Over the Line (2 page)

Too bad No can't get you out of this fix.

The words echoed around in the spot where his brain was supposed to be.
Maybe... hell,
he thought as a kernel of an idea took root. Maybe he could. Maybe Nolan Garrett could do exactly that.

Four hours later, Jase was on a flight to West Palm Beach, experiencing a swell of excitement that he hadn't felt in a very long time. The next afternoon, short on sleep but long on hope, he stood in the reception area of E.D.E.N. Securities, Inc., the firm Nolan ran with his brothers, Ethan and Dallas, and their sister, Eve.

"Who should I say is here to see him?" A cute brunette, who smelled like heaven and introduced herself as Kimmie, sat behind a reception desk smiling up at Jase when he asked if he could see Nolan.

"Just tell him Plowboy's here," Jase said, then glanced to the right when he heard a door open down the hall.

No, looking all professional and businesslike in a pair of classy charcoal slacks and white linen shirt, stepped out an office door.

When he spotted Jase, he did a double take.

"Jesus H. Christ," No said, with a trademark grin that Jase had seen reduce a woman to drools. "Would you look what high tide washed in."

Jase's former squad leader walked down the hall toward him, a curious look on his face. "Guess the rumors are true. Nobody's killed you yet."

Jase grinned and accepted the hand No offered. "Not for lack of trying."

No laughed. "That I can believe. Great to see you, man. What brings you to the Sunshine State?"

This was the hard part. But Jase hadn't cut it as a Ranger by being soft. He cleared his throat and went airborne.

"That job offer you made me six months ago ... the one I was stupid enough to turn down. Don't suppose it's still open."

If he was surprised, No didn't show it. What he did show was exactly what Jase needed to see. Understanding, stark and simple. Brotherhood from one warrior for another. Acceptance from a man who knew where the other had been.

But most of all, he saw relief—not some hackneyed attempt to muster up enthusiasm.

"It's still open," No said. "And your timing couldn't be better. We're spread so thin we're turning work away."

Now for the really hard part. "Um … well, there's something you need to know. Before … well, before you make your decision. My hearing ... it's ... well... spent too much time a little too close to the heavy fire, you know."

"How bad?" No asked, looking more concerned than wary. He understood. Hearing was a common casualty in the military.

"Twenty percent loss in the right. A little less in the left."

"Well, hell," No said, a slow grin forming, "my wife's got one hundred percent loss when she doesn't want to hear the word 'no'. Doesn't seem to keep her from getting the job done. Can't see any reason you can't get it done, either."

He extended his hand. "Welcome aboard, man." And just that easy, just that fast, Jason "Plowboy" Wilson stepped out of the land of the lost and back to the land of the living.

Chapter 1

Three weeks later, Sunday, July 9th, South Florida Fairgrounds, Sound Advice Amphitheatre, West Palm Beach

She was a bustier-wearing, hard-living, tabloid-headlining, top-of-her-game rock star. And as of tonight, Jason Wilson was responsible for keeping her alive.

Lord Jesus God, what had No gotten him into?

Arms crossed over his chest, legs set wide, Jase stood well back in the wings, watching Sweet Baby Jane gyrate to a hard and heavy rock beat, then strut her stuff across the stage on needle-sharp heels, gearing up to close the first of three West Palm Beach bookings.

Sweet mercy, did the woman have stuff to strut.

No wonder they called her sold-out tour Fire and Soul.
Sweet Baby Jane was the flesh-and-blood component of both the fire and the soul.

A wild, thick tangle of long blond hair streaked with shots of chestnut bounced on top of her head. Her lips were painted fireball red. She had a face made for magazine covers and, from where Jase was standing, put the wet in wet dreams. And her body—whoa. That was someplace he wasn't going to go within a Baghdad mile of.

She wasn't any bigger than a bug, her waist so small he figured one of his headbands would fit around it. Best guess, without those heels she'd probably top out at a little over five feet.

It was more than obvious that she was in great shape. Fighting shape. All slim limbs, toned muscle, and steady agility, she moved tirelessly and sometimes frenetically all the hell over the outdoor stage, her skin covered in a glittering sheen of perspiration.

Wet,
he thought again.
Very. Wet. Dreams.

He shook off the thought, tuned back into her performance. She had a set of pipes; he'd give her that. Although why she wanted to belt out that rock crap when she could groove on a sweet country ballad was beyond him. So was the reason she wanted to wear all that makeup and those skimpy, outrageous clothes—not to mention she seemed to have a thing for tattoos. Small ones—one on her neck, another on her biceps, and one just above her right breast. Probably more he couldn't see, all with some deep, mystical meaning known only to her, no doubt. Babes, he'd learned, were like that.

Then there was the pierced belly button. For some reason, he actually found that a little scary.

But he wasn't here to critique her choice of music—or her wardrobe or her body art. Or, for that matter, to wonder what she saw in Derek McCoy, the bleached-blond pretty-boy drummer with the ostrich-skin pants painted on so tight they announced to the world that he dressed to the left.

To each his own. Jase was here to provide security, not judge the rock world's best bad girl and her bed partners as reported by
Entertainer Magazine
and half a dozen other rags.

And he was here to prove himself. If not in No's eyes, in his own. He had a lot of proving to do.

Who'd a thunk it? Plowboy Wilson, country boy with a capital
C,
a personal securities specialist to a rock star.
And not just any rock star. According to her file, she was big business, big draw, and major star power.

She was also in a little bit of trouble. Trouble of the crazed-stalker-fan variety.

Jase scanned the sea of fans rocking to the music and crowding the stage. What a mob. Seemed big venues had many things in common—whether it was the WWA drawing the crowd or Sweet Baby Jane. The scent of beer, weed, BO, and about a hundred or so different perfumes and colognes hung in the charged air like smoke.

House security was doing a good job keeping the crowd from mobbing the stage, but since Jase was officially on the payroll as of tonight, he was ready to move in if things got out of control.

The only thing out of control right now, though, was Sweet Baby Jane. Damn, she was a sight. And though she was a mite of a thing, onstage and in person she projected a much bigger presence than on TV or in print. Sure, he'd known who she was. He wasn't a rocker, but he didn't live
under
a rock, either.

She was "the next big thing," the current decade's answer to what you get when you cross Janis Joplin, Joss Stone, and Madonna.

And No trusted
him
to protect her. He shook his head, still bowled over by that vote of confidence. Never figured he'd see
that
on his resume.

"Max Cogan is an old friend of Dad's," No had informed him at staffing yesterday, explaining about a call from a new client. "They served in 'Nam together."

Ethan, Dallas, and Eve had also joined them at morning staffing, where they doled out assignments and briefed one another on their current clients.

"Anyway, Max manages Janey Perkins—"

"Wait, wait, wait," Eve interrupted her brother, her blue eyes wide with excitement. "Dad is friends with rocker Sweet Baby Jane's manager? Holy shit. Do you suppose I could get her autograph?"

Three sets of eyes—all blue like Eve's—turned on the little sister whom no one in the group would ever mistake for a ditsy blonde.

Jase had heard stories about Eve Garrett—Eve McClain now—from No. Some of them made his short hairs curl. She was sharp and she was shrewd, and behind those cover-girl looks and misty blue eyes, she could hold her own with a Ranger chalk if she had to.

She had to be tough to keep up with the Garrett brothers, all of whom Jase respected. Hell. More than respected. He liked them. Admired them. They were heroes. Veterans. All ex-special ops, like Jase, which, in a way, made them all brothers. Sure, one gene pool had given the Garrett men their tall, dark good looks and another had given Jase a fairer complexion and a little less height, so it was obvious there was no blood relationship, but they were brothers, just the same.

And he was grateful as hell that all four Garretts—Eve, who'd once been a Secret Service agent, included—had given him a thumbs-up when Nolan had introduced him to them three weeks ago and they'd welcomed him to the firm.

Their father, Wes, a Vietnam veteran, had founded E.D.E.N. Securities, Inc., after he'd retired from the West Palm PD. Now, under the Garrett siblings' capable hands, E.D.E.N. had expanded and built on Wes's principles of integrity, trust, and excellence.

Jase was impressed as hell. He'd spent the past weeks familiarizing himself with company protocol, done some job shadowing, and sketched out a plant security plan that had been implemented. But he'd been itching for his first hard assignment. He'd do anything. Night security. Surveillance. Hell, he'd clean the head if they wanted him to, but that day at staffing, he'd been ready for something other than paperwork.

"I was just asking," Eve had said with a roll of her eyes when her brothers' "give us a break" stares told her what they thought of that idea of meeting the star.

"Cogan wants us to head up all aspects of security for Janey. Or Baby. Or Sweet. Or whatever the hell she wants to be called," No had finished with a frown.

Then he'd tossed a file folder across the conference table toward Jase. "The tour moves from Miami to West Palm tonight and E.D.E.N.'s been tagged to provide personal and ongoing security for the star. This one's yours, Plowboy."

Jase had blinked. Stared at the folder. Looked around the table to see if anyone was laughing, like No had just pulled a big joke or something. No one was.

He picked up the folder. Squinted at his boss. "No shit?"

That
had
made them laugh.

"No shit," No confirmed with a grin. "Read the file. It's a six-month contract, subject to renewal. Pack a bag and head over to the fairgrounds. You're about to break your cherry big-time."

And that had made
Jase
laugh. A nervous, thanks-for-the-vote-of-confidence laugh.

He wasn't laughing now. Sweet Baby Jane rock star was a tornado. A firestorm. He was going to have to pull out all the stops to keep up with her.

"Whatever it takes," No had said.

Looked like it was going to take an army, Jase thought as she skipped across the stage, then leaped gracefully up onto a speaker. Fist in the air, she belted out the last notes to a hard-living, hard-drinking song about life and love on the road.

Yeah. It was going to take an army all right. An army of one.

The booze from the free bar flowed like a fountain. Janey avoided it and greedily gulped bottled water while around her everyone helped themselves to their alcohol of choice and a steaming buffet filled with local Cuban cuisine that ranged from black beans to plantains. Max Cogan, her manager and ever the promoter, schmoozed with the press, the local radio jocks, and their sponsors.