Waiting For Wren (Book Five In The Bodyguards Of L.A. County Series) (16 page)

He’d searched long and hard to find Wren, and he sure as hell didn’t come to see this. He ground his teeth as her beautifully sculpted hands wandered up his muscular arms and tangled in his thick black hair. They’d been all over each other all day—at Peak Adventures, tubing down hills like foolish teenagers; walking down Main Street wrapped around one another;
now
.

Tucker Campbell was proving himself to be some bodyguard—probably should’ve followed Pops into the hotel business and left protecting the beautiful to someone more interested in safety than getting off. Wonder what Ethan would think.

Smiling, he dropped his binoculars and pulled from his bag the camera already equipped with the long-range lens and snapped away, looking forward to sending his work along to clue in big brother. Surely fraternizing with baby sister was against some sort of rule. After all, there was a lunatic on the loose. He snickered at his own wit and zoomed in, capturing a particularly excellent close up of Pretty Boy’s tongue darting into sissy’s mouth. So graphic. The image really sent the point home that a lot more than door and window checks were going on around here. Bastard.

Nothing would please him more than to cause the handsome prince a few problems. He deserved them. And Wren… She lied. They were both going to have to be taught a lesson. He couldn’t stand liars, but even more, he hated Tucker Campbell. For that alone he would make it good. He shoved the camera back in his bag and pulled his binoculars free, peaking through one last time as Tucker and Wren held each other close, talking as if no one else mattered, but he was here now. They were going to start paying attention. In fact, the games were just about to begin.

Chapter 12

W
ren rolled over and opened her eyes to the flashing digital clock on the table. “
Yes
!” She tossed the covers back, scrambled out of bed, and screamed as Tucker grabbed his gun in a two-handed grip and sat up, pointing his weapon in her direction.

Wren gaped as she pressed a hand to her racing heart. “What are you
doing
?”

“Jesus, Cooke,” he said at the same time. “Why the hell are you rushing out of bed like that? You scared the shit out of me.” Blowing out a deep breath, he set the pistol on the table and lay against his pillow, eyeing her the whole time.

“The power’s back on. I need to see if we have Internet.”

His brow shot up as he crossed his arms above his head and settled in against his elbow. “I’m going to have to kill you if you do that again.”

“Mission almost accomplished. My heart’s still pounding.”

“Profit margins aren’t worth dying for.”

“Point taken. I’m sorry I startled you, but I have to get to work. Patrick has his breakfast meeting with Lenora and her gardener. I’m really hoping I can check in—maybe lend a little moral support and remind him of some of our key points. He must be exhausted.”

“I thought he was handling everything.”

“He is—really well, actually, but like I said a couple days ago, this is a huge week for us and he’s on his own. The Movenbeck Project went well. Now we need to finish strong with Lenora and several of our smaller projects I haven’t been able to work on without power.”

“You guys are doing fine. The Movenbecks’ shindig was a success, and Lenora’s not bitching.”

“For now. If we want the trend to continue, I need to put mockups together for her master suite and get a look at the rooms Patrick took pictures of for our new clients. I’m two days behind. I don’t have a lot of time to chat.” She grabbed her laptop, cellphone, and their accompanying chargers and raced toward the dining room, escaping.

Tucker looked good enough to eat with those sleepy eyes, disheveled hair, and dark scruff of beard. And that chest of his. She blew out an unsteady breath as she remembered hot, sweaty skin rubbing against hers, pressing her into the mattress.

Work. She needed to work and avoid any more alone time with him for a while. They’d been in each other’s way for two days straight.
Swatches and paint chips won’t let you down like people do.
She dismissed Tucker’s theories behind her obsessive dedication to her profession—even if there was an uncomfortable stirring of truth behind his words.

And so what if there was? She’d been living her life just fine, content to follow her own rules until Tucker entered the picture and started messing things up with his sexy grins and heart-stopping kisses.

She plugged her electronics into the socket with more gusto than necessary as she glanced toward the hall leading to their bedrooms. Hopefully the power was here to stay. Tucker could go back to his own room, and she could actually sleep instead of stare at the ceiling while he lay next to her in nothing more than his boxers, churning her up.

Tucker Campbell was turning her upside down and inside out, confusing her, making her feel things she didn’t want to feel. He’d given her some space last night after he proved his point with another mind-numbing kiss—plenty of time to stew in her own sexual juices while he checked the house and worked out in the home gym, but then he’d come back and stripped down to almost nothing while he held her gaze and helped himself to half of her bed.

She’d wanted to tell him to get out, the words had been on the tip of her tongue, but he’d continued to stare at her in the firelight, challenging her with those smug eyes, so she’d clenched her jaw, tugged off her pajama bottoms, and had the satisfaction of watching him swallow while she walked to the bed in skimpy panties and a clinging spaghetti-strap sleep-top. The move had been childish, and she’d been playing with fire, but she’d be damned if she was going to suffer alone.

But that was over now. The turmoil would end today, damn it. It was time to get things back to normal around here—or close enough. She powered on her laptop and phone, holding her breath, waiting for them to boot up, and smiled her triumph as her cell screen showed four bars of service and her computer linking into the Internet. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

She signed into her e-mail account and was immediately inundated by pages of unopened messages in her inbox. She would be swamped for
hours
trying to play catch up, but first she needed something quick to eat and a cup of coffee…after she texted Patrick.

I know you’re busy with breakfast

. Give me a call when you finish up and we’ll schedule a Skype, or if you need me beforehand, just holler. Looks like we might be back in business.

“Please, dear God, let us be back in
business
.” She turned on the small countertop television on her way to the bread bin, pulling two whole-wheat slices from the bag as her mind raced through the list of objectives for the day. Return e-mails, check in with the Movenbecks, then she had to get to Lenora’s master suite. Somehow she had to tinker with one of the weight-bearing walls, which wasn’t going to be easy, but she would find a way to give Lenora what she wanted or switch it around some and make Lenora want what was actually feasible. The Cartwright Job and potential clients from the Movenbeck renovations were bound to keep Cooke Interiors busy and comfortably in the black well into next year. Patrick was definitely due a raise.

“…tragic death of someone so young right here in Park City.”

Wren whirled as the toothy blonde’s words caught her attention. She turned the TV up louder.

“The town is in shock as word spreads of sixteen-year-old Alyssa Brookes’ untimely passing. Details are still emerging as we bring you this breaking news. At this point, we know Alyssa and her family are full-time residents of Park City. She was a cheerleader and president of the Sophomore class at Park City High.”

Tucker stepped into the kitchen, hair damp, smiling. “I’ll never take hot water for granted again.”

“Shh. The news…”

“What—”

“Shh. There was a murder. Sixteen-year-old girl. Details are still coming in.”

Tucker’s eyes changed, sharpening as he stared at the television.

“…unconfirmed sources are saying Alyssa was found in her bedroom by her mother, strangled. The motive behind this beloved community member’s violent death is still unclear. Park City’s Police Chief and the town’s mayor will be addressing the public at a ten o’clock press conference. We’ll continue to bring you details as they become available. Chuck, back to you in Salt Lake.”

Wren pressed a hand to her chest as her heart broke for the mother of Alyssa Brookes. “That poor girl. That poor family.”

Tucker grunted as he turned to the refrigerator and pulled a coffee pod from the box. He grabbed a mug from the cabinet and a banana from the fruit bowl, peeled it, and bit in.

Wren watched him as he doctored up his morning java, pouring cream into his cup, swearing when chunks of spoiled milk floated to the top. “We’ll have to go to the store. Everything in the fridge is probably bad.”

A young girl had been strangled to death somewhere in the town limits, and he was worrying about food. “Tucker.”

“Yeah.” He dumped the undrinkable contents down the drain and looked at her.

“What—why…the girl. She’s been murdered…”

“What do you want me to say?”

She blinked, taken aback by his indifference. “I’m not sure. Maybe nothing, but you act like you don’t even care. Of all people, you should know…” She stopped herself as his eyes heated and cooled just as quickly.

“I should know what?”

“Nothing. I’m sorry,” she murmured as she reached for her toast.

He gripped her wrist, stopping her. “No, go ahead. What should I know?”

“Never mind.”

“I should know what it’s like, right? I should know what it’s like to open a bedroom door and find the person you love most in the world dead and staring up at nothing?”

She flinched. “Tucker—”

“Do I have to grieve for all of them? A sixteen-year-old was found just like Staci; she won’t be the last. I understand exactly what that girl’s mother is going through. Am I a bad person because I shut it off, because I don’t want to relive the pain again and again?”

“No, of course—”

“I spent seven years of my life trying to save the world, trying to take killers off the street so they couldn’t do to others what someone did to my sister.”

What was Tucker talking about? Who did what to his sister? “Tucker, I don’t know—”

“That’s right. You don’t, so leave it alone.” He dropped her hand, turned, and left the room.

She stared after him as he retreated down the hall. What just happened? She’d never seen him angry before. Did he think she was judging him? And Staci? What exactly happened to Staci? He’d never said. She shuddered as she glanced toward the forbidden hall, realizing she knew nothing of the story. Shaken, she walked to the dining room table and sat down in front of her laptop, staring blindly at a screen-full of mail.

Her laptop dinged loudly, alerting her to a new e-mail, startling her out of her thoughts. She glanced at the sender, groaned, then puzzled over the subject line.
Extremely Dissatisfied!
She sighed and rolled her eyes. “You’re never satisfied,” she muttered as she hovered the mouse over the unread mail, hesitating as she glanced in the direction Tucker had walked. She wanted to go to him and make sure he was all right, but she doubted he had any desire to see her now. Pressing her lips firm, she clicked on Lenora’s message.

Wren,

I’m writing to express my deep dissatisfaction with our business relationship as of late. You abandoned me mid-project and apparently Patrick has done the same!

Wren frowned.
What
?

I believe I’ve been very accommodating with Patrick’s illness, but to miss our breakfast meeting without even a word is abominably rude and unprofessional. I am beyond displeased with our current arrangement and will no longer require your services. You can expect to hear from my attorney…wherever you are!

Lenora Cartwright

She reread the message several times, waiting for Lenora’s ramblings to somehow make sense. What the hell was going on? She exed out of the e-mail and searched her inbox, spotting numerous messages from Brice Movenbeck. She pressed a hand to her sinking stomach as she glanced from subject line to subject line.
Still waiting for Patrick
was sent at 9am on November second
.
Then
Wrong furniture!
at 10:30am
. Please contact me ASAP!!!
had come in at 4:45pm. Her hand trembled as she clicked on the last message.

Wren,

I don’t know what in the hell is up, but Mindy and I are beyond frustrated and quite frankly surprised with the disaster you and Patrick have left us to deal with. Patrick never showed up, the wrong furniture was delivered (which took several hours to correct), and our room is still in shambles while Mindy and the help try to put everything to rights with less than an hour until guests arrive. Contact me immediately.

Brice

“No.” This wasn’t right. She frantically searched for the last correspondence Patrick sent at 7pm on November first, scanning it. He said right there that he would meet with Brice and Mindy first thing in the morning, then head over to Lenora’s as planned. He attached two files of photos for new client rooms.

She yanked up her phone, trying to reassure herself this wasn’t really happening. She reread Patrick’s return text she received at the bar and grill yesterday afternoon.

Install perfect. Party fabulous. Lenora tolerable. Ready for breakfast meeting.

“This doesn’t make any
sense
.” She stabbed Patrick’s number on her speed dial as her breath heaved out in her shocked anger. Missed appointments, losing their biggest clients, potential litigation. She pressed her fingers to the vicious throb in her forehead.

“Hey, you’ve reached Patrick. Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you.”

“Patrick, it’s Wren. I just received an e-mail from Lenora Cartwright. Apparently you called in sick yesterday and missed the meeting this morning. And you never showed up for the Movenbeck install. I don’t know what’s going on, but it better be good. How could you do this, Patrick?” Her voice shook with tears and she cleared the emotion away. “We just lost our biggest client, and I don’t even want to know what Brice and Mindy are going to say.” She disconnected and rushed to her feet, almost knocking over her chair, as a spurt of panic grabbed her by the throat. What was she going to do? She moved about, pacing away the bright, hot fear. Everything she’d worked for. Everything
they’d
worked for.

She stopped in her tracks, listening to the violent pounding of her own heart. “This isn’t right. Something isn’t right.”

She picked up the cellphone and dialed the Cartwrights. Screw Ethan’s rules about outgoing calls.

“Cartwright residence.”

“Ms. Cheri, this is Wren Cooke. Is Lenora available?”

“I’m afraid she’s in her session with Willamina.”

“Do you think you could interrupt her? It’s urgent.”

“She gave me strict instructions that she isn’t to be disturbed.”

Damn it
. She bit her lip. “Okay. Can I leave a message?”

“Certainly.”

Then a thought occurred to her. Patrick had been in the Cartwright mansion every day since her abrupt departure. “Ms. Cheri, did you talk to Patrick when he called in?”

“Of course, madam.”

“How did he—how did he sound?”

“Different.”

“What do you mean?”

“His voice was a bit…muffled I would say.”

“Muffled?”

“Yes, madam. He said he was dog sick and would return tomorrow, which would have been yesterday. He called in yesterday and said he would be here today, Madam.”

She frowned. “He missed two days?”

“Indeed, Ms. Cooke.”

“And he said ‘dog sick’?”

“Precisely.”

‘Dog Sick.’ Patrick wouldn’t say ‘dog sick.’ He would say ‘under the weather’ or ‘ill’, especially to a client. She fell back into her chair as a new wave of dread washed through her. Something was wrong with Patrick. “Ms. Cherie, how did Patrick look when you saw him last?”