Accidental Bodyguard (4 page)

He shot his arms in the air, his face bright red. “Oh, God. Please. Please don't shoot me.”

“Did Carlos send you?” she demanded.

“Who? No.” He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.

“Who are you?”

“I work for AquaClear. I service the pool. No one is supposed to be here. I keep beer in the fridge and—oh, God. I'm going to be—”

He vomited all over the spotless kitchen floor.

CHAPTER THREE

W
HEN
THE
ALARM
from Villa Alma sounded, Jack bolted from the security office and onto his golf cart. He punched the accelerator, but the slow-ass worthless piece of junk wouldn't go over ten miles an hour. Hell of a thing in an emergency. He could jog faster than this.

He needed to find out what was going on inside Villa Alma.

As he approached Santaluce's estate, he noted AquaClear's service truck outside a wide-open gate.

Jack unsnapped the holster beneath his shoulder. Moving cautiously through the opening, he glanced up to the camera mounted high on the gate. Was Ms. Clark watching?

Ignoring the main house, he jogged toward the smaller cabana. He couldn't see inside. Every window was covered.

The two on-duty guards arrived on their carts. He held up his hand to signal them to hold.

This wasn't a police op, so he needed to follow the emergency protocol established by the home owners' association.

At the front door, he placed his ear against the wood and listened. All quiet.

He motioned for his backup to approach. He positioned them at each end of the structure—although they were all but useless since their only weapon was a Taser.

Jack removed his Sig Sauer, pointed the barrel skyward and rapped hard on the door.

“Ms. Clark, Island Security. Please respond.”

Protocol dictated to wait five minutes and then breach. Five minutes was too long if someone was inside bleeding.

The door opened. Ms. Clark appeared. No blood visible.

Jack relaxed slightly.

“Took you long enough,” she said.

“What's the emergency?” Jack demanded.

“Intruder alert.” With a Glock awkwardly clutched in her right hand, she motioned him inside.

“Watch where you point that thing,” Jack said. By the way she held the weapon, he doubted she knew how to use it. He signaled for his backup to stand down and stepped inside the cabana.

A foul smell was his first sensory impression. Next was how the place was closed up tight as a tomb.

P.J., the kid who serviced the pools, lay on a sofa with a washcloth over his eyes. He looked sick.

“This is your intruder?” Jack asked.

“Yep.” Ms. Clark moved to the kitchen, placed the gun on a counter, pulled on plastic gloves and squatted to clean up puke on the floor. That explained the smell.

Jack glanced back to the sofa. “What happened?”

P.J. groaned and sat up. He worked the washcloth between nervous fingers. “I keep Coronas in the fridge. This is my last stop of the day, so I pop a cold one and take a dip in the pool.”

“What?” A slow burn of anger ignited in Jack's gut. “How do you get inside?”

“Santaluce gave AquaClear a key for some plumbing job last year.” Looking miserable, P.J. sighed. “I made a copy.” He met Jack's gaze with pleading eyes. “No one is ever here. I never hurt anything, don't look in any drawers.”

As the scenario unfolded in his head, Jack nodded. P.J. must have walked in unannounced, and Ms. Clark pulled her gun on him. Stupid kid. “You could have been killed.”

P.J. closed his eyes. “I thought I was dead.”

And so he puked out of fear. At the stringent smell of bleach, Jack glanced toward the kitchen where Louise Clark continued to work. “You ought to make him clean up the mess.”

“I'm used to it,” she said. “And he'd just throw up again.”

“I'm sorry,” P.J. said. “I'm really, really sorry.”

Louise stood. “That's about the hundredth time you've apologized.”

“Please don't tell my boss,” P.J. begged. “I know I'm not supposed to ever—”

“You should have thought about that before you trespassed,” Jack said.

“Trespass?” The kid's eyes widened.

“Ms. Clark could file charges.”

“Charges? Oh, God. I'll never do it again. I swear.”

“No, you won't, because you'll never set foot on this island again.”

P.J. rose. “I'm fired?”

At his expression, Jack worried the kid might hurl again. “Or your employer loses the most lucrative pool contract in Miami. Yeah, I think you're fired.”

“Please, don't do that,” Louise said in a small voice.

Jack turned. She stood in the kitchen holding an aerosol can of Lysol. “What?”

Stripping off gloves, she moved into the living room. “How old are you, P.J.?”

“Nineteen.”

“In school, right?”

“FIU.” He swallowed. “I'm studying hospitality management.”

A smile flitted cross her lips as she met Jack's gaze. She was probably thinking, as he was, that P.J.'s behavior hadn't been exactly hospitable.

“I won't press charges,” she said.

“The home owners' association has strict rules,” Jack said. “There's no option here.”

“But you don't have to tell.” She looked at P.J. “You'll never do this again, right?”

Hope blossomed on the kid's face. “Never,” he said. “Never. I swear.”

“Can't you cut him a break?” she asked.

Jack stared at her. Nice lady. “I have to document the incident.”

“Blame it on me. Say I made a stupid mistake, new tenant and all. I pushed the button wondering what it did. He's just a kid, really. I'm certain he's learned his lesson.”

“I'll think about it,” Jack told her. He turned back to P.J. “Give me the key.”

P.J. removed a key from his shorts and handed it over.

“Have you completed your work?” Jack asked.

“Yes, sir. I always do that first.”

“Then take off. You'll be hearing from me.”

With a grateful look at Ms. Clark, P.J. scurried out.

“Are you sure about this?” Jack asked Louise.

She nodded. “He scared me when he burst in here, but no harm done.”

“Everything else all right? I still haven't seen you around the island.”

“Everything is fine.” She looked away. “Thank you for coming.”

“You're welcome. By the way, I arrived exactly four minutes after the alarm sounded.”

She glanced up. “You timed it?”

“I did.”

She shrugged, and looked down again. “Seemed a lot longer.”

“Yeah, it did to me, too, actually.” Jack evaluated Louise Clark as she nibbled on her bottom lip, noting long, firm legs beneath the frayed edge of denim cutoffs. She wore a pale yellow bathing suit top, firm breasts as full as he'd imagined straining against the thin fabric.

Down, boy. She's off-limits for a whole lot of reasons.

Ms. Clark was one fine-looking woman, but she couldn't hold his gaze. Did she have something to hide? Maybe she didn't want to file charges because she didn't want any involvement with law enforcement. He'd been shocked when she opened the door holding an automatic. Why did this woman own a gun? Or maybe it was Santaluce's weapon.

“Will I see you tonight at the clubhouse?” he asked.

She made eye contact, looking interested. “What's going on at the clubhouse?”

“Happy hour every Friday night during season. Remember I told you about it?” He couldn't participate in the festivities, but his job required him to observe.

“Oh,” she murmured. “No, I can't make it.”

“Other plans?”

“Right,” she said, again looking away. “I have other plans.”

Doubting she'd even leave the villa, Jack moved toward the door. He had no excuse to linger and learn more about Louise Clark, much as he might want to.

“Please don't report P.J.,” she said. Her words held him at the threshold.

“Are you always so forgiving?” he asked, looking down at her serious expression.

“Forgiving?” she asked, sounding amused, blue eyes widening in obvious surprise. Her gorgeous mouth curled into a smile, illuminating her face with that beauty he'd noticed on their first meeting, and he suddenly needed to know what she was thinking.

* * *

C
LAUDIA
STARED
AT
Jackson Richards.
This man thinks I'm forgiving? Man, does he have it wrong.
She would never forgive her ex for the things he'd done. Her testimony would ensure the murdering bastard remained behind bars the rest of his life.

“Some people would disagree with you about that,” she said.

“What people are those?” Richards asked.

She shook her head. “Never mind.”

Memories of her ex curtailed fleeting amusement. Really, there was nothing funny about her situation.

And the reason she wanted Richards to cut P.J. a break was so the kid wouldn't hold a grudge. Carlos taught her that people who held grudges were dangerous. What if Carlos's friends found P.J. and asked questions, offered money for information? The teenager would jump at the chance to turn on the woman who'd cost him his job.

She couldn't take that chance. Better to make P.J. an ally. And now that she thought about it, same thing with Jackson Richards. She needed him on her side, to be her friend. She nibbled her bottom lip, the phrase
friends with benefits
springing into her head. What she wanted from this hunk of a gladiator was definitely not friendship.

What would it be like to peel off this guy's clothing, see what that magnificent body looked like au naturel? She crossed her arms in front of her chest so she'd keep her hands to herself.
What is wrong with me?

She needed to get this man out of her sight before she reached out to test the strength of his impressive biceps with a quick squeeze. From the looks of those shoulders, she'd bet he could lift her with one arm. And once she touched him, she wouldn't be able to stop.

“Enjoy the happy hour tonight,” she said, in a voice meant to encourage him to leave, yet not sound too rude. She needed this ally. “And thanks again for coming to my rescue.”

“You're sure you can't come?” he asked.

He was halfway out the door. He needed to go.
Please go.

“I've got to study,” she said.

“What are you studying?”

She sighed.
Me and my big mouth.
“For the physician's assistant exam.” She gripped the doorknob, signaling she meant to shut it, shut him out, that she wanted him to leave.

“You'll need to take a break at some point.”

“But I shouldn't drink booze on that break. Thanks again, Mr. Richards, but I need to get back to it.”

Still he hesitated, glancing back inside the cabana. “Are you proficient with that Glock?” he asked.

The quick change in subject caught her off guard, making her blurt out the truth. “I can pull the trigger, but don't usually hit where I want.”

His gaze refocused on her. His eyes were insanely intense. Did this man know how he affected her? Probably. Likely all women reacted to him the same way. How could any heterosexual female help herself? She took a deep breath, feeling her resolve slip away.

“Practice makes perfect,” he murmured.

Remembering his gun when he'd arrived at the door, she wanted to ask if he was an expert shot. Of course he was. He was the security chief. Could he teach her how to hit her targets? Yeah, and what else could he show her?

She felt a delicious pull low in her belly, and opened her mouth to ask him to stay and begin a few lessons, but swallowed the words.
Get a grip, Claudia. Remember—you can't trust anyone.

“See you around,” Richards said and finally, thankfully moved outside.

Claudia closed the door and leaned against it. She closed her eyes, disgusted with herself. She was practically panting.

She waited until Richards had closed the gate and driven away on his cart, pulled off her shorts and dived into the pool. The blast of water was better than a cold shower.

* * *

B
ACK
IN
THE
security office, Jack replayed his encounter with Louise Clark in his head. He'd been blown away by the fact that she didn't want P.J. fired, figuring she'd want the kid's balls nailed to the wall. Yet he was madder about the security breach than she was. He was considering cutting the kid a break, but could never trust him again. He'd feel compelled to check the security feed and the timing each time P.J. serviced the pools.

So Louise owned a gun and, from what she said, had obviously done some target practice. Was shooting a hobby or did she need to be proficient because of some threat? And who were these mysterious people who didn't think she was forgiving? Why was she used to cleaning up puke? She was studying to be a PA, so maybe she was a nurse.

Damned perplexing. But he loved to solve a good riddle. Besides, what else did he have to do?

Ike Gamble, one of the guards on roving duty today, motored to a stop out front on his electric cart. The other, Rafael Garcia, arrived a minute later on his. They'd completed a circuit and were taking their afternoon break. The two entered the office animatedly discussing the excitement at Villa Alma.

“Good job today, guys,” Jack told them. “I appreciate how fast you responded.”

“Man, what a rush,” Rafael said in his slight accent. He was a new hire, a Hispanic man in his thirties carrying a few extra pounds. “That's the first time I ever responded to an alarm.”

“And hopefully the last,” Jack said.

“Everything all right inside Villa Alma?” Ike asked.

“Yeah, false alarm. The new tenant pushed the panic button by mistake.”

Ike nodded. “That happens every so often.”

“Sure broke up the day,” Rafael said. “I wish it happened
more
often.”

“You wouldn't say that if someone had been inside bleeding or dead,” Jack said. Yet he'd once felt the way Rafael did. As a deputy sheriff in Marion County, he'd craved action like a junkie craves smack. But Rafael had no military or police experience. All he knew was the boredom of Collins Island. He didn't understand how in a heartbeat a thrill could turn tragic.