Chapter One

Leon Bagwell in danger?

From the fashion police, maybe.

Jacie Moreau tried to ignore him as he strutted around his luxury hotel room in a loosely tied bathrobe. Gray chest fuzz showing, hair combed over a significant bald spot, soaked in cologne.

He stood too close and made up excuses to touch her.

As soon as she got her skin to stop crawling, she’d hunt up her good buddy Detective Ghirardi. When she finished with him, he’d think twice before he assigned her to a security detail on a senior citizen Lothario. Jacie could tell even the police didn’t take it seriously. This hotel that Long Pine PD had designated a ‘safe house’, was a poor one.

Third floor of a hotel, sliding glass doors to the patio wide open. No other cops on guard. Nope, the cops weren’t worried at all.

And why should they believe the warnings? Who’d want to kill a college professor, for heaven’s sake?

Bagwell ‘accidentally’ brushed against her again.

Once more pal, and I’ll put my own name on the list.  

Jacie unclenched her fist and crouched, sliding skilled hands under a coffee table as she neared the end of her search.

Just do the job. Make sure the place is secure and get out.

Her fingers touched something smooth and cool. Dropping to her hands and knees she looked under the table and saw a black box with white digital numbers.

Counting down.

5...4...3...

“Get out!” Jacie lurched to her feet. “There’s a bomb!”

Bagwell used Jacie’s body to launch himself toward the door. He shoved against her, spinning her around so she almost flew out the patio door. She had no time. She leapt to the top of the stone railing.

The bomb detonated.

She blasted out into midair. Flames roared past. Debris struck like bullets.

Dazed, deafened by the roar, blinded by fire and whizzing projectiles, she twisted her body by instinct the way she’d been trained by gymnastics. It had been drilled into her over and over until it was as involuntary as blinking.

Three stories gave her lots of time to right herself; head up, toes pointed, a perfect pike position. She raised her arms triumphantly as she did when she nailed a landing.

But this landing was going to nail her.

Shards of glass slit her skin. The explosion, the shrapnel, the fall, the pain seemed to happen to someone else. There was no panic. She’d made her peace with God.

And then she hit…water.

She sliced through it and had barely begun to slow when her feet hit pavement, jarring every joint in her body. Opening her mouth in an involuntary gasp of pain, her lungs filled.

Chest burning, muscles fighting against the water that curled like tentacles. During the three story fall, she’d thought boldly that she didn’t fear death, but she hadn’t thought about dying.

So far it sucked.

Time slowed.

The pain in her water-logged chest ebbed. She stopped struggling. A light glowed in front of her. The water receded, and she followed the light by walking on solid, dry ground.

There was a sudden wrench on the back of her neck. Jacie reached behind her to try and stop the pain as the beautiful light winked out.

Her head popped out of the water. Now her lungs were on fire from the water in them. Someone hoisted her out of the water, turned her onto her stomach, jarring her injured joints and muscles. A sledgehammer bludgeoned her back.

She flickered her eyes open to discover who was attacking her, expecting to see her mother.

Rolling her onto her back, a man knelt beside her, gently lifted her chin, and held his hand on her forehead. He pressed his lips to hers. Something raw and tender turned over in her. He was using the life within him to save her.

Surrounding her with his strong touch, he breathed steadily, faithfully. Her gaze locked on the Good Samaritan. His eyes burned into hers between breaths. The caring in his eyes was overwhelming.

Thick hair, so coarse the water made it curly instead of flat, dripped on her. His dark blonde lashes, all one million of them, were tipped with a flare of glistening gold. Bright blue eyes, like the water from the pool, drew her. With a furrowed brow, his expression softened as if he sensed her vulnerability, and, when she realized how much she was enjoying that sweet concern, it shook her out of the last of her half-drowned stupor.

She couldn’t let him see how strongly he was affecting her. How often did she need to be taught the same lesson? How many times did she need to be rejected before she accepted that God meant for her to stand on her own?

Her fear turned to anger, which felt much safer. She had to get his hands off of her -- now.

He leaned down and breathed into her again. Air hissed down her throat. Her lungs heaved. She had developed discouraging men to an art. Anger gave her enough strength to pull away from him, take careful aim, and heave a belly full of chlorinated water on his legs.

It made her feel a little better.

He made a guttural sound, but he didn’t back off. “An ambulance is coming.”

He looked so worried, fussing over her, checking her pulse and brushing the hair from her forehead. He had saved her life. Sirens wailed in the distance -- more saviors. They were all going to want her to thank them. She could only think of the beauty of that bright light and be sorry she couldn’t go on toward it.

She didn’t have a thankful bone in her body and there was nobody to take her heartbreak out on but the Good Samaritan here. Her fingers curled into a claw and she grabbed him by the throat.

 

 

“Aaaggghh!” Brett Garrison grabbed the woman’s wrist.

“Hey, buddy, I called an ambulance.”

Brett looked up to see a man—one of many emerging from the hotel.

“Thanks.” It took every bit of strength Brett had to drag her hand free of his neck. She had his blood under her fingernails, she’d barfed on his pants and she’d tried to strangle him.

If all Knights-In-Shining-Armor got reactions like this, it was no wonder chivalry was dead.

He’d just checked out after he’d stayed in this hotel last night. It’d been his twin brother Ben’s wedding. He’d come outside to head home to witness a woman sailing down from the sky like a descending angel. It had been a divine experience. Then glass started slashing at him and dormant instincts sprung to life.

The woman he’d pulled out was beautiful. And for just a few seconds she’d looked fragile and grateful.

If he had it to do over, he’d save her again, vomit, strangulation and all.

Her dark eyes flickered open. They were brown and clashed with her light coloring. He was almost relieved when that fragile, unguarded expression faded, because he didn’t want her to be so defenseless.

Then she’d grabbed his throat.

Yeah, you’re welcome.

A rivulet of blood oozed from a slit on her temple “The flying glass cut you.” He didn’t hesitate, even in the face of that fire-breathing anger. Reaching behind his neck, he dragged the shirt off his back.

Applying pressure to the trickle, he saw blood ooze out on her chin. Everywhere the fabric of her shirt and khaki shorts hadn’t protected her—except right in front, since the debris had hit from the back, she was slashed. Tiny cuts but so many of them. The pool water must have washed the glass away because he didn’t see any embedded in her skin.

“You’re bleeding all over.” He pressed on each slit with another part of his shirt.

“I’m fine.” She batted his hands away, and sat up.

“Lie down, the ambulance will be here in a minute.” He restrained her by pressing on her shoulder, but she flinched in pain when he touched her so he let her go. As he treated her, his medical skills took over from the warrior who was awakened when he’d seen her fall. Sirens whined closer every second.

Brett glanced at his drenched cell phone. Good thing someone else had called 911. “Help is coming. Do you hear the sirens?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “I’m blown up, not deaf.”

“Sometimes explosions can make you deaf. A little.” What she said registered, and he looked up at the shattered window on the third floor. “You’re blown up?”

Chattering by-standers kept well away from Brett, as if a three story fall and near drowning, might be contagious.

A particularly fast flowing cut soaked through the inadequate first aid of his t-shirt. “Of course you’re blown up. I heard the explosion.”

She pushed him away. “Yeah, and fell three floors. All things considered I’d say I’m in great shape.”

“All things considered, I’d say you’re a complete miracle. I’m Brett Garrison.”

He waited. She didn’t respond. “And you are?”

“Jacie. And what I’m not, is getting in that ambulance.” She stood up. Her knees buckled.

Brett caught her. “Oh, yes you are.”

Jacie flinched. To keep his hands off her cuts, he slid his arms around her waist. The fabric had protected her skin, which means the glass hadn’t cut deep or her shirt wouldn’t have stopped it…right?

Her eyes took on that soft, helpless look again. She sagged against him and her head dropped onto his bare chest.

The sticky warmth of her blood and the way she trembled awakened something primal in Brett. She needed him. He had a caveman-like desire to drag her off to his cave and bring her saber-toothed tiger meat and all the fig leaves she ever needed—three at a time.

The weak, needy, delicate maiden said, “Get your hands off me, Pretty Boy. I said I’m not getting in that ambulance and I’m not. A couple of Band Aids and I’m good as new.”

With pure will power, her knees straightened and she stood away from him. It was more than obvious she didn’t want to lean on anyone.

“You need to see a doctor, Jacie.”

Pretty Boy? She meant it as an insult. But still...

“Quit whining. I’ve got things to do. I’m not...”

A heart-rending, deep-throated scream came from above them. They looked at the shattered window three floors up. Smoke appeared, then movement. Something black and unrecognizable, enveloped in flames, teetered in the destroyed window opening, then tumbled out.

Brett recognized it more from the screaming than how it looked. And, in spite of the clawed neck and the withholding of her name, he pulled her back into his arms and pushed her head against his chest so she couldn’t watch.

Without the benefit of explosive force, the object didn’t fly far enough from the building to land in the pool. It struck the sidewalk with a sickening thud. It..he...bounced once and lay still.

Jacie turned her head and looked at the barely human shape of the man who had just plunged to his death.

She shoved Brett’s arms away from her and, for the second time, he noticed how strong she was. She folded her arms tightly across her chest. Her lips pressed together to contain any emotion she was feeling, but he could tell she was shaken.

Brett took a step toward the man.

She snagged his arm. “Don’t bother. He’s dead.”

Diagnosing the man from twenty feet away, under the circumstances, wasn’t a leap of faith. The smell of burning flesh and the blackened, smoldering remains turned Brett’s stomach. Stopping him was the nicest thing she’d done so far.

By a mile.

Brooding as she stared at the body, Jacie shoved one hand through her short, white-blonde hair, smoothing it against her scalp. Pulling her hand back, she studied her bloody fingertips. Without reacting, beyond wiping her hand on her slacks, she looked back at the body for a long moment then, with a shake of her head, she walked away.

Halting, she turned and looked deep into the water of the pool. Terrible sadness came over her. For just a second, tears shimmered in her eyes.

Brett reached out to comfort her.

Before he could, she was her cranky self again. “Well, I guess this means I’m out of a job.” She pulled her cell phone out of her front pocket and stared for a second.

“The water probably wrecked it.” Brett stated the obvious.

She shoved the phone back in her pocket and turned her back on Brett.

The back of her T-shirt was blood soaked down to her shoulder blade on the right side. “You’ve got a head wound. You might need stitches.”

“Back off. A scratch on the head bleeds. I’m fine.”

Brett started to chase after her then stopped. If the woman wanted to bleed, he’d let her bleed.

With a shudder of distaste, he looked at his own blood-spotted T-shirt. Since it was that or walk around town with his shirt off, he pulled it on, grabbed his overnight case and, although he should know better by now, he jogged to catch up with her. “Why are you out of a job?”

She surprised him by answering. “That’s my boss.”

“Your boss?” Brett faltered as he looked back at the body. “How do you know? He’s so badly burned.”

She glanced at the smoking corpse. “I know.”

He tagged along beside her. “B...but you can’t just walk away? You have to see a doctor. You’re bleeding. You could have spinal injuries, head injuries. You have to talk to the police.”

“I am the police. Sort of.”

Police? This pretty, vulnerable woman? Brett caught himself. This tough, huge Amazon. She could definitely be the police. “Is he a policeman, too?”

“No.” She was going out of her way to walk around the side of the building opposite where the ambulance and fire trucks were pulling up. She was definitely avoiding the authorities.

“No way are you a cop.”

She didn’t respond as she walked away.

Brett followed her, feeling like a dog trained to heel. “If you’re a policewoman and he’s not, how can he be your boss?”

“I was moonlighting.”

“As what?”

“A bodyguard.”

“I have to assume you aren’t putting this on your resume.”

She picked up the pace and headed straight for a flashy little red Mazda Miata with the convertible top down. She hopped over the car door and dropped into the seat. She grimaced with pain, which probably meant she was human. She reached for the car key, then her hand faltered and dropped to her side. Her head lolled back against the head rest.

Brett swung her door open. “You’re not driving anywhere in this condition.”

The ambulance siren let out a particularly nasty screech as it approached the far end of the parking lot. She sagged sideways and landed most of her weight against him.

“We have to get you to a doctor.”

“Quit being such a wimp.” She lifted her head with visible effort and turned it to look straight at him. “I hate whining men. I’ll bet you go to the doctor for a hangnail.”

“Look, you could have internal injuries. A fall like that isn’t just cuts and bruises. You’ve got to...”

She gripped his arm so hard he wanted to gasp from the pain. That ‘whining men’ crack stopped him.

She said grimly, “No hospital.”

Brett’s jaw hardened from the effort of not snarling at the poor, injured little tyrant. “Fine, G.I. Jacie. We’ll go the macho route. Do you want a bullet to bite on?”

She looked at him, and the deeply drawn lines of pain were overlaid with fear. “I can’t go to the hospital. Promise me.”

Brett wondered what in the world he had stumbled into. “All right. I promise. No hospital.”

Jacie let his arm go and whispered weakly, “Thanks.”

Brett said, “Get up, my car is right over there.” He nodded his head at the beige Camry parked right beside Jacie’s hotrod.

He eased her out of the car. Still sure she needed a doctor, he guided her to his car and set her in the seat. No reason he couldn’t stay close for a while in case she needed him to drive her to the emergency room. He buckled her seat belt and shut the door for her because he wasn’t sure she was capable of it. Then he circled the car.

“Where do you live?” He looked at her. Her eyes drifted closed.

Resting her eyes? Or passing out?

Remembering the fear in her eyes, he checked her pulse and weighed the dangers. ‘Lord, what is she so afraid of? Will she be in danger at the hospital?’

Instead of the firm assurance that she needed professional medical attention, a litany marched through his head. She was talking, speaking in rude but clear sentences. Walking, so her spine was okay. Her pulse was steady. Her breathing deep and even. A concussion was a possibility but he could handle that. Medical training equipped him to respond if she took a bad turn.

Her fear was real. It seemed like a betrayal to take her to the hospital if it wasn’t necessary. And even though he barely knew her and a lot of what he did know was downright scary, he didn’t want to see that fear in her eyes again.

If his cell worked he’d’ve called his brother, Ben. But he had no way to do that.

As gently as a settling hand on his shoulder, he had peace that he was doing the right thing.

He headed home.

 

 

The binoculars were in perfect position when she was blasted through the plate glass. Then out of the contorted flesh, form emerged. The twist became an orderly, elegant motion. Her head came up and she extended her arms triumphantly.

An angel descending with power and might. Only God could destroy an angel. And he’d done it. The rush was beyond words. He had destroyed her. He was God!

Then he saw her being pulled from the pool by a man. A high-pitched whine echoed in the room. She had to be dead! He’d killed her!

He’d been given the power of God.

An instant later it was snatched away. His binoculars smashed against the floor.

Another body, burning, dying, plunged to the ground. He only felt contempt. He knew now the wild victory of killing an angel and the heady power of being almighty. He had to feel it again. The angel and the man who’d saved her both had to die and die quickly.

He rushed out of the building to see her riding away with the man driving. Taking her from him.

He was in time to get a license number.