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Presley, Oklahoma, doctor Meredith Boren goes to her lake house to box up her past -- a past that included her dead ex-fiancé, Gage Parrish. But in the middle of the night she finds the handsome fire investigator, very much alive, wounded and bleeding at her kitchen sink. Now as they search for a vengeful arsonist, Gage risks his life again to protect the woman he still loves. And although Meredith is tempted to give herself over, body and soul, it'll take more than Gage returning from the dead for her to trust him again.... " ... movingly poignant throughout every enthralling scene. The
Private Bodyguard is a romantic adventure packed with powerful emotions,
fiery passions and suspenseful danger. Four and a half stars!"
At two o’clock on a cold February morning, Dr. Meredith Boren came face to face
with a dead man. Asleep in her family’s Oklahoma lake house,
she’d been awakened by a noise in the kitchen and gotten out of bed to
investigate. She’d crept down the long hallway that led from the master
bedroom, edged around the foot of the stairs and frozen between the living room
and kitchen. In the melding shadows of night, a man stood
over the sink. Meredith’s breath lodged sharply in her throat. Moonlight
glanced off lean muscle, flashing a series of impressions. His right shirt
sleeve was ripped and hanging down his arm. His left hand pressed against his
bare shoulder. Something dark stained his flesh and the edge of the sink. The
first aid kit lay open on the counter beside him. Hazy moonlight filtered through the window,
mixed with too many shadows to discern the color of his hair. She had a gun in
her bedside table. She couldn’t see if he had one or not. He didn’t appear interested in anything except
patching himself up. Still, Meredith was calling the police. She retreated a step, intent on slipping back
to her room and dialing 9-1-1. At that moment, the man sagged against the
counter as if it were the only thing holding him up. The movement brought his
face into profile. Pale silver light skimmed his temple, the long planed line
of his jaw, part of a strong neck. Meredith’s heart stopped. He looked like . .
.. No, it couldn’t be. This had to be a dream,
which made sense considering the reason she’d come to the summer house at Broken
Bow Lake. The cool tile beneath her feet, the whiff of cinnamon from the living
area, the underlying metallic scent of blood drifting from the kitchen all felt
real, smelled real, but they couldn’t be. Gage Parrish was dead, had been dead for a
year. It was a dream. Yes, it had to be. If this were real, the man would’ve
seen her from the corner of his eye and reacted. Operating on less than four hours’ sleep out of
the last forty-eight, Meredith rubbed her forehead. "No," she murmured. In the deep stillness, the quiet word shattered
the silence. The man jerked toward her, his hard gaze
zeroing in like a laser. Before she could blink, he roared, "What the hell are
you doing here?" She snapped to full attention just as she did
when jarred out of sleep at the hospital to tend a new arrival in the emergency
room. This was real. He was real. How? Something fell from his shoulder to the floor –
a stained cloth. He didn’t grab for it. "You’re not supposed to be here." "Neither are you!" Numb, she stared at the
filmy silhouette of her ex-fiancé. She could barely think. Was she breathing? With his left hand, the man – Gage – gripped
the counter’s edge. Even in the dim light, Meredith could see his unsteadiness,
the waxy sheen of his face. It was the blood tracking down his shoulder and
arm that got her moving. "You’re hurt." She reached him about the time he crumpled into
the cabinet, banging it hard. She grabbed his left arm to steady him. This wasn’t possible. He was dead. Dead! Her mind was unable to process anything except
that he was wounded, bleeding. She draped his uninjured arm around her shoulder
and started slowly toward the nearest bed. Her bed. "Are you hurt anywhere else?" "No," he said hoarsely. "Gunshot." Surprise jolted her. He’d been shot. Why?
How far from here? And completely apart from the gunshot wound, how was it even
possible that he was alive? Meredith’s head began to pound. Sweat broke out
over her body. What was happening was too unreal, too much. Too raw. She
couldn’t function if she dealt with that right now. Judging from how heavily
Gage leaned on her for support, he wasn’t up to it either. He faltered, his weight pulling her into the
wall with him as he propped himself up there. His warm breath feathered against her face and
an unexpected knot of longing shoved painfully under her ribs. She dismissed
the emotion. He struggled away from the wall. "Okay." She wondered if he’d be able to make it the
rest of the way. They reached her room, painstakingly crossed the silver carpet
to her queen-sized bed and she eased him down on the edge of the mattress.
Reaching over, she flipped on the bedside lamp and stood, paralyzed. Her mind fought to sort this out, to make sense
of it. Believe it. Blood smeared his shoulder, her sheet. He
groaned, jerking her out of her stupor. He was hurt. She knew how to deal with
that. Unbuttoning his black button-down shirt, she eased it away from his
injured shoulder, then stripped it off. "Meredith." The deep grainy voice had her looking straight
into his pure blue eyes. Eyes she’d thought to never see again. Meredith
started at the realization that there was more than pain there. He looked
exhausted and . . . haunted. Tenderness tugged at her. She tore her gaze from
his. Putting herself on autopilot, she palmed off
his shoes then eased his legs onto the mattress and laid him back on the
pillow. Leaving his jeans on, she knelt beside the bed and got her first good
look at the wound. The bullet had gone through his shoulder, entering close to
his clavicle. Where the subclavian vein and artery ran. Concern streaked
through her. "You’re . . . not s’pposed to be here." His words were slurred. Depending on how much
blood he’d lost, he’d be getting dizzy. And thirsty. "It’s winter." She understood his surprise. The lake house
was used only in the spring and summer, for fishing, boating and water skiing. "Never would’ve come." He reached up, his
fingers brushing her mouth. Hit with panic and a sudden streak of fear, she
jerked away. "Baby, I’m sorry." "Be quiet!" She didn’t know if he was aware of
what he said. She didn’t want to hear the endearment he’d always called her.
All she cared about was stopping the bleeding. "Don’t move," she ordered. Pushing to her
feet, she hurried to the kitchen and grabbed the first aid kit, snatched some
hand towels from the nearest drawer then returned to him. He was still, unnaturally so, and dread stabbed
at her. She felt for his carotid pulse. Weak, but there. "Thirsty," he croaked, his eyes slitted against
the pain. She hurried into the adjoining bath and filled
a small glass with water, then returned to hold up his head and help him drink.
After placing the glass on the bedside table, she examined his wound. He was
bleeding out externally, not into the chest. Of the two, that was preferable.
No broken collarbone, no collapsed lung. The man was beyond lucky. "How long
ago did this happen?" "An hour," he struggled to get out the words.
"Or two." Using one of the towels, she pressed firmly on
the wound, noting the deep penetration, the torn flesh, his shallow breathing.
"You need to go to a hospital. McCurtain County’s hospital is about thirty or
forty minutes away." "No. No hospitals." "Gage." "They’ll report it." His raspy voice was
firm. "No cops." "But--" "A cop shot me." His agitation started his
blood flowing heavily again. "No hospital." "You need to calm down." A cop had shot
him? What was going on? Blood seeped out from under the towel and Meredith
pressed harder against the wound. "Promise me." His face was colorless, and
desperate. He groped for her right forearm with his left hand, squeezed hard.
"Promise," he rasped, struggling to sit up. "Be still." Her voice was sharper than she’d
intended. She pushed against his opposite shoulder until he eased back into the
mattress. "I promise. Now be quiet and let me do what needs to be done." He must’ve been using every bit of his strength
because when she finally agreed not to contact anyone, he passed out. Questions hammered at her. Emotions, too.
Anger, confusion, pain. But there was no time to deal with that right now. She
could only deal with Gage and his GSW. Working quickly, she slowed the bleeding,
cleaned the wound with alcohol as best she could then stitched the ragged hole
near his collarbone. There was no anesthetic. She prayed he’d be out for a
long time. She was cool, precise, steady. She trimmed the
stitches. Applied a pressure bandage. Then sat back on her heels and stared at
him, her heart thundering in her chest as if she’d run the two hundred and fifty
miles from here to Presley. She began to shake all over. His dark blond hair reached the base of his
neck, longer than she’d ever seen it. His skin was weathered by the sun,
putting lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there eighteen months ago when
she’d broken things off between them. Six months after that, she’d gotten word
he was dead. She’d believed it. They all had. So how could he really be
here? Really be alive? Swept up in a sudden swirl of anger and
confusion, she wiped streaks of blood from his neck and lower jaw, the back of
her hand lingering on the sandpapery roughness of his skin. His familiar woodsy scent was faint beneath the
antiseptic, but she could smell it. Smell him. The lanky, wounded man in her
bed was really Gage and he was alive. She thought she’d shed her last tear over him,
but one fell anyway. * * * * * Gage opened his eyes, increasingly aware of the
searing pain in his right shoulder and torso, a comfortable bed and a soft
feminine fragrance. A familiar apricot scent on the sheets, his pillow. Then
he remembered. "Meredith," he murmured. The bathroom door across the room opened and
there she was. She paused, soap-scented steam floating around her. Her hair
was freshly dried, wild blonde curls loose around her shoulders. Her cream and
rose skin was free of make-up, her blue eyes crystal-bright and wary. She was
so beautiful, it hurt to look at her. His memories didn’t do her justice. He’d missed the hell out of her, but despite
the telltale spike in his pulse, seeing her was the worst thing for both of
them. Last night hadn’t been a hallucination due to
pain and blood loss. She was really here. And looking damn good. "You’re awake." She stepped into the bedroom.
Her tall lithe figure gloved in a long-sleeved red T-shirt and faded jeans
brought to aching life the memory of every bare inch of her. A slight flush pinkened her skin from her
bath. She preferred those to a shower, he knew. And bubbles to bath beads.
Apricot or vanilla to any floral scent. Hell. Gage wished he’d forgotten
things like that in the last eighteen months, but he hadn’t. Forcing his gaze away, he glanced at the
bandage curving over his shoulder and clavicle. "You patched me up." She nodded. He made a lame attempt at humor. "Will I
live?" Her eyes went cool. She looked at him as if
she didn’t know him. "Won’t that interfere with your being dead?" Ouch. There were a thousand things he should
say, all starting with I’m sorry. He soaked her in, storing away another image
for when he had to leave. "You’re really here." "I think that’s my line." Her words were as
sharp as her laugh. She was angry. What did he expect? "No one’s
ever at this house in the winter. I never would’ve come if I’d known you would
be here." Hurt flared in her eyes. "You’re lucky I was
or you would’ve bled out over my sink." She thought he meant because he didn’t want to
see her. There wasn’t anything he wanted more, but it was dangerous. He
couldn’t involve her any more than he already had. Quietly, he said, "Thanks for saving my life." She gave a curt nod, eyeing him warily. Gage
hated it. And there was nothing he could do about trying to correct it before
he left. "What time is it?" "Almost noon. Are you hungry?" "I could eat." Once he did, he would have to
say goodbye. Again. "All right, I’ll get you something." She
folded her arms under her breasts and nailed him with a look. "Then I want to
know what’s going on." He could tell her some, not all. Nodding, he
pushed himself up on his left elbow. "You lost a lot of blood," she snapped. "You
shouldn’t try that yet." "I’m almost there." It was an effort to
struggle into a half-sitting position against the headboard. He bit back a moan
as agony ripped through his shoulder. She stood close enough for him to see the light
brush of freckles across her nose, but the distance between them yawned like a
canyon. Her eyes were remote, blank. He wanted to see her smile, just once.
But the steady gaze she trained on him said
that wasn’t going to happen. He knew what she wanted. Letting out a shaky
breath, he asked, "Where do you want me to start?" "How about with when you died? “
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