The Bride's Bodyguard. Beth Cornelison
his jaw jumped as he gritted his teeth and eased forward to peer over the backseat.
She rubbed the spot at her temple where her head pounded.
“I think we lost them.” Jake expelled a deep breath of relief as he pushed up to the seat at the back of the limo. He raked a hand through his short, inky-black hair and lifted a penetrating gaze to her. “Are you all right?”
Paige could only stare back at him, too stunned, too shaken, too confused by the violent attack at her wedding to know what to do or say. This kind of thing was only supposed to happen in the movies, not in real life. Not in her staid, well-planned, organized, boring life.
Jake extended a large hand to her. She studied the crimson smears on his fingers, and her stomach roiled. “You have blood on your hand. Brent’s blood,” she said stupidly, still too shell-shocked to edit her thoughts for statements of the obvious.
But Jake didn’t laugh off or dismiss her banal comment. Instead, his expression darkened, and his jaw tightened. “I did what I thought was best, considering I was outnumbered, outgunned and had the lives of three hundred of your friends and relatives to factor in to my response to those thugs,” he said bitterly. He massaged his knee and winced. “I know I screwed up. I know your fiancé is likely dead because of my screw up.”
Paige’s breath hitched, and a sharp ache sliced through her. Brent could be dead.
Jake jerked his gaze to the side window and huffed. His nostrils flared, and pain flooded his face for a moment before he schooled his expression and turned back to her. “I’m sorry.”
She blinked, saying nothing for long seconds, realizing he’d taken her comment as condemnation and accusation. His tortured expression, his guilty confession twisted in her chest.
“I—I only meant…you have blood—” She pointed to his hands, then stopped when she saw the blood on her own fingers. She gaped at the red stains, her stomach seesawing as she discovered the smears on her dress, as well—the garish reminder of the violence she’d witnessed, of her futile attempts to help Brent when he’d been shot, of the unknown carnage she’d left at the church. It was her wedding. Didn’t that make it her responsibility to see to the safety of her guests? How could she flee like a coward and leave everyone else to die?
And what choice in the matter had Jake given her, hauling her away like a duffel bag over his shoulder?
“Are you hurt? ” Jake repeated, his tone demanding.
Paige drew a slow breath, forcing air into lungs paralyzed by shock, terror and grief. “I—I don’t know.” She looked up at Jake, needing answers. “What just happened? How…Why…?”
He leaned forward and put a hand under her elbow, helping her off the limo floor and onto the long seat ninety degrees from where he sat. “Good question. The sooner we get those answers, the better I’ll be able to protect you and the bead.”
“Protect me?”
Jake gave her a tight nod. “Those are my orders. That’s what Brent asked just before we made our big exit.”
“Your orders?” She hated sounding like some parrot, repeating everything Jake said, but her brain was still struggling to comprehend the horror of the past half hour and make sense of the insanity. “Who the hell are you really? And why did you think you had to bring a gun to my wedding? ”
Jake flexed and balled his hand restlessly. “I really am an old friend of Brent’s. But not his best friend—just the one with the most military training. He hired me a couple weeks ago to protect him until after the wedding. My being his best man was my cover. So you wouldn’t ask questions.”
Paige shook her head, more confused than ever. “Then. why are you here instead of protecting him?”
“Didn’t you hear what he said before we made our exit? He told me to hide you and keep the bead safe at all costs.” He narrowed a sharp gaze on her and extended his hand. “In fact, you should give me the bead for safekeeping.”
Her head throbbed, and she swallowed the urge to scream her frustration with the endless riddles. “What bead?”
Jake’s jaw tightened, and his dark eyes reflected his own frustration and impatience with the situation. “The one the terrorists who crashed your party were after, of course! The one you’re protecting for Brent. Give it to me.” He wiggled his fingers, urging her compliance. “Come on, Paige. Brent asked me to guard it. He said something about national security.”
Paige barked a humorless laugh. “What does some bead have to do with national security? And what makes you think I have this…this bead? ”
Squeezing his eyes shut, Jake massaged his right knee again and exhaled an irritated huff.
“Brent said you have what those guys who shot him were after,” he said quietly, clearly struggling to keep his tone calm, though tension vibrated from him in palpable waves. “That’s why I got you out of the church so fast. According to Brent, you have what the terrorists want, and it is my job to keep this bead—whatever it is—safe.”
His wording smacked her between the eyes, and she flopped back on the seat, her chest aching, as if from a physical blow. “That’s what he said? Keep the bead safe? That’s why you hustled me out of there so fast? Why you risked your life to save me?”
Protect the bead. Not her. She was merely a pawn in Brent’s dangerous secret agenda.
Jake rolled his eyes and groaned. “Isn’t that what I just said? This conversation is getting old, Paige. Just give me the bead, okay?”
Something inside her snapped. Her patience, her composure, her illusions of her safe, orderly world shattered, and she grabbed her head, fisting her hands in her hair, further destroying the salon styling she’d received that morning. “I don’t have any bead! I don’t know what Brent thinks I have or why he told you I have it!” She hated her shrill tone, her loss of control. But getting shot at, learning the safety of some bead was more important to your fiancé than your safety, having your entire world thrown into chaos did that to a girl. “I don’t know why armed men attacked my wedding! And I don’t know why my fiancé thinks he has something to do with national security! None of this makes sense to me!”
Jake’s head snapped up, his attention drawn to something out the back window.
“What—”
Before she could finish her question, he grabbed her arm and yanked her back toward the floor. Paige gritted her teeth. She was getting tired of his manhandling.
“Stay down!” he shouted as he lowered the side window and leveled his handgun at some threat outside.
She heard the roar of an engine, too loud and high-pitched to be a car. It sounded more like a motorcycle. Then a hail of bullets hammered the limo, shattering more windows and pocking the far wall of the back compartment.
“I thought you said we’d lost them!”
Jake spared her only a brief glance. “Clearly, they found us again.”
He pitched backward as the limo veered suddenly and bumped along the shoulder. His eyes widened, and he bit out a curse. Lunging forward, he climbed over her and shouted, “Hold on to something! Our driver’s been hit.”
Jake turned on the seat and rocked backward. With a hard kick, he knocked out the Plexiglas window partition between them and the front seat.
Paige scrambled across the floor, groping for a handhold as the vehicle swerved and bumped. She grabbed the pit of a wet-bar cup holder over her head and braced her feet on the long side seat on the opposite side of the compartment. Jake slid headfirst through the opening he’d created, dragging the driver— oh, God, was he dead?—off the steering wheel and into the passenger seat.
Paige bit down hard on her bottom lip, praying for a miracle, praying she and Jake weren’t about to be