Bodyguard (8 page)

But she wasn’t going to have to carry them around. This was over. She’d given back the money.

She’d won.

The tub was nearly full as she slipped into it, sighing her pleasure. She turned off the water with one foot and closed her eyes, letting herself truly relax for the first time in more than two days.

Harry sat alone in his car outside the Lamont’s Farmingdale estate, pondering his next move.

He and George had flipped a coin to see who would return to Long Island and keep an eye on Alessandra Lamont.

Harry had lost.

He hadn’t expected her to leave her house as Trotta’s deadline drew closer, and she’d surprised him by pulling out of the three-car garage in a nifty little sports car. He’d followed, expecting her only to be making a coffee run, but she’d surprised him again by making a quick stop at the dry cleaners on Main Street, and then heading over to the Sunrise Mall.

He’d left his car near hers in the parking lot and followed on foot while she shopped. She went into four or five different stores, making a purchase from each one.

It was weird. She had a death threat hanging over her head, and she was blithely buying underwear from Victoria’s Secret.

He’d followed her home, still without her catching sight of him, and she’d pulled her car back into the oversize garage.

She’d gone inside, and as he’d watched from the street,
she’d turned on a few lights in the house, most of them upstairs.

Harry made up his mind. He was going to do it. He was going to get out of the car and ring her doorbell and talk to her again. Maybe this time he’d get lucky and get through to her.

Get lucky …

He shook his head to clear it of unruly thoughts. He was not George. He was not even going to consider the possibility of her modeling that fancy lingerie she’d just bought. There wasn’t a chance in hell of that happening, and he’d be far better off not letting his thoughts stray in that direction.

He got out of his car, habit making him check that the dome light was off before he opened the door. He closed the door gently, also out of habit, glad he’d finally made the decision to take action.

He’d decided to take action with that mess he was in with Marge and his kids, too. As soon as Alessandra Lamont was safely in the hands of the specialists from the Witness Protection Program, he was going to catch the next flight to Colorado and find out what the hell was going on, find out where the hell they’d all gone.

But right now he had to give his full attention to her royal highness, Alessandra, Queen of Long Island. He truly hoped he wouldn’t catch her fresh out of the shower, with a towel wrapped around her head and a bathrobe on. He’d be damned distracted the entire time they spoke—with a serious slice of his attention focused on whether she was wearing anything underneath that bathrobe.

Silently cursing all beautiful blonde women, Harry started for the front door.

But before he even reached the front path, the house exploded.

D
AZED
, A
LESSANDRA PULLED
herself up and out of the tub, uncertain of where she was in the darkness. The shower curtain had fallen down on top of her, and she yanked it free from the pole, wrapping it around herself.

An emergency light sputtered to life, illuminating the thick smoke that was everywhere. The smoke detectors screamed. It didn’t make any sense. She wasn’t upstairs anymore. She was down in the kitchen. Somehow the bathtub had fallen through the ceiling and …

Glass was everywhere. The brand-new windows were shattered. Every one she could see in the dim light had been destroyed.

An explosion.

She’d fallen asleep upstairs in the tub and had awakened down in the kitchen from the sudden deafening sound and force of a tremendous explosion.

Her mother had always warned her not to fall asleep in the tub.

The house was on fire. Alessandra coughed, choking on the smoke, unable to breathe.

Whatever exploded had ignited the house, and it was burning. She could see the flames from the west wing and …

Her clothes! Her new clothes were still upstairs, up in
her bedroom. She needed them for that meeting tomorrow! She leapt over the broken glass, scrambling toward the entryway, toward the staircase. The smoke was chokingly thick, and she dropped to her hands and knees, crawling up what was left of the stairs.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

The hoarse male voice came from out of nowhere, and she jerked back in surprise as hands came down on her shoulders, dragging her down the stairs.

She wriggled away. She didn’t want to go that way. Her new clothes were upstairs. Without them, she didn’t stand a chance of getting Jane.

Whoever he was—he of the foul mouth and large hands—he was bigger than she was. And he wasn’t about to take no for an answer. He reached for her again, but this time she was ready for him. She fought back in earnest, flailing and hitting and kicking. Her leg connected with him solidly, strategically, and she heard the breath leave his lungs, heard him squeeze out another hair-curling curse.

He grabbed for her, catching the shower curtain, and she slipped out of it, leaving it behind. She wouldn’t need it, anyway, once she reached her new clothes—her new clothes that she would not let burn.

But she hadn’t gone more than three steps farther before his hand closed around her leg. He dragged her toward him, roughly pinning her legs before picking her up and throwing her over his shoulder. He was coughing from the smoke that burned her lungs as well, and he staggered slightly as he carried her down and out of the house.

She was naked. She was completely naked, and he must’ve realized that right before he carried her out the door. Because once outside, he didn’t stop to catch his
breath before peeling off his overcoat and wrapping it around her.

He carried her away from the house, set her down on the lawn, then sank to his knees beside her.

And a second explosion rocked the house.

He threw himself on top of her, shielding her as soot, ashes, and debris rained down upon them.

“What the hell,” he asked, gasping for breath as he pulled himself off her, “is in there that’s so important you’ve got to die trying to get it out?”

Alessandra gazed at the flames leaping from the entire west side of her house and couldn’t stop her tears.

“Is the money still in there?” FBI Agent Harry O’Dell asked. For it was O’Dell who had pulled her out of the house. The man with the melting chocolate-brown eyes who could glance around a room and instantly see all the details that mere mortals missed. “Is that what you were after? Or is there someone else still inside?”

Alessandra couldn’t answer. After days—no, weeks, months—of keeping her composure, she couldn’t do anything but cry.

Fire engines were coming. Alessandra could hear the sirens in the distance. But it was too late. Too late. All she had left in the world was already burning. No one would ever let her have Jane now.

She couldn’t keep from sobbing.

“Is someone else inside?” Harry O’Dell all but picked her up by the lapels of his raincoat and shook her. “Come on, Alessandra, don’t lose it on me now!”

“My clothes …”

“What?”

“My new clothes …”

“Just tell me—yes or no—is someone else in the house?”

She shook her head. “No—”

Realization dawned in his eyes. “You were risking your life for some goddamn new clothes? I don’t fucking believe it.” Harry O’Dell shook his head. “You are one amazing piece of work, lady. One amazing piece of work.”

As the first of the fire trucks and police cars squealed to a stop in front of the house, he yanked his raincoat more securely around her, tying it closed with the belt, then rose to meet the fire chief.

Alessandra sat in the Farmingdale Police Station, still wearing only Harry’s raincoat.

She looked utterly defeated. Her face and hair were streaked with soot, and her eyes were dull with fatigue and shock.

It seemed impossible she’d survived a blast of that magnitude completely unscathed.

Either luck or the angels were with this lady, all right. She’d been in the bathtub, and the heavy enamel had shielded her against the force of the explosion, protecting her from flying debris. She’d actually fallen—inside the tub—from the second to the first floor of her house without getting hurt.

It didn’t seem fair that someone like Alessandra Lamont, who could be moved to tears over the loss of a new bag of underwear, could have such stupendous good luck. Talk about shallow. Talk about completely skewed priorities.

Talk about gorgeous.

Harry sat down across from her, trying not to think about the fact that beneath that raincoat—his raincoat—she was absolutely naked.

He should know. He’d had his hands all over her tonight. Her skin was silky smooth, her body damn near
perfect. Soft where it should be soft. Firm in just the right places.

The light from the fire had made her skin seem to gleam through the smoke. And try as he might, even all these hours later, he couldn’t shake the image of her, scrambling up the stairs, trying to get away from him. Her breasts were small but perfect, well proportioned to her small-boned slenderness. Her legs were four miles long, her hips softly curved, her butt thong quality, her stomach enticingly soft.

She was also definitely a natural blonde.

At the time, his body hadn’t reacted to the sight of her. After all, the house was on fire, and she’d just kneed him hard in the balls—two factors which always put something of a damper on his ability to become aroused.

But now he ached. It might’ve been an aftereffect of that knee to the groin—of having his very fragile package handled completely without care. If he were the sort who could get away with lying to himself, he would’ve willingly gone with that excuse. But the hard fact was, something about Alessandra Lamont got his hormones dancing and squawking.

But it sure as hell wasn’t her unswerving honesty, her unshakable morals, or her superior intellect—all of which were nonexistent.

That left only her world-class body and perfect, beautiful face, with her perfect, beautiful, empty blue eyes.

Alessandra Lamont might be nothing more than a bimbo, but as bad as that was, Harry was worse.

Because if she were a bimbo, that made him a man who lusted after a bimbo.

He was a complete hypocrite. He scorned her for who she was, what she was, yet the mere sight of her gave him a major hard-on.

He didn’t want to have to sit and talk to her, didn’t
want to deal with her shallowness and stupidity. But he was dying to get down with her.

Yeah, he was a fine, upstanding human being.

Harry cleared his throat, but she didn’t look up. She was sitting with her arms wrapped tightly around herself, as if holding herself together. She looked completely vulnerable and very young. And underneath his raincoat, she was wearing nothing.

“Mrs. Lamont?” Harry purposely used the formal name, hoping it would remind him that she’d willingly married some mob-connected scumbag for his money, hoping it would make her seem that much more despicable, hoping it would reduce his relentless attraction.

It didn’t work.

She looked at him then, and he could see fear in her eyes. Fear and something else. Something that looked an awful lot like hope. “Have they discovered what caused the explosion?” she asked. “Was it a problem with the gas line?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. He just looked at her for a moment then shook his head. “Mrs. Lamont. Do you really think it was a coincidental gas explosion that took out half your house? Your husband—”

“Ex-husband,” she corrected him.

He watched her. “—stole five million dollars from the mob.”

“Five million dollars!” There was real surprise in her voice, in her eyes. “Five million?”

Harry leaned even farther forward. “Am I wrong? Was it less?” He knew it was only a million.

The animated expression on her face instantly disappeared as she realized she’d nearly given herself away. She was now expressionless, her eyes devoid of the life that had glistened in them just moments before. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Car bomb,” Harry told her.

Uncertainty sparked in her eyes, along with a flare of disbelief, and he knew she was much smarter than she let on.

“Yeah, you heard me right,” he said. “The arson squad’s still looking the place over, but from what they can tell right now, the blast was caused by a faulty trigger device in a bomb that was planted in your Jeep Cherokee. The bomb wasn’t supposed to blow until after you backed the car out of the garage and put the sucker into drive. There was a second bomb in the sedan, just in case you took that car when you went to the mall in the morning. That second explosion—that was the second bomb going off, triggered by the fire.” He paused. “I guess they were gambling on the fact you wouldn’t drive the Miata two days in a row.”

Her eyes were wide and she was starting to shake. He knew he could stand up and walk around the table and sit down next to her and she wouldn’t move away. He knew he could put his arm around her, gently pull her close for a little comfort, and she wouldn’t complain. In fact, she would probably lean in to him, trembling, and he’d reach up and soothingly stroke her hair.