Nash Wilder stood still in the darkness and listened to the
sounds the bumbling intruder was making downstairs.
Instinct—and everything he was—pushed him forward, into the
confrontation. He pulled back instead, until he reached Ally
Whitman's bedroom door at the end of the hall in the east
wing of her Pennsylvania mansion.
The antique copper handle turned easily under his hand; the
door didn't creak. He stepped in, onto the plush carpet,
without making a sound.
She woke anyway, a light sleeper—no surprise after what
she'd been through. She saw him and sat up in bed, her lips
opening.
He lifted his index finger to caution her to silence as he
mouthed, "He's here."
She always slept with a reading light on, and was nodding
now to let him know that she'd seen and understood his
words. As she clutched the cover to her chest, the sleeves
of her pajama top slid back.
A nasty scar ran from her wrist to her elbow, evidence of a
serious operation to piece together the bone beneath. Not
that she would ever share that story with anyone. She was a
very private person, not a complainer, tough in her own way.
Nash had read about the injury— one of many she'd suffered
in the past twenty years— in her file.
His job was to make sure it was her last.
Sleep was quickly disappearing from her eyes as she clutched
the blanket tighter and drew a slow breath, spoke in a
whisper. "You'll take care of him."
Her confidence was hard-won. She wasn't a woman to give her
trust easily. Getting to this point had taken two months of
them being together 24/7.
He wanted to protect her, but she needed more. His
assignment here was over when her divorce was final in three
days. After that there was no reason for her ex to come
back. He would have what he'd gotten from her and no more.
At least, that was what Ally thought. Nash wasn't that
optimistic.
He held her gaze as he shook his head. "You'll take
care of him."
She needed to know without a doubt that she could. And her
bastard of a soon-to-be-ex-husband needed to know that, too.
Her eyes went wide, and for a moment she was frozen to the
spot, but then she nodded and pushed the cover back.
Good girl.
Not that Ally Whitman was a girl. She was a grown woman
who'd seen the darker side of life during her twenty
miserable years of marriage. She'd been a beauty in her day.
He'd seen the wedding photo that had hung above the
fireplace before he moved it, at her request, to the
basement on his first day on the job. She'd been young and
innocent, the sheltered daughter of a wealthy venture
capitalist. Easy pickings.
His anger kicked into gear. He had a thing about violent
bastards exploiting and brutalizing those weaker than
themselves. He moved toward the door while she put on her
robe. At fifty-two, Ally was still a striking woman.
As he waited, he heard rubber-soled shoes squeak on the
marble tile downstairs. "In the kitchen," he whispered when
Ally came up next to him.
He walked her to the main staircase and handed her his gun.
He'd made sure during the last two months that she knew how
to handle it. He waited until she made her way down, then he
headed to the other end of the hallway and stole down the
back stairs, ignoring the sudden shot of pain that went
through his bad leg. Enough moonlight filtered in through
the windows that he could navigate the familiar landscape of
the house without trouble.
"Hello, Jason," he heard her say as he moved toward the
kitchen from the back.
A chair rattled as someone bumped it.
"What are you sneaking around in the middle of the night
for?" Anger flared in the loudly spoken response. Her ex
would probably have preferred to surprise her in her sleep.
Scare her a little.
"I want you to leave my house."
So far, so good. Nash crept closer. A few months ago, she
would have asked the bastard what he wanted and in her
desperation to be rid of him, would have given it.
"Like hell." The man's tone grew belligerent. "It's my
house, too. If you think you're going to push me out—"
"The judge decided."
"To hell with the judge. I lived here for twenty years. You
can't kick me out like that."
A moment passed before Ally said, "I already have."
Nash moved into position in time to see Jason Whitman step
forward with fury on his fleshy face. "You bitch, if you think—"
He was ready to intercept when Ally pulled the gun from her
robe pocket.
That slowed the bastard right down. "What the hell?" A
stunned pause followed, then, "Put that down, dammit. You're
not gonna shoot me. Don't be ridiculous." But he didn't
sound too sure of himself as he nervously adjusted the
jacket of his linen suit. Dressed for a break-in like he was
going to a luncheon at the country club.
The light color of the fabric made him an easy target. He
wouldn't think of something like that. Jason Whitman wasn't
used to being in the crosshairs. He was used to being the
hunter.
"I want you to go. I mean it." Ally stood firm.
Moonlight glinted off the white marble counters, off the
etched glass of the top cabinets. Industrial chrome
appliances gleamed, standing tall, standing witness.
The man hesitated for a moment. Nash could nearly hear the
wheels turning in his head. Meeting with resistance for the
first time was usually a shock to the abuser's system,
especially when he'd gotten away with the abuse for decades.
He could either back down or erupt in violence.
Ally grabbed the gun with both hands, put her feet a foot or
so apart in the stance Nash had taught her. And something in
that show of strength set Whitman off. He flew forward.
Not as fast as Nash.
He had the guy's arm twisted up behind his back in the next
second, brought him to a halt as the man howled in pain.
"Let me go, you lowlife sonuvabitch. How in hell did you get
here?"
He had suspected the man might put in an appearance if he
thought the coast was clear, so Nash had parked his car a
couple of streets down. He wanted the confrontation to be
over with. He wanted to be sure the threat to Ally was
neutralized before he left the job.
"You can't protect her forever," Whitman growled and tried
to elbow Nash in the stomach with his free arm, which Nash
easily evaded.
"I'm protecting you. Take a good look at her."
And damn, but Ally Whitman looked fine, Make My Day
about stamped on her forehead—her eyes narrowed, her
hands steady, her mouth grim.
"I'd be only too happy to have her take care of you. But I
don't want her to go through all the police business
afterward. Not that they'd give her much trouble. Intruder
in the middle of the night. Clear case of self-defense."
And for a split second he wondered if it might not be better
if things went that way. People with a bullet in the head
didn't come back. Guaranteed. But he had gotten to know Ally
enough over the last two months to know that she would have
a hard time living with that.
Not him.
He would have needed hardly any provocation at all to reach
up and break the bastard's neck.
Ally was stepping closer. Nash restrained the man's other
arm. She didn't stop until the barrel was mere inches from
her ex-husband's forehead.
"You've had all you're ever going to get from me, Jason.
This is the last time I'm going to say this. Go away. Far
away. And don't ever come back. I'm not the same woman you
remember."
And from the fierce look on her face, it was plenty clear
that she meant what she said.
Nash felt Whitman go limp. "Hey, okay. I didn't mean
anything. I just thought—you know, that we could work things
out. I just—"
She lowered the gun, but not all the way. "You just get the
hell out of here." Her voice went deeper. Her chin lifted.
She held the bastard's gaze without a blink.
This was it, the moment when the woman found her own power
at last, and from behind Whitman, who was so doomed if he
made another move, Nash smiled. He yanked the man aside and
finally let him go. Whitman— not as stupid as he looked—ran
for the door.
And for the first time in the weeks since he'd been her
bodyguard, Nash heard Ally Whitman laugh.
Four days later
Nash had skirted orders now and then during his military
career, but this was going to be the first time he refused a
direct order from his superior officer. He didn't have to
worry about a court-martial, neither he nor Brian Welkins
were in the military anymore. But he couldn't rightly say he
wasn't worried. Welkins had spent four years locked in a
tiger cage, the prisoner of guerillas in the Malaysian
jungle. He broke free and fought his way out of that jungle,
saving other hostages in the process. He was the toughest
guy Nash knew. Definitely not a man to cross.
Which was why he was careful when he said, "Can't do that, sir."
The sparse office was all wood and steel. Security film
shielded the windows, keeping out the worst of the sun as
well as any prying eyes. Nash considered the simple office
chair but decided against sitting.
The only indication that Welkins heard him was a short pause
of his hand before he resumed moving his pen across paper.
"You will report to duty at eighteen-hundred hours." He
picked up the case file with his left hand and held it out
for Nash without removing his attention from whatever he was
working on.
He ran Welkins Security Services like a military
organization, leading his team to success. WSS had started
as an outfit that offered survival-type team-building
retreats to major corporations, hiring commando and military
men who had left active duty for one reason or another. They
were all tough bastards, to the last, who soon realized that
nudging yuppies through the Arizona desert or the deep
forests of the Adirondacks was too mild an entertainment for
them. So the company expanded into the bodyguard business,
which offered live-wire action to those who missed it. Like
Nash.
He stood his ground. "I'm going to pass on this assignment,
sir." He liked working in private security where he had
options like that. Or not, judging from Welkins's
expression when he looked up at last.
His pen hand stilled. "Is there a problem, soldier?"
Apparently. Since they were now all civilians, the boss only
called one of the team members "soldier" if he was majorly
ticked off.
"I'm not the right man for this assignment." Taking a few
weeks and fixing up that half-empty rat hole he called home
was starting to sound good all of a sudden.
"You think the assignment is beneath you?"
Damn right. "I'm not doing security detail for— I'm not
working for a dog, sir."
"You'll be working for Miss Landon."
And that was the other reason he had to say no, a bigger
reason really than the dog.
"Miss Landon specifically wants someone from our team."
"Maybe someone—"
"Everyone else is on assignment. It's four days. Quick work.
Easy money."
He liked that last bit, but the answer was still no. "It's
punishment for messing up the Whitman case, isn't it?"
Welkins didn't say anything for a full minute, but Nash
caught a nearly imperceptible twitch at the corner of the
man's mouth.
"You were supposed to be protecting Mrs. Whitman from her
ex-husband, not holding him down while she put a gun to his
head. His lawyer is frothing at the mouth. Do you know how
much this could cost the company?"
He had a fair idea. And it burned his ass that the law would
probably take Whitman's side after all the years it had
failed to protect his wife from him.
It had taken two decades of misery for Mrs. Whitman to
gather up enough courage to file for divorce. She had money
in spades. But money couldn't buy her happiness. Thank God
she'd finally realized that it could buy her some serious
protection.
Whitman wouldn't go anywhere near her again. But he'd
decided to pick another fight, this time with WSS, hiding
behind his fancy lawyers.
"I should have taken him out," Nash said, looking at his
feet and shaking his head, talking more to himself than Welkins.
"You should not have taken him out. You're no
longer in the mountains of Afghanistan. You are in the
protection business. Do you understand that?" Welkins
watched him as if he weren't sure whether Nash really did,
as if Nash might not be a good fit for the team after all.
And maybe he wasn't. He was trained as a killing machine.
Maybe he wasn't good for anything else.
"You need to learn to pull back." Welkins's tone was more
subdued as he said that.
A moment of silence passed between them while Nash thought
over the incident. "I can't regret anything I did on that
assignment, sir. But I do regret if my actions caused any
difficulties for the company and the team," he said at last.
"Then take one for the team." Welkins's sharp gaze cut to him.
And Nash knew he was sunk. Loyalty was the one thing he
would never go around, the trait he appreciated most in
others, the one value he would never compromise on.
His lungs deflated. He hung his head and rubbed his hand
over his face for a second.
Four cursed days at the Vegas Dog Show, guarding celebrity
heiress and media darling Kayla Landon's puff poodle, Tsini.
If the boss wanted to unman him, it would have been easier
to castrate him and be done with it.
The one ray of hope in the deal was that Kayla Landon had a
host of assistants. She probably had a professional team
showing off her dog for her, so he wouldn't actually have to
come face-to-face with her and the hordes of paparazzi that
usually followed.
What kind of dog received death threats anyway? He couldn't
see something like that happening to a real dog like a
rottweiler or a German shepherd.
"All right." He pushed the words past his teeth with effort.
"I don't think a consultation with Miss Landon will be
necessary." Please. If there was a God.
"No, indeed. I have already consulted with her."
For the first time since he'd walked into the office, Nash
relaxed. Then Welkins smiled.
Terrible suspicion raised its ugly head.
The heavy smell of doom hung in the air.
"There's more to this, isn't there?"
"Because of the threats, Miss Landon will be traveling with
her dog-show team to Vegas. You'll be working with her 24/7."
He closed his eyes for a minute. Her nickname was Popcorn
Princess. Seriously. And he was going to have to take orders
from her. Oh, hell.