Accidental Bodyguard. Sharon Hartley
but he preferred to walk.
Colorful tropical landscaping and the soothing sound of waterfalls surrounded him. He was on the job, but this assignment was more like a forced vacation. His boss insisted he needed a break after his last two missions, which, yeah, had both been bitches. He took another sip of the excellent coffee.
Maybe Lola was right, but he’d resisted taking this cushy gig as Security Director on Collins Island, a private island off Miami Beach accessible only by boat where his employer, the Protection Alliance, provided security. PA operatives rotated in and out as the live-in chief, usually delighted for the opportunity.
Most of the residents were seasonal, and this was the height of the season. Crime was nonexistent on this island paradise. All he had to do for the next month was keep his staff on schedule, act friendly to the wealthy residents and enjoy the resort-like atmosphere.
But it was always boring as hell. And he hated sucking up to trust fund slackers.
A blast of hot air greeted him when he pushed open the door to the security office. He groaned at the decor as he moved to shut down the heat. Pink-and-gray Art Deco was definitely not his style. And what idiot had decided heat was needed just because a weak cold front had swept through south Florida last night? Not him. He was a north Florida man. Jackson opened a window.
He shrugged off his jacket and hung it in the closet. Another thing he didn’t like about this gig was the requirement to wear a blue blazer. Damn thing made him feel like a polo player. His khakis and the knit shirt featuring the Collins Island logo over the pocket were enough of a uniform.
He sat at the desk to review the security force schedule. The most critical duty was clearing arrivals for the ferry on the Miami side. The ferry ran every fifteen minutes, and no one was allowed to place a toe on Collins Island without clearance from an owner. Even daily maids were checked and their bags searched. Two guards handled that assignment on three eight-hour shifts, with two more guards on the island side to supervise debarkation. Another two circulated the island on golf carts, constantly alert for any sort of trouble. Of which there was, fortunately, seldom any.
He noted all six positions on all three shifts were staffed with regular PA personnel for the next week. Excellent. That made the transition easier, but he’d make a late-night visit to the docks to ensure no one was catching a nap, looking to take advantage of the new guy in the director’s chair. Not likely, though. Guards loved this job because it came with a lot of perks like big tips and expensive gifts—especially during the winter season.
Still, you never knew what could happen. He wanted no screw-ups during his stint as chief.
Looking for any anomalies, he reviewed the security logs for the last week and reached for the phone when it rang.
“Security.”
“Hey, Action Jackson. Are you bored yet?”
Lola, the office manager from Protection Alliance’s main office. He pictured her pink hair, always worn in short spikes. She looked crazed but possessed a laser-sharp mind and never forgot a thing. Jackson relaxed back in his chair, making the leather squeak.
“I’ve only been on the job forty-five minutes, Lola.”
“That’s usually all it takes.”
“Maybe I’m looking forward to a month of not having to duck bullets.”
“Yeah, right. I’ll remind you of that in a week.”
“Hey, this was your idea, boss. I’m ready to go back in the field anytime.”
“You are in the field.”
Jack snorted. “Field of dreams.”
“Did you get settled in the apartment? Everything to your liking?”
“Ocean view. Great coffee. I can walk to work through a tropical paradise. What’s not to like?”
“Don’t be sarcastic, Jack.”
“I’m going with the flow.”
Lola laughed, a throaty sound. “By the way, we received a very nice thank-you bonus from that rapper Jazzy Bones Boy yesterday. He’s grateful for your services.”
He ought to be. The jerk almost got me killed. “How grateful?”
“I think your cut will make you happy,” Lola said.
“Is that why you called? Couldn’t have already been a complaint about me.”
“I wanted you to know there’s a tenant arriving sometime today.” Jackson listened as Lola shuffled through paper. “A Mr. Rodolfo Santaluce has rented the pool house of his villa. He wants us to assist with the arrival, make sure security doesn’t hassle his new tenant.”
“Isn’t renting a bit unusual? I can’t imagine the owners here needing extra income.”
“It put up a red flag for me, too, so I questioned his assistant, who informed me that Mr. Santaluce got where he is today by being frugal. The assistant’s tone suggested it wasn’t any of my business what his boss did.” Lola hesitated, then added, “I’m thinking it’s a mistress.”
“Who’s Santaluce?”
“Big deal Italian businessman. Married, two kids. The family is in Hong Kong for the winter.”
“What business?”
“Questionable.”
“Got it,” Jack said. “Give me his address. I’ll meet the mistress and expedite her transition into the love shack.”
“Thanks, Jack. Her name is Louise Clark.”
After disconnecting, Jack donned his jacket and exited the office for a trip to the docks to give clearance for one Louise Clark, a lucky lady with a mega-rich sugar daddy. He could do that by phone, but wanted to introduce himself to his staff and make certain they alerted him when Ms. Clark boarded the ferry on the Miami side.
He climbed into the golf cart with Security Director stenciled on the rear and turned a key conveniently in the lock, shaking his head. Weren’t many places in south Florida where you could leave a key in the ignition without worry of theft. The quiet electric motor ignited immediately, and he headed toward the dock. Not a speck of trash anywhere on the streets or the neatly mowed grass. Palms, oaks and other landscaping were trimmed to perfection. Gently cascading fountains sounded all around him, clear of any leaf debris because they were cleaned twice a day.
Jack couldn’t imagine—but could easily find out—what the monthly maintenance fee was on Collins Island. Had to be astronomical because per square foot there weren’t that many residences. Only ten large villas on the eastern shore of the island—where Ms. Clark would soon take up residence—and forty town homes on the west housed in four three-story buildings.
The graceful structures were constructed in a coordinated Mediterranean style with coral-color barrel-tile roofs, featuring arches and supporting decorative columns. Colorful ceramic tile mosaics detailed many of the architectural elements, including the addresses.
Nobody out on this fine Monday morning, except a maid actually dressed in a starched gray uniform walking two French bulldogs. Jack nodded at her, and she responded with a shy smile.
The 10:00 a.m. ferry, laden with only six vehicles, approached the dock when Jack arrived. He parked his cart by the guard shack—constructed in the same architectural style—and watched the dock personnel do their job. Tanned men and women in blue shorts and crisp white shirts efficiently tied the boat to the landing, secured the sturdy metal ramp and motioned for the cars to drive off in a particular order. Three walk-aboards also exited.
The guard on duty, a uniformed twentyish black male, watched the process with alert attention. All clearance was completed on the Miami side, so all he had to do was make a head count, answer questions and direct approved visitors to their destination.
When debarkation was complete, Jack approached the