“I’m not done talking,” he says.
I get in the car, lock the doors and hold up a finger to warn Myla the car might be bugged. She inhales and nods, facing forward. Juan remains on the back of my car, apparently thinking he’s going to stop my departure. I rev the engine and still he stands there. I shift to reverse and roll just enough to knock the shit out of him, which earns me loud cursing and his butt getting the hell out of the way. I back us up and get us the fuck out of the garage, handing Myla the scanner from my pocket. She eagerly accepts it, turns it on and sweeps the car, during which time my mind is conjuring all kinds of reasons to turn around and run Juan over.
“Why would he want to see you alone?” I ask, the minute we’re clear. “Is that a regular thing? Does he-”
“I know what you’re thinking,” she says. “And no. That was one time, but he likes to play with my head. He taunts me. He was not pleased when Michael decided to bring in a bodyguard.”
“Interesting,” I say, glancing over at her, and hating the way she’s hugging herself again. “Are we sure Juan isn’t making a move against Alvarez?”
“They’re family,” she says. “I can’t imagine that to be the case, but it’s Juan, so maybe.”
“You will not go with him anywhere. In case I haven’t made myself clear. That means, you shoot him if you have to. Understand?”
“Yes. I understand.”
But what I don’t understand are Juan’s actions and motives, which brings me back to him telling me Kara’s FBI, not ex-FBI, when Alvarez is obviously concerned about her contacting Myla. Maybe he was testing me. Maybe it was a slip of the tongue. Maybe he’s just an asshole who’s a fool. But assuming so could make me the fool and get us killed.
***
Myla
The minute Kyle and I walk into the lobby, our timid little blonde receptionist takes one look at Kyle’s hard-set expression, and jumps to her feet. “Can I get either of you some coffee? Or some…something?”
“I’ll make some in my office, Heather,” I say, “but thank you, and don’t worry.” I indicate Kyle. “He’s my personal stalker, I mean bodyguard. He won’t stay up here and stare at you.” It’s weak humor, but the best I have in the “feel good/comfort” category after the Juan incident that seems to have left Kyle worried, rather than just agitated. Maybe that’s because he’s just not used to Juan’s behavior, but he’s honed years of instincts I’ve only been using for a year. Maybe there is something about Juan I’ve been missing that he’s picked up on.
Whatever the case, the two of us make a beeline for my office, where Kyle unlocks the door, flips on the light and does a quick scan before he allows me to enter. The instant I’m inside, I cross to my desk, feeling a punch in my chest at the sight of my mother’s photos. I settle my purse in my desk, unsurprised when Kyle shuts the door, sets his MacBook on the conference table, and removes his scanner from his jacket. Also unsurprising, by the time I’ve pulled my sketchpad out, flipped through my presentation for today, and looked back up, that he’s already found a recorder by the Keurig and destroyed it.
There’s a knock on the door, and he immediately returns the scanner to his jacket pocket and walks to the door, opening it, his big body blocking me from seeing my visitor. “The bodyguard is back,” a female voice I recognize as Barbara’s says. “And he even answers doors.”
“But I don’t make coffee for anyone but myself,” he says, stepping back to allow her to enter. “Don’t ask.” He delivers this with such a dry, flat tone that I’m not sure if he’s joking or serious.
And from the look on Barbara’s face when she enters the room, and her awkward reply of “I…of course not,” I am pretty sure she isn’t either, especially when Kyle actually walks to the Keurig and inserts a pod, proving he knows how to take his comment, and his cold, hard-to-read bodyguard routine to perfect extremes.
“Good morning,” I greet her, pulling her attention back to me, and noting how lovely she looks in a baby blue sheath, with her sleek gray hair piled on top of her head.
She seems to shake herself into action, walking to my desk. “What is his deal?” she whispers, as if he can’t hear her.
“Robot,” I say, as she perches on the edge of one of my visitor’s chairs. “It’s the only explanation I have for that man.”
She laughs good-naturedly. “I do believe you’re right. He’s a robot. That explains so much.”