Guarding Miranda (17 page)

He couldn’t possibly be jealous of the dead drug dealer, could he?

The look in her eyes had softened some, from outrage to deep-seeded hurt.

“Richard wasn’t so lucky the night he was murdered...”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“Not with you!”

“No need to be cross, love.” He said softly, taking the armchair he had been sitting in when she entered. “I’m just trying to be friendly.”

“I’ve already seen a grief counselor. You can knock it off with the sympathy routine.”

He didn’t dignify her nasty tone with a response.

“So what else do you know about me?” She finally asked, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had come between them.

Everything from your birth date to your bra size, sweetheart
, thought Brian with a grin.

“I know enough.”

“Like what?”

He decided to show his hand. “Like that you’re twenty seven, never married, once engaged, with a college diploma in graphic arts and a university degree in Fine Arts.  As for the schools you went to, you attended college at the San Diego Institute of Technology and attended California State University in San Francisco.  You’re an archery and tae kwon do enthusiast with several trophies and medals under your belt.  You’re a fan of Claude Monet, like your uncle and – surprisingly – a big fan of Luis Royo, Dorian Cleavenger, Boris Vallejo and H. R. Giger, all modern artists that don’t quite fit with your snooty Fine Art education.”

“Go on,” she said sarcastically, when he paused. 

“You prefer mocha-cappuccinos over regular coffee and have your hair and nails done regularly.  You’ve inherited a king’s ransom from your parents but you’ve barely spent a penny of it but for regular contributions to charities and the occasional personal expense.  As educated as you are, you have yet to seek employment in your chosen field.  You’ve been coasting through life for a handful of years. You’ve lived with your Uncle Russ and Aunt Nancee since your parents’ passed away and were intending to move once you married Richard.  Your wear a size eight shoe and have a twenty nine inch waist. Shall I go on?”

She seemed upset at his vast and varied knowledge of her affairs.

“As I don’t believe my uncle filled you in on even the half of that, I’ll kindly ask how it is you’ve come to know so much about me?”

“It’s a talent.” He grinned at her frown.

She took a large swallow of her vodka laden drink. “Have you been following me around?  Has my uncle been paying you to follow me around?”

“Did I mention how intelligent you are?”

“Why?” She demanded, sitting up in her seat, her face pale. “Why did he hire you?”

“Out of concern for your safety.”

“My safety!” She exclaimed, incredulously.

Perhaps it actually
was
a good time. 

Time to tell her all that he knew.

Time to bite the bullet and just spit it out,
Brian decided.

“Miranda, your uncle was mortified by my discoveries.  He suspected that you were engaged to a drug dealer.  It turns out, from my investigations, that he was right.”

“You were following Richard around too?” Then she realized what he had just said. “Drug dealer?  You’re lying!”

“Am I?” He arched an inquisitive brow.

She was not so sure herself any more. 

Could there be any truth to the rumors?

Surely not!

Not Richard!

“Richard was a good man!” She insisted. “An honorable man who made an honest living…”

“I’ll be back in a minute, with proof.” He said and rose from his seat to seek out the thick manila envelope in his room.

“Yeah, you do that mister,” she grumbled into her vodka.

Yet her stomach lurched with nausea at the thought that their might in fact be truth to Brian’s claims.

To the newspaper headings.

To the Blog feeds.

No, no, please no,
she vented psychically.

Brian was a capable, competent man.

If he was so certain of his findings, then?

He walked back down the stairs, aware of her angry green eyes upon him, condemning him a thousand times over. “Russ said that you would probably like to see the photos and video for yourself.”

He set the thick envelope on the coffee table before her. 

“What’s in a picture?” She asked, sarcasm in her voice. 

She feared the worst, feared that it was all true.

She glared at the manila envelope as though the flap of it was ready to bite her.

“A thousand words.” He replied and then scratched his chin in thought. “I also have a DVD of the recordings you might want to see.”

The DVD, in its case, was the topmost bulge in the envelope.

“I don’t believe you.” There were angry tears now, in her eyes, as she finished the last of her drink with a shaking hand.

“You
don’t
believe me or you don’t
want
to believe me?”

When she didn’t answer, he gave her a moment to collect her thoughts.

Her angry tears flowed unimpeded.

He wanted for all the world to wipe those tears away.

She set down her vodka glass, her eyes locked on the envelope.

“Would you like to see for yourself?” He asked gently, sliding the pictures from the manila sheath.

The DVD clattered unto the coffee table.

There was courage in her voice as she said, “Absolutely.”

With a shaking hand, she accepted the thick pile of photographs from him and began to flip through them, one by one, her horror growing with each new image.

There were pictures of Richard, Richard and more of Richard. 

Richard with the stereotypical briefcase full of money, Richard examining discreetly wrapped packages, Richard Bent over snorting what appeared to be cocaine through a straw.

She could not believe her eyes.

“Oh my God.” Her words were barely a whisper.

“You think that’s bad,” said Brian softly, as he rose to put the DVD in the player that took up the midst of the high tech entertainment equipment. “Wait ‘til you see the video.”

Turning up the volume, he set the DVD to
play
...

Chapter Eight

Miranda was still crying into her pillow when Brian came to check on her two hours later.  She lay face down on the bed, her sobs just audible enough for him to hear. 

He opened the door wider, to let himself in.

“Miranda?”

“Leave me alone.” Her voice shook with her, as she spoke.

“Miranda, if you need to talk about this-”

She pulled herself up into a sitting position and glared at Brian, her face puffy and pink from crying. “I said leave me alone!”

He closed the door before the pillow she had thrown could make contact with his head.

It was past one o’clock in the morning and he had a sinking feeling that she would be crying all night.

“Couldn’t you have broken it to me easier?” She yelled, her voice cracking under the toll of the last few hours. 

“I figured honesty was the best policy.” He told her through the closed door, knowing his voice would carry. “There was no point in sugar coating something that would cut so deep.”

“Well thanks for nothing!” She yelled, coughed and added: “Jerk.”

Brian went to his bedroom and closed the door. 

Setting the gun, in its holster, on the nightstand, he stripped down to his boxer shorts and slid between the crisp blue sheets. 

He listened to the sobbing that tore and shred at his heart, until finally, she fell silently asleep from exhaustion. 

Then and only then, did he allow himself the luxury of the same.

He woke later that Thursday morning to his watch’s alarm at six thirty. 

He was as refreshed as could be expected on four hours’ sleep. 

Dressing in a pair of Bahama shorts and a black T-shirt, he checked in on Miranda. 

The dark haired beauty was sleeping peacefully, all traces of her hours of tears gone, save but for a slight bit of puffiness around her eyes. 

He watched her breathe for a long moment and then physically forced himself away from the door, closing it softly behind him.

He went for a quick jog, several treks up and down the long driveway.  It wasn’t as long as his usual daily run but he would have to make some personal sacrifices now that he was on duty around the clock with Miranda.

Swatting aside the mosquitoes that pestered him, he executed fifty push-ups in the grass while the maddening insects buzzed in hunger around him. 

Frustrated by the mosquitoes he completed the rest of his push-ups indoors and followed them with sit-ups, of which he counted a hundred.  

He did his lunges barefoot, in the kitchen, along with his squats. 

Once he was finished, he had a glass of cold water from the jug in the fridge and decided to get on with breakfast. 

Rummaging through the cupboards, he found an electric coffee pot and a sealed pound of Maxwell House coffee. 

Glad that he would not be without his morning coffee, he brewed a pot and checked through the fridge and remaining cupboards for anything that might resemble breakfast.

There were ingredients enough to make pancakes from scratch, his dear Aunt Bernie’s recipe and so he did, making enough for himself and his reluctant assignment. 

As he stirred the pancake batter he wondered how long Miranda would sleep.  If his past observations were anything to go by, she was almost never up before eight.

He wondered, also, if she would have much of an appetite. 

Upon hearing the DVD and Richard’s comments regarding her, she had thrown up in the bathroom with a great amount of noise. 

Would she have the stomach this morning for a batch of Aunt Bernie’s incredible hotcakes?  He supposed that time would tell...

It’d be an awful waste of Aunt Bernie’s genius, if she didn’t.

Sipping the coffee, he located the frying pan, a pancake-flipper and a serving plate and set to cooking the hotcakes.  There was an unopened bottle of corn syrup in the fridge, left there by Russ the previous hunting season and so he set it on the dining room table along with plates and cutlery enough for two.

Miranda surprised him by groggily stalking down the stairs, just after eight o’clock, rubbing at her eyes as she neared.

“What time is it?” She asked, yawning.

“Ten after eight.” He replied, very conscious of the long, slender and feminine body beneath the green silk robe.

The robe barely came to her knees and what lovely knees they were. 

Her arms were crossed over her chest, hugging herself but he could see her nipples, pert and beckoning, embossing the thin material.

He forced himself to look up into her curious green eyes and said, “You’re up early.”

“You would know,” she guessed, “Since you’ve been following me around and all.  Pancakes?”

She was clearly surprised to see them.

“I already ate.  What’s left of them is yours.”

She surprised him with a yawned, “Thank you,” before stalking off to the bathroom.

He was glad to see that she harbored no obvious hard feelings toward him.

Either she had forgiven him for being her bodyguard and the spy who had been following her around for three months or the anger in her was still asleep and thereby dormant.