Bodyguard Reunion. Beverly Long

his hair that was long enough to pull back in a ponytail and his language that was likely appropriate for the battlefield but not the boardroom.

      He’d been different than anyone she’d ever met.

      Now he was wearing silk pants, shirts with monogrammed cuffs and Italian shoes.

      Time had changed them both. Things had been said. Actions taken. There was no going back.

      Only forward. And the best thing she could do was try to get a few things done before Royce returned. Her laptop was still in her bedroom. She pulled herself away from the door.

      As she crossed the threshold of her bedroom, she heard a buzz from the cell phone that she’d left on her bed. She glanced at the number and let out a sigh of relief. Charity was finally calling back.

      “Hi,” she said, trying to sound casual. “How’s it going?” Their relationship was too new, too fragile, for her to chastise the young woman about taking a full day to return the call.

      “Not so good,” Charity said, her voice barely a whisper.

      “What’s wrong?” JC asked, picking up her pen. She always thought more clearly when she had something to write with.

      “Nothing.”

      Charity sounded...bad. Not that JC had that much experience talking to her. This was only their second conversation in two months. “I was hoping we could meet for lunch,” JC said.

      “That’s probably not a good idea,” Charity said.

      No way. She was not going to let Charity blow off the meeting. She’d told Royce that she’d come because Miatroth was a major sponsor and she was presenting. That was true, of course. But the real reason she’d agreed to attend was that it gave her a reason to be in Vegas, an opportunity to get to know Charity better.

      A woman should know her sister.

      “I won’t take no for an answer,” she said, still keeping her tone light.

      There was silence on the other end. Then a sigh. “Listen,” Charity said. “I’m in trouble.”

      “What kind of trouble?” JC asked, clenching her pen.

      “The kind I don’t want to talk about on a cell phone. Can you come here?”

      Royce had been very specific—she was not to leave the hotel. And she’d promised him. “I don’t know,” she hedged. “It’s complicated.”

      “Isn’t everything?” Charity said, sounding resigned. “Never mind. I’ll figure something out. I’ll call you—”

      “Where are you?” JC interrupted. She just knew that if she failed Charity this one time, the woman might never call her again. She could not risk that.

      Charity rattled off an address. JC scribbled it down, then read it back.

      Since the day she’d discovered her dead mother’s diary and realized that everything she’d believed to be true might not be, she’d had so many questions.

      And Charity might be the only one with the answers. “I’m on my way,” JC said. “We’ll talk when I get there.”

      * * *

      Royce called Trey from the car and got him started on the contract. Then he swung by his apartment and packed enough dress shirts and slacks to get him through a couple days. He added a few more casual things and his toiletries. Before zipping up the bag, he added boxes of ammunition for the Glock he carried. He hoped like hell he wouldn’t need it, but he believed in being prepared.

      Then he was out the door a second time. When he got to Wingman Security, the paperwork was ready.

      “Rico is going to be impressed,” Trey said. “You wrapped this one up fast.”

      Royce debated telling Trey that he had known the client years before. The partners didn’t keep secrets from one another.

      But he just wasn’t ready to talk about it. Wasn’t ready to admit that seeing Jules had been a blow, almost taking his breath away. He folded the papers and stuffed them in his jacket pocket. “I’ll be at the Periwinkle for the next few days. Suite 1402.”

      “Nice digs,” Trey said. “Have you had a chance to check out the hotel?”

      “Some.” He’d looked on his way out. “Main entrance is on ground level. Both an elevator and an escalator gets you to the lobby, which is on the third floor. Elevator from there goes to floors four through forty. No key-card access required for any floor.” That meant that anybody could access any floor, which was not good. “On the fourteenth floor, there are six suites—three on each side of the elevator bay, which is in the middle of the hotel. Stairs at both ends of the hotel. Those do require a key card to open the door on any floor, including the first.” That was better news. That meant that people couldn’t simply wander in off the street, find the stairs and get anywhere in the hotel. “Hotel connects via overhead walkway to a separate three-story conference center.”

      “Sounds good,” Trey said. “Stay in touch.”

      “I will,” Royce said, and walked out the door.

      When he got back to the Periwinkle, he pointed at the spot where he wanted his car parked and gave the valet an extra hundred bucks to convince him. Nothing impeded a quick getaway like having to wait for a car to be brought around. That was a beginner mistake.

      He hadn’t even been a beginner when he’d started the agency four years ago. Not with his military experience.

      He liked to think that he always had a plan, a backup plan and an it’s-going-to-hell-fast plan.

      Twenty feet inside, remembering Jules’s love for dark chocolate, he extended his arm toward the sterling silver tray, only to draw it back fast. His job wasn’t to bring her candy. His job was to ensure that the CEO of Miatroth stayed safe while in Las Vegas.

      He got to the fourteenth floor, walked down the hallway and rapped on the door. And waited. Just like before. This was getting old.

      He knocked sharply, loud enough to make most everybody on the floor take a look out their peephole to see if it was their door getting assaulted.

      When that didn’t get a response, he yanked his phone out of his pocket, jabbed his index finger on Barry Wood’s telephone number and took a deep breath.

      “Hello, Royce,” Barry said.

      “Are you going to open the damn door?”

      “What?”

      “I’m standing in the hallway. I’ve been standing in the hallway for five minutes.”

      “Royce, I’m back in my room on the twelfth floor. JC had some work to do. I made sure she locked the door behind me when I left.”

      A chill spread across the back of his neck, as if someone had slapped an ice bag on it. “Call the front desk. Get somebody up here with a key. But text me her cell number first.”

      Royce hung up and waited for the text. It came and he dialed. He heard it ring, then switch to voice mail. He swallowed. “This is Royce,” he said fast. “Call me. Please, just call me.”

      He called twice more before Barry and somebody in a navy blue suit wearing an assistant manager name tag showed up. He waited impatiently while the man used his key to open the door. Then he was into the suite, moving swiftly through the rooms.

      She wasn’t there.

      Her clothes were still in the closet. Her sundry items still on the bathroom counter. Her stupid phone on the bedside table.

      No signs of struggle.

      He turned to the manager. “I need to know if Ms. Cambridge left this hotel and I need to know it five minutes ago.”

      “Can you describe her?”

      Right