Bulletproof Bodyguard. Kay Sidey Thomas

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      Chapter One

       Murphy’s Point, South Mississippi Memorial Day Weekend Saturday, early evening

      “Boat sink! Boat sink!” Harris splashed and water slipped over the side of the claw-footed tub into Cally’s lap.

      “Of course it does when you have a tidal wave, sweetie.”

      “Don’t want it to sink.”

      “Then don’t splash so much, darlin’. It’s almost time to get out—two more minutes.”

      Cally surveyed the flooded floor. She wasn’t sure but there was probably as much water on her as on the bath mat. Her son loved his baths. Of course, she’d need to mop up afterwards.

      Still, this was her favorite part of the day. By now her inn-keeping duties were usually done until the following morning when breakfast was served, and she was free to focus on her son. But tonight her guests were running late, so she was getting a head start on the evening routine before they checked in to River Trace.

      She would be sold-out with Gregor Williams’s group coming in for a gambling holiday, plus her new boarder, Mr. North. She’d never intended to take in a long-term resident, but McCay County was the only area of the state with a housing shortage in this depressed economy. Two hurricanes had recently swept the Mississippi coastline back to back, ravaging an area still struggling after Katrina.

      Mr. North, one of the Paddlewheel Casino’s onsite bodyguards, was tired of making the hour-and-a-half commute to work from Jackson, and he was more than willing to live here until he could find a more permanent residence. She hadn’t met him yet. He’d done everything through e-mail, but she hoped he was pleasant. Even if he wasn’t, the money was too good to turn down.

      She and Bay, the groundskeeper, had just finished his room today. They’d gradually been converting all the bedrooms in River Trace to guestrooms as the business increased. Moving that antique armoire up to the attic room had about killed them both. But they’d done it, all while Harris napped down here—compliments of her new high-tech baby monitor.

      Cally still couldn’t believe she was living her dream of running a bed-and-breakfast in Murphy’s Point. Of course that dream had come at a crushing price. At twenty-eight years old, she was a widow with a three-year-old son.

      Tears pricked the back of her eyes. Damn it. She hated to cry. It had been almost four years and the grief could still unexpectedly bring her to her knees. Sometimes the pain snuck up on her like this and grabbed her from behind. She didn’t have time for it.

      “Boat sink! Boat sink!” More water hit the floor and splattered her shirt, shaking her from memories best left in the past.

      “Okay, sailor. It’s time to abandon ship and get ready for bed.”

      Harris giggled. “I bring boat?”

      “Yes, darling. As soon as I dry it off.”

      “Yay! Harris take boat to bed…to bed.”

      Oh, the cry of my heart. “Now let’s get your pj’s on and brush those teeth.”

       Bong. Bong.

      “Doorbell, Momma.”

      “Yes, honey. I hear it.” One of her guests no doubt. She scrambled up with a wiggling, wet toddler in her arms. Great.

      “Let’s see how fast we can get those pj’s on.”

      After a couple of tries Cally gave up on the pajamas. They were sticking to the damp places on Harris’s back, arms and bottom.

      “Well, let’s just get underwear on so you aren’t completely naked.” She slipped in a puddle as she stepped out of the bathroom and went down on the one knee that, up to that point, had been dry.

       Bong. Bong.

      “Coming, coming,” she muttered under her breath. “Keep your shirt on.”

      “Not wearing shirt, Momma.”

      Cally grinned in spite of herself. She passed the gilded mirror in the hallway and her blue eyes widened. How much water had Harris splashed on her?

      Her thick hair, wavy under the best of circumstances, was now falling out of the bun on top of her head and curling around her face in ringlets. Her makeup was completely gone, except for that smear of mascara under her left eye. Her clothes were…soaked. And there was a large wet spot across the front of her blouse that made it practically transparent. Lovely.

       Bong.

      No time to change into dry clothes. She shifted Harris from her hip to her chest and clasped both hands under his bottom.

      She glanced in the mirror again. At least she couldn’t see her bra through the shirt anymore because Harris now covered her like a blanket. She took a swipe at the mascara and snorted a laugh at the effort.

       So much for first impressions.

      MARCUS WAS RINGING the bell for the fourth time as the heavy front door swung open. The woman behind the massive oak-and-glass panel held a wet-haired toddler and looked as if she had just stepped out of the bathtub in her clothes.

      Marcus СКАЧАТЬ