Keeping Her Close

Reporters started shouting as Kyle answered the call, “Hey, Josh.”

“Congratulations, man! I’m so… Wait. What’s that noise? Are you out celebrating without me?”

Kyle grinned. “Thanks, buddy. Not celebrating. I’m still in the lobby of the Bellaire Building. Dr. Bellaire just walked in.”

“Ah, protesters.”

“And supporters and newspeople and a fair share of civilians getting in out of the rain, too, I think.”

Josh chuckled. “The man knows how to fan flames, that’s for sure. This dam stuff is crazy. But back to the point—I’m so stoked we’re going to be working together again!”

“Me, too,” Kyle said. The crowd had quieted with some semblance of order established as Dr. Bellaire began answering questions.

“Not quite like the old days, but as close as we can get without Owen, huh?”

“Yeah,” Kyle said because that was all he could manage at that moment with the grief twisting hard in his chest and clogging his throat. Being here in the Bellaire Building, interviewing with Dahlia, he should have been better prepared for these reminders of Owen.

After a pause where Kyle imagined that Josh was also paying a silent tribute to their fallen friend, Josh asked, “When do you start?”

“Not until next month. Travis said he wants me on the Tri-Star job with you.” Travis was Dahlia’s operations chief and Kyle’s future boss. “Not sure what that is, but I’ll be ready. Just need to sign my contract.”

“That’s awesome. What are you going to do until then?”

“More of the same. Hang out with my family on the Oregon coast. I’ve been bunking at my sister Mia’s house in Pacific Cove. My brother-in-law, Jay, has a construction business and I’ve been working for him. I suppose I should find my own place now that I know I’ll be based here in the west.” Even though he’d be working overseas for weeks at a time, at least he’d be able to establish a home base near his family.

“I’ve got a spare room…” Josh went on, urging him to move to San Diego where he lived. Kyle listened, but he’d made up his mind to settle near his mom and sister. He knew he couldn’t make up for lost time, but he needed to try to mend the relationships he’d damaged through the sheer force of his neglect. Not that his relationship with his sister had ever been great.

Kyle glanced up to see that Dr. Bellaire had finished his impromptu press conference. The crowd was beginning to thin, due in large part to the two uniformed security guards now herding people toward the exit. Dr. Bellaire and his entourage briefly congregated to one side before heading in his direction en masse for the elevators, presumably on their way upstairs to BEST.

A clean-cut stocky blond man in a nice suit slipped away from the larger crowd and followed them. He wore a badge around his neck that suggested he was with the press. Kyle wouldn’t have cause to take another look except the guy’s dress did not match his demeanor. Too fidgety, his body tense and twitchy, his gaze bounced around but always paused on Dr. Bellaire. Squirrelly. That’s how he and Owen used to describe this type of nervous, jittery, shifty-eyed manner.

Warning bells pinged loudly in his brain. Of course, there were a lot of causes for this kind of behavior: drugs, alcohol withdrawal, PTSD, chronic insomnia, schizophrenia or a myriad of other mental disorders. Maybe he was new to his job and nervous about approaching Dr. Bellaire. Even too many energy drinks could make a person anxious and wired. And yet, Kyle couldn’t talk himself out of the trepidation he felt.

A woman kept pace at Dr. Bellaire’s side. A quick once-over told him she wasn’t Bellaire’s daughter, Harper, but that made Kyle wonder how Harper was doing. Many times in the months since Owen’s death, he’d thought about reaching out to her. Kyle had never met her in person, but he’d seen plenty of photos via Owen. For most of Owen and Harper’s relationship, the couple had been in Africa where Owen was working. Kyle had still been on active duty himself at the time, stationed at various overseas locales. Guilt and regret weighed like a stone in Kyle’s gut. He made a vow to contact Harper soon and see how she was doing.

Dr. Bellaire drew closer, his focus zeroing in on Kyle. Recognition transformed his scowl into an expression of cheerful surprise.

Kyle returned the smile and added a wave. “Gotta head out, Josh. I’ll call you later.” Kyle ended the call and slipped his phone into his pocket.

Dr. Bellaire approached, reaching out a hand. “Kyle! How are you?” Ten feet behind him, the blond man halted, too. He removed a phone from his jacket pocket and stared down at the display. Kyle kept him in his line of sight, taking note of his accelerated respiration, sweaty brow and the way he kept swallowing repeatedly. He could almost smell the guy’s fear.

“Hi, David. Better than you, looks like.” Kyle tipped his head in the direction of the lobby. Odd, Kyle noticed, that the guy was still staring at his phone but had yet to touch the screen. He glanced up, noticed Kyle and quickly refocused on the phone.

David’s smile was cheerful, his tone appreciative as he remarked, “Passionate, aren’t they?”

Kyle chuckled. “Quite.” The man had such a unique view of the world.

“I thought you were still overseas. What are you doing here in Seattle?”

“I was discharged a couple of months ago.” He didn’t add that Owen’s death had hit him hard, prompting him to evaluate his life and his relationships, including the desire to reconnect with his family. “I’m here interviewing for a job with your downstairs neighbor.”

“Ah, Dahlia, of course. You’ll be a great fit there. Such a tragedy about Owen. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” Kyle wanted to ask about Harper but was distracted by the lurker again who’d tucked his phone into his left pocket and was now slinking closer, a determined expression on his face. Kyle went into high alert. Nearly a decade in Special Forces had taught him to trust his instincts.

“Are you living here in Seattle now?”

“No, I’m staying in Pacific Cove, Oregon, for the time being. Spending time with my family.”

Dr. Bellaire said, “Did you—”

The lurking guy’s right hand slipped into his pocket and came out holding a short cylindrical object. In one smooth movement, his arm lifted up and back like a major-league pitcher gripping a baseball. His target was obviously Dr. Bellaire, but Kyle was already in motion. David was shoved aside as Kyle went airborne, crashing into the attacker, his left hand seizing the guy’s wrist. As they went down, Kyle twisted his arm back and up, subduing him completely. Shattered glass lay on the floor, accompanied by balls of a pink jellylike substance. Kyle recognized the distinctive odor of cured salmon eggs.

For a few beats, the entire lobby went quiet before erupting with renewed chaos, screams and cheers. The crowd surged toward them, but Bellaire’s security detail was already escorting the doctor away. Kyle handed the guy off to one of the security guards. “Those are salmon eggs on the floor, I think.”

The police were called. Dr. Bellaire was fine. Kyle was fine. Everyone was fine. With the exception of the would-be attacker, who’d landed hard on the marble floor and was whining about an injured wrist.

It was all over in a matter of seconds. Just another day at the office for Kyle. It should have ended there. And it would have. Except for the fact that an eager reporter from Channel 11 had filmed the whole thing. That, and then Kyle received his second job offer of the day.

CHAPTER ONE (#u496a3028-99e2-5614-9042-5decaba74d2b)

LIP-SYNCHING TO Carrie Underwood while baking (okay, and eating) cookie dough will be weird with a stranger in my house. No more yoga in my pajamas. No more whale watching from the deck in my pajamas. Binge watching Tiny Dancer while practicing my hip-hop moves is probably out, too.

A bathrobe-clad Harper Jansen searched around her living room and let out a panicky bark of laughter, a sound she hoped not to make on the first date she was about to go on in months. Spotting the lotion she’d been seeking, she shoved the bottle into her pocket, secured the robe’s lapels firmly around her and hurried through the house to her bedroom.

“Bodyguard,” she said aloud and cringed. Even the word felt personal and intrusive. “Body. Guard,” she tried again more slowly and then realized she was gripping the robe so tightly around herself it was hard to breathe. See? There was an inherent threat to her well-being in the very word itself. Although, her dad insisted the position was that of security consultant. “Feels like a bodyguard to me,” she muttered.

She considered canceling so she could mentally prepare for this looming and indefinite invasion of her privacy. Yes, she should stay home and relish her last evening of precious aloneness. As the only child of a single dad—one who worked a lot—Harper was no stranger to being alone. She’d been alone here in Pacific Cove for three months now. Sure, it was a feeling she’d been wanting to shed lately, but it suddenly seemed both essential and precious. Then she remembered she didn’t have the guy’s number.

“Brilliant, Harper.” Lotion forgotten, she donned her carefully chosen outfit.

When her yoga acquaintance and sort of friend, Samantha, had arranged the date, right before leaving for her six-weeks-long honeymoon, Harper declined to take his number, so she wouldn’t be able to freak out and cancel at the last minute. Like she had the last time. It had seemed like a good idea at the moment—a symbol of her courage and commitment to “getting back out there,” as Sam liked to say. The problem for Harper, however, was that “out there” only led to disappointment and heartbreak. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever recover from her last relationship. Owen’s betrayal had taken heartbreak to a whole other level. His subsequent death had exacerbated and complicated those emotions to the point that she’d wondered if she’d ever fully heal. But she had. Or at least she was way, way better. That’s what today was supposed to prove: a better Harper ready to move on.

That’s when the next depressing thought struck her. This will likely be my last unchaperoned outing of any kind for weeks, if not months.

What she needed to do was make this date a good one. Like epic. Technically, there was no making up for lost time, she knew that, but she could make the best of the time she had left.

Fueled by this notion, Harper channeled her frustration into determination. Frantically, she changed out of her dressy clothes, trading skinny jeans, tunic and boots for leggings, T-shirt and running shoes. She twisted her auburn waves up into a bun and tied a long-sleeved fleece top around her waist. She was going to have a good time tonight if it was the last thing she did. Now that she thought about it, even if her date didn’t want to go along for the ride, she’d take that ride on her own. She’d enjoy her final hours of freedom, all right, and not at home fretting and pouting.

Basic security had always been a part of her life. Her father’s house on Seattle’s Lake Washington included a state-of-the-art security system as did the offices and labs at his company, Bellaire Environmental Solutions & Technology. But Harper had always felt like that was more about the important, proprietary nature of her dad’s work and the general safety of her surroundings than about her.

Even so, when she’d moved into her house a few months ago, Denny, her dad’s head of security, had brought the system up-to-date. She used it maybe half the time and not very well at that. The facial recognition technology functioned so that whenever a human stepped onto the property, the cameras began recording, and if it was a person who’d visited before, or was already in the system, their name would pop up on-screen. If not, a close-up still shot was recorded, cataloging the face for later. All visits were logged along with the time and date. The app chimed while Harper was tying her shoes, shooting a surge of nervous adrenaline through her bloodstream.

The irony did not escape her that this was a blind date. Probably, in addition to getting the guy’s number, she should have looked at his photo when Sam offered it, urging her to see how “gorgeous” he was. But Mikhail was a good friend of Sam’s husband, Colin, so Harper had waved the phone away, telling Sam that was enough for her. If they liked him, no doubt she would, too. Looks didn’t matter, she’d asserted, Owen had proven that a beautiful facade did not necessarily harbor a beautiful soul.

But now, phone in hand, she used the app to study the man standing on her porch. Sam was right; he was good-looking if a bit somber. She’d been sold on Mikhail because, like her, he was an artist, a professional musician and successful songwriter. According to Sam, he was also a microbrew master who enjoyed traveling, concerts and long rides on his vintage motorcycle. Also like her, he was a bad relationship survivor. Sam had revealed that his ex-wife had cheated with his best friend and left him devastated. This was Mikhail’s first post-heartbreak date, too. They had so much in common.

As a photographer herself, she thought it would be nice to be with someone who understood her dedication, intense focus, odd hours and the often-transient nature of her job. Someone who could relate to the inherent challenges of putting your work on display for others to critique and value.