Bodyguard (10 page)

“If it were easy,” George stood up, “you’d go find something hard to do. From now on, no room service—at least not for Alessandra. I’ll go find a deli—pick us up some sandwiches. You want your usual?”

Alessandra looked up to find Harry staring at her, something unreadable in his eyes. His gaze was probably meant to intimidate. After all, her pain-in-the-ass factor, as he’d called it, was off the scale. She was making things difficult with her long list of needs and her dietary restrictions, and he was giving her the evil eye to make sure she knew it.

But she was done apologizing. That part of her life was over. She held his gaze pointedly, defensively, daring him to speak aloud any of his less-than-polite thoughts.

She realized too late that the something in his eyes wasn’t hostility. It was more complicated than that.

He was beyond tired. He was bone weary. It was etched into his face in the lines around his mouth and his eyes. They had once been laughter lines, Alessandra realized. Once upon a time, his eyes had crinkled at the edges from smiles and laughter. Those same lines that made his face look tired and old had no doubt made him a vital, handsome man. Those same lines had helped bring him to life.

But not anymore.

Now he was too tired even to hide the attraction he felt for her. She could see a reflection of her own body in his eyes, naked in the flickering light from the burning house. She could see the unmistakable glint of his hunger as he remembered all that he’d seen and touched.

It was completely hypnotizing.

It was the way Little Red Riding Hood must’ve felt looking into the eyes of the big bad wolf.

But it was accompanied by contempt. He was attracted to her, and he despised both himself and Alessandra because of it.

“Harry,” George said impatiently. “Tuna salad on rye?”

Harry pulled his gaze away from her, looking up at his partner as if surprised he was there. “Yeah,” he said. “Sure.” He glanced back at Alessandra and stood up. “I think I should probably be the one to go.”

He didn’t want to be here, alone with her.

“Why don’t you find out what she wants,” Harry said, “while I try to make that call again.”

As Alessandra watched, he picked up the phone and dialed a series of numbers. Long distance.

“So what’ll it be?” George asked. “What you said—plain grilled chicken and a salad?”

“That’s fine,” Alessandra said absently. Harry’s shoulders were tense as he stood with the phone receiver to his ear, a living picture of intensity. “Is there a problem I should know about?”

George shook his head. “Harry’s making a personal call. He’s having some kind of hassle with his kids.”

Kids. Harry had kids. Alessandra turned away, careful not to let her surprise show. If he had kids, he probably had a wife. She never would have guessed in a million years that Harry O’Dell was a family man. She tried to picture him at home, tried to picture his kids.

She tried to picture his wife.

No wonder he didn’t want to be alone with Alessandra. He was married, and she—she was only a temptation. Forget about the possibility of forming a simple friendship. She was too beautiful for that. Men—even married men—either wanted to possess her or to keep their distance. There was no in-between.

It was too bad, because she could’ve really used a friend.

Even one like Harry O’Dell.

Maybe especially one like Harry O’Dell.

Wiping the steam from the bathroom mirror in the beach house, Shaun leaned closer to study his face.

Even with his blond hair dark from the shower, he didn’t look much like Harry. Emily had their father’s coloring, while Shaun looked like a masculine version of their mother.

Not masculine enough, though. He was nearly as pretty as she had been. He’d always been pretty—and been teased mercilessly about it by the kids at school. And after they’d moved to Colorado, Kevin hadn’t been around to stand up for him.

The kids had called him “Leprechaun,” and still did even though he was no longer as short as he’d been back in sixth grade.

Being called a leprechaun was better than his other nickname.

Fag.

He had blond hair, green eyes, and soft, pale skin that burned instead of tanned, while both Harry and Em turned a deep nut brown in the sun.

He was going to be taller than his father, too. At fourteen, it was clear he’d inherited his mother’s Northern European stature. Over the past two years, he’d gone from being the smallest kid in his class to being one of the tallest. In fact, at five feet eleven, he looked old enough to pass for a high school student.

Apparently that’s what that red-haired girl had thought when she’d stopped to talk to him.

Shaun put on his glasses and stepped back slightly. The muscles in his chest and legs were strong and well developed
from two solid years of dance class. He’d played Little League baseball before he and Em had moved to Marge’s house in Colorado. He’d been good at it; he was coordinated and a fast runner, but his heart hadn’t been in it. He’d merely gone along with it because Kevin and Harry liked it so much. And he’d adored them.

He would have gone swimming in shark-infested waters just to be near them, if that’s what they had wanted to do. Baseball hadn’t been quite that bad, of course. Still, it didn’t get him excited.

But dancing … Ballet, jazz, or tap—he didn’t care which, he loved it all. And he was getting good. Good enough to have gotten the part of the Artful Dodger in the middle school musical. Dozens of kids had tried for the part, but he’d seen Mrs. Janson’s face when he’d started to dance.

All of the teachers had been impressed with his performance.

All of the kids still called him “fag.”

His aunt had urged him to call Harry, to tell him about getting the part in the show, but Shaun hadn’t done it. He couldn’t bear to leave another message on his father’s answering machine.

He hadn’t told his dad about the musical, so he hadn’t been disappointed when Harry hadn’t shown up.

And Harry wouldn’t have come, even if Shaun had called.

He was certain of that.

“Can I pick my new name?” Alessandra asked.

“You can definitely have some input,” George told her. “Do you have a name in mind?”

“I’ve always wanted to be called Friday,” Alessandra said almost shyly.

Harry nearly choked on his tuna-salad sandwich.

“She was a character in a book I really liked,” she continued.

Friday. He looked at George and rolled his eyes. “Perfect,” he said sarcastically, after he swallowed. “You’ll blend right in with the fifty-eight other Fridays in whatever small town in Ohio you end up being placed in.”

“Ohio?” She sounded horrified.

Christ, she was clueless. He steeled himself as he looked back at her, refusing to acknowledge the zing of physical response he felt each time he forced himself to meet the pure blue of her gaze.

“Ohio,” he repeated. “Or Indiana. Or maybe even Illinois. You have a better chance blending in in the Midwest than you would in the South. Unless you want to learn to speak with a southern accent.”

“I can do that,” she said, meeting his gaze in a way that was almost challenging.

Harry had to smile. Yeah, sure, she could. And his mother was the pope. “It’s harder than you think, Mrs. Lamont.”

“I know exactly how hard it is,” she told him quietly. “I learned to speak without a New York accent. I grew up out on the Island. Massapequa Park. I took elocution lessons for nearly half a year to lose my accent.”

That surprised him. According to her file, she’d been born in Connecticut. He’d been so certain she’d lived in Fairfield County nearly all her life, attending private school and taking tennis lessons, and speaking with perfect, round, very wealthy-sounding vowels from birth.

Massapequa Park was pretty solidly middle class.

Why hadn’t that been in her file? Harry made a mental note to find out who’d fucked up. Screwed up. Sheesh.

“We’ll need to talk to the people at the Witness Protection Program before we know exactly where they’ll end up sending you,” George told Alessandra. “And as far as
the name goes …” He shook his head with an apologetic smile. “Friday’s not going to fly.”

Harry was more blunt. “They’ll choose something absolutely white-bread bland. Ordinary. Barbara Conway. There’s a perfect name for you.”

Her extremely nonordinary blue eyes were filled with dismay.

“They’ll make you cut your hair,” he continued ruthlessly. It was going to happen; she was going to have to get used to the idea. “And probably dye it a real average shade of brown. And they’ll get you clothes more suitable for a Barbara Conway, too. Probably lots of knee-length skirts in olive drab and navy blue. Sturdy shoes. Cotton blouses that button to the neck. That sort of thing.”

She was looking at him as if he were describing the horrors of Armageddon.

George delicately wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Come on, Harry, make it sound worse than it is, why don’t you?”

Alessandra looked to George hopefully. “I won’t really have to do that, will I? Dye my hair?”

“You will if you want to be safe,” Harry told her. “You’ll say good-bye to Alessandra Lamont and become Barbara Conway.”

“But what good is being safe if I have to turn into someone I don’t want to be? I mean, what’s the point?”

Harry shrugged. “Your choice. Although, it seems pretty clear to me that if it’s a choice between short brown hair, ugly shoes, or a bullet in the head … Brown hair and ugly shoes win, hands down.”

She didn’t look convinced. But she didn’t argue any further. They ate in silence for several minutes before she spoke again.

“So tomorrow someone from the Witness Protection
Program will arrive,” she said to George. “Will you and Mr. O’Dell go home at that time?”

Mr. O’Dell. Jesus. “We won’t leave you until you’re set up in your new town, and we know you’re safe. And call me Harry,” he said. “Mr. O’Dell gives me a rash.”

“You call me Mrs. Lamont,” she countered.

Damn, she was right. He took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said. “You call me Harry, I’ll call you … Allie.”

She looked pained. “My name is Alessandra.”

“Not anymore it’s not. Consider Allie a temporary stop between your old and your new name—whatever it’s gonna be.”

“Who actually gets to decide that?” she asked.

George finished the last of his 7UP. “Probably some computer somewhere.”

“How long will it be before I’m actually allowed to start living my life again?” she asked.

Harry looked at George. This was a tricky question. If this were a normal Witness Protection Program deal, they would say good-bye to her tomorrow. They’d pass her off, put her in someone else’s capable hands. But this wasn’t normal. They were using her as bait, to lure Trotta into a trap. Because of that, he and George were going to be beside Alessandra, 24/7, for a week or two. Maybe even longer. Certainly as long as it took for Trotta to take the bait and attempt a hit.

There was that twinge of guilt again. God, he had to get over it. Yes, they were using Alessandra as bait. Yes, that was a shitty thing to do. It was unfortunate, but necessary. Why couldn’t he accept that and move on?

George cleared his throat. “That really depends,” he said. “It’ll probably be at least a week, maybe more.”

“That long?” Alessandra’s gaze flicked in Harry’s direction, and he knew what she was thinking.

He didn’t like it, either. He forced a smile. “Just until
we know you’re safe,” he said. “We’re pretty thorough. And you know, after awhile, you won’t even know we’re around.” He reached for his soda, but his fingers fumbled and the can slipped free, spilling the cold liquid directly on his crotch. “Shit!” he shouted, grabbing the can and then a pile of napkins to mop himself off. His pants were soaked. It looked as if he’d wet himself. Or worse. “Fucking unbelievable!”

He looked up, directly into Alessandra’s cool blue eyes.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, feeling the cold of his cola saturate his boxer shorts.

She looked at George, as if choosing to pretend Harry didn’t exist. “When do you get to go home and spend time with your families? How do your wives feel about you spending the night here—in my hotel room?”

“I’m divorced. And we didn’t have kids, so …” George shrugged. “And Harry—”

“I don’t have a family either,” he interrupted. “Not anymore.”

Alessandra turned to look at him. “But George said you had kids.”

Harry stood up, wishing he had a clean pair of pants to change into, wishing he’d brought his bag with his jeans, wishing he were anywhere but here. “George needs to work on his compulsive lying.”

“Harry’s got a son and a daughter,” George told her.

“If you’re here with me all day and all night, when do you get a chance to see them?” Alessandra asked.

His pants were cold and sticky—never a good combination, even on the best of days. And this one was definitely out of the running for the best. “Never,” he said flatly, heading for the bathroom. “I try to see them as close to never as possible. Maybe that way they’ll live to see their sixteenth birthdays.”

“I don’t understand.” Alessandra looked to George
for an explanation as Harry closed the bathroom door behind him.

“Harry had another son,” he told her quietly. “Kevin. He was killed two years ago when—”

Alessandra jumped as the bathroom door swung open and hit the side of the tub with a crash.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Harry came back out of the bathroom with a towel and a dangerous light in his eyes. Luckily for her, his death glare was aimed at George.

George shrugged, unperturbed. “I thought—”

“Don’t!” Harry shouted at him. “Don’t talk about me as if I’m not here. And don’t talk about me when I’m not here. Just keep it the fuck to yourself.”

Alessandra felt responsible. “I asked, and he was just—”

He turned toward her. “I’m not sure why George seems to think it’s important you know that my son Kevin was virtually decapitated when the car he was riding in slid underneath a truck. What do you say George? Were you also going to tell her that the crash that killed my kid and my ex was the result of the mob trying to scare me off a case? The bullets were supposed to be fired only in warning, but someone screwed up and a truck driver was hit. He lost control of his rig, and Sonya and Kevin didn’t stand a chance.”