Bodyguard (30 page)

So did he. He wanted desperately to see what his father looked like these days. Fat chance of that happening.

“I was curious,” Mindy continued.

“Maybe you should mind your own goddamn business!” he spat, all of his frustration erupting into violent anger. “You’re always over here. Always in the way. Always curious and sticking your big nose into everything. Fats MacBlubber, taking up twice the space on my couch. I didn’t ask you to come here! Why don’t you just go home and leave me alone?”

Em tugged on his shirt. “Don’t say goddamn. Don’t say goddamn.”

He slapped at his sister’s hand, harder than he should have. “Guess what, Em? Dad was supposed to visit us,
but he’s not coming. And it’s not because his job is so important. It’s because he doesn’t love us. He’s probably lying somewhere, too drunk to get out of bed. He doesn’t work for the president. The reason he doesn’t come here is because he’s an asshole who doesn’t give a shit about us!”

“Don’t say shit,” Em whispered, her eyes overflowing with tears as she clutched her slapped hand close to her chest.

“You’re the asshole.” Mindy pushed past him, scooping up Em into her arms as she ran from the room.

Shaun felt sick to his stomach, all his anger turning instantly to shame. Dear God, what had he just said? What had he done? His legs felt weak, and he lowered himself onto the couch.

The TV was still on, still muted, and in brilliantly garish 1960s-era color, Gilligan silently mugged for the cameras as the skipper hit him over the head with his hat.

Harry hadn’t slept well.

When Alessandra woke up, she could tell just from looking that if he’d slept at all, it had been only fitful dozing.

This man had fearlessly thrown himself in front of her last night. He’d been prepared to use his body to stop bullets meant for her, hadn’t batted an eye as he’d calmly faced death. He’d done the same when he’d leapt in front of Ivo’s gun.

But when it came to facing his children, he was terrified.

“It’s going to be okay,” she told him.

“Maybe. But it’s not going to be easy,” he said quietly.

She touched his hair, admiring the way his new cut still managed to make him look sexy, even mussed from
sleep. At least one of them was going to have a good hair day. “I think you should be honest with them about why you haven’t been to visit. And I think you should all go in for grief counseling.”

He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his back to her. She could barely hear him when he spoke. “What if it’s too late?”

“As long as you’re alive, there’s no such thing as too late.” She believed that with all her heart.

He was silent, and she touched his back. “If you want,” she said, “I’ll hold your hand.”

Harry closed his eyes, wishing he could just sit there forever. “Yeah, I might take you up on that.”

This was completely stupid. His kids were kids. All he needed to do was explain. Well, try to explain. He wasn’t sure he actually could explain. But they were kids—he was their father. They’d forgive him. And then they could start over.

He’d visit more often. Monthly, at least.

He’d be able to see Allie then, too. They could continue on in their current nonrelationship damn near indefinitely. He liked that idea.

She leaned over, holding him tightly from behind as she kissed his cheek. “Just let me know if you need me.”

Harry watched as she walked naked into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. He hadn’t been completely honest last night, not with her, not with himself.

Her vehement reaction to his suggestion that she might be interested in marriage had bothered him just a little too much. What kind of head case was he—that he should be disappointed when Allie gave him the response he was hoping for?

But he had been disappointed, and her absolute certainty that she did not want to marry him had stung.

He’d thought long and hard about it last night, between his long, hard thoughts of Shaun and Emily. Realistically, he knew there was no way in hell a woman like Alessandra Lamont would want more from a man like him than quick, hot sex. He was by no means a member of the millionaires’ club—not even close. He hated his job, and his family life was about to detonate. With the exception of his newly awakened sex life, there was not one part of his existence that wasn’t in complete shambles.

And his sex life was about to go up in smoke, too, from his own foolish stupidity. Yes, he was on the verge of fucking up the one good thing he had going.

He was falling in love with Alessandra Lamont. Of all the stupid-ass things he could do, he knew that would be the worst. It would completely sabotage his friendship with her.

Let me know if you need me, she’d said.

He needed her. Desperately. But there was no way in hell he was going to tell her that.

“I’m assuming there’s been no word at all from Harry.” Nicole sat on the edge of George’s forest-green sofa. It had been their sofa, and this had been their living room, before the divorce. They’d made love right here, in front of the TV, more times than she could count.

George lit a cigarette and glanced in the direction of the kitchen, where Kim was fixing them all a cup of tea. Tea. It was absurd, the stripper making them tea in what used to be her kitchen. But Nicole would have agreed to a cup of arsenic just to get Kim out of the room.

“No,” he said. He lowered his voice. “But I’ve been thinking, trying to remember anything he might’ve said. I don’t know if this is going to help, but once, when he
was completely plastered, he mentioned something about Colorado.”

“Colorado’s a pretty big state.” Nicole waved his smoke away from her face.

George shrugged. “Best I can do.”

“Keep thinking.”

“I will. I haven’t got much else to do—aside from the kinky sex, that is.”

He was only saying that to piss her off. Nicole gave him a completely unperturbed, vaguely disinterested smile.

“Hey, did you see the new curtains?” George asked. “Can you believe I finally got curtains?”

In all the years that they’d lived here, Nicole had never gotten around to putting curtains up in the living room. Toward the end of their marriage, they’d argued about it bitterly. George had thrown it in her face as an example of her unwillingness to spend any time at all improving their life together. Of all the stupid arguments, that one had really taken the cake.

His new curtains were a swirl of green and off-white, complementing the couch almost perfectly. “They’re very nice.”

“Oh, do you like them?” Kim came in carrying three mugs on a tray. The tray had been a wedding gift from George’s Aunt Jennifer; the mugs were the ones they’d picked up at a craft fair during their honeymoon. Kim gave George a smile, a softness coming into her eyes as she looked at him. “I had fun making them.”

“You made them?” Nicole said, then mentally kicked herself for making more than a noncommittal noise of agreement.

George was getting far too much enjoyment from this.

“I like to sew. I also like to walk around naked at night,” Kim explained, making an aren’t-I-naughty face
as she set down one of the mugs on the table next to George’s lounger, “but I felt funny doing it with no curtains on the windows. It felt kind of like I was putting on a free show.”

“Wouldn’t want to do that,” Nicole murmured.

Kim put Aunt Jennifer’s tray in the center of the coffee table. There was a plate of home-baked cookies on it as well. “Please help yourself. I wasn’t sure if you wanted lemon or sugar.”

There was that softness again as she looked at George. It was as if he’d suddenly turned into Elvis or God or someone equivalent.

“Nic likes it plain,” George said with an answering smile at Kim that implied shared secrets. “I think she thinks it’ll put hair on her chest.”

Kim was wide-eyed. “Why would you want hair on your chest?”

“I always wondered that, too,” George mused. “Have one of the cookies,” he told Nicole. “They are incredible. Kim is the absolute best cook.” He turned to Kim. “Nic manages to burn water.”

As Nicole stood up, she turned to Kim and lied. “I’m sorry, I’m going to have to skip the tea. It was … nice seeing you again. Will you do me a favor and give me another minute alone with George? All those FBI secrets, you know …”

“Why don’t you order us Chinese for lunch, babe?” George suggested. “You can use the phone in the bedroom.”

He actually patted her on the bottom as she passed his chair, and she actually seemed to like it.

Nicole sat back down on the couch, waiting until she heard the bedroom door close behind Kim before she turned to George. “Well, you really made me feel bad—she’s obviously everything I never was. Except guess
what, George? I don’t feel bad. Big freaking deal. So you found yourself Trixie Homemaker. She cooks, she sews, she strips, she screws—all at the drop of a hat. I’m sure that’s very lovely for you, but look into my eyes and read my lips. It means nothing to me. Congratulations, you really hurt someone this time—except the person who’s getting hurt here isn’t me. It’s Kim.”

George was just sitting there with no expression, his injured leg extended before him, cigarette held loosely between his fingers, watching her. “You done?”

“No. What’s gonna happen when you’re tired of this game? She’s obviously crazy about you. She obviously expects you to marry her. Unless you’re so twisted that you’re ready to keep this farce going ’til death do you part, you are going to emotionally eviscerate this girl. And I hate to say it, George, but I think she’s probably a nice girl—a stupid girl—but at her core I think she’s nice. Be a man for once in your life and be honest about what you’re doing here.”

George smiled. “Be a man. That’s funny. I never had an opportunity to be a man before—you were always snatching that role away from me.”

Frustrated, she turned to leave.

“Nic.”

She stopped but didn’t turn around. She couldn’t bear to look at him, couldn’t bear to look at what they’d done to each other with all their anger and pain.

“I’m a shit,” he said softly. “I hear myself saying things I know will hurt you, and I can’t seem to stop. But this thing with Kim, it’s not about you and me anymore. You were right, it started that way. But then, she, um … Well, these last few days have been … Jesus.” He couldn’t meet her eyes. “Damnit, I’m in trouble here, Nicki, and I need to talk to you about it.”

Oh, God. He actually loved the stripper. Nicole felt her heart grow very, very still.

“She’s dancing tonight,” George continued. “Her shift starts at ten-thirty. Can you come over about ten minutes after that?”

He wanted to tell her he and Kim were getting married. That’s what this was about. “I’ll have to check my schedule,” she said, heading for the door, keeping her voice cool, professional, as if her last hopes for a reconciliation with the only man she’d ever loved hadn’t just been swept away.

“This is important.”

“I’m sure you think it is,” she said, letting herself out of the one place she’d ever thought of as home.

T
RUST GOOD OLD
Marge to try to pretend the situation was completely normal.

Harry leaned against the porch railing, hands in his pockets, heart in his throat, unable to take his eyes off Emily.

She was sitting next to Marge, half hiding behind her aunt, silently staring at him as if he were the devil incarnate.

She was beautiful. She was still pretty tiny, but much of her babyness was gone. She was a little kid now, but, just as when she was a toddler, her default expression was fierce.

Her face was grubby, with clean streaks on it, made from recent tears. Very recent tears. She was still sniffling.

“It shouldn’t be too hard to find an apartment this time of year,” Marge was telling Allie. “There’s a small college in town, and some of the students invariably don’t return from spring break. The rest will be leaving next month, so the landlords who’ve got an empty place will be pretty desperate.”

Harry gave Emily a tentative smile.

She retreated behind Marge’s arm.

He knew it was too much to hope that she would leap into his arms, but this was ridiculous. Surely she hadn’t forgotten him completely. Had she?

“Something tells me I’m going to need a job before I can find an apartment,” Allie said. He was going to have to tell her to work on her voice. She enunciated too damn well. And the way she was sitting, so straight, with her legs crossed …

“What kind of work do you do?” Marge asked.

Harry glanced at his watch. “So what happened to Shaun?”

“Em, hon, run and see what’s keeping your brother,” Marge gently commanded the little girl.

“He said shit,” Emily informed them. “And asshole.” She looked at Harry as if to gauge his reaction. Or maybe to imply that he was one. Who could know with a kid that little?

He kept his face perfectly bland.

“Please go and get him,” Marge told her.

“Is he in trouble?” Em asked, almost hopefully.

“No, he’s not,” Marge said with the kind of patience Harry himself had had at one time. “Just get him, please.”