Mar: His Bodyguard

“You’re breaking up with me because I saved your life?!”

My voice is an octave higher than usual as I stare at my (newly ex) boyfriend.

He shifts uncomfortably and frowns. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Uh-huh, it definitely was!” I say, my hands on my hips and disbelief in my tone. “You were mugged at gun point. If I hadn’t come along when I did…”

He huffs in disagreement. “I would have been fine.”

Part of me is waiting for him to laugh and say, Gotcha! But that part is shrinking by the second.

“Bladon…” I ordered the mugger to drop his weapon and handcuffed him while he was face down on the sidewalk.

“So you distracted him!” he snorts. “Big deal.”

And at these words, I realize there’s no point arguing with him. He’s made up his mind. It doesn’t matter if it’s fair or right, because you can’t reason someone out of an emotional decision, and Bladon has decided that me saving him from a mugger questions his masculinity—even more so since his dickwad friends started ribbing him about it.

I can’t say I’m heartbroken, he wasn’t the love of my life, but I am disappointed. And hurt. I honestly saved the douche’s life, but instead of being grateful, he frickin’ dumps me.

I can’t even say it’s the first time that something like this has happened to me. When I was a police officer, men were pretty predictable in their behavior towards me: some got off on the fact that I was armed, both on and off duty; others were always super competitive with me, whether we were running or working out together or frickin’ bowling.

Would I ever meet a guy who was secure enough in himself not to feel threatened by me and what I did, someone who didn’t feel the need to prove he was tougher all the time? The smart money said no.

Especially now.

After ten years as one of Chicago’s finest, I’d turned in my badge for new challenges and better dental insurance. Not that being a beat officer for seven years and a sergeant for three was without challenges, but I’d felt increasingly isolated from the community I served. I’d been spending more time at my desk and in meetings than protecting and serving; throw in too many double shifts, staff shortage issues and falling morale post-Covid, and I was burned out.

So I’m trying a new career as a close protection officer—what most people call a bodyguard. As of last week, I’m the latest operative at Intrepid Solutions, and the only woman.

Yeah, I know. I’ve heard all the jokes. Just because I’m 5’ 6” and weigh 120 pounds, that doesn’t make me weak and feeble. I lift weights, run marathons, and have black belts in Tae Kwon Do and Kendo. I’m also a top markswoman, but I’d rather not rely on a weapon, and I’ve had training as a hostage negotiator.

Anyway, there are more female bodyguards than you might imagine and we’re filling a gap in the market. It’s a lot easier for me to blend in and be unnoticed than some 6’ 4” former SEAL built like a linebacker. Obviously, those guys are useful when you want to intimidate or have a very visible security presence, but other clients value discretion.

I can look like the nanny or the PA, even the girlfriend if I have to. And I know from experience that kids are more likely to feel secure around a woman; or maybe I’ll be protecting a woman going through a nasty divorce and she just wants to go shopping or have a coffee, and then I can play the role of friend. Or if a woman has escaped from an abusive situation, again, she’s likely to feel more comfortable with someone like me. Besides, I have the advantage of being able to stick with my principal when she takes a bathroom break.

I’ve also been told that I’ll be escorting the wives and daughters of overseas business people who are from orthodox communities, and insist on having a female operative on the staff.

I’m making it sound like the other operatives at Intrepidare Neanderthals and they’re not, far from it—but most of them are ex-military and most of them are just big: not too many ways you can hide that. I look like the girl next door—if the girl next door is totally bad ass. Basically, don’t underestimate me or you’ll be toast.

Physically, I’m in great shape; but unfortunately, my career choice has put my social life on the critical list. Apart from the lifestyle and shift work, police officers are held to a higher standard, so if I see your underage daughter drinking, I can’t not report it; and if I see your son or your sister or your aunt smoking a dooby, I can’t look the other way. And please don’t ask me to fix your parking tickets either: that’s a different department.

So I guess you could say that’s the reason why cops date other cops, although we also date paramedics or fire fighters—people who understand that sometimes we don’t want to talk about our day, or that sometimes we can’t.

I watched Bladon walk away.

Meh, if he couldn’t handle being with a woman who could take him down, that was his loss.

I turned on my adorable kitten heels and swept out of the restaurant.

“Uh, excuse me, ma’am…” The host at the door stops me with an embarrassed cough, “but the gentleman said you’d be paying the check.”

***

After my crappy Saturday night date, I spend Sunday cleaning my apartment, going for a run along Montrose Beach on a bright January morning, eyes watering in the cold air, followed by wallowing in front of the TV with a pint of Haagen Dazs Salted Caramel. What can I say? I’m an ice cream snob.

Monday morning, I’m looking forward to my first assignment now I’ve completed all the compulsory in-house training (health and safety, law and legal issues, evasive driving, systems and comms). Mostly, it’s stuff I’ve done before, but all with nod towards the way the Intrepid team work. My new boss was an Army Ranger and I have the impression he’s done a ton of stuff that he’s not allowed to talk about. The other operatives attending the morning briefing all have a similar look: I don’t mean high and tight haircuts, but something in the eyes—I see it when I look in the mirror; the things we’ve seen or done that haunt us.

There are five guys plus me—the other operatives are all out on assignment and I haven’t met them yet.

Claude and Jase, former Marines, are assiged a rock star who needs protection from himself and his addiction to high class coke and high class hookers—the insurers of his mid-West tour have insisted on it. I’m not allowed to tell you his name but you’d be surprised—it sure surprises the hell out of me. He must pay his legal and publicity teams some serious overtime.

Nathan (ex-Navy SEAL) is being sent out of town to work as a farmhand on a spread where there have been far too many ‘accidents’ to be accidental. The suspect is the owner’s nephew who has gambling debts.

Arthur (ex-FBI), known as ‘Crofty’ is going to work undercover as a barman at a new place that’s just opened up and ‘protection’ money has been demanded by a couple of heavies. I know the area—rough part of the city but probably not Mob-related—and I wish him luck. He’ll need it.

Cody (EOD specialist) is given close protection of a visiting Canadian businessman. He’ll be staying with him in the Four Seasons—rooms starting at a thousand bucks a night. Lucky bastard.

“Right, you all have your assignments. Marina, my office.”

His tone is so brusque, I wonder for a moment if I’ve done anything wrong, but then I figure he just wants to speak with me in private. Why borrow trouble? as my grandmother from Iowa used to say.

I take the chair in front of his desk and he passes me a file.

“Your assignment. The client is Brett Saunders, software designer. This is what we have on him, and I’ve also air-dropped the intel to you.”

I nod, scanning through the client’s details.

“He’s a computer programmer from Seattle, in town for a conference where he’s launching a new product. He’s a multimillionaire, and when this new software starts trading on the New York Stock Exchange, he’ll be a multibillionaire.”

The client’s photograph shows a good-looking guy about my age or maybe even a little younger. In the photo, he wears black-framed glasses and has brown, wavy hair that is slightly too long. Kind of like a young Jeff Goldblum, but with blue eyes.

“Credible death threats,” the chief goes on. “He suspects a rival company but can’t prove anything. If there’s going to be a hit, it’ll be this weekend. He wants close protection, someone who’ll blend in.”

“So I’ll be going as his…?”

For the first time, the chief looks uncomfortable. “Girlfriend.”

“Not personal assistant?” I venture.

He sighs.

“Mr. Saunders has a reputation as a ladies’ man,” he says in a clipped voice, and I have to hide a smile at the old fashioned phrase. “So a new girlfriend will blend in easily. But…” and he presses his lips together in a flat line, “I have informed Mr. Saunders that you are there solely in the role of close protection officer … and that if he lays a finger on you, I will remove that finger.”

My eyebrows shoot up.

“I take the welfare of my staff very seriously,” he says in a gravelly voice, and nothing in his steely eyes makes me doubt his words, even though he’s a breaking a ton of laws by stating his threatening intention. “No one messes with an Intrepid operative without suffering my severe displeasure.”

I believe him.

It feels good to be part of a team again, something I’d always valued as a cop; knowing that your team had your back. It was important, and now I feel like I have it again.

“Thank you,” I say honestly. “Message received and understood. And when do I meet Mr. Saunders?”

“He’ll be here shortly. You’ll be allocated an adjacent hotel room to Mr. Saunders with an adjoining jack-and-jill door. You’ll stay with him for the whole weekend. Greg will be there as backup: you won’t see him, but he’ll be there, eyes on, 24/7.”

“Sounds good.”

He tugs at his crisp white collar. “You’ll also have a clothing allowance,” he says, sounding uncomfortable. “Mr. Saunders will be attending a dinner-dance on Saturday night. He asks that you dress … appropriately. Mr. Saunders will tell you what is required.”

“Shopping on the job—I wasn’t expecting that. Okay, no problem.”

The chief looks relieved and gives me a wry smile. “Questions?”

“Saunders is a rich guy, why doesn’t he hire his own security full time?”

The chief nods. “He does, but he wants low profile security for this conference before the software launch—any rumor that he’s being targeted could affect stock prices.”

“One more question. I’m curious, Chief, is that why you hired me? Because you needed a woman for this job?”

“No. I hired you because you’re good and because Intrepid needs to expand to provide a service for clients who want female CPOs. I took on Mr. Saunders as a client because I’d already hired you—not the other way around.”

He stares at me, his gaze unwavering, and I see only frankness in his expression. He looks as if he’s about to say something more, but then his intercom buzzes and Mr. Saunders is announced.

I stand up as he enters the room and watch as his gaze swings between me and the chief, before striding forward to shake hands.

“Mr. Saunders,” the chief says formally. “I’d like to introduce you to Marina Andrade who’ll be your CPO this weekend.”

“Pleased to meet you,” he says, his smile growing wider.

“Mr. Saunders,” I say coolly, shaking his hand and checking the numbers of fingers he has.

Five on each hand: I hope he gets to keep them all. It would be a shame if he couldn’t play the piano again.

That’s cop humor. I have no idea whether or not he plays the piano.

***

It’s been a long and boring day. I’ve been by the client’s side since 6am and my feet are killing me from wearing heels all evening. I’m also relieved that the day has been drama-free. I did have to beat off a few female fans who’d gotten a little too handsy with my client. Honestly, I’d been surprised. I hadn’t expected a computer software engineer to have a fan club. He even knew some of their names and said they followed him to all his public events.

Naturally, they’d all been checked out, and apart from one woman being a couple of court appearances off being a fully-fledged stalker, they’d all come up clean. Except for the very dirty looks tossed in my direction. I’ve gotta say, it was quite a lot of fun hanging on the client’s arm (surprisingly muscular) and acting all possessive.

“You’re good at this,” he breathed, his eyes glinting with amusement.

“Just so happy to be with you, baby,” and even as I said the words, I was rolling my eyes at myself.

Brett is surprisingly good company, polite to everyone, and never seems to tire of networking. But I’m ready to fall into bed and dream the dreams of the righteous. It’s exhausting being alert all day, watching everyone and everything. And contrary to what the chief said, I did spot Greg: he was dressed as a businessman at the conference, then as a server at the dinner-dance. Like I said, a guy of 6’ 5” is hard to disguise.

A few press photographers stand between us and my bed: I mean, me and my bed and Brett and his bed. Although if I weren’t working, I’d be very tempted. But this is strictly business.

I give him a veiled warning look as he throws his arm around my shoulders for the photographers, and I lean into him, secretly enjoying the hardness of his body and the faint scent of his cologne.

“Try to look like you’re into me,” he whispers as he pretends to kiss my cheek.

“I’m not that good an actress,” I mutter back, whilst throwing him an adoring smile.

He laughs softly, and that’s the photo that I’m going to see on the gossip sites tomorrow.

As we leave the photographers behind, he removes his arm from my shoulder but gives my hand a brief squeeze.

“Thank you,” he says, standing at his hotel door.

“You’re welcome.”

His eyes widen in surprise as I follow him inside.

“Don’t look so scared,” I tease, I’m just checking out the room … and keeping your bad reputation intact.”

“I have a reputation?” he asks, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

“Yup, don’t pretend you don’t know it—you can’t work the innocent look.”

He shrugs. “It was worth trying.”

“Uh huh.”

“Any final advice before you tuck me up in bed?”

I don’t rise to the bait, even though I like bantering with him. Instead, I finish my sweep of the room.

“Put a chair under the door handle.”

“Really?” he laughs. That’s your security advice?”

“Sometimes the old ways are the best.”

“I do have a chain across the door.”

“One swift kick would bust it open.”

“Do you often bust open doors like that?” he grins.

I don’t even bother to answer that. “You’re a hacker, Mr. Saunders…”

“I’m a programmer…”

“Exactly, so I bet you could easily hack the hotel’s computer to load a key card with all-entry access.”

He shrugs but I see the gleam in his eye. Then he gives me a sexy smile.

“Do I need to put a chair by our shared door to stop you coming in?”

“Only if you don’t want me to save your life.”

His smile slips a notch. “Fair point. Well debated. Sleep well, Ms. Andrade.”

“You, too, Mr. Saunders.”

***

It’s three in the morning when my phone buzzes softly with Greg’s name and I’m instantly awake.

“Unsub outside principal’s door. Trying to access with a key card. Guard the principal and I’ll apprehend.”

“Roger that,” I whisper.

I’m already wearing a t-shirt, so I grab my Glock 19 from under my pillow, check the chamber and take off the safety. Then I move silently to Brett’s room, wondering whether or not to wake him.

“This is a nice surprise Ms. Andrade,” he says, his voice sexy and rough with sleep.

“Suspect at the door,” I whisper. “Please move calmly and quietly to the bathroom. Get into the tub and slide down.”

I hear his sharp intake of breath, but he doesn’t argue as he slips past me. I don’t take my eyes off the door as I walk backwards into the bathroom, closing and locking the door, keeping my weapon pointed straight ahead.

“Principal secured,” I whisper to Greg.

“Copy that.”

I keep my breathing slow and even, relieved that Brett doesn’t try to talk to me.

I hear the sounds of a scuffle outside the room and I’m torn between going to help Greg and keeping Brett safe. Relief rushes through me when I hear Greg’s calm voice in my ear piece.

“Unsub secured.”

“All clear,” I say aloud, standing up and flipping on the bathroom light.

Brett has slid his whole body into the tub as I’d ordered, and he grins up at me.

“Nice t-shirt,” he says, his eyes drifting down my bare legs.

“Nice … tub,” I reply, trying very hard not to stare at his beautifully naked body.

I turn away, hearing his quiet chuckle as I toss a bathrobe at him.

***

It’s nearly six in the morning before the police finally leave. The suspect is unknown to Brett, but it’s soon discovered that the creep works for a rival software company. Chillingly, the guy was armed and carrying a syringe filled with calcium. It’s a little known fact that an ultra high dose can lead to kidney failure and eventually coma. It’s clever, and might not have been diagnosed in time. The suspect will be looking at a charge of attempted murder.

Brett looks tired and a little depressed.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

He forces a smile and rubs his eyes. “I just want to create programs that will help people,” he says. “I never wanted all of this. I still can’t believe that they wanted to kill me.”

He shakes his head, a bewildered air of vulnerability shadowing his eyes.

“I was a police officer for ten years,” I say, “and I’ve seen a lot of bad people. But I promise you that the number of good people outnumber the bad.”

He meets my gaze. “Thank you, Marina. For everything.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Saunders.”

He grins, his confidence returning. “Now we’ve shared a life-threatening situation, do you think you could call me Brett?”

I raise an eyebrow. “I think I could manage that. Brett.”

“Maybe I could take you on a real date now that the bad guy is behind bars?”

“I don’t date clients.”

“What about former clients?”

I cock my head on one side. “I don’t date players.”

“What about former players?” he asks, his blue eyes flashing behind his glasses.

“I don’t live in Seattle.”

“I can commute,” he says, his smile widening. “One dinner, to say thank you for saving my life and all.”

“Technically, that was Greg.”

“I don’t want to date Greg.”

“Not your type?”

“Definitely not. One date, Marina. Please?”

I’m tempted, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea. “I’ll think about it,” I say at last.

“Good enough,” he smiles. “For now.”

 

THE END