Close Protection (Blood Brothers #2) Read online

  Blood Brothers #2

  Manda Mellett

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Teaser: Second Chances

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Published 2016 by Trish Haill Associates

  Copyright © 2016 by Manda Mellett

  Editing by Kate Marope at The Ribbon Marker Editorial Services

  Book and Cover Design by Lia Rees at Free Your Words

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  www.mandamellett.com

  Disclaimer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 9780995497627

  Author’s Note

  Close Protection is a standalone novel, and is book number two in the Blood Brothers Series.

  Although you will enjoy reading Close Protection in its own right, it does provide some further background to the events in the first book, Stolen Lives.

  Likewise, characters introduced in the first two books will reappear in Second Chances, the third in the series, which will be published shortly.

  Chapter 1

  Mia

  Seven Years Ago

  “You are not going anywhere! Not dressed like that!” Saliva flew from her mouth as she spat out the words.

  I couldn’t help rolling my eyes, though I knew even that small sign of mutiny would only infuriate my mother further. Compared to the other girls who’d be at the party, what I was wearing would probably be considered modest. Black leggings hugged my legs, and yes, okay, so my red tank top was on the clingy side, but I’d covered it with a loose black jumper which hung off one shoulder and was long enough to conceal my bum. That was teamed with a tasteful chain around my neck, with beads to compliment the colours I was wearing. Hooped earrings adorned my ears—clip on, of course, Mum would be in her grave before she’d allow me to get my ears pierced—and my make-up was light; just a touch of mascara and eyeliner, and a little blusher on my cheeks. I thought it looked quite tasteful seeing as it was the first time I’d attempted it, working only from tips in the magazines I’d sneaked in and hidden under my bed. I was seventeen; I should have been able to go out looking half-way fashionable at least.

  “You look like a slut!” She was getting more and more riled, her cheeks flushing red as her anger flared.

  “Mum,” I started, trying to appease her.

  “You’re not going out to any party. You get back in here now!” Not listening to me, and after with a quick glance up the street to make sure no one was looking, she grabbed my sleeve roughly and tried to pull me back in from the doorstep.

  “Mum,” I began again, shaking her hand from my arm. “It’s only some girls from school. It’s at Anna’s house. You know her.”

  At last, my calm voice and reasonable tone seemed to get through to her. She put her head on one side as if considering whether to change her mind. Crossing my fingers behind my back, I started to hope there might be a chance she’d relent and let me go.

  “Are her parents going to be there?” she asked suspiciously at last, her eyes narrowed.

  I sighed deeply. I’d been brought up to tell the truth, and had never been able to lie to my mother; something on my face gave me away every time. Looking down at the ground I shuffled my feet and answered quietly, “No, they’re away for the night.”

  She stood back from the door, giving me space to squeeze past her and into the house where I’d lived since I’d been born. “Then you’re definitely not going. Come back inside.”

  I’d always been the good girl; the girl who never got into any trouble, the girl who always did what she was told without question. At seventeen, I might have been a bit late in going through a teenage rebellion, but suddenly all the things I was missing out on raced through my head. The other girls in school were learning to drive, going out with boyfriends and going to the parties held with frightening regularity and to which no one had ever invited me before—and doing all that while I’d sat at home with a book or TV.

  Knowing it was well past time to break out of my cocoon, my eyes flashed with anger as I stepped away from the porch and out of her reach. “I’m going. And you can’t stop me!” I turned and ran, not hanging around to hear any more of her objections.

  But that didn’t stop her parting shot reaching me as I ran through the garden gate. “You look like a slut, Mia Fable! Don’t come crying to me when you get what you’re asking for!”

  Present day

  “For fuck’s sake!” I scream out and quickly cover my mouth. I don’t often swear in public, but for once I just can’t help myself as, when of all things, a flipping taxi drives straight through a large puddle sending a shower of cold water splashing all over me.

  Quickly looking around in embarrassment, I see most of my fellow creatures behaving like typical Londoners, ignoring my outburst entirely. Each handling the misery of the torrential rain and cancellations on the Central and Northern Underground Lines, in their own individual way. A middle-aged man with boyish features glances at me as he goes by, and offers up a sympathetic grin. A similarly drenched older woman momentarily meets my eyes, silently acknowledging our shared misery before looking away. And all the while the dirty puddle water drips uncomfortably down my legs that are already soaked by the lashing rain. But there’s simply nothing else for it but to get myself moving again.

  Resuming my tedious journey, I catch a vague glimpse of a large guy wearing a soaked light blue hoodie, leaning against a doorway on the opposite side of the road. He’s looking straight at me. When he spots I’ve caught sight of him, he steps away from his shelter and marches quickly out of my line of vision. Strange. Was he self-conscious I’d caught him ogling me? Glancing down at myself, I don’t believe I look very remarkable or different to anyone else. Now I’d noticed him something twinges at the back of my brain. Have I seen him already today? Maybe, but I can’t be sure. Everyone’s looking the same, unprepared for the turn in the weather that the forecast certainly hadn’t predicted. But as I watch him stride away I feel sorry for him, he looks like he’s been out in the rain even longer than me; his wet fleece hanging heavy on his frame.

  Turning my thoughts back to my own predicament, I realise it’s no use getting riled. I, blue hoodie man, and hundreds of thousands of other people have no choice but to plod on through the crowded streets trying to get home as best we can. I should have guessed it. If someone is going to be desperate enough to throw th
emselves in front of a tube train, the chances are likely that it will be on a gruesome wet, windy Tuesday when I’ve travelled into the city for a working lunch with Val, my literary agent. Only a fool would drive into Central London during working hours on a weekday. And couple that with the fact part of the lunch was, predictably, going to be very much of the liquid variety, my car had stayed safely in the garage today, leaving me at the mercy of delays on the tube lines, over-crowded buses, and black taxi cabs with their orange signs markedly unlit.

  With no option other than to resort to my own two feet, I traipse on through the streets of the city just like everyone else. But my best foot very quickly gets tired of being put forward, and I need to make yet another stop under a shop’s awning to rub my aching toes. Why, oh why didn’t I bring a pair of flats with me? And an umbrella. That would have been useful!

  Catching snippets of conversations as people hurry by, it’s easy to hear everyone’s just like me, totally fed up with the situation. If truth be told, I’ve more compassion for the poor bastard of a train driver who probably started his day with higher expectations than to end it scrapping blood and guts off his windscreen. And don’t get me started on the Northern line. Delays due to adverse weather conditions? It’s England, for God’s sake. Yes, hello-o. It rains here! My mood worsens with every step.

  Standing at the kerb for a moment in the vain hope I might see a vacant cab, I’m jostled by dozens of others doing exactly the same thing. Competition is fierce, and the likelihood of me being able to wave one down before anyone else is about as probable as hell freezing over. The only taxi I’m likely to get close to today is the one that just splashed water all over me.

  Moving back to the side of the pavement closer to the shop windows, seeking the relative shelter from the rain as well as safety from thoughtless drivers I carry on, stopping every few hundred yards to see what the queues for the buses look like. Ever optimistic, I keep an hopeful eye out just in case a taxi discharges its load in front of me. Having been walking for nearly an hour, now I’m prepared to take on all comers to get to it first.

  I stop again, bending down to rub my aching feet, certain I’ve already got blisters. Raising my head my eyes fall on the guy in the blue hoodie, he’s about a fifty metres away on the other side of the street. It’s definitely the same man as I saw before. An uneasy shiver goes down my spine. Could he be following me? Oh, for goodness sake, I’m just being paranoid. Just like me he’s probably just stopped off to shelter for a moment, and then, again like me and everyone else realises the futility of waiting for a break in the weather. With no visible breaks in the dark clouds, anyone can tell it’s not going to stop pelting down anytime soon.

  I make it only a couple of hundred metres further before I need to take a rest again, wondering whether I should stop and buy some new shoes, but shelve the idea, I don’t like spending money unnecessarily, and am ashamed to try on new shoes with sopping wet and quite possibly bleeding feet. A quick pep talk to stop feeling sorry for myself, I continue walking, trying to concentrate on something other than my misery, namely how I’m going to fit Val’s suggestions into the plot when the guy in the blue hoodie passes me again. This time, on my side of the street. Okay, he’s walking past without giving me a second glance, but the number of occasions I’m noticing him is getting bizarre. Casting my eyes quickly over the rest of the passers-by I don’t think I’m seen any of them before. None of them stand out as either striking or memorable. So why do I keep seeing him?

  It’s probably just coincidence, but I start to feel more than a touch uneasy. What are the chances of seeing the same man time and time again? He’s going in the same direction as me, but why is it he seems to keep crossing from side to side, getting behind, and now in front of me? With an intense sense of disquiet coming to the fore, I try to put extra impetus into my steps as I carry on with my now hobble-type walk, going as far as possible, and then waiting just as long as necessary for me to be able to put my weight on both feet again. The next time, when I stop, I look around me with more care. Shit! There, gazing avidly into a shop window a few doors behind me is the man in the blue hoodie again. My first thought is how did I come to pass him? Last time I saw him disappearing ahead of me. Logic suggests he’d probably stopped off somewhere, but my survival sense is now on high alert, and somehow I can’t imagine he finds the display of clothing for the larger woman as fascinating as he’s making it out to be. My uneasiness evolves into outright concern, my breathing becomes erratic and despite the cold I begin to sweat as I start to panic. Whether it’s my fevered imagination or not, I’ll be a whole lot happier if I could stop seeing him.

  Noticing I’m standing next to a department store, I make a quick decision to go inside. The warm and dry interior helps ward off the trepidation I’d felt outside as I waste some time browsing around the sort of clothes I’d never dream of wearing. Then the footwear section tempts me, and that’s where I end up making an impulse buy of some comfy looking shoes encouragingly called ‘Footgloves.' Hoping they’ll be as comfortable as their name suggests and having made my purchase, I sneak into a quiet corner where I swap them for the four-inch heels I’d worn to look the part of a moderately successful author at my agent’s. I swear my feet sigh in relief as they fit perfectly and fulfil their advertised promise of being soft and bouncy, and most importantly, flat. Now far more comfortable, my worries return to the man who seems to be following me in a creepy horror film sense. Has he been shadowing me since I left Val’s office? Racking my brain I try to remember where I first noticed him.

  If he’s been following me all this time, does he know who I am? I go cold at the thought; memories of my past, which I’m usually able to keep at bay, assail me and I shake my head to dismiss them. It was seven years ago. Put it behind you! But experience has taught me what happened then still influences my behaviour now. Sure, I’m more cautious than the average person, but who wouldn’t be with the baggage I’m carrying? Forcing myself to breathe, I try to think it through. Who exactly is this man shadowing? Myself, quiet living Mia Fable, or my alter ego, the outgoing erotic fiction writer, Dexie Sanders. My heartbeat speeds up, as I try to decide what I should do.

  Checking around the shop I quickly discover there’s no convenient back entrance, and I’ll have to go out the same way as I entered. Should I call the police? What would a normal person do; one who didn’t live with the nightmare of their past? Pulling out my phone, I hesitate, my finger hovering over the first nine. A normal person would probably check there was actually something to worry about before getting the authorities involved. Deciding I’m being stupid and quite possibly not a little paranoid, I realise I need to find out if the guy is actually still there waiting for me before I make what could be an unnecessary cry for help. Otherwise, I could end up looking like a hysterical female. Safe in the warmth of the shop, I convince myself I'm over-sensitive; it was probably just pure coincidence. Never being comfortable in crowds, my nerves are simply getting to me and no one’s following me at all.

  I’ve been in here for a good half-an-hour now, long enough for anyone to have given up and moved on unless they had a good reason to linger. So taking a deep breath, and letting it out slowly, I force myself to be calm. Come on, Mia, pull yourself together; blue hoodie’s got to be long gone. Heart rate back to near normal, I wait for the whoosh of the automatic doors then step out once more into the rain that’s still coming down cats and dogs.

  He’s standing across the street, staring at the entrance to the store, looking like he’s been waiting for me to emerge. I freeze. There can be no doubt about it. He is following me! He’s looking straight at me. The way his back straightens, and that he immediately turns away shows he knows I’ve clocked him. There can be no doubt about it. He is following me! What the heck do I do? If I go back into the shop, he might follow me in. What if he’s got a knife or a gun? He could attack me before I have the chance to call for help. Shit! Sometimes it’s not a blessing to have a vivid a
uthor’s imagination.

  My heart beating wildly, I quickly realise my number one goal is getting out of sight. Scanning my surroundings I note the alleyway beside the shop, turn and run down it, hoping to find some place to hide. While he’s caught up dodging double-decker buses and trying to cross the busy London street, I duck down behind a large wheelie bin. It stinks a bit, but hopefully I won’t be here long and will just have to endure the assault on my nostrils while I wait. Sure enough, he comes down the alley at a pace. I hold my breath, but luckily he doesn’t slow and hasn’t given the bin a second glance. The other end’s not far away, and he does just what I’d hoped he would; he runs straight past me.

  As soon as he’s out of sight, I double back on myself, returning to the main road, cross it, and go down another side street opposite. I’m running as fast as I can, thanking God for my new shoes, but eventually come to a breathless halt, bending over with my hands on my knees as I try to get much-needed air into my lungs. Fuck! He came so close! Why the hell was he chasing me? What did he want?

  While my breathing returns to normal, I take a good look around and find no trace of blue hoodie in sight. I’m shaking like a leaf, but the danger seems to be over now, but I don’t want to return to the main road and risk seeing him again. To give myself a chance to calm down, and to lose blue hoody completely, I need to find refuge of some sort. It’s then I see a tea shop up the street. Perfect! Heading up the road, I stop at the entrance under the fading sign. A quick glance inside shows it’s relatively empty; a typical old café with tables covered with Formica table tops that have clearly seen better days, much like the waitress hovering by the till. Wanting to be inconspicuous, I enter quietly and take a seat at a table in the back, ensuring I’m facing towards the door. Just in case.

  When the waitress comes to take my order, I ask for what will be a very welcome coffee, something both to calm my nerves and warm me up. Discretely, I watch her as she returns to the counter and pours hot steaming black liquid into the cup, checking out of habit how she’s preparing it. There’s nothing amiss, so as she returns and places my drink in front of me with an optional pot of artificial creamer and a sachet of sugar, I start to relax and even begin feeling chuffed with myself. I’ve successfully managed to lose blue hoodie. Go me!