His Bodyguard by Lois Greiman Page A

gaze to the ceiling. “If Iwas sober I’d say naw. But I’m sauced. Maybe you couldn’t tell.”
    “I thought maybe.”
    “Yeah, I’m drunk as a skunk. I mean, I’m sloppy drunk. So I don’t know. Could be I still got feelings for her, or maybe I’m still in love with the idea.”
    “What idea?”
    “Of having a woman. A woman who cares, you know, ’bout me. Not about The Fox. ‘Bout me.”
    Somehow his wrist had flopped over her thigh, and her hip was pressed quite firmly against his waist His dark hair was damp and brushed away from his bruised forehead, and his discolored face looked painfully vulnerable.
    “You think that’s too much to ask, O’Shay? Love, marriage, maybe a couple of kids that call me dad. Or daddy like you say down here. Ty and Hannah, they got them a little daughter—Amanda,” he said dreamily. “If I had me a daughter I’d spoil her rotten.”
    He made it sound achingly sweet Her heart did a painful little twist in her chest But it wasn’t her dream, not her dream at all. This was her dream—to be in law enforcement, to prove herself. She swallowed and didn’t even try to talk.
    He lifted his hand to her cheek and brushed his nail pads, soft as thistledown, against her cheek. She closed her eyes to the shiver of feelings.
    “I can imagine you as a little girl,” he whispered. “All giggles and hugs. Little…” He thought for a moment, his expression somber, his eyes intense. “Brenda? Bonnie? Bridget?” he guessed.
    She didn’t help him out, but he didn’t seem to care.
    “Your daddy must of been so proud he could bust.”
    She closed her eyes, trying to hold back the emotions, but it was no use. He drew out some horribly weak part deep inside her. There was no hope for it. Leaning forward, she touched her lips to his.
    He slipped a hand behind her neck, urging her gently closer. The caress deepened. Brenna’s heart slammed against the hard plane of his chest. She trembled in his arms. Hisfingers slipped over her shoulder, down her arm…and fell to the bed.
    She started, glanced at his hand, limp against the coverlet, then hurried her gaze to his face.
    Damn it all. He was asleep.
    “F OX .” B RENNA KNOCKED LIGHTLY on his door. It was only seven in the morning. But she’d been up for hours. Now, showered, dressed, and composed, she swore she could face him like a professional. She knocked again. “Fox?”
    “If you don’t have a medical diploma, go away.”
    “Fox,” she called again, but he didn’t answer, so she pushed her key into his lock and let herself in.
    He was sitting on the edge of the bed and glanced up when she stepped into his sleeping quarters. He looked like hell.
    “How do I look?”
    “Not bad,” she lied.
    He laughed, but it sounded rather like a croak. “You ought to take lying lessons, O’Shay. I look like hell.”
    “I wouldn’t say hell…exactly.”
    He dropped his face gently back into his hands and chuckled.
    She grinned and stepped forward. “I brought you something.”
    “Is it a forty-five?”
    “I don’t think suicide’s the answer.”
    “You’re right, I might as well just wait and die a natural death. I don’t think it’ll be much longer.”
    “Here.” She sat down beside him and nudged his elbow with the ceramic cup she held in her hand.
    He peeked at it through his swollen eye. “What is it?”
    “My secret weapon for hangovers.”
    “You an expert?”
    “Kind of. My brothers liked for me to play nurse.”
    “You got brothers?”
    “Five of them. All big-drinking Irishmen and not a casualty yet”
    “Yeah?” He straightened slightly, trying to see into thecup. But she kept the top carefully covered with her hand. “What’s in it?”
    “I told you it’s a secret. You have to drink it all right down.”
    “Then I’ll be cured?”
    “Well, pretty soon.”
    “Promise?”
    He looked pathetic. Almost pathetic enough to make her warn him that the cure was nearly as bad as the malady. “Promise,”