To the Edge (18 page)

He hadn't said anything, but he'd watched her, thoughtful and somber, as she walked away and shut herself in her bedroom.

Today she could see Garrett's act for what it had been. A smoke screen.

The real Nolan Garrett was back. Stoic, surly, and arrogant. Fine. OK. She got it. He had a job to do. She could appreciate that he was a professional and needed to maintain a professional distance to do it. As far as that went, she had a job to do, too: come out of this alive. Regain control of her life. She had a better chance of doing it if she kept her wits about her—which meant she needed to ignore as well as deny it her unwanted attraction and what she now accepted was a mandatory dependence on him. Thanks to him, it was a lot easier to manage now that he'd reverted back to full "jerk" mode. Kind, considerate, and cooking in her kitchen was more than she'd signed up for.

So was the sound she'd heard coming from his bedroom late last night when she wandered into the kitchen for something to drink. It hadn't been a shout exactly. More like a tortured groan.

She'd forgotten about it until this very moment. Forgotten that she'd walked to his closed door, placed her fingers on the knob, and almost gone to him to see if the same nightmares that had awakened her had roused him as well.

Not likely. A man like Garrett no doubt had his own set of demons that haunted him.

"What is it you do, Mr. Garrett?" Clare Kincaid asked with distant politeness, her question making Jillian aware that her thoughts had wandered yet again.

"Nolan is an associate of mine," her father interjected.

Her father exchanged looks with both Jillian and Garrett. He'd made it clear her mother knew nothing about the threats and he wanted to keep it that way. For everyone's sake, Jillian was grateful. For all of her mother's concern about decorum, she could be capable of melodrama and theatrics that would give an Italian opera a run for its money.

"And yet he's here as Jillian's guest," her mother speculated, her tone relaying the fact that she may have accepted Garrett at her table, but the jury was still out on whether he belonged there.

While Garrett wore his trademark black—sans holster and gun—Jillian had opted for yellow capris and a floral print tank top. In contrast, her mother sat at the far end of a huge polished mahogany table, pearls at her throat, stunning in gray watered silk, her hostess smile gracious but reserved. Her delicate elegance was the perfect complement to Jillian's father's commanding presence.

"And how did the two of you meet?"

"That was my doing, Clare." Jillian's father touched a napkin to the corner of his mouth, jumping in again to run interference.

At sixty-two, Darin Kincaid was still an attractive man. His hair was silver gray, his body toned and tan. But it was his eyes—seascape gray and hard as tempered steel—that held your attention. Through them shone not only his shrewd intellect but the full measure of his commanding strength and power.

As far as Jillian knew, he had only two weaknesses. Her mother was one; she was the other.

"Your doing, dear?"

"I'm trying to convince Nolan to write about his Afghanistan and Iraq experiences and publish them with us. I thought perhaps Jillian could charm him into consenting."

Jillian had wondered how he would explain Garrett.

"Oh, you're a writer then," Clare continued. "How fascinating. And what part, may I ask, did you play in those ghastly conflicts? Were you an ambassador?"

"Staff Sergeant Garrett is a soldier. Pardon me.
Was
a soldier. A decorated war hero. He once led his squad of Rangers into a heavily armed Taliban stronghold, eliminated them and the threat to an entire village with little more than courage and hand-to-hand combat."

"Oh. My." Frowning, Jillian's mother regarded Garrett with guarded interest—like one would regard a pit bull on a leash.

Garrett remained stone-faced and silent. Up until this point he'd been holding his own, but now he was clearly uncomfortable. Just as he'd been uncomfortable when Plowboy had started telling tales about his heroics Friday night.

Lord. Had it been just two days ago that he'd dragged her to a biker bar and the middle of a fight? He still owed her for that. And you know what? Now seemed like a good time to extract a little payment. After all, he'd been the one who insisted on coming here today.

"Daddy, I do believe you're embarrassing Nolan with all this talk of heroics." She smiled sweetly, then twisted the screws. "But it's so fascinating. Nolan, please, tell us more."

"I don't think your mother wants, to hear any more," Garrett stated, flashing Jillian a tight facsimile of a smile. It was not a plea to change the subject but a threat that she'd better if she knew what was good for her.

She smiled right back, her own message clear:
Fat chance.

"Well." Her mother, oblivious to the undercurrents and eye contact, considered Garrett with renewed interest. "You
do
speak. I was beginning to think Darin was going to do all your talking for you."

"When given an opportunity, yes, ma'am, I speak for myself."

"And make good sense when you do. This talk of war. It's all rather... disturbing, isn't it?"

"And falls far short of civilized conversation," Nolan agreed, casting a victorious smile Jillian's way. "Jillian, why don't you tell us about the current piece you're working on?"

"Oh yes, dear." Clearly relieved that she no longer had to think about messy things like third-world strife, Clare jumped on the opportunity to change the subject, even though she rarely took any interest in Jillian's work. "Do fill us in. Just the other day I was telling Elizabeth Manchester about that little award you received last fall for one of your reports. What was it... a Piedmont? No, that's wrong. Help me out here, darling."

"A Peabody. She won a Peabody."

Jillian snapped her gaze toward Garrett when he supplied the information and went on to clarify the award's significance.

"It recognizes achievement and meritorious service in broadcasting."

"Yes, yes. That's it. It was for something you did on children. Car seats, wasn't it?"

"Children's safety equipment in general," Garrett clarified again, and it was all Jillian could do to keep her jaw from dropping.

Interesting that this man she'd known less than forty-eight hours knew more about her work than her mother did. Her mother, of course, was in denial. She still held out hope that Jillian would quit "that horribly pedestrian job" and take her rightful place in the Palm Beach social scene.

As far as Garrett’s interest went, there was really no reason to get excited. He'd just been doing his job. Like a good little bodyguard, he'd done his homework and read her file. And deflected the conversation from himself to her. Very smooth.

She lifted a brow.
Touche.

He accepted her concession with a clipped nod.

"What
are
you working on now, Jillian?"

"Nothing that unusual, Mother. I've been following the story of an amnesiac."

Her mother looked taken aback, then dismissive. "Why, whatever for?"

Another typical Clare reaction. Indifference bred by disinterest.

"His story appealed to me. He's been wandering the East Coast for months, not knowing who he is, whether he has family... what he did for a living."

Clare sniffed delicately. "Well, it all sounds a bit tawdry, doesn't it? I mean, what kind of a person can't remember who he is?"

Jillian counted to ten, settled herself. Smiled. "One who sustained a devastating head injury."

Clare rolled her eyes. "And you believe him? That he can't remember anything?"

"For heaven's sake, Mother, why would anyone want to fake anything that traumatic? The man is totally lost. I can't imagine—I can't even
begin
to imagine how difficult it must be for him."

"I suppose you're right," Clare agreed with absolutely no sincerity, "but don't you think your time would be better spent on some ... I don't know. Some notable project perhaps?"

If she bit her tongue one more time it was going to bleed. "I do news, not society balls."

Her mother scowled. "You have always been such a stubborn child."

'This is an old and familiar argument," her father interjected with a tolerant grin, "but I'm sure we're boring Mr. Garrett. Lunch was delicious, as always, Clare, but if you lovely ladies will excuse us, I want a few private words with Nolan. You must show Jillian your new orchids, Clare."

"That was beautifully choreographed, darling." Clare smiled brilliantly for her husband. "You've averted another mother-daughter quarrel at our guest's expense. I apologize, Mr. Garrett, for our boorish behavior. Come along, Jillian. Your father has dismissed us."

Once the women were out of earshot of the dining room, Kincaid laid into Nolan like a sledgehammer.

"What in the hell happened at Mar-A-Lago last night?" So much for polish and charm. Kincaid had scraped off the upper crust and trimmed things down to bare bones.

It came as no surprise that Kincaid had a direct pipeline to the Palm Beach PD. Someone must have called him last night after Nolan had briefed Detective Laurens, the officer in charge. He wondered how many heads would roll at headquarters before they found this creep.

Kincaid was fuming by the time Nolan finished recounting the events for him.

"And you call that protecting her?"

It wasn't a question. It was an accusation.

Kincaid had a right to be pissed. Nolan had been so busy keeping his libido under control and dodging Hannah Baylor that he'd let down his guard last night.

"She wasn't in any danger," he assured Kincaid, without making any excuses. "The plan was to terrify her."

"And you know this because?"

"Because this is personal. Whoever is doing this has a very personal ax to grind. They want their little drama to drag out... and they want to end it one-on-one."

Kincaid took his measure with one long, hard stare. "So help me God, if so much as one hair on her head turns up with a split end, you won't be able to run far enough fast enough."

Too bad Kincaid had such trouble making his point,
Nolan thought half an hour later as he cleared Golden Palms' gates, eased into traffic, and headed back toward Jillian's penthouse.

"So ... was it good for you?"

Nolan whipped his head toward the passenger seat of his Mustang. Jillian's eyes were closed, the skin around them pinched tight with tension.

"Let's say I have a whole new appreciation for why you opted for me."

"Don't get too bowled over. The lesser of two evils is still an
evil."

He'd be lying if he told himself he hadn't started to look forward to her biting sarcasm. "Black Bart, at your service, ma'am."

Christ. After meeting the parents up close and personal, he understood why she hadn't wanted to run home to the nest to wait out her stalker. Too much exposure to toxic material would eventually cause problems. Too much exposure to those two and she'd end up as bloodless as her mother and as hard-edged as the old man.

Or maybe not. If he'd learned one thing about her, it was that there was more than met the eye. A lot more, which probably explained why she was so different from them. Except in looks. She'd inherited the best of her parents' physical traits, including good bones. She had a backbone strong enough to stand up to the crap they dished out.

He shifted lanes and made a left on Worth Avenue. Kincaid was shrewd, manipulative, and authoritative. And her mother—hell—he honestly wondered if there was a beating heart or living soul behind that plastic, self-serving facade. Even if he hadn't read it in Jillian's file, he'd have known Clare Kincaid was on something. He strongly suspected there was more than depression medication in the mix.

Jillian's heavy sigh had him glancing her way again as he waited for a light to change.

"Sometimes all I have to do is think about Golden Palms and I can barely breathe. It's been months since I sat at that table, yet it felt like yesterday."

She blinked at the traffic without seeing it. He wondered if she was aware she was talking out loud, confiding something personal, and if she'd regret it later when she realized what she'd done.

He kept his mouth shut and drove.

"You can't go home again. Whoever said that has never been to Golden Palms. You can't
leave
home. At least my home never left me." She paused. "No matter how hard
I
tried to break away."

He stared straight ahead, but from the corner of his eye he
saw her pinch her temples between finger and thumb.

She pushed out a humorless laugh. "And yet... I love them. Man. A psychiatrist would have a field day with me on a couch. "

Actually, Nolan figured she was pretty sane, considering. And pretty vulnerable, which was a far cry from the way he'd originally had her pegged.

Kincaid was a different story. Aside from demanding a security update and making his expectations clear, he had accomplished something else as well. Today's little stroll down billionaire lane had put things in perspective.