The Bodyguard And The Bridesmaid. Metsy Hingle
could she have been so foolish? She knew Ryan Fitzpatrick’s type—the easy charmers who turned a girl’s head with sweet talk and empty promises. She knew the type, and she had no desire to become involved with him or anyone like him. She had learned the hard way just how expensive and painful a relationship with a man like him could be. She still bore the scars to prove it. And she didn’t care if he did kiss like a champ and made her heart stutter with just a look. She had no intention of becoming involved with him.
Suddenly she stiffened, feeling that uneasy prickle at the base of her neck again. She hugged her arms about herself and slowly turned around. She scanned the faces in the crowd again, not even sure who or what she expected to find. Her gaze skipped over face after face—some young, some old. Just people. Strangers waiting, as she was, to see the play. No one face, no one person stood out as anything but normal.
Frustrated, Clea shifted her gaze across the street. She narrowed her eyes at the sight of a dark-haired man leaning against a building. He seemed familiar, she thought. Then he turned his head and looked right at her. For a split second, their eyes met.
Ryan? Someone walked in front of him, blocking her view. And when the man had passed, he was gone. So what if it is Ryan? The man’s a security detective for pity’s sake. He’s probably working on a case.
“Oh, look. I think they’re about to open the doors,” the woman next to her said.
Dismissing Ryan from her thoughts, Clea cut a glance to the glass doors of the theater entrance where a uniformed employee stood fitting a key into the lock.
“About time,” someone grumbled.
The crowd stirred as the doors opened. Clea braced herself against the gentle nudge of bodies and murmured apologies as they made their way slowly toward the theater doorway. Wishing again that she had declined the Donatellis’ invitation, she realized that she hadn’t even seen Maggie or James since they had all left the restaurant. They must be at the front of the line waiting for her and their other guests, she decided. An errant strand escaped her upswept hairstyle, and Clea tucked it into place as she inched forward with the others.
A warm breath tickled the back of her neck, sending a chill down Clea’s spine. Heart pounding, she started to turn around when the crowd shot forward again.
“I’ve been wanting to touch you all evening.”
Fear tightened her throat, paralyzing her for long seconds, at the sound of that voice. She tried to whip around, but found herself trapped, unable to move amid the crush of bodies pushing her toward the theater entrance. Panic raced through her. “Please. I need to get through,” Clea choked out the words and shoved at the man in front of her, struggling to break free.
“You’ll have to wait your turn like the rest of us, sister,” somebody snapped.
“You don’t understand, I have to—”
“You can’t escape. I’ll never let you go.”
The blood in her veins turned to ice as he began telling her what he wanted in that throaty whisper. She started to shove again, but a hand reached from behind her and fingers closed tightly around her breast.
Clea screamed, a bloodcurdling cry of outrage and fear that echoed in her ears. She whipped around, her elbows striking against chests, shoulders and arms. Heedless of the grunts and protests her frantic movements incited, she stared into a sea of strange faces. “Who are you?” she demanded, hating the note of hysteria climbing in her voice. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Who are you yelling at?” an elderly gentleman asked.
She registered the cap of snow-white hair gleaming in the evening light. “Someone...someone just said something to me.” She couldn’t bring herself to admit that the monster had also touched her.
“Harry, did you say something to the young lady?” the woman beside him asked.
“Not me.” He eyed her as though he thought she were ill.
“Then it must have been someone else,” Clea insisted as people began to step around them. “You must have seen him. A man. He was standing right behind me.”
The couple looked at one another and shook their heads. “Sorry. Didn’t notice anyone in particular. Hard to with this kind of crowd.” Draping his arm protectively around the shoulder of the woman beside him, he said, “Come on, Josie. We want to see the play.”
“But wait—”
“Clea.” Ryan shouldered his way to her side. “What is it? What happened?”
Relief flooded through her at the sight of him. “There was a man. He—”
“It’s all right,” he said, pulling her into his arms. He stroked her back, made soothing sounds, then slowly steered her away from the dwindling crowd.
“Clea! Ryan!”
Margaret Donatelli rushed over to them. “What’s going on?”
Clea stepped out of Ryan’s arms and went to her friend. “He was here, Maggie. At the theater.”
“Who?” Margaret asked.
“The...the man who’s been sending me the letters and calling me.”
“What happened?” James Donatelli asked as he rushed over to join them. “I was buying theater programs, and then the next thing I knew I couldn’t find Maggie or you.”
“Poor Clea’s had a terrible fright. Apparently the man who’s been sending her those letters followed her here tonight.”
“Where is he?”
“He ran away when I screamed,” Clea explained.
“My God!” James exclaimed.
“Did you get a look at his face?” Ryan asked, his gaze fastening on hers. The look in his eyes was dark, determined, and not even remotely flirtatious. His cop face, she decided, remembering that he had been one. Given his fierce expression, she almost pitied the criminals who had crossed his path. The serious, focused Ryan Fitzpatrick was even more unsettling than Ryan Fitzpatrick the charmer.
“Did you get a look at his face?” Ryan repeated.
“No. He was behind me, and the crowd was too thick. I couldn’t turn around. All I could do was listen.”
“Did you recognize his voice?” he asked, his voice sharp, his eyes sharper, reminding her of a wolf on a hunt.
“No. He...whispered.”
“What did he say?”
She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, trying to shake off the chill inside her as she remembered what he had told her. “Things... things that he wanted to do.” Clea trembled. No way could she repeat to Ryan the things the man had said when he’d touched her.
“Enough with the questions,” James snapped. “Can’t you see she’s upset?”
“It’s all right. I’m sure Ryan’s only trying to help.” Regaining a grip on herself, Clea straightened her shoulders. “If you two don’t mind, I think I’m going to skip the theater. I just want to go home.”
“You need to call the polite,” Ryan told her.
“I intend to. After I get home.”
“You should call now so they can take your statement while everything’s still fresh. Here, you can use my cell phone.”
Clea ignored the phone in his outstretched hand. “I said I’ll call when I get home.”
“I’ll give you a ride home. You can call from my car.” He cupped his hand under her elbow.
Clea dug in her heels, feeling as though she were being railroaded. “What about your case?”
“My case?”