The Socialite and the Bodyguard

The Socialite and the Bodyguard
Dana Marton

The Socialite and the Bodyguard

Dana Marton

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Table of Contents

Cover (#u2ddf2a34-12b9-5a86-af02-39392a037d60)

Title Page (#u5bf9c118-2162-5994-b7f9-355dcf54c7b5)

About the Author (#ulink_011d5af6-db05-5491-b8d1-28800ab8d2f4)

Dedication (#ud87ec676-ff94-5b5e-912c-d06c5fae5610)

Chapter One (#ulink_af60c8d0-4764-5320-9927-85c740afaced)

Chapter Two (#ulink_0aa4c170-44f8-5813-a31f-2736b3ba9e9b)

Chapter Three (#ulink_bda44b3e-d4a4-5ae4-97c2-8c4d6b9025dd)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#ulink_5f4294a8-c095-561b-b7ff-73d11a0280b5)

DANA MARTON is the author of more than a dozen fast-paced, action-adventure romantic suspense novels and a winner of the Daphne du Maurier Award of Excellence. She loves writing books of international intrigue, filled with dangerous plots that try her tough-as-nails heroes and the special women they fall in love with. Her books have been published in seven languages in eleven countries around the world. When not writing or reading, she loves to browse antiques shops and enjoys working in her sizable flower garden where she searches for “bad” bugs with the skills of a superspy and vanquishes them with the agility of a commando soldier. Every day in her garden is a thriller. To find more information on her books, please visit www.danamarton.com. She loves to hear from her readers and can be reached via e-mail at the following address: DanaMarton@DanaMarton.com.

With sincere appreciation for Allison Lyons and Denise Zaza and the whole Intrigue team

Chapter One (#ulink_39d3a540-66a9-58d8-89b7-e2b840a3b7a6)

Nash Wilder stood still in the darkness and listened to the sounds the bumbling intruder was making downstairs. Instinct—and everything he was—pushed him forward, into the confrontation. He pulled back instead, until he reached Ally Whitman’s bedroom door at the end of the hall in the east wing of her Pennsylvania mansion.

The antique copper handle turned easily under his hand; the door didn’t creak. He stepped in, onto the plush carpet, without making a sound.

She woke anyway, a light sleeper—no surprise after what she’d been through. She saw him and sat up in bed, her lips opening.

He lifted his index finger to caution her to silence as he mouthed, “He’s here.”

She always slept with a reading light on, and was nodding now to let him know that she’d seen and understood his words. As she clutched the cover to her chest, the sleeves of her pajama top slid back.

A nasty scar ran from her wrist to her elbow, evidence of a serious operation to piece together the bone beneath Not that she would ever share that story with anyone. She was a very private person, not a complainer, tough in her own way. Nash had read about the injury—one of many she’d suffered in the past twenty years—in her file.

His job was to make sure it was her last.

Sleep was quickly disappearing from her eyes as she clutched the blanket tighter and drew a slow breath, spoke in a whisper. “You’ll take care of him.”

Her confidence was hard-won. She wasn’t a woman to give her trust easily. Getting to this point had taken two months of them being together 24/7.

He wanted to protect her, but she needed more. His assignment here was over when her divorce was final in three days. After that there was no reason for her ex to come back. He would have what he’d gotten from her and no more. At least, that was what Ally thought. Nash wasn’t that optimistic.

He held her gaze as he shook his head. “You’ll take care of him.”

She needed to know without a doubt that she could. And her bastard of a soon-to-be-ex-husband needed to know that, too.

Her eyes went wide, and for a moment she was frozen to the spot, but then she nodded and pushed the cover back.

Good girl.

Not that Ally Whitman was a girl. She was a grown woman who’d seen the darker side of life during her twenty miserable years of marriage. She’d been a beauty in her day. He’d seen the wedding photo that had hung above the fireplace before he moved it, at her request, to the basement on his first day on the job. She’d been young and innocent, the sheltered daughter of a wealthy venture capitalist. Easy pickings.

His anger kicked into gear. He had a thing about violent bastards exploiting and brutalizing those weaker than themselves. He moved toward the door while she put on her robe. At fifty-two, Ally was still a striking woman.

As he waited, he heard rubber-soled shoes squeak on the marble tile downstairs. “In the kitchen,” he whispered when Ally came up next to him.

He walked her to the main staircase and handed her his gun. He’d made sure during the last two months that she knew how to handle it. He waited until she made her way down, then he headed to the other end of the hallway and stole down the back stairs, ignoring the sudden shot of pain that went through his bad leg. Enough moonlight filtered in through the windows that he could navigate the familiar landscape of the house without trouble.

“Hello, Jason,” he heard her say as he moved toward the kitchen from the back.

A chair rattled as someone bumped it.

“What are you sneaking around in the middle of the night for?” Anger flared in the loudly spoken response. Her ex would probably have preferred to surprise her in her sleep. Scare her a little.

“I want you to leave my house.”

So far, so good. Nash crept closer. A few months ago, she would have asked the bastard what he wanted and in her desperation to be rid of him, would have given it.

“Like hell.” The man’s tone grew belligerent. “It’s my house, too. If you think you’re going to push me out—”

“The judge decided.”