Mission: Out Of Control

TWO

“Have we met?” Her words, repeated back to him, came out almost like a whisper, her big hazel-green eyes gulping him in as she slipped her hand in his. It took him a second—as her fingers closed around his hand—to realize that she was mocking him. “Very funny,” she said without a smile.

He stared at the girl, short brown hair in tight ringlets around her head, a slim black dress, a cultured strand of pearls at her neck, and tried to place her.

“Uh…I’m serious. You father said we’d met, but I don’t remember…” He slipped his hand from hers, casting a look at Senator Wagner. “Sir?”

Senator Wagner embodied everything Brody’s father had described—serious, a Harvard lawyer, a three-term senator with a hearty knowledge of foreign policy. He exuded the same aura of power that Brody once had while commanding his squad. Only now, a strange expression played on the senator’s face.

“You don’t recognize the woman you rescued the other night, Mr. Wickham?”

Brody turned back to his newest client, peering at her even as she stepped back from him. And then, he saw it. The slight hesitation, coupled with the hint of frown not unlike the one the crazy pink-haired rock star displayed right before she’d left her handprint on his cheek.

“Vonya? Seriously?” Oh, no.

“You’re kidding me, right?” She looked first at Brody, then her father, and he couldn’t figure out whom she might be talking to. “You want him to be my bodyguard?”

“That’s right. You two already know each other, and I did a background check. Mr. Wickham here works for an international security firm out of Prague. He’s a former Green Beret, and he’s got the experience I’m looking for—”

“You’re looking for? What about me? Do I have any say in this?” She stared back at Brody but his instincts told him to just keep his mouth shut. Not that she would let him speak. “Vonya” had begun to materialize via the sarcastic, exasperated tone. “You’re holding me hostage. No wait—this is blackmail.” But as she turned to her father, Vonya morphed back into this strange, almost breakable woman with pleading eyes. “Listen, I will have a bodyguard. But I want to pick him—especially if he’s going to shadow all my concerts.”

“Not just during your concerts, Veronica, but every moment, 24/7. I’m not letting General Mubar—or even last year’s crazy stalker, if we really have to go there—find you in the halls of the hostels you and your crew insisted on staying in last time.”

“Nonprofit housing, Father, and everything I do to help them goes to help the homeless in Europe. It was part of the tour hype, and where I got my first fans. I can’t desert them. I’m just as safe there as I would be in a Hyatt. What is he going to do? Sit outside my door as I sleep?”

“If I have to,” Brody said. But to start out, he’d just affix a security system onto her accommodations, and if anyone went in or out, he’d know. A room next door, or across the hall, would be just fine.

And there would be no youth hostels on this pleasure cruise. At least he and the senator agreed on that much.

Even if, right now, everything inside him screamed to turn and run from this room, this mansion, and back to his parents’ humble ranch home on the verge of being owned by the bank.

And it happened to be precisely that thought—his parents, homeless, after feeding nine children and working their fingers to the bone—that kept him rooted to the floor.

It was bad enough that Derek planned on joining the military rather than pursuing his basketball scholarship. Who turned down a partial ride to Duke?

Their conversation while they’d been playing a little one-on-one in the driveway—the one that ended with him nearly shouting at his brother—rushed back to him. “Over my dead body.” He hadn’t been sure where his anger came from, but with everything inside him, and more, he knew his brother wasn’t giving up Duke to throw his future away in the military.

Derek had stared at him, an openmouthed gape that Brody probably could have predicted. It wasn’t like he’d ever dissed the military before.

And, up until a year ago, he wouldn’t have stood in his brother’s way. But the days of fighting his fellow man had vanished. Now, wars were fought against grade-schoolers with guns and idealistic teenagers with bombs strapped to their bodies. In the villages and homes of innocent women and toddlers. No way would he let his brother be caught in the middle of that.

A guy simply didn’t heal from those kinds of wounds. “No way,” he’d said.

“You love the military. What’s your deal?”

“Join ROTC, become an officer. But no, you’re not joining up to be a grunt.”

“It’s not up to you,” Derek said, reaching for the ball.

And the only thing that saved them both had been Senator Wagner on the other end of the cell phone, rescuing Brody from losing it at his brother and saving their financial hide at the same time.

Talk about his instincts misfiring.

“You didn’t tell me that your daughter was ‘Vonya,’ Senator, when you asked me to protect her.” Indeed, Brody had imagined some cultural princess who needed her bags carried as she sashayed down the Champs-Élysées. Maybe he’d done the math too quickly—a hundred grand would keep his brother out of the military, at least in the short term, and give him a head start on his future. The kid could change the world, maybe, someday. And paying off his parents’ loan could ease Brody’s pain at seeing his father struggling to move around the house, trying to recover from his stroke.

“What did you think? I did mention a musical tour.”

Violins. Beethoven. A gig with a snooty cellist, perhaps. It was possible—right now, Veronica looked like she could wield a cello while being a spokeswoman for the Daughters of the American Revolution, or perhaps standing next to her father on the campaign trail.

“You didn’t mention crazy,” Brody said, and enjoyed, probably too much, the gap-mouthed glare from Veron—Von—whoever.

“My security check suggested you could handle this.”

Clearly, the good senator had checked into his decorations, his medals, his commendations—but hadn’t bothered to talk to Chet. His boss would be over the desk, throttling him if he knew Brody had practically cannonballed back into work. Thankfully, Chet had probably turned off his cell phone when he and Mae had escaped for their honeymoon.

And what Chet didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, right? Brody would return to the office in Prague after a month, mandatory R & R accomplished, having outfitted his family with a better future. Seemed like the perfect way to shake free of his demons.

Not if Veronica had her way. “Father, how about a female bodyguard? I mean, after all, I’m going to do some shopping—”

“I’m sure Mr. Wickham can shop.”

Um…

“He doesn’t even like my music! You should have seen him the other night. He looked like he’d eaten a gourd of morsick!”

Nope, he hadn’t. African morsick—fermented goat’s milk in a charcoal-lined gourd—was a lot, or, okay, a little worse than listening to her so-called music.

“He doesn’t have to like your music, Veronica. He’s getting paid to keep you safe.”

Veronica, Vonya, whoever—Brody was searching for any physical resemblance to the flamboyant sci-fi character he’d seen on the stage in this Miss Culture and Pearls—turned and stalked toward the window. She stared out of it, hard jawed. “I don’t want him. Pick anyone else but him.”

For the first time since Brody entered the room, Senator Wagner frowned, pursed his lips, and cast a look at Brody as if considering her request. Like Brody might not be a great fit for his daughter, regardless of her wacky persona.

Her words bothered Brody, too. Why not?

Even if he didn’t want to babysit Vonya the Superstar, Veronica the Sorority Girl’s attitude was starting to get on his nerves. He’d done close protection on more important subjects than the Chameleon over there. “What’s the problem?”

She rounded on him, her eyes flashing. “Because, Mr. Wickham, you are a jerk. Without asking, you decided I needed rescuing—”

“You were hiding underneath a speaker!” His gaze flicked to the bruise on her arm, a bloom of pain that probably hurt when she moved it.

“It doesn’t matter. I had everything under control, and when I told you to put me down you ignored me.”

“Because you were being stupid.”

She closed her mouth, opened it, her eyes flashing.

Well, she was. “Sorry, but you were crawling across the stage, and then you flung yourself like a Frisbee into the crowd. I had to pluck you out of a mosh pit. Of course you were in over your head, and if you don’t see that, then we’re in worse shape here than I thought.” Was he yelling? Not yet, but he wanted to. Now he fully recognized Vonya, if only by the feelings she’d churned up in him.

“Says you.”

“Yeah, and about sixteen years of instinct.” And at least one act of poor judgment he vowed never to repeat. “Putting you down would have caused a riot. I did what was necessary.”

“Without a thought to how I might feel.”

“So shoot me. I thought you might actually be grateful that someone was looking out for you.”

He could agree he’d been a jerk, but right now he just wanted to fold his hands around her delicate neck and throttle her. No wonder her father had called him. She reminded Brody too much, suddenly, of Lucy. If she ever acted like this, he’d throw her in a barrel and nail it shut.

Maybe feed her through the hole. Or not.

Okay, that was a little extreme, but the thought of spending one hour, let alone one month, with this woman had him breaking out in hives.

Her eyes narrowed, just for a second. Then, “I don’t need anyone to look out for me.”

“Your father thinks you do.”

She flinched, then looked away, her voice tumbling low. “You don’t even like me.”

“I don’t have to like you to do my job.”

Her chin quivered, just slightly, before she turned her back to him.

His chest burned, right in the center. What did it matter if he liked her? He shook his head, shot a glance at the senator, his voice tight. “Maybe she’s right, sir. Maybe you should find someone else.”

Maybe he could take out a loan for the house, the tuition…

The senator picked up his drink, considering it for a moment, swishing the liquid in his glass tumbler.

Brody opened his mouth to recant when Senator Wagner cut him off.

“Nope. It’s Mr. Wickham or the tour is off.” He directed his words to Veronica, who whirled around, her mouth open just long enough to give her away. Then her eyes went to Brody and he saw something flicker in them. Something that looked dangerously like determination.

Was she hiding something? But in a flash, up went a new mask—not quite cultured Veronica, but too serious to be Vonya. A new, probably more charming, personality. Nice.

“Fine. That’s just fine. Mr. Wickham will do. As long as he listens to me and stays out of my way.” She took a breath and moved toward him. Brody held out his hand again, as if to seal the deal, but she brushed past him.

“Staying out of your way might be a little difficult. And, by the way, just for the record, I do like you,” he said, hoping to throw some cool on her steam.

“Save it,” she snapped, and shut the door behind her with a click.

Brody blew out a long breath.

The senator clamped him on the shoulder. “Keep her out of the tabloids, keep her out of trouble, and bring her home in one piece. I’m afraid this time you’re going to have to earn your pay, Wickham.”

Her “bodyguard” pre-cut his roast pork into geometric cubes the size of dice. He speared one piece of meat, pushed it through his applesauce, and delivered it to his mouth. He laid down his fork and wiped his mouth between bites, following each one with a sip of water.

Like a robot.

Ronie tried not to stare, but the more he did it, the more she longed to launch across the beautifully attired table and pour something, maybe gravy—which he’d poured into the center of a perfectly indented mound of potatoes—over his entire plate.

Heaven forbid the gravy touch his asparagus. Or the applesauce.

Or one of Marguerite’s rolls, buttered nicely on the bread plate.

Her father had sold her out to a cyborg. The Terminator.

A terminator that just might destroy everything if she wasn’t careful. She had better figure out a way to ditch him if she hoped to help Kafara.

Found him. She would reread the text until it gave her the courage she needed.

Brody took another sip and politely answered the senator’s questions, in a voice low and rumbly, like an earthquake. “I’m the oldest of nine, sir, and yes, my father worked at the Capitol as a security guard until his stroke three months ago. Nearly did thirty years.”

“I know him—gives away your mother’s homemade caramel corn to all the offices every year.”

Another cube of meat, another trek through the applesauce. Chew. Wipe. Drink. Yes, sitting across from him for the next month just might drive her insane.

Except, well, what about that idea? She couldn’t exactly fire him, right? But what if he quit? What if she simply played on his disgust and drove him insane?

Sorry, but she just didn’t buy the whole “you’re in danger” spiel. Did her father think she had lost her brains along with her pride? He just didn’t want another go-round with the international tabloids during an election year. And as for her so-called stalker, well, just because a few unauthorized photos showed up on the internet didn’t mean the man would harm her.

Everyone just calm down. She knew what she was doing.

Although she could admit to being just a little terrified when she found herself on the floor of the club. Being stomped on.

Not that Brody would ever know that.

But she would have survived. It was the one thing she knew how to do.

“And what do you do when you’re not standing guard outside someone’s hotel room?” Ronie tried to smile, aiming for too sweet when she said it.

He met her eyes. “I work out. And listen to classical music.” No return smile.

Ellie passed him the rolls. “Isn’t that lovely. Our family has season tickets to the New York Philharmonic. We just heard them play Brahms, the Second Symphony.”

Ronie wanted to nod off into her potatoes. Maybe a date, forced or otherwise, would have been better—at least said suitor might be trying to impress her father, and her, in hopes of winning round two.

Brody Wickham didn’t seem at all interested in her opinion of him.

Well, except for the moment she’d caught him staring, his gaze lingering on her as he’d pulled out her chair to the table.

As if trying to recognize in her the woman who’d belted him.

Yeah, well, there was more where that came from if he got too close. But, see, that could work, too—more craziness, and perhaps she would throw in shopping and nightclubs, drive him insane by making him fetch her coffee and donuts, anything she could do to remind him that, yes, she might just be the high-maintenance diva he’d scooped off the floor.

He’d rue the day he ever agreed to her father’s terms. If he thought she was hard to control onstage…

“How long have you been in the military, Mr. Wickham?” her mother asked.

Ah, the woman had caught him midbite. Ronie raised an eyebrow, enjoying the debate in his eyes. Finally, he replaced his fork, fully loaded, onto the plate. “I’m not in the military anymore, ma’am. But I was in for sixteen years.”

“Only four years shy of retirement? That seems a strange time to leave.”

Of course, the senator had to press. Why not? It seemed his specialty had become evaluating people’s lives, making them rethink their decisions, embarrassing them…

Brody’s gaze went to his plate. Finally, he picked up his fork. “Yes, sir.”

Hmm. The silence after his words had even Ronie clinking her plate with her fork, dividing her asparagus into chunks.

Outside, twilight had descended, shaggy fir trees shifting shadows into the yard, and the cicadas had come out, buzzing in the night. Ronie longed to push away from the table and escape outside into the sultry, thick air, slip off her shoes, feel her toes in the cool grass. If she listened hard, perhaps she’d hear laughter from the playhouse on the far edge of the yard, maybe even see Savannah beckoning to her from the swing set.

Not the Savannah that peered down upon them from the oil on the wall behind her in the dining room, but the one with long brown hair, so soft for braiding, the one who knew all the voices to Little Women.

“So, I suppose you visited a lot of interesting places in the military?” Ellie to the rescue, still trying to pawn off the rolls.

“Yes, ma’am.” Brody accepted another roll, set it next to his already cut and buttered one. What, was he going to slip it into his pocket for later?

“Have you seen action?”

“Oh, Ellie, don’t ask him that.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Brody said, again that strange glance down at his dinner. The entire affair felt not unlike a KGB interrogation. They just needed the bright lights and the toothpicks. For a second, Ronie had the urge to rescue him.

Thankfully, it passed.

“Mr. Wickham’s offices are in downtown Prague, Ellie.” The senator turned to Brody. “Beautiful city, Prague. Went there on my twenty-fifth anniversary, with my wife.”

Ellie looked over at him with a smile, not a hint of warmth in her eyes. “Yes. Very beautiful.”

Her father had finished off his bourbon and switched to merlot. He swished his wine by the stem of the glass. “I saw that you worked for Hans Brumegaarden. Something about a birthday party, and Snow White?”

Was that a blush on Wickham’s face? Maybe, but then it vanished and he caught Ronie’s eye, straight on. “Yes. Our security firm was asked to dress the part while protecting Gretchen Brumegaarden during her Disney-themed birthday party. I was a dwarf. I’ll do anything to keep a client safe. Even if she is five years old and dressed up in some crazy costume.”

What? No, he didn’t just call her a five-year-old, did he? Her mouth opened. Oh, she so had words for him. But no, she was a Wagner. She’d keep it to herself.

At least tonight.

“I need some air.” She pushed away from the table. “Thank you for dinner. I’ll see you all in the morning.”

Brody rose from the table. The senator stayed seated. Ellie put out her hand, catching her arm. “Veronica—”

“It’s Ronie, Mom. My friends call me Ronie. Or, if you want, Vonya would work, too.” She pulled away and glanced at the Boy Scout. “The tour starts in a week. Try to stay out of my hair until then.”

She was turning away when she heard him mutter, “Which hair?”

And oh, she shouldn’t have, but she couldn’t stop herself. In fact, yes, she turned right about five years old as she picked up one of the rolls and hurled it across the table, right at his smug little kisser.

“Veronica!”

He caught it with one hand.

Smiled.

Nodded.

Game on.

Fine. If that was how he wanted it. She turned, ignoring her mother’s hand as it tried to catch her.

The moon had lifted above the trees, a spotlight in the sky, skimming over the cool grass. She toed off her sandals, sifting the grass through her feet as she treaded over to the swing set.

She sat on it. Heard the voices of the past.

“When I grow up, I’m going to be a famous actress.” Savannah’s voice filtered from the yellow playhouse, its windows like eyes, dark and empty. “I’ll sing, too—we’ll sing together.”

“Trouble, trouble, I’ve had it all my days; it seems like trouble going to follow me to my grave.”

Ronie pulled her cell phone from her pocket and opened her picture file. She scrolled through the thumbnails, intending to stop on Savannah.

Instead, she clicked open Kafara’s picture. Chubby, dark cheeks, a white smile, holding out a pineapple for her right before he cut it in half with his machete. How he loved to bring her treats from his village. She ran her thumb over the photo. Don’t give up on me, Kafara. Because I’m not giving up on you.

She pocketed the phone, found a tune, something from the past. Let the wind take her song.

“Which hair?” Brody’s smug expression, especially after he’d caught the roll, made her push off, start to swing.

Game on, indeed. Yes, he would rue the day he’d agreed to stand in her way.

THREE

Brody Wickham didn’t run from crazy. He didn’t care what costume Vonya appeared in, what outrageous request she made of him. Didn’t care how many times she asked him for a macchiato coffee or food from the craft table. He’d keep on informing her he wasn’t a butler—he hadn’t been hired to carry her shoes or protect her delicate skin from the harsh sunlight.

And to think the gig hadn’t even officially started, although the week spent in New York City watching her rehearse had him second-guessing this gig every day. He couldn’t wait for the weekend leave when he’d return to D.C. and check in on his family before leaving for Europe.

Brody Wickham fully planned to outlast her. Figure her out. Win at whatever game they happened to be playing in her head. After all, how was he supposed to protect her if he couldn’t predict her moves? She certainly wasn’t going to make it easy by, say, cooperating.

She made him want to bang his own head against something hard and cold. Whose brain-dead idea had it been to earn a quick 100K anyway?

“Thank you, Brody.” His mother’s face when he handed her a portion of the prepayment of services after returning from the meeting with Senator Wagner. He hadn’t expected it to feel so good to help his parents.

Or to know that they wouldn’t lose the family home.

Or give his brother a shot at a decent education.

And, truthfully, Ronyika—as he’d taken to calling her—did intrigue him.

After all, he’d never seen anyone wearing giant wings during a pop song before, even if watching her dangle fifteen feet on a trapeze swing off the ground as if she might be flying nearly gave him chest pains. Today her hair was baby-boy blue, an almost clownish mop of curls atop her head. And she wore a black Batman mask, perhaps just in case anyone mistook her for the sugarplum fairy.

In truth, she scared him a little with how quickly she morphed from high-society Veronica to Vampy Vonya.

“Is she schizophrenic? Maybe suffering from multiple personality disorder?” He hadn’t exactly meant to say that aloud, but perhaps his disbelief at watching her suspend herself from the ceiling as the fog machine filled up the stage simply overtook his brain and he accidentally went audible with his opinion.