A Bodyguard for Christmas

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.”