Bodyguard Reunion. Beverly Long
when he comes back.”
“She’s right,” Royce said. He tried to ignore the heat that spread from his gut to his neck when Jules shot him a grateful look. He was mad at her. For so many things. Gratitude wasn’t going to sucker him in, make him forget.
“Who are you again?” Charity asked, likely irritated that it suddenly seemed as if it was two against one.
He glanced at Jules, wondering what she’d shared with Charity. Before he could speak, Jules jumped in.
“His name is Royce Morgan.”
“Okay,” she said dismissively. “But what’s with the two of you?”
Royce realized that the girl had not heard his introduction to the cops. From the corner of his eye, he’d seen her beat feet back to the bedroom and had considered that she was fleeing down the fire escape before she’d reappeared a minute later. He just bet that the girl had some drugs or other illegal contraband in the bedroom that she hadn’t wanted the cops to stumble upon.
“We can get into that later,” Jules said.
Charity shrugged, as if she really didn’t give a damn.
“You said earlier that you would need to find a place to stay,” JC said.
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“I was wondering if you’d consider staying with me,” Jules said.
Charity chewed on the nail on her right index finger. “Why would I do that?”
“It will give you a chance to think about alternatives. I’m in town for just a few days, so it wouldn’t be for long, but it might save you a few bucks.”
Royce wasn’t happy. He’d known Charity for about ten minutes, but the impressions were forming fast. She didn’t choose her friends well and she had terrible manners. She’d not offered one bit of thanks to Jules for trying to save her ass.
He didn’t relish the idea of her being around. But if the alternative was that Charity would be staying in some dive and Jules would feel the need to visit, that was even more unacceptable.
Charity shoveled in a big handful of chips. “I don’t know. There shouldn’t be any more danger,” she said, talking with her mouth full. “And it’s not like we’re friends.”
“We could be friends,” Jules said. “Please, I’d really like to do this for you.”
Charity shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”
As far as rocking endorsements, it fell a little flat. But there was something not quite right. Charity’s words and tone were mildly accepting but her eyes seemed brighter, as if she might really be excited about the offer.
Maybe the kid was more scared than he’d given her credit for.
Jules smiled at Charity. “Go get your cat. I’ll feel better when we’re out of here.”
When Charity was back in the bedroom, he spoke quickly. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”
“I’m grateful for your discretion,” Jules said, her voice low. “I’ll tell her what’s going on but not just yet. But, Royce,” she said, her voice a little sharper, “please understand that while I respect your opinion, I make my own decisions.”
He shook his head. “You might be the CEO, but right now, I’m in charge of your safety. You need to keep your head in the game. This just seems a little hasty.”
“I have the ability to offer her some temporary shelter, to give her a chance to get her act together. I think my mom would have wanted me to do that.”
Bingo. It was always going to come back to that.
“Fine,” he said.
“But for now, I don’t want her to know what’s going on. That I need protection.”
Great. She not only wanted to tie his hands, she wanted to put a bag over them. “That won’t work. If she’s staying with you, she’s going to have to understand the rules.”
She drew in a deep breath. “I’ll tell her that you’re providing security. That’s it. Nothing about the letters, nothing about the car that may or may not have been aiming for me. I don’t want her getting frightened and running away.”
“You seem to be really concerned about a girl you just met. I understand that your mom was friends with her mom, but—”
“Please, can we talk about this later? I just want to get out of here.”
The plea pulled at his gut. Jules looked tired, and he realized that while she had dismissed her need for medical care, the attack had still taken a toll on her. “Fine. Let’s make tracks.”
* * *
Make tracks. That took her back. Way back. To eight years ago. She’d been working and living in Manhattan.
It had been crazy busy at work, where she was already a senior director at Geneseel Drugs after just three years on the job. For weeks, she’d been working day and half the night, too, tying up the loose ends of yet another acquisition of a smaller, less profitable competitor. When friends planned the inevitable Memorial Day get-together, she’d declined. They’d been relentless.
“It’s the first summer holiday,” they’d said. “You have to come.”
She’d finally agreed and walked the six blocks through the financial district. She didn’t need directions. She was as familiar with that part of the city as her own neighborhood. She’d gone to a private high school close by and every day after school, she’d walked to her father’s office, where he’d been an executive vice president at one of the largest banks in the city.
He made a good salary. That was obvious. Maybe not when she’d been a young child, but once she’d gotten into middle school and high school, she’d always known that her dad probably made more money than the dads of her friends.
Music lessons. Dance lessons. Club soccer. European vacations. Whatever she’d needed or wanted, he’d worked hard to provide it for her.
Because he hadn’t wanted her to miss her mother. She had, of course. But she’d tried to never let him know how much. Hadn’t wanted to add to his pain.
By the time she’d arrived at the rooftop bar that warm windy spring night, the party was in full swing. She’d chatted and mingled and downed two glasses of wine on an empty stomach. Almost burped it back up when she caught a glimpse of Royce across the room and he smiled at her.
He was simply the most handsome guy she’d seen in a long time. He had presence. That was the only way to put it. Tall, certainly over six foot, and solid with wide shoulders and a broad chest. He was casually dressed in a gray T-shirt, faded blue jeans and scuffed motorcycle boots. She could see the edge of a tattoo on his right bicep, all swirly lines and irregular shapes. He was drinking a beer.
He totally looked as if he could kick some butt.
And the immediate attraction she felt was hard to ignore. But she did, giving him just a brief smile in return before turning her attention back to the woman she was chatting with. The woman had noticed her interest, however, and confided that he was recently back from serving overseas, and a friend of a friend.
And she’d had a crazy desire to talk to him. But she didn’t. Her breakup with Bryson was too fresh. She wasn’t ready. Intellectually she knew that.
Even though her body was practically humming at his blatant sex appeal.
Forty minutes after arriving, she was on the curb, waiting for a cab to take her back to the office, when the storm broke and pouring rain hit.
Out of nowhere, a big umbrella appeared, held by the man from the party. Up close, he was even better looking. “Tough night to be making tracks,” he said with a wickedly sexy smile as the wind threatened