Mission: Out Of Control. Susan May Warren
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I’m afraid this time you’re going to have to earn your pay, Wickham.”
Her “bodyguard” pre-cut his roast pork into geometric cubes the size of dice. He speared one piece of meat, pushed it through his applesauce, and delivered it to his mouth. He laid down his fork and wiped his mouth between bites, following each one with a sip of water.
Like a robot.
Ronie tried not to stare, but the more he did it, the more she longed to launch across the beautifully attired table and pour something, maybe gravy—which he’d poured into the center of a perfectly indented mound of potatoes—over his entire plate.
Heaven forbid the gravy touch his asparagus. Or the applesauce.
Or one of Marguerite’s rolls, buttered nicely on the bread plate.
Her father had sold her out to a cyborg. The Terminator.
A terminator that just might destroy everything if she wasn’t careful. She had better figure out a way to ditch him if she hoped to help Kafara.
Found him. She would reread the text until it gave her the courage she needed.
Brody took another sip and politely answered the senator’s questions, in a voice low and rumbly, like an earthquake. “I’m the oldest of nine, sir, and yes, my father worked at the Capitol as a security guard until his stroke three months ago. Nearly did thirty years.”
“I know him—gives away your mother’s homemade caramel corn to all the offices every year.”
Another cube of meat, another trek through the applesauce. Chew. Wipe. Drink. Yes, sitting across from him for the next month just might drive her insane.
Except, well, what about that idea? She couldn’t exactly fire him, right? But what if he quit? What if she simply played on his disgust and drove him insane?
Sorry, but she just didn’t buy the whole “you’re in danger” spiel. Did her father think she had lost her brains along with her pride? He just didn’t want another go-round with the international tabloids during an election year. And as for her so-called stalker, well, just because a few unauthorized photos showed up on the internet didn’t mean the man would harm her.
Everyone just calm down. She knew what she was doing.
Although she could admit to being just a little terrified when she found herself on the floor of the club. Being stomped on.
Not that Brody would ever know that.
But she would have survived. It was the one thing she knew how to do.
“And what do you do when you’re not standing guard outside someone’s hotel room?” Ronie tried to smile, aiming for too sweet when she said it.
He met her eyes. “I work out. And listen to classical music.” No return smile.
Ellie passed him the rolls. “Isn’t that lovely. Our family has season tickets to the New York Philharmonic. We just heard them play Brahms, the Second Symphony.”
Ronie wanted to nod off into her potatoes. Maybe a date, forced or otherwise, would have been better—at least said suitor might be trying to impress her father, and her, in hopes of winning round two.
Brody Wickham didn’t seem at all interested in her opinion of him.
Well, except for the moment she’d caught him staring, his gaze lingering on her as he’d pulled out her chair to the table.
As if trying to recognize in her the woman who’d belted him.
Yeah, well, there was more where that came from if he got too close. But, see, that could work, too—more craziness, and perhaps she would throw in shopping and nightclubs, drive him insane by making him fetch her coffee and donuts, anything she could do to remind him that, yes, she might just be the high-maintenance diva he’d scooped off the floor.
He’d rue the day he ever agreed to her father’s terms. If he thought she was hard to control onstage…
“How long have you been in the military, Mr. Wickham?” her mother asked.
Ah, the woman had caught him midbite. Ronie raised an eyebrow, enjoying the debate in his eyes. Finally, he replaced his fork, fully loaded, onto the plate. “I’m not in the military anymore, ma’am. But I was in for sixteen years.”
“Only four years shy of retirement? That seems a strange time to leave.”
Of course, the senator had to press. Why not? It seemed his specialty had become evaluating people’s lives, making them rethink their decisions, embarrassing them…
Brody’s gaze went to his plate. Finally, he picked up his fork. “Yes, sir.”
Hmm. The silence after his words had even Ronie clinking her plate with her fork, dividing her asparagus into chunks.
Outside, twilight had descended, shaggy fir trees shifting shadows into the yard, and the cicadas had come out, buzzing in the night. Ronie longed to push away from the table and escape outside into the sultry, thick air, slip off her shoes, feel her toes in the cool grass. If she listened hard, perhaps she’d hear laughter from the playhouse on the far edge of the yard, maybe even see Savannah beckoning to her from the swing set.
Not the Savannah that peered down upon them from the oil on the wall behind her in the dining room, but the one with long brown hair, so soft for braiding, the one who knew all the voices to Little Women.
“So, I suppose you visited a lot of interesting places in the military?” Ellie to the rescue, still trying to pawn off the rolls.
“Yes, ma’am.” Brody accepted another roll, set it next to his already cut and buttered one. What, was he going to slip it into his pocket for later?
“Have you seen action?”
“Oh, Ellie, don’t ask him that.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Brody said, again that strange glance down at his dinner. The entire affair felt not unlike a KGB interrogation. They just needed the bright lights and the toothpicks. For a second, Ronie had the urge to rescue him.
Thankfully, it passed.
“Mr. Wickham’s offices are in downtown Prague, Ellie.” The senator turned to Brody. “Beautiful city, Prague. Went there on my twenty-fifth anniversary, with my wife.”
Ellie looked over at him with a smile, not a hint of warmth in her eyes. “Yes. Very beautiful.”
Her father had finished off his bourbon and switched to merlot. He swished his wine by the stem of the glass. “I saw that you worked for Hans Brumegaarden. Something about a birthday party, and Snow White?”
Was that a blush on Wickham’s face? Maybe, but then it vanished and he caught Ronie’s eye, straight on. “Yes. Our security firm was asked to dress the part while protecting Gretchen Brumegaarden during her Disney-themed birthday party. I was a dwarf. I’ll do anything to keep a client safe. Even if she is five years old and dressed up in some crazy costume.”
What? No, he didn’t just call her a five-year-old, did he? Her mouth opened. Oh, she so had words for him. But no, she was a Wagner. She’d keep it to herself.
At least tonight.
“I need some air.” She pushed away from the table. “Thank you for dinner. I’ll see you all in the morning.”
Brody rose from the table. The senator stayed seated. Ellie put out her hand, catching her arm. “Veronica—”
“It’s Ronie, Mom. My friends call me Ronie. Or, if you want, Vonya would work, too.” She pulled away and glanced at the Boy Scout. “The tour starts in a week. Try to stay out of my hair until then.”
She was turning away when she heard him mutter, “Which hair?”
And oh, she shouldn’t have, but she couldn’t stop herself. In fact, yes, she turned right about five