Bodyguard Reunion. Beverly Long

ago. She looked tired. And when she’d rounded the corner of the couch, he’d seen the slightest hint of a limp, as if her scraped leg might be sore.

      All of that pulled at his gut and he reminded himself of all the reasons that he had to be mad at her.

      “There have been three letters,” she said.

      “Three,” he repeated. “I thought you said threat. Singular.”

      She waved a hand dismissively and he noticed that she wasn’t wearing any rings. Eight years ago, she’d told him she was marrying another. And like some idiot, he’d set up an alert on his computer, so that when it happened, he could rub his own damn nose in the happy news. And sure enough, four months after he’d stormed out of her father’s house, his computer had practically blown up with news media reporting on the marriage of Juliana Cambridge to Bryson Wagoner.

      After that night, he’d stopped looking, stopped hoping that she was going to magically wake up one day and decide that she’d been a fool.

      He’d been the fool.

      “Three letters,” she said, bringing him back. “I think they’re all from the same person.”

      “Is that what the police say?” he asked, looking over at Barry, who was back to wringing his hands together.

      “They can’t say conclusively,” Barry said. “But there is a similarity in tone between the documents. But they were postmarked in different cities.”

      “What cities?”

      “Boston, New York and Vegas,” Barry said. “In that order. All arriving within the last month.”

      “Yet you still decided that attending a conference in Vegas was a good idea?” he asked, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his tone. This was probably why contracting new business was generally up to Rico. Diplomacy came naturally to him. Royce had to work very hard at it.

      Jules—he could not think of her as JC—sat up straighter on the couch. She was wearing a light blue sweater and a matching blue-and-black-checked skirt with black tights. She looked very much like the pretty young girl he’d taken to dinner that first night, except then she’d been animated and now she was controlled, her somewhat pointed chin almost rigid.

      “The last one arrived in our New York office just yesterday, after we’d already arrived here.”

      “Yet you stayed.”

      “We’re a major sponsor of the conference. I’m part of a panel presentation tomorrow and then speaking at the awards dinner two days from now.”

      That would be Thursday. “How big of an event?”

      “Couple hundred.”

      Lots of people to watch. Lots of potential threats. “Do you have any of the letters with you?” he asked.

      She shook her head. Barry stood up. “I have copies,” he said. The man picked up a briefcase that had been on the floor, leaning against a wall. He opened it and pulled out papers.

      “This is the first one. Like I said, from Boston.”

      Royce took it. One sheet. It appeared the sender had cut letters or portions of words out of a magazine and strung them together in a simple poem.

      Pills and potions

      A witch’s brew.

      Danger comes to those

      Who lay claim to the stew.

      He took the second sheet. Same look, a different four-line verse.

      Those who cause death

      Must be made to pay.

      I will have justice

      And ensure He has his say.

      Was H capped in the fourth line for a reason? Or had the sender simply not been able to locate a lowercase H?

      A cap suggested importance. Or respect. Ensure He has his say. Ensure who had their say? A tightness settled in his shoulders. Revenge was a powerful motivation.

      He picked up the third. The one that had come most recently, from Vegas.

      You will beg for mercy

      I will enjoy witnessing your pain.

      The world will know the truth

      That your greed was a runaway train.

      He read it a second time and then tossed it aside. The idea that these letters had been directed at Jules made him sick. “You have no idea who sent these?”

      She shook her head no. “The police are investigating. As you probably know, they can test paper and ink and even trace it back to the original publication. All we know is that whoever sent this has access to twenty-weight copy paper sold in almost every big-box store in America, and People magazine. Miatroth products are distributed across the United States and in many other countries. Millions take a Miatroth drug every day. It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

      “But they upped the ante last night when somebody took a swipe at you?” he said.

      “Somebody maybe took a swipe at me,” she said. “I have my doubts. I think it’s very possible that it was somebody who was texting and suddenly realized they’d veered off course. Fortunately, they corrected. Or it was somebody who’d been drinking and wasn’t their best at driving in a straight line.”

      She could be right. People were idiots in their cars, seemingly forgetting that they were in control of several tons of moving equipment. “But they didn’t stop.”

      “They didn’t hit anyone. No reason to stop.”

      “There are very few coincidences in real life,” Royce said. She could have been badly injured. Somebody should have been there to protect her. Why wasn’t Bryson Wagoner with his wife after she’d received the first two threats? “Is your...husband traveling with you?” he asked, finding it hard, even after all these years, to say the word.

      Jules licked her lips. “No husband. I’m divorced.”

      He felt almost light-headed. Divorced. He shouldn’t be shocked. Lots of people were divorced. But for some reason, it wasn’t what he’d expected from Jules.

      He had a thousand questions.

      Most of them inappropriate. “Recently?” he asked. An enraged former spouse was always a security concern.

      She shook her head. “Six years ago.”

      He worked really hard to keep his expression neutral. His head was spinning. That meant...hell, she’d been married for less than eighteen months. “What’s your relationship with...him?” He knew his name. Bryson Wagoner. Appropriate since the man had needed a damn wagon to carry all his family money.

      “Fine,” Jules said.

      Fine. What the hell did that mean? The silence in the room stretched out.

      “Well, what do you think?” Barry Wood asked.

      He thought that very little surprised him anymore, but Jules had knocked his socks off. He thought his heart was beating too fast. He thought she was still the most beautiful woman that he’d ever met. “I think you’re right to be concerned,” Royce said.

      “We appreciate your opinion.” If possible, Jules’s jaw was even tighter, and her lips barely moved when she spoke.

      “It’s what I do,” he said, suddenly defensive. He and his partners were damn good at providing security. They had celebrities, politicians—hell, even some royalty—on their client list. A pharmaceutical CEO was nothing.

      But that wasn’t true. Jules Cambridge had never been nothing. Royalty in her own right, she’d been her father’s little princess.

      And in contrast, he’d been the commoner, who should have