Author: Christine Bell

As he uttered those words, they settled over him like a lead blanket. He’d broken a promise once, and it almost killed him. He hadn’t made one to another person since, but something about this woman made him want to protect her.

And damned if he wasn’t going to do it or die trying.

Chapter Four

“Is there really nothing else on television besides SportsCenter?” Sarabeth stretched her legs across the fiberglass-textured hotel comforter, trying desperately not to even think the word “bedbugs.” Judging by the way he was sprawled on his bed, Gavin clearly didn’t have the same concerns.

“Nothing worth watching,” he muttered.

It had been two straight hours of nonstop flicking through channels, catching snatches of the news, and waiting in the questionable comfort of their dismal economy “suite.” Although the light choking its way through the filthy window was dimming, it was way too early for sleep, and the boredom broken only by random bursts of panic was slowly killing her.

Now that the shock had worn off—mostly—she realized what this whole kidnapping-murder-target thing actually meant: fearing for her life while she hid out in motel rooms, watching ESPN in silence until her eyes bled.

With the surliest brute in history.

She felt a tickle on her arm and swiped at it frantically, letting out a squeak. When she looked down, there was nothing there. “How can you be sure these beds aren’t infested with bugs?” she asked, trying not to let her panic show.

He didn’t look away from the television. “I can’t.”

“Then how can you possibly look so comfortable laying there like that?” The flesh on her arms prickled, and she shivered, sitting up straighter. “They could be laying eggs in your ears as we speak.”

“If it makes you feel better, strip the bed and search the sheets. They’re white, and if there are bugs, you’re sure to see them if you look hard enough.” He shrugged. “Either way, it’s not going to kill me, and I’d rather not know.”

She stared at him incredulously. “Well, that seems a little silly.”

His jaw clenched, and his voice went from put-upon to ice cold as he met her gaze. “We didn’t grow up the same, me and you, Doc. Until you’ve had to cover your eyes and pretend the sound of rats scurrying over the rotten floor of the one-room hovel you call home are just mice because that’s the only way you could fall asleep at night, don’t tell me what’s silly. We all do what we have to do to get through our shit. If you’ve got to strip your bed, go for it.” He turned his focus back to the grungy screen. “Me? I’m good.”

Her stomach took a dive as she imagined a young Gavin curled up on a bare, dirty mattress, fists balled at his sides, trying to sleep under those conditions. And here she was, poor little rich girl whining because the motel room he’d secured for them wasn’t up to her standard.

She’d always tried to stay grounded, offering pro bono services for clients in need, and volunteering to serve on the board of several charities, but clearly her grandparents’ upbringing had affected her more than she’d realized. Resolved, she leaned back against the propped pillows and shifted until she found a comfortable position. Gavin was right. Even if there were bugs, and there probably weren’t, they weren’t going to kill her.

Other things might. Like the guys with the bombs and whatnot…

“So, have you heard from Owen?” she asked lightly, desperate for something to break the silence as panic surfaced again, even if it was the sound of her own voice. She already knew the answer to her question, though.

Gavin didn’t tear his gaze from the soccer match on the tiny TV. “Not yet.”

“Oh.” She blew out a sigh and looked around the room, starting in surprise when her now-short brown locks whipped around to bristle at her nose. That would take some getting used to.

“Well, there was this CSI marathon I had been planning to watch tonight.” She peered down at her watch. “It started ten minutes ago.”

“Hits too close to home now, don’t you think?” he asked drily, still staring at the TV.

Visions of white chalk outlines on the avocado motel room carpet filled her head and she swallowed hard before responding. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Maybe she hadn’t hidden her angst as well as she’d hoped, because a few seconds later he flicked off the TV and turned to face her.

“Bad joke. I apologize for that. But I’ll tell you again, I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

The sincerity in his voice rang clear and true, and she turned to face him.

“You’re safe with me.”

Oddly enough, those four simply spoken words instantly calmed her. He was rough around the edges, but there was something solid and real about him that part of her found oddly soothing.

She opened her mouth to thank him again when a loud, shrill chime rent the air. Gavin’s black brick of a phone buzzed along the nightstand between their beds, and in an instant, he reached out to answer it.

“Hey.”

She could hear a low male voice on the other end. Owen. Maybe he’d gotten in touch with her grandparents. Dread mixed with relief as she waited for the verdict. She’d feel more settled if they knew she was all right, but experience told her that talking to them was going to wind up making her feel worse than she already did somehow.

“Yeah, okay.” Another interminable pause. “Good. Put them on.”

Gavin held the phone out to her. “It’s for you. Your grandparents. Remember what I said, though.” He held her gaze. “No details, yeah?”

She squared her shoulders and took the phone with a single nod, a quiver running through her when their fingers brushed. The man was like a machine. Even his hands were hard.

She covered the receiver, rolled to her feet and nodded toward the door. “I’ll just be right outside, then.”

“Are you crazy? You can’t go outside alone and unprotected. I don’t think we were followed, but I sure as hell have no plans to test that theory.”

His face was as grim and unyielding as the rest of him, and she frowned. What was the point of chopping off all that hair? What was the point of ruining her natural color? What was the point of dressing like dance-club Barbie, or any of it, if she couldn’t even leave the room? Judging by the set of his superhero jaw, he wasn’t budging, and making her grandparents wait while she attempted to argue was pointless.

With a long-suffering sigh, she settled back onto the bed before clearing her throat. Okay, showtime. Shoulders back. Grace under pressure. She removed her hand from the receiver and held it up to her face.

“Hello.” She smiled into the phone, her voice going so shrill that she was pretty sure only dogs would be able to hear it.

“Sarabeth.” Her grandmother’s voice sounded tinny and far-off. Like she was yelling at her from the end of a tunnel.

“Is Granddad on the line too?” She could feel Gavin’s gaze burrowing into her, and it was a struggle to keep from squirming.

“He’s in the other room on business. He’ll be with us shortly.” There was a sternness to her tone that contradicted the mundane sounds in the background. Snatches of tinkling china, the pouring of drinks into glasses.

Speakerphone. Excellent. That meant Owen might be listening in as well. Apparently privacy was hard to come by when one was on the lam.

She cleared her throat again and tried to focus on sounding normal. “Business?”

“Your little…situation has caused some serious issues on our end as well. Did you think you’d be the only one affected here, missy?”

“No, I—”

“There’s a great deal of damage control, you know.” The reedy tone clanged against her ear. “Your grandfather has been on the phone since this morning, calling clients and investors, trying to offset any negative publicity.” The sentiment was punctuated by her grandmother commanding a maid to do something in a pathetic attempt at Spanish, which really just consisted of her adding the letter O to the end of her words.

Rage bubbled inside her, and she counted to ten and tried to focus on her surroundings. The TV was back on, but the sound was turned low, and she had the distinct impression that Gavin wasn’t paying much attention to it. He’d stopped eyeballing her, but she could tell by his posture that his attention was still focused her way.

Tears pricked her eyelids, and she cleared her throat. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but it should have been exactly this. She was their burden, always had been. They would always treat her that way. It was part of life…one that, for some sad reason, she just couldn’t get used to. Still, she kept her voice light as she spoke into the telephone.

“Well, it’s nice that Granddad…cares so deeply. And don’t worry, I’m certain everything will be fine.” In spite of the inner turmoil, she kept her features serene. She’d had a lifetime of training, and hiding hurt feelings was something she’d gotten pretty good at.

“Of course everything will be fine. We handled it when your mother pulled her little stunts, and we’ll have to do the same with yours. No matter how many reporters tromp all over my azalea bushes in an attempt to get the inside track in this scandal,” Grandmother added with a sniff.

Sarabeth took another deep breath, trying not to wince at the low blow. Her mother, twenty-something socialite Alexia Lucking, had famously gotten pregnant out of wedlock. Tabloids covered the whole “disaster,” and Sarabeth’s first baby picture had been sold for six figures by her deadbeat dad. Grandmother had barely recovered her social standing at the club when, three years later, flighty Alexia had hit the road and left her in the dust to get a new name, new identity, new life with her new shipping magnate lover, who, incidentally, didn’t like or want kids.

Her grandparents had never forgiven Alexia for it, and their resentment bled into every word they spoke to Sarabeth, the child they’d never intended to raise.

“Yes, well, family is so important.” Her words sounded stiff, even to her, and it took a moment before her grandmother even bothered to respond.

“Indeed. Now, this…Irishman”—her grandmother said the word as if she’d stepped in cat vomit as she spoke—”whose phone I’m using. He says you’re with a man who is keeping you safe.”

“Yes.”

“See that he does. And be sure that he handles this whole thing quickly. Lord knows the last thing we need is a drawn-out affair. The shareholders won’t have it.”

Sarabeth bit back a scathing promise to make sure her little “potential death by firebomb” situation didn’t ruin their next charity gala, and hummed her agreement.

“Sarabeth?” Her grandfather’s voice boomed. Obviously, he was closer to the speaker than her grandmother.

“Hello, Granddad,” she murmured.

“Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I say?” he huffed.

“You did, Stanley. You certainly did,” her grandmother agreed.

“This whole business was a bad idea from the start. If I said it once, I said it a million times. You never should have taken that job.”

“And you did say it.”

Sarabeth could practically see her grandmother, nodding furtively and straightening her starched skirt as she spoke.

“And he did say it,” she repeated, apparently for Sarabeth’s benefit, because that was how speakerphones worked.

Not.

“Damn right, I did. Been on the phone all day. Chasing reporters off of your grandmother’s prized azaleas.”

“They did win quite a few prizes,” Grandmother replied primly.

“They’re lovely flowers, dear.”

“Thank you. I think it’s the soil, you know. I had the gardener try—”