Still Waters. Debra Webb
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“Here.” She opened the double doors leading to what he presumed would be the closet.
He hesitated in the doorway. The closet was almost as large as the bedroom with a sliding library-style ladder that provided access to the upper shelves that banded all the way around the space above the hanging clothes.
“The house used to have four bedrooms,” she explained as she adjusted the ladder. “I used the fourth bedroom to expand the bathroom and for this closet.”
“Looks like you made a smart move.” He surveyed the rods and rods of clothes and the rows of shoes and whistled. “This could be a supermodel’s closet.”
“Ha-ha. Viewers notice if you wear the same outfit.” She climbed up the ladder and reached for a box covered in a floral pattern resting on the first shelf.
“Let me take that.” He stepped over to the ladder and reached up to take the box.
“I suppose you’d know a supermodel’s closet when you saw one. My sister told me you were a bodyguard to the stars.”
He accepted the box and waited for her to climb down the few rungs. “I may have seen one or two.”
She pushed the ladder back into its storage position. “Don’t be modest, Mr. Douglas. Barbara says you had quite the reputation in Hollywood as a top security specialist as well as a ladies’ man.”
Apparently she hadn’t heard the whole story. “Where do you want these?” He was damned ready to get out of her bedroom. Being surrounded by her scent and her private things in what now felt like a small space was too much.
“Kitchen table.”
Rather than be a gentleman and wait for her to go first, he got the hell out of her closet and her bedroom. A few deep breaths and he still hadn’t cleared her scent from his lungs. He shook off the uneasiness and placed the box on the round table that stood in the breakfast alcove of the kitchen.
The red and pink rose-patterned box wasn’t a typical file storage size. Handholds were formed on each end. Judging by the weight, it was made of heavy-gauge cardboard. He’d noted several of varying sizes on the uppermost shelf of her closet. Some he recognized as photograph boxes. All were neatly arranged by size and color. His mother had similar tastes and organizing habits. From what he’d seen so far, his mother would like Amber.
He booted the concept out of his head. Maybe he needed more coffee. He was sure as hell having a hard time keeping his head on straight.
Amber joined him at the table. She pressed a hand to her flat belly and made a face.
“Look.” He took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. “I know you TV personalities don’t like to eat for fear of gaining half an ounce, but you’re going through some serious trauma right now. You need to eat.”
Her green eyes were wide with surprise or indignation because he’d touched her or that he’d dared to give her an order or both. He released her and dropped his hands back to his sides.
“No need for strong-arm tactics, Mr. Douglas. I was just thinking that I needed to eat.” She turned gracefully and marched to the refrigerator.
Strong-arm tactics? Well, at least she was smart enough to listen to good advice.
She pulled open the freezer drawer and selected a frozen dinner—the organic, calorie-conscious kind. While she removed the outer packaging, she flashed him a fake smile and said, “Take your pick. I highly recommend the pecan chicken and rice.”
While she nuked her meal, he rummaged through the selection. He chose the pizza. The photo on the box looked normal enough, though he doubted one would ever be enough. The way his stomach was protesting, he could eat his weight in steak and potatoes about now.
“Water or coffee?” She grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge for herself.
“Water would be great.”
Ten minutes later they were seated at the table with their little prepackaged meals—little being the operative word. The first bite of the pizza did two things. Burned the hell out of his mouth and confirmed that although it looked nothing like the one on the box, it tasted exactly like the box.
“Gina says you grew up in Birmingham.” She twirled her fork in the noodles of her meal. She’d picked out the little chicken and broccoli chunks.
He imagined the noodles tasted somewhat similar to his pizza. “I did. When I graduated high school I went for a criminal justice degree. After that I headed out to Cali with my best friend. We both went to work for the LAPD. My friend’s parents had divorced when he was a kid. His father promised him a job with the department if he wanted to move out to California after school.”
“So you both became cops?”
He tore off another chunk of the tasteless pizza and nodded. “Two years later the top personal security team in the LA area offered me a position with a salary I couldn’t refuse.”
“You must have done something to grab their attention?” She smiled, and his pulse executed another of those crazy dips.
“I might have saved a couple of lives in a nightclub shoot-out while off duty and without a firearm.” He shoved the last of the pizza into his mouth to prevent having to say more. The doped-up ex-husband who’d come after his wife in a crowded club with a cocked and loaded nine millimeter had every intention of killing anyone in the room with her. There hadn’t been time to think, only to act. Sean had thrown himself at the guy. Two shots had hissed by his head, close enough to have him wishing he’d gone to church a little more often. Clips from the club’s security cameras had played on all the local networks and even a couple of national ones for days. The notoriety had bothered him. He’d done the right thing. Maybe that might have made him a hero to some.
“Had you always envisioned yourself as a bodyguard to the stars?” Amber set her fork aside and sipped her water.
“Never crossed my mind until they knocked on my door.”
“What was it like? Are the big stars as difficult to work with as the gossip rags suggest?”
He really didn’t want to talk about his past. Things always ventured into the territory he still couldn’t revisit. The only reason he hadn’t changed the subject already was because she looked relaxed for the first time since they’d met.
“Stars are like anyone else. You’ve got the nice ones, and you’ve got the jerks. They put on their pants the same way you and I do.”
“According to Gina, you’re the best.”
He pushed back from the table and stood. “Your friend might have exaggerated just a little.” He carried his plate to the sink and rinsed it before depositing it into the dishwasher. Amber did the same with her bowl and fork.
“We need a notepad or something to list the names of the people who’ve written to you repeatedly.” He moved back to the table. The sooner they focused on the reason he was here, the quicker she would forget about all the questions she appeared to have for him. Not that he had expected anything less from the lady. Amber might not be a big-screen celebrity, but she was damned sure a big star in Birmingham. “Anyone who seems overly interested in your career or you as a person is what we’re looking for.”
She opened a drawer and came up with a notepad and pen.
“We should talk about your neighbors,” he went on. “Friends. Ex-boyfriends. Former girlfriends. Anyone who knows your routine. Anyone who knows you well enough to have a handle on your likes and dislikes. Paradise Peach tea, for instance. Who would know about your taste in tea?”
When she’d settled back at the table, she placed the pen next to the pad and looked him straight in the eye. “My sister and my parents. My colleagues at work. None of them would do this any more than I would. Most of my neighbors are the same ones who lived here when my grandmother was still alive. They’re older,