Accidental Bodyguard. Sharon Hartley

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СКАЧАТЬ Carlos Romero, had taught her that. So she’d made her preparations months ago. The day she realized she was being followed.

      She was on her own.

      Everything she needed, courtesy of a grateful patient’s father, waited for her in a safe-deposit box.

      Claudia pushed the door wide and gasped. She waited at the threshold, absorbing the chaos before her. Maude’s description had nailed the condition of her home. Furniture had been tossed and ripped. Drawers opened and thrown. Dishes and appliances smashed on the kitchen floor.

      No doubt they were looking for her journal.

      “Moochie?” She stepped into the living room, her heart beating so hard and fast her blood pressure had to be off the charts. “Moochie,” she called again. “Where are you?”

      She entered the bedroom and discovered more destruction. They’d ripped her nursing scrubs into shreds. Fearing the worst, she kept searching.

      In the bathroom she found Moochie, drowned in the toilet.

      She clamped a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking. Oh, Moochie. You poor sweet thing. I’m so sorry.

      She raised her eyes to the mirror and stared at words scrawled in red lipstick: KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT.

      * * *

      JACKSON RICHARDS ACCEPTED the coffee he’d ordered from the dark-haired barista, thanked her and took a hesitant sip. Strong and hot. Just as he remembered. No one brewed a better cup than the Collins Island Café.

      Jackson exited the café into a cool, salt-laden breeze off the Atlantic Ocean and walked the short distance to the security office. He had a golf cart at his disposal, but he preferred to walk.

      Colorful tropical landscaping and the soothing sound of waterfalls surrounded him. He was on the job, but this assignment was more like a forced vacation. His boss insisted he needed a break after his last two missions, which, yeah, had both been bitches. He took another sip of the excellent coffee.

      Maybe Lola was right, but he’d resisted taking this cushy gig as Security Director on Collins Island, a private island off Miami Beach accessible only by boat where his employer, the Protection Alliance, provided security. PA operatives rotated in and out as the live-in chief, usually delighted for the opportunity.

      Most of the residents were seasonal, and this was the height of the season. Crime was nonexistent on this island paradise. All he had to do for the next month was keep his staff on schedule, act friendly to the wealthy residents and enjoy the resort-like atmosphere.

      But it was always boring as hell. And he hated sucking up to trust fund slackers.

      A blast of hot air greeted him when he pushed open the door to the security office. He groaned at the decor as he moved to shut down the heat. Pink-and-gray Art Deco was definitely not his style. And what idiot had decided heat was needed just because a weak cold front had swept through south Florida last night? Not him. He was a north Florida man. Jackson opened a window.

      He shrugged off his jacket and hung it in the closet. Another thing he didn’t like about this gig was the requirement to wear a blue blazer. Damn thing made him feel like a polo player. His khakis and the knit shirt featuring the Collins Island logo over the pocket were enough of a uniform.

      He sat at the desk to review the security force schedule. The most critical duty was clearing arrivals for the ferry on the Miami side. The ferry ran every fifteen minutes, and no one was allowed to place a toe on Collins Island without clearance from an owner. Even daily maids were checked and their bags searched. Two guards handled that assignment on three eight-hour shifts, with two more guards on the island side to supervise debarkation. Another two circulated the island on golf carts, constantly alert for any sort of trouble. Of which there was, fortunately, seldom any.

      He noted all six positions on all three shifts were staffed with regular PA personnel for the next week. Excellent. That made the transition easier, but he’d make a late-night visit to the docks to ensure no one was catching a nap, looking to take advantage of the new guy in the director’s chair. Not likely, though. Guards loved this job because it came with a lot of perks like big tips and expensive gifts—especially during the winter season.

      Still, you never knew what could happen. He wanted no screw-ups during his stint as chief.

      Looking for any anomalies, he reviewed the security logs for the last week and reached for the phone when it rang.

      “Security.”

      “Hey, Action Jackson. Are you bored yet?”

      Lola, the office manager from Protection Alliance’s main office. He pictured her pink hair, always worn in short spikes. She looked crazed but possessed a laser-sharp mind and never forgot a thing. Jackson relaxed back in his chair, making the leather squeak.

      “I’ve only been on the job forty-five minutes, Lola.”

      “That’s usually all it takes.”

      “Maybe I’m looking forward to a month of not having to duck bullets.”

      “Yeah, right. I’ll remind you of that in a week.”

      “Hey, this was your idea, boss. I’m ready to go back in the field anytime.”

      “You are in the field.”

      Jack snorted. “Field of dreams.”

      “Did you get settled in the apartment? Everything to your liking?”

      “Ocean view. Great coffee. I can walk to work through a tropical paradise. What’s not to like?”

      “Don’t be sarcastic, Jack.”

      “I’m going with the flow.”

      Lola laughed, a throaty sound. “By the way, we received a very nice thank-you bonus from that rapper Jazzy Bones Boy yesterday. He’s grateful for your services.”

      He ought to be. The jerk almost got me killed. “How grateful?”

      “I think your cut will make you happy,” Lola said.

      “Is that why you called? Couldn’t have already been a complaint about me.”

      “I wanted you to know there’s a tenant arriving sometime today.” Jackson listened as Lola shuffled through paper. “A Mr. Rodolfo Santaluce has rented the pool house of his villa. He wants us to assist with the arrival, make sure security doesn’t hassle his new tenant.”

      “Isn’t renting a bit unusual? I can’t imagine the owners here needing extra income.”

      “It put up a red flag for me, too, so I questioned his assistant, who informed me that Mr. Santaluce got where he is today by being frugal. The assistant’s tone suggested it wasn’t any of my business what his boss did.” Lola hesitated, then added, “I’m thinking it’s a mistress.”

      “Who’s Santaluce?”

      “Big deal Italian businessman. Married, two kids. The family is in Hong Kong for the winter.”

      “What СКАЧАТЬ