her womanly scent had only intensified his desire for her.
“Look, Dalton. Just stay back and let me handle this,” she said, quickly moving in front of him.
“If the person was following me, then I want to know who it is and why. We expose him together or not at all.”
“Fine,” she snapped. “We’ve wasted enough time already. Just follow my lead.”
“Whatever,” he drawled, holding the door open.
She slid out the door into the darkness. A quick glance over her shoulder indicated he was right there, close behind. A little too close for comfort, especially when she could feel his heat through her coat.
And like hers, his gun was drawn and ready.
* * *
“Stonewall, I told you that Bobby is handling things, so relax.”
Stonewall Courson paused from pacing in front of Roland Summers’s desk. Roland was the owner of Summers Security Firm where Stonewall had worked off and on for the past ten years. Although Roland was his boss, he was also a good friend. “I just have a gut feeling that something isn’t right.”
Almost a month ago, Stonewall and his friends Quasar Patterson and Striker Jennings had taken on the duties of undercover bodyguards for the sons of Sheppard Granger, a man whom they’d met while serving time in prison. Shep had quickly become more than just a fellow inmate to the three of them. He had become the father they’d never had, a role model they could look up to and a mentor they admired. So when word got out that his sons needed protection, Stonewall, Quasar and Striker had volunteered for the job. The hard part was making sure no one knew, not even the sons themselves.
Quasar Patterson, who was in charge of protecting Jace, the oldest Granger son, was still bragging about the two weeks he’d spent in South Africa, although he did say Jace and his wife stayed inside their hotel room most of the time. After all, they had been on their honeymoon. And Striker Jennings was protecting Caden, although nothing was happening there, either. At least not since the attempt on Caden’s life last month. According to Striker, Caden had settled into his wife’s place over her wine boutique, and when they weren’t working, the couple preferred staying inside most of the time.
Stonewall had been assigned to Shep’s youngest son, Dalton. He was the real challenge, since Dalton was a party animal who liked frequenting the clubs. He liked women. At times had a restless soul and would eliminate fidgeting by driving that sports car, sometimes breaking the speed limit, on the interstate during the middle of the night when most police officers were somewhere getting their fill of donuts and coffee.
Tonight had been Stonewall’s grandmother’s seventieth birthday, and his sister had thrown a private party at a local restaurant. She’d threatened to do him bodily harm if he didn’t show up. He’d been replaced tonight with Bobby Turner. It wasn’t that Bobby wasn’t good or dependable, but he was young and not as experienced.
“Your gut feeling is probably nothing more than exhaustion, Stonewall. You, Quasar and Striker have been protecting Shep’s sons for over a month now with barely a break.”
Stonewall remembered when they’d begun. It was right after Sheppard Granger had received a mysterious email on the prison computer, warning him that his three sons’ lives were in danger. He’d told his attorney, Carson Boyett, to hire bodyguards, and she’d called Roland. Since Roland, who’d also been an inmate in jail with them at one time, had known of their relationship with Shep, he had mentioned it to them, and they’d readily taken the job.
“You could be right,” Stonewall said, sliding into the chair across from Roland’s desk. “But I’d rather not leave just yet. Think I’ll grab a few hours of sleep downstairs.”
Roland had a cot room for any of his men who needed power naps between jobs. “Okay. You aren’t scheduled to switch off with Bobby until the morning. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll check with Bobby to see how things are going,” Roland said, picking up the phone.
Bobby answered on the first ring, and Roland placed the call on speaker. “Got Stonewall here. We just want to know how your night is going.”
“Boring as shit,” Bobby replied. “The best part was trying to keep up with him on the expressway and not be seen. He finally decided to call it a night, thank goodness. However, I did notice a car parked across the street with the engine running when we pulled up. I planned to check it out but didn’t have to.”
“Why?” Roland asked. “Did the person drive off?”
“No, it was a woman making a booty call to Granger.”
Stonewall frowned as he eased up out of his chair. “How do you know that’s what she was doing?”
“Because he opened the door for her and before she could get inside he was shoving his tongue down her throat.” Bobby chuckled.
Stonewall shook his head. “During all my time guarding Dalton Granger, there’s never been a woman to show up at his place.”
“Then she must be hot enough to earn an invitation,” Bobby countered. “Even though she was wearing a coat, I could tell she’s hot. Besides, there’s a first time for everything, and like I said, she didn’t force her way inside. From what I saw, he was already kissing her before the door slammed shut.”
“I don’t like it. Is she still there?” Stonewall asked, beginning to pace again.
“Yep. And she probably won’t be leaving for a while yet. I figured after giving his living room a good workout they’ll head for the bedroom and—”
Suddenly, a commotion and loud voices could be heard in the background. A woman was shouting an order to Bobby, “Get out of the car. Now!”
Roland glanced over at Stonewall, who was already rushing toward the door. “I’ll call Carson on the way there. She’ll want to know about this,” he said, grabbing his gun from the top desk drawer and quickly following Stonewall.
Bobby Turner found it hard to think with two Glocks staring him in the face. What the hell happened? How had his cover been blown? And from the questions the two were firing at him, it had been blown to smithereens. He recognized the man as Dalton Granger, the person he was supposed to be protecting. However, he had no idea who the woman was, other than the one he’d assumed had been making a booty call.
“You have two seconds to tell me who you are and why you were following me,” Dalton snarled, eyes locked on Bobby.
Two seconds? He had to be kidding, Bobby thought, sweating profusely. When Dalton inched the gun closer, aiming right between his eyes, Bobby knew he wasn’t kidding, after all. “I wasn’t following you,” he stammered, barely able to get the words out. He hoped Roland and Stonewall had figured out what was going on. At twenty-four, he was too young to die, and from the look in Granger’s eyes, he was as good as dead.
“I told you to let me handle this, Dalton,” the woman snapped.
Not taking his eyes off Bobby, Granger snapped back, “I can take care of my own business.”
“Ha!”
