Wild About The Bodyguard (2 page)

She nodded
again. “But I never gave up hope. Then, the other month, I caught a
picture of Garfield’s wife on the net. She was wearing my ring, I
swear it.”

“
There are a
lot of rings out there.”

“
The ruby is
surrounded by a special casing. A pair of gold lips.”

Stepping into
his suit pants, he considered her while she did some considering of
her own. Without a lie, he was the most attractive man she’d ever
met. His proportions, the way he held himself, the gravelled, sexy
depth of his voice...

“
So, your
plan is—what exactly?”

She cleared
her throat. “I want to explain the situation to Garfield, and,
ultimately, somehow, get that ring back.”

“
Do you have
evidence to prove it’s yours?”

“
I have a
photo of my mother wearing it. The insurance papers.”

“
Hasn’t your
mother suggested you contact the police again?”

Sammy tried to
set the pang aside. “She passed away not long before the theft. The
ring belongs to me now. Or it should.”

“
The second
daughter…” he mused, remembering the line of succession.

“
And I did go
to the police with a printout of that image. The sergeant took my
details, but when I mentioned Judge Garfield’s name, I saw the look
on his face. When I followed up, they told me to be patient. That
was three months ago.”

When he rubbed
the back of his neck, the shirt strained across his power-house
chest before he fetched a pair of polished lace-ups and sat on a
bench. “Old cases can be hard to pick up again.”

Oh, come
on.
“They don’t want to annoy one of the
State’s richest men, a retired judge, because of some crackpot’s
claim.” She edged forward. “But you said you would
help.”

“
I said
I
might
be able
to help.”

“
You could
ask Garfield about the ring for me.”

Looking
amused, he set the shoes on the floor and then lifted his
square-angled jaw to finish straightening his tie.

“
A couple of
simple toss away questions,” she went on, actually liking the idea.
“Where and when he came by the ring. I’ll take it from
there.”

“
Sorry.
That’s not gonna happen.”

Her stomach
tightened.

Figures. No
help. Just like the cops.

“
Then I guess
it’s back to plan A.” She swept the moustache up off the floor.
“I’ll find some way to ask him myself.”

He looked up
from tying a lace. “Not on my watch. You need to leave these kinds
of problems to the grown-ups.”

“
Grown-ups
?” she ground
out.

“
I mean
people who have experience in investigating criminal activity—or
should I say
alleged criminal
acts
. If the ring was stolen, chances are
there’s a dangerous element involved somewhere along the line. Do
you own a firearm?”

“
Of course
not.”

Straightening,
he slapped his thighs as if that sealed it. “You’re an amateur and,
in situations like these, amateurs cause trouble. Believe me, it’s
tough enough when you’re trained.”

When he
pushed to his feet, she saw empathy shine in his eyes. Except, he
could
never
walk
in her shoes. Sammy had grown up in a home minus a father and
anything resembling luxury. Without much of an education or the
self-confidence to strive for more, her mother had cleaned offices
for a living; Sammy and her sister Ann had spent most nights alone
in their Tenderloin apartment. That heirloom had been their only
valuable possession, and yet no matter how tough times had gotten,
their mother would never pawn it. It wasn’t for her to sell, she’d
said, and once it was gone, it would be gone for good.

Before her
mom had died, she had squeezed Sammy’s hand and asked of her only
two things: every day find the joy, and
never
surrender that ring. Despite
their hardships, her mom had loved life, and she believed the link
they’d shared via the ring would always connect them somehow. But
within weeks of the mother’s death, the ring had
vanished.

Even if that
piece wasn’t worth a dime, Sammy would still fight tooth and nail
to get it back. She longed to put a face to the creep behind the
break-in and theft. After ten years, she still wanted the lowlife
caught.

Now, Mr.
Gorgeous here, who knew next to nothing about her life or her
story, was suggesting she ought to give up? Walk away?

Crossing her
arms, Sammy spoke over the lump in her throat. “Sorry, but you
don’t qualify to give advice.”

He tugged and
straightened each cuff. “We’ll forget my ten years in law
enforcement then.”

She was
confused. “You’re a police officer?”

“
Private
investigator slash bodyguard. Retired.” He crossed over. In her
flats, he towered above her. “Look, you seem like a nice
girl.”

“
I’m not a
girl.”
And, damn it, I’m tired of being
nice.

“
You have no
experience in crime investigation.”

“
I found that
first clue, didn’t I?”

“
And look
where it got you.”

“
Here,
talking with a P.I slash bodyguard.”

“
Retired
.”

She was
shaking now. Shaking inside. Why wouldn’t anyone
believe
her? Why would
no one help? Two lousy questions. That was
it
. This guy had gotten her hopes
up, held out a branch only to whip it away before she had a chance
to take a hold.

She wanted to
smack him even more than she wanted to press up against him, and
that was a lot. That chest was so broad and strong, and he smelled
so good—citrusy and masculine and freshly-soaped
hot
–

Sammy screwed
her eyes shut. Swore under her breath.

Somehow,
somewhere, she’d find a way. For now, she needed to get her head
together, cool down and put this man, and his snake, out of her
mind for good.

Samantha Mayne
might be small, but she exuded energy. Radiated spunk. Given her
current situation, that could prove dangerous.

At first,
Chase had thought she was a kid playing some kind of game. Petite
and elfin-featured, she’d hidden a fall of rich-brown hair under a
wig. As she’d explained her story, big green eyes had pleaded with
him, and damned if he hadn’t almost buckled. She was a mix of
vulnerable and feisty—fresh as well as feminine in ways Chase
simply couldn’t ignore.

He liked
women—the way they felt and spoke and smelled. Some guys were drawn
to legs, others to shapely behinds. No shame in admitting, he was a
breast man. And while he’d tried not to react, when she’d ditched
that vest, Miss Mayne’s accessories in that department had promised
big things.

Still, he
couldn’t get involved—not on any level. His former life of helping
others track down clues and find answers was a dark and not so
distant memory. No going back.

After
escorting Samantha out the back door, Chase headed for the
administrative area on the other side of the building. He passed
through the club’s oak-trimmed main lounge where patrons were
discussing business or sports over coffee. Others were ambling
toward the gym for a mid-morning workout, or the courts for a hit.
Many of the staff, however, followed Chase with wide eyes. Word of
a security breach had gotten out.

His on-duty
manager was usually smooth as. When Rodney Long strode up to Chase
now, however, his ginger hair was spiked, and not in a stylish
way.

“
That waiter
was a
woman
?”
Rodney’s voice was strained as he fell into step alongside the
boss. “One of the staff alerted me. He suspected something was up.
Please tell me she didn’t make it to your office.”

“
I found her
in the locker room.”

Cursing under
his breath, Rodney shovelled a hand through his hair, generating a
highway of new spikes. “I’d set after him...er,
her
. Then she
disappeared.”

“
It’s under
control,” Chase assured Rodney again.

“
I’ll call
the authorities. You can’t be too careful—”

“
Don’t call
anyone.” Chase stopped to grip his manager’s jacketed shoulder. “No
harm done. Just up the security at the doors.”

“
Any idea
what she wanted?”

Chase
hesitated before walking again. “No clue.”

If Garfield
got wind that some crazy had come within a whisker of harassing him
in a place where he paid big bucks to relax, Chase wouldn’t see him
for dust. Others would follow out the door. Times were tough. The
Don’s books were already on a drip. The last thing Chase needed was
disgruntled clientele, cancellations or demands to repay
dues.

Rodney bowed
off while Chase continued on, loosening his tie the nearer he got
to his office. Until a year ago, he’d been “jeans and leather” all
the way. Private investigative and bodyguard work was no place for
business suits. But a person’s life could turn on a dime. Loss of
employment. Loss of love.

Loss of
faith.

In his office,
Chase took a seat behind the polished oak desk. Collecting a pen,
he pulled a document over—a profit and loss that needed sorting.
But soon, figures seemed to bleed into one another. Like the
necktie, crunching numbers had never excited him. Actually, he’d
never been too good behind a desk, period.

When his focus
veered toward the window, he imagined the view from the second
story of his place on Priest Street. In his mind, he heard the bell
from a cable car and then saw a view of the bridge and its famous
bay filled with boats. He’d left home at twenty-one and purchased a
modest condo in the Marina District. Ten years later, that
Italianate Victorian on Priest had caught his eye. Although it had
been run down, something noble and resilient about its lines had
lingered in Chase’s mind. Bringing it back to life, however,
would’ve taken money he simply did not have.

Around that
time, a former client had passed away; Chase had helped the
mega-wealthy bachelor find a grown son he had only recently learned
about. While the son was left the vast majority of his father’s
estate, Chase was stunned to learn the extent of that client’s
gratitude. He’d bequeathed Chase more than enough to spruce up that
dilapidated house of his dreams. He’d also left him the
club.

Then tragedy
had struck, and the decision to change vocation seemed to be made
for him. Chase had shut the door on his P.I. firm and taken a chair
at the helm of The Don. Although adapting was taking longer than
he’d thought, he could never go back to that other life, even if
the idea tugged at him constantly.

His eye line
dropped to his desk’s bottom drawer. He’d told the accountant that
he’d have these figures back to him by noon. But, right now, he
needed to burn off adrenaline.

The replica
pistol was lighter than the real deal, but when Chase clutched the
handle, the textured grip felt familiar. Felt unremarkably right.
An electronic optical sensor was fixed to the gun’s barrel. The
accompanying electronic target hung on the far wall. Whenever he
squeezed off a shot, a trace of the point of aim could be assessed
on a display screen.

Chase took up
position a distance away from the target. When he raised the piece
and closed one eye, years of training and instinct spiralled into
focus. His heart pumped slower at the same time all his senses
seemed to glow. His mind cleared of anything other than making the
first shot count. In the real world, if you missed, people could
die.

One night a
year ago, someone had.

A knock on the
door hauled him back. Feeling sweat cool on his brow, Chase called
out, “Come in.” Public Relations Manager, Tessa Coleman, and her
killer heels entered the room.

“
I saw you
goose-stepping a woman in pants out the back,” she said, crossing
over in a peach-colored power suit that fit almost too well.
“Trouble in paradise?”

“
A minor
hiccup.”

“
Who is she?
Some over-zealous admirer?”

Ignoring the
twinge beneath his zipper at the thought of Samantha’s
measurements, Chase set his jaw. “I’d sooner forget it.” He took
aim, squeezed off a shot then assessed the nearby display
screen—

And
frowned.

He’d missed
the bull’s eye? No. He’d missed the target, like,
altogether
. Frowning, he
inspected the replica while Tessa took her usual seat opposite his
desk.

She asked,
“Got a minute?” while he aimed, squeezed again.
Missed
again.

Fuck!

“
The Don has
been under your management coming up a year now,” Tessa went
on.