His Bodyguard (12 page)

“That’s not true,” he said, stepping toward her, hand outstretched.

She slapped it away, stirring frustration up inside him.

“Yes, it is. You just think I’m a…
woman!
”

He raised his brows at her, trying to control his own latent
temper, but frustration was taking its toll, especially when he was watching her breasts rise and fall beneath the soft fabric of his shirt. And in the sharp V where he’d released the buttons, he could see the soft curves of her breasts. “You’re not a woman?” he asked, trying to lighten the mood.

She ground her teeth and grabbed her clothes from the bed.

“I’ve got to admit you had me fooled,” he said.

She growled something unintelligible and threw a shoe at him.

He ducked. It glanced off his shoulder.

“I’m leaving!” she snarled and stormed toward the door.

He trailed after her, trying to think of something clever to say, but “I’m sorry” seemed pathetically weak, and “Please stay” seemed dangerous. So he kept silent, but in a moment she stopped on her own and pivoted wildly toward him.

“No, I’m not leaving,” she said. “It’d be just like you to think it funny to go and get yourself killed. And I’m too good a bodyguard to let that happen. I’m sleeping on the couch. And if you so much as touch my toe—” She stabbed a finger at him. It barely reached past the plaid cuff. “They’ll have to carry you to the stage on a gurney. You understand me?”

He should keep his mouth shut, march into his bedroom and stay there like a whipped cur. But his temper drained away in the face of her delectable cuteness.

“I know it’s a cliché, but you really are—” he began.

“If you say I’m beautiful when I’m angry, I’m going to beat you to death with my shoe!”

“Oh. Well…” He backed toward the door, trying to contain a smile. “Good night then.” Slipping inside, he pushed the door nearly closed, then peeked past the edge. “But you really are cute when you’re mad,” he said and thumped the door shut.

Her shoe hit it dead center.

Yep, Nathan thought from the safe side. He’d handled that pretty damn well.

B
RENNA TOSSED AND TURNED
that night, but there was no need, for no one disturbed her. By the time Nathan stepped out of his room in the morning, she was fully dressed and emotionally armed. Or as armed as she could be against his sleepy allure.

He made no reference to the night before, neither to the letter nor to his own duplicitous behavior. Instead, he shifted back into casual banter, as if she were one of the boys again.

They went running. She followed him down the streets of Omaha and watched his back. He asked her to join him for breakfast She refused, and he refused to allow her to stand by his table like a proper guard, so she sat across from him and watched him eat. Late that morning, he ordered a car around and they drove to the nearest Western store, where he stood for an hour and tried on hats and shirts and jeans, and asked her opinion about the fit of each. So she watched his…well, pretty much everything. In the end, he purchased a Western cut jacket he hadn’t even tried on and insisted on buying her a pair of snakeskin boots. She refused, of course, but he swiped away her objections and kneeling down in front of her, insisted on helping her try them on.

It was a bad idea, because her legs were one of the few places that weren’t already tingling from watching his everything all day. Refusing to sit down, she stared down at his bent back, watching his cotton shirt stretch tight over his flexing muscles and his tight backside press against the seams of his jeans.

By five o’clock that night, Brenna was cranked tighter than The Fox’s guitar strings. She was primed for trouble, almost
hoping for it, but Nathan’s performance went without a hitch. Still, revved with energy, she made certain she was everywhere at once, checking everything from the electrical wiring to the security systems, and interrogating everyone but Nuf if he so much as crossed Nathan’s path.

Outside, it was raining hard and steady. Lightning crashed, making her jumpy and tense.

But finally, she heard the beginning of The Cowboys’ final song. It was a soft, romantic number. She felt herself lulled by the magic of his music, remembering his touch, the look in his eyes, the…

No. Damn it! He didn’t believe in her. Never believed in her. Thought she was a silly girl pretending she was a man, and she—

“Brenna.”

She jumped at the sound of her name.

“Patrick!” Her brother’s dark hair was dripping wet, his expression somber. “What are you doing here?”

He scowled. “You know exactly what I’m doing here. The question is, what the hell are you doing here, girl?”

She straightened her back slightly. Being called “girl” was only slightly preferable to being called “butch.” “I’m doing a job, Patrick,” she said, keeping her tone even. “Go away.”

He had always had a quick temper. It shone in his eyes now. “You’re being idiotic, is what you’re doing,” he said. “I came to bring you home.”

The anger boiled higher. “What?”

“Listen, maybe you don’t know it, but we’ve been worried terrible about you, and I’m not gonna let you get yourself killed because of some wild notion you got—”

“Wild notion?”

“Yeah.”

“Wild notion? Listen here, Patrick Kevin O’Shay, I am not going back with you. So you can just march back to—”

“I’m not marching anywhere without you. Shamus said to bring you home and that’s just what I’m gonna do,” he said and grabbed her arm.

She struck without thinking, jabbing him one hard strike to the xiphoid process. He stumbled back.

Brenna winced, but her back was still up. “Now you go home, Patrick,” she ordered him, knowing Nathan would soon be exiting the stage. “Go home and leave me alone.”

She turned away, but in that moment, he launched toward her from a bent position. She heard him coming and swung around, but he was already upon her. Her elbow hit him square in the nose. He skipped to a halt, but his shoes were wet, and the floor slippery. His feet slid out from under him. His arms windmilled for an abbreviated second, and then he fell, flat on his back on the concrete floor.

The back of his head hit an instant later. He lay there still and limp.

Brenna gasped and rushed up to him. But when she dared touched her fingers to his throat, she found his heartbeat normal and his breathing regular.

“Jesus, O’Shay, what happened?” asked Fry, the first to exit the stage.

Brenna rose, bit her lip, and tried not to wince as the other musicians gathered behind him.

“He refused to leave,” she said lamely.

“Leave where?”

“The backstage. No one’s allowed backstage. You know that.” Her voice was getting stronger, and a good thing too, because it looked as if Patrick was beginning to come to.

“Maybe he’s the guy who’s been writing the letters,” Mueller suggested.

“No!” Brenna’s voice sounded a bit panicked to her own ears. Her brothers might be an overbearing clan of Neanderthals, but it was bad enough she had gotten Brady in trouble. She didn’t want to do the same to Patrick. She smoothed out her voice. “He was just a little overzealous.”

“He’s waking up,” Paul said.

Brenna turned her attention to Patrick and realized the drummer was right. “You guys better get out of here,” she said.

“Shouldn’t we hang around? Make sure he’s all right?”

“Go call the paramedics from the bus,” Brenna said. “If the media shows up, it’s best if you’re nowhere in sight.”

Talk of the media made the drummer back away with wild eyes. In a moment, the band had disappeared, leaving only Nathan beside her.

“What’s going on?” His voice was low.

“I told you. He refused to leave. Said he was looking for a girl.” She turned away to find help, but Nathan grabbed her arm.

“And he mistook
you
for one?” he asked wryly.

“No! He grabbed me,” she said and tried to yank out of his grasp, but he held on tight and moved in close.

“What? He touched you? Why? Do you know him?”

Anger and concern and frustration shone in his eyes and sounded in his voice. Brenna fell silent, transfixed by the sight

He blew out a breath and narrowed his eyes as if steadying himself. “You all right?” he asked, his voice softer but still gruff.

For a moment she was lost in his eyes, but she pulled out with an effort “I can take care of myself, Fox.”

He stood unspeaking for an instant, but then he dropped her arm. “Yeah. Who is he?”

“I…I don’t know. Just some guy. Probably looking for his girlfriend. Maybe one of the road crew was with her here in town.” It was a pathetic cover-up if she’d ever heard one. “You’d better go.”

“What happened?” Patrick’s voice sounded gravelly, and he didn’t try to sit up.

“You fell,” Nathan said, stepping forward into Patrick’s line of vision. Brenna winced, wanting to snatch him back, but it was too late. “You okay?”

“Feel like I’ve been kicked by a mule.”

“She can act like one,” Nathan said, squatting down.

“What?”

“You better lie still. Were you looking for someone?”

Patrick was silent for a moment, then, “Brenna. I think…”
He lifted his head from the floor and tentatively felt the back of his cranium. “Should of known better.”

“She your girlfriend?”

“My sister. She—”

“Stand back! Let us get in here,” called a paramedic, rushing in.

Nathan moved regretfully aside as the troop circled the downed fellow.

Brenna dared a quick exhalation as orders and questions were thrown at Patrick.

Nathan stepped away from the orderly chaos. “He was looking for his sister,” he said.

“Yeah. Guess so.”

“Probably had too much to drink.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You know, he looks a little like that drunk you tangled with in North Carolina. It’s not him, is it?”

“No!” Too sharp. She softened her tone. “No. It’s not The other guy was blond. Younger. I, uh…checked into his history after we left Charlotte. He’s not the same guy.” She shuffled her feet and refused to shift her gaze from his.

“You sure?” He watched her carefully.

“Yeah. Uh-huh. I’m sure.”

“Okay. Well, I don’t think this guy meant any harm. No need to call the police. Do you think?”

“No.” She tried not to say it too quickly. “I think he’ll be fine…when he sobers up.”

Nathan nodded and turned away, but in a second he glanced sideways toward her. “What was his sister’s name?”

“I, um…I don’t remember.”

“Really?” He put a hand gently to her back as he ushered her through the first door. “You usually have such a good memory.”

T
HEY WERE ON THE ROAD
within an hour. Although The Cowboys wouldn’t perform for another two days, the band had interviews and personal appearances in Minneapolis on the following day.

Brenna fretted the whole way as a thousand worries tore at her. Okay, so her Neanderthal brothers had been begging to be belted. Still, guilt gnawed at her. But the thing that worried her most was the note found in Nathan’s room. How had it gotten there? No one had access to his room. She’d checked with the front desk and made absolutely certain that no other keys had been given out, and that none of the hotel’s employees had delivered the note. None had.

It was as if a ghost had walked right through the walls to slap her on the face, to threaten her client. And yet her client seemed unconcerned Brenna realized, glancing over at him where he strummed his guitar and hummed a few bars.

The days passed without incident, and although Brenna wouldn’t have thought it possible, Nathan seemed even more relaxed than ever. His performance in Minneapolis was to a sold-out crowd. Everything went like clockwork, and yet Brenna was nervous as she escorted Nathan to his bus.

Atlas was already behind the wheel. From the back of the bus, Nuf gave his grumpy call, but didn’t come forward to meet them.

Nathan plopped onto the couch, and Brenna, nervous and fretful, took a seat on the other side of the aisle. Within minutes, they were on their way, but the silence stretched on.

Brenna pulled out her agenda, ready to get to work, but still she could feel Nathan’s gaze on her.

“Almost done,” he said.

“What?” She looked up abruptly.

“The tour. It’s almost over. Two more shows and you can forget all this and go home to Jackson.”

Forget it? He must be joking, she thought, but didn’t voice the words, though her stomach knotted up like a sailor’s line. “And what will you do?”

“Gonna spend some time at home. Relax.”

“Relax!” She almost barked the word, then calmed herself and tried again. “Isn’t it going to be hard to relax?”

“You forget. I’m a lazy ass by nature.”

“And you forget,” she said, “someone is threatening your life.”

He snorted and shook his head. “So hard up for a job that you have to make a place for yourself, O’Shay?”

She glanced out the window and let the terror roll over her. “What will you do about security?”

“Security?” He laughed. “My ranch is in North Dakota, O’Shay. There isn’t exactly a deluge of people there, murderous or otherwise.”

“You think no one knows where you live?”

“I told my mother.”

She refused to be baited by his stupid sense of humor, and tried to remain calm, to remind herself that it was his life, his decision. “You think the threats will simply cease?”

From the back, Nuf called again, his tone no more soothing than usual.

“Come on up, Fats,” Nathan called, then, “No. I don’t think the threats will simply cease, because I don’t think there were ever any threats.”

Frustration felt like a boiling pot inside her. “The letters mean nothing to you?”

He shrugged. “A prank.”

“And the blowout? The electrical short?”

“Accidents,” Nathan said.

“Sweet Mary!” Brenna jerked to her feet and paced the aisle, trying to calm her nerves, to remember that she was a professional. “What the hell are you trying to do, Fox?”

“What do you mean?” His face was impassive when she looked at him.

“What do I mean?” She snarled the words. “You’re not that stupid. No one’s that stupid. You’ve been bombarded by threatening mail and freak accidents. But you act like nothing’s happened.” She swung suddenly toward him. “Why?”

Nuf cried again.

“Geez, O’Shay, you’re taking this way too serious.” Nathan’s tone was relaxed, but his body seemed tense and stiff when he rose to his feet and pushed past her on his way to his traveling bedroom.

“Too serious?” She turned as he passed her.

He stopped in the doorway for a moment. “Geez, cat, what
have you gotten into this time?” He disappeared, only to reenter a moment later with the overstuffed cat in his arms. Around Nuf’s neck was a plastic six-can carrier. “You’re the most suicidal animal I’ve ever met,” he murmured to Nuf.

“There’s you,” Brenna countered irritably.

Nathan snorted. “When was the last time I got my head caught on a drawer handle?” he asked, and pried the plastic ring from the cat’s neck.

“I haven’t been around very long.”

He ruffled the cat’s fat head before setting him down and lifting the rings between them. “You been slogging beer again, O’Shay?”

“No,” she said, irritated by his refusal to see the truth.

“Then where’d he find the hoops?” he said, tossing the rings to the table.

Brenna turned away, trying to cool her temper, to think, to give Nathan time to see logic. But he was not a logical man. At best, he was an artist; At worst, a heavy-handed, half-witted barbarian. And if—

Her thoughts stopped abruptly. Where
had
Nuf found the plastic rings? Turning stiffly, she paced to the table and picked up the packing bonds.

“Did you leave this in here?” she asked Nate.

He shrugged, noncommittal. But her heart refused to slow. Turning, she paced up to the driver. One quick question made her certain Atlas hadn’t been sloppy.

Wandering back to her chair, she turned the rings in her hand. Nuf was grumpily licking his ruffled fur back into place. She was probably being silly. Nuf was fine, and he was prone to accidents. Closing her eyes, she blew out a quick breath and tried to relax. But just then her fingers scraped across an indentation in the plastic. Breathlessly she lifted it higher, barely daring to look at it.