and family was everything to the Santonnis. Family, and loyalty to the people who signed your paycheck.
Working for S&J had been the best thing to happen to him after he’d left the Rangers. Named for the founders, Shelley Rabb Judd and her brother Jake Rabb, S&J was quickly becoming a leading player in the growing protection industry with clients in both the private and public sectors.
Nicco had never regretted the decision to join the firm. Caring was the cornerstone of S&J. That, and passion for the job. He liked the work and sometimes even liked the clients. As Shelley said, “You don’t have to like the clients. You just have to protect them.”
He didn’t know whether he liked Scout McAdams as he’d never been introduced to her. He knew she was a reporter and that she had been receiving threats. His lips tightened. Whoever was threatening McAdams was just a bully, and if there was one thing Nicco was good at, it was protecting innocents from bullies. He’d encountered his share in Afghanistan—warlords who ordered death as easily as an ordinary person would order coffee.
As unobtrusively as possible, Nicco conducted a scan of the area surrounding his client. Accustomed to searing heat, blowing sand and the smells of war, he found the scents of perfume and flowers cloying. He watched as McAdams worked her way through the crowd, moving quickly with a self-assurance that belied her pint-size frame, her gold dress swirling about her ankles. There was an intensity to her that attracted attention, while the determination in her stride had people stepping aside to make way for her.
A pendant in the shape of a miniature gold pencil swayed gently as she walked. He’d noticed earlier that she occasionally touched it as one might a talisman and wondered at the significance of it.
The hair at the back of his neck prickled, and an unmistakable rush of adrenaline propelled his senses to high alert. A fraction of a moment later, he settled into a state of cool calm. His breathing slowed, steadied, as he assessed the possible risks.
Protecting the client came first. Always. He did not make a move for the Walther that he wore in a custom-fit shoulder holster. It was enough to know that it was within reach should he need it. A backup piece fit snugly at his ankle.
The weapons were a far cry from the M249 SAW, a light machine gun, and the 9 mm Berretta he’d carried as an Army Ranger, but they did the job. A half smile tipped the corners of his lips as he pictured the probable reaction of tonight’s well-heeled crowd if he’d appeared with the submachine gun cradled in his arms.
Whether in the mountains of Afghanistan or the ballroom of a glitzy hotel, preparation was key. For Nicco, that meant being ready to do whatever it took to get the job done, including using deadly force if necessary.
Violence didn’t solve problems. Too often, it created them. But to assume that the world’s wrongs could be fixed with a bunch of talk was not only naive, it was dangerous.
He moved closer to McAdams, observing the ebb and flow of people closest to his client as well as any place where a sniper might take position. A glint of metal from the balcony caught his eye. He didn’t need to see the gun to know that a shooter was taking aim.
Nicco was in the cold zone now, the state that allowed him to be part of the moment without being in the moment. Instinct and training took over.
“Everybody down.” He didn’t wait to see if people obeyed but sprang toward his client just as two shots fired in rapid succession. He knocked her down and covered her body with his own.
Screams and cries echoed throughout the cavernous room. Nicco ignored those, his concern for only the woman he’d flattened. He hoped he hadn’t injured her, but he’d had to get her out of the range of fire as quickly as possible.
Cautiously, he rolled off her, then motioned for her to crawl beneath one of the high-top tables set up in the ballroom. Though his instincts told him to go after the shooter, his first duty lay with the client.
When no other shots sounded, he climbed out from under the table, looked about, then offered his hand to Scout McAdams. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said, placing her hand in his. “I think you just saved my life.”
* * *
“Rachel Scout McAdams,” she said, sticking out her hand.
“Nicco Santonni.”
“Thank you, Mr. Santonni. I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me a thing.”
The brusqueness of the response startled her. Maybe, she reasoned, he was as shaken by the shots as she had been. She snuck a glance at him and dismissed that thought. The big man standing in front of her didn’t appear to be the kind to be rattled by anything or anyone.
Scout took inventory of her injuries. Throbbing hip and shoulder. Sore chest, probably bruised ribs. No doubt about it—she was going to hurt tomorrow. For now, the rush of adrenaline kept the worst of the pain at bay. Resigning herself to the nightmares the sound of gunshots would trigger, she did her best to ignore the prospect of a sleepless night.
Breathe.
She shoved aside images from the past and focused on the here and now. Delayed panic swept through the ballroom, sobs and cries punctuating the overall confusion. Sirens screeched in the distance, but the immediate danger appeared to be over. At least she hoped so.
Brushing herself off, she eyed the man who had pushed her down and covered her body with his own when the shots had pierced the buzz of party chatter. She’d hugged the floor, concentrating on breathing, not an easy task when a two-hundred-pound man had just flattened her with the force of a battering ram.
Not that she was complaining. He’d saved her life.
Only when the big man had rolled off her had she been able to move and seek protection beneath a table as he’d ordered. Her pulse had still been in overdrive, her legs shaking when she’d gotten to her feet. Annoyance at herself poured through her. She wasn’t some weak-kneed wimp who fainted at the first hint of violence. She stiffened her shoulders and took stock of her surroundings.
The rancid smells of fear and panic overrode the perfumed air of the ballroom as people scrambled for exits.
Breathe.
“It’s all right,” she murmured to a bleating woman who had collapsed in a nearby chair. “Nobody was hurt.” She prayed that was true. She stayed by the lady’s side until her husband found her and took her in his arms.
Scout turned and felt her rescuer’s gaze on her, considering.
“You’ve had a shock, but you took the time to help someone else.”
After the coldness of his tone, the warmth in the words surprised her. “She was frightened. I didn’t want her to be alone.” Scout had more reason than most to know what that felt like.
“What about you? You had to be scared.”
“I was plenty scared.” Goose bumps puckered her arms in confirmation.
She studied the man, not bothering trying to hide her interest. He looked as out of place at this yawn-fest as she felt. As a reporter, she was accustomed to expecting the unexpected. Being thrown to the ground by a man who looked as though he could
