The Bodyguard and Ms. Jones (6 page)

He shuddered at the thought. “Do you know what's in those cartoons?”

“Yes, that's why I try to be out of the room.” She tossed him the jeans, then bent over his duffel bag and dug out a T-shirt. “Think of it as your aerobics exercise for the day. A race for the remote control.”

His heart was already getting a workout, he thought, watching the way the fabric of her shorts pulled tight around her derriere. The feminine curves tempted him. He didn't know what the problems had been in her marriage, but he was willing to bet her husband hadn't left because he wanted someone better-looking. If Mike was wrong, her husband was a fool.

Cindy tossed him a T-shirt then started for the door. Before she left, she glanced back at him. “About Beth,” she said, then nibbled on her lower lip. “She's just talking. She tries to be very worldly and all, but she's in love with her husband. She'd never actually do anything.”

“I know.”

“I just didn't want you to think that she was like that.”

“Maybe when I meet her, I should offer her a quick look.”

Cindy laughed. “Only if I can be there to see the expression on her face.”

“Deal.”

“Get dressed, eat your snack, then head for the family room. The kids will be outside for another half hour or so.”

With that, she left. He found it humorous that she would tend to the wound on his thigh but she always left him alone to dress. She treated him with amused tolerance. He couldn't remember the last time he'd joked with someone, or bothered to relax. He'd been working too hard, without a break between jobs.

If nothing else, this forced time off would give him a chance to regroup. As soon as he was able, he could move into Grace's house. Once there, he would think about what it was he wanted to do with his life. His recent encounter with death had him wondering about different career options. He was pushing forty. Next time he might not be so lucky.

He grabbed his jeans and started to slip them on his good leg. Before he'd pulled them up past his knee, there was a scream from outside.

“Mommy, Mommy, Allie's been hurt.”

“Allison!”

Mike heard Cindy race through the house, open the front door and call for her daughter. He jerked on the jeans, and about lost his balance when his head started to swim. He grabbed the footboard and held on. The room twirled and darkened, then slowly returned to normal. He pulled the trousers up over his hips and quickly fastened the buttons. He started out the door in a slow shuffling step.

Pain radiated from his bullet wound. Darkness nipped at the edges of his vision. He could hear conversation and someone crying. As he reached the entryway, Cindy came in carrying Allison in her arms.

The little girl was sobbing. She clung to her mother as blood oozed from a scrape on her knee. Behind them, Jonathan and a couple of other kids he didn't know trailed in. Cindy looked up and saw him.

“Mike, could you bring that box of medical supplies into the kitchen, please?” Before he answered, she looked over her shoulder. “Billy and Ashley, you're going to have to go home now. Jonathan, shut the door.”

Mike headed for the bathroom. By the time he got to the kitchen, he was breathing hard and hanging on to walls for support. Jonathan stood by the entrance to the family room, just watching. Cindy had settled on one of the kitchen chairs, with Allison's injured leg propped up on the one next to it. Using a damp washcloth to wipe away the dirt, Cindy cleaned the still-bleeding wound.

Mike shuffled forward and placed the first-aid kit on the table. Cindy glanced up at him. Her green eyes widened. “You look like you're going to pass out. Take a seat.”

He sank onto the chair across from hers.

Allison's cries had quieted to sniffles, but she still kept her face buried in her mother's neck. She winced as the washcloth touched her scrape.

“Hush, baby girl,” Cindy murmured. “It's going to be all right.”

She reached for the antiseptic and dampened a cotton ball. Mike flinched, knowing what was coming. He'd treated some bad wounds before, but those had been on adults. This was seven-year-old Allison who came to visit him every morning and told him about her imaginary friend, Shelby. He hated to see her face streaked with tears.

“Take a deep breath,” Cindy warned, then touched the cotton to the scrape. Allison shook all over. She sucked in another breath, then let it out in a hiccuped sob.

“I know,” her mother told her. “Almost done. You're going to be fine, although I don't think you'll be swimming this afternoon.”

“Can I still have cookies?” Allison asked, then sniffed.

“Sure.” Cindy opened a bandage and placed it over the scrape. After smoothing it in place, she hugged her daughter close.

Mike stared at the pair. He felt something odd inside. A hollowness, as if he was just now noticing a piece that had been missing from his life for a long time. The ache felt old and bitterly familiar. It came from being on the outside looking in.

As Cindy held her child and rocked her, light brown hair fell over blond. Her voice was soft as she hummed tunelessly. He could hear Allison's breathing calm.

The girl opened her eyes and looked at him. A single tear dripped onto her mother's shoulder.

“Better?” he asked.

Allison nodded.

It was as if a giant fist were squeezing his heart. Maybe it was seeing all he'd never had. Not just the house, although his family had been poor. He'd grown up in a one-bedroom apartment, sleeping on the sofa, or the floor of his mother's room if she was entertaining. He'd always felt passed over in the business of her life. First she'd been working so much, then she'd remarried and had Grace. Her new child had claimed her time. Funny, he'd never blamed his half sister for that.

Watching Cindy hold Allison reminded him of all he'd missed. The caring, the bond between a mother and child. The love. Until that moment, he'd forgotten the emotion even existed.

Chapter Four

M
ike braced his hands against the tiled wall of the shower and let the hot water run over him. He breathed in deeply, noticing it didn't hurt so bad to inhale. Pretty soon he would be able to cough and sneeze like a normal person.

When he'd rinsed the shampoo from his hair, he reached for the bar of soap and lathered it leisurely. As he rubbed the bar over his body, he noted which parts still hurt like hell and which were healing. The bullet wound would take the longest. The entry hole was just about closed, but the exit wound was still nasty looking. In the next day or so, he was going to have to start rehabilitation. As he rinsed off the soap, he grimaced. Rehabilitation was a fancy way of saying he would spend the next three months sweating in a gym, slowly bringing his torn and injured muscles back to normal.

He turned slowly under the spray, then pushed in the knob to turn off the water and stepped out of the shower. The bathroom was large enough that the steam simply floated away. The wide mirror opposite didn't fog up. Instead, it reflected his image clearly. He snapped up the towel he'd left hanging on the hook and ran it over his chest and arms. After passing it over his legs, he rubbed his hair, then wrapped the towel around his waist.

Mike limped toward the double sinks. Cindy had left his shaving kit next to the one on the left, so that's where he brushed his teeth and shaved.

The silence of the house sounded odd on this weekday morning. Usually, one or both of the children were inside playing, running or shrieking. He'd grown used to dozing between the calls of various games or the thunder of feet on the stairs. Cindy tried to keep them quiet when he was resting, but he'd quickly learned that a grown-up's and a child's definition of quiet were extremely different.

He'd had a bad night, with the pain keeping him awake, even after he'd taken his pills. As he bent over the sink and splashed shaving cream off his face, he felt the twinge in his leg. It was better today. He'd been shot before so he knew the drill. There would be bad moments, and good ones. Eventually, it healed and only the weather would remind him of the injury.

This morning, Cindy had taken the children to the grocery store with her. Mike had asked her to pick up a few things for him. He wondered if she was getting tired of nursing him, but every time he mentioned leaving, she insisted he stay until he was more mobile. He didn't mind being here. The kids were kind of fun and Cindy was prettier than any nurse he'd ever had. Between her shorts and those snug T-shirts she wore, he was about ready to—

The sound of the doorbell cut through his thoughts. He finished wiping his face, then limped to the front door. The marble tiles in the entryway were cold on his bare feet. The beveled-glass window in the wooden front door allowed him to see the shape of the person on the other side, but not her features. He turned the lock and pulled open the door.

The woman in front of him was in her sixties. Despite the already rising temperature of the Houston summer morning, she was wearing a long-sleeved dress in a blue-and-green floral print, with a little straw hat on her head. Tight gray curls marched across her forehead. A purse hung over her left forearm and she was clutching a clipboard to her chest.

“Yes?” Mike asked when the woman didn't say anything.

She stared. Her small blue eyes widened and her mouth opened. There wasn't any sound.

“Were you looking for Mrs. Jones?” he asked.

The woman nodded. She was short, maybe an inch over five feet, with the matronly roundness of a grandmother. Her face paled, until the powder she was wearing seemed colorful by comparison.

“Is she here?” the woman asked, her voice high-pitched and shaking. Her gaze, which had swept over him thoroughly, now settled on his bare feet.

“Not right now. She's at the grocery store. I expect her shortly. May I give her a message?”

“And you are?”

He frowned. “A friend.”

“I see.” With that, she handed him a sheet of paper. At the top, a banner reminded the reader of the annual blood drive at the local church. “If you could give this to her, please.”

Mike glanced down at the towel he was wearing and groaned silently. Damn. He was flashing the local church lady.

“Ah, ma'am? Cindy, ah, Mrs. Jones, is a friend of my sister's. I was recently injured on the job and she's been taking care of me. It's not what you think.”

The woman turned smartly and started down the walkway, never once looking back. He thought of continuing his explanation, then figured she wouldn't believe him, anyway. He swore again.

Before he could close the door, he heard a call from across the street. As he looked up, he saw a woman standing in her front yard. She had short, dark red hair and the kind of chest that made a man act like a fool.

“Hello,” the woman called. “You must be Mike. I'm Beth, Cindy's friend. How are you feeling?”

Beth? The same Beth who had wanted to see him naked? “Fine,” he called back.

“I see you're up and around.”

And flashing the neighborhood. “Yes. Thanks. See you soon.” As he closed the door, he had the fleeting thought that he could solve Beth's problems by dropping the towel, but then figured she would like it too much. As he made his way back to the bedroom, he wondered how he was going to explain the incident with the church lady to Cindy.

By the time Cindy and the kids returned, he'd pulled on jeans and a shirt. He carried in one load of groceries, then had to sit down before his leg gave out.

Allison set a sack of potatoes on the table in front of him and smiled shyly. “Shelby says you're going to get sick again if you do too much.”

“Tell Shelby she's a very smart little girl.”

Allison dimpled.

“How are you feeling?” Cindy asked as she carried in the last armful of groceries. Jonathan trailed behind her, shutting the doors of the minivan.

“I'm going out to play,” he said, hovering by the back door.

“Me, too,” Allison added. Her knee was better with only a small bandage covering the worst of the scrape.

“Go ahead,” Cindy said, then laughed as they closed the door. “They'll do anything to avoid putting away the groceries. Even play outside in the heat.”

“They do that, anyway,” he said.

“You're right.” She glanced around at the kitchen. “Do you think we have enough food?”

He followed her gaze. The countertops were in the shape of an L. Bags of groceries covered the white surface. There were twelve-packs of soda, cartons of detergent and double packs of cereal.

“Expecting a famine?” he asked.

She chuckled. “It's triple-coupon day. You should have seen the lines. And soda was on sale, along with a great cut of meat. The grocery store does this a couple of times in the summer. I suppose it's to get people out in the heat.”

Money was tight. He should have figured that out already. She'd explained that most divorced women couldn't afford to keep their houses. “How much do I owe you for what I've eaten?”

She placed her hands on her hips and glared at him. He supposed she was trying to intimidate him, but all she did was draw her shirt tighter over her breasts. He'd already had two highly erotic dreams about her. He looked away and forced himself to think of something else.

“I was making conversation, not hinting,” she said. “I could feed you for a month and not even get close to what your sister has given my kids in snacks and meals. So I don't want to hear another word about paying me for your food.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He rose to his feet. “At least let me help put the groceries away.”

“Don't be silly. You'll fall flat on your butt.” She leaned over the table and pushed on his chest. He was still tired from carrying in two bags, so he didn't argue. He took the glass of juice she offered and watched her put away the food.

She moved around the kitchen with graceful ease. Her movements were almost a dance, the smooth lifting and bending. She kicked off her shoes and he saw she painted her toenails pale pink. Her shorts were red and her T-shirt had a drawing printed on the front that proclaimed her to be Queen of Everything. Small gold hoops dangled from her earlobes and a red headband held her hair off her face.