Buch lesen: «Bodyguard Father»
Garrett could almost feel his daughter’s arms wrapped around his own neck.
He watched as Annie put her down. The image of his little girl waving goodbye as the door closed burned itself into his head.
When he met Annie back at her house, the first thing out of her mouth was, “Your Megan is absolutely adorable. She’s just wonderful.”
“How was she?” he asked. “I mean, did she seem…happy?”
“She seemed good, Garrett. Happy, affectionate.”
He nodded, looking over her shoulder, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat. Annie touched his chin and he met her gaze. “She squealed and hugged herself when she thought of you,” she added.
He smiled slowly, a bittersweet, tear-at-the-heart kind of smile. He had a lot to make up to his little girl. How had every good intention he had turned out to be wrong?
He had to get Megan back. There was absolutely no other option.
Bodyguard Father
Alice Sharpe
MILLS & BOON
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This book is dedicated to Elisabeth Naughton and
Lisa Pulliman, roommates extraordinaire
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alice Sharpe met her husband-to-be on a cold, foggy beach in Northern California. One year later they were married. Their union has survived the rearing of two children, a handful of earthquakes registering over 6.5, numerous cats and a few special dogs, the latest of which is a yellow Lab named Annie Rose. Alice and her husband now live in a small rural town in Oregon, where she devotes the majority of her time to pursuing her second love, writing.
Alice loves to hear from readers. You can write her at P.O. Box 755, Brownsville, OR 97327. SASE for reply is appreciated.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Garrett Skye —Accused of killing the woman he was paid to protect, he’s on the run. His goals: recover from the wound sustained in his escape, regain custody of his three-year-old daughter and disappear forever.
Anastasia (Annie) Ryder —This cookie-baking preschool teacher turns down her private detective father’s last attempt at reconciliation. Can she atone for her behavior by completing his last case: finding Garrett Skye?
Megan Skye —This three-year-old charmer is the center of Garrett’s heart. He’ll do anything to protect her….
Shelby Greason —She hired Annie’s father to bring her mother’s killer to justice.
Robert Greason —Still grief stricken by his wife’s death, he’s now receiving death threats of his own.
“Curly” and “Moe” —Two thugs with deadly intent.
Rocko Klugg —Awaiting a new trial, everyone knows he’s a murderer and that he wanted Elaine Greason dead. But what is he looking for now and how far will he go to get it?
Jasmine Carrabas —Klugg’s girlfriend. This slick beauty has a scary mean streak.
Randy Larson (Red Thunder) —Have his dreams corrupted him?
Tiffany Boothe Skye —Garrett’s ex. Her interest in being a mother is less than her interest in a new man. How far will she go to destroy Garrett’s credibility?
Ellen Boothe —Tiffany’s mother, Megan’s reluctant babysitter.
Brady Skye —Garrett’s older brother is a lawman in Oregon. Will he help or hinder his brother’s efforts to clear his name?
Lara Skye —Brady’s beloved wife, the sister Annie never had.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
Chapter One
Annie Ryder was ready to call it quits. Two days of lurking around in the cold, snapping pictures of old buildings, old streets and old ranchers had left her stiff and grumpy. Plus, the unfamiliar black-framed glasses rested heavy on the bridge of her nose while the thick brown wig atop her head itched to the point of distraction.
Oh, who was she trying to fool? Or, worse, impress? “You can’t impress a dead man,” she mumbled to herself.
A badly tuned engine jerked her from her thoughts. She peered down the street in time to spot a beat-up blue truck approaching. She didn’t need to consult the photograph in her pocket to know at long last this was the truck—and hopefully the driver—she’d been waiting for. Round bumpers, dented hood, broken antenna, a faded Forty-Niners bumper sticker, California plates. This was it.
Hallelujah…
Lifting the camera, she flexed numb fingers. “Stop at the grocery store,” she whispered as she watched the truck ramble down the road.
For a second, she thought it would pass by and her stomach twisted into a knot that just as quickly unraveled as the truck pulled to the curb no more than ten feet from where she stood concealed in an alley. The driver got out of the truck and without locking his door or glancing back at Annie’s location, limped across the road toward the grocery store on the corner. He wore faded blue jeans and a black jacket. Worn leather cowboy boots looked like the real deal.
He reached into his left pocket, emerged with an old fashioned gold watch that he snapped open, glanced at and snapped shut. He dug a few coins from his other pocket.
Annie raised the camera and peered through the lens, zooming in on his face. She found the chiseled features she’d appreciated in his photo, more obvious now that he’d shaved off the mustache he’d worn before. His hair was darker and scruffier though without the facial hair; he looked younger than his thirty-three years.
Garrett Skye, at last.
She zeroed in on his eyes and for a second, he seemed to look right at her. Her breath caught in alarm, but that quickly evaporated. He had amazing deep-brown eyes, warm and sensual, even when viewed through a lens. Eyes that reminded her of the old “windows of the soul” malarkey, eyes that brimmed with self-awareness, eyes that skated on the razor-thin edge of magic.
She lowered the camera a fraction of an inch and stared back at him, unable to move. His gaze should strike fear in the bottom of her heart. It didn’t.
This was nuts. Those beautiful eyes belonged to a man who killed without remorse. No doubt his last victim had thought she saw humanity in those deep, dark irises, too. Well, that woman was dead now, thanks to him, so get a grip!
His gaze shifted. Obviously, he was just looking around, being cautious. He slid a few coins into the paper machine and snagged a copy. Annie quickly snapped the first of a dozen photos before he disappeared into the store.
She hurriedly reinvented what she’d seen through the camera lens. Not warmth, not beauty. Cockiness, smugness, vanity, that’s what she’d seen. He thought he was safe. He hadn’t counted on the dead woman’s grown daughter having deep pockets and a vengeful nature. He hadn’t counted on Annie’s late father’s detective skills.
And he hadn’t counted on her, Annie Ryder, intrepid pre-school teacher/unofficial private eye.
Her job was simple: verify Garrett Skye’s presence, learn what name he was using, get an address in Poplar Gulch, tell the client.
She drew only a cursory glance from two women as she stepped out of the alley and snapped a few random pictures of the hay bales in the back of Skye’s truck to reinforce her cover story as an out-of-town photographer writing a book on forgotten ranching towns. She paused. Dare she risk frisking the glove box?
A brisk “Good morning” from a passing pedestrian sent Annie’s heart leaping into her throat. She settled on taking a few photos of the mail scattered on the front seat while moving past the truck.
She continued walking to the next block where she’d parked her father’s white sedan. The weatherman had predicted snow. Annie wanted to be out of Poplar Gulch and headed home to Reno by the time it fell. All she needed now was a physical address for Skye.
She’d just set the camera on the seat beside her when movement in the side mirror drew her attention. Skye limped back across the street, the newspaper tucked beneath his arm, a small plastic grocery bag swinging from the fingers of his left hand. He opened the driver’s door, tossed in his purchases and climbed in after them.
She started her own engine, a blast of cold air coming from the heater vent making her shiver. Skye made a U-turn and headed east. Annie waited a few moments before making the same turn and following at a distance. Golden strands of hay floated out of the back of the truck.
Within minutes, it had started to rain, drops icy enough to make patterns on her windshield. With no vehicle between her and the truck, Annie lowered her visor and stayed as far back as possible. Skye had been on the run for almost four months, surely he’d be feeling pretty comfortable by now. On the other hand, the man was former military, former bodyguard and a wanted killer. Plus, he apparently knew a thing or two about explosives.
He drove for a couple of miles before taking a sharp left onto a dirt road that appeared to lead up a heavily forested hillside. Annie drove past the road, making note of the mailbox on which the name B. Miller was printed, pulling off a quarter mile farther along, parking well off the shoulder. Miller. She recognized the name from her father’s files. He was connected to Skye in some way. An old army buddy, that was it.
Another tidbit of information floated into her mind. Miller was a professor at Davis University, currently out of the country on a sabbatical. She’d bet big money Garrett Skye was using his old buddy’s mountain retreat as a hideout!
Excited, she clicked on her cell phone, relieved when it picked up a signal, disappointed when the client didn’t answer. She waited through Shelby Parker’s recorded message and left one of her own, embellishing it a little here and there to make it sound better, making sure Parker understood Annie was working with her father. No reason to mention the fact he had died before he could complete this job. No point in admitting she was his proxy.
As she clicked off the phone it dawned on her she should have made sure Skye was living here before alerting the client. She turned off the cell phone and tucked it and her father’s nasty-looking black gun in her pockets. She looped the camera strap around her neck. She stuck her purse under the seat and got out of the car, locking it behind her.
The walk in, which she had assumed would be relatively short, turned out to be more than a mile straight up. It seemed to grow colder with each foot she climbed. The rain was still halfhearted, but it had the icy punch of coming trouble.
The road ended so abruptly she stumbled into the open. Quickly dodging behind a gaggle of leafless, wispy trees, she took in the old house across from what appeared to be an even older barn. Tucked between them sat the rusty blue truck, its bed now empty.
Annie took the camera from around her neck. Snapping pictures of anything that didn’t move, her bare fingers growing increasingly numb as the temperature continued to plummet, she made her way to the back of the barn where she discovered a two-tiered door, the top of which was open.
She knelt with her head below the door opening, catching her breath, nerves firing up and down her spine. A moment later, a blast of hot air came from above. Annie jumped an inch off the ground, grabbing her wig with one hand while fumbling for the gun with the other. The camera tumbled to the ground in the process. Before she could extract the gun from her pocket, she looked up and came eyeball to muzzle with a big brown horse.
She swallowed what felt like her heart. “Easy does it,” she whispered, fear draining out of her as she reached up to shoo away the warm nose nibbling at her wig. The horse tossed its head and whinnied.
“Shh,” she said, turning to peer around the side of the barn.
She found two worn leather boots she immediately recognized. The rifle, however, was new.
“Get up nice and easy,” Garrett Skye said, his voice as cold as the steel barrel nine inches from her nose.
As distasteful as Annie found carrying a gun, looking up the barrel of one was worse. Way worse.
Scooping the camera from the icy mud, she gained her feet. Up close and without the distancing lens of the camera, the man was big, muscular, powerful and scary. His chiseled good looks were a mere distraction compared to the focused intent in his eyes. There was no appealing warmth or humor in those irises now. There probably never had been.
“Who are you?” he said, his voice deep, softer than she’d expected, and scary. Everything about him was scary. Rip up his clothes a little, tie a bandana around his head and a knife between his teeth and, presto, Rambo in the flesh.
Annie thought frantically. She hadn’t had a chance to pull out her dad’s gun. Perhaps Skye would overlook it. She babbled, “Is this your place? I’m so sorry to be intrusive, my car broke down on the main road and yours was the nearest driveway. I’m in Poplar Gulch taking pictures of forgotten ranch towns. This place is perfect. Uh, I love your horse. What’s its name?”
“Your car broke down?” he said, narrowing his eyes.
“Yes. It’s old and—”
“So you didn’t follow me out here?”
“Follow you? No. Of course not.”
He stared at her for another second or two and then shook his head. “Sorry, not buying it. I’ll take your gun.”
“I don’t have a gun, Mr. Miller, isn’t it?”
“You know damn good and well my name isn’t Miller and of course you have a gun. Get your hands up. Who sent you here? Klugg?”
“Klugg who?” she muttered.
“I said, get your hands up.”
She put her hands up in the air, the camera clenched tight in her right fist, the strap dangling down her arm. With a few swift impersonal strokes he frisked her with his free hand, finding the gun and her cell phone with no trouble. The picture of his truck taken a week or so before rolled out with them.
Even if she could think of a way to explain carrying a gun, there was no way to make this look like an accident now, not with that picture waiting to be unfolded. Icy calm spread through her fear-soaked body. She grew quiet, watchful, waiting…
Flipping the gun open, he spun the chamber and a couple of bullets popped out. “No gun, huh?” he quipped, sparing her an uneasy glance. He closed the chamber with his thumb and stuck the gun in his pocket before unfolding the photograph.
In the moment it took him to do this, he was marginally distracted. Annie threw the camera at his face and without waiting for his reaction, took off around the far side of the barn, expecting to hear the sharp retort of his rifle….
But it was his voice that followed her. Loud, angry, ordering her to stop. Sure. The horse whinnied his opinion of the mayhem.
Annie veered toward the truck, hoping Skye was in the habit of leaving his keys in the ignition. He wasn’t. Leaping the two feet onto the broad front porch of his house, she tore open the front door and locked it behind her. The small kitchen hosted a back door. As she touched the knob, she heard the tinkle of broken glass coming from the front. Skye would be inside within seconds. She ran outside, circling by the barn again. He’d see her if she took off down the road and there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that he could run faster, even with a limp, than she could.
And bullets ran faster than either of them.
That left the horse. She ducked into the barn, faltering for a second as her eyes fought to adjust to the shadows, almost tripping over the bales of hay Skye had apparently unloaded just inside the door. She ran toward the only light, the open half door through which the horse had spotted her. There was no purpose hiding in a dark corner—he’d find her. She could see no handy weapon and doubted she’d be able to throw a pitchfork hard enough to stop him anyway.
She’d take the horse and ride it down the mountain and escape that way. Good Lord, what was she thinking?
She was thinking she didn’t want to die.
She approached the animal as slowly as her panic and pounding heart allowed. The big brown horse eyed her suspiciously as she opened his stall door. He was a lot bigger than he’d looked from the outside when the business half of him had been obscured by the lower half of the door. She didn’t have time to get to know him or even saddle him. Any minute now, Garrett Skye would erupt through that door wielding his rifle—
She stretched out a hand to touch the horse’s glistening neck, surprised at his warmth. He was wearing a halter but his head was a long way from his back even when he twisted around and looked her eyeball to eyeball. She half expected him to ask her what the hell she thought she was doing. She grabbed a handful of fetlock and bounced on her feet to build the momentum to swing herself atop.
As she launched herself upward, Skye limped his way through the barn door, his rifle held at his side. For a second, Annie imagined Skye’s shocked expression when she proceeded to gallop the brown horse right over the top of him.
The horse rose up partly on his hind legs, twisted around and thudded back to the earth. Annie went flying as her tenuous grip failed.
Her last conscious thought was irritation with herself, not the horse. Then she hit the wall and slid to the floor, the world eclipsed to a single black dot and then to nothing….
Chapter Two
Setting the rifle aside, Garrett put a steady hand on Scio’s nose. “It’s okay, fella,” he whispered as he ran a hand along the horse’s quivering flesh. He carefully led the nervous animal out of the stall so he wouldn’t trample their intruder. He put him in an adjoining stall and closed the gate.
His mind moved faster than his body as he returned to the woman. He had to assume she had called in Klugg’s men or the police, depending on which side of the law she worked. If it was the police they’d already be here. That left Klugg and that meant he had three or four hours to get as far away from here as possible. Besides the horse, everything of any importance was already packed in a duffel bag and stowed behind the bench seat in Ben’s truck. If there was one thing Garrett knew how to do it was cut his losses and move on. He’d drive to the nearest big city and abandon the truck there, as per his long planned escape route.
First things first. What in the world did he do with the woman in Scio’s stall?
She wasn’t very big and she wasn’t very old, maybe mid-twenties. Her black glasses had come loose and he plucked them from the stable floor. He peered through the lenses—no correction—and tossed them aside.
Balancing on the balls of his feet, he squatted beside her, his right leg aching with the movement. He was reassured to find a pulse fluttering in her throat. All he needed was another dead woman on his hands.
The thick brown hair sat kind of lopsided on her head. As he watched, it slid to the ground and lay there like a dead squirrel, revealing finely textured lustrous auburn hair pinned atop her head, held with a bunch of little pink-and-yellow butterfly clips. The kind his kid wore. They looked sweet on Megan. On a grown woman they made a disconcerting statement he wouldn’t even try to figure out.
What in the world should he do with her? Man, he should have shot her when she threw the damn camera at him, but he didn’t shoot unarmed people in the back.
Not even hired hit men.
Is that what she was? She hadn’t had her gun ready, she hadn’t planned an escape and she was wearing little butterflies in her hair. He patted her down, ignoring the tantalizing bumps and curves under her clothing, and came away empty-handed. But he was also pretty sure nothing was broken or bleeding and that was a relief.
Also, no identification, just one car key dangling on a ring. As far as he was concerned, that fit the profile of a pro, and a hardened one at that. Of course there was her phone to take a look at, but first he needed to figure out what to do with her.
He lifted one of her eyelids with his thumb and she groaned. He fetched a coil of rope from a hook on the wall and, using his pocketknife, sliced it into lengths. He tied her hands together in front of her, then her ankles. No need for a gag; there was no one on this hill to hear her except Scio and himself. With a sigh, he unceremoniously flopped her over his shoulder and carried her back into the cabin. He dumped her in a big chair by the fire before stoking the dying embers and tossing on another log. Standing with his back to the comforting warmth, he ignored the pain in his leg and stared at her.
In the quick trip between the barn and the house, she’d collected a few of the predicted snowflakes on her silky hair. They melted as he watched. It had been a long time since he’d been close to a woman. A long time. He’d almost forgotten the yielding softness of a female body, the fragrance of perfumed hair. This woman looked deceptively sweet and innocent. Dark lashes against pale cheeks, lips slightly parted and faintly peach-colored. In another time and place, he would have enjoyed just looking at her.
He turned away abruptly and left the cabin, closing the door behind him. He’d broken a pane of glass in the top of the door to get inside when he chased her. He’d have to repair that before he left Ben’s cabin.
First he veered toward the barn, where he retrieved the camera she’d thrown at him. Then he went into the barn to reassure the horse and reclaim his rifle. As he made his way down the hill, snowflakes gathering on his bare head and shoulders, he reviewed the last several pictures she’d taken—the driveway, the barn and house, Ben’s junk mail, several of him in front of Naughton’s Stop and Shop.
She was after him, all right.
When he dug for the car key he’d confiscated, he came across the photo of his truck, the one he’d found in her pocket when he searched for her gun. It took him a moment to figure out where the picture had been taken. The broken antenna placed it within the last month. He was sitting alone in the cab, staring out the driver’s-side window. He wore an old green hat he’d found in the barn.
He’d worn that hat only once and that had been during a quick trip to Reno to catch a glimpse of Megan. Back around her birthday in early December. His daughter’s smile had warmed his heart for the past several days, but if it meant he’d put her in danger, the cost had been too high and he swore at himself.
He knew why his intruder hadn’t trailed him back from Reno that day. There’d been a terrible road accident right behind him, one involving a semi and two cars. Though he’d sailed away from it, the traffic behind had come to a dead halt.
He wadded up the picture and stuffed it back in his pocket. Life had gotten so damn complicated. In the past, he would have kept running right out of the country if need be. The problem would have gone away because he would have reinvented himself somewhere else. No ties meant mobility.
But now there was Megan to consider.
He finally reached the road. No sign of the car. She must have driven past and parked it up around the bend. His leg was killing him and he swore softly. Why hadn’t she just driven up the damn hill?
A quarter of a mile later, he rounded a turn to find an older white sedan with Nevada license plates. Using her keys, he unlocked the car and slid behind the wheel. The car was registered to someone named Jack Ryder. A hasty search of the glove box revealed a few folded maps. He felt under the seat and came out with a woman’s woven handbag. It held little more than a small zipped wallet. The driver’s license showed his visitor’s face. Her name was Anastasia Ryder. So, was she Jack Ryder’s wife? She had a credit card, a library card and grocery store discount card. No private-eye license. A few receipts fell out of a side pocket. She had purchased new shoes and two different wigs three days before in Reno.
He also found a plastic bag half full of what looked like homemade oatmeal cookies and a key attached to a green oval labeled Shut Eye Inn, rm. 7, the sole motel in town.
Remembering the cell phone he confiscated, he dug it from a pocket, turned it on and scrolled through the outgoing calls. None to a local number. The last one she made was to an area code he didn’t recognize, but that wasn’t surprising. There were hundreds of new area codes now thanks to the proliferation of cell phones. The call had been made an hour before he caught Anastasia Ryder behind Scio’s barn. He pushed the call button. The phone was answered by a recording.
A woman’s voice. Name of Shelby Parker. He didn’t recognize her voice but her name rang a distant bell. No, he couldn’t remember where he’d heard it before. Was she connected to Rocko Klugg?
He flipped the phone closed and rubbed his jaw with cold fingers, trying to figure things out. At least Anastasia hadn’t called the police. And if her appearance was connected to Klugg, it would take hours for his henchmen to get here.
In the end, did it matter who Anastasia Ryder worked for? She carried a gun and a picture of him taken outside his ex-wife’s house. She’d taken photos of everything connected to him. Obviously, someone had employed Ms. Ryder to track him down and she had.
Driving her car, he made a U-turn on the empty road and drove back up his driveway, his leg screaming in protest as he hit every rut in the dirt road. The weather had grown even colder, the road icier. As he neared the top, his tires fell into well-worn grooves. If not for them, he’d skid all over the place. He flipped on the windshield wipers as snow started to fly.
And then he saw it. His truck, aimed right at him, barreling down the hillside, his prisoner at the wheel. He’d left the damn keys on a hook by the door!
For an instant, he met Anastasia Ryder’s green-eyed gaze as he slammed on the brakes, sending pain shooting up his right leg. He yanked the wheel to the left but she kept coming, the truck’s momentum overriding its aging brakes, sending it into a death skid aimed right at him.
The truck hit the car starting at the front right fender and grinding its way down the body, crushing the doors with a horrible metal on metal sound until it imbedded itself into what had once been the trunk. The car stopped abruptly thanks to a tree and that jarring conclusion saved him an uncomfortable trip down the hillside. It also released the air bag and he sank into it instead of slamming against the steering wheel.
Shaking inside, Garrett took inventory. Besides his leg, remarkably, everything else seemed to be in working order. He fought off the air bag, took the keys from the ignition and dumped them in Annie’s purse. After wrenching open his door, he slipped and slid his way around the car.
Ben’s truck was history. Radiator pushed inward, hood buckled, steam hissing, windshield shattered…it wasn’t going anywhere again. Damn, neither was the car. The two locked vehicles made a dandy roadblock.
How did Anastasia Ryder get untied? Stupid question, he knew how. He hadn’t tied her tight enough, he hadn’t wanted to break her soft skin. He hadn’t wanted to yank her arms behind her, he hadn’t wanted to hurt her.
And in payment of this gentle treatment, she crashed his getaway truck.
He pulled open the truck door, dreading what he would find. Anastasia had been thrown or had thrown herself flat onto the bench seat and she sat up slowly, her lovely face splattered with her own blood, hair tumbling across her forehead and down her shoulders. Tiny cubes of safety glass sparkled in her hair like ice crystals.
Her hands were still tied together, a cut rope dangled from the knot around one ankle. She’d apparently used his biggest kitchen knife to cut her feet free and brought it along as a possible weapon. It now stuck straight out from the dashboard, the tip imbedded in vinyl, the plastic handle still vibrating from the impact.
She bit her lip when her gaze followed his and she saw the knife.
“You’re lucky it didn’t imbed itself in something softer. Like your throat,” he said.
She nodded in a dazed kind of fashion.
“Can you move?”
She nodded again and sat perfectly still, blinking.
“I’ll help you,” he said.
More nodding. He brushed some of the glass away then reached inside and pulled on her jacket sleeve and her jeans. She slid closer to the edge of the seat until she slipped into his arms as though she belonged there. She looped her arms over his head and around his neck and for a second, he wondered if she knew how to choke a man with a rope. But instead of trying to strangle him, she looked into his eyes. The cold, miserable day receded, the pain ebbed, the clock stopped ticking.
“Thanks,” she said, lowering her gaze.
“If you’d stayed tied up this wouldn’t have happened,” he grumbled as he carried her away from the hissing, steaming mass of mangled metal. He set her on her feet, anxious to see just how injured she was. She swayed a little but caught herself.
“Can you walk?” he barked.
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