His Bodyguard (2 page)

“I’m…” She paused for just an instant. “B. T. O’Shay.” Her accent could be called nothing but cute, Mississippi thick and down-home adorable.

“O’Shay?” Sarge flipped a page over on his clipboard and skimmed a column of names. When he lifted his head, his eyes were gleaming. Sarge was not one to appreciate surprises. “You’re B. T. O’Shay?”

Nathan hadn’t thought she could sit any straighter, but she managed it somehow, though the top of her head barely reached the ear of the fellow to her right.

“Yes, I am,” she said, a hint of defiance in her drawl, her teeth milky white against her palomino tan.

It took a moment for the reality of the situation to sink into Nathan’s sweltering brain, but when it did, he smiled. He was one lucky bastard. She was here for the job as a security officer, a person hired to be at one’s side night and day. They did do night work, didn’t they? But, of course. They would have to, and the idea of this little bit of femininity shadowing his every move sent a giddy tide of glee spurting through him.

This was great Not only could he avoid hiring a
real
bodyguard, he could pay this luscious little package for her company,
and
piss Sarge off at the same time. Judging by his manager’s darkening expression, he was not overjoyed to see little Miss O’Shay sitting there proper as a schoolmarm and determined as a road mender.

“You’re B. T. O’Shay from Bartman Security?” Sarge asked. He said it as if he was certain the girl had somehow forgotten her own name and foolishly assumed someone else’s identity.

Nathan upped the wattage of his smile. It wasn’t that he was insecure about his masculinity, he assured himself, but why would he want to be followed around by one of these steroid-hungry brutes when he could be spending time with
her!

“That’s correct,” she said. “I’ve been working for Bartman for nearly a year now.”

“A year. Wow,” Nate said. “Any of your clients been killed yet?”

She cleared her throat and gave him the corner of a heart-stopping smile. “So far we’ve brought ‘em all back alive, Mr. Fox.”

The way she said “Mr. Fox” made him go weak in the knees. “Hear that?” he asked Sarge, and raised his brows as if impressed. “Not a single casualty.”

His manager stared at him for a moment, then scowled at the next applicant. “Your name?” he asked.

“Fields. Frank Fields, sir.”

Sarge flipped his page back. “From Stirling Security?”

“Yes, sir.” He kind of barked his answer.

“And how long have you been employed there?”

“Five years, sir.” Woof.

Nathan happily turned his attention back to B. T. O’Shay. What did the B. stand for? Brenda? Bridget? Bambi? He liked the name Bambi. It conjured up images of soft and cuddly, nestled in his arms like a sleepy lamb. He’d always liked lambs.

“And before you worked for Steele?” Sarge was asking.

Why was she here? Nate wondered. Could it all be a hoax? Might she be masquerading as a bodyguard just to get an exclusive interview with him? Stranger things had happened. Once he’d found a reporter hiding under his hotel bed. He’d never been sure how she’d gotten in there, but it had been really quite interesting getting her out.

“I was a Marine, sir.”

Or maybe she was just a fan. She’d been collecting pictures of him for years and when she’d heard he was coming to Jackson, she had hatched up this scheme to meet him. If that was the case, he had to admire her ingenuity and reward her tenacity.

“And you?” Sarge asked, moving on to the next man.

“Kevin Anderson. Three years with Warrior Security. I was a personal guard for Madonna when she was here in town.”

“You don’t say.”

“Yeah. She said I had great…technique.” He followed his statement with a suggestive chuckle, but Nathan barely noticed.

Bambi’s eyes were very large—much like the famous fawn’s. She wore a narrow ivory-colored skirt and beneath that were legs like a thoroughbred filly.

“Greg Taylor. Lionheart Corporation. Top of my platoon at Survival Plateau.”

The freckles sprinkled across her nose made her look like the perfect girl next door. Someone who might have grown up with the Beaver.

“Davey Braun. Kingpin Corp.”

She wore a small string of pearls around her throat, which was long and slim and appeared kissably soft.

“Mac Greenley. Be Safe Security. Graduate of Guardsman Inc. Heavyweight wrestling champion of Tennessee.”

Her face was lovely, and her waist was tiny. But, generally speaking, it was somewhere in between those two regions that fascinated him. Brother Tyrel was a leg man, but Nathan himself had always appreciated softer regions. He almost sighed as he eyed her bosom, which, though not large, made his heart do funny things in his chest

Maybe she was a singer, desperate for a break and willing to pretend to be a bodyguard to get his attention. Fact
was
sometimes stranger than fiction. And as it stood, he was more than willing to pay her just to quiet Sarge and keep these hired mastiffs off his scent Hell, he’d gladly let her sing backup if she was any good. And after that…

“Did you hear that?” Sarge asked, sending Nate a glare. “Heavyweight champion of Tennessee.”

“Yeah,” Nate said. “Can I talk to you, Sarge?”

“Sure.”

“Outside?”

Sarge’s brows lowered farther. “They haven’t all been introduced yet”

“Fido can wait,” Nate murmured and turned toward the door.

Sarge followed.

The hall was very quiet. Nate allowed himself one glance through the window at the angelic redhead, then turned his attention back to his manager.

“Hire O’Shay.”

Sarge’s eyes glinted in the absolute silence. “What?” he said in a voice so low it was barely audible.

Geez, Nathan loved ticking Sarge off. He couldn’t help it. It was in his nature. But he really was a damned nice guy. Kind of. So he didn’t smile when he said, “Hire O’Shay,” again.

“The girl? You want me to hire the girl?”

Against Nate’s better judgment a sliver of a grin escaped his control. “That’s right. I want her on the payroll today.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“Me?” Nate did his best to look shocked. “She works for…” He glanced at Sarge’s list. “Bartman Security. A two star company.”

“I didn’t know she was a woman when I called her in.”

That much was obvious. Still, Nathan reared back as if surprised. “Sarge, you’re not saying you’re a chauvinist are you?”

“You want out of the limelight so bad, just say so. You don’t have to get yourself killed to do it. But if you want to hang around, you’ll get yourself a real—”

“Bodyguard. I know,” Nate said, raising one hand. “You’ve been saying all along I need more security, and one glance at her made me see the light. I absolutely need someone to guard my body, and she’s the one for the job.”

“You don’t know a damn thing about her.”

“Not true. She’s oh, say five foot four, green eyes, red hair, about 34-23-34, and I think I saw a tiny little mole…” He motioned toward his own chest. “On her right breast.”

“Let me tell you something, smartass. I’m not about to march in there and hire
anyone
without a thorough interview.”

“Well…” Nate sighed, removed his Stetson, and ran splayed fingers through his hair. “Have it your way then. Interview away.” Replacing his hat, he tilted it back and added, “Then hire Bambi.”

B
RENNA
T
HERESA
O’S
HAY SCREAMED
, leapt into the air, and kicked the hanging dummy directly in the head. It twisted like wind chimes in a hurricane, swung madly toward the ceiling, and snapped off its chain.

Brenna winced as it crashed against the far wall, but remained warily on the balls of her feet, still in position, every muscle ready, lest her enemy retaliate. Not surprisingly, it did not, but scowled from its crooked position in the corner. She relaxed, bowed to her long-suffering opponent, and reached for the towel that hung over the bar in her basement workout area.

She was primed. She was ready. She was a lethal weapon. She was a killing machine. She was…terrified.

Sweet Mary! What had she done? She wasn’t a bodyguard, built up on testosterone, steroids, and centuries of male pattern aggressiveness. She was a receptionist for a local security company. She weighed little over a hundred pounds, barely topped five feet four inches, and hadn’t been entrusted with guarding so much as the lollipop supply at Bartman Security.

But none of that was through any fault of her own, she reminded herself. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t asked Roger to give her assignments. She had. In fact, she’d taken the job at Bartman with the understanding that she would eventually be given active duty.

She should have figured out long ago that wasn’t going to happen. She should have known when Roger said how good she looked behind the desk. She should have known from the way the men eyed her legs. They all knew she would
never advance beyond the tight rein of the reception area. Regardless of her efforts, regardless of her accomplishments, there didn’t seem to be a man alive with a modicum of faith in her abilities.

Until she’d met Nathan Fox.

A flicker of fragile hope glowed in Brenna. Finally, someone had taken her seriously. Finally, someone had seen past her gender to the steel within.

True, she still felt guilty for keeping Sarge’s phone call a secret. She could get in a lot of trouble for that But she couldn’t sit behind a desk forever and watch her dreams be worn away by time and frustration. She was twenty-three years old, and she knew what she wanted from life. True, as a child she’d wanted to be a cowboy, and as a young adolescent she had been pretty sure she’d make a top-notch jewel thief. But in her heart, she’d always known the truth; she was meant to be in law enforcement. It was in her blood, in her genes, passed down to her like her curly red hair and her Irish temper. She may have inherited her mother’s fair skin, but she had her father’s resolve.

Sarge Bartel’s phone call had been a catalyst for her, kick starting her imagination. What if she didn’t tell anyone about the interview? What if, instead, she went herself?

It had been her boss who had finally convinced her to go. When, in guilty agony, she’d asked him again when she could expect active duty, he’d told her not to fret about it. She was getting a raise at the end of the month, because he wasn’t about to lose the best damned coffee maker in Mississippi.

She hadn’t kicked him in the gut like she’d wanted to. She hadn’t raved at him. She hadn’t even given him a nice ladylike chop at the base of his neck.

Instead, she’d returned to her desk, called Sarge, and assured him that Bartman Security would be sending one B. T. O’Shay for the interview in two weeks.

With her course set and her heart racing, she’d gotten down to business—not pumping iron, but pumping her brain.
She’d spent hours poring over articles about the man the country-and-western tabloids called “The Fox.”

She’d learned everything from his hat size to his personality—size 7½, and charismatic enough to charm “the skin off a copperhead,” as one Arkansas woman had written.

Brenna had taken notes, made copies, and filed away a hundred tidbits of information in her mind. After compiling a small mountain of data, she had endlessly debated how best to approach the interview, agonizing for hours over what to wear, how to talk, walk, shake hands, blink.

For two entire days she had tried on clothes at local men’s shops, donning everything from pinstripes to fatigues. The truth had hit her like a roundhouse kick to the kidneys. She looked like nothing more than an effeminate Mugsy Malone. She might make Nathan Fox laugh in that kind of getup, but she wasn’t likely to impress him with her macho masculinity.

No matter what she did, every other applicant was certain to look tougher than she. All would probably have impressive backgrounds, and a few might even have training superior to her own. She couldn’t beat them at their own game.

She’d redoubled her studies, and in a tiny article in an outdated copy of the
New York Times,
she’d learned the most interesting tidbit of all. It stated in Nathan’s own words that while, yes, he was concerned about his safety, he did not want a bodyguard who would follow him around like some slavering bulldog. He wanted a normal life, or at least as normal as a superstar could hope for.

After that a definite plan had begun to gel in her mind.

It had taken her three more days to choose her outfit But instead of pinstripes and derbies, she now considered pearls and pumps.

And it had worked! It had paid off! Nathan Fox had hired her, had realized the kind of courage it took for a woman to compete in a man’s arena, had understood the confidence necessary to wear a skirt into a room where the testosterone was as thick as Mississippi mud.

In short, he had recognized her talent.

“M
ISS
O’S
HAY
.”

Fox’s smile hit Brenna with the intensity of Southern sunshine. Though she had assured herself it wasn’t possible, he really was better looking in person than in photographs. And being here in his hotel suite, knowing he’d slept in the next room, added a risqué factor to the meeting that bumped up her heart rate another notch.

“Mr. Fox,” she said and took his hand, remembering to shake it hard enough to convey confidence, but not so hard as to seem defensive.

The most difficult part was over, she assured herself; she’d already met with Sarge. He hadn’t looked happy about the prospect Instead, he’d maintained a sort of smug satisfaction as he’d signed the contract stating that she was in the employ of Fox Inc. and that the company would pay her directly.

So far her silk jacket, chosen after only two hours of silent debate, remained sweat free.

“It’s good to see you again.” Fox’s voice was as melodious as she remembered. A journalist in Vermont had said his eyes were the color of maple syrup. But that was just sappy drivel, because they were a full shade darker than that, closer to the color of fresh-ground coffee beans, and they crinkled charmingly at the corners when he smiled, mesmerizing her with their warm allure.

“Would you like some breakfast?”

“Oh.” She drew her hand self-consciously from his embrace, realizing she’d been staring. If she screwed up this opportunity she could just nail her butt to an office chair, because she wouldn’t be leaving it anytime soon. “No, thank you. I’d best get straight to business.”

“Right now? It’s only…” He glanced at his watch. His wrist was broad and corded, sprinkled with dark hair. “Eight o’clock. On the dot.” He winced. “You’re not always this prompt, are you?”

“I try to be.”

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat, then turned and motioned her to go with him. “Me too,” he said, and pulled the door
open to usher her through. “I’m supposed to go running at eight o’clock.”

“I read you’re a runner.”

“You read about me?” He sounded flattered. Odd, she thought. He was, after all, adored by millions. Surely he wasn’t surprised that she, too, knew something about him.

She made the mistake of glancing up at him to see if he looked sincere. The brilliance of his smile momentarily numbed her brain; but she bludgeoned it back into working order. “Yes. I thought it wise to read a couple of articles.” A couple
hundred.
After all, walking into that interview cold and landing the job was just about as likely as a snowstorm in Georgia. “I always try to learn as much as possible about my, uh, clients before I begin working for them.”

“You didn’t read that I’m an immature prankster, did you? ‘Cause it’s definitely not true. I would never send a critic chocolate-covered laxatives.”

“You did that?”

“Uh…no,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

She laughed. Despite his drop-dead good looks, he had a down-home way about him that couldn’t help but put her at ease. “I’m afraid I didn’t read anything negative. All the interviewers were women.”

He chuckled and ushered her through the next door as she silently berated herself. She hadn’t meant to say that. It implied, of course, that no female could possibly find fault with him. Although she suspected that might well be true, she certainly had no reason to give him the impression that
she
was amongst the infatuated group.

“Are you blushing, Miss O’Shay?” he asked.

She kept her face turned resolutely forward. There were a good number of things she appreciated about her heritage. Her complexion was not amongst them. “It’s rather warm in here.”

He laughed again. “Looks like I was entirely wrong about this bodyguard business. I like having you around already.” He turned away, saying, “Table for two.”

Brenna realized suddenly that they were in the hotel’s restaurant.
The hostess, a young brunette with big eyes and a ponytail, dimpled at him and turned away with obvious effort.

He ushered Brenna along with a hand on her back.

“I thought you were going to go running,” she said.

“I said I’m
supposed
to go running. But I don’t like to on an empty stomach.”

“I’m the opposite.” She slid into the booth across the table from him.

“I’ll have coffee, black as you can get it. What’ll you have?”

“Nothing, thanks.”

“You gotta have something. Sarge said you were going to be asking me questions. You need fluids for that.”

“I do?”

“Absolutely.”

She shrugged. “Orange juice, I guess.”

“Orange juice it is.” He smiled up at the hostess. For a moment, Brenna was afraid the girl might swoon. A Chicago journalist had said that when Fox entered the room, all the oxygen was sucked out, which might have explained the vacuum-like quality of the restaurant. “And could you send our waitress right away? I’m starving.”

“Yes sir.”

The girl finally forced herself to leave. Across the aisle, two young women turned to stare at him. Brenna tried to ignore them and concentrate on the business at hand. She was going to have to learn to focus despite the distractions.

“So you like to run after you eat?” she asked.

“No. I…”

But just then the hostess reappeared, coffeepot in hand, flying from the kitchen as if summoned by the king of Sudan.

“Thanks,” he said, then turned back to Brenna. “The way I figure it is this. I run down the road, right? I might be hit by a car, or die of a heart attack, or, hell…” He shrugged. Beneath the wear-softened cotton of his T-shirt, his. shoulders looked muscular and lean. The word “perfect” popped into her head. She pushed it back out with effort. He was her
boss,
and she was certain to eventually learn that he had
some
faults. “Way things are, someone might drive by and shoot me in the head just for kicks.” He took his first sip of coffee, smiled at the hostess and said, “Great stuff.”

Her world complete, Miss Ponytail floated away on a cloud.

Brenna waited for him to complete his sentence, but he seemed to have forgotten his line of thought, lost as he was in caffeine bliss.

“And?” she said finally.

“And? Oh. And I don’t want to die on an empty stomach.”

She raised her brows and waited for him to say he was joking, but he didn’t.

Instead, he gave her a self-effacing grin. “Sarge says I eat too much. Hell.” He took another sip of coffee. “Everyone says I eat too much.”

Now she knew he was kidding, for although she had looked, she hadn’t detected a single ounce of fat anywhere on his body. In fact, he looked as fit and hard as one of her school friends’ prize quarter horses.

The silence was getting lengthy. And she was staring again. She snapped her gaze away, resisted clearing her throat, and settled on fiddling with the pleats of her rayon slacks beneath the table.

“I’d like to thank you, Mr. Fox,” she said, using her most professional tone. “Some—”

“Just a minute,” he interrupted. A waitress was already hustling toward him. She was blond, buxom, and a little wide in the hips. As she panted up to the table, Brenna noticed that she looked about as unlikely to remain conscious as the last woman.

“Are you ready to order?” She sounded breathless as she looked Nathan in the eye.

Brenna silently thanked her CPR instructor for her thoroughness—just in case.

Nathan flipped open his menu, skimmed the items for a moment and began. “I’ll have a steak, two fried eggs, a side
of grits, an order of buttermilk cakes, a large glass of milk…and…how big are your buns?”

“What?”

He didn’t look up, absorbed as he was in his selections. “Your sticky buns. How big are they?”

“Oh. They’re big.”

“I’ll take two. No. Just one.” He grinned at Brenna. “I promised Mother Sarge I’d cut down. And you?”

She couldn’t help blinking at him. “Me what?”

“What’ll you have to eat?”

“Noth—”

“Listen.” He leaned toward her conspiratorially. “It’d be really nice if you’d eat with me, ‘cause otherwise I’m going to look like a pig.”

She felt a lock of crinkly hair fall over her forehead. She’d tried to subdue that hair with gel and a scrunchy at the back of her neck, but it remained stubbornly out of control.

“Please,” he added softly.

A woman could drown in those darker-than-maple-syrup eyes of his.

“Okay.” She yanked her gaze from his. “I’ll have some toast,” she said, glancing at the waitress.

Unfortunately, the blonde was in another dimension, her gaze locked on Nathan’s profile.