The Bodyguard: Protecting Plain Jane. Debra Cowan

the steering wheel and held on, keeping Trip in sight. People straightened when he approached, jumped when he spoke. The gates swung open and he ushered the first two cars through to the driveway. Then he climbed onto the hood of one of the wrecked cars, rocking it up and down to unlock the bumpers.

      Trip really was clearing a path to the house. One man versus a hundred, and he was winning. Her lips trembled with the unfamiliar urge to smile, but they settled into a straight line instead. What was it like to have that kind of confidence about the world? Would she ever be able to reclaim the adventurous spirit she’d had as a child? Before the kidnapping? Before the phobias and therapy and seclusion transformed her into this shadow of the woman she’d once hoped to be? Would she ever reclaim even half the strength that Joseph Jones, Jr., commanded?

      As her thoughts took her to a darker place, Charlotte tightened her fingers on the wheel, willing the vibrations of the engine to flow through her and keep her anchored in the here and now. To trust Trip’s word. To believe he could accomplish what he promised and get her safely home.

      The dented cars separated and Trip, along with three other men, pushed both up onto the curb. He waved the fifth car in the queue into the narrow opening they’d created and pointed to the car just in front of her.

      And then she caught the flicker of movement in the rearview mirror.

      A man carrying a backpack darted from one car to the next, ducking down and hiding as he moved between them. Charlotte’s knuckles popped out as she tightened her grip on the steering wheel and shifted her attention to the side-view mirror. There he was again, poking up behind another car. Oh, no. Even the rain couldn’t mask the distinct points of his receding hairline or the camera slung around his neck.

      “Steve Lassen.” Charlotte breathed the vile paparazzo’s name, hunching down and peering over the dashboard at the same time. True, he was staying across the street, but he was creeping closer and closer. “Hurry, Trip.”

      Then, boom. A loud smack hit the back of the truck and Charlotte sat bolt upright. Max propped his front paws on the back of the seat and barked at the bed of the truck. Had she been rear-ended, too? Charlotte checked the mirror. Nothing but the line of vehicles and endless rain behind her.

      “Hush, Max. Hush, boy.” She petted his flank and pulled him back down to the passenger seat.

      A second mini-jolt hit and Charlotte spun around at the pinging sound. Was someone throwing rocks?

      A bright flash from the trees across the sidewalk momentarily blinded her. That creep Lassen had maneuvered himself into position and finally had his picture of her—sitting behind the wheel of Trip’s truck, wild-eyed, confused, afraid. Trip was running toward her, shouting something—drawing his gun and waving at her to get down.

      A third projectile struck the glass beside her and Charlotte jumped. Max barked and barked and barked as she watched the window splinter into a fist-sized web of cracks right before her eyes.

      “Shots fired!” She heard Trip’s deep voice shouting in the distance. “Get down! Everyone, get down!”

       Run. Fight. Move.

      A surge of adrenaline, tamped down by caution and futility for too many years, screamed through Charlotte’s veins, demanding she take action. She’d fought the night she’d been kidnapped, fought until too many blows and the mind-numbing drugs had taken away her ability to scream or struggle or even think.

      “Charlotte!”

      When she saw another, smaller flash near Steve Lassen’s hiding place, Charlotte’s instinct to survive grabbed hold of that adrenaline. Gun! She stepped on the brake and shifted the truck into Drive. The shot hit the window, shattering the glass as she stomped on the accelerator.

      Trip slapped the side of the truck and jumped out of the path as it lurched forward. Max tumbled to the floorboards as Charlotte scraped past the car in front of her. “Sorry,” and clipped the next one. “Sorry!”

      “Charlotte, stop! Let me in!”

      She heard Trip’s curse, loud and clear, but couldn’t seem to lift her foot off the accelerator or turn her focus from the haven of her home waiting at the end of that driveway.

      Perched on the edge of the seat to reach the pedals, she held on tight as she bounced over the curb and spun for endless seconds, churning grass into mud. Finally, she remembered at least one thing from driver’s ed in high school, hit the brake and twisted the wheel. With Trip charging up in her rearview mirror, she found the traction she needed and roared through the gate.

      Her skills were rusty, but her speed was certain. Bypassing the parking attendants and cars and guests at the front of the house, she drove around to the service entrance in back and skidded to a stop.

      “Sorry, Max. Sorry, sweetie.” Dragging the excited dog from the floorboards, Charlotte climbed out of the truck and ran to the back door.

      The world outside was too frightening for her, too dangerous. She needed to be home. She needed to be safe.

      She punched in the lock’s security code, swung the door open and ran straight through the mudroom and kitchen and carpeted foyer. Concerned shouts and worried glances fell on deaf ears and tunnel vision. Max loped beside her as she turned down the first-floor hallway to her private suite of rooms. Blinded by the panic attack, she had to pause for a moment to catch her breath and steady her fingers to type in the unlock code to her room.

      M-A-X-I-M-U-S.

      Click.

      She was in. “Go, boy.” She released Max’s leash and forced herself to breathe.

      No more bullets. No more strangers. No more spotlight.

       Push the door shut. You’re safe—

      A black boot wedged itself in the opening, stopping the door with a jerk. A big, bruised hand snatched hold of the door and pushed it back open.

      Charlotte was forced to retreat as Trip Jones filled her doorway and marched into her sitting room. “What the hell were you thinking?”

      She spun around, snatching up the first object she came to—a small bronze shield from the museum. She held it up in front of her as her hips butted against the back of the sofa. “What are you doing here? I’ll call security. This is my home. Get out.”

      “Uh-uh, honey. You stay right with me this time.” He easily pried the shield from her hands and tossed it onto the cushions behind her. “I don’t care what kind of crazy you are—you look me in the eye and talk to me.”

      “Hey, that’s Etruscan.”

      “I don’t care if it’s the Mona Lisa.” In the time it took her to glance down and ensure the security of the artifact she was responsible for, Trip had her pinned against the back of the couch, with one fist on the fabric at each side of her. His thighs were like tree trunks pressing into hers, his hair was dark with rain, his uniform splattered with mud, and his chest rose and fell in a quick, deep rhythm while he dripped on her. He was too big, too furious, too much man to be in here. “I just tracked mud all through that nice reception in the front rooms to get to you. Now, I said I had your back. I told you to stay put.”

      “It’s not your job to protect me.” She shoved at the big white letters on the front of his uniform, but neither the Kevlar nor the man moved.

      If anything, he was coming closer, leaning in, forcing her to tilt her head back, way back. “It’s my job to protect everyone in this city, especially when my captain gives me an order. Get you home safely.” His hazel eyes searched her face, looking for an understanding that wasn’t easy to give. And then they crinkled with concern. “Cripes, Charlotte—some unknown perp was shooting at you, and your response is to run from help?”

      “I couldn’t stay out there any longer. I had to get inside.”

      “I had to let that shooter go so I could run after you. You want me to cite you for driving without a