The Bodyguard and Ms. Jones
Read The Bodyguard and Ms. Jones Online
Authors: Susan Mallery
New York Times
bestselling author Susan Mallery delivers a fan-favorite tale about how a moment's kindness can lead to a lifetime of love.
Bodyguard Mike Blackburne can't get enough of the job, especially the danger. After taking a bullet in the line of duty, he accepts his most difficult assignment yet: a peaceful recovery in the suburbs. He manages to avoid the small town and its boring waysâ¦until the charming woman next door slips past his defenses.
When single mom Cindy Jones offers to look in on her neighbor's injured brother, she isn't expecting him to be so difficultâ¦or so drop-dead gorgeous. His won't be the easiest recovery to handle, but it might just be the best favor Kelly ever agreed to!
Susan Mallery
The Bodyguard and Ms. Jones
Contents
Chapter One
“M
ister. Mister! Are you dead?”
The voice was insistent and faintly whiny. Mike Blackburne tried to block out the noise, along with the pounding in his head and the painful throbbing that pulsed through his body. He failed miserably on both counts.
“I think he's dead,” the voice proclaimed.
“He's not dead. He's sleeping.”
“No way. I can't wake him up. See?”
Mike felt a jab in his side. The poking continued, hitting right above the bruise on his ribs. The pain increased, and the black haze he'd been fighting for God knows how long began to descend.
“Leave me the hell alone,” he roared. Or at least it was supposed to be a roar. Instead, his mouth barely opened and he mumbled something that sounded like “Ve m'll own.”
There was a moment of blissful silence. The jabbing against his ribs stopped. Then his peace was shattered by a high-pitched call.
“Mo-om, he's not dead.”
Whatever he was lying on shook slightly, as if it had been bumped. There were footsteps, then silence again.
Mike told himself to sit up. The pain flowing through his body like liquid torture warned him that wasn't advisable. Trying for a lesser goal, he started to open his eyes. His lids felt as if they'd been glued shut.
He tried again and this time was rewarded by a sharp stab of light. He blinked, attempting to bring something, anything, into focus, then wished he hadn't. Some ugly green creature with flaming eyes was staring at him.
He jerked back, causing his head to swim and the cadence of agony to increase. He felt like roadkill. Blinking again, he studied his guardian.
“Hell,” he muttered. It was a two-foot-long statue of a dragon, about the ugliest piece of art he'd ever seen. It was just as well he wasn't dead, because he expected the good Lord to have better taste than that.
One corner of his mouth curved up, pulling at his split lip. He grimaced and raised his hand to touch the spot. Tender but not bleeding. Besides, who was he to assume that on his death he was going north?
Footsteps caught his attention. He tried to turn toward the sound. He could see a massive marble fireplace, wing chairs that looked more decorative than comfortable and a small lacquered table supporting a smaller version of the dragon staring down at him. However, he couldn't locate the owner of the footsteps. He hoped it wasn't that kid again. He was in bad enough shape without being poked and prodded.
His eyes closed involuntarily. He didn't want to sleep anymore. He didn't know how long he'd been out. He didn't even know where he was, although something about the room was familiar.
“Mr. Blackburne?”
Soft, sweet tones recalled him to consciousness. She didn't sound like any nurse he'd ever met. But then, he wasn't still in the hospital. Maybe she knew where he was and what he was doing here.
He forced his eyes opened. As everything swam around, he felt a cool touch on his forehead. He blinked.
Directly in front of him were a pair of long, curvy legs. Her honey-colored thighs were about two feet from his face. He could see the bare skin, a freckle above her right knee and a faded scar, probably from some run-in she'd had years before with a curb.
“Mr. Blackburne?” she repeated.
Did angels go around naked? He raised his gaze slightly, hoping to encounter more bare skin. Much to his disappointment, she was wearing pale blue shorts with a white gauzy shirt tucked into the waistband. Leaning over him the way she was, her shirt gaped slightly. He saw the curve of her breasts. A weak but nearly audible flicker of male interest told him he was not only alive, but more than likely on the road to recovery.
Before he could move his head back far enough to see her face, she moved closer and sat next to him. The action took her legs out of his range of vision, but now he could see her features without straining.
She had shoulder-length light brown hair with a fringe of bangs falling to her eyebrows. Her mouth was wide and turned up at the corners, as if she was on the verge of smiling. Her eyes were green, with a hint of gray smoke. He'd never seen her before.
“I hope you feel better than you look, Mr. Blackburne, because you look pretty bad.”
“Where am I?” he mumbled. The words came out garbled.
She frowned, a faint line appearing on her forehead. “I can't understand you, but you probably shouldn't be talking, anyway. My name is Cindy Jones. Your sister, Grace, is my neighbor. You're in Grace's house now. You arrived sometime last night, but I wasn't expecting you for another week. If you hadn't left the front door open, no one would have known you were here.”
She touched his face again. Her fingertips were cool as she traced a line from his temple to the corner of his mouth. “You've got a fever, and you're bleeding. I don't think you should have left the hospital.”
“Hate hospitals.”
“Now you sound like Jonathan.” He must have looked confused. She smiled. Her lips parted and curved up, exposing white teeth and a dimple in her right cheek. “Jonathan is my oldest. He's nine. He hates anything to do with the doctor. Last summer he broke his arm. You should have heard him complaining every time we took him in to be checked.”
Now he knew where he was. He didn't remember much about getting here, although the faint memory of a plane trip made sense. Last time he recalled being fully conscious, he'd been in a hospital in Los Angeles. Grace lived outside of Houston. Why had he gone there? He had his own place....
“Earthquake,” he mumbled.
That damn earthquake a couple years back had destroyed his apartment building. He'd meant to find another place, but he'd been too busy working. The memories were coming back faster now. Grace had come to see him in the hospital and had offered her place. She was going to be gone for the summer, anyway. He could recover in peace.
“So who are you?” he asked.
“I told you. I'm Cindy Jones. Your neighbor. Grace asked me to look after you until you were on your feet.”
“I don't need any help.” He would be fine. As soon as the pounding in his head subsided to a tolerable level and the bullet wound in his leg stopped throbbing in time with his heartbeat. So much for his recovery. “I feel like I was run over by a train.”
“Actually, I believe you fell off of a building.”
He must have glared at her because she quickly added, “According to Grace, it was a very small building. Some bushes broke the fall.”
“They should have done a better job.” He concentrated all his strength on getting upright. If he could just swallow a handful of pills that his doctor had prescribed, he would be fine. But first he had to sit up.
He braced his left hand on the sofa cushion and pushed with all his strength. He got about halfway toward sitting before the room started spinning and the shaking in his arm got so bad he collapsed.
“What are you trying to do, Mr. Blackburne?”
“Sit up.” He could feel the sweat on his face and back. He hoped it was from the exertion and not a fever. That was the last thing he needed right now.
“Why?”
“Pills.” He motioned to the floor, knowing he would have dropped his duffel bags on his way in. His eyelids were getting heavier.
She stood up. He heard her faint footsteps as she crossed the room. There was barely any sound on the hardwood floor, so she must be wearing soft-soled shoes, he thought. A useless piece of information provided by a brain trained to keep him alive. Sometimes, knowing the kind of shoes someone was wearing could save a life. Good to know he still had it, even though he didn't have the strength to use it.
“Is this all your luggage, Mr. Blackburne?” Cindy asked.
“Mike,” he mumbled. Everything he owned in the world fit into two duffel bags. If the flight wasn't full, he didn't bother to check them. That way, he could carry them off the plane and not have to wait.
He heard the rattle of pills and knew she'd found the bottles. But instead of handing them to him, she crossed the room toward what he supposed was the kitchen. “Jonathan, keep an eye on Mr. Blackburne. I want to call his doctor.”
Mike opened his mouth to tell her not to bother, but no sound came out. Seconds later something poked his injured side. He groaned.
“You really shot?” a voice asked. “Did somebody fill you with lead?”
He forced his eyes open and glanced at the boy staring down at him. He had blond hair, long on top, but trimmed short around his ears. Bright brown eyes peered at him curiously. “Go 'way,” he said.
“Can I see the bullet hole? Did you bleed a lot?” The boy looked over his shoulder toward the kitchen, then bent toward Mike's face. “Are you packing a gun?”
Too much TV, Mike thought.
Cindy returned to the living room. From the look on her face, she wasn't happy.
“I spoke to your doctor,” she said, holding out a bottle of pills. “He said you were supposed to stay in the hospital another four days. You could spike a fever or worse.”
“Uh-uh. I'm fine.”
“You don't look fine. You look likeâ”
“Garbage?” Jonathan offered helpfully.
“Jonathan.”
The boy's shoulders dropped. “Sorry, Mom.”
She shoved the pills into her shorts pocket. “Go check on your sister. I'll be home in a few minutes, as soon as I figure out what to do with Mr. Blackburne.”
He was having trouble concentrating on what she was saying. “Mike,” he told her again. “Call me Mike.” At least that's what he thought he said. He had a feeling the words that passed his lips bordered on unintelligible.
“Mike,” she repeated. “You shouldn't have left the hospital. I'm not sure what to do with you. We've got a great facility here. I could take you there.”
He shook his head. Instantly, black spots appeared. He closed his eyes and rubbed them, but the spots didn't go away. He cleared his throat and spoke slowly, more for his benefit than hers. “I'll be fine. Just get me a glass of water, and I'll take my pills.”
“I can't do that.”
“Why not?”
“I promised your sister I would take care of you while she was gone. I can't just give you pills and leave you here. You need medical attention. At the very least, you need to be watched. The nurse on the phone said you'd hit your head.”
“Listen, lady, I don't need anything but a damn glass of water.” He got the whole sentence out clearly.
“Uh-huh. Sorry, but I'm not impressed by your temper.”
“Why not?”
She smiled. As smiles went, it was a nice one, he thought, then knew for sure that a fever had kicked in. When did he bother noticing a woman's smile?
“I've got two kids, Mike. I'm used to crankiness in the sickroom.”
“I'm not cranky.”
“You're doing a fair imitation. I'll make you a deal. If you're strong enough to walk to the bedroom so you can lie down properly, I won't make you go to the hospital.”
“Fair enough.” He thought about sitting up and wondered if he could do it. “Where's the bedroom?”
“Lucky for you, it's downstairs.”
“No problem. Give me a minute.”
He concentrated all his attention on his arms, willing them to be strong. After taking three deep breaths, he pushed himself into a sitting position. The room tilted and spun, but he didn't dare close his eyes. Focusing on Cindy, who seemed to be moving slightly less than everything else, he began to rise. His thighs trembled, his knees refused to lock and he felt himself start to go down. At the last moment, he ducked left. The last thing he needed was to be impaled on that damn ceramic dragon.
