Читать книгу The Bodyguard And The Bridesmaid - Metsy Hingle - Страница 11

Three

“A bodyguard!”

“That’s right,” Ryan informed her.

Clea jerked away from him. “No way,” she fired off, reminding him of his five-year-old godchild.

Damn, Ryan thought. She was so distressed that he almost felt sorry for her. Almost, but not quite. Not enough for him to risk leaving her unprotected. “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.”

She stiffened with indignation. “Wrong. I do have a choice,” she told him, her eyes shooting off angry green sparks. “And I choose not to have a bodyguard. I don’t need one, and I certainly don’t need you.”

“Oh, you need me all right. You’re just too stubborn to admit it.”

“Why, you—”

He caught her by the shoulders. “Wake up and smell the coffee, Clea,” he said, his voice harsh because he needed for her to see reason. “I’ve made light of what’s happened tonight because I wanted to wipe that terrified look out of your eyes. I can see how that was a mistake. Because this isn’t a game. You’re in danger. There’s some crazy out there stalking you. Or have you forgotten that fact?”

“Believe me, that’s something I’m not likely to forget.” She balled her hands into fists, propped them on her hips, faced him eye to eye, toe to toe. “There’s hardly an hour that goes by that I’m not aware of it. I think about it when I open my eyes in the morning and when I close them at night. I think about it every time the telephone rings or a letter shows up in my mail. So, don’t you stand there and tell me I’m not taking this seriously. Because I am.”

“Then quit fighting me and let me do what I’m being paid to do,” Ryan told her.

“Which is what? Trying to get into my pants?”

Ryan flushed, knowing there was some truth in what she said. “I haven’t made a secret of the fact that I want you. But that’s personal, and you and I will deal with that when this is over. You don’t have to worry about it getting in the way of me doing my job—which is to keep you safe from that creep who grabbed you tonight.”

“And, of course, since you’re an ace private eye for all of a...what is it now, a month? I’m supposed to put my trust in your vast experience?”

“I’d say the fact that I was a cop for twelve years counts for something. If nothing else it should inspire some confidence that I know what I’m doing.”

“Well, it doesn’t. Why should I believe you can find this guy when the police who’ve been working on this for months can’t?”

“Because I promise you that I will find him and stop him.”

“Fine. You go right ahead and play super sleuth. But you’ll to do it without playing bodyguard to my helpless female. Forget it, Fitzpatrick. I don’t need you to protect me.”

Lord but the woman was stubborn, Ryan thought, his patience wearing thin. “Because you can take care of yourself. Right?”

“That’s right. I can.”

“And if your admirer decides to cop another feel like he did tonight, how do you plan to handle that? By screaming bloody murder again?”

Clea sucked in a breath. “That won’t happen again. I’ll be more careful in the future,” she told him, her voice suddenly tight.

Hating himself for putting that haunted look back in her eyes, Ryan smacked his hand against the car door. “Dammit, Clea.”

“Don’t you swear at me, Fitzpatrick,” she fired back, some of the steel returning to her voice.

He raked at his hair. “Do you really expect me to just leave you alone so that sicko can take another shot at you?”

“You’re a private investigator. I expect you to investigate. Track down where his calls are coming from. Or do some kind of computer search. Or...or whatever it is you do to find a suspect. Just find out who’s doing this to me and make him stop.”

“I’ll hop right to it, Duchess,” he countered, not bothering to mask his sarcasm. Did she really think it was that easy to find a clever criminal who didn’t want to be caught? “Any other orders?”

Her lips thinned at the nickname. “Just do your job, and let me worry about my safety.”

Ryan caught her by the wrist as she turned to leave. “And just how do you plan to do that? How do you plan to protect yourself until he’s caught? By putting new locks on your doors and windows? By making sure you’re not caught in any more crowds?” He didn’t give her a chance to respond. “Or did you plan to continue with business as usual, but watch over your shoulder every time you go somewhere and hope you’ll be able to spot him if he’s following you? Or maybe...just maybe, you can have the flight attendant check out the identity of the man seated next to you on an airplane. And the usher check out who’s sitting behind you in the theater. And the restaurant manager give you a bio on the guy seated at the next table. Or—”

“Stop it,” she cried out, pulling free from his grasp. “You’re just trying to scare me.”

“You’re damn right I’m trying to scare you. You should be scared,” he told her in a voice that had made the men under his command shudder. But not Clea. No, the lady didn’t even flinch.

“This isn’t a game, Clea,” he said growing more frustrated by the second. “I’ve seen nuts like this before. The fellow who’s been sending you those notes and calling you on the phone upped the ante tonight. If he risked being seen, risked getting caught, it’s because the sick thrill he gets from scaring you with letters and calls isn’t enough any longer. He wants more. And, believe me, he isn’t going to stop until he gets it. Until he gets you. The best chance you’ve got of stopping him is for me to get him first.”

He had to give her credit. She didn’t wince, didn’t break into hysterics, didn’t start crying like a lot of women would do. But despite her brave front, she was scared. He could see it in her eyes, in the way she clenched and unclenched the car keys in her fist. He could feel it in the air between them. Yet her gaze remained steady, her voice even, as she said, “Give me one reason I should believe you’ll be any more successful at finding him than the police have been?”

“I’ll give you three. First,” he said, ticking off his index finger, “unlike the cops, I only have one case to work on solving. This one. Second,” he said, holding up another digit, “you’ve got good men assigned to your case, but I’m better. I’ve got twelve years’ experience as a cop and believe me, I was damned good at my job. And third,” he finished, marking off another finger, “while the police might try, they don’t have a vested interest in seeing that nothing happens to you. I, on the other hand, do. Because when this is over, you and I are going to explore getting a whole lot closer.”

“I’m not even going to bother arguing with you about that ridiculous statement.”

Ryan watched her hook a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and eye him warily. He found himself amused by the nervous feminine gesture that was so unlike Clea. With her swath of black hair, green eyes and sharp tongue, she reminded him of a feisty kitten, hissing and swiping with her claws even as she demanded that she be rubbed. He inched a bit closer.

“All right,” she said, her voice grim. “I don’t seem to have much in the way of choices—not if I want to put an end to this nightmare. So, I’ll agree to a bodyguard. But I have some conditions of my own.”

“Which are?”

“I pay Fitzpatrick Securities—not Maggie and James.”

“Done.”

At his easy acquiescence, she narrowed her eyes. “Just how much is a bodyguard going to cost me?”

“Three-hundred-fifty a day, plus expenses.”

“That’s robbery.”

“That’s the discounted family rate. The usual fee is five hundred.”

She opened her mouth, shut it, “I get the family rate.”

“Done. What else?”

“I want Sean or Michael, not you.”

Ryan grinned. “Sorry, Duchess. That’s not an option.”

“But, I—”

“Even if I were inclined to give you up, which I’m not, my brothers are tied up on other cases, and I’m not trusting this to an operative. So, you’re stuck with me.”

“Stuck is right,” she muttered.

“Come on. If you give me a chance, you’ll find out I’m really a nice guy. Want me to provide you with references?” he teased.

“From who? Your legion of lady friends?”

“Legion?” Ryan repeated, amused. “You overestimate my appeal to the fairer sex. Besides, there’s only one woman I’m interested in,” he said, skimming a finger along her soft cheek. “You.”

Those forest-green eyes of hers darkened a moment. He spied the telltale quickening of the pulse at her neck. Then she shoved his hand aside. “Forget it, Fitzpatrick. I’m not buying.”

“I wasn’t aware I was selling anything,” he told her, dogging her footsteps to her car.

She made a most unladylike snicker as he opened her door. “Oh, you’re selling all right,” she told him as she slid onto her seat and fastened her seat belt.

“Yeah?” he said, feigning innocence. He draped his arm over the top of the open door and admired the way the shoulder belt outlined her breasts.

“Yeah,” she mimicked.

He dipped his head inside the car to see her face more clearly. “And just what is it you think I’m selling?”

“You and I both know what you’re selling—a quick tumble on the sheets and promises of paradise in your arms.”

Ryan nearly groaned at the images her words evoked. He was already aroused—a constant state, it seemed, whenever he was within five feet of the woman. And now he was as hard as a hammer and itching to take her in his arms. “I don’t know about the quick part, but I sorta like the idea of us finding paradise together. I’m game, if you are.”

She bristled. If she had been a cat, every hair on her back would be standing straight up, Ryan thought. Damn, if she didn’t turn him on even with that schoolmarm scowl on her face.

“You needn’t bother wasting that sexy little grin on me, Fitzpatrick,” she told him in that prim voice. “I’ve told you before, I’m not interested.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes.”

He traced a fingertip along her neck, watched surprise flicker across her face. Her pulse began another frantic dance. He saw her gaze drop to his mouth, her eyes darken to a green as deep as a magnolia leaf. Heat flooded his body, and Ryan moved a fraction closer, eager to sample her lips again, to taste all that sweet heat she kept locked up in the ice.

“Let’s make sure,” he whispered against her lips.

Clea’s look moved up from his mouth to his eyes. She blinked. Were it not for the painful ache pressing against the zipper on his jeans, he would have laughed at her half horrified, half aroused expression. She pushed at his shoulders and Ryan stepped back. “I’m already sure,” she told him, leveling him with a look as cold as a Minnesota winter.

“Why don’t I see if I can change your mind?”

She yanked the door closed. “It’d be a waste of time because I won’t,” she told him and started the car.

“You wouldn’t want to make a little wager on that, would you now?” he asked, wanting to see that fire darken her eyes again.

“I don’t gamble,” she told him, going all prickly just as he had known she would. “And if I were you, I wouldn’t bet on me having a change of heart. Now get out of my way.”

Ryan jumped back as she gunned the engine and took off down the street. “Oh, but I am betting on it,” he said as he hopped into his convertible and took off after her. He zipped through a yellow light and whipped around a comer behind her white sedan. A smile tugged at his lips. “You might take me on one hell of a chase, Duchess,” he murmured as she made another swift turn. “But make no mistake about it. I am going to catch you.”

Oh, what a royal idiot you are, Clea Mason. She pulled the car to a stop in front of her condo. “A first-class, certifiable idiot,” she muttered, reliving those moments outside the Donatellis’. She slammed the driver’s door closed and walked around to the trunk of the car to retrieve the briefcase she had been in too much of a hurry to unpack before she had left for dinner.