When the silence between them reached the awkward stage, Murdock turned on the radio, setting the dial to a jazz and blues station. A mournful voice sang about love, loss and heartbreak.
Occasionally Catherine stole quick glances at Murdock’s chiseled profile. Hard chin and jaw. Clean shaven, with only a hint of a light aftershave. Short, neat, dark-brown hair. Confined alone with him in the small quarters of the car’s interior, she felt overwhelmed by his massive size. Aloysius Murdock was huge. And every ounce was pure muscle.
He was a much larger man than her father, who, although tall, had been lanky. But the aura of danger and power that surrounded Murdock reminded her of Lanny McCroskey. She had adored her big, macho father, even though she’d seen little of him during her young life. He had called her his kitten and even after the divorce, he had remembered her with expensive birthday presents, Christmas gifts and occasional phone calls. She had tried to hate him, had pretended that she never wanted to see him again, but when the news came that he’d been killed in Zaraza, she had mourned his death. Even now, after twenty years, she had conflicting feelings about the man who had fathered her. She both hated and loved him. But despite everything, she was willing to pay a hundred thousand dollars and perhaps risk her life to save him.
Something told her that men like her father—and men like Murdock—inspired those mixed feelings in their women. Their wives, daughters, sisters, lovers and perhaps even their mothers. Most women were drawn to big, bold, dangerous men and yet their common sense warned them to flee from the bad boys of this world. Her mother had learned, the hard way, that loving such a man caused immeasurable heartache.
Catherine had avoided men who even vaguely reminded her of Lanny, choosing instead to date the academic types. Rodney Price had been Lanny’s exact opposite. A quiet, gentle, soft-spoken gentleman who had enjoyed a night at the ballet as much if not more than an afternoon at a football stadium. She and Rodney had been a perfect match and she had been happy during the four years of their marriage. Her one regret, after Rodney’s death, was that he hadn’t left her with a child.
“We’re here,” Murdock said, his voice a baritone roar.
Catherine jumped at the sound. Jerked abruptly from her thoughts, she glanced through the windshield just in time to catch a glimpse of the renovated brick building. Murdock wheeled the Camaro into the ground-level garage and whipped it into a parking slot.
After lifting the briefcase from the floorboard, he rounded the hood and opened the door for Catherine. She mouthed a thank you, but refused his offered hand. He dropped his big paw, grinned and left her standing by the open car door. She slammed the door shut when he walked toward the trunk, then waited at his side until he’d retrieved her suitcase.
“I’ve got the loft apartment,” he said. “So, I use the old service elevator. Just follow me.”
“Have you lived here long?” Making conversation was something Catherine excelled at as a normal rule. Years as a teacher at Huntington Academy before she’d become headmistress of the school had taught her the art of speaking. She had charmed many a student and many a parent.
“I moved to Atlanta about eighteen months ago and found this place about a year ago.” He didn’t tell her that he’d bought the old building as an investment. “I completely renovated the loft.” He opened the iron-bar door of the service elevator and stood back, waiting for her to enter. When she eyed the contraption and hesitated, he chuckled. “I promise it’s safe.”
Reluctantly, she entered the elevator, then plastered a phony smile on her face, as if to say, See, I’m not afraid. But she suspected that he knew she was leery—of the elevator and of him.
The smooth ride up to the loft surprised her, but not as much as the spacious, tastefully decorated apartment that spread out before them when Murdock unlocked and swung open the double entry doors. The living room, kitchen and dining room were one huge area of painted white walls on the interior and old brick on the exterior side. Gleaming hardwood covered the floor and big wooden beams ran the expanse of the ceiling. An overstuffed leather sofa and twin chairs created a cozy, yet masculine living area in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Pleated shades allowed for privacy or sunlight. On the opposite side of the room an oil painting of a clipper ship tossing about in a storm hung on the wall behind the black lacquer table which was surrounded by six brass-and-steel chairs that mimicked Victorian bentwood chairs.
“Your apartment is…well, it’s wonderful.” Catherine wished she had been able to keep the surprised tone out of her voice. “You didn’t do this yourself. I mean, surely you hired someone to—”
Murdock slammed the door. Catherine jumped. Dammit, why was she so nervous? she wondered. Every unexpected sound made her overreact.
“Why do you assume I hired a decorator? Don’t you think a guy like me could put together something like this?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that you—”
“Sure you did.” Murdock walked past her. “No need to be on your best behavior around me or try to be mannerly. We don’t know each other, but you’ve drawn some conclusions about me, just as I have about you. You figured a former mercenary who’s now a professional bodyguard has more brawn than brains and would probably live in a cluttered dump, with hot-and-cold running bimbos.”
“I didn’t say one word about bimbos!”
Murdock laughed, the sound like rumbling thunder. “Sit down and make yourself at home. I’ll put your suitcase in the bedroom.” He caught the startled look on her face and before she could protest, he said, “There are two bedrooms, so don’t be concerned that you’ll have to share a bed with me. Besides, why would I need you when I keep a bimbo on call twenty-four hours a day.”
Catherine’s eyes rounded into wide, startled, blue saucers. As Murdock disappeared behind a glass-block partition, she gritted her teeth. Only her strong willpower prevented her from stomping her foot. Damn the man! He enjoyed teasing her—another typical male trait she remembered Lanny McCroskey had possessed. She recalled when her mother had complained about his constant teasing, he’d said a man only teased a woman he liked. Then he’d kissed her mother and said or a woman he loves.
Did that mean that Murdock liked her? What did it matter? her inner voice questioned. He doesn’t have to like you to accompany you to Zaraza and act as your bodyguard. And you don’t have to like him. As a matter of fact, you’d be better off not liking him.
Just as she sat in one of the leather chairs, Murdock returned, minus his jacket. He had rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt to his elbows, revealing large, hairy forearms. A bevy of tiny nerves sent off shock waves inside her stomach. The man was so big, so overwhelmingly masculine that he took her breath away. Dear God, he intimidated the hell out of her.
“Want something to drink?” he asked. “Coffee? Tea? Cola? Whiskey?”
“Tea would be nice.”
“Hot or cold?”
“Uh-huh.” As if entranced in a hypnotic spell, she couldn’t take her eyes off him.
“Which?”
Warmth crept up her neck and into her face. Stop this right now! she warned herself. You’re acting like an idiot. So he intimidates you. Big deal! There is absolutely no reason to be afraid of him. Remember, he is supposed to be your protector.
“Hot tea, if it’s not too much trouble.” She deliberately avoided direct eye contact.
“Earl Grey?”
“Yes, that would be lovely.” Once again Murdock surprised her. She’d never have thought he would have Earl Grey tea in his cupboard. “By the way, did you put the briefcase in the bedroom, too?”
“I put the hundred thousand in the wall safe in my bedroom.”
“Oh.”
“You can trust me with the money, Catherine. There’s no one who wants to get Lanny out of that Zarazaian prison more than I