The Bodyguard: Protecting Plain Jane. Debra Cowan
“She’s on the verge of a panic attack, sir. Call everyone in. We’re coming down.”
Charlotte yelped at the big hand that closed around her arm.
But it wouldn’t let go. “Look at me, Charlotte.” He had her by both arms now, had hunkered down so she could see his face. “Look at me.”
It was Trip. She knew it was Trip. But she was afraid. Afraid of the calls and the memories and the mistakes she couldn’t save herself from. She blinked her eyes into focus. “I need to go home. I want to go home.”
“Okay.” His grip shifted to one arm and he gentled his tone as he towered over her. “I’m sorry I upset you. Stay in the moment, okay? Stay with me.”
“I’m sorry, Trip. I must have pushed myself to be outside a little too long.” She felt twenty-five pounds of furry warmth wedge its way in between them and sit on her foot. Max. Thank goodness. She reached down to stroke his fur, taking the edge off her panic. “Good boy, Max.”
“You have no idea what a fighter you are, do you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You could summon the troops with that whistle.” Trip pulled the dog’s leash from her coat pocket and hooked him up. He rubbed Max around his neck and ears before pushing the leash into Charlotte’s hand and straightening. “I’m the one who pushed you too hard. I thought Turner might be some kind of break on the case.”
“You were just doing your job.”
“I was being a jealous idiot and I scared you instead of helping.” He held out his hand for her to take. “Let’s get you home so you can make those phone calls about Richard’s memorial, okay?”
She nodded, wrapping both hands around the leash, unsure what to make of his compliment or apology or the whole idea of a man being jealous over her.
Trip’s gaze dropped to her fingers, understanding the unspoken message and accepting it. “And as far as Turner goes?”
“What about him?”
“Innocent or not, he’d better never show his face around me.” Backed up by an ominous rumble of thunder overhead, his vow triggered a riot of inexplicable goose bumps across her skin. If they’d been sparked by her usual anxiety or the possessive promise in his words that tickled something new and uniquely feminine inside her, she couldn’t yet tell. “Come on. Let’s get out of the rain.”
Although she hadn’t taken his hand, he still put his fingers at her back to position her in front of him and lead the way down the hill with Max. He released her to tap on his radio. “We’re heading back to the car. Bring it in, guys.”
“That’s a negative. Stand fast, big guy.” Captain Cutler’s crisp voice buzzed over the radio. Charlotte spotted the reason for the warning appearing from behind a mask of trees and doubling back on one of the cemetery’s hairpin turns. Her eyes widened. Her steps slowed. “We’ve got an unmarked vehicle approaching on your six. White van, local plates.”
“I see it.” Trip’s hand clamped down on her shoulder, stopping her beside a red marble headstone. “Let it pass.”
Charlotte grabbed hold of the red marble, swaying as the van crept up behind the black SUV.
Her brain spun around inside her skull as Charlotte pushed herself up from the pavement. Where were her glasses? What was happening to her? Was she bleeding?
“Sir, it’s slowing down.” A woman’s voice broke through the static in Charlotte’s ears. “All I can see is the driver. One male. Sir, he’s puttin’ on the brakes.”
But Charlotte was slipping back in time.
The screech of tires echoed through her aching head. What was going on? She squinted the blur of white into focus. A van. A white van. She tried to push up to her knees, but her head was so heavy. A yawning black hole opened in the side of the van. “Get up!”
Clarity kicked in a moment too late. There were hands on her, rough hands pinching and grabbing and countering every kick and twist she made. “No! Let go! Don’t take me!”
“Shut up, Charlotte!” She flew through the air and landed in a heap on the dirty, rusty floor. She screamed as a hood came over her head and the van door slammed shut.
They were speeding away as a needle pricked her arm.
“Charlotte!”
Someone had pushed her down to her knees and shoved something warm and furry against her.
“Charlotte, you’re all right—stay in the moment.”
She fought inside her head to ground herself, to find her way back to reality. Her pants were wet. Something cold and wet was soaking into her jeans. Max. Max had his front paws on her shoulder and was licking her face. Her hands crept around his neck, hugging him tight. “Good boy. Good boy, Max.”
“Stay in the moment,” the deep voice beside her commanded. She took a deep, calming breath.
And then she saw the white van. “No.”
It stopped at the bottom of the hill. They were coming.
“I won’t go. Don’t take me!”
He turned her bruised face into the stale bedding. “I’m tired of waiting for my millions. It’s time to show Daddy just how serious we are.”
And then she felt the cold scissors squeeze her earlobe. “No!”
“Charlotte!” the voice snapped. “Honey, I don’t want to touch you right now. Listen to my voice. Stay in the moment.”
“Trip?” She pulled one hand from Max’s fur and reached out.
The driver’s door opened and a man climbed out of the van. “Charlotte Mayweather?”
He looked right at her. He was coming for her. She backed away.
“I have something for you.” He held up a small package wrapped in plastic.
Charlotte answered with a scream.
Chapter Nine
Ignoring the barking dog jumping at his legs, Trip threw his arm around Charlotte and twisted to put himself between her and the perp. He muffled her screams against his chest, pressed his lips against her hair and muttered every apology he could think of as he took her down to the slick wet grass and rolled his body over hers, waiting for the attack.
“Gun?”
“Remote?”
“Bomb?”
He heard the speculation over his radio, heard a slew of curses, then Randy Murdock’s harsh, “Drop it! Get down on the ground! Now!”
“Madre de Dios!” Trip turned his head at the thick Latin accent and saw Randy’s blond ponytail flying as she kicked aside the package and put the driver on the pavement. “I surrender! I surrender! Por favor!”
Murdock hooked her sniper’s rifle over her shoulder, put her knee in the man’s back and cuffed him. Captain Cutler pointed his gun at the windshield as Sergeant Delgado approached the rear of the van at rifle-point and swung it open. He paused, climbed inside, then jumped back out to the ground and flattened himself on the road to look beneath the van.
He could read the results in his team’s posture even before he heard Delgado’s report. “Clear. The van’s clear.”
“He’s clean,” Murdock reported, rising after frisking the driver for weapons.
“Let me up.” Charlotte’s panicked screams had subsided to a hoarse plea. “I’m