The Baron and The Bodyguard

If all her pupils developed figures like hers, he could hardly argue. She had moved a little away and she stood about five-eight, although trapped on the bed, he couldn’t see if that was with or without heels. With, his memory supplied. Without, he recalled, she only came up to his shoulder.

She had a waist he could nearly span with two hands, although he’d need a longer reach to span any higher. She was dressed in a clinging sunshine-yellow halter top that left her satiny shoulders bare and emphasized the fullness of her feminine curves. The top was tucked into the slimmest pair of black denim jeans he’d seen in a long time. Getting into them must be an exercise in itself, he thought, then slammed a lid on the thought. Trussed up as he was, letting himself dwell on such things was a recipe for terminal frustration.

“Why did you agree to come back?” he asked, hoping she’d give him a clue as to why she’d left his employ in the first place.

She looked startled as if the question was unexpected. “You needed me,” she said. Then she glanced away as if she had given away more than she wanted to.

He felt a surge of satisfaction. “If you were from Carramer, I could put your answer down to loyalty to the crown, but you’re not. You tell me there’s nothing between us, yet you come running the moment I’m injured. Does that sound like nothing to you?”

“You always did twist my words,” she snapped. “I’ve a good mind to…”

“Careful,” he cautioned her. “You’re dealing with an injured man.”

“He’ll be a lot worse injured if he keeps provoking me.”

“Does the word ‘treason’ mean anything to you?” he asked, pleased to have provoked some sort of response from her.

She wrapped her arms around herself as if she was cold. “As I recall, you threatened to have me charged with treason when I resigned. It didn’t work then, so I don’t see why it should change my behavior now.”

“I didn’t want you to leave?”

The question hung in the air between them. Finally she shook her head. “No, but you didn’t need a bodyguard after Zenio was caught.”

He must have had another reason for wanting her to stay, he concluded. He wished his head didn’t ache so abominably, making thinking such an ordeal. Belatedly he noticed something else. She wore a flesh-colored bandage on her left forearm. She saw him looking at it and dropped the arm to her side, where she’d held it since he woke up, wanting to keep him from seeing the injury, he assumed.

“How did you come by that?”

She glanced at the bandage then looked away. “It’s nothing. I was jogging past the treasury at the time of the bombing.”

He hated the thought of her being injured, however slightly. “You weren’t working for me, so what were you doing there?”

She had been running through the park and had seen him approach the treasury in his limousine. Even as she chided herself for acting like a sycophantic teenager, she had moved closer, hoping for another glimpse of him when he got out.

Automatically her gaze had swept the area. Her realization that something was wrong had been almost subliminal, an awareness that one of the terra-cotta pots of flowers edging the steps didn’t match the others. It was also out of alignment, as if it had been added in haste.

She had moved without conscious thought, grabbing the object and flinging it into the lake. Before the water could absorb the detonation the bomb hidden in the pot had exploded in the air, the blast catching Mathiaz as he walked up the treasury steps.

A flying fragment of hot debris had singed her arm, but she hadn’t paid the injury any attention until later. At the time, she had been consumed with worry for Mathiaz. Seeing him stir and moan, she had known he was still alive, and it had been all she could do not to rush to his side.

No one had seen her action, or if they had, they hadn’t reported her to the police because she hadn’t been detained or interviewed. She had waited long enough to see a doctor emerge from the crowd and check Mathiaz over then an ambulance had arrived and she had slipped away. Later she had telephoned the police and tipped them off about the flowerpot, without identifying herself.

Explaining about her role to the police or to Mathiaz would have meant revealing her feelings for him. She was far from ready for that, so she said, “When I saw your car pull up, I was curious to see what you were doing, that’s all.”

Her answer left him unsatisfied, as if he suspected there was more she wasn’t telling him. “You weren’t keeping an informal eye on me, by any chance?”

Her heightened color told him he was getting close, but she shook her head. “I told you, I was only called in after you became injured. Dr. Pascale hoped a familiar face would help bring you back to consciousness.”

“The family is full of familiar faces. Any one of them could have answered Pascale’s call as well as you could. There’s another reason, isn’t there?”

This time she met his gaze. “The police are treating the explosion as suspicious, so palace security asked me to come back for the time being.”

An upsurge of pleasure at the news that she was staying around, was offset by the worry her statement generated. Apart from an occasional malcontent like Zenio, Carramer had few antiroyalists. Fewer still who would actively harm the monarchy which ensured the country’s peace and prosperity. Mathiaz asked grimly, “What do you think?”

Her expression tightened. “Explosions don’t happen by themselves. We’ll know more when the experts have finished combing through the debris. The treasury portico and front courtyard were a mess.”

He fisted handfuls of the bedclothes, his tension rising. “Was anyone else hurt?”

“A couple of passersby had near misses. Mostly shock. As luck would have it, you arrived a few minutes early. The staff were on their way to greet you when the explosion occurred.”

“Then I should thank my stars we all got off so lightly.” Another thought occurred to him. “I did get off lightly, didn’t I? There’s nothing Pascale hasn’t told me?”

“Your leg is still attached, if that’s what’s worrying you,” she assured him. She gave a knowing smile. “And according to Dr. Pascale, everything else is in working order.”

Mathiaz masked his relief. As far as he could remember, he wasn’t involved with anyone, but he hoped one day to have a wife and children, especially a son to inherit his land and titles. Jacinta’s oblique reassurance meant they were still a possibility.

Good grief, he could be married already, and not remember. The thought made him realize how much could have happened in the months he had lost. He felt awkward asking Jacinta whether or not he was involved with anyone, so he kept silent. Surely if he had, she would have been at his bedside, rather than Jacinta?

“What happened to my leg?” he asked instead.

“They removed a chunk of shrapnel from your calf muscle, so you won’t be playing hopscotch for a week or so. You’ll be on crutches for another week, but after that, with care, you should heal as good as new.”

Some of his anxiety receded. “What about your arm?”

“It’s nothing.”

“One thing I do remember is that with you, nothing can cover anything from a bruise to the need for a bionic replacement.”

A smile blossomed, lighting up her features, and Mathiaz felt his insides tighten. In the months she’d worked with him—a year ago now, he struggled to remember—she hadn’t smiled nearly often enough. When she did, it was like the sun coming out. He felt an aching need to see her smile again.

“Were we lovers?”

Instead of making her smile, his question had her looking away. He felt cheated. In his dream when he’d held her in his arms, his mouth hungry on hers, she’d laughed with happiness. She’d responded out of her own hunger, and the ferocity of what they’d shared made him ache with the desire to translate dream into reality.

“If you weren’t injured, I’d be insulted,” she said. “It wouldn’t say much for my lovemaking capability if you couldn’t remember.”

She hadn’t answered his question, he noticed, wondering if her brittle response covered something deeper. More wishful thinking? Or a memory beyond conscious reach? He decided to match her brittleness, for now. “Considering I can’t remember what I had for breakfast, it’s hardly an insult.”

“French toast and double-strength black coffee.”

He stared at her. As far as he knew, that was the breakfast he’d eaten, except that it wasn’t yesterday, it was months ago. “How did you…”

“You have the same thing every morning except Sundays when you have eggs Benedict.”

Inwardly he felt gratified at how well she knew him. Warning himself not to read too much into the discovery, he said, “Am I that predictable?”

“Bad security, but yes. When I worked for you, we argued a lot about the need to vary your routines to reduce the risk of the stalker being able to predict your movements.”

The relationship he remembered was friendly but formal, at least on Jacinta’s side. On his own, he remembered a strong wish to turn their association into something more personal. Had they done so, or had it remained another dream? “I don’t recall arguing with you.”