Accidental Bodyguard. Sharon Hartley

for scrap. For some bizarre reason, they didn’t seem to care about the boat, which made Jack wonder about their motive.

      What the hell were they up to? And what had been in those backpacks?

      * * *

      FRIDAY AFTERNOON, WISHING the pool guy would get here already, Claudia tossed her textbook aside and padded in socks to what she now thought of as security central. She studied the static image of the front gate, but no one was visible. What time would the serviceman show? She’d closed all the window coverings so he couldn’t see in while he worked. She’d been antsy all morning and wouldn’t be able to relax until the pool maintenance was completed.

      Not that she’d been doing much relaxing for the last four days. Her grand intention, her goal during her solitary confinement, was to study for certification as a physician’s assistant, a job she considered the wave of the future in health care and one that paid far better than working the floors of a hospital. She had all the material she needed in old-fashioned hardbound books. No way was she venturing on the internet to leave a footprint for Carlos’s bogeymen to trace, even though an excellent free course existed online to help her cram.

      But every morning, after two hours of reading and taking notes, she’d grow restless and unable to focus. A walk around the estate released tension, as did a swim in that gorgeous heated pool. But going outside was off-limits today until the pool had been checked and proper chemicals added.

      She glared at the television, which also provided an escape. She suspected by the end of her confinement she’d hate TV. Either that or she’d be one of those weird addicted viewers who couldn’t miss an episode of Hoarders. But she didn’t dare turn up the sound this morning.

      Where was the pool guy? Alert for the slightest noise, she soundlessly returned to the sofa and grabbed her book. Not even a week, and already she longed to venture beyond the walls of Villa Alma. She’d seen photos of a gorgeous beach. The golf course—all of the holes with a view of the Atlantic—looked prettier than the one on Pebble Beach.

      Claudia forced her attention back to techniques for taking a good patient history. She found the subject interesting. She really did. She wanted to learn how to— Her head jerked up at a noise outside. The gate opening?

      She crept to the monitor. Yes, the gate stood wide open. A red-haired young man, maybe an older teenager, walked into the image carrying a yellow bucket in each hand. He wore shorts and a T-shirt, but soon disappeared off the monitor.

      Claudia tiptoed back to the couch and slowly, oh so carefully, set her butt down. No one—especially not young maintenance men who might be susceptible to bribes—could know she was here. She considered Jackson Richards and his team a weak link, but had to assume the security of übersafe Collins Island was trustworthy.

      But maybe not. Carlos had taught her you couldn’t trust anyone. Ever.

      She wrapped her arms around her knees and waited, forehead down, barely breathing. She couldn’t see the screen from here, but testing a pool’s water couldn’t take long. She closed her eyes, her stomach churning. When the kid left, she’d planned to put on sunscreen, recline on a lounge chair and stare at a clear blue sky. She already had on her bathing suit beneath her cutoffs, so maybe a quick dip, too. That would be the—

      The door to the living room swung open. The pool guy sauntered inside pocketing a key, focused on the kitchen.

      Heart pounding, Claudia reached for her Glock. She rose and backed toward security central, raising the weapon with both hands. How had Carlos found her so quickly?

      The pretend pool guy hadn’t yet noticed her.

      Never taking her gaze off the intruder, she pushed the panic button.

      Nothing happened. A chill traced her spine. Had the lines been cut?

      Whistling as if he hadn’t a care in the world, Carlos’s hit man moved into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door.

      “What the—” He jumped back as if stung. He swung his head.

      That’s when he saw her. And screamed—just like a little girl.

      Claudia stiffened her elbows. The gun was becoming heavy. “Hands up,” she said, amazed her voice sounded calm.

      He shot his arms in the air, his face bright red. “Oh, God. Please. Please don’t shoot me.”

      “Did Carlos send you?” she demanded.

      “Who? No.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

      “Who are you?”

      “I work for AquaClear. I service the pool. No one is supposed to be here. I keep beer in the fridge and—oh, God. I’m going to be—”

      He vomited all over the spotless kitchen floor.

       CHAPTER THREE

      WHEN THE ALARM from Villa Alma sounded, Jack bolted from the security office and onto his golf cart. He punched the accelerator, but the slow-ass worthless piece of junk wouldn’t go over ten miles an hour. Hell of a thing in an emergency. He could jog faster than this.

      He needed to find out what was going on inside Villa Alma.

      As he approached Santaluce’s estate, he noted AquaClear’s service truck outside a wide-open gate.

      Jack unsnapped the holster beneath his shoulder. Moving cautiously through the opening, he glanced up to the camera mounted high on the gate. Was Ms. Clark watching?

      Ignoring the main house, he jogged toward the smaller cabana. He couldn’t see inside. Every window was covered.

      The two on-duty guards arrived on their carts. He held up his hand to signal them to hold.

      This wasn’t a police op, so he needed to follow the emergency protocol established by the home owners’ association.

      At the front door, he placed his ear against the wood and listened. All quiet.

      He motioned for his backup to approach. He positioned them at each end of the structure—although they were all but useless since their only weapon was a Taser.

      Jack removed his Sig Sauer, pointed the barrel skyward and rapped hard on the door.

      “Ms. Clark, Island Security. Please respond.”

      Protocol dictated to wait five minutes and then breach. Five minutes was too long if someone was inside bleeding.

      The door opened. Ms. Clark appeared. No blood visible.

      Jack relaxed slightly.

      “Took you long enough,” she said.

      “What’s the emergency?” Jack demanded.

      “Intruder alert.” With a Glock awkwardly clutched in her right hand, she motioned him inside.

      “Watch where you point that thing,” Jack said. By the way she held the weapon, he doubted she knew how to use it. He signaled for his backup to stand down and stepped inside the cabana.

      A foul smell was his first sensory impression. Next was how the place was closed up tight as a tomb.

      P.J., the kid who serviced the pools, lay on a sofa with a washcloth over his eyes. He looked sick.

      “This is your intruder?” Jack asked.

      “Yep.” Ms. Clark moved to the kitchen, placed the gun on a counter, pulled on plastic gloves and squatted to clean up puke on the floor. That explained the smell.

      Jack glanced back to the sofa. “What happened?”

      P.J. groaned and sat up. He worked the washcloth between nervous fingers. “I keep Coronas in the fridge. This is my last stop of the day, so I pop a cold one and take a dip in the pool.”

      “What?”