Her Marine Bodyguard (5 page)

“No, we’re friends.”

“They’re friends,” Logan said from right behind her. “Stop trying to trip her up, she’s not a criminal, Foster.”

“Sometimes people don’t know what they know. They look intimate, and whoever is sending this doesn’t like it.”

“But there’s only red circles. No letter.” Which didn’t suggest anything positive, by any stretch. Foster backed up a step, and she studied the contents of the fifth envelope—it was another letter, but significantly longer than the first. Three pages longer. Foster had set the pages side by side. It read like an instruction manual, including advice on what projects she should be focusing on, when she should be done, and even the style she should emulate.

Almost ready to label it a crank letter, she paused at the last three lines.

You need to follow my instructions. I won’t offer you another chance to stop debasing yourself. Don’t make me regret offering you this one
.

It was signed
Always Yours
.

Dread crept through her.

“I’m not a profiler,” Foster said, repeating his earlier assertion. “But whoever is sending these thinks they have a personal relationship with you. We’re going to run them for prints, and we’re going to take a hard look at your life.”

No.

“I also think you should come stay with James and I for a few days,” Lauren added.

No.

“Or at least on campus at Mike’s Place.” This from Zach. “We can all keep an eye on you there.”

No
.

“My work is here, and I have a security system.”

Brody had wanted her to install it, and she’d paid good money for one. The loft—everything she worked on was here. When Brody came home, he expected her to be here. “Are you saying you think I’m not safe here?”

Glancing at the men surrounding her, she didn’t miss the troubled frowns. Before Foster could say anything, Logan shrugged. “Whoever this freak is, they think they have say in your life.”

“The photos say he’s stalking you.” Lauren said, her tone as sober and serious as her expression. “Honey, I’ve dealt with stalkers. Some are all hot air, others are different. You’re here by yourself….”

“But I live here. I
work
here.” If she had to leave…. “These are just letters, and the police have them, and I’ll get a camera.” God, she didn’t want to leave. She wanted to make all of this go away. Fear had been an acid eating away at her soul for too many years. She loved the life she’d built, but she was tired of being hemmed in by all the men. Nudging past Lauren, she retreated into the kitchen and away from all of them.

“Then one of us can stay here for a while,” Damon said. “We can rotate shifts. At least then you’re not alone.”

All the air in her lungs seemed to back up, and she couldn’t get a deep breath. Spots edged her vision, and her heart pounded so loud, surely they could hear it.

“Breathe.” Zach ordered and pushed her into a chair and urged her to put her head down between her knees. She tried to do what he said, but the air seemed to rattle in her chest.

“Here.” Lauren was suddenly there with a white paper sack from their Chinese carryout. Zach held it up to her face. They wanted her to use it to breathe. Oh, hell, she was having a panic attack. Grasping the bag, she forced her respiration to slow, and the paper crinkled with each inhale and exhale.

“It’s going to be okay, Shannon.” Zach knelt in front of her. “Just focus on breathing, and we’re going to get someone else to stay with you, okay?”

No, it wasn’t okay, but how did she explain that? They were only letters. Letters didn’t scare her near as much as having some man stay there, and it didn’t matter if he happened to be one of Brody’s friends.

God. Brody
.

If they told him, he’d worry and he was so far away. Pulling the bag away, she panted. “Please don’t tell Brody. You can’t tell him.”

“We’re going to tell him, sweetheart,” Zach said, giving her a patient and kind look. “He needs to know, but we’re going to let him know you’re safe and we’re taking care of things, too.”

“No, he’s trying to get through everything so he can come home. He’s still over there—where they blow Marines up and shoot them. If he’s distracted, he might miss something and then not come home at all.” It gave her nightmares even thinking about it. She’d never fooled herself about his job. She’d seen the Marines who’d come home with pieces missing like Rebel or scared like Logan—or even Zach and Logan’s wife, Jazz. She’d struggled through her recovery.

A few more weeks and Brody would be away from all the danger. He’d stayed whole and safe so far, she needed him to be that way until he came home.

“We don’t have to tell him right away,” Lauren offered, when the others remained quiet. The Marines were Brody’s friends, his brothers—they’d want to tell him. “We don’t,” Lauren repeated more firmly. “But you need to take precautions.”

“Yeah,” Damon said, stepping into her line of sight. “Fine, we can loop Brody in later, but you need someone here with you, or you need to come back to Mike’s Place with us.” Those were the only two options, and everyone seemed to agree with him.

“Or I can recommend a third idea,” Archer Morgan said, entering the conversation for the first time since he’d arrived.

Shannon took another few breaths with the bag and stared at him. “I don’t even know who you are.”

“A friend, ma’am.” He gave her a faint smile. “I’m opening a security firm. We’re not off the ground yet, but I already have a team lined up. One of its members would be perfect.”

So
he
didn’t seem to be offering to do it himself, which helped alleviate some of her panic.

“Katrina?” Foster glanced at his friend.

“Yeah,” Morgan nodded. “Katrina Bates. She’s ex-Army, former military police, and damn good at what she does.” Though he didn’t specify what that was. “If you don’t want a man here, she can hang out with you.”

Heat stung her cheeks at his description—no, she didn’t want a
man
here, but she’d been trying to not say the words. It sounded ungrateful and harsh to the men who had shown up because Lauren called.

Zach had risen and backed up a step, even Damon retreated out of her space. The men gave her room to breathe and only Lauren remained. It helped.

“Damn,” Zach murmured. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay,” she said, hating her own weakness. “I have panic attacks sometimes.”

“It’s okay,
chère
.” Damon told her and Logan echoed the sentiment. “We’re all big boys, and we can handle it.” But he turned to Morgan and eyed him. “Give me this Katrina Bates’ details. We want to check her out before we agree to anything.”

They moved away, increasing their distance to her, and Shannon’s heart rate slowed. She’d been doing so damn well. Tears burned. Not perfect, but so much better. Now she’d succeeded in making people who were trying to help her feel badly.

“Sweetie, stop.” Lauren said, her voice soft and pitched low. “The guys get it, and they aren’t mad. They just want to know you’re okay. So do I. This is probably a lot of nothing and you get a roommate for a few days….”

Lauren might be a great actress, but she really was a terrible liar.

Katrina Bates turned out to be an ideal roommate. The thirty-something, African-American woman arrived an hour after Archer Morgan recommended her. Sleek and beautiful, she moved on silent feet, and Shannon half-forgot she was there. They had coffee together in the morning, and when Shannon retreated to her sculpting, Katrina worked out in a space she’d cleared and then pulled out a laptop. She even answered the landline. They had a couple of
no caller ID
hang-ups and twice her agent called—the
Her Marine
offer had climbed up to nearly three-quarters of a million dollars, but Shannon remained steadfast in her refusal.

True to his word, Damon arranged for a camera to be installed on her front door, and she could see who came and went. They’d upgraded the security system—including sensors for breaking glass. She’d worried those sensors would be tripped by her chiseling, but so far so good. Companionable silence reigned save for the music, the rush of water and chipping.

The first night Katrina stayed, she’d asked about the sculpting with genuine interest. The second night, she commented on the painstaking process and work. The third, she’d told Shannon stories about her army service. Overall, Katrina proved friend material, and it didn’t take her long to forget why the woman had all but moved into her loft. It didn’t hurt that no new letters arrived and Detective Foster hadn’t called either.

By the fourth day, they’d settled so soundly into their routine Shannon could focus on the stone. She’d finished the shape of Rebel’s head, including his hair, and she worked on his face. This delicate work required a great deal more concentration. Her fingers stung a little as water washed over the stone to clear away the debris. Using a small hammer and chisel, she focused on the shape of one eye, and then the other.

Sweat slicked her back, and her legs were spattered with flecks of stone. She’d dragged her hair up and confined it in a messy bun out of it to try and cool herself off, but not even the air-conditioning could keep up with the energy generated by her muscles. Fatigue wore at her arms by the time she’d finished the nose and mouth, and the sun was setting.

The brutal burn in her shoulders couldn’t be ignored any longer, and she finally took a step back and set her tools down. Perched on the edge of a stool, she sagged. Weariness struck, and all she wanted to do was fall into her bed and go to sleep, but she needed a shower first.

“Damn,” Katrina said in a low voice. She filled the singular syllable with an element of awe. After crossing the room, she handed Shannon a bottle of water, bless her. The water was icy cold, and she drank it greedily. “I cannot get over this. It didn’t have a face this morning, and now…. I mean you can even see the faint dimple in his cheek.”

“Thank you,” Shannon exhaled the words. Her whole body felt like it had been lit on fire, every muscle in her back and shoulders protesting the length of time she’d held her arms up while performing the careful task of sculpting the face. “I usually do the detail work last, but I wanted to
see
him.” The explanation spilled out of her. “I can see it in my mind and in the photographs, but it’s different when I find it in the stone.”

“I’ll say.” Katrina stood a foot back, arms folded, her attention on the sculpture. “You know, when I saw you doing this on the first day, I couldn’t figure out how you were ever going to turn a block of gray into a person, and now here he is. That’s some serious talent.”

Flushing, Shannon ducked her head and finished her water. “I think I’ll go take a shower and then I’m going to sleep.”

“Eat first, because you skipped lunch today.”

“I did?” Had she really? They’d had bagels at breakfast. Shannon’d had a craving, and they’d walked together to her favorite shop a block over to fetch them. After, they returned, ate their bounty and had coffee, and Shannon had went back to her sculpting.

“Go take your shower,” Katrina said with a laugh. “I’m going to grill those steaks we picked up. You can eat and then sleep.”

Belatedly, it occurred to Shannon that cooking fell well outside the parameters of Katrina’s job. “You shouldn’t have to feed me, too.”

More laughter met the protest, and Katrina pointed her toward the bedroom. “Hell, I need to eat, and trust me, I’m billing Archer for every penny of this.”

A cold chill went up her spine. Shannon had to pay for this—and for the first time, she realized she had no idea how much the cost would be. Tossing a smile of gratitude in Katrina’s direction, she headed behind the silkscreen divider. Grabbing her cell phone, she turned on the shower to heat up the water before dialing her agent. The call went to voice mail. “Hey, it’s Shannon. I need to find out how much the bodyguard business is costing. I didn’t think about the daily rates or any of that, and I want to make sure we can pay our end of the bill.”

Damon would have been offended if she’d offered to pay him for installing the camera. Zach and Logan, too. But Archer Morgan said he was opening a security office and Katrina worked for him. Shannon agreed because it seemed the best solution, appeased everyone’s worries, she didn’t have to have a man stay with her, and she didn’t have to leave her loft.

But if it bankrupted her in the meanwhile, that didn’t help anyone. Putting the phone on the counter, she spared a look at herself in the mirror.
Ugh, mistake
. The bags under her eyes were puffy, her hair was definitely a rat’s nest, and her skin actually seemed a little gray itself under all the spatter of debris.

After stripping out of her clothes and pulling the band from her hair, Shannon ducked under the hot spray. It pounded her weary muscles, and she simply stood there for several minutes, letting it sluice away the debris. Sometimes, she felt a lot like the sculptures she created. She had to carve herself back out of the zone and find the woman beneath the obsessed artist.

Frankly, she found being the artist easier. The artist had a purpose and goals and confidence. All of her desire poured into the stone and gave it life. The woman was a mass of contradictions. She hadn’t talked to Brody in forever. Was he even back Stateside? At last check-in, he’d traveled inland. First to report to a base then await orders to bring him home. So could he be back? Was he working on finishing up whatever task he needed to do?

She had to stop being stupid. He would call her. Brody didn’t have a dishonest bone in his body, never lied to her or strung her along. When he said he would do something, he did it.
But what if he has changed his mind? What if the last couple of years have been too hard on him?
  The niggling voice of doubt would not be silenced.

A rumble of thunder rolled over the building, and Shannon shoved her head under the water to soak her hair. They needed the rain. Three years of drought conditions left the landscape yellow and brown. The rain might also bring relief from the heat.