Her Marine Bodyguard (20 page)

Chin jerking upward, Weston scowled. It was an ugly expression, and hate filled his eyes. Brody smiled.
Come and get me, fucker. Give me a shot
. He’d put him down faster than a rabid dog and without as much kindness.

Weston jerked to his feet. “I don’t have to stand here and be insulted. What does my work have to do with a police investigation? It doesn’t even justify a copyright infringement.”

Oh, he thought he had power now, particularly because he’d stopped pretending he didn’t hate Brody.

“Fine.” Foster took on a placating tone. “If you can just tell us where you were three nights ago between the hours of six and ten.”

“Why?”

Foster smiled, and it wasn’t pleasant. “Because I asked. Answer the question. Where were you three nights ago between the hours of six and ten in the evening?”

Rowdy’s phone buzzed. Pulling it out of his pocket, he glanced at the screen. “Mr. Weston, do you own a Glock?”

“I was at home and yes. I own a handgun. I have a license.” The muscle in his jaw ticked again.

With a hand on his own gun, clearly visible at his waistband, Foster eyed the other man. “Do you have the handgun with you?”

“I— No. It was stolen.” His eyelids twitched, and the sweat dripped off the tip of his nose. “A few days ago— I mean a few months ago.”

“Did you report it?” Foster remained congenial, but Brody had seen a similar attitude in investigators before. They would even smile when they clapped on the handcuffs.

“No. I know I should have, but I was pretty busy at the time, and you know, I couldn’t….”

“Uh-huh. How was Boston last week?” Rowdy wasn’t through with him either. “You flew via American Airlines from DFW with a layover in Chicago going, and Charlotte returning. According to airport footage, you were also sporting some bruises.” Rowdy turned his phone around.

God bless NCIS.
  Rowdy’s partner had come through for him, and Brody hadn’t even realized they’d gone at it from that angle. No way DPD pulled surveillance photos from an airport so quick, but NCIS would have been able to get to them faster.

“I fell.” Weston lied, and he slid his left hand into his pocket. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m pretty done with your questions. You want me, you talk to my attorney.” He stormed out, and they let him walk.

“He’s guilty as fuck,” Foster said flatly. “How soon can you get me surveillance for his trip to Boston?”

“Not long. Kim’s working on it right now. And that’s three favors I owe her.” The two men continued to discuss it, but Brody tuned them out.

He had a target. He knew the man’s face, his address, and the type of gun he used. Everything else was simply a confirmation. Dale Weston raped Shannon, stalked her, and tried to kidnap her. Brody had once offered to break the man’s legs.

Brody always kept his promises.

Shannon perched on a stool next to the bar leading to her kitchen, hugging her mug of coffee and listening to the chatter of women who laughed, teased, and gave each other so much shit. Maybe they were Marines, but they acted the way any old friends hanging out would. Their feminine laughter echoed through the studio. All three women were there when she woke, and Brody was gone. The sleep had been wonderful, but worry still nibbled away in her gut.

He had left with Rowdy and Detective Foster to confront Dale Weston. Coldness slithered through her veins. She’d recognized him. All these years, and she’d never been able to put together the pieces of that night. But both times she’d come into contact with him, she’d known. It left her sick, and yet…relieved. The relief confounded her. Images flickered through her mind, playing like some bad film reel with the sound cutting in and out.

“Hey,” Jazz called out, her voice slicing through the memory. “It’s going to be okay.” All of the women stared at her, but it was Jazz who rose and walked over, with what had once been a pronounced limp still in evidence. Admiration filled Shannon. Compared to what Jazz had gone through, her problems didn’t seem so bad. “You’re kind of a hero, you know.”

“Oh, hell,” the dark skinned woman—Mary or Stormer, or maybe both—said with a long laugh. “Do not inflate her ego.”

The blonde Latina grinned. “Just because she landed two gorgeous men who practically worship the ground she walks on doesn’t mean she’s a hero.”

Mary snorted. “Ground she walks on? Did you forget Jazz walks on water?”

Jazz merely responded by giving both women her middle finger and then leaned against the bar next to Shannon. “Ignore them. They’re high on leave right now. Soon, they’ll be back to work being useful to society.” Despite it all, Shannon couldn’t help snickering. At the sound, Jazz’s smile grew. “See, that’s how you face all the bullshit that life throws at you. Laugh at it and say, ‘do it again bitch. I’ve got this shit.’”

“Oorah,” her friends chorused.

“I’ve never been good at laughing in the face of anything…always thought I was something of a mouse.” She ran, she hid. When Shannon had had the chance to identify her rapist, she’d fled again and buried the information so she didn’t have to confront it. “Not so much a hero.”

“No one is,” Jazz said, soberly. “None of us. We’re survivors. We live. We love. We go on. Heroes are for storybooks and fairy tales. Life is a fuck-ton harder.”

“I should be doing something.” What, Shannon had no idea, but simply sitting there in her loft didn’t seem productive. Brody had come halfway around the world to help her, and he’d endangered his career to do it. She owed him more than merely waiting.

“You
are
doing something.” Mary rose and headed into the kitchen. She refilled her coffee then held up the carafe as though asking if Shannon wanted more.

Extending her mug, she gave her a small smile of gratitude. “I’m waiting and drinking coffee. I don’t really think this counts as doing something.”

“You’d be surprised. You’re safe, so Brody doesn’t have to worry about your security. You’re here for when he comes home. You’re alive, and it makes him happy.” When she phrased it that way, Mary sounded sensible.

“Waiting is the hardest part of the job,” Jazz said, her manner still quiet and intense. “The guys had to wait for me, and it drove them crazy. Spouses, children—families wait for their Marines to come home. It’s hard. Harder when they don’t come back, but you can’t
not
be here. If you’re not up to this, know it now. Brody will go back.”

If he didn’t end up in jail. Her Brody, in a cage. The mere idea hurt. “I would wait till the end of time for him.”

“Then you’re doing something.” Roxy joined her friends and got a refill for herself. “In the Corps, you learn a lot about hurry up and wait.”

Living her life in standstill hadn’t been near as hard as waiting the long months between Brody’s deployment and return, but nowhere near as rewarding either. “How did you do it?”

“Friends.” The answer from all three happened almost simultaneously.

Jazz chuckled and then held out her hand. They’d all been so careful about touching her even as they hugged, punched, and generally leaned on each other. “You have friends. You have
a lot
of friends. We’re all here for you. If you’ll let us.”

Lauren was her friend. She’d shown up one day after meeting Shannon, having decided they were going to enjoy each other’s company. Their friendship had been nurtured by Lauren’s own pushiness. Zehava at the community center was her friend, too. A friendship borne from common interest. And Liam had all but adopted her. So many of her friendships were because the other person wouldn’t take no for an answer and accepted her, quirks and all.

“Let us?” Mary scoffed. “Hell, girl. We’re here period. You try and get rid of a Marine who doesn’t want to leave. You’re stuck with us. Besides, I totally want to see you carve something out of one of those stones. Kyle is a huge fan, and he’s going to go bug-eyed jealous when I tell him I met you.”

Hand still extended, Jazz raised her brows.

What did Shannon have to lose?
Nothing
. And everything she’d gained with Brody? All the people she’d met because of him? “I’d like to be friends.”

“No take-backs.” Mary covered their joined hands.

“No do-overs,” Roxy said, and for a moment tears glimmered in her eyes and vanished again.

“No tears.” But despite the order, Jazz released Shannon to give Roxy a hug. “No more tears for that bastard.”

Mary rapped her hand against the counter top. “You know what this calls for, right?”

“Liquor or ice cream?” Jazz chuckled. “I can’t drink at the moment. Too many meds.”

“Ice cream it is.” Mary’d already turned to the fridge.

Shannon frowned. “I don’t have any—”

“No worries.” Jazz pulled out her cell phone. She hit a single contact for speed dial and wagged her brows. “Hey, babe, we have an ice cream emergency here and four grouchy women….” Whichever husband she’d called said something, and Jazz laughed. “What flavors do we want, ladies?”

Within thirty minutes, they all had big bowls of ice cream, spoons, and had dragged together the various chairs from different spots to create an impromptu sitting area. Despite her worries, Shannon hadn’t laughed so hard in awhile. When the door burst open, she’d almost forgotten the women were there to guard her. Mary and Roxy hit their feet so fast and were between her and the door, she’d barely had time to process they’d moved.

Foster entered with Rowdy and Logan right on his heels.

“Is he here?” The NCIS agent demanded.

Shannon’s heart sank.

“Back off,” Mary ordered, and Rowdy scowled.

“I need to know if Brody is back here or if he called.”

They’d lost track of him.

“We got that,” Roxy said slowly, her tone cool and unimpressed. “But you don’t need to burst in and scare her. Brody’s not here. We haven’t seen him since you left this morning.”

With trembling hands, Shannon pulled out her phone and checked it. No missed messages.

“Shit,” Rowdy said and rounded on Foster. “He had to go after him. You got the address?”

“What part of ‘don’t scare her’ do you not get?” Logan thumped Rowdy, and the agent glared, but then he gave her an apologetic smile. Whatever they said next was too low for her to hear. Shannon didn’t care about the apology.

What had Brody gone to do?

Dale Weston’s speedy arrival home wasn’t the least bit surprising. In fact, the man was a little late by Brody’s estimation. Brody’d had time to let himself in, search Weston’s desk, studio, and bedroom. All of the evidence sat in a neat stack on the coffee table. Evidence Weston was likely desperate to destroy. Unfortunately for him, Brody had documented every bit of it by location, and worn gloves to remove it from their hidey-holes—not that he’d had to
find
the photo of a nude Shannon.

One he didn’t plan for anyone to see. The presence of her panties and other photos would be incriminating enough.

The echo of the door slamming reverberated through the house. Weston rushed into the living room, then stumbled to a halt. Seated in a chair, Brody braced his knuckles together.

“You have no legal right to be here,” Weston said, the warbling wobble in his voice not doing him any favors.

“Nope. I don’t. Go ahead and call 9-1-1. Report a break-in.” Brody smiled. “I’ll wait.”

The waste-of-fucking-air had no ready response. Sweat beaded his forehead, and his already stained shirt darkened further. His gaze turned wild-eyed, and he glanced from Brody to the coffee table to the kitchen. While he didn’t look at the door, he shifted his stance, and his body practically trembled.

Would he go for his gun? Could the gutless piece-of-shit be desperate enough yet?

Raking his hand over his hair, Weston blew out a breath. “What do you want?”

Apparently not desperate enough.
Pity
.

“To kill me?” Weston demanded when Brody didn’t respond. “Or maybe you just want to scare me.” He swallowed once and glanced down at the table. “None of this is admissible. You don’t have the right to be here. I’ve seen those cop shows. It all became tainted the minute you walked in the door.” A pause, and the fucktard let out a laugh. “You fucked yourself, man. You broke in here for nothing.”

Brody still said nothing, the force he exerted pressing his knuckles together ground bone on bone. The pain in that kept him grounded.

“Fine,” Weston said, gesturing to the table. “I’ll stop copying her work. There, you happy? I said it. I copied her work. I’m an asshole. But nothing I did was close enough to be illegal. I always added my own personal touch.”

Brody waited. If he stood or released the leash on his temper…no. Surgical strikes required patience.

“Why are you just sitting there?” The man took a step toward him then paused and rocked back on his heels. “Are you wired? Trying to get me to admit to something?” Another bark of laughter, though it sounded more like panic than amusement. “I copied her style of work, recast in inexpensive plaster, and sold it. Made plenty of money. I don’t really need her stuff anymore.” Then with an almost sly gleam in his eyes, he smirked. “That’s all I’ve done.”

Brody dropped his hands and stood. Weston held his stare for a scant few seconds before beating a hasty retreat toward the door. The sudden, sour stink of ammonia gave Brody a reason to smile.

“Fear,” he said, softly. “Hurts, doesn’t it?”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Weston lied and shifted in the direction of worktable lining the wall next to the kitchen. He twitched and changed direction to head for the landline. Grabbing it, he wielded the handset like a weapon. “I’m going to call the cops. You’re not supposed to be here. You’re supposed to be in Afghanistan. I did my homework. You’re breaking the law even being in the United States. I bet your military cops are looking for you. What are you going to do then? You’ll be in prison. Not me.”

“Go ahead. Dial the number.” Brody walked to end of the coffee table, and Captain Jackass hit the wall in his rush to back up farther. His loud panting filled the silence. “Do you need me to dial it for you? Fear response can increase adrenaline, respiration, and heart rate. It also shuts down nonessential functions. Your bowels tighten and cramp, your bladder empties—although you’ve taken care of one already. Vision and hearing are enhanced, so is the sense of smell. Memories become far more potent, but fortunately, so does your resistance to pain. At least initially.”