Mission: Out Of Control. Susan May Warren

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      Veronica, Vonya, whoever—Brody was searching for any physical resemblance to the flamboyant sci-fi character he’d seen on the stage in this Miss Culture and Pearls—turned and stalked toward the window. She stared out of it, hard jawed. “I don’t want him. Pick anyone else but him.”

      For the first time since Brody entered the room, Senator Wagner frowned, pursed his lips, and cast a look at Brody as if considering her request. Like Brody might not be a great fit for his daughter, regardless of her wacky persona.

      Her words bothered Brody, too. Why not?

      Even if he didn’t want to babysit Vonya the Superstar, Veronica the Sorority Girl’s attitude was starting to get on his nerves. He’d done close protection on more important subjects than the Chameleon over there. “What’s the problem?”

      She rounded on him, her eyes flashing. “Because, Mr. Wickham, you are a jerk. Without asking, you decided I needed rescuing—”

      “You were hiding underneath a speaker!” His gaze flicked to the bruise on her arm, a bloom of pain that probably hurt when she moved it.

      “It doesn’t matter. I had everything under control, and when I told you to put me down you ignored me.”

      “Because you were being stupid.”

      She closed her mouth, opened it, her eyes flashing.

      Well, she was. “Sorry, but you were crawling across the stage, and then you flung yourself like a Frisbee into the crowd. I had to pluck you out of a mosh pit. Of course you were in over your head, and if you don’t see that, then we’re in worse shape here than I thought.” Was he yelling? Not yet, but he wanted to. Now he fully recognized Vonya, if only by the feelings she’d churned up in him.

      “Says you.”

      “Yeah, and about sixteen years of instinct.” And at least one act of poor judgment he vowed never to repeat. “Putting you down would have caused a riot. I did what was necessary.”

      “Without a thought to how I might feel.”

      “So shoot me. I thought you might actually be grateful that someone was looking out for you.”

      He could agree he’d been a jerk, but right now he just wanted to fold his hands around her delicate neck and throttle her. No wonder her father had called him. She reminded Brody too much, suddenly, of Lucy. If she ever acted like this, he’d throw her in a barrel and nail it shut.

      Maybe feed her through the hole. Or not.

      Okay, that was a little extreme, but the thought of spending one hour, let alone one month, with this woman had him breaking out in hives.

      Her eyes narrowed, just for a second. Then, “I don’t need anyone to look out for me.”

      “Your father thinks you do.”

      She flinched, then looked away, her voice tumbling low. “You don’t even like me.”

      “I don’t have to like you to do my job.”

      Her chin quivered, just slightly, before she turned her back to him.

      His chest burned, right in the center. What did it matter if he liked her? He shook his head, shot a glance at the senator, his voice tight. “Maybe she’s right, sir. Maybe you should find someone else.”

      Maybe he could take out a loan for the house, the tuition…

      The senator picked up his drink, considering it for a moment, swishing the liquid in his glass tumbler.

      Brody opened his mouth to recant when Senator Wagner cut him off.

      “Nope. It’s Mr. Wickham or the tour is off.” He directed his words to Veronica, who whirled around, her mouth open just long enough to give her away. Then her eyes went to Brody and he saw something flicker in them. Something that looked dangerously like determination.

      Was she hiding something? But in a flash, up went a new mask—not quite cultured Veronica, but too serious to be Vonya. A new, probably more charming, personality. Nice.

      “Fine. That’s just fine. Mr. Wickham will do. As long as he listens to me and stays out of my way.” She took a breath and moved toward him. Brody held out his hand again, as if to seal the deal, but she brushed past him.

      “Staying out of your way might be a little difficult. And, by the way, just for the record, I do like you,” he said, hoping to throw some cool on her steam.

      “Save it,” she snapped, and shut the door behind her with a click.

      Brody blew out a long breath.

      The senator clamped him on the shoulder. “Keep her out of the tabloids, keep her out of trouble, and bring her home in one piece. I’m afraid this time you’re going to have to earn your pay, Wickham.”

      Her “bodyguard” pre-cut his roast pork into geometric cubes the size of dice. He speared one piece of meat, pushed it through his applesauce, and delivered it to his mouth. He laid down his fork and wiped his mouth between bites, following each one with a sip of water.

      Like a robot.

      Ronie tried not to stare, but the more he did it, the more she longed to launch across the beautifully attired table and pour something, maybe gravy—which he’d poured into the center of a perfectly indented mound of potatoes—over his entire plate.

      Heaven forbid the gravy touch his asparagus. Or the applesauce.

      Or one of Marguerite’s rolls, buttered nicely on the bread plate.

      Her father had sold her out to a cyborg. The Terminator.

      A terminator that just might destroy everything if she wasn’t careful. She had better figure out a way to ditch him if she hoped to help Kafara.

      Found him. She would reread the text until it gave her the courage she needed.

      Brody took another sip and politely answered the senator’s questions, in a voice low and rumbly, like an earthquake. “I’m the oldest of nine, sir, and yes, my father worked at the Capitol as a security guard until his stroke three months ago. Nearly did thirty years.”

      “I know him—gives away your mother’s homemade caramel corn to all the offices every year.”

      Another cube of meat, another trek through the applesauce. Chew. Wipe. Drink. Yes, sitting across from him for the next month just might drive her insane.

      Except, well, what about that idea? She couldn’t exactly fire him, right? But what if he quit? What if she simply played on his disgust and drove him insane?

      Sorry, but she just didn’t buy the whole “you’re in danger” spiel. Did her father think she had lost her brains along with her pride? He just didn’t want another go-round with the international tabloids during an election year. And as for her so-called stalker, well, just because a few unauthorized photos showed up on the internet didn’t mean the man would harm her.

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