Protection Detail

Rocket scientist, eh? “I am. What do you do?”

“Accountant. Own my own firm. Work my own hours.” The golden boy widened his stance and folded his arms across his chest, assuming a more relaxed posture. But the subtle shift tugged at his clothes and Thomas noticed the gun strapped to his ankle beneath his tan slacks. What kind of accountant needed to arm himself? “When I heard Jane had been involved in a drive-by shooting, I had to come and check on her. Now that she’s done with the police and the EMT, I’m here to drive her home.”

Was that an offer or an order? Relaxed posture or not, Conor Wildman’s dark eyes sent the message that he wasn’t taking no for an answer, no matter what choice Jane made. Thomas turned his focus from the younger man’s smile to Jane and asked a pointed question. “You’re okay with that?”

She frowned as she kicked her gaze up to his. “Of course.”

“Is he the guy who’s been texting you?” He was after me. Thomas still hadn’t gotten a satisfactory explanation for that frantic assertion when the bullets had been flying. She did understand she had options, didn’t she? “You don’t have to go with him if you don’t want to.”

The dimple that marred her forehead disappeared. She didn’t exactly give him a reassuring smile, but she did seem to be making a conscious choice when she laid her hand on his arm. “It’s okay. It’s business. Conor and I need to have a conversation. Thank you for the loan of the jacket. I’ll return it as soon as I get home. I’ll be fine.”

Thomas couldn’t shake his suspicion about the man. But unless Jane filed a complaint or he had concrete evidence to say this man was a danger to her, there wasn’t anything he could do, legally. Still, it wasn’t any concern about legalities that was twisting his gut with a sense that something was off here. Something about that friendly smile and ankle holster felt like Jane was risking more than she should with this guy.

Well, Thomas was about to surprise Conor Wildman. He was certain he’d surprise Jane. Maybe he even surprised himself when he cupped the side of her neck, sliding his fingertips into the silky base of her ponytail before leaning in to kiss her cheek. Her skin was cool and smooth but 100 percent softer than the ivory porcelain it resembled. He lingered for a few seconds, feeling the spot warm beneath his lips before he pulled away.

Her eyes were wide, searching his as he straightened the collar of his jacket and tugged it together at her neck before breaking contact entirely. He wouldn’t admit to a stab of jealousy that she was choosing this friend over a ride straight to the house in his truck. Thomas had no proprietary claim on this woman. And it was pretty inappropriate for him to be kissing a woman who worked for him. But his gut was telling him it was damn important that Conor Wildman understood Jane wasn’t alone here. She had someone looking out for her. Someone would have to answer to him if anything happened to her.

The message was for her as much as Wildman to understand.

“Call me if you need anything. A ride. Whatever. I’ll see you at home.”

* * *

THE UNHAPPY MAN watched Thomas Watson’s mouth flatten into a grim expression as the nurse and the suit walked away into the shadows of the parking lot. The Detective Lieutenant Yeah-I’m-a-Legend-in-My-Own-Mind didn’t move until the suit’s car pulled out of the parking lot and drove away into the night.

Well, now, wasn’t that sweet? Thomas had gone old school and marked his territory in front of that other man.

With a family full of well-trained cops who carried guns and were hypervigilant about their surroundings, he’d thought the Watson family’s most vulnerable weakness—the one they’d all do anything to protect—had been that white-haired has-been, Seamus. He’d known for years that family was the most important thing in Thomas Watson’s world, that hurting his family would be the surest, cruelest way to hurt him.

But now he was rethinking his plan. The aging father wasn’t the big guy’s only weakness anymore. As he’d begun to suspect over the past couple of months, Watson had developed feelings for the woman. After all these years, the loneliness must be getting to him. Did he want to get into Nurse Boyle’s pants? Did he fancy himself in love with her? She’d been living in Thomas’s house for six and a half months now. Maybe they were secretly screwing each other every night.

The man’s blood burned at the thought. His breath hitched, then came in shorter, deeper gasps as the familiar injustice that Thomas Watson had gone unpunished for far too long raged inside him. The thought of terrorizing Jane Boyle, killing her with his bare hands while Thomas watched—weak, helpless, in the same kind of pain he’d lived with for all these years—almost made him euphoric. That was the kind of pain he wanted to inflict on the man. He inhaled a deep breath, calming himself. Yes. There was another vulnerability he could prey upon to keep Thomas’s life in a state of upheaval. Keep him off guard. Keep him focused on Jane until he could...

Wait. From his vantage point in the shadows, the Unhappy Man’s gaze was drawn to someone else who’d been watching the interchange at the rear of the ambulance, someone who watched Thomas limp back to his truck and climb inside before darting off through the crowd and disappearing. Curious.

Almost all the Nosy Nellies standing outside the yellow tape were watching the police officers or the CSIs with their badges and guns and crime-scene kits inside the tape. That was the show they couldn’t resist. But that guy, nondescript with dark hair and his face hidden by sunglasses and the upturned collar of his denim jacket, had been watching the two men and woman and their standoff at the back of the ambulance. He’d watched that kiss.

The Unhappy Man smiled.

Looked like he wasn’t the only one who didn’t enjoy seeing Thomas Watson safe and happy.

Maybe he could use that to his advantage somehow. Or maybe he’d have to be careful not to let Blue Jean Boy interfere with his end game.

He started the engine of his own car and pulled out, waving to the uniformed officer directing traffic as he drove past. Two hours ago, the two hundred dollars he’d spent to hire that gangbanger to spray bullets at Thomas and the people he cared about had been worth it at ten times the price. But he now knew that he needed to fine-tune his approach to Thomas’s downfall. He needed to focus his attack on where it would hurt the most.

The detective lieutenant was worried about the safety of his family and that skinny, shapeless nurse he had the hots for.

The man squeezed his fists around the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. Mary Watson had been tall and willowy, with hair like sable fur and eyes as blue as the clear Irish sky after a rainstorm. Compared to a beauty like that, what could he possibly see in that beige woman who played down her looks and personality so much that she faded into the background?

Thomas had let Mary die. Watson had taken Mary from him and let her die. He wasn’t allowed to be happy with any other woman. He wasn’t allowed to be happy, period. But if Jane Beige Boyle made him happy, then he’d be only too happy to relieve him of that burden. An eye for an eye. One dead love for another.

His nostrils flared as he eased out a steadying breath and loosened his grip on the wheel. Patience and invisibility were his allies. The Watsons had no idea of the pain and rage he carried in his heart.

And they wouldn’t until the moment he destroyed them all.

Chapter Four (#ue3a99c30-2bd9-5a84-9216-5ad6a9cdade1)

“You think Watson suspects I’m your WITSEC handler?” Marshal Conor Wildman stepped around the corner of the kitchen peninsula in the house where she’d lived before accepting the job as Seamus Watson’s home-care nurse and moving into one of the upstairs bedrooms at the Watson house.

Jane took a seat on one of the stools furnished—just like the house itself—for her by the US Marshals Witness Security Program. “I think he thinks you’re my ex-boyfriend—and maybe not a very nice one.”

Conor grinned, unbuttoning his shirt collar and loosening his tie as he pulled coffee from the cabinet and started brewing a pot. Although the house off Thirty-Ninth Street was still listed under her Jane Boyle identity, Conor had probably spent more time here over the past few months, checking security or planning meetings with her. It was an easy cover to have to return to her own house to pick up clothing or supervise yard work or home repair, and then meet with the man whose job it was to maintain her identity and make sure she was safe. “Well, that would explain that goodbye peck on the cheek before we left the restaurant. The big guy’s jealous of you leaving the scene with another man.”

Thomas’s strong fingers sifting into her hair and the warm press of his lips against her chilled skin had felt like more than a peck on the cheek. It had felt like, if she’d turned her head a fraction, those firm, gentle lips would have been kissing her mouth instead. Jane’s breath caught in her chest as she remembered the heat that had suddenly suffused her at the older man’s touch. And now, for some inexplicable reason, she felt cheated that she hadn’t turned that fraction of an inch. “I don’t mean anything to him.”

Conor was still amused as he pulled two mugs from the dishwasher. “He’s very protective of you.”

“Thomas is protective of everybody. It’s in his blood. He’s been a cop for a long time. You said the Watson house was a good place for me to be because they’d be more alert to their surroundings than the average family.”

Nodding, Conor poured them each a mug of coffee, then went to the fridge to pull out a carton of half-and-half. “It’s helpful to have an extra set of eyes watching out for you. Even if the lieutenant doesn’t know he’s assisting with a WITSEC project.”

Jane added the half-and-half to her mug, trying to forget for a few seconds that she was considered a “project” by the FBI and US Marshals offices after witnessing her husband’s murder at the hands of a serial killer known only as Badge Man. Think about something else. Anything else.

Her thoughts instantly turned to the memory of how her skin had tingled and all the blood had rushed to the spot where Thomas had kissed her. She hadn’t been kissed in three years. Hadn’t been held in strong arms. Hadn’t had any man looking out for her unless he was being paid to do so. Not since Freddie’s death.

She rolled up the sleeves of the black nylon jacket she still wore. The creamy coffee she sipped was warming her up, but she wanted to keep the jacket on. Thomas’s straightforward scent, a blend of spicy soap and laundry detergent, might be the most masculine smell she’d ever inhaled, and having it surround her reminded her of his strength and calmed nerves that had been frayed to the point of snapping lately. She hadn’t had a man offer her his jacket in years, and for a little while at least, the gallant gesture made her feel normal, as if someone cared about her. Not as a valuable witness, a tool the FBI wanted to use to help them bring a dangerous man to justice—but just as her, a woman, a human being who hadn’t had anyone care about her on a personal level for a very long time.

Her thoughts took her into some dangerous territory as she considered her employer. Like the finely aged wines she used to drink after dinner with Freddie—before his murder, before she’d stopped drinking altogether to keep her senses clear and alert to the danger she feared could strike again at any given moment—Thomas was mature perfection. Sure of himself, but not arrogantly so. Handsome in a rugged sort of way. The lines beside his rich green eyes bespoke wisdom and life experience, laughter as much as heartbreak. And she’d known young bucks, maybe about the same age as Marshal Wildman, whose toothy smiles and perfect bodies and charming flirtations couldn’t ignite a fraction of the heat inside her that a single, purposeful look from Thomas Watson did.

“You’re thinking about Lieutenant Watson right now, aren’t you?” Conor braced his elbows on the counter across from her and leaned forward. “You know, Boyle, as long as you don’t reveal your real identity or mine, you’re allowed to have relationships in this program.”

A relationship? She’d scratched that off her future wish list, first out of grief, then out of necessity. “Is that why you’re not married? Because opening your heart to someone when some creeper wants you dead is so easy? My life is a sham. And the moment I give up that sham, I and the people I care about become targets of a dangerously sick serial killer. I don’t see any happily-ever-after in that scenario.”

He laughed. “Touché. I guess it’s hard to have an honest relationship with someone when you have to lie about who you are every day. I know that’s why my fiancée broke off our engagement. She wanted complete honesty—she deserved it. But the job wouldn’t let me do it.”

Her heart beat with a compassionate thump. Conor shared very little about himself with her. After all, she was a job more than she was a friend. But she suddenly felt a little more like a kindred spirit to hear he’d lost someone he’d loved, too. “I’m sorry.”

“Me, too.” He grinned again. “But you could still, you know, fool around.”

“With my boss?”

“I saw how you looked at him. You think the ol’ boy’s still got it.” Jane snapped her mouth shut, realizing she was still gaping at the suggestion she have a fling with her attractive employer. “Hey, I imagine what he lacks in speed, he more than makes up for in experience. From everything you’ve told me about him, Watson seems like a good guy.”