In Bed with the Bodyguard (2 page)

A dash upstairs and a quick search of her loft-apartment uncovered a king-size emerald bedsheet, a stepladder, and a staple gun. When she returned to the main gallery floor, the reporters called to her through the hole in her front window.

“Ms. Rose, any comment on your father's disappearance?”

“Ms. Rose, what do you say to the hundreds of families out in the cold tonight thanks to your father's theft?”

From the vantage point of the stepladder, Ari sagged under the day's emotional toll, leaving her completely unable to sift through the recommended lawyer-type answers, and she muttered the first thing that came to mind: “Let them eat cake.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she blanched, knowing she'd regret them sorely.

With a deep breath, in a louder voice, she found her standard answer: “All questions regarding the Stanley Rose investigation should be directed to the law firm of Arnault and Skaten. I am happy, however, to field any questions about the upcoming Rose Gallery new artist show.” There, that would show them. Way to keep her cool in the face of adversity, she thought, conveniently ignoring her Marie Antoinette gaffe. A year ago no one had thought she'd be able to purchase and open an art gallery, but she'd done it, even under the scrutiny around her father's scandal.

Silence fell from the press, and then the roar of questions started up again. Of course, all about her dad. With a huff of annoyance, Ari swept up the sheet and stapled it to the top wall corner, then made her way to the other side to repeat. The hard press of the staple gun felt good. She slammed a few more staples into the wall, fixing the sheet to block out the camera crews, fantasizing each staple pounding into her father's traitorous, blackened heart.

With a snort of disgust, Lance clicked off the six o'clock news on what may have been the last non–flat screen television left in Northern Virginia. “‘Let them eat cake?' What a heartless bitch.” Albeit a smoking hot one, if you went for that curvy, let's-have-sex-all-night redheaded look, which he did. But a woman had to have a heart to score his attention for more than a minute. She reminded Lance of all the girls he'd grown up with: status conscious and only worried about their next ski vacation. Thank God he'd escaped that world.

“Arianna's not at all bitchy, once you get to know her,” Jason said. “In fact, she's hilarious.”

He eyed his good friend. “You're biased. She's Valerie's best friend, Valerie's your wife, ergo…”

“‘Ergo' what?” Jason asked with an amused smile and leaned back into the nondescript beige corduroy recliner.

Lance took a long pull of his Sam Adams before answering. “Ergo, you don't insult the best friend if you want to get laid. Even I know that, and I've never been married.” Jason could defend her all he wanted, but a woman like Stanley Rose's daughter ought to have known better than to mutter something like that with a camera crew nearby

Jason released a cross between a snort and a chuckle. “And you're never getting married if you hole up in here moping.”

“I'm not moping,” Lance protested, even though Jason was right. Ever since the shooting, he'd stayed close to home, venturing out only for physical therapy and supplies in the form of beer and frozen pizza. He ignored his buddy's raised eyebrow and took another swig of his beer. He'd better stop at this bottle if he wanted to make a good showing at physical therapy tomorrow and prove to the powers-that-be he was ready to return to work.

The damn physical therapy was torture, but it was necessary if he wanted to be back guarding POTUS in six weeks, which he most certainly did.

Jason laughed. “You have been hiding, but, hell, I'd hide too if the whole world wanted to shake my hand or—”

“Not everyone wants to shake my hand,” Lance said, hearing the darkness in his voice. “Obviously, there are enough people in the world who want the president dead. That's why I have a job and a shiny new scar on my thigh.”

“Maybe the attention's blowing over.” Jason gestured to the television. “One good thing about Stanley Rose doing a runner is that the footage of you taking the bullet is relegated to YouTube or the late-night news.”

Lance smiled, grateful for some things. “Yep, lucky for me America has ADD when it comes to world events.” His fifteen seconds of unwanted fame played on monitors across the country. Hell, he'd even made
The
Tonight Show
, but now thanks to America's most wanted investment advisor, he could go back to anonymity.

“Is your sister still calling every day?” Jason asked.

Lance nodded. His sister wanted him to join her in Manhattan to have her personal physician take a look at his thigh, but he was a Secret Service agent for the president, for crying out loud. NIH docs knew a thing or two, but tell that to his sister. She was convinced the only orthopedist worth his salt was Dr. Peter Weiss on 78th and Lexington.

Jason's cell phone rang and a private smile formed as he answered it. Probably Valerie. Maybe not, judging by the frown that appeared. A low murmur and Jason's grunts of reply revealed nothing about the conversation.

Jason finally looked up from his phone. “Listen, change of plans. Val's picking me up to run an errand and then we're heading to Georgetown.” He murmured one last thing into the phone, then hung up.

“What's going on?” Lance asked. “Do you need my help?” He made the offer although any change in plans that brought him to a bar or any active social scene rubbed him raw. “But I don't want to go to a bar tonight.” He wanted to grab another beer and lay back on his couch to watch the Nationals play again in the privacy of his own apartment.

“We're not going to a bar, but yeah, I could use your help.”

“I'll do it, but you owe me. I hate Georgetown and fighting the crowds of tourists and drunken college students,” he muttered.

“Stop grumbling. I need you to go to Val's friend's house in Georgetown and wait there for me and Val. Can you drive my truck?” Jason knew Lance couldn't ride his Harley for a few weeks, another benefit of getting shot.

“Fine. But where are you and Valerie going?” He was starting to regret his offer to help.

“We're going to swing by Home Depot, then head to Georgetown.” Jason stood to leave, and Lance followed, trying to be a good host.

“Home Depot?”

“Yeah. Val's friend's having some trouble, and I'm not letting Val head over there alone.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“The kind you're trained for,” Jason said.

He groaned. “I'm a gimp, Jason. How am I going to defend anyone?”

Jason slapped him on the back, sending him stumbling forward a few inches. The damn firefighter didn't realize his strength, and Lance's balance was whacked. “Your trigger finger's not gimpy, right?”

“True.” He grabbed his wallet, Glock, cell phone, and keys, shoving them all in the pockets of his jeans, except for the gun. “Let's go.” Both men stepped out the door and Jason waited while Lance locked up. “So who am I going to help?”

Jason grinned. “Arianna Rose. You finally get to meet the heartless bitch.”

A
ri sipped at her wine, mentally arranging the paintings for her upcoming show with a concerted effort to ignore all things Stanley Rose and the subsequent threats. She'd even moved one of the paintings with a rose on it to the back room and was focused on her task at hand. Every errant noise made her start; she prayed Valerie would get there soon with Jason and maybe his entire crew of firefighters to keep her safe.

With a concerted effort, she forced her thoughts back to her upcoming grand opening. Now that
Club Lily
was out of commission, she had to rethink the whole visual effect and theme for the night. It was kind of a useless endeavor. Every time she thought about her paintings, all she could see was the defaced painting with the threat painted across it in bloodred. A loud knock caused her to jump, sloshing some wine onto the floor. Valerie and Jason. Thank goodness. She needed the shop vac. A broom simply hadn't gotten the job done, and she could hear the crunching of sand-sized glass shards under her heels.

She dashed to the gallery front door and yelped when a large masculine figure loomed in the doorway instead of her expected friends. “Who are you?” She backed away, looking around for the broom to use as a weapon.

The stranger called through the glass door. “I'm Lance Brown. Jason Moore sent me. Is he here yet?”

It took a minute for her heart to slow down to a steady thump from a Tommy Lee–worthy drum solo. He was a friend of Jason's? “Okay, I'll let you in.” Slowly she turned the knob, opening the door for the large man. How had she missed
him
at Valerie's wedding? She felt somewhat calmer at his admission that he knew Jason, but thanks to Lance's strong masculine presence in her gallery, she couldn't completely relax. His sexy male vibe and tousled light brown hair accompanied by curled, sensuous lips made him a hard man to ignore.

“No, Jason and Val aren't here yet.” She glanced down at her watch, then realized she'd neglected to put one on today.

“So, you're Stanley Rose's daughter.” Lance spoke up suddenly, narrowing his eyes at her.

She backed away a step and crossed her arms over her chest. “Yes. So?”

He shrugged. “Nothing. Saw you on the news tonight. ‘Let them eat cake'?”

She took another step back. His derisive tone put her on the defensive. “They weren't supposed to hear that, and I shouldn't have said it,” she admitted.

“We of all people should know everything is fair game to the media. There's no such thing as off-camera anymore.”

“What do you mean ‘we'?” She cocked her head, examining him more closely. “Are you infamous, too?”

His expression shuttered closed. “No. I'm no one.”

She stepped back toward him. He looked familiar, but she couldn't place him. “Were you at Val and Jason's wedding? I'm sure I'd remember you.” Who could forget a guy with his taut muscles, chiseled cheekbones, and squared-off chin? His nose was perhaps a shade big for his face, making his looks dashing rather than cover-model gorgeous.

He shook his head. “No, work took me to Europe that week, and I couldn't make it.”

Ah, a world traveler. A year ago she would've found that sexy and swapped stories about European hotels and which airline had the best first class (Virgin). Tonight, she barely had the energy to make polite conversation. “What do you do for a living?”

“The ever-popular D.C. question. I'm a Secret Service agent.” His eyes met hers in challenge. “And what do you do besides insult your father's victims on television?” The smile in his eyes softened the harsh words.

“Ouch.” She couldn't find the sass or words to verbally spar with him, even if he was the most appealing male she'd seen in a while. Yet another change. The old Arianna never missed an opportunity to flirt. Why had Jason sent him? “I own an art gallery, as you could see if you'd stop insulting me and look around.”
Well, maybe a little sass.

His eyes flickered around the room then came back to rest on her. “Nice.”

“I'll have to educate you on modern art. My gallery hosts seminal pieces from cutting-edge artists. They're a heck of a lot more than ‘nice.'”

“You're right, I don't know much about art,” he said. “I'm looking at the prettiest thing in the gallery.” His gaze was intense on her face, and then he gave a little head shake as if he were surprised he'd paid her a compliment.

She'd been parched for compliments lately, even if grudgingly given. He was forgiven.

“How come there's glass all over the floor? Why haven't you swept it up yet?”

“It's mostly swept. You try getting a million shards of glass off a wood floor with only a tall broom and tiny dustpan.”

“Don't you have a vacuum?”

Why did his simple question seem loaded with insinuations about spoiled rich girls not even knowing how to clean? Maybe it was the truth? Sort of. Sure, she had a weekly cleaning company, but she worked her butt off keeping this gallery going. Agent Lance Brown had no business making her feel inferior because her family had money. Correction.
Had
money, as in past tense. Any money her father had would be going to victims.

“Ari?” Valerie's voice came from her back office. She and Jason knew to park in the alley behind the gallery and use their key to the back door, which Ari would have remembered if she hadn't been in such a funk tonight.

“In here,” she called, keeping her eyes locked on Lance.

Jason entered pulling a shop vac, Valerie close on his heels holding a shiny new hammer and box of nails. Ari turned to her and was pulled into a tight hug. “Honey, I'm sorry this happened.”

“It'll be okay. I spoke with an insurance agent. They recommended I pay for a new glass window out of pocket so my premiums don't go up.” She smiled down at the hammer in Val's hand. “What's with the hammer? I
do
own an art gallery, after all; a hammer is like a job requirement.”

Val shrugged and smiled. “Just in case.”

“Lucky you can afford to pay for new glass,” Lance said, with his hands in his pockets.

Valerie turned to him, having Ari's back as usual. “Lance Brown, what the heck does that mean? We didn't send you here to insult my best friend.”

“Why
did
you invite him here?” Ari asked.

“Jason was with him when you called, and I didn't want you to be alone with the broken window and death threat while we went to Home Depot.” She leaned up to give Lance's cheek a peck. “You look good without the cast and crutches. Go out back with Jason. He needs help bringing in the wood.” Then she looked at Lance's leg. “How are you managing? Can you help or is the thigh bothering you too much tonight?”

What was wrong with Lance's leg? Ari looked down at it for the first time, not noticing anything amiss.

“I'm fine. Lead the way,” he said to Jason, and followed him out to the alley.

“Well?” Valerie turned toward her with a raised brow.

“Well, what?” Ari asked with a sinking feeling. Oh, lord, had they asked Lance here as a setup?

“How are you doing? Rough day today, huh?”

“You know it,” she said, then gave a little relieved laugh. “I thought you were asking what I thought of Lance.”

Val grinned. “I didn't want to be insensitive, but now that you mention it, isn't he a hottie? It's weird that tonight is the first night you've met, since you're both close to me and Jason.”

“He's okay, I guess,” Ari said, hiding her total physical attraction to the agent. Why did all happily married couples try to impose their joy on everyone else? Couldn't they see she was perfectly fine perpetually dating? Her parents' multiple marriages left her no roadmap for marital bliss, and she had no inclination even to try.

However, Lance was way more than okay. If it were any other night or any other year, his height would make her want to wrap her arms around his waist and rub her lips against his lean chest. And a Secret Service agent, to boot. God, that was sexy. She bet he knew his way around a loaded weapon. “Does Jason know you think his friend is hot?”

Valerie laughed. “Jason is way hotter than Lance, and he knows there's no competition for my heart.”

Jason hotter. Whaa? No way. Lance oozed hard-core sex while Jason was cute. The firefighter didn't hold a candle to Lance, the tall, gun-toting, lip-curling agent. Even if he was acting like a jerk. Well, she attracted jerks. Go figure that she'd be attracted to this one. Nothing new for her.

The men in question reentered the room balancing a large piece of plywood between them. They carried it over to the gaping, sheet-covered hole and leaned it against the wall.

“I'll call the glass company tomorrow, but for now can you nail it up?” Ari asked.

“Sure,” Jason answered.

“I'll order pizza while they're taking care of the glass,” Valerie said and reached for her phone.

“Don't bother. I'm not hungry,” Ari said.

“Yeah, but we are, and you have to eat,” Valerie urged.

“Don't order any meat on mine,” Lance said as he held up the wood for Jason, who was up on the stepladder. The short sleeve of his shirt pushed up his shoulder, showing off a hard biceps flexed under the strain of carrying the large piece solo.

Ari narrowed her eyes at him while Val made the call. “You don't look like a vegetarian.”

“I'm not, but I'm trying to stay in shape even with my injury. Pepperoni wouldn't help,” he said. “And how does a vegetarian look, anyway?”

She found her first smile of the night. “I don't know. Not usually like he-man guys with muscles to spare.” Her cheeks flamed. Oh, God, had she said that aloud? She really needed to stop flirting blatantly with Lance, on tonight of all nights. The flirtation wouldn't go anywhere. She didn't have it in her to open her heart to anyone. Her dad's betrayal had done a number on her. Distantly she heard Valerie snort.

She turned away and feigned interest in Valerie's pizza ordering skills, all the while feeling the heat of Lance's hidden glances at her back.

“Lance,” Jason said, interrupting the currents flowing between them. “A little focus. You're slipping.”

Lance visibly pulled his attention from her and back to his construction task. Ari then helped Val get the shop vacuum running over the shards of glass.

Two hours of surprisingly great conversation that had nothing to do with thieving fathers later, one empty pizza box, one Pinot Noir bottle, and four Sam Adams bottles lay in a heap next to the makeshift picnic blanket Ari had thrown down on the gallery floor. Lance's quick wit and anecdotes about life in the White House had taken her mind off her latest worries, but one glance at the ruined painting, which stood propped nearby, reminded her of her latest troubles.

She lay back on the floor with her head on Val's lap. “I'm going to be murdered in my sleep tonight,” she said with her usual overly dramatic flair, and flung her arm across her forehead.

“Don't be ridiculous. I'm staying with you tonight,” Val said, shooting a look at Jason. “Right, honey?”

“Not a chance,” Jason said. “There's some crazy guy out there gunning for Ari, and you think I'm going to let my…wife stay here? Nope. Ari, you're moving out until they catch the guy.”

Ari wondered what he'd been about to say before wife, but the rest of what he'd said sank in and she sat up hastily. “Moving out of my apartment? I can't do that. Where would I go?”

“Our place,” Valerie said. “Right, Jason?”

“Uh, sure. I was thinking more along the lines of a hotel, but our place could work.” His face looked shuttered off and different from the easygoing smile he normally sported.

Ari wasn't drunk enough that she missed Jason's hesitance. He and Val lived in a modest two-bedroom apartment in the suburbs of northern Virginia. The second bedroom was being renovated. It would be a little too cozy for the three of them, not to mention she got a rash if she ventured too far from her urban habitat. “Thank you, everyone, but I'll be fine here. I have an alarm system, and tonight I'll use it.”

“Absolutely not.” Valerie turned to her husband. “Jason, tell her she can't stay here alone. It's too dangerous.”

Jason looked from his wife to Ari to the ceiling, then back to his wife. “You shouldn't stay here. I'll sleep on the couch, and you and Val can share the bed.”

Ari stood and glared at her assembled friends. “You guys, I'm not kicking anyone out of their bed. I'm sure the threat is an empty threat, right?” No one spoke for too long a minute.

Valerie also stood. “Ari, did the police have any leads? What did they say?”

“No leads, but it's fine. Really. Everyone go home.”

“I'll stay,” Lance said suddenly, creating a surprised silence.

“What?” Ari asked, but everyone ignored her. Valerie had a huge smile, as if the matter were settled. Jason looked frankly relieved. Did no one care what
she
thought? Obviously not, since Valerie started cleaning up dinner and Jason took a step toward the door.

“I said I'll stay,” Lance said. “Valerie's right, you shouldn't stay here. You should go to a hotel or to a friend's house, but if you refuse to leave your house, you shouldn't be alone.”

“You heard the officer,” Valerie said.

“Val, I live in a loft upstairs. No walls, remember? Where will Lance sleep?” She shot her friend a quelling look to stop this plan at once, but Val was full-steam ahead.

“He can sleep on your couch, and you could move that screen over or something,” Valerie prattled on, completely unaware, or purposely ignoring, the eye beams of death Ari sent her way. Good God, tipsy, concerned best friends should be illegal. Although, now that she looked closer, Val's wineglass remained nearly full. Yikes, had she downed nearly a whole bottle of red herself?