Black Ops Bodyguard. Donna Young

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      Nothing.

      But he didn’t shrug off the unease. After thirty sleepless hours, anyone might be paranoid. But paranoia kept you alive.

      He reached into his jacket and pulled his .45 automatic pistol from its shoulder holster. Slowly, he lowered the gun to his side, confident the weapon remained out of sight from the casual observer.

      Heels tapped against the cement from behind him. Swearing, his finger tightened on the trigger.

      “Cal.”

      A woman stepped from the shadows into the stark lighting. She wore a navy blue wool suit. Its jacket tailored and trimmed to hug each dip and curve of her slender form, while the skirt, cut pencil-straight to midthigh, exposed long, shapely legs. The kind that male eyes admired and female’s envied.

      Thick, mahogany hair was swept back and tamed into an elegant swirl that lay at the nape of her neck. The style accented the delicate, triangular shape of her face, the high classic cheekbones and the stubborn, but distinctly feminine slant to her jaw.

      Professional. Sophisticated.

      And sexy as hell.

      The hum of awareness shifted points of contact, hitting him just south of his waist.

      He reminded himself that in his line of business, sexy was a commodity, not a comfort.

      “Julia.” Cal thumbed the safety, then slipped the gun back into his shoulder holster. After buttoning his suit jacket, he turned fully and faced her. While her appearance was not unexpected, Cal’s irritation poked at him. “The President’s private secretary should know better than to sneak around in the dark.”

      “Sneak? Not likely,” Julia Cutting responded with just enough disdain to tighten her prim little mouth. “I’m here on business.”

      “At midnight?” He leaned a hip against the side of his car. The chill of the metal matched the chill in his voice. “Isn’t it a bit late to be running President Mercer’s errands?”

      “No. Mercer never worries about working outside civilized hours. You know that as well as I do.”

      Cal raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Waiting sometimes worked better than words.

      It had been a year since he’d last seen her. Her eyes vivid with rage, her skin flushed from her temper when she’d slapped his face and stormed out his door.

      “This would be a hell of a lot easier if it was official business,” she commented dryly. “But it’s not. I need your help, Cal. On a personal matter.”

      Julia wasn’t exactly the type to need anyone, so the admission, he was sure, came at a high price.

      “My help.” He understood what was coming and the dangerous game he was about to play. Half truths, full deception. Take no prisoners. For the good of king and bloody country. To hell with integrity and compassion.

      To hell with love.

      The muscles constricted between his shoulder blades, forcing Cal to shift them under his suit jacket. “And why would you need a British attaché in the middle of the night?”

      “We both know you’re more than a British attaché.” Julia crossed her arms. For warmth, defensiveness or plain frustration—he wasn’t sure.

      But the need to find out nudged him.

      “I’m sure you’ve heard by now that Jason has disappeared.” Her voice was low, her words smoothed into rounded syllables with a clipped, no-nonsense rhythm—the kind that only old money and blue-blooded, east coast schools cultivated.

      But there were times, in the past, when he had stroked her soft skin and her voice hitched and sighed into a sexy, offbeat tempo that had hummed through Cal’s blood—arched and bumped against his libido.

      “Not unusual, considering his choice of career.” Fighting back his train of thought, Cal straightened from the car and shoved his hands into his pants’ pockets.

      Jason Marsh had been classified as missing in action for a week. Cal found out the day before and caught the first available plane out of London.

      “They told me he died in the line of duty.”

      “Who are they?” he asked with just enough disdain to indicate vague politeness. Not serious interest.

      “Jon Mercer and Ernest Becenti.”

      “I’m sorry to hear about your loss, Julia. But if the President of the United States and the Drug Enforcement Agency’s Chief Administrator told me someone was dead, I would tend to believe them,” Cal commented, adding just enough harshness to discourage argument. “Now if that’s all, I’ve had a long day.”

      The slight intake of breath, the darker flush of pink in her cheeks told him he scored a hit. Still, her feet stayed planted firmly in front of him.

      “Too bad, Cal.”

      Stubborn woman. Silently, he swore. “Go home, Julia.” Because he was tired, and understood the dangers of her involvement, his tone turned from harsh to ugly in the space of a heartbeat. “Let the government do what it does best. They’ll make sure your husband’s body gets a proper burial.”

      “Ex-husband,” she corrected, her chin set, her eyes narrowed. “You’re still having a problem differentiating between the two.”

      “Maybe,” he agreed, the word silky, its edge razor sharp. “Yet, you’re out here in the cold on Jason’s behalf.”

      “I’m the only family he has,” she defended. “Just because the President has given up on Jason, it doesn’t mean I will.”

      Both President Jonathon Mercer and First Lady Shantelle Mercer considered Julia Cutting more like a surrogate daughter than as Jon’s private secretary.

      It was rare for a president to choose someone barely in their thirties for such a high post. Some rumors suggested a more intimate relationship existed between Mercer and the young woman, but Cal didn’t believe it. He’d spent enough time mucking around with human slime to recognize integrity when he saw it. Julia Cutting wore hers like a shiny suit of armor.

      While his own had tarnished many years before.

      “Jason is alive, Cal.”

      “You sound very sure. Do you have any evidence to back up your suspicions?” He hit the button on his keys and popped open the trunk of his car. His hand hesitated over the large pink teddy bear stuffed beside his suitcase. Its white bow tie and the girly black eyes, framed with long, sewn lashes, stared back at him.

      With a muttered curse, he grabbed both the bear and the suitcase.

      Her eyebrow rose in a delicate sweep when she spotted the teddy bear. “Yours?”

      “A present for Jordan Beck and his wife, Regina. She’s pregnant. I just found out the baby is a girl,” he explained, not quite understanding his sudden need to. “I’ve been out of the country.”

      Jordan СКАЧАТЬ