Guarded from Treachery (Blade and Arrow Security Bravo Team #4)

Chapter 1

1

ISLA

W hy does your body always choose the worst possible time to get sick?

Not that I ever want it to happen—it’s not like I’m sitting around on a lazy Sunday thinking, Gee, I don’t have anything going on today. This would be the perfect time for a cold!

Or if I’m on the rare vacation, I don’t exactly think to myself, Hmm. I’ve been wanting to lose a few pounds lately. How about a nice stomach bug to do the trick?

Of course, I’d prefer to just be healthy all the time, regardless of how unrealistic that is.

But if it has to happen, why now? Why not two months ago, when I was desperately trying to come up with a believable excuse not to attend my cousin’s wedding in Vermont? First off, we never got along, not even as kids, and I know she only invited me because her parents made her. And as a lovely bonus to the experience, I knew I’d see my own parents and have to endure several hours of them haranguing me about my poor life decisions.

Could I have lied? Yes. But I’m a terrible liar. My voice gets all high-pitched and I talk in this awkward cadence that sounds the furthest thing from believable. And afterwards, I inevitably feel guilty for days, so much so that I end up wishing I’d just gone through with the plans to begin with.

But if I’d been sick… I could have stayed home with a clear conscience, saving myself two-thousand dollars and hours of aggravation. Hours that I wouldn’t have had to sit at the singles table with Wayne, the accountant from Concord, who thought the best way to get me to go home with him that night was to inform me about the best strategies to save money on my tax return. And worse yet, having my father drag me aside at least ten times to remind me of what a disappointment I was.

But now? Whatever this bug—virus?—I have is, it’s come at the most inconvenient time.

Two weeks into my new job, I desperately need to make a good impression. I need to prove to my boss that he made the right decision by hiring me. And I need to keep this job, not get dumped from it before my probationary period is over.

If I lose this job, I’m really in trouble.

After my former boss died unexpectedly last month, the neat path I set out for my life took a speedy and unwelcome detour. The amazing job I’d been so excited about—estate manager for a petroleum magnate in Dallas—was gone. Two days after Archer Remington died from a massive heart attack, his chief of staff came by my office to let me know I was effectively fired.

“Mr. Remington’s family wants to put a limit on unnecessary spending,” he told me apologetically. “And since they’re planning to sell off all the properties as soon as the will is read, they don’t feel there’s a need for your services anymore. They’re willing to let you stay at the guest house for two weeks, so you can make arrangements for a new job and place to live, but that’s all.”

Two weeks. Just two weeks for me to find a new job that would pay enough to cover rent and a security deposit on a new apartment, my student loans, and the payments on my new car. And just fourteen days to find a place to live that was affordable, not overrun by cockroaches, and didn’t have bars on the windows.

Lovely.

Because one of the perks of my old job—at least I thought so at the time—was a guest house to stay in right on the property. A cute guest house with huge windows that let in plenty of light, and a lovely patio shaded by black cherry trees, where I loved to sit out and read on the weekends.

But just like that, my home and job were gone.

I know that makes me seem heartless, like I didn’t care about Mr. Remington’s death. But I did. I do. While I’d only met him a few times since I was hired—his chief of staff, Drew, was the one I talked to most often—my old boss seemed pleasant enough. A bit condescending and full of himself, but considering he was the multimillionaire boss and I was just the help, I wasn’t exactly expecting us to become friends.

So I did feel badly that he was gone. I just felt a little sorry for myself, too.

But miraculously, after blanketing the entire Dallas-Fort Worth area with approximately two hundred resumes, I found a new job working as an executive assistant for the CEO of a shipping company. It’s not as good as my old one, but it’s something for now, and it pays enough to cover rent on the tiny apartment I found just outside Dallas.

I guess it’s not a surprise I’m sick, considering the stressful month I’ve had—wrapping up my old job while trying to squeeze in dozens of interviews, packing up and moving, and starting a new job. I just wish it wasn’t happening now.

“Hey, Isla. How’s it going?”

Lost in my thoughts, I jolt at the unexpected interruption, whacking my knee on the underside of the desk in the process. A flare of pain radiates from my knee outward, and I grit my teeth to keep from letting out a small yelp of dismay.

Steadying my expression, I paste on a smile as I meet my coworker’s questioning gaze. Brightly, I reply, “I’m good. How are you?” I quickly scan her outfit, searching for something to compliment, adding after a beat, “I love your shirt, Amy. It’s so pretty.”

She beams. “Oh, thanks. You don’t think it’s too bright?”

“Oh, no.” As I turn my chair towards her, a fresh wave of fatigue sweeps through me, and I have to swallow hard to keep from yawning. Forcing a smile, I add, “I love that color on you. The green really makes your eyes pop.”

“That’s what I thought!” Amy leans her hip on the side of my desk and drums her fingers absently on the glossy surface. “When I tried it on at the store, my friend, Kiera, said it looked like I’d just stepped into the Emerald City. You know, from the Wizard of Oz ?”

My stomach gurgles, and to cover the sound I quickly reply, “Yes. I’ve seen it. But I always liked that part of the movie. So it doesn’t sound bad to me.”

“Me too!” Amy’s voice rises with enthusiasm, causing at least three employees walking by to turn their heads. The sound makes my head throb as the headache I’d wrangled under control thanks to three ibuprofen returns with a vengeance. “I’ll tell Kiera you said she was wrong.”

“Um. You don’t have to do that.” I try to pitch my voice lower in hopes she’ll do the same. “But it’s a pretty shirt. And if you like it, that’s what’s important.”

“Thanks, Isla.” She pauses to glance at her watch. “Oh! I have a meeting in fifteen minutes. But I’m heading to the coffee shop first. Do you want anything?”

My stomach makes another unhappy sound.

“No, that’s okay.” Couching the rejection with a smile, I add, “I already had coffee. So I’m good.”

“I can pick up something else for you. They have all sorts of baked goods. Muffins, croissants, fritters…”

Bile burns at the back of my throat. “I think I’m okay. But thanks. I really?—”

“Oh!” Amy’s voice jumps up an octave, and I can barely hide my wince as the sound shoots straight through my head. “They have breakfast sandwiches, too. I had one last week. It was so good. The bacon is extra crispy, and they use three kinds of cheeses, plus this special garlic aioli. You should try one. Really.”

Saliva pools in my mouth.

My stomach lurches.

Oh, no. Not now.

I can’t get sick here.

As I jump up from my chair, dizziness hits me. My head feels all light and floaty. Clutching the edge of the desk, I say, “Sorry. I have to… I’ll pass on breakfast today. Maybe…”

A cold sweat breaks out along my back.

Amy’s expression creases with concern. “Isla, are you okay? You’re really pale.”

“I’m fine.” No. I’m not. “I’m just… not feeling that well. I think I need some fresh air or something.”

“Do you want me to get anything? Or I can walk outside with you?”

“No, no, that’s okay.” Without thinking about it, I clutch my stomach, as if that’s somehow going to make everything better. “I’m just going to freshen up. I’ll be?—”

Oh, no.

Not here. Not at work. Not at my new job.

“Isla? Do you need a doctor? Now you look kind of green.”

I can’t answer her. Can’t risk speaking.

Clamping my mouth shut, I bolt for the bathroom.

And as I stumble into the closest stall and collapse to my knees on the cool tile, my stomach lurches again. Angrily. Defiantly. Unconcerned that this is the worst possible time.

Why now?

That was spectacularly awful.

As I look into the bathroom mirror, I grimace at my reflection. My skin is the shade of skim milk, my eyes are all bloodshot, and my hair looks like a bird nested in it. The shirt that was neatly ironed when I left the apartment this morning is all wrinkled. And when I look down at my pants, I’m horrified to see a smudge of something—I don’t want to know what it is—on one knee.

Ugh.

I don’t feel nauseous anymore, but my head is pounding and my throat is all raw. The fatigue has turned into full-fledged exhaustion, and all I want to do is go home and sleep. I want to hide under the covers in my coziest clothes and pretend this didn’t happen. Pretend that at least ten people didn’t see me sprint into the bathroom, my intent pretty much as clear as it could get.

And I really wish I could pretend well-meaning Amy wasn’t present for most of it. She kept popping into the bathroom, asking if I was okay, if I needed anything, if she should call a doctor, and all I really wanted was to beg her to leave.

She finally left to go to her meeting, but I just know she’s telling everyone in the office I’m sick. Which means when I leave the bathroom, everyone will stare at me. They’ll be wondering what’s wrong with me, and if I have something contagious. Some might be overly concerned, while others will try to avoid me.

Turning on the faucet, I splash cool water on my face and rinse out my mouth. Then I pinch my cheeks, hoping to bring some color back into them. As I’m smoothing my hair down, a horrifying thought strikes me.

What if my boss hears about this and thinks I’m hungover?

I’m not. The last time I had a hangover was last New Year’s Day, when I went to visit my best friend, Rory, and we stayed up until two A.M. drinking champagne and watching the ball drop in every time zone. But aside from that, the most I drink is an occasional glass of wine, and I haven’t even had that in over a week.

But my boss doesn’t know that. He might think I’m unreliable. Irresponsible.

Oh, God.

I’m going to lose my job. Then I won’t be able to pay my rent and I’ll be forced into moving back to New Hampshire to live with my parents.

Panic swells inside me.

I can’t go back to New Hampshire. I’d rather live in my car than do that.

No. That’s not going to happen. I’m going to clean myself up and get back out there, find some tea and more ibuprofen, and I’ll work through this. I’ll hunker down at my desk and get so much work done, there’s no way anyone can think I’m hungover or too sick to work. And if I still feel this crummy by the end of the day, I’ll stop into an urgent care clinic and beg them for something to make whatever this stupid bug is go away.

Squaring my shoulders, I lift my chin and take a deep breath. Then I grab a paper towel from the dispenser and blot my damp face. Pinch my cheeks again. Bare my teeth at the mirror to make sure they’re clean—note to self, bring a toothbrush and toothpaste to work from now on—and make a futile attempt at smoothing the wrinkles from my shirt.

Steeling myself for the unavoidable stares, I leave the bathroom and head down the short hallway into the main office space. The open concept office space the human resources director bragged about during my interview, claiming, “We just love the collaborative feel of it. People working together, brainstorming, supporting each other…”

Or, as I walk out into it, blatantly staring at me.

Great.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Phyllis, the sixty-something receptionist, wrestling with a bottle of vitamin C. Roger, one of the accountants, gives me a suspicious look, like he thinks I’m going to intentionally give my germs directly to him. And Dana, another executive assistant, holds up a packet of tea and waves it at me.

I avoid looking at Phyllis and Roger and give Dana a little thanks but no thanks wave as I head back to my seat, and I’m about to drop into it when I hear, “Isla? What are you doing?”

Ack . My boss.

Halfway into my seat, I freeze.

As he strides towards me, I straighten and plaster a smile on my face. “Mr. Edwards. Can I get something for you? I was just about to finish going through your emails and your itinerary for the day. But if you’d prefer I?—”

“What are you talking about?” He arrives at my desk and crosses his arms above his not-insignificant belly. A beat later, he obviously rethinks his proximity to me and takes a large step back. His forehead creases as he adds, “I didn’t mean what work you’re doing. I meant why are you getting back to work at all?”

My heart beats faster. My stupid stomach gurgles. “I’m perfectly fine, Mr. Edwards. Just a little… Well. I’m fine. Ready to work. I?—”

“No, no, no.” He shakes his head in emphasis. “If you’re sick, you should be home.”

“Oh, but I’m?—”

“Amy told me you were ill,” he interrupts. “We don’t force people to work when they’re sick. That’s what your PTO is for.”

Smile wavering, I say, “But I know this is still my probationary period. I don’t think my PTO even kicks in yet. And I’m really okay. I’m feeling better already.”

“Isla.” His expression softens. “It’s really okay. Go home. Get some rest. I’ll work it out with HR.”

His unexpected kindness makes my eyes burn. “Okay. But I’ll be in early tomorrow. And I’ll be checking my email from home if you need anything.”

“I’m fine,” he replies with a kind smile. Then he plucks my purse off the floor and hands it to me. “Go home, Isla. Feel better soon.”

His tone is pleasant, even gently concerned, but it brooks no argument.

I guess I’m going home.

As I leave the office, I can actually hear Phyllis let out a sigh of relief. And when I pass by Roger’s desk, he hunches away from me, even though I’m at least ten feet away from him.

Wonderful. Now I’m the Typhoid Mary of the office. What a great way to kick off my new job.

Ironically, once I get outside the building, I actually feel better. Not back to normal, but my stomach settles a little more, and the fresh morning air clears away some of my headache. As I walk across the parking lot, I feel a bit more alert, and less like I’ve just been run over by a truck.

A flicker of optimism sparks inside me.

All I need is a long nap, some saltines and tea, and then the afternoon snuggled up on the couch with my favorite blanket. I can watch the Food Network, my favorite guilty pleasure, and if my headache is gone, check in with Rory. See if I can convince her to come visit soon instead of hiding out at her farmhouse in northern Vermont.

By tomorrow morning, I’ll be fine. Ready to get back to work and kick some butt doing it.

I pick up my pace as I cross the parking lot, weaving through cars as I make my way to my little SUV. The lot is packed full of cars, but I’m the only person out here, which feels a bit odd. In the weeks I’ve been working for Edwards Shipping, I’m usually coming in or out with at least a handful of employees, chatting about mundane things like the weather or how the Cowboys will do next season.

Not that I have any idea. The only team I follow is the Red Sox, which I think is a requirement if you grew up in the Northeast. But I smile and nod along with the rest of them, and never, ever admit I don’t even know the rules of football.

I guess it’s not too strange that the parking lot is quiet, though. It’s not quite 9 AM, so everyone is busy checking emails or sitting through meetings. If anyone is heading out for coffee, they’d go out the front entrance and down the street to Brewful Delights, the place Amy was talking about going to.

Thinking about Amy, I should probably do something to thank her. While her enthusiasm verges on overwhelming at times, she’s been nice to me since I started. And today, she kept checking on me when she didn’t need to, giving up her coffee run to do it.

Maybe when I’m feeling better, fully better, I can invite her out for lunch. My treat, of course. Or I could suggest a drink at that wine bar down the road after work one day. Since I moved from Houston to Dallas six months ago, I haven’t had the time to make any local friends. And while Rory’s my best friend, she’s thousands of miles away. It might be nice to have someone?—

Wait.

From behind me, I hear a quick patter of footsteps.

Not the regular gait of someone walking to their car, or even the brisk stride of someone in a hurry.

Even though I’m walking through a wide open parking lot in broad daylight, a little skitter of nerves moves through me.

But when I glance over my shoulder, I don’t see anyone. Just dozens of cars lined up in long rows. And beyond that, my office building, three-stories of brick and glass.

There’s nothing alarming. No reason to feel nervous. I probably just heard a discarded can rolling across the asphalt. Or it could be a stray cat scurrying under the cars, looking for scraps of food or trying to find shelter.

Still. I pick up my pace as I continue towards my car. Even though I know it’s fine, there’s still that lingering anxiety, the same kind I think most women feel when they’re walking alone.

My car is one row away when I hear the noise again.

The same rushing patter of feet.

This time, my heart jumps to double speed.

That little skitter of nerves turns to a gallop.

I reach into my purse to grab my keys, clutching my fingers around them. I press the unlock button and my car makes a little beep; the headlights flashing in response.

It’s fine. Nothing to worry about.

Until.

Something heavy slams into me from behind.

Not something.

Someone.

The force of the blow almost sends me to my knees, but a powerful arm clamps around me, jerking me back to my feet.

Oh, God.

Fear steals my breath. My lungs seize. Panic threatens to take over.

No. Yell for help.

Just as I’m opening my mouth to scream, a hand slaps across my face, stifling it.

No. No. No.

A voice hisses in my ear, stinking of garlic and stale coffee, “Don’t fight. You’ll only make it worse.”

My body starts to shake. Nausea surges again.

Then.

He starts to drag me backwards.

NO. Please, no.

All the horrifying stories I’ve read about on the news fly through my head. Trafficking. Murder. Assault.

Am I just going to let him do this without fighting back?

No way.

Anger thaws my frozen muscles, and I turn into a dervish. Kicking. Wriggling. Biting at his meaty hand. I punch the buttons on my key fob until the alarm on my car goes off and the headlights flash in a staccato rhythm.

“Stop it!” the man snarls, and he slams me into the side of the nearest car, sending a shockwave of pain up and down my back. All the air is knocked out of me, and in that breathless moment, he rips the keys from my hand and silences the car. “Stupid bitch!”

Then he picks me up and starts to run.

NO!

Tears stream down my cheeks. My heart pounds so hard I fear a heart attack.

And then.

Someone shouts, “Get your hands off her!”

A second later, there’s a blur of movement.

Another man—tall, muscular, his expression hard with fury—attacks.

Not me. No. All his attention is focused on my captor.

The dark hero—all in dark clothes, dark hair, tanned skin, and eyes like coal—launches himself at the man holding me.

Arms and legs move so quickly I can’t discern one move from the next, but to my shell-shocked brain, it looks like some sort of karate. A fist flies into my captor’s face, and a moment later, I’m pulled from his arms.

My dark savior sets me behind him and goes after the awful man again, knocking him to the ground with a sweep of his leg.

The man who grabbed me is huge, almost a foot taller than my five foot five and easily twice my weight. But instead of fighting back, like I’m afraid he’ll do, he leaps to his feet and starts running in the opposite direction.

“Shit!” This mysterious stranger standing in front of me curses, low and rough. Tension vibrates through his body. He twitches forward, like he’s about to run after the escaping man, but a beat later, he turns to me.

As he looks at me, his expression shifts from anger to concern. The intensity in his gaze softens, turning his eyes to a molten chocolate. In a deep, rumbly voice, he asks gently, “Hey, are you okay?”

“I—” But I can’t form more words than that.

Tiny lines etch across his forehead. “Are you hurt?” He stops. Frowns. “I’m sorry I let him get away. But I didn’t want to leave you alone.”

I want to thank him. Ask my dark hero his name. But my brain can’t seem to make my mouth work.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “Okay. Do you work here?” A beat, and then, “Obviously you do. Why am I asking? Let’s get you inside and I’ll call the police. Give them his description. And get you checked out. Alright?”

I nod at him wordlessly.

As the shock sets in, my body starts shaking. My legs go all wobbly and I have to clutch the nearest car so they don’t collapse beneath me.

He stares at me for a second, his face pinched with worry. “Can I help you inside? If you don’t want me to touch you, I won’t. But it might be faster.”

Speak. Talk to him. Thank him, at least.

“Yes,” I finally manage to croak out. “If you’d help. That would…”

“Of course.” And he slips his arm—a very muscular arm, I can’t help noticing even in this moment of insanity—around my waist, drawing me against his side. “Let me know if anything hurts. I can carry you inside if walking is too much.”

I lean against him, looping my arm around his. “I can walk. But?—”

“Yes?” He looks down at me, meeting my gaze.

A frisson of something moves between us.

My stomach jumps. But for a different reason than before.

“I’m Isla. Nightingale. And you’re…”

“Oh.” A glimmer of a smile touches his lips. The tips of his ears go pink. “I’m Matthew Cross. But you can just call me Matt. All my friends do.”

Amid the craziness, something inside me settles. “It’s nice to meet you, Matt. And thank you.”