My Biker Bodyguard (12 page)

Jess listened as he told her about his days as a boxer, his
connection to the brutal underworld, and marveled at how close
she'd come to the truth the moment she'd laid eyes on him. He
had been a knee-breaker for the mob after all.

"So I made good and came out here, got started as a
private investigator. That's where I met Larson. After a while,
I got sick of peepin' at cheaters and helpin' out divorce lawyers.
Larson hooked me up with my first protection gig and I liked it
a hell of a lot more than snoopin' for bucks."

"Sort of to make up for all the times people needed
protection from you, huh?" She watched for his reaction,
wondering if he'd feel like she'd accused him, or if he'd
understand she approved of the career change, exchanging
good karma for bad.

He nodded, but didn't reveal anything about how he felt.
"Yeah, guess you could say that too."
She decided to let it go. "What about family? Do you
miss them? What about your mother?"
"She died a while back."
"Sorry to hear that. Any other family?"
"Don't have any to speak of." He shrugged, the subject
obviously of no interest to him. "But listen, I've set it up so we
can do some target shooting. You want to go to the range, or
straight to see your mother?"
Jess had only agreed to go see her mother because she
thought it was expected of her. In reality, she was all mixed up
about seeing her in a coma. She didn't know what to do, or
how she'd feel, or if she'd come unglued. Last night, she'd had
a terrible dream, one that woke her up and made her call home.
Her father hadn't been sleeping, and he hadn't sounded
surprised when she'd given him the details.
Memories of that long ago time, memories she didn't
know existed, until Mitch came into her life, were surfacing
and they left her all…discombobulated. Outwardly, she was
still Jess, a grown business woman with a gift for motorcycle
repair and tattooing, but inside, she shrank a little every day,
turning into this desperate child craving for an unknown love.
"What?" Mitch stepped close as if he meant to drape an
arm around her shoulder, but stopped and shoved his hands into
his pockets instead. "You okay?"
"Yeah, let's go let off some steam before we go see my
mother. I'm not…ready yet."
He nodded. "Okay. Wait for me in the foyer, I'll be there
in a minute. Just gonna find our friendly FBI escorts and tell
them we're ready."
She nodded and he left her alone in the dining room.
Today, even though she'd delayed their visit, she'd still see her
mother. Goose bumps rose on her arms. She hopped off the
table. Worrying herself into a riot of nerves wasn't going to
help her or anyone else. Especially at a shooting range.
Jess found the bathroom off the foyer, one Mitch had
shown her the night before, and gazed at her reflection in the
mirror. The blue of her shirt brought out the color in her eyes,
but didn't help the smudges at their corners. Tired, she
wondered if her eye-color came only from her father, or if her
mother shared the color as well.
I'm not gonna find out today unless I peel back her eyelid
to check
.
She'd searched for a photograph around the common
rooms in the house, but either her mother didn't have her
picture taken often, or didn't display them. The place was
practically sterile. Each room looked like something from a
magazine. The servants–three maids, an estate manager, and a
chef she hadn't yet met, filled out the staff. They stayed out of
sight and if you didn't spend more than a few hours in the
house, you weren't likely to see them. It felt odd to have
strange people holed up around you–like they were playing a
game of hide and seek, but never wanted to be found.
She ran cold water in the basin and refreshed her face.
Maybe she could ask Jared for a photograph. The idea of
asking him for anything felt weird and she decided against it.
She'd just have to wait until her mother woke up.
God, what am I going to say to her today?
She could
count on having a one-sided conversation, but could she say the
things she'd fantasized telling her mother? Could she say those
things to a woman hanging onto life by her fingertips?
Jess didn't think so. Maybe it would be better this way, in
the end. Get her physically comfortable with the woman who
was her mother, and then later, hopefully, get emotionally and
mentally comfortable with her when she woke up.
With a plan in place, she felt better and dried her face.
Not seeing any reason to ask Mitch, she retrieved the pistol
he'd given her from the nightstand drawer in her room, then
returned to the foyer to wait.
* * *
Mitch found Mordstrom and Davis in the kitchen, eating a
late breakfast. Their suit coats were draped over the backs of
their chairs. Without them on, they looked like armed boys too
naughty to sit in class at their private school.
"We're ready to head out to the range. Afterward, Jess
wants to see her mother." Mitch leaned on the back of a
kitchen chair, hands wrapped around the high back. "I expect
you'll be tagging along?"
Mordstrom nodded, wiping his mouth and standing.
"We'll follow at a discreet distance. Give you two some
space."
Mitch clenched his hands tighter around the back of the
chair. "I know what you both think about Jess and me. You're
wrong. It's not like that."
Davis raised a brow at Mordstrom and stood. His gaze,
when it fell on Mitch, was veiled. "Officially, we're only
investigating Grady at this time. But if you have anything
you'd like to tell us, we're interested."
"My history in New York is just that–history. Don't drag
Jess into anything because you two can't see what's as plain as
day." Mitch straightened, held his hands up and showed them
both palm and back. "They're clean. Keep your focus on those
who pose a threat to my client and her family."
"We'll decide who the threat is and who isn't, Mr.
Conner." Davis stood. "Now, if you don't mind, we'd like to
get this over with and have your client returned safely to the
house as soon as possible."
The dig didn't go unnoticed. In the back of his head, he'd
worried about Jess being armed ever since he'd given her the
Glock. It wasn't his practice to arm his clients, but each case
was different. With everything so backward, so stacked against
him this time, his instincts couldn't be second-guessed. It felt
right to have her armed.
Somewhere, further back in his head, he hoped that Beth,
hearing Jess's voice, sensing her daughter's presence, would
wake up and be able to answer questions no one had been able
to ask since she'd been shot. The coma kept any information
she might have beyond his reach and he prayed she knew
something. Had she seen the face of her attacker?
There were three shots fired that night, yet no casings had
been recovered, nor any traces of the assailant. The only hope
left was that Beth had seen something. Now, with the FBI
breathing down his and Jess's neck, discovering the truth wasn't
just important, it was mandatory.
"We'll drop it. For now." As much as he wanted to fight
the FBI, an argument at this point would be foolhardy.
"We'll meet you around front." Davis shrugged into his
coat. Mordstrom did likewise.
Mitch strode back to the foyer. He spotted Jess sitting on
the bottom steps of the wide staircase and jerked his head to the
door. "Ready?"
She nodded, stood, and looked at the gun in her hand.
Mitch, understanding she didn't know what to do with it, took it
from her, checked that the safety was on, and snugged it into
the back of his pants.
"Thanks." Jess straightened her shirt, tightened her
ponytail, and blew her bangs out of her eyes. She stuffed her
hands in the front pockets of her jeans. "I'm ready."
At the door, Mitch depressed a button in the security panel
and spoke into the speaker. "Pullman, we're leaving now."
Pullman came back clearly through the new speakers
Mitch had had installed. "Gotcha covered. It's a go."
Mitch opened the door and blocked the exit. Out of habit,
he checked the guard shack at the end of the long drive–the
outline of the guard in residence barely discernable at such a
distance. He glanced right, found the uniformed guard with the
watch dogs patrolling the perimeter, and on the left, spied the
pair of guards sitting in the security company's jeep along the
trail that led to the stables. He wondered in passing if Jess
knew her mother kept horses, or if that was another thing she
still had to discover.
He stepped outside and led her to the waiting limo. The
driver held the door open. She ducked in and across the seat.
She was right, there was so much she didn't know. He
wasn't sure if he could have handled suddenly knowing
everything about his father–who he was, what kind of man he
was, where he lived, who he called family. The idea was so
strange, he couldn't guess at his reaction.
"Sir?" The driver asked, still holding the door open.
Mitch snapped back. "Sorry, I was just thinking."
"That's all right, take your time." The driver smiled,
revealing a gold tooth far back on one side.
Mitch looked at him. He appeared to have had a colorful
life. Mitch hadn't noticed it before, mostly because he didn't
find it that odd. After a few days with the feds and seeing the
difference between a Milwaukee tribe of bikers and the L.A.
estate, he'd become more aware of the differences.
Struck by the realization that while Beth had been giving
rough and tumble folks like him and the limo driver decent,
honest work, her daughter had been in another state, doing the
same thing for her father and his friends.
His friends?
Did Jess have any friends of her own? He frowned,
unable to recall a single gel-pen message addressed to Jess.
"You work for the Kramer's a long time?" Mitch asked the
patient driver. He'd read the man's dossier and cleared him
months ago, but didn't remember the specifics–just that his first
name was Mike.
He nodded. "'Bout six years now."
"You got a record?"
Mike nodded slowly. "Everyone knows it. I ain't got
nothin' to do with their troubles though. I told the cops and the
FBI too. They don't listen too good though."
"I know what you mean." Mitch patted him on the arm.
He remembered now, a three-year sentence, out in one–for a
brawl with his foreman at a factory. "You're doin' good work."
"Thank you, sir." Mike's gold tooth flashed.
Mitch slid into the limo and the door closed behind him.
He caught Jess's scent. That underlying sweet aroma filled the
small enclosure and he adjusted to a less painful position. God,
he'd have to find roomier pants, or carry an ice pack with him.
The privacy screen was closed and he debated opening it
to keep him noble. First, he needed to talk to her. He twisted
in his seat to see Jess's face, wanting to test her reaction when
he told her about their new placement on the FBI's list of
suspects. He wouldn't play her that way. No friend would
keep that secret.
"What is it, Mitch?" Her eyes clouded with worry.
He wavered. To tell her here, in this confined space,
where he was all too tempted to lessen the shock she'd surely
have when hearing the truth, was not a good idea. He'd tell her
when they got to the police station. "You ever shoot indoors
before?"
She shook her head. "We usually go out of town and
shoot cans or bottles–whatever we've collected that month."
"We're gonna use the underground range at the police
station. It's probably different than what you're used to."
"Okay," she answered slowly, as if she didn't believe this
was all he'd meant to say.
She was too damned quick. He wished she didn't read
him so well, unnerved that she could. He switched to the
opposite seat and opened the privacy screen–eager for a
chaperone.
As they fell silent, he realized that he was about to drop
this bomb on her while she had a loaded gun in her hand.
I've completely lost my mind.
* * *
Jess found it strange, standing in the stall, a headset
muffling the gun shots. She took aim and fired at the targets.
First, Mitch started her out much too close. She'd almost
teased him and asked if she looked like Mr. Magoo, but the
serious scowl he'd worn since Larson left had kept her silent.
Now, he stared over her shoulder as she fired on the
shadowy humanoid shape printed on the paper twenty-five
yards away. Hand steady, she found it easy to block out the
face of the thug from the diner. She was surrounded by six
floors of police officers, backed up by two FBI agents–both
sitting near the entrance to the underground shooting range–
and crowded by one big bodyguard in a really bad mood.
The last four bullets remaining in the pistol flew rapidly,
punching home and she knew, even before Mitch pressed the
button to retrieve the target, that she'd done well. She pulled
off the headset and held her breath. As it neared, lights
brightened it intermittently. She'd managed two in the chest,
one in the chin, and one higher and off to the left, giving it a
single eye. She exhaled, satisfied.
"I'm impressed." Mitch murmured, pulling it down. "You
must be dead on back home."
"Rarely, Miss." Jess agreed, handing him back the gun.
Although she'd been pleased he gave into her request, she
didn't have a holster or a glove compartment in which to carry
the weapon and walking around with it stuck in the back of her
pants felt too wild-west for her.
He nodded, but just glared at the gun in his hand, as if by
thought alone he could disintegrate it completely.
Jess heaved a breath. "What's wrong with you? You
should be relieved that I've proven I can handle myself."
"It's not that," he glanced up at her, then quickly cut his
eyes away, toward the agents, as if he didn't want them to hear
what he next said. When his gaze returned to her, his dark eyes
were troubled, tempting. "I've got something I need to tell
you."
She crossed her arms. "Go ahead, I'm listening."
He shook his head. "Give me a minute."
Mitch approached the agents and gave them the gun to
carry back through the station for them. Davis took it and
started out the doors and up the stairs. Mitch spoke quietly.
Mordstrom cast an unfathomable look toward her, nodded at
Mitch, then followed Davis up the stairs.
Mitch returned, touched her elbow and steered her toward
a caged area where a desk and supplies for the range stayed
under lock and key. "We've only got a few minutes."
Jess braced herself, ready to hear the worst.
Oh God, he's
going to tell me my mother's dead. That's why we came here
first.
"They," Mitch jerked his head toward the FBI agents,
"have decided we're suspects, that we're working together to
get your inheritance."
"What!" This was the last thing she'd expected, but it was
a heck of a lot easier to take. It still ticked her off. "For cryin'
out loud, up until two days ago, I didn't even know if my
mother was still alive. I suppose I just shot at myself in front
of George Webb."