The Bodyguard & Ms Jones. Susan Mallery

       Chapter One

      “Mister. Mister! Are you dead?”

      The voice was insistent and faintly whiny. Mike Blackburne tried to block out the noise, along with the pounding in his head and the painful throbbing that pulsed through his body. He failed miserably on both counts.

      “I think he’s dead,” the voice proclaimed.

      “He’s not dead. He’s sleeping.”

      “No way. I can’t wake him up. See?”

      Mike felt a jab in his side. The poking continued, hitting right above the bruise on his ribs. The pain increased, and the black haze he’d been fighting for God knows how long began to descend.

      “Leave me the hell alone,” he roared. Or at least it was supposed to be a roar. Instead, his mouth barely opened and he mumbled something that sounded like “Ve m’ll own.”

      There was a moment of blissful silence. The jabbing against his ribs stopped. Then his peace was shattered by a high-pitched call.

      “Mo-om, he’s not dead.”

      Whatever he was lying on shook slightly, as if it had been bumped. There were footsteps, then silence again.

      Mike told himself to sit up. The pain flowing through his body like liquid torture warned him that wasn’t advisable. Trying for a lesser goal, he started to open his eyes. His lids felt as if they’d been glued shut.

      He tried again and this time was rewarded by a sharp stab of light. He blinked, attempting to bring something, anything, into focus, then wished he hadn’t. Some ugly green creature with flaming eyes was staring at him.

      He jerked back, causing his head to swim and the cadence of agony to increase. He felt like roadkill. Blinking again, he studied his guardian.

      “Hell,” he muttered. It was a two-foot-long statue of a dragon, about the ugliest piece of art he’d ever seen. It was just as well he wasn’t dead, because he expected the good Lord to have better taste than that.

      One corner of his mouth curved up, pulling at his split lip. He grimaced and raised his hand to touch the spot. Tender but not bleeding. Besides, who was he to assume that on his death he was going north?

      Footsteps caught his attention. He tried to turn toward the sound. He could see a massive marble fireplace, wing chairs that looked more decorative than comfortable and a small lacquered table supporting a smaller version of the dragon staring down at him. However, he couldn’t locate the owner of the footsteps. He hoped it wasn’t that kid again. He was in bad enough shape without being poked and prodded.

      His eyes closed involuntarily. He didn’t want to sleep anymore. He didn’t know how long he’d been out. He didn’t even know where he was, although something about the room was familiar.

      “Mr. Blackburne?”

      Soft, sweet tones recalled him to consciousness. She didn’t sound like any nurse he’d ever met. But then, he wasn’t still in the hospital. Maybe she knew where he was and what he was doing here.

      He forced his eyes opened. As everything swam around, he felt a cool touch on his forehead. He blinked.

      Directly in front of him were a pair of long, curvy legs. Her honey-colored thighs were about two feet from his face. He could see the bare skin, a freckle above her right knee and a faded scar, probably from some run-in she’d had years before with a curb.

      “Mr. Blackburne?” she repeated.

      Did angels go around naked? He raised his gaze slightly, hoping to encounter more bare skin. Much to his disappointment, she was wearing pale blue shorts with a white gauzy shirt tucked into the waistband. Leaning over him the way she was, her shirt gaped slightly. He saw the curve of her breasts. A weak but nearly audible flicker of male interest told him he was not only alive, but more than likely on the road to recovery.

      Before he could move his head back far enough to see her face, she moved closer and sat next to him. The action took her legs out of his range of vision, but now he could see her features without straining.

      She