Accidental Bodyguard

By Sharon Hartley

She can't make the same mistake again 

Claudia Goodwin loved and trusted once. Now she's running from the man she thought would never hurt her. Hiding in the breathtaking beauty of a private Florida island until she can testify against her ex–husband, a ruthless terrorist, she has to stay focused on survival. 

Sexy security expert Jackson Richards is the perfect man to have on her side, but trusting anyone–even him– isn't an option. The one thing she can't keep hidden is the crackling attraction between them. And desire for the man keeping her safe might not be enough to protect her heart…or her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Oct 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781489218940

Sharon Hartley

Sharon S. Hartley loves to write stories that revolve around law enforcement and the fascinating, often dangerous people inhabiting this world. To calm herself from thinking about cops and robbers, she teaches yoga and is a Registered Yoga Teacher. Sharon lives in St. Petersburg, Florida, with her soulmate, Max, a Jack Russell Terrorist named Rocket and hundreds of orchids. Sharon loves to hear from her readers! Please contact her at [e-mail]

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

CLAUDIA GOODWIN DROVE into her assigned parking space at Brasilia Apartments, turned off her demon car and held her breath. This time the engine kept chugging for only about five seconds before it finally hiccupped to a stop. With a weary sigh, she pulled herself out of the old clunker and into the cool late-January evening.

Thank the nursing gods she was off tomorrow and could sleep late. Although first she had to check on Maude Spalding.

Claudia entered the pleasantly lit courtyard of the small complex and reminded herself she loved her job at West Miami Children’s Hospital. She’d chosen the option of working three days straight and then four off. One of those seemed-like-a-good-idea-at-the-time deals. Funny how lots of things seem like a good idea at first and later prove, hey, not so much.

Pushing away useless regret, she took a deep breath and inhaled the fragrance of night-blooming jasmine. She closed her eyes to savor the scent and relaxed her shoulders. The courtyard was filled with tropical foliage—towering palms, hibiscus, terrestrial orchids and bromeliads. Even a live oak or two. Meant to remind visitors of a mini rainforest, this garden-like refuge was why she’d moved in.

And she’d move again as soon as the trial was over. A niggle of worry about her testimony crept into her thoughts, but Claudia shrugged it away, rapping on her downstairs neighbor’s door.

Though it was after midnight, Maude would be up. The feisty eighty-six-year-old seldom slept. She’d lived by herself in the Brasilia for over thirty years and refused to go into assisted living.

Maude? Claudia called softly.

Come on in, Maude answered in her breathy voice.

Claudia entered and, as always, felt like she’d been transported into an over-the-top holiday extravaganza. Every available surface contained some red-and-green or gold ornament. There were Santas, Mrs. Santas, snowmen, elves, wreaths, twinkling lights and hundreds of Christmas trees, big and small. Glitter everywhere.

Claudia called Maude Our Lady of Perpetual Christmas.

December 25th was long gone, but Maude kept Christmas year-round, never putting away any of her knickknacks. They reminded her of happier times, of her family, now all dead.

Claudia approached her tiny, gray-headed neighbor in the large recliner where she spent most of her time watching television, noting she was using her oxygen.

You been upstairs yet? Maude demanded, with an odd, excited expression. Her eyes appeared huge behind her thick glasses.

No, Claudia answered, feeling for her neighbor’s pulse. Any palpitations tonight?

Was some kind of ruckus in your unit, Maude blurted.

Claudia dropped Maude’s wrist. Ruckus?

Maude nodded. Sounded like furniture being moved, dishes being thrown every whichaway. I almost called the police, but I didn’t want to get you in no trouble.

Claudia stepped back, her stomach cramping hard. Had Carlos finally decided to take action against her? Why would you think—

I been around a long time, Miss Claudia. I can tell when someone’s got something in their past they’re not proud of.

Claudia looked up. Her unit was directly over Maude’s. I promise I’m not wanted by the police. My problem is I agreed to help them.

You may not be hiding from the law, but you’re keeping your head down trying to avoid trouble.

Hoping my ex forgets about me. Claudia swallowed, suddenly worried about Moochie, the black stray cat who’d adopted her when she moved in to the Brasilia.

Did you see anyone?

Two men ran down the stairs after the commotion. I didn’t notice them going up. Maude sighed. With my eyesight, I couldn’t tell you nothing about the way they looked.

I’d better go see what’s going on, she said.

You still got that stun gun?

Claudia nodded and patted her purse.

Have it at the ready.

Claudia hurried up to her apartment. Had Carlos decided she was a liability? Maybe it was time to go in to hiding.

Her front door stood open. Not closed and locked as she’d left it. She took a deep breath. Now the jasmine seemed sickeningly sweet, making her faintly nauseous.

Most people would call the police before entering, but she couldn’t do that. Not because she was hiding from them as Maude thought, but because she didn’t trust them to protect her. Cops could easily be bought. Her ex, the infamous Carlos Romero, had taught her that. So she’d made her preparations months ago. The day she realized she was being followed.

She was on her own.

Everything she needed, courtesy of a grateful patient’s father, waited for her in a safe-deposit box.

Claudia pushed the door wide and gasped. She waited at the threshold, absorbing the chaos before her. Maude’s description had nailed the condition of her home. Furniture had been tossed and ripped. Drawers opened and thrown. Dishes and appliances smashed on the kitchen floor.

No doubt they were looking for her journal.

Moochie? She stepped into the living room, her heart beating so hard and fast her blood pressure had to be off the charts. Moochie, she called again. Where are you?

She entered the bedroom and discovered more destruction. They’d ripped her nursing scrubs into shreds. Fearing the worst, she kept searching.

In the bathroom she found Moochie, drowned in the toilet.

She clamped a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking. Oh, Moochie. You poor sweet thing. I’m so sorry.

She raised her eyes to the mirror and stared at words scrawled in red lipstick: KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT.

* * *

JACKSON RICHARDS ACCEPTED the coffee he’d ordered from the dark-haired barista, thanked her and took a hesitant sip. Strong and hot. Just as he remembered. No one brewed a better cup than the Collins Island Café.

Jackson exited the café into a cool, salt-laden breeze off the Atlantic Ocean and walked the short distance to the security office. He had a golf cart at his disposal, but he preferred to walk.

Colorful tropical landscaping and the soothing sound of waterfalls surrounded him. He was on the job, but this assignment was more like a forced vacation. His boss insisted he needed a break after his last two missions, which, yeah, had both been bitches. He took another sip of the excellent coffee.

Maybe Lola was right, but he’d resisted taking this cushy gig as Security Director on Collins Island, a private island off Miami Beach accessible only by boat where his employer, the Protection Alliance, provided security. PA operatives rotated in and out as the live-in chief, usually delighted for the opportunity.

Most of the residents were seasonal, and this was the height of the season. Crime was nonexistent on this island paradise. All he had to do for the next month was keep his staff on schedule, act friendly to the wealthy residents and enjoy the resort-like atmosphere.

But it was always boring as hell. And he hated sucking up to trust fund slackers.

A blast of hot air greeted him when he pushed open the door to the security office. He groaned at the decor as he moved to shut down the heat. Pink-and-gray Art Deco was definitely not his style. And what idiot had decided heat was needed just because a weak cold front had swept through south Florida last night? Not him. He was a north Florida man. Jackson opened a window.

He shrugged off his jacket and hung it in the closet. Another thing he didn’t like about this gig was the requirement to wear a blue blazer. Damn thing made him feel like a polo player. His khakis and the knit shirt featuring the Collins Island logo over the pocket were enough of a uniform.

He sat at the desk to review the security force schedule. The most critical duty was clearing arrivals for the ferry on the Miami side. The ferry ran every fifteen minutes, and no one was allowed to place a toe on Collins Island without clearance from an owner. Even daily maids were checked and their bags searched. Two guards handled that assignment on three eight-hour shifts, with two more guards on the island side to supervise debarkation. Another two circulated the island on golf carts, constantly alert for any sort of trouble. Of which there was, fortunately, seldom any.

He noted all six positions on all three shifts were staffed with regular PA personnel for the next week. Excellent. That made the transition easier, but he’d make a late-night visit to the docks to ensure no one was catching a nap, looking to take advantage of the new guy in the director’s chair. Not likely, though. Guards loved this job because it came with a lot of perks like big tips and expensive gifts—especially during the winter season.

Still, you never knew what could happen. He wanted no screw-ups during his stint as chief.

Looking for any anomalies, he reviewed the security logs for the last week and reached for the phone when it rang.

Security.

Hey, Action Jackson. Are you bored yet?

Lola, the office manager from Protection Alliance’s main office. He pictured her pink hair, always worn in short spikes. She looked crazed but possessed a laser-sharp mind and never forgot a thing. Jackson relaxed back in his chair, making the leather squeak.

I’ve only been on the job forty-five minutes, Lola.

That’s usually all it takes.

Maybe I’m looking forward to a month of not having to duck bullets.

Yeah, right. I’ll remind you of that in a week.

Hey, this was your idea, boss. I’m ready to go back in the field anytime.

You are in the field.

Jack snorted. Field of dreams.

Did you get settled in the apartment? Everything to your liking?

Ocean view. Great coffee. I can walk to work through a tropical paradise. What’s not to like?

Don’t be sarcastic, Jack.

I’m going with the flow.

Lola laughed, a throaty sound. By the way, we received a very nice thank-you bonus from that rapper Jazzy Bones Boy yesterday. He’s grateful for your services.

He ought to be. The jerk almost got me killed. How grateful?

I think your cut will make you happy, Lola said.

Is that why you called? Couldn’t have already been a complaint about me.

I wanted you to know there’s a tenant arriving sometime today. Jackson listened as Lola shuffled through paper. A Mr. Rodolfo Santaluce has rented the pool house of his villa. He wants us to assist with the arrival, make sure security doesn’t hassle his new tenant.

Isn’t renting a bit unusual? I can’t imagine the owners here needing extra income.

It put up a red flag for me, too, so I questioned his assistant, who informed me that Mr. Santaluce got where he is today by being frugal. The assistant’s tone suggested it wasn’t any of my business what his boss did. Lola hesitated, then added, I’m thinking it’s a mistress.

Who’s Santaluce?

Big deal Italian businessman. Married, two kids. The family is in Hong Kong for the winter.

What business?

Questionable.

Got it, Jack said. Give me his address. I’ll meet the mistress and expedite her transition into the love shack.

Thanks, Jack. Her name is Louise Clark.

After disconnecting, Jack donned his jacket and exited the office for a trip to the docks to give clearance for one Louise Clark, a lucky lady with a mega-rich sugar daddy. He could do that by phone, but wanted to introduce himself to his staff and make certain they alerted him when Ms. Clark boarded the ferry on the Miami side.

He climbed into the golf cart with Security Director stenciled on the rear and turned a key conveniently in the lock, shaking his head. Weren’t many places in south Florida where you could leave a key in the ignition without worry of theft. The quiet electric motor ignited immediately, and he headed toward the dock. Not a speck of trash anywhere on the streets or the neatly mowed grass. Palms, oaks and other landscaping were trimmed to perfection. Gently cascading fountains sounded all around him, clear of any leaf debris because they were cleaned twice a day.

Jack couldn’t imagine—but could easily find out—what the monthly maintenance fee was on Collins Island. Had to be astronomical because per square foot there weren’t that many residences. Only ten large villas on the eastern shore of the island—where Ms. Clark would soon take up residence—and forty town homes on the west housed in four three-story buildings.

The graceful structures were constructed in a coordinated Mediterranean style with coral-color barrel-tile roofs, featuring arches and supporting decorative columns. Colorful ceramic tile mosaics detailed many of the architectural elements, including the addresses.

Nobody out on this fine Monday morning, except a maid actually dressed in a starched gray uniform walking two French bulldogs. Jack nodded at her, and she responded with a shy smile.

The 10:00 a.m. ferry, laden with only six vehicles, approached the dock when Jack arrived. He parked his cart by the guard shack—constructed in the same architectural style—and watched the dock personnel do their job. Tanned men and women in blue shorts and crisp white shirts efficiently tied the boat to the landing, secured the sturdy metal ramp and motioned for the cars to drive off in a particular order. Three walk-aboards also exited.

The guard on duty, a uniformed twentyish black male, watched the process with alert attention. All clearance was completed on the Miami side, so all he had to do was make a head count, answer questions and direct approved visitors to their destination.

When debarkation was complete, Jack approached the guard and shook his hand. Jackson Richards.

Ike Gamble. We were expecting you today, sir. Welcome to Collins Island.

Thanks, Ike. Jack crossed his arms to observe the ferry staff prepare for the next trip. Everything go okay this morning?

Ike shrugged. We seldom have any glitches, sir.

Jack winced at constantly being called sir. He was maybe five or six years older than this guy, but understood it was a matter of respect. You can call me Jack.

Yes, sir.

So much for informality. I need to talk to the guards on the other side, he told Ike.

Of course, sir.

Ike removed a walkie-talkie from his belt, contacted the Miami guards, who responded in seconds, and handed the device to Jack. Viewing the distant guardhouse across the channel, a shipping lane also used by enormous cruise ships, Jack explained about the new tenant and approved her to board the ferry.

Make sure you call the office when Ms. Clark shows. Leave word for the next shift if you go off duty before she arrives.

Confident his instructions would be followed, Jack returned to his cart. He sat for a moment, watching the ferry depart, wondering what the mistress looked like and when Mr. Santaluce would arrive. A clandestine love affair on an island this small would be hard to hide. A lot of people could be hurt. Jack’s thoughts drifted to his momma—which trashed his relaxed good mood.

His divorced momma didn’t believe in the sanctity of marriage vows either, but her lover, a north Florida sheriff and his old boss, was nowhere near Collins Island rich. Did that make her indiscretions worse or better? He could hear Momma’s voice as she explained her lies, I’m in love, Jack. You don’t understand. You’ve never been in love.

Considering what a fool Momma had made of herself over Chuck Wheeler, he seriously hoped he never fell in love. Who needed that shit?

* * *

CLAUDIA DRUMMED HER fingers on her steering wheel as the Collins Island ferry chugged across the narrow channel. Her windows were down, and a stiff ocean breeze flowed into the car, cooling her flushed face. She wished she could stand at the railing, but didn’t dare. Too exposed.

She focused on the dock, watching it get closer and closer. Almost there. I’ve made it this far. I should be okay.

Similar self-pep talks had helped her through each step of the journey. She’d checked in and out of a fleabag motel without getting blown to bits. She’d made it to the bank vault to retrieve her fake IDs and the Glock, and emerged still breathing. She’d even managed to purchase new clothes in a mall she never frequented. That was the most nerve-racking but couldn’t be helped because she’d left everything behind in her trashed apartment in case they’d put a tracking device somewhere. Better to be safe.

And she’d made it out of the grocery store without a hitch. Could Carlos’s people hack into her credit card records? Probably, but she didn’t have to touch her maxed-out cards again. Once she got to this island with its legendary security, there was no way anyone could get to her.

She’d crammed her car with enough groceries to last until Carlos’s trial. She would have loved to obtain a new vehicle, but lack of time and funds made that impossible.

She’d be fine as long as she kept out of sight and remembered her new name. It’d been three days, and so far she’d stayed beneath their radar.

The last and most difficult step was boarding this ferry. It was a wonder she hadn’t stroked out while the security guard checked for her name on his list. He’d frowned at her rusted twenty-year-old vehicle, scrutinized her fake driver’s license, then looked at her face for so long she thought he was trying to memorize her features. His gaze had shifted back to the license, then the car again to check out all the bags in the backseat.

Finally, his jaw clenched in obvious disapproval, he scanned the license with a small device, made a note on his clipboard and motioned her aboard.

She closed her eyes, remembering her near panic. God, what would she have done? Accept the US Attorney’s offer of a safe house? No way. Carlos had bragged that he’d bribed an employee, so that was a sure death sentence.

Her ex had taught her to trust no one. The attorney she’d been working with on her testimony would worry when he couldn’t contact her, but she wanted her trail ice-cold. She’d reach out to him later.

She felt a gentle bump and opened her eyes. Relief swamped her. They’d reached the other side. She was safe.

The car in front of hers, a bright red sporty Mercedes, started its motor. Claudia turned her key to do the same and heard nothing but an empty click.

Please, not now. Not when I’m almost there.

She tried the key again, but still nothing. Of course her devil car had chosen this exact moment to quit working.

The Mercedes proceeded down the ramp, and a ponytailed, brown-haired female ferry attendant motioned for Claudia to follow. With a sigh, she popped her hood and exited the car.

What’s wrong, ma’am? the attendant asked politely.

My battery is dead, Claudia replied.

The attendant, whose name tag read Julie, frowned. Okay. Let me get the rest of the vehicles off and we’ll see what we can do.

Speaking into a walkie-talkie in one hand, with the other Julie motioned for the next line of vehicles to exit the ferry.

Uneasy in the open, Claudia searched the Collins Island dock and beyond where attendants sprayed water over arriving vehicles to wash off salt residue.

No one should have her in their sights from that direction. Was she too far from the mainland for a clean shot? She glanced back across the channel. Maybe not.

As vehicles circumvented her and drove away, she moved to the front of her car, seeking the protection of the open hood.

Julie, accompanied by two male attendants, hustled toward her. Claudia flinched when one of the males slammed the hood with a loud bang.

We’re going to push you, Julie said. Put the transmission in Neutral and steer off the ramp.

When her vehicle’s wheels rolled off the ferry and onto Collins Island, Claudia offered a silent prayer and tried her ignition again. Please, please. Still just a sad click. She pounded on the dash.

Wishing she could make herself invisible—hey, if she could arrange for superpowers, why not just fly to Mr. Santaluce’s villa—Claudia climbed out of her car just as a tall, ruggedly handsome man in a blue blazer arrived.

She looked up into piercing green eyes, noticed sun-streaked light brown hair and for a moment forgot where she was.

She tried to speak, to say hello and explain, ask for help, but had to swallow to moisten her throat.

She’d had this instant, gut-churning reaction to a male once before in her life, but those eyes had been an unfathomable, brooding brown, not a lively green. She’d been foolish enough to marry that man, and he’d nearly destroyed her.

And he might still.

CHAPTER TWO

JACK EVALUATED THE stranded woman with the rusted heap of a car and arranged his expression into a mask of professional concern. This fresh-faced young woman without a speck of makeup around sky-blue eyes was a rich man’s mistress? Pretty, yes, no question, but more wholesome than seductive.

She’d pulled back her long dark hair in a casual ponytail. Hardly glamorous. She wore loose-fitting shorts and a short-sleeve blouse that revealed no cleavage from her generous breasts. No flashy jewelry; just tiny gold ear hoops.

Louise Clark was not what he’d expected.

Ms. Clark? he asked.

Frowning, the woman stared at him, as if confused. Didn’t she know her own name? Was she a druggie? She didn’t look like one. In fact, Ms. Clark appeared to be exactly the type of woman he was normally all over.

He extended his arm to shake her hand. I’m Jackson Richards, Security Director. Aren’t you Louise Clark?

Her expression cleared, and Ms. Clark clasped his hand with both of hers as if she was drowning and he was her lifeline. Yes, yes. I’m Louise Clark.

She offered a killer smile which transformed her face from pretty into stunning, which explained Mr. Santaluce’s interest. Jack felt an unexpected stab of envy.

Please forgive me, Mr. Richards, Ms. Clark continued. I’m embarrassed by the trouble, but my demon car chose this awkward moment to quit working.

No trouble at all, ma’am. Mr. Santaluce requested we make certain you get settled in your new home.

Oh, that was kind of him, Ms. Clark said.

Kind of him? Jack reevaluated the scenario before him. His gaze swept over the rattletrap vehicle, noting a backseat heaped with plastic bags from a local grocery. Apparently Ms. Clark wasn’t planning on expensive dinners out with her lover. Hell, maybe she was a gourmet cook and that was what had attracted the man. A looker and a cooker? If so, a far better reason for jealousy.

Will a jump start help? Jack asked. I’ve called our maintenance department for an assist.

She shrugged. I don’t know. This is the first time it hasn’t started. Usually it won’t stop running.

Maybe it’s time for a new car.

Wouldn’t that be nice. Maybe when I win the lottery.

Jack forced a smile. Yes, ma’am. Damn, but Santaluce was one cheap sugar daddy. You’d think he’d want her driving a flashier vehicle onto his ritzy winter home.

The huge maintenance pickup truck approached, and Ms. Clark slid behind the wheel of her car. Jack retrieved jumper cables from the truck and hooked its battery to the clunker’s.

Give it a try, he yelled over the truck’s powerful engine.

The old car shook and rumbled to life. Jack let its battery run off the truck’s for a minute or two to allow a better charge, then disconnected the cables, handed them to the maintenance man and returned to speak to Ms. Clark.

Thank you, she said meaningfully. Thank you so much.

No problem, ma’am. I recommend you get that battery checked out. It’s possible you need a new one.

But now that I’m here, I won’t need my car, she said.

I suppose not. Jack nodded, but her words made no