A Bodyguard for Christmas
Donna Young

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Copyright

About the Author

DONNA YOUNG, an incurable romantic, lives in beautiful Northern California with her husband and two children.

To Ray & Geri, Steve & Debbye, Mike & Sheila, Terry & Janice, Trish & Ed, Matt & Robbie. For your humor, love and immense support, I love you guys!

Chapter One

Timothy Severs was wired.

Cocaine-wired.

The shock sent his heart into overdrive, pumping blood until it sizzled and snapped in his veins. A high-pitched hum set his teeth grinding, his muscles twitching.

A split second later, euphoria hit. And with it, the rush of confidence, the heightened senses, the understanding he could live forever.

Ironic really, considering his plans for the day.

Using his finger, he rubbed the excess white powder over his gums, then clicked his tongue against the numbness.

He could have done the line in his apartment before coming to work that morning. But the prospect of snorting coke under Big Brother’s eye added a sharp, seductive edge to his buzz.

Unhurried, he flipped the latch open and stepped out of the bathroom stall. A quick glance told him he was alone.

With a laugh, he leaned over the sink and adjusted his tie in front of the beveled mirror. He was not an attractive man, with glazed, bulging eyes of watery blue and a receding hairline. Small, red splotches appeared on his pale, slightly pitted skin, betraying his drug habit, which he tried to hide beneath a thin layer of makeup.

He washed his hands, ignoring the slight tremor in his fingers when he grabbed a nearby paper towel. Well, his reputation was about to change.

The only child of David Severs, a prominent Supreme Court Justice, Timothy had been expected to continue the tradition of law in his family. But a drug bust and the accidental overdose of an underage girl—the daughter of a senator—in his dorm room, created a scandal that even his family’s connections couldn’t cover up.

But with his father’s help, Timothy eventually secured an assignment as junior aide to an obscure British attaché. He should be grateful, his father lectured. After all, Timothy had thrown away a promising future. And for what? His father demanded. Sex? Drugs?

Nothing wrong with either, Timothy mused. After a final check in the mirror, more for vanity than necessity, he opened the restroom door and stepped into the hallway.

“Mr. Severs?”

Timothy jumped, slightly startled by the hand on his shoulder. He turned, noting the marine’s uniform more than the man wearing it. With short cropped hair and flat, heavy-boned features, the soldier stood a good six inches over Timothy’s five-nine frame.

“Yes?” Timothy demanded, taking a deliberate moment to scan the battle-scarred lines and leathery skin before dismissing the man to look at the name badge on the soldier’s chest. “Cooper.”

The soldier’s eyebrow rose. “I was instructed to tell you that your new chair has arrived,” Cooper said quietly, but a sickle-shaped scar on his cheek flexed with the tightening of his jaw.

The chair. Excitement caught in Timothy’s chest, but he managed to keep his features schooled. “Good,” he replied, his tone arrogant. With a dismissive wave, he continued down the hallway to his office.

The other staff called him the Fish behind his back. He heard their smirks, saw the women’s features before they could hide their repulsion.

Even the British Ambassador, Sir Christopher Beck, couldn’t always conceal his distaste.

Only one person ever understood him, appreciated his talents. And sadly, that one person would never witness his moment of triumph.

When Timothy reached his office, he closed the door and carefully turned the lock. The room wasn’t the smallest in the British Embassy, but it certainly was the ugliest. No family pictures hung on the wall or sat on his desk. No plants—artificial or living—cluttered the corners.

He required nothing more than a small metal desk with a computer to do his job. And now behind it, the high-back, leather swivel chair.

For a moment he ran his fingers over the seat, enjoying the cool smoothness, recognizing the top quality of the grain. He let out a small laugh and flung himself into the chair, sending it spinning.

Finally, dizziness forced him to stop. He folded his arms on the desk and leaned forward until the room tilted back into place.

Smugness swelled inside him, riding high on the back of the cocaine. He jerked his desk drawer open and grabbed a pair of scissors. He stood and with shallow slashes, he hacked at the leather until it shredded beneath the blades.

“Come to daddy,” he gasped, out of breath from the exertion. Murky drops of sweat and makeup rolled down his face. He wiped away the trickle from his cheek, ignoring the tan smear against his suit sleeve.

Underneath the shredded leather lay a slim, flat clay brick of C-4 wrapped in wax paper. With shaky hands, he picked it up, enjoying the weight of its power. He opened his briefcase and placed the plastic explosive inside. From a nearby drawer, he pulled out the electronic detonator.

Delta had ordered him to use a timer, but the power behind being the human detonator was too seductive to resist. Practically giddy, he inserted the detonator into the clay and punched the code into his cell phone.

Delta had assured Timothy that his identity would be protected. But Timothy understood that if Delta’s plans went awry, Timothy would be the fall guy.

A glance at his watch told him he had less than an hour before his meeting with Ambassador Beck.

Plenty of time. He set his phone down on the desk and pulled a small foil-wrapped package from his pocket, along with a razor and straw. He shook the packet out and used the razor to create a long, perfect white rail of powder.

Slowly, he guided one end of the straw to his nose and leaned toward the cocaine. “Here’s to a very promising future, Dad,” he murmured, his lips tightening with derision. He pressed his finger against his free nostril and inhaled.

Chapter Two

Two weeks later

The storm struck downtown Baltimore with icy contempt. Slapping and spitting, the gusts of sleet battered the red brick buildings trimmed with Christmas cheer. White lights, wreaths and ruby-red bows were left tattered on the near deserted streets.

From a darkened doorway, the man called Beck watched a pseudo-Santa scurry from his coin bucket into a nearby diner.

Smart chap, he thought with derision. Smarter than me.

The frigid air burned like acid in Beck’s nostrils. Bits of ice pelted his face, each with the snap and sting of a whip. But the storm couldn’t match the rage inside the man. A rage that, if freed, would have set the snow and sky on fire.

But for now, it blazed inside until his eyes burned a blue inferno, and the heat hardened his heart into a heavy stone.

As if to taunt him, church bells tolled—their clang muffled, but their warning clear. Saturday evening services had ended.

Beck stepped back farther into the doorway, letting his black jeans and leather jacket blend with the inky shadows.

He was English aristocracy by birth. A fact that meant little in the modern world—much less in his world. Still, lineage reinforced the long, lean lines of his body, the hard set of his broad shoulders.

As an added precaution, he pulled a dark ski cap from his pocket and slipped it over his head. His light brown hair had enough blond threaded through to draw more than a casual glance.

But it was the nobility of his features that made most glances become outright stares. The pale, blue eyes set deep beneath a broad forehead. The high, prominent cheek bones cut lean into the square jaw that only hinted of a cleft chin. A hard mouth that over the years tended to smirk with the disdain of his ancestors, rather than soften in humor—or compassion.

Beck was born with the proverbial silver spoon. One that corroded long before he’d ever become a man.

Up the street the church bells ceased clanging, leaving in their wake the hum of conversation.

Most people, the smart ones in his opinion, stayed indoors. Others—the more devout, maybe—braved the elements in huddled groups of two and three, searching for their cars through knee-high drifts.

As people drew closer the hum morphed into a spattering of laughter and a few verses of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” from those caught up in the spirit of the season.

Cheery buggers.

Beck made note of some nearby pedestrians—a handful with their heads down, their arms hugging their coats close—making their way past the bookstore across the street.

The bookstore he’d been observing for the last hour.

Menlow Books.

Owner, Regina Menlow. Single. American. Age, twenty-eight. Graduated Princeton.

Not exactly a second-class education, he thought with derision. Although, from her file, Regina Menlow used a trust fund left by her deceased parents for most of the tuition and then worked her way through college for the balance.

She had lived off campus, kept to herself. No friends.

Only one estranged aunt for family. Aida Pullman.

An image flashed through Beck’s mind. The only photograph from Miss Menlow’s file—a driver’s license picture.

Her brown hair had been tied back into a long, glossy tail that lay over one shoulder. Shorter hair fringed her heart-shaped face, framed big green eyes that flashed impatience just as the camera clicked. The same impatience that showed in the generous slant of her mouth, the inevitable lift of one delicate brow.

It was safe to assume that Miss Menlow had a temper.

But was she capable of treason?

Beck caught a faint flicker of light in the bookstore’s display window. A silent warning pricked at the back of his neck. He straightened from the doorway, his stance turning predatory.

The sounds of the evening faded into a fuzzy void. His ears strained to hear a cry of fear or pain, while his eyes narrowed on the lighted glass and beyond.

The dim glow flashed, bursting into a frenzy of orange hues that spread from the front door to the front display window.

Fire.

Suddenly, a man—a silhouette really—slipped from the side alley by the store.

Rage worked its way up the back of Beck’s throat, forcing him to take short, frigid breaths through his mouth. He palmed his pistol, thought about shooting the man, only to disregard the idea because of the people still on the street.

The shadows shifted back and forth until the fire outlined the intruder’s features—caught the slide of the man’s hand, the bulge of the book shoved under his overcoat.

“Come on,” Beck urged, his words clipped. Shifting toward the doorway steps, he willed Regina Menlow to appear in her doorway. “Get the hell out of there, damn it.”

Inside the store, the flames shimmered, growing in height behind the door’s window. In his mind, Beck visualized the blaze greedily consuming the dry kindling of books and wooden shelves.

Seconds sped by. The intruder slipped around a nearby corner, kicking over Santa’s bucket in his haste. The coins scattered, making little sound on the snow-covered sidewalk.

Beck willed himself to follow the man, then cursed himself when his legs wouldn’t obey.

Swearing again, he hit the wall with the side of his fist. After taking one last glance at the corner, he pulled his cap from his head, ripped a hole in the top and created a tube.

He raced across the street, yanking the tube over his face while he ran, until the material covered his mouth and nose.

The heat blasted him before he hit the sidewalk. He didn’t waste time on Menlow’s door, the glass having already turned black with smoke. Instead, he heaved the coin bucket through the display window. Alarms punched the night, but he barely registered the noise. He jumped over the broken glass, shoved books and shelves to the side and slid to the floor.

Quickly, he pictured the blueprint of the store in his mind. If she was as smart as her file claimed, she’d be in the loft upstairs or the office in the back.

Beck glanced up. Flames licked the ceiling, then spread in a bloom of crimson and orange—the loft above already engulfed. If she was upstairs, she was already dead.

He started toward the office.

Smoke and heat choked the air. Fire fed off the books, turning the shelves into blazing walls of hell. Cinders stung his eyes, pierced the cloth until the heavy weight of ash coated his throat and lungs.

He coughed in convulsive fits, battling the heat for oxygen.

He heard it then. An echo of his cough. Haggard, rough. Muffled.

Beck discovered her under a desk in the back office, her body clenched in a tight ball. Grudgingly, he gave her credit for having enough sense to crawl out of harm’s way.

When he reached her, he realized she hadn’t found safety easily. Her hands and feet were bound in duct tape, her mouth covered with the same. He carefully removed the tape from her mouth, making it easier for her to breathe. When she coughed, he fought the relief that rolled through him. Quickly, he shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over her head. He lifted her into his arms, cradling her face to his shoulder.

The office held no other exit or windows, forcing Beck back through the flames. Dread raked his gut as he fought through the inferno. Hot sparks burned his neck, smoked his clothes.

Five steps from the front, a crack of thunder exploded over his head. He charged the broken display seconds before the ceiling crashed at his heels. Beck dove out onto the sidewalk and rolled, hitting the snow packed cement with his back, cushioning the woman against his chest.

For a moment he could do no more than drag in oxygen to his lungs, ignoring the raw burn in his throat. Tears filled his eyes, setting off a thousand needle pricks beneath the lids.

With an impatient hand he wiped the blurriness away and shoved the woman down beside him. He placed two fingers to the side of her neck. A flutter of her pulse beat against the pressure, reassuring him she lived.

The urge to protect speared through him, cutting him clean to the bone.

The feeling was familiar. Controllable. A person didn’t do what he did for a living without dealing with the instinct now and again.

Beck grabbed his switch blade from his pant pocket, and within moments sliced through the tape that bound her. Gently, he peeled it back, not wanting to mar the skin beneath the adhesive.

She was a little thing, he noted. The top of her head not even coming to his shoulder. Her hair was dark and shoulder length now, the color masked by the low light of the evening. According to the file, her eyes were hazel. But the file didn’t mention the pale skin—now smudged with ash and blood—the sprinkle of freckles across her nose, or the slender line of her neck.

Blood thickened in his veins, slowed the flow to his brain. It was the only excuse, he thought, for the sharp tug of attraction that pulled at the deepest part of his gut.

The wind blew a strand of hair across her cheek. With a gentle hand he brushed it away.

At his touch, her eyes fluttered opened. The irises were more mossy than hazel beneath heavy lids. Huge, somber eyes that drew on him.

“Chris?”

His father’s name hit him—a slap that stung worse than wind and ice.

He shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, he looked like his father and this, of course, was his father’s mistress.

“No.” Anger ripped through him, forcing him to tighten his jaw. Grief edged his temper.

“Chris?” A frown creased her brows, but she said nothing more as her eyes closed once again.

Like father, like son. How many times had he heard that in his lifetime?

Jordan Beck swore in disgust even as he picked her up, cradled her in his arms.

Instantly, a hand grabbed his arm.

“Shouldn’t you wait for the ambulance? We’ve called them.” A couple stood next to him, both bundled against the cold, like two misplaced Eskimos, in pea-green parkas.

Jordan dismissed the cell phone the man Eskimo waved in his face with a mitted hand.

“She’s my fiancée,” he replied instead, adopting an American accent. A British one would be remembered later. He tugged his shoulder free and stepped quickly into the street before the man could react. “I’ll take her to the hospital myself.”

For a split second, he almost gave in to the temptation to leave her and follow the street where the attacker escaped.

And if the guy had a partner waiting in the crowd for another opportunity to murder her?

He’d given his word to protect her. And she wouldn’t be protected well by the police.

Sirens sounded in the distance. The eerie sound blended with the crackle of the fire, the howling of the wind.

Even on snow-packed streets, it wouldn’t take them long to reach the fire.

“You’d better be bloody worth it,” Jordan muttered as he reached the car, opened the door and shoved the woman onto the front seat. “Or I’ll kill you myself.”

Chapter Three

Smoke and tape choked her screams, smothered the oxygen she so desperately needed. The flames licked her skin—jagged knives that sliced a downward swipe, flaying a path through skin and nerves.

Suffocating, Regina struck out with her hands, defending herself against the swipe of blades, the bogged down fog that surrounded her.

“Wake up, damn you. Before you hurt yourself.”

Chris.

Relief flooded through her, intensifying the burning in her throat. But when she tried lifting her eyelids, they remained stubborn and heavy.

A string of curses floated above her head, then suddenly the weight was gone and in its place a cool rush of air.

Slowly, her eyes fluttered open. Light burst, bringing tears that stung under the lids. Regina looked down, waiting for her vision to adjust and for the first time, she realized her arms refused to move.

“So you’re finally awake?”

It took effort to turn her head. Chris Beck stood next to the bed, holding a wet washcloth in one hand.

“Well? Are you okay?”

Regina blinked. No, not Chris.

This man wasn’t her friend. She noted sharp cheekbones, the hard line of his mouth, the rigid set of his jaw.

What did Chris say about his son?

The man had no give.

“I asked if you were okay.”

“No, I’m Regina.” She glanced down for the first time, taking in the tan cotton slacks and gray cardigan with a scooped-neck tee beneath. All smudged with ash, all reeking of smoke. “Do I look okay?”

“You look like hell.”

No humor, either.

She almost sighed. Almost. But when her gaze met his, she actually forgot to.

The eyes were the same. Chris’s and Jordan’s. Both pale blue, cut laser-sharp with specks of silver that flashed little bolts of lightning-edged emotion. Pleasure, sadness, anger, impatience. It didn’t matter which, the intensity never diminished.

Harnessed, yes. Controlled, certainly. But never diluted.

“I guess this pretty much defines ‘in the nick of time,’ doesn’t it, Jordan?”

“Yes—” He stopped, surprise flashed in the blue eyes, just before they narrowed.

Regina bet not many caught this man off guard. A huge dose of satisfaction eased some of the frustration—and admittedly, a small bit of fear—stewing in her belly.

“You know who I am?”

She grimaced more from the pounding pain in her head, than his reaction. Know him? She wondered what the man would do if she told him the truth.

Instead, she settled for another truth. “Chris carried your picture in his wallet. You were younger and in uniform. You’d just received your Royal Air Force pilot’s wings.”

“Considering our relationship, it’s hard to believe he carried a picture of me around anywhere.”

“He was proud of you.” Slowly, she eased up on one elbow. Her gaze skimmed over his jeans and sweater, noting the anger that rode the hard-lined muscles beneath.

“You’re taller than Chris. Leaner, too.” Regina spoke without thought. Something she tended to do. A habit people developed when they spent most of their time alone.

“I’m not here to be compared to my father, Miss Menlow. In or out of bed.”

“Bed?” Confused, she frowned. The sledgehammers in her head had scrambled her brain more than she’d thought. “You think Chris and I were lovers?”

“Weren’t you?”

“This is my hard-earned tax dollars at work?” Annoyed, she brushed her hair back over her shoulder. “Your father collected books. First editions. I sold books. First editions. It’s really quite simple. Even for a government man like yourself.”

“My father told you quite a lot, it seems.” His tone was flat with disbelief. “What was in the book?”

“Book?” She froze, remembering. “Your father’s journal. Do you have it?”

“No,” Jordan replied. “The guy who attacked you left with it. I wasn’t able to follow him.”

“He grabbed me from behind and shoved a gun at my head.” She rubbed her right temple, remembering. “I don’t know how he broke in. I had already closed up. Maybe a window in my loft. Although I usually keep both locked.”

“If he was a professional, a locked window wouldn’t have stopped him.”

“He demanded the journal and I told him where to find it. He must have hit me with the pistol right after because I don’t remember anything until I came to in the office. I saw the fire and managed to roll under the desk.” Automatically her fingers went to her head and she winced when she found the top of her skull tender. “I honestly didn’t expect to survive. Thank you.”

“Just your tax dollars at work,” he commented wryly.

Her head jerked up, her mouth tilted in self-deprecation. “I deserved that. I’m sorry. I guess my only excuse is that I’m not at my best right now.”

The apology caught Jordan off guard. She had surprised him for the third time in less than three hours. The fact that she crawled under the desk, then knew he worked for the government and now the apology.

His gaze skimmed over the dark chestnut hair, liking the way the thick waves drifted over the graceful line of her neck, drawing his eye to the delicate spot just above her shoulder.

But it was her eyes—big, somber, moss-green. Pools of liquid that swallowed a man whole.

“I cleaned the wound. The bruise is minor.” He sat on the side of the bed. When she continued to probe the cut, he pulled her hand away. “Stop playing with it or you’ll make it bleed again.”

“I’m sorry.” Her fingers fluttered beneath his, just for a moment before she tugged them away.

Nerves?

“What did your intruder look like, Miss Menlow?”

“Regina,” she corrected him automatically. Slowly, she sat up and drew her knees to her chest.

The woman intrigued him. She was soft, feminine, intelligent. She stirred something he hadn’t experienced in a long time. Desire. Interest.

Another surprise.

“He was football-player big. Linebacker size. Cool, mercenary type. Six-two. Dark brown hair. Crew cut. Dark brown eyes. His features were flat. Almost like his face had been pressed by glass.”

“Identifying marks?”

“No tattoos that I saw, but he wore a black corduroy coat. So if he had any on his arms, they were covered. He had a scar, though. A crescent one. Right here.” She stroked the side of her left cheek. “But he didn’t escape with anything important.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he doesn’t have the journal. I made a fake after I read the original. I gave the fake to him.”

“Where is the original?”

“In my loft. Under the sink in my bathroom.” She wrapped her arms around her knees, bracing herself. “How bad was the fire?”

“The bathroom, along with the rest of your loft crashed into the store just after we escaped.”

Her forehead dropped to her knees. Everything gone. Not that she owned much. But there were photographs, small treasures her parents had left for her. The letter Chris had given her.

The pain wasn’t sharp, but a dull throb just under her heart. Or maybe she’d just gotten used to it over the years and didn’t notice the sharp edges anymore.

“Did you read my father’s journal?”

“Yes.” Actually, she’d read it front to back, twice, before she’d been satisfied she’d committed it to memory. “Chris sent it with a letter. He told me to read it then wait for you to contact me. He said you’d know what to do.”

“His message told me to find you. To protect you until I could decipher the information he’d given you. I had no idea the information was a book until tonight.” He walked over to the window, split the curtain apart barely an inch and peered out. “When I saw Scarface walk out of the store with it. I just knew.”

“You watched him?” Regina asked. “How long were you outside the store?”

The curtain dropped back into place as he turned back to her. “Not long. I decided to wait for you to lock up. I didn’t want any interruptions.”

“So you preferred to wait in a snowstorm rather than a warm office while I dealt with my customers? Which I didn’t have,” she rationalized, frowning. “That doesn’t make sense. Now if you were to tell me I was under surveillance, that you wanted to make sure I was legitimate before you approached me…”

He ignored her comment, simply because it hit too close to the truth. “The only lead we have now is the guy who left you for dead.”

“Not necessarily.” She shook her head, only to stop mid-motion, dizzy. “How well did you know your father, Jordan?”

“Bloody well,” Jordan responded, smoothly. “The question is, how well did you know him, Miss Menlow?”

“Bloody well,” she quipped in a perfect British accent, mimicking him. “Or at least I thought I did.”

“Well enough to sleep with?”

With his temper, came hers. “Do I look like the mistress type?” She snapped the question back, expecting the epiphany to dawn on him any moment.

His eyes raked over her, and Regina’s cheek’s flushed when the blue eyes lingered over her breasts, then her face.

“Yes,” Jordan drawled; the deep timbre of his voice set her trembling, but not from temper or fear, she realized. “You do.”

“Well, I’m not.” The fact that she managed to look down her nose at him surprised them both. “I was his friend.” She scooted to the edge of the bed. Her muscles protested with some aches and stiffness, forcing her to move slower than her anger demanded. But once her feet touched the floor, knowing she could run if needed gave her a sense of bravado.

“You’re lying,” Jordan bit out the words. “And you’re not very good at it.”

“I’m not lying. Because you’re right, I’m not good at it.” She turned away, not wanting to deal with the contempt that flashed in his eyes. Instead, she studied her surroundings, cringing.

Roses spattered on the wallpaper all four sides of the room—their image faded until the flowers were no more than red splotches on the walls. The only thing that broke the dizzying monotony was the black lacquered bed and matching nightstand, both scuffed and cigarette scarred.

“Where are we, anyway?” A shag carpet—crimson and orange-speckled—covered the floor, its traffic pattern worn bald from the door, to the bathroom, to the bed.

“We’re in downtown D.C.”

“I must have been out of it quite a while.”

“Almost two hours.”

“No wonder I’m dizzy.” On the nightstand, she saw the matches. “The Carltonesque? That’s catchy,” she murmured, suddenly grateful for the scent of her smoke-filled clothes. “Your father never brought me here, that’s for sure. Of course, if I had been his mistress, I would have insisted. Can’t beat a place that comes with a scarlet shag carpet and matching velveteen bedspread.” She plucked at the bedding to prove her point.

“If you’re trying to convince me, lady, that you’re telling the truth, you’re going about it the wrong way.”

“I’m not trying to convince you of anything, Jordan.” His attitude, his problem. Not hers.

He raised an eyebrow.

“I already told you the truth and I don’t have the energy to defend myself.” The pounding in her head picked up its tempo. “Could I get some aspirin?”

“I don’t have any.”

“Then your accusations are going to have to wait five minutes.” Regina sat cross-legged on the bed. She raised her right arm and bent her elbow. She found the pressure point two fingers above her elbow and pressed with her thumb.

“You have a bump on your head, not on your arm.”

With her eyes closed, she slowly turned her head from one side to the other. “I know that. But it isn’t the skull that hurts so much as the muscles at the neck that have tightened to fend off the pain,” she explained patiently, before returning to a simple form of meditation breathing.

“So holding your elbow will heal your neck—”

“Shh,” she ordered, only to regret the action when another jab of pain hit her head.

“Are you trying to annoy me?” he snapped.

“No, but if I’m succeeding, I’ll consider it a bonus. After all, you annoyed me first,” she pointed out.

“Of all the bloody—”

“Can you stop yelling? Please?”

“I wasn’t.” But his voice softened to a dangerous growl.

She let her hands drop to her lap and sighed. “What I’m trying to do is get rid of my head and neck pain. I need to think clearer. If I try to deal with you right now, my headache will only get worse and that won’t do either of us any good.”

“So your answer is yoga?”

“No, my answer is aspirin, but since there isn’t any I have to make do. And this isn’t yoga. It’s acupressure. I read this remedy in a book—”

“You read it in a book?” His opinion was short, pithy.

“The concept shouldn’t be much of a reach, even for a slow thinker like you,” she remarked. “Own a bookstore. Surrounded by books. Love books,” she added, then once again closed her eyes and continued the pressure. “Plethora of information, if you can read.”

Suddenly, she opened one eye again. “You can read, right?”

“Yes.”

She grunted, shutting her eyelid once more. “Then you’re lucky. Many can’t.”

“Let me guess, you’re into causes, too?”

Regina ignored him. Something that wasn’t easy to do. After a full minute, one she was sure he spent staring at her back, he decided to give her the five minutes.

Unhurried, he stretched out on the bed behind her.

His weight threw her back into him. Every time she scooted forward, she’d fall back again. After a few minutes, she gave up.

“Headache gone?” he asked and folded his arms behind his head. He seemed relaxed, but she wasn’t fooled. The man was angry. Not enraged, but annoyed enough to keep his jaw tight.

“No.” Regina decided to retreat, if only to give her some space to think. She stood, then walked to the far side of the room—which wasn’t more than five feet—and sat in the straight-back chair. The movement only seemed to increase the pressure in her head.

She noticed the gray coin box on the headboard. “Does the bed vibrate?”

He glanced at the box. “It appears so.”

“Really?” For a brief second, she debated on trying it out, to see if it would help ease her neck ache. But she didn’t have money. When she glanced at Jordan, he shook his head.

“Fine.”

“I’ll make a deal with you,” Jordan said, the hard line of his mouth slipped into an easy smile. “I’ll massage your neck while you talk to me about my father’s journal.”

“It would be easier just to get me some aspirin,” she said, more than a little disgruntled. The last thing she wanted was close proximity right now.

“Not at this time of night,” Jordan explained. “It’s either the massage or nothing.”

He moved to the edge of the bed, placed his feet on the floor and opened his knees. “Right here,” he said and pointed in front of him.

For a moment she was tempted. “No, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.”

Instead, she leaned over and placed her forehead in her hands. The throbbing increased until nausea twisted her stomach into knots. She was being truthful; she couldn’t think straight with sledgehammers battering her skull. But it was ridiculous to sit there and let the headache turn into a migraine.

“This is such a bad decision.” She crossed over and settled into the vee between his thighs. “All right, but just for the record, I wanted you to get me some aspirin.”

“Just for the record, I wouldn’t trust you not to take off on me as soon as I get you out the door.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Regina said softly. “I want to help Chris. The journal implicates him as a terrorist.”

“You said you looked at the journal. What do you remember reading?”

“He and at least four others were planning some kind of threat. One that involved killing millions.”

“Ridiculous. My old man would never have betrayed his country.” His thumbs worked the muscles at the back of her neck, lighting little fires along her nerve endings.

“Who were the others?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “Chris addressed most of them by code names. Alpha, Beta, Charlie, Delta and Echo. I’m not sure what Chris’s code name was.”

“Why didn’t you let the authorities know?”

“His letter told me to trust no one but you. The journal implied his accomplices held positions high in our government. Chris had connections everywhere,” she said, then tilted her head to the side, allowing him more access to the muscles, and nearly groaned when he found a sensitive spot beneath her ear.

“If that’s the truth, why didn’t he just send the book to me?” he snapped.

The man was full of contradictions. Gentle hands, raging temper. “He had his reasons.”

“Which were?”

Not wanting to lie, she ignored the question, hoping to put him off for a while longer. “I think at some point, Chris might have changed his mind about following through on his plans. One of the last entries indicated that one of his colleagues had grown suspicious.”

“That narrows the field,” Jordan said sarcastically. “My father had a lot of enemies. And even more colleagues.”

“Because he was an MI6 agent?”

“Did he mention that in the journal?”

“No.”

Jordan grabbed her chin with his finger and brought her face around so he could see her. “He told you he was MI6?”

“Yes.”

“He must have trusted you,” he admitted. It actually impressed the hell out of him. Chris Beck trusted very few. “He told you I was an operative also.”

“Yes. I knew you would be there no matter what kind of falling out the two of you had,” Regina said quietly. “The journal said it had been almost two years since he last saw you.”

“That long?” Jordan stiffened but otherwise showed no reaction. He hadn’t thought so, but honestly couldn’t remember. So much had happened in between.

“I received the package a few days after your father was killed. He must have known his life was in danger.”

“You said most were code names. What did you mean?”

“With one entry he used initials. R.L. A person who supplied him with the weapons. An arms dealer of some kind.”

“Why didn’t he assign him a code name?”

She frowned. “R.L. was only mentioned once. For all I know, it could’ve been a mistake, or he assigned R.L. a code name later on in the book. Three of the names didn’t appear until after he mentioned R.L.”

“Did he mention the type of weapons? Guns? Biochemical? Explosives?” His fingers slipped to the front and skimmed her throat while his thumbs rubbed the back of her neck just at the base of her skull.

“No. It could be any one of them or all of them.”

“Okay, Regina. Now the million-dollar question.” Jordan’s fingers tightened, cutting off enough of her air to get her attention. “Why did my father send you his journal? And if it’s not the truth, I just might snap your beautiful little neck.”

Chapter Four

“I have an…ability,” Regina whispered. She closed her eyes against the tears. From embarrassment more than fear. Jordan wouldn’t hurt her, otherwise, Chris would have never trusted him to help her. If she couldn’t put her faith in Jordan, she’d put her faith in the belief that Chris had known what he was doing.

“By ability, you mean a talent.” It was a statement, but when she tried to shake her head in disagreement, he tightened his grip.

“I don’t consider it a talent,” she whispered, fighting back the humiliation that came with being different. “I read something, one time—technical manuals, contracts, books, newspapers—anything with words. And it’s committed to memory.”

For a long moment he didn’t say anything, but his fingers didn’t loosen, either.

“Chris wanted you to memorize the journal,” Jordan stated. “But he must have known he would put you in danger.”

“Yes,” she said, “But he also sent you to protect me.”

“How many pages were in the journal?”

“Almost a hundred.”

“That would’ve taken someone what, a few days of hard studying, to memorize,” Jordan commented. “How long did it take you?”

“A little over two hours, but I read it twice to make sure I’d committed it to memory.”

Jordan loosened his hands and shifted sideways so he could look at her profile. “Two hours?”

“I can’t recite it to you, my head hurts too much.”

“That doesn’t tell me why I should believe you’re not involved with the people who killed him.”

Startled, she stiffened and tried to look at Jordan but he held her fast. “I thought a cocaine addict killed him?”

“That’s the official story. But we both know there was more to it.” Slowly, one of his thumbs stroked the nape of her neck.

A shiver made its way up her spine. But lord help her, it was from anticipation, rather than fear.

“Chris never told me he was the British Ambassador to the United States. I had no idea until after he died and his photograph was flashed all over the news.”

“That’s hard to believe, considering you read so much.”

“I haven’t reached the section on the modern politics of the United Kingdom, yet.”

“He told you he was British intelligence.”

“The point is, he didn’t tell me about his job, but he did tell me something once in confidence. Something about you. You were six. And it was a few weeks before Christmas. Chris said he was in Bangladesh at the time. Your mother mailed him a letter you’d written to Santa. One you had asked her to mail to the North Pole.”

Jordan’s hand dropped from her. He hadn’t thought about that letter in ages.

“He gave it to me a few weeks ago. At the same time he told me he was MI6. He’d carried the letter in his wallet all these years.”

Regina saw Jordan’s jaw working, the muscle flexing.

“Do you still have it?”

She shook her head. “It was in my jewelry box on my dresser.” She didn’t admit she took it out and read it almost every night.

“You know it word for word, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Dear Santa Claus, I went to get our tree today. Mother was busy, so I went with our chauffeur, Stephen. I saw so many kids with their parents. They all laughed together. It made my chest hurt. I’ve been good this year. Desperately good. So I’m asking just this once. Could you send my papa home for Christmas? Sincerely, Jordan Beck.”

Headache or not, she remembered every aspect of that letter. The painstakingly perfect lettering. The carefully folded creases.

“He never came.”

“He received the letter a week after Christmas,” Regina said. “And carried it in his wallet ever since.”

The silence was deafening, heavy.

“I’m sorry, Jordan. I didn’t mention it to be intrusive—”

“You didn’t intrude. It was a long time ago. I’d forgotten about the incident actually until you’d mentioned the letter.”

Suddenly, he stood in one fluid movement, putting distance between them. “If you’re well enough, we need to talk to a friend of mine. I’ll get you some aspirin on the way.”

That was it, no explanation, no apology. “Now?” She glanced at the nightstand. “It’s after ten. And we smell like we’ve been barbecued.”

“He’ll still be awake. And he’s smelled worse,” Jordan replied flatly.

“THE LIGHTS ARE OFF,” Regina whispered as they stepped out of Jordan’s car in front of a three-story Victorian house. Extinguished Christmas lights draped well-groomed hedges. The occasional bulb poked out from spots in the snow and a big plastic Santa with a bag full of toys stood smiling in the front lawn. The scent of neighboring chimneys filled the air. An ache squeezed her chest, catching her off guard.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” she said, then waved it off. His face set in the hard line she’d learned to identify with his stubbornness.

“It’s just that this is what I always pictured Christmas to be. The lights, the fireplaces, the tree in the window. The silly, plastic North Poles littering the lawn.” Embarrassed, she climbed the porch stairs, grateful when Jordan said nothing.

“Are you sure—”

“They’re awake, Regina.”

The storm had broken, leaving the sweet scent of new snow, along with the chill of more to come. Regina hugged herself tighter in Jordan’s leather jacket.

Jordan wasn’t wearing more than his crew neck sweater and jeans, but the biting wind didn’t seem to bother him.

He pushed the doorbell, then paused only a moment before he pounded on the door a few times for good measure.

“Well, if they were sleeping, they’re up now,” Regina muttered.

“I told you—”

The porch light flipped on seconds before the door swung open.

“Jordan.” Ian MacAlister took the couple in with a quick glance. “You do realize what time it is.”

“I need your help, Ian.”

Regina noted the naked chest, the unbuttoned jeans and bare feet before Jordan grabbed her hand and tugged her with him into the house.

“You know damn well you have my help anytime you need it.” Ian shut the door behind them. No one would call Ian MacAlister ugly. Light brown hair, cropped military short, accented his broad features and laser blue eyes. “Next time, just give me a call when you’re on your way.”

“We woke you up.” Regina glared at Jordan. “I’m sorry, Mr. MacAlister, but Jordan insisted on coming over tonight.”

“You can stop glowering at me, Regina. We didn’t wake him up,” Jordan snapped. “They were probably—”

“We were just getting comfortable,” Ian cut off Jordan. The fact that he’d been roused from his bed while making love to Lara wasn’t the point. And it wasn’t like his friend to be so blunt.

“Sorry, Ian.” Jordan dragged a hand through his hair. “It’s been a long day.”

If he didn’t know his friend better, Ian would have sworn Jordan was…frazzled.

Ian covered his surprise with a dry cough. “It’s not me who’ll need the apology. You didn’t wake us, but you could have woken Clara. If that’s the case, you’ll have Lara to deal with.”

Ian took in the soiled clothes, the freshly ripped hole in Jordan’s jeans. The oversized leather jacket on Regina.

“You both smell like you’ve been cleaning chimneys.”

“We have good reason.” The tight, military stance Jordan took spoke volumes. Whatever brought his friend here was anything but good.

Jordan glanced around. “Where’s Lara?”

Always cautious, Ian walked to the wall unit and punched in the system code. “Lara is in the baby’s room, checking on her. She’ll be down in a minute. Why?” He thought about calling Lara, but knew if he woke the baby, he’d pay hell for it later. Life or death, his daughter was teething and for the first time in almost a week, Lara had gotten her down at a reasonable hour.

“I need your help. And hers. I have to locate an arms dealer in Labyrinth’s computer files.”

At one time both men worked for Labyrinth, a black ops division of the government. A year earlier, before Ian had retired after marrying Lara.

Jordan walked to the base of the circular staircase and looked up. “How long does it take to check a baby?”

“Have one yourself and you’ll find out,” Ian commented, drawing a chuckle from the woman.

Regina was mildly attractive in an unusual way. The soft cloud of brown hair, the small figure beneath the oversized coat. Light cardigan and slacks peaked out from the coat—their style shapeless on what he assumed was a petite figure.

Then suddenly, her eyes met his. Big, solemn—almost sleepy—hazel eyes. Ian froze, startled. Bedroom eyes. He let out a long, silent whistle.

Nothing mild about this woman at all, Ian corrected himself. She was beautiful.

“Why not use your own security to access the files?” Ian asked, keeping his gaze on the woman, more for the enjoyment than curiosity. He’d find out who she was soon enough.

She raised one delicate eyebrow. You think so?

Ian laughed, knowing he hadn’t spoken the words out loud.

Beautiful and clever.

“Let’s just say I retired, prematurely,” Jordan said, joining them once again.

“So your security’s been revoked,” Ian commented, breaking eye contact with the woman to question his friend. “By whom? Cain?”

“He and I disagreed about Chris’s death,” Jordan remarked. “That’s part of the reason why I need the files. As an instructor, Lara still has access to the Labyrinth databases, right?”

“Yes,” Ian replied slowly. “Everything except Cain’s personal files.”

“I’ll need her to keep this quiet.”

“From whom?”

“President Mercer.”

“You don’t want your investigation getting back to him,” Ian murmured, understanding. Lara was Jon Mercer’s daughter. “You know she won’t tell him if you ask her not to, Jordan. She loves you like a brother. But knowing what it might possibly do to her relationship with her father, are you willing to put her in that position?”

“I wouldn’t ask her if it wasn’t a life-and-death matter.”

“Does it have anything to do with the fact that you both look and smell like you’ve been to a fire?” Ian asked, rubbing the side of his nose.

“Someone torched Regina’s place today. With her tied up in it.”

“And you are Regina,” Ian stated, his mouth twitching.

“Yes,” she said, inclining her head in a short salute. “Regina Menlow.”

“So what does your attempted murder have to do with Chris Beck?”

“I was his mistress.”

“Bloody hell,” Jordan snapped, exasperated.

“You were?” Ian ignored his friend.

“Not really, but Jordan seems to think so. I figured I’d get it out there first. Doesn’t hurt so much when I say it.”

“Honest, aren’t you?” And tough, he thought.

“Painfully.”

“Painful for whom?” Ian glanced at Jordan, saw the flash of male frustration—the kind that came from fighting the inevitable.

Interesting.

Regina’s lips curved in amusement. “Believe it or not, more often for me. Jordan just happens to be the exception right now.”

“Are you quite done?”

“Quite done.” Regina mimicked Jordan’s accent before turning to his friend.

She held out her hand and shook Ian’s. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. MacAlister. Chris was quite a fan of your family’s whiskey. And of your family.”

“Please, call me Ian. Chris was a favorite of ours, too,” Ian acknowledged warmly, liking the woman instantly. He had a habit—a rather accurate one actually—of summing up a person’s worth in a matter of seconds after meeting them. Ian decided on the spot that if Regina Menlow were gold, she’d be worth quite a small fortune on her integrity alone. “And I think the pleasure will be all mine, Regina.”

“Ian,” Jordan warned, understanding his friend and the statement. “You can let go of her hand, now.”

He turned on Regina when Ian let her go. “I should have locked you in the motel room.”

“Motel?” Ian frowned. “Where are you staying?”

“Some seedy place downtown,” Regina replied, crossing her arms in what Ian determined was a deliberate attempt to show no fear. Too bad the deep swallow gave her away.

“We’re staying at the Carltonesque,” Jordan answered, his frustration becoming palpable.

“You’re kidding?” Ian let out a low whistle. “Isn’t that the place we busted that Mafia drug—”

“It’s fine. And that bust happened years ago. It’s under new management.” Jordan glared at Regina. The blast of it almost had her stepping back. Almost.

Instead, temper stiffened her spine. She hadn’t lived all those years with her Aunt Aida without learning how to defend herself. “Jordan’s right, seedy seems harsh. After all, it has a vibrating bed. We haven’t tried it out yet, but…” She punctuated the sentence with a shrug.

“Are you finished?” Jordan’s back teeth slammed together, forcing his jaw muscles into overdrive.

“Really?” Ian rocked back on his heels and grinned, thoroughly enjoying his friend’s discomfort, Regina noted.

“It beats your current living situation,” Jordan remarked. “Or did you forget your place is now nothing more than a pile of charred books?”

“I haven’t forgotten.” Regina’s chin went up, daring him to take another swipe. “Nor have I forgotten you saved my life. But that doesn’t give you the right to belittle it now.”

“Until I’m sure who is after you, you’re staying with me,” Jordan ordered.

“If Miss Menlow needs a place to stay, we have a guest room,” Ian offered, swallowing a laugh. “I can keep her safe here.”

“It’s not funny,” Jordan bit out.

Regina turned to Ian. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary—”

Jordan cut her off. “She’ll stay with me.”

Regina tried again. “Of course, I appreciate the offer but—”

“I’m not going to place your family in harm’s way, Ian.”

Regina placed her hands on her hips. “I can talk for myself, Jordan.”

He snorted. “What do you think is going to happen when your friend finds out the book he grabbed isn’t my father’s journal?”

“I know he’ll try to find me. I’m not stupid. In fact, I graduated top in my class at Princeton.”

“In what?” Ian asked, curious.

“Not covert operations,” Jordan answered, deliberately provoking her. “She has a master’s in English literature. But she never finished her doctorate.”

Regina gasped, enraged. “How do you know?” She narrowed her eyes. “You have a file on me, don’t you?”

“I suspected you of murdering my father, or at least sleeping with him. Of course, I’m going to have a file on you, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart,” she snapped, hating how he turned an endearment into a derogatory pet name.

“Scarface won’t take a chance that the book was not destroyed in the fire.”

“Scarface?” Ian asked, trying to keep up.

Both Regina and Jordan said, “Later,” in unison.

“I know they’re out there now,” she told Jordan. “I won’t be so easy to find.”

“Have you ever gone into hiding before?” Ian asked. He thought about stepping between the couple, until he caught Jordan’s glare. Ian decided he liked his teeth more.

“Of course not.” She dismissed the thought with a frown. “But I’ve read books on the subject. Many written by retired military or government officials. Some even by people who have managed to create new identities.”

Ian’s mouth twitched. “You’ve read books.”

“Seems Miss Menlow gets all her life experiences through books,” Jordan drawled. “Well, almost all.”

A flush crept over her cheeks. “You don’t have to be rude.”

“I’m only beginning, sweetheart.”

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