The Bodyguard. Julie Miller

the one place where she knew she was safe.

      EVEN INSIDE THE PRISTINE atmosphere of the museum’s warehouse offices, enough humidity from the rain-soaked air outside had worked its way into Charlotte’s hair, taking it from naturally curly to out of control.

      She pushed the expanding kinks off her forehead as she straightened from the worktable where she was documenting the artisan’s crest burned into the iron hilt of the sword she’d been cleaning. Her back ached, her empty stomach grumbled and Max sat in the workroom doorway staring at her—all certain signs that she’d lost track of the time.

      If she’d been at home, more certain of the coded locks protecting her, she might have been grateful that she’d so fully engaged her brain with the task of cataloguing artifacts that she’d actually gone for several hours without her obsessive insecurities dogging every thought. But she wasn’t at home. And as she adjusted her glasses at her temple to check her watch, she nearly flew into a panic.

      “Why didn’t you say something?” She slammed the book she’d been using, startling Max to his feet.

      She’d told her father they’d be home by nine, that it was okay for him to go out to dinner with Laura. It was a rare treat for him to enjoy a night out with his wife. The museum was deserted, locked up tight. Charlotte had been in heaven to have the place and all its treasures to herself, so yes, Dad, enjoy your evening out.

      She slid the sword back into its crate. “It’s eight-thirty.”

      Half an hour past the time Richard was supposed to pick her up. True, he’d been parked in the staff parking lot behind the warehouse all day long, working his puzzles, watching the sports channel on his mini satellite TV, napping. And he’d promptly come to the door each time she’d called him. To walk Max. To bring her lunch. Just to check in and assure herself he was there. If she didn’t call him, he knocked on the door. Every hour on the hour.

      They hadn’t spoken since 7:00 p.m.

      Richard was never late.

      In a flurry of scattered activity, Charlotte shut down her computer, plucked her raincoat off the back of a chair and shoved her arm into one sleeve. In a miracle of klutzy coordination, she grabbed her bag, pulled out her phone, tutted to the dog and raced him to the steel door that marked the museum’s rear exit.

      And stopped.

      A nervous breath skittered from her lungs. She couldn’t go out there. There was no way to know if it was safe. Evil hid in the shadows at night. Men with fists and needles and greed in their hearts lurked in the dark. They’d lie in wait until it was late and she was alone, and then they’d hurt her. And hurt her. And …

      Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut. Stay in the moment. Stay in the freaking moment!

      “Richard!” She opened her eyes and shouted at the brick walls, even as she pulled out her phone and punched in his number. She tried to focus on getting the other sleeve of her blouse into her coat instead of counting how many times the cell phone rang.

      Richard knew how changes in her routine upset her.

      That was the third ring. Maybe he’d fallen asleep.

      She shifted anxiously on her feet. Four rings.

      Charlotte tugged the belt of her coat around her waist and held on as a flash of lightning flickered through the darkness shrouding the unreachable windows above her. Even though she knew it was coming, she winced at the boom of thunder that followed.

      Charlotte blinked when she realized her eyes were drying out from staring so hard at the door. Max danced around her feet. “We need to get a peephole installed.”

      She worked her lower lip between her teeth and reached out to touch the door. The steel was cool from the temperature outside, its texture rough beneath her fingertips. Did she dare open it? Did she risk going outside on her own? She leaned closer and tuned her ears to any sounds of movement in the alley way beyond the door. But a blanket of rain continued to fall outside, drumming against the awning over the door, muffling all but the quickened gasps of her own breathing.

      And Max’s singsongy growl.

      Charlotte’s paranoia wasn’t fair to the dog’s bladder. “I’m sorry, sweetie. Richard?” she called out again, doubting her voice would carry through the steel and bricks and storm to the car parked outside.

      The sixth ring.

      Max left her side to scratch at the bricks. He whimpered.

      What was wrong? Why didn’t Richard answer? Her fears multiplied with every single …

      The ringing stopped.

      “Charlotte.”

      “Richard? Where are—”

      Click.

      What the …? He hung on up her? A burst of anger surged through her. He knew what that did to her—how she’d received all those calls and hang-ups in the weeks following the kidnapping. It had taken months of therapy afterward before she’d even allow a phone in her rooms, longer than that to carry one with her.

      Richard knew that. He knew … “Oh, my God.”

      Embarrassment washed away her unkind thoughts, leaving Charlotte’s knees weak and her heart racing with concern. What if Richard was hurt? What if he was having a heart attack and needed her help? What if he hadn’t called her because he couldn’t?

      She pocketed the phone and grasped the dead bolt above the doorknob. But her fingers danced over the steel pin, hesitating to grab hold. Could she turn it? Did she dare? Richard had been with her family from the time she was a child. He was family. He’d stayed on when he could have retired because she could almost function like a normal person when surrounded by familiar faces, by the handful of staff she trusted. If he’d been driving her the night of her high-school prom, he’d have gotten her safely home. He would never, ever intentionally frighten her.

      What if Richard needed her?

      Listening to her worries instead of the fear, shutting down her brain and following her heart, Charlotte curled her fingers through Max’s collar and turned the bolt.

      She nudged the door open, barely wide enough for the dog to stick his muzzle out. Charlotte leaned into the crack until the moisture in the air splashed against her cheek. Max strained against her grip to squeeze through to the gap. “Hold on.”

      She wasn’t ready to do this. She had to do this. Face your fear.

      “Okay.” Taking a deep breath and holding it, Charlotte put her left eye to the narrow opening and peeked outside. Her glasses fogged up almost instantly, blinding her. But she pulled the frames away from her face and let the lenses clear. Once she’d readjusted them on her nose, she huffed out a curse at her temerity. She could see the light from the streetlamp at the edge of the parking lot reflected in every rivulet of rain that streaked the polished black fender of Richard’s BMW. The car was right there, parked a couple of feet beyond the edge of the green-and-white awning.

      Charlotte pushed the door open a few inches more and let Max run out to sniff the rear tire. “Richard?” she shouted through the downpour.

      She hurried out to the car. Rain spotted her glasses, distorting her vision before she got the back door open. But Charlotte never climbed inside.

      “Are you okay?”

      Reprimand gave way to relief. Then her mind seized up with a whole different kind of fear.

      She darted around her door and pulled open the driver’s door. “Richard!” Her beloved friend was slumped over the steering wheel. “Richard?” Charlotte pulled out her phone, punched in a 9. She swiped the rain from her glasses and glanced around, making sure the narrow lot was still empty, before lightly shaking his shoulder. She punched in a 1. When there was no response, she slid her arm across Richard’s chest, her fingers clinging to something warm and sticky at the side of his neck as she pulled him back