His Protector

By Sara Vinduska

She’s falling in love with the man she swore to protect...

When a botched assassination attempt leaves President Jack Amborn grieving the death of his wife and unborn child, he finds solace in devoting himself to his Presidential duties. Despite the looming threat to his life and the assassin who’s still at large, he’s confident that his expert security detail will keep him from harm.
Secret Service agent Ginger Carver spent her life preparing for this job. Endless hours, meticulous planning, and constant vigilance are second nature to her. There’s only one thing she never could have bargained for – falling in love with the man she’s duty-bound to protect.

But now the widowed President is in more danger than ever... and the harder she works to protect him, the deeper her feelings for him become. The assassin is still lurking in the shadows, waiting for another chance to strike. Ginger is willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for Jack – but what if he wants her heart, too?

As an explosive and action-packed romantic suspense novel that will sweep you off your feet, His Protector is a tantalizing read that will keep you guessing until the very end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sara Vinduska
• Release date: Dec 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005051983

Sara Vinduska

Originally from Kansas,Sara Vinduska is a romantic suspense author and aspiring farmer in Wyoming. Her other passions include yoga, soap making, good red wine, and K-State football.

Book preview

1

It should have been one of the best nights of Jack’s life. A celebration that had started on land and would end on the water with his wife and their closest friends. He’d enjoyed himself at the dinner party earlier. But something was very wrong now. He felt it deep in his gut. Something had been off since they’d boarded the yacht they’d rented an hour ago. He felt uneasy. Unsettled. He looked across the deck at his wife and his best friend.

Joel had an arm around his own wife as he steered the boat. Their two kids were running around, excitedly watching the waves as they moved out to sea as the sun set. He caught Amy’s glance. His wife gave him a questioning look. He forced a smile and took a drink of champagne. Maybe he was just being paranoid.

He took another drink, looking out across the ocean. It was a beautiful night. There was no logical reason for his apprehension. Finishing his glass, he turned to head towards his wife.

Suddenly, he felt the floor of the yacht shake underneath his feet, had a split second to note the force and heat of the flames erupting around him, then he was thrown backwards. He had just enough time to register the sharp pain in the back of his head before his body was airborne, weightless. The sting of the cold water took his breath away as he was sucked down into its blackness.

---

From a mile and a half away, Ed Jenkins saw the fireball light up the dark night. What the hell? he mumbled to his crew mates. He radioed the coast guard and turned the fishing trawler around, steering towards the explosion.

He steered closer. There were pieces of fiberglass, dishes, and countless unidentified objects bobbing in the water as they approached. The remains of the sleek luxury yacht had almost slipped entirely beneath the surface. They glided through the debris, looking for survivors. He slowed the boat and two of his mates, Mark and Pat, dove into the water. He anchored the boat and shined his high-powered flashlight along the dark surface of the water, scanning for anyone still alive, hoping for a miracle.

He saw Mark bob to the surface, a pale figure in his arms.

One look at Mark’s face made his heart sink. They were too late.

Help me pull her up, Mark said, swimming towards him.

Ed helped to pull the body aboard. It was a woman dressed in a sequined evening gown. Jesus. He swallowed hard.

Mark immediately started CPR as Ed continued aiming the light at the water. Mark shook his head. She’s gone.

Help! Pat pulled a man in a suit out of the water next. I think he’s still got a pulse, Pat yelled, climbing aboard.

Ed helped him lift the unconscious man onto the deck. There was blood running off the body along with the water. Even in the dark, Ed could see a bloody gash on the back of the man’s head. He dropped to his knees and began CPR.

Several long minutes later, the man coughed out water, and gasped in a breath. My wife, he whispered before passing out again.

Ed looked at the woman lying lifeless on the deck of his boat. It was then that he noticed she was visibly pregnant. Jesus, he muttered, feeling sick. He looked back down at the man breathing shallowly at his feet. Something about him looked vaguely familiar. He reached into the man’s jacket and pulled out his wallet.

Jack Amborn.

The name didn’t register at first. When it did Ed started shaking and had to sit down.

2

Y ou think he's still going to run? the campaign manager asked his lead strategist.

Would you? the man asked in response, handing him the front page of the New York Times.

---

Presidential Candidate Jack Amborn Only Survivor of Deadly Boat Explosion

Baltimore Mayor and Presidential Candidate Jack Amborn is recovering at Johns Hopkins Hospital today after the yacht he was sailing on exploded late last night. The crew of a nearby vessel witnessed the explosion and pulled him to safety. Mr. Amborn is the only survivor. Killed in the explosion were Mr. Amborn's wife, who was five months pregnant; Joel Meier, his vice-presidential running mate; Meier's wife, and their two children.

---

Jack woke up confused. At first everything happened in slow motion, becoming aware of his body one sensation at a time, a dull ache in his head, a shadowy room, the smell of antiseptic. He knew he was alone in the room, yet there were muffled sounds and voices all around him. He tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness and pain forced him back down into the darkness.

When he opened his eyes again a nurse was looking down at him. The young woman smiled. How are you feeling Mr. Amborn?

Jack blinked. What . . . his voice was a weak whisper. He swallowed, tried again. What happened to me?

A shadow crossed the pretty young face above him and she hesitated an instant too long before asking if he wanted a drink of water.

Oh, Jesus, Jack whispered as everything came flooding back. Dark painful images that couldn’t be reality. The boat, explosion . . .

I’ll get the doctor, she said, rushing to the door.

Jack struggled to a sitting position as the nurse opened the door back up minutes later. My wife, where is she? He caught a glimpse of two Secret Service agents outside the door as a doctor entered the room. Where is my wife? he asked, forcefully this time. Amy. Where the hell is she?

The doctor was instantly at his side. Please just relax, Mr. Amborn.

Jack knew the truth the instant he looked the doctor in the eye. No.

He couldn’t breathe. His chest felt as if it were being ripped in half.

I’m sorry, Mr. Amborn, there were no other survivors.

Jack shrugged off the doctor’s hand, gasped in a breath. No, my wife, the baby, Joel . . . his voice trailed off.

I’m sorry, the doctor repeated.

Oh God, oh Jesus. Jack pushed back the covers, tried to get out of bed. No, he yelled, sobbing now. It wasn’t real. Couldn’t be real. Amy! he yelled. His head pounded and he couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe.

It took the doctor and two nurses to push him back into bed.

You have to calm down, sir, the pretty young nurse said, injecting something into his IV line.

Jack found himself drifting off again. He fought uselessly against the darkness pulling him under. He didn’t want to sleep, he wanted answers. Wanted his wife. He tried to open his eyes, tried to speak, but was unable to do either.

---

When he woke up next it was light in the room and he wasn’t alone. His friend and staunch ally, Ben, sat in a chair by the window. Jack, he said rising, Your sister Janna’s on her way, but it will probably be tomorrow before she gets here. Let me get your doctor.

No! Not yet. Talk to me.

Jack . . .

Just tell me what you know, Ben. Please.

Ben took a deep breath, ran a hand across his face. The night before last, some type of bomb exploded on your yacht. We don’t know the details yet. A fishing boat arrived on the scene shortly after the explosion and pulled you to safety.

Jack tried to piece the shattered memories together. He rubbed his aching forehead. I don’t remember.

You were unconscious, you weren’t breathing, one of the men revived you.

The others? Jack asked.

Ben swallowed hard. Everyone was recovered.

Dead?

I’m so sorry Jack.

Jack closed his eyes and clenched his hands at his sides. He couldn’t stop the anguished moan that erupted from deep in his gut.

I’ll get the doctor, Ben said, and rushed out.

Jack took several deep breaths, fought to get himself under control. He was not okay. Far from it. But the one thing he could focus on was getting the hell out of there. He could fall apart and grieve later.

No more drugs, he said when the doctor opened the door and stepped towards him.

The doctor frowned, but nodded.

Jack let the doctor shine a light in his eyes, let him check his blood pressure, he answered the questions he was asked, and calmly listened to the diagnosis.

Stitches at the back of your head, severe concussion, near drowning . . . the words seemed to come from some far off place.

Jack nodded, turned towards the window, and didn’t speak again the rest of the day.

---

He must have started to doze off, but the sound of the door opening had him awake and alert.

The sight of his sister rushing into his room nearly had him in tears. His sister owned a successful marketing firm and last he knew, had been in Japan. Janna, he said, not recognizing the sound of his own voice.

Jesus, Jack. I’m so sorry. I got here as soon as I could.

The tears in her eyes were his undoing. The careful wall he’d started to build around his heart instantly cracked and the grief paralyzed him. He couldn’t speak.

Then Janna was there, next to him, wrapping her arms around him. They held each other and wept for several long minutes. Janna eventually pulled back and sat up, rubbing her eyes. I’m sorry. When I got the call, God, I was so scared. I thought I’d lost you. You’re all I have left. But I was being selfish. I can’t even imagine what you’re going through.

Don’t apologize. Ever. You and me against the world, right?

She nodded and gave him a watery smile. It had been their mantra for so long after they’d lost their parents. Now, in the blink of an eye, he’d lost his wife and his closest friends and it was down to the two of them again.

Amy’s family is here, she said softly.

Jack nodded. He’d expected that.

I’m not leaving.

And thank God for that. He didn’t think he had the strength to face them alone.

3

The first week Jack was at his Maine cabin, it was all he could do to get out of bed. He barely remembered the funerals. It was all a hazy blur his mind couldn’t quite process. He took his prescribed pain medication, he forced himself to eat, and spent the rest of his waking hours wandering around in a daze outside or going from room to room in the big empty cabin.

Unable to face their empty house, he’d retreated to the isolated cabin.

He and his wife had bought the cabin three months ago and had yet to stay there, so it was the lack of memories that haunted him; the times they should have spent on a blanket in front of the fire, the trails outside they should have walked together, the nights outside on the deck gazing up at the stars. The memories they would make with their unborn son.

Their son. The thought paralyzed Jack. The autopsy had confirmed that they were going to have a boy.

For a long moment, Jack couldn’t breathe. Then his chest hitched and he dropped to his knees, couldn’t see through the tears that blurred his vision.

Some time later, he became aware of the cold bathroom tile underneath him. He didn’t even remember entering the small room. But he must have been in there for a long time judging by how stiff and cold his body felt. The light had faded, leaving the house in shadows.

Slowly, he made his way into the master bedroom and to the bed and without pulling back the covers, collapsed on top of it.

---

This assignment is bogus, Secret Service Agent Alex Sulley said, scowling as he looked out over the barren Maine landscape.

What are you saying? Secret Service Agent Ginger Carver asked him.

Alex nodded his head towards the house. What I’m saying is, look at him. He’s not going anywhere. He sure as hell isn’t running for president anymore. So why the hell are we even here?

Ginger glanced at their protectee, sitting motionless on the porch swing. He didn’t even look like the same man who’d been running for president. At least he’d started shaving and putting on clean clothes again. She sighed. Jack Amborn is technically still the Republican candidate for president. He could still be a target, and until our orders change, his protection is our responsibility.

Alex snorted. Protect him from what, Ginger?

Ginger had to admit Alex had a point. While the effects of his physical injuries were fading, it appeared doubtful that Jack Amborn would ever be the same person he’d been before the explosion on the boat. Not that she blamed him. He’d suffered a tremendous loss and was certainly entitled to grieve.

The truth was, she felt a little sorry for the guy. But until her assignment changed, he was her job and she wouldn’t allow herself to let her guard down. She'd worked too hard to get where she was.

She'd started out in the Financial Crimes unit working anti-counterfeiting before she got the transfer to the protection detail. She had no intention of slacking off now. Because in this business, letting your guard down for one second could have fatal consequences. And nothing would happen to Jack Amborn, presidential candidate or not, under her watch.

---

Chris McMillan, Jr. flinched at the sound of his dad’s voice when he picked up the phone.

You failed.

If only that was the first time he’d heard those words instead of the hundredth. Give or take a few dozen. He bit back an apology. He was so damned tired of apologizing to the man who’d fathered him. But old habits died hard. The man didn’t give a shit how successful he’d become, how much he’d made of himself all on his own.

I didn’t. The detonation was perfect. No one could have predicted he’d be pulled from the water alive. It’s damn near a miracle.

It doesn’t matter. He’s not broken. He could still run, Chris Senior said.

Doubtful. Highly doubtful.

But not impossible. If only the son of a bitch would have died like we planned.

But he didn’t, Chris’s voice rose in anger. So now what? Do we try to take him out again?

It’s risky. But we don’t have a lot of options left. We have to, his father said.

And when his father spoke, he listened whether he liked it or not. Part of the verbal abuse he’d been conditioned to long ago. I’ll make the call, Chris said, hanging up the phone and rubbing the headache throbbing in his skull.

4

Jack had gotten in the habit of taking a long walk around the small lake at the edge of his property every afternoon. He needed to get back in shape and the physical exertion and time outside helped to clear the remaining cobwebs from his head so