Bodyguard by Melanie Shawn

2

Gage

I need you.

Fuck.How long had I waited to see her? To hear her say those words? Hell, to find out if she was even alive or not.

The sound of them now hit me hard, in a way I couldn’t immediately process. I stood there for a long moment before the rest of what she’d said sunk in.

You’re the only one who can save my life.

She was in danger. My brain performed lightning-quick calculations, aided by instincts that were so honed by experience they verged on muscle memory. Before I had time to form a conscious thought, I’d grabbed her arm and pulled her inside, shutting the door behind her and bolting it, automatically positioning my own body between her and the main points of entry.

I did a quick visual check of the room’s perimeter in the dim moonlight filtering in through the cracks in the blinds. Nothing was disturbed.

I made it a point never to leave my blinds open or any window or door unlocked, but I decided it would be safest to check anyway. I opened the coat closet and motioned her inside without a word.

“Why, is your wife coming home?” she joked as she stepped inside. The tremor in her voice gave away her nerves, though.

I wanted to let myself smile. Even a small one. Her ability to crack wise even under the tensest circumstances had been one of the things I loved most about her. But I had a job to do.

“Safety,” I said curtly, then closed the door.

In less than two minutes, I’d checked every entry point and found them all secure. I opened the closet door and nodded to her, then stood aside to let her step out.

I walked to the back of the house, putting a hand lightly on her back to guide her ahead of me.

Fuck. I wasn’t prepared for the way electricity screamed up my arm as soon as my fingertips came into contact with her back. And I wasn’t even touching her skin. That was my damn traitor body’s reaction to my fingertips just brushing her leather jacket.

My brain flashed on a quick image of her, naked in bed underneath me, with my fingertips trailing down her bare belly as her back arched to meet me.

Fuck! Knock it off, Crawford! She needs you to save her life. Not turn her into the star at the X-rated movie theater in your head.

I sat her down at my dining room table. The dining room was the only completely interior room in my house, so it was the safest. I turned on one light, but used the dimmer switch to bring it down to just the duskiest glow.

I expected her to crack another joke, but when I looked over, I saw that her leg was nervously twitching and she was gnawing at a thumbnail. Two of her classic nervousness tells.

She was really scared.

I turned the chair next to her so that it was facing her and sat down in it, looking her full in the face. I hoped that she could feel my strong protective energy. I hoped that she could tell already that I’d fucking die before I let anyone hurt her on my watch.

“Tell me what happened.”

She opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. Finally, she buried her face in her hands, then threaded them back through her hair. “I don’t know where to start.”

I reached out, put a hand on her shoulder. The same electricity I’d felt before raced up my arm, and the surprised widening of her eyes when her head snapped up to look at me told me she’d felt it, too.

I ignored it, though, as difficult as that was. I had a job to do.

“Start at the beginning.”

She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I guess that’s the last night I saw you.”