Close Protection (Blood Brothers #2) Page 10

  “No family to carry around, then?” I keep my voice light, but my insides tighten as I wait for his answer.

  He throws me a searching look, “No, I’m single.”

  Annoyed at the extent of my pleased reaction to his statement, I try to deflect his attention. “Nice, you must have impressed your sheikh!”

  He waits a moment then shrugs self-depreciatingly, “I stopped a bullet for him. He was grateful.”

  That knocks me back. Suddenly my view of my bodyguard changes, and I shift uncomfortably. This man standing before me is prepared to step in front and take a bullet instead of allowing the individual he’s protecting to be shot? What kind of person does that? For some reason, his bravery gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling inside.

  It’s not easy getting into the car, and I’m glad I’m not wearing jeans and not a tight skirt as I settle my bum in and then swing round my legs, suspecting there’s a technique I’ve yet to learn for getting into such a low-slung car; I’m so close to the ground I could be sitting on it! The butter-soft leather of the sports seat feels amazing, but the inside of the car bemuses me. And while I don’t have a clue about the control panel, part of me is wondering if he’d ever let me drive it. But I’m too nervous to ask. As I marvel at the luxury, a voice inside continues to ask, was this worth risking his life for?

  Then Jon gets in the driver’s side and starts the engine. Bloody hell! It roars! The sound as loud as a Harley but far more refined. I’m glad I have no close neighbours to disturb. Initially, I find the noise disconcerting.

  “Open or not?”

  Jon’s voice pulls me back to him, but I don’t understand the question. He points to the roof. “It’s got a retractable hard top; I can open it up if you like?”

  The sun’s shining, so why not go for the whole experience? “Open.” I throw him a grin.

  It takes only a couple of seconds for the roof to slide open, letting the sun stream in. This is the life! Looking across at my personal bodyguard, I realise how much the car suits him. His large, powerful hands, resting on the steering wheel which looks like it should be in a racing car, remind me how it felt to be held me in his arms last night, how he made me feel so secure and protected and something else, something I don’t want to analyse. Usually, I’d flinch any from any man’s touch, other that an introductory handshake, but I’d let him hold me and accepted his comfort. Why him? Why do I feel so safe with him? And how did he get me to spew out all my dirty secrets?

  It hurt to relive my past, but somehow, getting it out in the open has helped me beginning the journey to put it behind me. I’ve let my abuse haunt me for too long. What if it’s possible to put all that in a box; lock it, throw away the key, and get on with my future? What if that future could include a man like Jon? Could I be ready for that? Maybe I don’t have to be alone anymore. Not actually this breath-taking specimen sitting beside me, of course, I need someone less threatening. Less… everything. I have to suppress a shiver. And just as I’d like to take the McClaren for a test drive, I know I never would. It would be just like its owner. Too much for me to handle.

  As Jon expertly turns the powerful car and starts up the road, it dawns on me that, for the first time in my life, I’m considering the possibility of letting a man into my life, and starting to believe that allowing myself to feel feminine isn’t asking for trouble. And then, reluctantly, however much I don’t want to admit, it’s not the thought of just any man, it’s Jon himself who’s awakening my dormant sexuality. The sexuality that my characters feel and act on with ease, but I’d only ever thought that was make-believe, things I could write about and imagine, but could never feel or do myself.

  Everything about this man is as erotic as hell. He shouldn’t be allowed to look so damn good, or do everything with such a masculine grace. To my mortification the combination of sexy sports car and the dangerously attractive driver is lethal, and the result is my knickers are becoming decidedly damp. Is this actually happening to me? Shifting uncomfortably in my seat, I drag my eyes away from him and concentrate on looking out of the window. The fact he’s playing the part of my knight in shining armour must be fooling around with my libido. I mustn’t allow myself to think of him as anything other than what he is, a bodyguard employed to protect me. Once his work is done, he’ll disappear out of my life.

  Berating myself for starting to get hung up on a man who couldn’t possibly reciprocate my interest, I force myself to think instead about this morning’s destination. We’re on our way to try to track down Anna Smith, the girl who hosted that fateful party. All symptoms of arousal leave me when I begin to picture her in my mind, and more particularly, the house where the party had been held. I’ve never been back. Even when I still lived in the area, I avoided walking past it, and just the thought of the place summons nightmare images in my head. Can I actually go through with this?

  As if he knows what I’m thinking, Jon reaches out his hand and rests it on mine. I glance at him.

  “Okay?”

  His simple question reveals he’s tuned into my thoughts and understands how difficult today’s trip down memory lane will be for me. Well aware there’s no way on earth I could do this without him; I squeeze his hand in return. “Yes.”

  “If it gets too much, tell me! I’ll take you straight home.” He’s slipped into a way of talking, a deep tone of voice that’s different from his usual. “Promise me, Mia.”

  Feeling grateful, knowing I have an out if I need it, although I’m determined not to use it, but answer, “I will. Thank you, Jon.”

  We drive on in a silence broken only by the dispassionate instructions from the sat-nav easily audible over the purr of the powerful engine, each of us lost in our thoughts. I’m about to return to the area I left seven years ago without once looking back. Nowadays, it’s rare I even think about my mother, and I have to say I don’t miss her. It took me two years to shake off her influence and control once I’d left home, and that was the best move I’d ever made. She should never have had a child. My Dad had died when I just was a baby; I was too young to have any memories of him. My mother hadn’t known what to do with me and had no idea how to bring up a child on her own. But we’d jogged along adequately enough, until that time I genuinely needed her, the time when I found out that appearances mattered more to her than the emotional well-being of her only child. I’ve no doubt she feels well rid of me; has by now probably forgotten she ever had a daughter. I didn’t go back to see her after I left, restricting our contact to telephone calls on birthdays and at Christmas, but even that stopped four years ago when I foolishly told her about the publication of my first novel. She didn’t want to risk anyone connecting her with the author Dexie Sanders and disowned me. It didn’t come as much of a surprise.

  Jon reaches for the radio and cocks his head at me. I nod, interested to discover his choice in music. He switches it on, and a national rock channel blares out. I grin; it’s what I would have chosen. A song by Journey comes on; I can’t help myself; it’s one I love, and I automatically start to sing along softly. Although I'm quiet, he’s heard me hum and smirks, then belts out ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ in an impressively melodious baritone.

  I laugh, and rather impudently ask him, “Is there anything you aren’t good at?” Then I turn away to conceal my blush, hoping I haven’t given anything away.

  He’s laughing out loud now. “Oh, baby, some things I’m extremely good at.”

  His deep sexy tone makes me glance back to see a playful leer on his face and that he’s waggling his eyebrows. I have to suppress a gasp. Baby? Is he flirting with me? The shiver running down my spine isn’t one of fear.

  He continues, still chuckling. “The rest of the stuff I’m just pretty good at.” The moment’s gone.

  “Okay, then,” I rise to the bait. “What don’t you do well?”

  He pretends he needs time to think about it. “Ah, Sheikh Nijad beat me in a fencing duel. Once. Or it might have been twice. But then, he was a champ
ion.”

  I smile widely, enjoying this playful side of him. “So modesty is not your strong point?” He laughs again.

  We drive on, radio playing, the short conversation lightening my mood. The sat-nav tells us there’s a ten-minute delay ahead of us but helpfully adds that we’re still on the fastest route. Jon looks rueful but doesn’t protest or seem impatient, impressing me with both the way he handles the car and his attitude. Let’s face it; I’m captivated by everything about this man.

  Forcing my attention away from my companion with some difficulty, I try and concentrate on why we’re here. We’ve discussed what the next step will be if my old friend, Anna, is not in; it’s going to be the middle of the day by the time we get there, so it’s probable she’ll be at work even if she still lives at home. Her family remains at that address, though – Jon’s already confirmed that for us with his office – but he thinks going back to the scene of the crime, so to speak, might help jog some of my memories. Memories I’ve tried to suppress for seven years but am now making a conscious effort willing them to return. Creasing my brow, I try to recall the faces and names of people who were there, making a mental list that I’ll write out later.

  Suddenly I’m chilled, even though the heater’s blowing out hot air. I’ve remembered the last conversation I had with my mother. My intake of breath is audible, and he looks at me.

  “What is it?”

  I frown, as the conversation comes back to me. “The last time I spoke with my mother was when I’d sent her a copy of my first book,” I hesitate, gathering my thoughts, “She only got as far as reading the blurb on the cover, but that was enough for her to tell me I’d do better to forget my experience, not try to make money out of it. She thought, Jon, that that was why I wrote my book. To glorify what had happened. If she could believe that, maybe you’re right. Maybe someone else does too.”

  He swears under his breath. “Your mother’s a right piece of work. Letting you cope with all that alone, and then criticising you for it? Christ, babe, you were just a child!”

  “I was seventeen,” I remind him. “But you’re right. She didn’t like me going out; I wasn’t allowed to have boyfriends. I was so naïve back then, shit, I hadn’t even had a drink before that night. My first real drink, just an alcopop, and that had to be spiked. I don’t drink much out of the house now, not unless I’m with people I trust, and even then I keep a careful eye on my glass all night.”

  “I don’t blame you. But after everything you told me, I understand the way you write what you do.”

  Sitting up straighter I look towards him, he’s caught my interest, and I want to hear his analysis of my motives for choosing my particular genre, “Go on.”

  “You turn something devastating into something good. Your characters aren’t forced, they’re not hurt, they enjoy themselves, have fun pushing their boundaries. You’re writing it out of your system. And you’re excellent at it.”

  As I look out of the window, I realise that he gets me. “It’s my therapy, Jon, the way I cope with what happened. But I never glorify rape.” I confirm it again, as much force in my voice as I can get.

  Again he reaches over and presses his fingers to my arm, before he has to remove them, needing his hand to flick the indicator. We’ve turned off the M25 now and start to drive down towards Croydon. Soon we’ll reach the area where I was born and bred. My hands are becoming clammy, and I’m starting to question whether this was such a good idea. My hometown brings back no happy memories for me, not having had the ideal childhood, even before the events of that night. I was so relieved once I’d got my place at Uni, there was no need to come back, and working any job I could to finance me through the holidays. The first year I spent in Halls on campus, and after that, I was lucky enough to flat share with three great girls until we finished our course. I’m still friends with them, though we’re scattered far and wide now.

  I can see the area hasn’t changed very much in the last six years, but there’s a roundabout built to serve new housing which wasn’t there before, and it throws me for a moment, making me lose my bearings, so I’m glad we’ve got the sat-nav to rely on for directions. But all too soon Jon makes a turn into a road I do recognise, just two streets away from my childhood home. The house where Anna Smith lived and the location of that fateful party.

  Residential parking restrictions haven't as yet extended this far out of the town which means he’s able to pull the McClaren up almost outside Anna’s house. After a second’s pause while the roof folds up back into place above our heads, he cuts the ignition. I wait as the ticking engine cools, staring straight ahead, reliving the moment I was thrown out of the van, broken and violated. Remembering the excruciating walk home, which was part stagger, part crawl in the early hours of that fateful Sunday morning. I see the blood on the pavement where I caught my head when I landed. I see the white van driving away.

  Shit! I see the white van driving away.

  I draw in a sharp breath. “White van!” I whisper. He turns to me, quickly, giving me a probing look. “I was dropped off out of a white van.” Then I lift and drop my shoulders in dismissal, “Not much, but it’s something I didn’t remember before.”

  He takes my hand and rubs it in his. “It’s a start, Mia. Someone might know who at the party had one.” He continues to look searchingly at me, and his fingers go to my wrist.

  I realise he’s feeling for my pulse. I raise my eyebrows questioningly.

  “Breathe slowly, Mia. Take deep breaths. Hold it, and then let it out.”

  I hadn’t realised how tense I’d become, but he knows. He reads me so well. “How do you do that?” I ask him.

  He chuckles, “It’s my job.”

  Chapter 9

  Jon

  Four years ago

  It was one of those events that happen for no good reason; a mad man in the wrong place at the wrong time, Nijad wasn’t even the target: the gunman was just firing randomly.

  As we left the theatre that night I had a prickling feeling at the back of my neck; a sixth sense that something was wrong, my perception honed in the armed forces. You don’t go out on SAS missions without developing a constant awareness of your surroundings, the ability to soak up the atmosphere and sniff out anything that seems even the slightest bit out of place. That’s how I, and my team, survived as long as we had.

  There was fear and anticipation in the air; I could almost taste it. Fanciful perhaps, but it was there, nonetheless. And I knew better than to ignore such premonition. As Nijad reached the exit, stepping forwards, joking and laughing with the stunning model who hung off his arm, I swung around, pushing them both back into the shadows, coincidentally also blocking the way for other theatregoers to come out.

  Apparently, I saved a number of lives with that action, that balmy summer evening in Paris. The gunman started shooting indiscriminately at the crowd, and almost as soon as I turned to propel Nijad back, I was caught full in the upper chest, a bullet sent straight into my lung.

  The police never discovered the precise reason for the gunman’s actions; he was just an unpredictable little man with a rage against the world. Before being killed himself, he’d shot me, wounded another and killed two passers-by. The death toll could have included a sheikh and many others if my body hadn’t blocked the door.

  Present day

  It’s my job. I tell her, knowing she’ll interpret it wrongly. It’s a Dom’s job to monitor his sub's reactions carefully. Certain skills come in useful. It’s not just her personal safety that matters to me anymore, but her mental stability. I’m pushing her, I know. I could have done the investigation on my own, but that would have meant leaving someone else to babysit her. And the positive side is her presence will mean people will probably open up more than they would with a stranger. But just being back, where her nightmare started, is stressing her out.

  As I gaze at her lovely face, seeing the nervousness in her eyes, thinking of ways I could relieve her tension, I remember t
he resolution I made last night. She’s not for me; especially now I know the nightmare of her past. She deserves someone gentle, someone caring, and someone who’ll stay around for the long haul. Not a Dominant like me who wants to take her in any and every way, to tie her up and fuck her until she screams, to push her boundaries far beyond even anything she’s written in her books. She wouldn’t be able to meet my appetites, not after everything she’s been through. Hell, she’s not even had a vanilla relationship in her life, so she’s certainly not ready for a kinky one.

  I watch her take a few more deep breaths; my fingers remain on her pulse, and I feel it slowing. I think she’s as ready as she’ll ever be. “Shall we go?”

  I see her head dip in a nod, watch her swallow, and then grab the door handle with a new determination. Brave girl.

  After checking back to make sure the McClaren has automatically locked the doors, we walk up to number nineteen and I notice we’re approaching a tidy looking terraced house with a neatly maintained small front garden. At the door I turn around, and automatically scan the road as she rings the bell. My hand goes to my non-existent holster; old habits die hard.

  The door’s opened by a pleasant looking woman in her early fifties. Casually dressed, she has a cautious expression on her face as she stands motionless for a second, giving us the once over. Before she can dismiss us as hawkers or Jehovah’s witnesses, I nod and say, “Good morning.”

  Mia takes my cue and addresses her by name, “Mrs Smith?”

  The woman looks wary and answers with a slight inclination of her head.

  “I used to be friends with your daughter, Anna,” Mia continues, once the identity’s confirmed. “Does she still live here?”

  The woman relaxes a little, but her expression remains guarded. “She’s here.” she tells us.

  Mia turns to me, her face looking pleased. She turns back, smiling warmly at the woman, “Can we speak to her, please? I’m Mia Fable. I was at school with her.”