Shotgun Nanny

Shotgun Nanny
by Nancy Warren

Contents

Chapter

1

Chapter

2

Chapter

3

Chapter

4

Chapter

5

Chapter

6

Chapter

7

Chapter

8

Chapter

9

Chapter

10

Chapter

11

Chapter

12

Chapter

13

1

HELP, Annie Mathers scrawled in big black letters. Then she outlined the word in ballpoint until she’d almost carved through to the picture side of the postcard.

She paused, took a sip of cappuccino, then tapped the pen on the blank space on the postcard. Underneath
Help
she wrote
Matter of life and death! Follow me.
She underlined
Follow me
with a dramatic slash of black ink. And, just like that, started to feel better. Action and movement always made her feel better, and as soon as her best friend, Bobbie, received the card, they’d be on their way.

She flipped the card over and discovered the aerial view of Vancouver harbor was marred by the thick ridges her pen had carved. With a sigh, she tossed the card onto the table—Bobbie would think she’d completely lost it. Which might be true.

She picked up a second postcard and made a more conventional start.

Dear Bobbie. Follow me to Vancouver. I need a vacation! Fly up TODAY. Matter
of life and death—Gertrude’s.

And if that doesn’t get you, nothing will,
she thought smugly. Bobbie loved Gertrude—she’d fly up from LA to save her, or at least save her alter ego’s sanity. Of course she would. Gertrude had paid the rent several times when Annie and Bobbie had been financially strapped roomies.

Annie glanced up from the table and let the sun settle on her face. Sailboats bobbed beside the dock, rows of white hulls gleaming proudly in the early summer sun. She glimpsed a couple of kayaks scooting behind the brightly colored Aquabus. A soft breeze blowing across False Creek carried the briny ocean smells to mix with the restaurant scents—garlic, freshly cooked seafood, coffee.

The tables on the dock-cum-bistro were filling up with tired tourists and afterwork yuppies. Much as she would have enjoyed swapping her empty coffee mug for a glass of wine and some of that mouthwatering seafood for dinner, she really needed to save her cash for the authentic sushi, Szechwan and Thai food she’d be eating once she and Bobbie got to Asia.

Annie signed the card with a flourish, addressed it, licked a stamp and pressed it to the corner of the postcard. She jumped up, obeying an overwhelming impulse to get Bobbie’s postcard in the mail, as though she could conjure up her best friend just by popping the card in a bright red mailbox.

She reached down and deposited the backpacking guide to the Orient she’d been reading in her leather backpack, then dropped a tip on the table. Rising and turning in one motion, she collided with a brick wall. At least it felt like one. It was covered in a jean shirt and breathing but was still as hard and immovable as a brick wall.

She glanced into a pair of cool blue eyes set in a face of stone. He looked like a cop or private eye from one of the old movies she loved so much.

Maybe that was why this complete stranger struck her for an instant with an intense sense of familiarity. Even her body acted as if it knew him intimately. A sizzle of awareness zinged through her as she stared at the hard-planed cheeks, square jaw and a nose that would have been classical had it not sported the telltale crookedness of a break sometime in its owner’s past. For an insane second, she wanted to lean into him as though he were a safe refuge.

Whoa!
She’d definitely been working too hard. She must be nuts to go all gooey over a stranger. A big, handsome, tough-guy stranger who reminded her of her fantasy men—but she knew better. That kind of man only existed in black and white, on a movie screen.

Unpeeling herself from his warmth, she mumbled, “sorry,” with a faint smile and made her way as quickly as she could away from the crowded patio.

MARK S AUNDERS’S eyes followed the woman, her spicy fragrance still in his nostrils. She was dressed in some kind of flowing thing in every color of the rainbow, and as she walked a shaft of sunlight shimmered through the fabric, outlining long slender legs and nicely rounded hips. Not even a superhero’s X-ray vision could have caught a better view of the little triangle of fabric that seemed to be her entire contingent of underwear.

On her head was a floppy hat—maybe to keep off the sun, but more likely she was one of those New Age types who always wore floppy hats.

Cute, though. And there’d been a nanosecond when she’d seemed more than cute, when he’d felt an electrifying sense of connection with her. He’d had to quash a bizarre impulse to invite her to join him in a drink.

But he was a sensible man. In his experience, spontaneous acts always led to trouble. Still, it didn’t hurt to look. He smiled and turned to take the newly vacated table. And

froze.

Help,
he read.
Matter of life and death. Follow me.

The woman was sending him a desperate message, and he’d wasted valuable time watching her rear end.

Damn it to hell.

All his training slammed a lid on his emotions. Adrenaline pumped through his system, but he acted casual. Palming the card, he scanned the crowd to see who might be watching or following the girl. In the few seconds he’d wasted, she had disappeared, and so, it seemed, had anyone who was tracking her.

If only he’d acted on his impulse and invited her to sit down with him, he could have protected her. Damn it, maybe when she’d leaned into him and her green eyes had sparkled into his, she’d been trying to send him a silent message. Which he’d misinterpreted—totally.

Mark reached automatically for the radio at his side and groaned. No radio. He wasn’t a cop anymore. When was he going to stop acting like one? He was on his own, no backup.

On the road he paused, eyes narrowed against the sun, allowing his gaze to scan the vicinity. Granville Island on a sunny day in June. What could be worse? Crowds of tourists ambled along enjoying the sunshine, browsing the shops, snapping pictures.

While one lone, sweet-looking woman was facing a life-and-death dilemma.

A hundred women looked like the one he’d bumped into, but his trained eye soon picked her out. It was as though a camera in his head had clicked a picture—he could have given her height, weight, eye and hair color and a reasonable description of her clothing to anyone who asked.

She strode forward with purpose, unlike most of the strolling crowd, and her head moved from side to side as though searching for someone.

Mark watched the people behind her. Many moved in the same direction. It was impossible to tell who might be following her. He pushed away from the protective wall and started walking, careful not to follow too closely or watch her too intently. Instead, he did his best to act like a guy enjoying the island, maybe on his way to buy fresh vegetables at the market.

He tried to formulate a plan as he walked. He had no sidearm, no weapon of any kind except his fists. No backup unless he passed a phone, and even then he didn’t know if he’d dare stop—he might lose her in the crowd. If they passed anywhere near his vehicle, he had a whole arsenal of security stuff, but she was headed in the opposite direction. He’d even left his cell phone in the car. Whenever he met his buddy Brodie he came unarmed, just to save himself the grief. In future, he’d take the teasing. But for now, he had to make do with what he had. Nothing.

His mind rapidly sorted possibilities. Drugs? Prostitution? Stalker? She looked pretty Haight-Ashbury, but his instincts told him it wasn’t drugs—at least she didn’t show any of the signs of a user or a pusher.

Prostitution? She appeared too fresh. He remembered the way she’d smiled at him, her green eyes frank and as assessing in their way as his were trained to be. In fact, her face was as clear in his mind as in that time-stalled moment they’d stood staring at each other.

Her lips, open in surprise, had been soft and pink without the aid of cosmetics. She had a pert little nose with a cinnamon sprinkle of freckles across the bridge and high cheekbones. Under the hat bits of reddish-brown hair stuck out helter-skelter, and there were three silver earrings piercing her left ear, four crawling up the right. But it was her eyes that had captured his fancy. Uptilted and sparkling with life, they’d made him feel momentarily reckless. And he was never reckless.

Had she made someone else feel reckless? A stalker? That was the most likely possibility. She was a good-looking woman, and he’d seen some pretty scary guys go after women who’d dumped them. But, if there was a stalker following the woman, he hadn’t shown himself yet.

Abruptly she turned down a side street, speeding like a horse anxious to get to its stable. He picked up his pace, breaking into a run, knocking shoulders and dodging pedestrians as he raced to protect her. One more possibility occurred to him as he rushed forward—this could be a trap.

He halted, confused, as he rounded the corner and scanned the narrow street.

It was quiet, lined on both sides by little arty workshops and small businesses. But she didn’t head for one of the doors. Her destination was the mailbox at the dead end of the alley.

She appeared to be alone.

Mark hated blind alleys. Sweat broke out on his brow as he glanced over his shoulder, then perused the surrounding area, focusing especially on the doors and windows. He detected no suspicious movement. It was just a quiet sun-filled alley.

As he watched the woman deposit something in the mailbox, his mind clicked through new possibilities. A ransom? With a deep breath, he plunged into the lane, senses super alert.

She turned from the mailbox and paused as Mark approached her, a half-smile on her face and a gleam of recognition sparkling in those eyes.

“Are you making a drop?” he whispered, putting as much of his body in front of her as possible in an instinctive protective gesture.

She moved closer, and once more that spicy fragrance teased his senses. In a heavy Bronx accent she whispered, “Let’s hope Duey don’t see us together!” She rolled emotion-filled eyes, her whole body expressing fear and dread.

He was keyed up for action, hating the vulnerability of this lane and not knowing who or where the enemy was. “Who’s Duey?”

She laughed, a soft, rich sound that reverberated against his chest. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple. If she went hysterical on him it could place both of them in greater danger.

“No, no,” she said, chiding. “Your line is, ‘Let’s shake the heat, sister, and blow.”’

His line? What? “Ma’am, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what this is about.”

She took a step backward and glanced around, amusement changing to wariness.

“You tell
me
what it’s about!”