Bodyguard/Husband (15 page)

“I’ll just—” He took a step forward, gesturing toward the bench where his clothes were neatly folded.

“No! I mean— I’ll leave. Um, I was going to tell you all the ladies are gone except for Mrs. Winger. Bob is always late.” She licked her lips and turned away. “I’ll wait outside with her.”

“Yeah. Good.”

Jack sighed with relief that Holly was gone, because if she’d stayed another few seconds, the damp towel knotted at his waist wouldn’t have been sufficient to hide his reaction to her presence. Standing there, practically naked while her eyes laid down heat wherever they touched his wet, hot body, was more than he could take. And it didn’t help that the glow her exercise had given her made her even more desirable.

Eric’s words mocked him.
He’ll know.

Jack wondered if desperate, unbridled lust would do. If so, then all he had to do was keep his hands off Holly and his eyes on her.

But no, Eric’s point was that the stalker would sense the difference in
her.

Gritting his teeth, Jack forced his body back under his control and got dressed. He
would
find a way to make this work.

As he finished buttoning his shirt and smoothed back his hair, he heard a man’s voice. Tucking his weapon into his holster, he shrugged into his jacket and entered the main part of the gym, prepared to meet Bob again.

Jack assessed the man who’d had the police called on him three times for domestic disputes. He was
short, plump and pasty-looking, probably in his early forties. He didn’t wear a wedding ring, and he stood just behind his diminutive mother.

“Jack.” Holly smiled at him as he approached. “Remember Bob Winger from the post office today?”

“Hi again,” Jack said, advancing on him with his hand outstretched.

Bob stared at Jack’s hand for a second, then shook it. “Do you work out, Bob?” Jack asked, allowing a shade of aggressiveness to creep into his voice. He didn’t like Winger. The man was hiding something under that Milquetoast facade.

“I, uh, don’t get much chance—”

“He teaches English, among his many other duties,” Mrs. Winger said. “Tell him, Bobby.”

Bob’s face turned a blotchy pink. His shirt clung damply to his skin. “Holly already told you I teach English and American literature. And I’m the faculty sponsor for the debate team and the poetry club.”

“Enough of that now, Bobby,” Mrs. Winger said, irritation obvious in her tone. “I’m tired and I’m sure Holly and Jack have better things to do than listen to your tiresome list of duties at the high school.” Mrs. Winger leaned forward to kiss Holly’s cheek. “Thank you so much dear. I apologize for my son being late.”

“Don’t worry about it for a minute. I’ll see you next week.”

“Come on, Bobby. We still have to stop at the grocery store.”

Bob followed meekly, but Jack caught the shadow of anger that crossed his round face. Was there a violent temper beneath Bob’s bland exterior?

At the gym door, Bob looked back at Holly with a smile. “Holly, I’ll call you.”

Then his eyes briefly swept Jack from toe to head. “Nice to meet you, um…”

“Jack.”

“Right. Jack.” He dropped his gaze. “You know when you married our Holly you got—”

“The prize,” Jack drawled. “Yeah. I know.”

As soon as mother and son were gone, Jack turned to Holly. “You’re mama’s boy has quite a grip. He’s stronger than he looks. And he hates his mother.”

“I know. Did you see the look on his face just now?” She paused for a second. “He told me he really needed to talk. He asked if he could call me soon.”

She started gathering up towels and throwing them into a laundry bin.

“You told him you’re married now and you won’t be having any more lunches and talks, I hope.”

“Well, no. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. I did tell him I was pretty busy right now.” She stacked up the blue plastic stair-steps the ladies had used, then picked up the little hand weights lying around.

Jack started to help her, but he got caught up in her efficiency of motion and the strength in her deceptively slim body. Besides, she was almost done.

“Don’t you have a maintenance man to do that?”

“Sure. Stanley Hanks handles the gym. But each instructor is responsible for putting their own equipment away. Stanley’s usually around, though. He likes my ladies.”

Jack looked at how the Lycra costume molded her trim, sexy body. “Yeah, you said that before. Where is he tonight?”

“I don’t know. He might be busy in the field house.
The coaches have him doing a lot of work on the baseball field.”

When she picked up her gym bag, he asked her, “You’re not going to change clothes?”

She shook her head, a shadow flickering in her eyes. “It’s kind of creepy, showering alone in here. I mean, Stanley is usually around to lock up, but I just prefer to wait until I get home.”

Jack heard the false lightness in her voice. What a jerk he was. Of course she wouldn’t shower alone in the gym. That was how her husband had died.

“Am I too sweaty for you?” she asked, her voice still a few notes higher than usual. Jack was learning that tone. It was the one she used when she was avoiding a painful subject.

Following behind her, he couldn’t stop his gaze from sliding down over her supple, perfectly toned back to her firm butt moving beneath black Lycra as she walked. His mouth turned to cotton.

“No,” he croaked, unable to banish an image of a single, salty drop of sweat trickling slowly down the hollow of her back.

Outside, it had started raining, one of those uncomfortable summer showers that appeared out of nowhere and left the air more heavy and hot than before. Holly gripped her bag and picked up her pace, hurrying toward the car.

Jack’s arm slipped around her waist as the shower turned into a steady downpour. She welcomed the warmth of his hand and his sturdy support. Keeping her safe might be nothing more than a job to him, but she was becoming all too used to it.

About halfway across the double-lane highway, the staccato beat of the rain was undercut by a dull roar.
Jack’s hand tightened on her waist and he urged her in front of him as the roar in her ears grew louder and closer. She looked toward the sound.

Beyond the silver-shot curtain of rain a dark shape hurtled right at them.

Chapter Eight

Before Holly could react, the full weight of Jack’s body slammed into her from behind, sending her flying forward to land hard against the side of her car. His long body knocked the breath from her lungs.

Her feet lost traction on the wet pavement. She slipped. The only thing holding her upright was the weight of his body molding hers, pressing her into the warm, slick metal of her car. As she struggled to breathe, a vehicle passed close enough that she felt its heat.

Jack grunted and almost crushed her beneath his weight. Had the car hit him?

“Jack?” she croaked, unable to draw enough breath to actually speak.

Then his hands were on her and he swung her around toward the front of her car and away from the street in the wake of the dark shape. As soon as she was safely between the parked cars, he whirled back, drawing his gun with smooth swift grace.

He stood braced, aiming at the retreating car, then with a muffled curse slipped his gun back into his holster. He rushed to her and gripped her shoulders.

“Are you all right?”

She couldn’t answer. All her attention was riveted on the dark street.

“Holly?” He shook her and grabbed her jaw. “Holly!”

She blinked and gasped for breath through lungs that still spasmed from the force of his body striking hers.

“Are you hurt?” His fingers tightened painfully on her arms, his face twisted in concern.

She shook her head, unable to pull her eyes away from the street where the curtain of rain had swallowed up the vision. She knew that car. She put her palms against his chest.

“Jack, that was—” she struggled for breath “—Miss Emma Thompson’s car.”

“What?” Jack pushed her hair out of her face. The steady brush of his fingers against her cheeks and forehead made her realize she was trembling. He pulled her close.

“Get into the car.” He shouted over the drone of the rain.

Inside the shelter of the car, Holly wiped her face and tried to control her shaking limbs.

Jack quickly assessed her. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

She shook her head. “Are you?”

He dismissed her question. “What did you say out there?” he asked as he started the engine and cool air began to blow.

Holly shivered. “I said that was Miss Emma Thompson’s car.”

His hand froze on the windshield wiper control. “How do you know?”

“Miss Emma’s had that fifty-nine Chevy forever.
It’s the only one I’ve ever seen. The taillights look like cat’s eyes.” She rubbed her chilled arms.

Jack cursed and pulled out his cell phone. “What’s your uncle’s home phone number?”

Holly’s teeth were chattering. She closed the passenger-side vent. “Uncle Virgil will be asleep. Call T-Bone.”

Jack raised one brow. She told him the number.

“Virgil? It’s O’Hara. What happened to Emma Thompson’s car yesterday?”

Holly heard her uncle’s voice through the cell phone.

“Okay. No. No problem. Holly’s fine. I just saw a car I thought might be Miss Thompson’s. Thanks.” He put the phone back in his pocket. “Hanes Auto Repair?”

Holly gave directions. As Jack pulled out into the street the rain stopped.

“Why didn’t you tell Uncle Virgil what happened?”

“I didn’t see the need at this point to give him information that might put him in possible danger.”
Danger.
They’d almost been run down. They could have been killed because someone thought Jack was her husband.

“Here’s the shop,” Jack said, rousing Holly out of her thoughts.

“Yes. And there’s her car.” She pointed. “Right where it should be, in the parking lot. But I know that was the car that nearly ran us down. See the shape of the taillights?”

Jack pulled up behind the car and got out. His jacket and pants were soaked, and clung to him like a second skin, outlining his broad shoulders and sleekly planed
muscles. His hair was slicked back, emphasizing the perfection of his profile. Holly shivered not from chill, but from fear. Fear for Jack’s life. He could have been killed.

For the first time, she faced that possibility head-on. In the short time she’d known him, he’d epitomized strength and safety to her, and she needed that more than she had realized. Now the idea that his life was truly in danger lodged a knot of terror in her chest so big it felt like she’d swallowed a rock. He had promised her he’d get the killer, and she’d believed him. But now he seemed human, vulnerable.

Oh God, she didn’t think she could stand it if Jack died, too.

She needed to be close to him, so she got out of the car and followed him. As she came up beside him, squeezing water from her hair, he scowled at her but didn’t say anything. He just went back to his calculated scrutiny of the area, his gaze missing nothing.

Holly knew by his body language when he was satisfied that they were alone. She was coming to recognize that infinitesimal relaxing of his stance, the way he shrugged, releasing pent-up tension that would not even be evident to a casual observer.

“This is the only car in the lot.” He walked over and lay his hand on the hood of the ancient Chevy. “Still warm.”

Holly’s pulse sped up. “So it
has
been driven. But who—”

Jack held up his hand for silence. She stopped.

He took out a tiny, high-powered flashlight and shone it in the driver’s window.

“Keys are still in the ignition.”

“Of course,” Holly said. “Mr. Hanes always leaves the keys. Someone might need their car.”

Jack stared at her as if she’d gone nuts. “Are you kidding?” He cut off the flashlight, frustration hardening his voice. “Don’t say it. I know. Small town. No one in Maze would dream of stealing a car.”

Sudden light blinded them as several spotlights on the corners of the repair shop building snapped on. Jack reached for Holly with one hand and his weapon with the other.

Holly lay her hand on his arm. “Jack, put the gun away. I’ll take care of this.” She stepped away from Jack’s protective embrace, hoping Mr. Hanes would be too sleepy or too incurious to wonder why she and her new husband were soaking wet in the middle of the night and snooping around.

“Hi, Mr. Hanes,” she called. “It’s Holly. I heard Miss Emma took out another telephone pole.”

“That you, Holly? What in tarnation are you doing running around so late, and who’s that with you?”

“This is Jack, my husband.”

Jack lifted his hand in a self-conscious wave. Holly was relieved to see he’d left his gun in his holster.

“It’s the oddest thing, Mr. Hanes,” she said, walking casually toward the repair shop owner’s house. “Either there’s another fifty-nine Chevy in town or someone was driving Miss Emma’s car over by the university a little while ago.” She gestured vaguely back toward the car.

“’S ’at so?”

“Yes, sir. Did you hear anything?”

Mr. Hanes yawned and shook his head. “I watched the ten o’clock news, then went to bed. Far’s I know,
nobody’s been messing ’round here tonight except you two.”

“Okay, then. Sorry. Jack’s been looking for a classic Chevy, and he was wondering if there could possibly be two in Maze.”

Hanes harrumphed. “You best get on home, Holly. Some folks gotta work early.”

Holly smiled. “Okay. Good night, Mr. Hanes. Sorry to bother you so late.”

The lights went out and the owner of the body shop disappeared back inside his house.

Holly let out her breath in a long whoosh as she returned to Jack’s side. “So, now what? Do we check the car for evidence?”

“We get out of here before the whole town comes out to see what all the excitement’s about. I’ll get your uncle to go over the car tomorrow. With any luck we can get a fingerprint, or a shoe print.”

“Well, anything they find will be from whoever drove it tonight, because Miss Emma keeps her car spotless.”