The Bodyguard And The Bridesmaid

Maggie sighed. “I have the utmost respect for our police officers, but I’m afraid in this case, you just can’t afford to rely on them to find that creature. Things are not the way they used to be when my father and brothers were on the force. Back then, the police would have had that...that cretin in custody right after you received the first letter.

“But things are different now. Now a police officer has to be concerned about things like overtime and budgets, instead of just making sure the streets are safe and the criminals are behind bars. There’s not enough time or money to spend on real police work anymore. Why do you think so many officers are leaving the force? Why I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if it’s the reason both Ryan and his brother Connor decided to get out.”

His aunt’s little speech brought Ryan up short, reminding him that his departure from the LAPD two months ago marked the first time in four generations that no Fitzpatrick was serving in law enforcement somewhere. Of course, there was always the chance that wherever Connor was, he’d gone back to being a cop. For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine his oldest brother doing anything else. But then, he’d never been able to imagine his father and brother nearly coming to blows five years ago, or the angry silence that had followed since Connor had packed up his things and left town.

“Maggie, I understand everything you’re saying, and I appreciate what you’re trying to do. But, I’ve made up my mind on this. It’s bad enough I have to deal with the police poking their noses into my personal life. I refuse to have someone else snooping around in my affairs and watching my every move.”

At the sharpness in Clea’s tone, Ryan brought his wandering thoughts back to the present. The look she leveled at him probably made most men shiver, he decided. Fortunately, he didn’t have an aversion to cold—not when he knew there was heat banked just below the surface of that frosty disdain of hers. And he intended to sample that heat again, he promised himself.

Clea picked up her coffee cup, then set it down again untouched. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Fitzpatrick. But I won’t be needing your services after all.”

So, they were back to Mr. Fitzpatrick. “No need to apologize, Duchess. I’m being compensated for my time.” Pushing away from the bar, Ryan ambled over to the couch where Clea sat looking cool and regal in her ivory cocktail dress and pearls. He could still spot the nerves she was trying so hard to hide. She was scared down to her pretty little toes, and just didn’t want to admit it.

He snagged an oatmeal cookie from the tray in front of her and devoured it in two bites. Taking his time, he skimmed his gaze over her face, down her body and back up again. “Besides,” he said, reaching for another cookie. “The fringe benefits have certainly been worth it.”

Her eyes snapped with green fire, anger overriding the fear, just as he had hoped it would. Suppressing a grin, he held up another cookie and said, “Great cookies.”

“Thank you, dear,” Aunt Maggie said from behind him.

He nodded, but held Clea’s gaze. “So, you want me to follow you home, or are you going to stay here tonight?”

“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear. Your assignment where I’m concerned is over.”

“Oh, you made yourself perfectly clear ” He polished off another cookie, then dusted his hands. “But you’re not the one giving the orders. Aunt Maggie is. She’s the one who hired me.”

Clea’s hands tightened into fists, but her voice remained surprisingly even as she said, “Well, I’m unhiring you. Consider yourself fired, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”

Ryan merely smiled. “Afraid it doesn’t work that way, Duchess. Since you didn’t hire me, you can’t fire me.”

“Maggie, I’d appreciate it if you would explain to your nephew that his assignment, or whatever it is he chooses to call spying on me, is over.”

“Ryan, you stick to her like glue until that...that man is caught and thrown into jail.”

“Yes, ma’.”

“Maggie!” Clea protested.

Despite her fragile appearance, Margaret Fitzpatrick Donatelli was anything but, Ryan mused. Clea Mason was another story. She projected as tough, fearless. And her expression and voice gave no indication of the tangle of nerves working inside her. But she didn’t seem able to keep her hands still. Right now they were gripping the cup of iced coffee she had picked up again, but had yet to taste. She was strong, determined, not used to relying on anyone. He had learned that within days of meeting her. But he suspected that Clea Mason wasn’t half as tough as she pretended to be, or as she wanted everyone to think she was. An urge itched at him—to take her into his arms, hold her and promise to keep her safe. But if he followed through on that urge, she would probably sock him in his gut.

“Enough arguing, Clea. If your family was here, they’d insist you get some sort of protection. But since they’re not here, it’s up to us to see that you do. You’re still welcome to move in here—”

“Maggie, I can’t. I’m not going to let him run me out of my home.”

“I understand. But until the police find that man, Ryan will make sure you’re safe.”

Clea released a frustrated sigh and turned to Ryan’s uncle. “James, please talk to your wife. Tell her this isn’t necessary.”

James shook his head. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in thirty years of marriage to Maggie, it’s that once she makes up her mind about something, there’s no changing it. Besides, she’s right, Clea. We don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Come on, Duchess. How bad can it be to have me around for a while?”

She arched her eyebrow in that regal way and somehow managed to look down her pretty, straight nose at him, even though he was the one standing. “You don’t really want me to answer that, do you?”

“Ouch!” With her wary green eyes and that smooth black hair framing her face, she reminded him of a beautiful, sleek kitten—with very sharp claws. “Since I’m not sure my poor ego can handle the answer, I’ll just pass on it for now.”

“Wise decision.”

Ryan eased onto the arm of the couch and caught a whiff of her scent. Roses...and something exotic and elusive—like her. He couldn’t help wondering if her skin was as petal-soft as it looked. Realizing the dangerous direction of his thoughts, he dragged himself back to the problem at hand. Finding Clea’s sick fan. “But I do have a few other questions that I’d like to have answered.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What kind of questions?”

“Oh, just routine stuff about the letters and calls you’ve been getting.”

“I’ve already told the police everything.”

“Yeah, I know. But I’d like you to tell it again—to me.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I need as much information as you can give me so I can catch this guy. And I am going to catch him, Clea. You can bank on it. It would just be a lot easier if I had a little more to go on.”

Some of the tension went out of her, and he could see the fatigue setting in. “All right,” she said, her voice weary. “What do you want to know?”

Fifteen minutes later, in the privacy of his uncle’s study, Ryan still had little or nothing more to go on. Frustrated, he ran a hand through his hair. “What about boyfriends?”

“I date men, Mr. Fitzpatrick. Not boys.”

“Ryan,” he corrected. “Then what about your men friends?”

“What about them?”

“Are you seeing anyone in particular right now?”

She stiffened, clearly uncomfortable. “Is that really any of your business?”

“Everything about you is my business. Now, how about the names of those men?”

“I’m not seeing anyone at the moment.”

And if things worked out as he planned, the only man she’d be seeing in the near future would be him. “What about the last guy...uh, man friend?”

“What about him?”

“For starters, his name.”

“Andrew.”

Ryan wrote the name down in his book and waited. When she said nothing more, he looked up from his pad. “Does Andy have a last name?”