Mountain Bodyguard

Security issue number two: though the styling of the hotel was meant to resemble a hunting lodge from the early 1900s, the interior of the banquet hall featured a wall of windows and another of French doors. The design was an open invitation to long-distance shooters.

Issue number three: the people. Too many had been invited. The circular tables reached almost to the walls, which meant a sure pileup if they had to evacuate quickly. The well-dressed guests had all passed through metal detectors, but that was no guarantee of safety in this era of plastic firearms. Potential weapons were everywhere. Prime rib was on the menu; steak knives were on the tables. The centerpieces blocked sight lines, and the tall Art Deco arrangements on either side of the dais were large enough to hide a couple of AK-47s.

As soon as the admiral stepped over the threshold from the terrace, Mason signaled to one of his men to round up the last few people that were outside and lock the French doors. As for himself, he took a position against the wall where he could watch the crowd. Most of them had settled into their assigned seats. Some had already been served. Others table hopped, chatted and chuckled and showed off photos on cell phones.

A woman in a sleeveless blue jumpsuit approached him. He’d been introduced to her before, had noticed her thoroughly and had paid particular attention to the way the clingy blue fabric hugged her curves. She was part of the entourage for the admiral, his movie star wife and their several children. When the lady in blue sidled up next to him, the top of her head was only as high as his shoulder. Lights from the chandeliers glistened on her curly auburn ponytail.

She nudged his elbow. “Whose body are you guarding?”

“The admiral’s.” He dropped a glance in her direction, expecting to quickly look away. Instead, she seized his attention with her big brown eyes and the constellation of freckles that spread across her nose and cheeks. The corners of her mouth naturally turned upward as though caught on the edge of laughter.

“Your friend across the room,” she said with a nod toward Sean Timmons, who was the first T in TST Security, “must be in charge of watching Helena Christie Prescott’s body. How did he get the good assignment?”

“Seniority.” The admiral’s glamorous dark-haired wife showed a lot of cleavage, and the slit on her skirt was thigh high. Watching her was kind of a treat.

“You’re Mason, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Mason Steele was the S in TST Security. “And you’re Francine Alexandra DeMille.”

“Call me Lexie.”

“Why not Francine?” he asked. “Or Franny?”

“Because of my job. I take care of the Prescott kids.”

Which made her Franny the nanny? He stifled a chuckle. “There are six of them, right?”

“Two teenagers from the admiral’s first marriage. The ten-year-old twin boys come from Helena’s union with the hunk who’s in that stripper movie—a deadbeat dad, but, oh, those abs.”

“I know who you mean.”

She stared intently at him. “You look a little bit like him. With the buzz haircut and the cool blue eyes and those big, muscular...arms.” She squeezed one of his biceps and immediately yanked her hand away. A pink blush colored her cheeks. “And the six- and four-year-olds are from this marriage.”

When he forced his gaze away from her and checked out the children’s table, the littlest girl stood up on the seat of her chair and waved at him with a golden magic wand. He fought the urge to laugh. On the job, he couldn’t afford to be distracted by cuteness, but this little golden-haired girl was irresistible. He grinned back at her and winked.

Mason had always thought a big family would be fun. He was his parents’ only surviving child. Thanksgiving was no picnic. And Christmas? Forget about it.

“Here’s my problem,” Lexie said. “The younger kiddos are restless and on the verge of turning into a nuisance. The older ones are bored. And we’re at least a half hour away from the speeches. Do you have any security issues if I whisk them out of here in a few minutes?”

He was glad she’d asked before dashing out the door. TST provided extra security when children were part of the scene. Mason looked around the banquet room, trying to spot the bodyguard who was responsible for keeping an eye on the Prescott offspring.

“Strange,” he muttered. “I don’t see Carlos.”

“Nope.” Lexie shook her head, and her curly ponytail bounced. “He introduced himself earlier, and I would have gone to him, but I lost track of where he was, which is kind of hard to do, since good old Carlos is the size of a side-by-side refrigerator-freezer combo.”

A former pro football linebacker, Carlos was six feet five inches—only a little taller than Mason, but Carlos outweighed him by nearly seventy-five pounds. The big man was good at his job and wasn’t the type to wander off.

Where the hell was he? A twang of apprehension jangled Mason’s nerves. “It might be a good idea to get the kids out of here.”

Immediately, Lexie picked up on his mood. Her grin disappeared. “Is it dangerous?”

Always. There was always danger. He didn’t want to tell her that; didn’t want to point out the obvious fact that his security firm had been hired to protect the admiral and his family from an imminent threat, which meant a threat existed.

“Let’s see what I can find out.” He gave her a light pat on the shoulder. His intention had been to reassure her, but when he touched her bare skin, a spark ignited. Like wildfire, an unexpected heat crackled though his nerve endings and turned his blood to lava. For an instant, he was struck dumb. He had to drag his focus away from Lexie before he spoke into his headset to Sean.

After a quick, quiet conversation with his partner, Mason regained his self-control. There was no room for further distraction; tonight was important. TST was there to protect Admiral Prescott, a man he respected and admired. Though the admiral had been retired for three years and wasn’t in uniform tonight, his posture bespoke military discipline. Mason’s brother, an expert in naval intelligence, had known the admiral personally.

Lexie cleared her throat. She looked to him for an all-clear signal. He wanted to give her a thumbs-up so she’d reward him with that cute upturned smile of hers. When she lifted her hand to brush back a wisp of russet hair, he noticed her delicate charm bracelet. The silver chain shone brightly against her tanned forearm. One of the charms resembled a ninja throwing star.

Sean’s voice came through his earbud. “I found Carlos. I knew I’d seen the big guy headed this way. He’s in the bathroom, puking his guts out.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Might have the flu,” Sean said. “One of his kids is sick.”

Or he could have been drugged, could have been poisoned. Several scenarios flipped through Mason’s mind, ranging from an attempted abduction of the children to a full-on assault with fiery explosive devices. In every possible circumstance, he needed to get the children to safety.

Keeping his voice calm, he spoke to Lexie. “Tell the kids we’re leaving. We’ll go out through the terrace. It’s the closest exit.”

“Should I be worried?”

Not wanting to alarm her, he didn’t offer an explanation. “I thought you wanted to get the kids away.”

“True, and I don’t mind missing those speeches myself.”

With a toss of her head, she pivoted and returned to the circular table where the Prescott brood was sitting. The teenagers were texting, the younger kids were playing with their food and the princess with the magic wand was waving to everyone.

In a hushed tone, Mason informed Sean that he’d take over Carlos’s job, guarding the children and moving them upstairs to their bedrooms. The hotel had provided extra security guards on the seventh floor, where the entourage was staying. “While I’m gone, you watch the admiral.”

“I’m worried,” Sean said. “What if Carlos was drugged?”

Mason was about to ask if Carlos had eaten anything or had anything to drink. Before he spoke, he realized that it was a dumb question. Carlos was always eating and drinking. “Let’s hope it’s just the flu.”

He scanned the crowd. As more people were served, the sound of conversation was replaced by the clink of silverware against china. The situation was under control. Earlier today, they’d come up with several possible evacuation plans. But what if the attackers had outthought them and were already waiting outside? Mason contacted his snipers on the roof, letting them know that he intended to exit with the kids.

He seriously doubted that the bad guys had gained entrance to the banquet hall. The guests, cooks and servers had all been vetted and the TST Security computers were a foolproof system, protected by something Dylan Timmons, who was the second T in TST Security, called the mother of all firewalls.

Mason’s gaze flicked around the room. Could he trust computer clearances? Doubt assailed his judgment. “Maybe we should shut this operation down.”

A voice in his head—which was actually Sean—advised, “It’s your call, Mason.”

At TST Security, the three partners had their areas of expertise. Dylan specialized in computer security. Sean was former FBI, more of a detective and a profiler—a deductive genius. And Mason was the muscle—the man in charge of action and strategy. “First, I’ll get the kids to safety.”

As if he needed another complication, the admiral had left his banquet seat and was coming toward him. Smiling and genial, the admiral picked his way through the crowd and stood beside Mason. “What’s the problem?”

“The bodyguard protecting the children has a suspicious case of the flu.” He kept his voice low so the other guests wouldn’t take notice. “It’s probably nothing, but I recommend escorting the kids to their rooms on the seventh floor.”

“Agreed. I don’t take chances with my children’s safety.” He beckoned to Lexie, who began moving the kids in their direction. “I’ll help.”