Almost A Honeymoon. Susan Crosby
noted, were a kind of marbled hazel, more green than blue. Or was it the green eye shadow she wore that made them seem that way?
Mumbling something reminiscent of “You’re welcome,” he returned to his seat, willing his thoughts away from the perfume he couldn’t identify and the damned garter belt he couldn’t reconcile with the woman. He couldn’t allow himself any mental diversions.
He had orders to follow.
* * *
Paige O’Halloran slowed her steps when she spotted the uniformed man holding up a sign neatly penned with O’Halloran as she entered the terminal at the San Francisco airport. She approached the short, brawny man and identified herself.
“Are you waiting for me or another—”
“You, miss.”
She observed the placid expression on the fifty-something man who looked more like a boxer than a chauffeur. She didn’t take comfort in the once-broken-but-not-properly-set nose or the scartissue ridges scattered across his face. “I didn’t order a limousine.”
The man pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and passed it to her—a fax on O’Halloran Shipping letterhead, signed by her father, authorizing her pickup from the airport.
“I’ll accompany you to the baggage area, miss. If you would identify your luggage for me, I’ll take it from there.” He wrestled her briefcase and computer pack from her resisting hands, then he turned from her, indicating with a hitch of his head that she should follow.
It wasn’t her birthday, so why had her father arranged this surprise? She felt guilty enough having to fly first class this trip, but her need for space to prepare for the three upcoming meetings and her last-minute airline reservation had necessitated it. Her father knew she watched every penny of company expenses, never granting herself any luxuries she wouldn’t allow another employee. She called it streamlining the budget; he called it being unnecessarily tightfisted. But Paige remembered their almost endless years of struggling better than he did.
Standing beside the baggage carousel, she tapped her fingertips together, not knowing what to do with her hands, missing the familiar appendage of her briefcase. The small purse that held little more than her wallet and keys hung lightly from her shoulder, not requiring attention. She satisfied herself that her precious bags were safe with the driver, then her gaze strayed around the baggage claim area. It was close to nine o’clock at night, but midnight Boston time. People stood yawning and stretching, shifting foot to foot as they waited for their luggage to appear.
Her glance settled on a man who stood directly across from her, noticeably motionless—the man who had picked up her floppy disk on the plane and returned it to her...finally. He was big. She hadn’t realized how big, because on the plane he’d been crouched beside her. But she saw now how very tall he was—and big. A bodybuilder, undoubtedly. Military, she decided, eyeing the short haircut and smooth-shaven jaw. Except that he had a lone wolf sort of look to him. Something about him...
Sunglasses! He was wearing sunglasses on this, the shortest day of the year, at night. Talk about egotistical! Dismissing him with a toss of her head, she returned her glance to her bags before beginning a visual sweep of the cavernous area again—returning magnetically to the tall, still man.
He was a walking cliché, with his black leather jacket, black turtleneck shirt and unnecessary sunglasses, which hid what, judging from the angle of his head, was a blatant appraisal of a woman poured into a red minidress. His well-worn black jeans hugged contoured thighs and trailed long, sturdy legs, ending at—what a surprise—cowboy boots. She almost snorted at his predictability. God save us from testosterone-riddled men. At least he hadn’t caught her looking at him, thus encouraging his badboy fantasies.
Still, there was something rather fascinating about the solid bulk of him—
Mraaap. A loud, deep tone alerted them to the jerky start of the carousel. Within seconds, suitcases began spilling over the edge. Her garment bag and Pullman were scooped up by the chauffeur when she identified them, then she exited the terminal, her driver loaded with bags, her own hands empty. She felt embarrassingly helpless, so unflatteringly feminine following the overburdened man.
She trailed him to a curiously unoccupied area alongside the terminal. No one milled around, not employees or passengers or security guards. She eyed the back of the man carrying her bags, a frisson of unwanted anticipation traveling down her. Now, Paige, she cautioned herself, just because you don’t like his looks doesn’t mean he’s a threat. Stop being paranoid. Keeping herself beyond arm’s reach, she watched his every move as he stowed her gear in the trunk.
A soft, repetitious squeak penetrated the night in rhythmic cadence. She squinted into the darkness, torn between watching the driver and trying to ascertain the source of the sound. Leather boots, perhaps? Every instinct snapped to attention as the tall man in black appeared out of nowhere.
He didn’t have a suitcase—that fact struck her first. The same carryon bag that had been at his feet in the terminal now dangled from his hand, but he held no other luggage. Why had he been waiting at the carousel if he didn’t have luggage?
“Miss?”
Paige cast a swift glance at the chauffeur, who stood beside the open back door of the limousine. Relieved, she scurried into the seat. Before she could find asylum within, he filled the space beside her. Him. The man in black, who smelled of leather and menace.
The door slammed shut before she could utter a sound, much less muster a scream. She made a quick grab for the opposite door—
“Electronic locks,” he said as the handle wouldn’t budge.
Her father’s longtime fear for her surfaced. She had been kidnapped, really and truly kidnapped, after all. Digging deep for control, she fought the fear pulsating down her body as she faced her captor squarely. “Who are you? What do you want?”
He slid his dark glasses off and gave her a cool once-over. “Rye Warner. I’m your bodyguard.”
Two
“Prove it,” she told him. Proof was incidental—Paige recognized his voice, but she needed a little time to let the fear wash away completely.
The distinctive crinkle of leather sounded lightly in the confining space as he slid his wallet from inside his jacket, whisked out his driver’s license and passed it to her. Then he focused a penlight on it, spotlighting the pertinent details.
Bryan Henry Warner. Sex, M; Hair, Brn; Eyes, Brn; Ht, 6-05; Wt, 240. She calculated his age at thirty-five. A pink donor circle clung to the upper left corner above an extremely flattering picture of the man. Bryan Warner, Rye to his business associates. But to her he was—
“Warner the Barbarian,” she intoned as she flipped his license back to him.
“So, Harry, we meet at last.”
Paige settled against the luxurious leather seat, glad that the darkness hid her wince at the obnoxious nickname he’d given her during one of their many phone conversations over the last two years. “Harry, short for harridan, meaning shrew,” he had said pointedly, “although that’s being generous.”
Ignoring his taunt, she crossed her legs and smoothed the fabric of her skirt. “Why does my father think I need a bodyguard?”
“Patrick uncovered a plan to kidnap you.”
She dropped her head back and groaned. “Not again. And you believed him? Look, Warner, my father has hired bodyguards for me three times in my life, each time believing I was ripe for a kidnapping.”
“And?”
“There hasn’t been a genuine threat yet.”
“There is this time.”
Thrown by the absolute assuredness in his tone, she stalled by looking out the window but saw little