Mission: Out Of Control. Susan May Warren

up until a year ago, he wouldn’t have stood in his brother’s way. But the days of fighting his fellow man had vanished. Now, wars were fought against grade-schoolers with guns and idealistic teenagers with bombs strapped to their bodies. In the villages and homes of innocent women and toddlers. No way would he let his brother be caught in the middle of that.

      A guy simply didn’t heal from those kinds of wounds. “No way,” he’d said.

      “You love the military. What’s your deal?”

      “Join ROTC, become an officer. But no, you’re not joining up to be a grunt.”

      “It’s not up to you,” Derek said, reaching for the ball.

      And the only thing that saved them both had been Senator Wagner on the other end of the cell phone, rescuing Brody from losing it at his brother and saving their financial hide at the same time.

      Talk about his instincts misfiring.

      “You didn’t tell me that your daughter was ‘Vonya,’ Senator, when you asked me to protect her.” Indeed, Brody had imagined some cultural princess who needed her bags carried as she sashayed down the Champs-Élysées. Maybe he’d done the math too quickly—a hundred grand would keep his brother out of the military, at least in the short term, and give him a head start on his future. The kid could change the world, maybe, someday. And paying off his parents’ loan could ease Brody’s pain at seeing his father struggling to move around the house, trying to recover from his stroke.

      “What did you think? I did mention a musical tour.”

      Violins. Beethoven. A gig with a snooty cellist, perhaps. It was possible—right now, Veronica looked like she could wield a cello while being a spokeswoman for the Daughters of the American Revolution, or perhaps standing next to her father on the campaign trail.

      “You didn’t mention crazy,” Brody said, and enjoyed, probably too much, the gap-mouthed glare from Veron—Von—whoever.

      “My security check suggested you could handle this.”

      Clearly, the good senator had checked into his decorations, his medals, his commendations—but hadn’t bothered to talk to Chet. His boss would be over the desk, throttling him if he knew Brody had practically cannonballed back into work. Thankfully, Chet had probably turned off his cell phone when he and Mae had escaped for their honeymoon.

      And what Chet didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, right? Brody would return to the office in Prague after a month, mandatory R & R accomplished, having outfitted his family with a better future. Seemed like the perfect way to shake free of his demons.

      Not if Veronica had her way. “Father, how about a female bodyguard? I mean, after all, I’m going to do some shopping—”

      “I’m sure Mr. Wickham can shop.”

      Um…

      “He doesn’t even like my music! You should have seen him the other night. He looked like he’d eaten a gourd of morsick!”

      Nope, he hadn’t. African morsick—fermented goat’s milk in a charcoal-lined gourd—was a lot, or, okay, a little worse than listening to her so-called music.

      “He doesn’t have to like your music, Veronica. He’s getting paid to keep you safe.”

      Veronica, Vonya, whoever—Brody was searching for any physical resemblance to the flamboyant sci-fi character he’d seen on the stage in this Miss Culture and Pearls—turned and stalked toward the window. She stared out of it, hard jawed. “I don’t want him. Pick anyone else but him.”

      For the first time since Brody entered the room, Senator Wagner frowned, pursed his lips, and cast a look at Brody as if considering her request. Like Brody might not be a great fit for his daughter, regardless of her wacky persona.

      Her words bothered Brody, too. Why not?

      Even if he didn’t want to babysit Vonya the Superstar, Veronica the Sorority Girl’s attitude was starting to get on his nerves. He’d done close protection on more important subjects than the Chameleon over there. “What’s the problem?”

      She rounded on him, her eyes flashing. “Because, Mr. Wickham, you are a jerk. Without asking, you decided I needed rescuing—”

      “You were hiding underneath a speaker!” His gaze flicked to the bruise on her arm, a bloom of pain that probably hurt when she moved it.

      “It doesn’t matter. I had everything under control, and when I told you to put me down you ignored me.”

      “Because you were being stupid.”

      She closed her mouth, opened it, her eyes flashing.

      Well, she was. “Sorry, but you were crawling across the stage, and then you flung yourself like a Frisbee into the crowd. I had to pluck you out of a mosh pit. Of course you were in over your head, and if you don’t see that, then we’re in worse shape here than I thought.” Was he yelling? Not yet, but he wanted to. Now he fully recognized Vonya, if only by the feelings she’d churned up in him.

      “Says you.”

      “Yeah, and about sixteen years of instinct.” And at least one act of poor judgment he vowed never to repeat. “Putting you down would have caused a riot. I did what was necessary.”

      “Without a thought to how I might feel.”

      “So shoot me. I thought you might actually be grateful that someone was looking out for you.”

      He could agree he’d been a jerk, but right now he just wanted to fold his hands around her delicate neck and throttle her. No wonder her father had called him. She reminded Brody too much, suddenly, of Lucy. If she ever acted like this, he’d throw her in a barrel and nail it shut.

      Maybe feed her through the hole. Or not.

      Okay, that was a little extreme, but the thought of spending one hour, let alone one month, with this woman had him breaking out in hives.

      Her eyes narrowed, just for a second. Then, “I don’t need anyone to look out for me.”

      “Your father thinks you do.”

      She flinched, then looked away, her voice tumbling low. “You don’t even like me.”

      “I don’t have to like you to do my job.”

      Her chin quivered, just slightly, before she turned her back to him.

      His chest burned, right in the center. What did it matter if he liked her? He shook his head, shot a glance at the senator, his voice tight. “Maybe she’s right, sir. Maybe you should find someone else.”

      Maybe he could take out a loan for the house, the tuition…

      The senator picked up his drink, considering it for a moment, swishing the liquid in his glass tumbler.

      Brody opened his mouth to recant when Senator Wagner cut him off.

      “Nope. It’s Mr. Wickham or the tour is off.” He directed his words to Veronica, who whirled around, her mouth open just long enough to give her away. Then her eyes went to Brody and he saw something flicker in them. Something that looked dangerously like determination.

      Was she hiding something? But in a flash, up went a new mask—not quite cultured Veronica, but too serious to be Vonya. A new, probably more charming, personality. Nice.

      “Fine. That’s just fine. Mr. Wickham will do. As long as he listens to me and stays out of my way.” She took a breath and moved toward him. Brody held out his hand again, as if to seal the deal, but she brushed past him.

      “Staying out of your way might be a little difficult. And, by the way, just for the record, I do like you,” he said, hoping to throw some cool on her steam.

      “Save it,” she snapped, and shut the door behind her with a click.

      Brody