The Bodyguard

Chapter Two

Another wave of nausea hit Caroline. She clutched the edge of the receptionist’s desk and drew in deep breaths, fighting the dizziness that had plagued her since she’d dragged her aching body out of bed this morning. Richard’s “lesson” yesterday had delayed her plans by a full day. But nothing would stop her this time. She’d just have to fight through the pain.

“Mrs. Ashton, are you okay?” The receptionist hurried around the desk, her youthful face mirroring concern.

“She’s fine.” Leslie Harrison, the Harrison part of the law firm of Wiley & Harrison, admonished the other woman. “I’ll escort Mrs. Ashton to her car.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The receptionist resumed her seat, aiming a resentful look at her boss’s back.

“Leslie, I’m actually not feeling all that well. Perhaps I should sit down for a moment.”

“Come along, Caroline. You’ll feel better when you get out of this stuffy office into the fresh air.” She leaned in close. “It’s just nerves.” Her voice was low so no one else would hear her as she escorted Caroline outside the busy lobby. “You’re taking a huge step today. Besides, you don’t have a minute to waste if you’re going to get to the new house before your husband discovers you’re missing.”

Caroline gave her a shaky smile. “I’m sorry. You’ve gone to a lot of trouble to help me. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.” She clicked her key fob and unlocked the black Mercedes S600 sedan Richard had chosen for her. Not for the first time, she wished he would allow her to drive something simpler, less pretentious.

Leslie held the car door open. “No worries, dear. I’m happy to help. Remember, go straight to the new house. No stops along the way. Promise me.”

“I promise.”

Leslie smiled and stepped back as Caroline eased into the driver’s seat.

A few miles down the road, another wave of dizziness hit. A sharp cramp shot through her belly. She yanked the wheel, pulling to the shoulder of the road amid a flurry of honking horns as other drivers swerved to avoid her.

Sweat popped out on her forehead in spite of the cold air blasting out of the air-conditioning vents. She tried to sit as still as she could, willing the dizziness and pain away. Being sore the morning after one of Richard’s lessons wasn’t unusual. But for some reason it was so much worse today. It must be nerves, as Leslie had said. She’d been plotting her escape for months. And now that she was actually going through with her plan, the stress was making her sick.

She worried her bottom lip with her teeth and clutched her cramping belly. Richard’s extra lesson had almost ruined everything, making it physically impossible for her to do her Wednesday chores. But this morning it was Richard who insisted that she couldn’t be lazy two days in a row. He’d ordered her to get out of bed to take care of the errands she’d skipped yesterday. Her eagerness to do his bidding had pleased him. What he didn’t realize was that he’d given her a gift by ordering her to go.

After breakfast she’d stood at the door and waved goodbye to her husband for the last time while Charles pulled the Rolls-Royce around the circular driveway. Richard closely watched her through the rolled-down window in the backseat. His suspicious gaze had her clutching the doorway, worried she’d done something to give away her plans. But the car hadn’t stopped, and Richard continued down the road toward his office.

Careful not to do anything that might trigger a call from the household staff to her husband, she’d stuck to her usual weekly itinerary of going to the dry cleaner’s and then to the lawyer’s office. The difference this time was that instead of dropping off her clothes with Richard’s at the cleaner’s, she’d only dropped off Richard’s. She kept the small bag of her clothes and toiletries she’d carefully packed to begin her new life. Using the dry-cleaning trip as her excuse, she’d been able to carry her bag out of the house without tipping off the security guards that something was different.

After the cleaner’s, she drove to the lawyer’s office to deliver the accordion of tax receipts and documents to Leslie and to supposedly collect any papers Richard needed to review or sign. Of course, this week, there would be no return trip to give him anything. She wasn’t going back.

Since he could have ordered any number of people to perform both chores every week, Caroline assumed her errands were some kind of test. So she’d always been careful to go straight to the cleaner’s, then straight to the lawyer, then straight home.

The clock in the dashboard had her hands tightening on the steering wheel. Leslie had warned her not to make any stops. She didn’t have time to sit on the side of the highway, no matter how much she hurt. In exactly twelve minutes, the security detail would notify her husband she wasn’t home. Richard would call Leslie and ask when Caroline had left. Once he realized she hadn’t gone straight home, he’d leave the office and go searching for her.

She lifted a shaky hand to her brow. Dear Lord, what was she doing? What had made her think she could escape? She debated turning around and racing back home. But even if she managed not to get pulled over for speeding, she’d never make it in time. How would she explain being late?

If she told the truth, that she’d been sick and had pulled over, he probably wouldn’t believe her. But even if he did, he’d accuse her of complaining again. It was her fault that she felt bad, and she shouldn’t make him worry or have to come check on her just because she couldn’t accept the consequences of her actions. He’d feel compelled to “instruct” her again.

She clenched her teeth. She was already one huge mass of bruises. Everything hurt. Endure another lesson? No, she couldn’t, she just couldn’t.

Protection. She needed protection. But who could protect her? She had no friends, no family—not in Savannah, anyway. And her parents wouldn’t exactly be pleased to find out she’d left her wealthy husband. They’d be worried the monthly checks Richard sent them would stop.

Who else, then? Leslie was the only person she ever dared to speak to outside the house, unless she was with her husband at some function. And since her duty at those functions was to cling to his arm like a decoration and not leave his side, she never had the opportunity to foster any friendships.

But she couldn’t ask Leslie to outright defy Richard by harboring her. Leslie’s law practice depended on Ashton Enterprises’ lucrative account. Jeopardizing Leslie’s income wasn’t fair, especially after everything the lawyer had already done to help her. No, she’d started down this path. She had to see it through. So, what, then? What could she do?

The idea of going to the police flitted through her mind but was quickly discarded. She’d seen the shows on TV. The cops couldn’t do much until after a crime was committed, except maybe tell her to get a restraining order. And what was the use of a flimsy piece of paper against a man as rich and powerful as Richard Ashton III?

Not that a judge would believe her and give her a restraining order in the first place. Society worshipped and adored Richard. To them, he was a generous humanitarian who donated millions every year to charity and supported the campaigns of just about everyone holding office in Savannah right now, including the sheriff of Chatham County. No, going to the police wasn’t an option.

Then how could she protect herself? Richard’s idea of protection was a twenty-four-hour guard at the house. Maybe that was what she needed: her own guard, someone who would be loyal to her and only her.

She drew her hand across her damp brow and used her car’s voice-command center to search the phone book for “bodyguards in Savannah, Georgia.” She selected the first company that popped up in the search results and set the GPS to direct her there.

* * *

IF HER ROYAL HIGHNESS—Kate Middleton—had materialized in the offices of Dawson’s Personal Security Services, it would have surprised Luke Dawson far less than the woman who’d just stepped through his door: Caroline Ashton—beautiful, platinum blonde, wife of billionaire businessman Richard Ashton III.

Luke couldn’t say what designers had made her tasteful silky tan skirt and matching blazer, or the tiny, shimmering handbag hanging off her shoulder. But he did know her clothes were expensive—and totally out of place in the cramped, dusty office that normally catered to hookers looking for protection from their pimps, or small-business owners needing protection when they got behind with their bookies.

Obviously, she was lost.

He glanced at the only other person in the room, his office manager, Mitch Brody, sitting a few feet away. Mitch shrugged, indicating he didn’t know what was going on, either.

Luke waited for their guest to say something, but she simply stood in front of his desk as if she was waiting for permission to speak—probably some quirk of the superrich. He shoved his chair back and offered his hand to shake.

“I’m Luke Dawson. And that’s Mitch Brody. What can Dawson’s Personal Security Services do for you, Mrs. Ashton?”

Her blue eyes widened, providing a stark contrast to her pale complexion. Was she surprised he knew her name? Didn’t she realize everyone in Savannah knew who the Ashtons were? The “perfect couple” was plastered on the front pages of the local gossip rags at least once a week, and their annual Christmas party was the event of the social season, rivaling the acclaim of the infamous parties held by Jim Williams back in his heyday. Or at least, that was what Luke had heard. His name would certainly never appear on the Ashtons’ Christmas party’s prestigious guest list.

She swayed slightly, as if caught in a daydream, before stretching her manicured hand out to shake his.

His hand practically swallowed hers, and he felt a shudder go through her. What the hell? She pulled her hand back, but not before he noticed something flash in her eyes, something he’d seen too many times in his line of work not to recognize it.

Fear.

Was it possible she was here on purpose, and that she needed help? That seemed so unlikely as to sound ludicrous, but Luke’s internal radar sounded a warning. Rather than show her to the door as he’d been tempted to do the moment she’d walked in, he rounded his desk and picked up a stack of folders from the one guest chair he owned.

He frowned at the lint on the dark green fabric. Normally he wouldn’t give it a second thought, but Caroline Ashton was far too sophisticated to sit on a dirty chair.

“Give me a minute and I’ll find something to cover the seat.”

“No, no, please. Don’t go to any trouble on my behalf. This is fine.”

She sat before he could stop her.

He raised a brow in surprise and leaned back against the edge of the desk, his legs stretched out in front of him as he waited for her to explain why she was here. But again, she seemed perfectly content not to say anything. She simply looked up at him with a polite, blank look. He wondered again at the foibles of the wealthy.

“Mrs. Ashton, how can we help you today?”

“I n-need t-to...” She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment as if she was in pain. “I need to hire a bodyguard.”

Her nervousness had him studying her more closely. “I figured you came in here by accident and needed directions.”

Her thick lashes dipped down to her lap, as if keeping eye contact was too difficult.