“When won’t you be with me?” She felt like a nag asking. Even though he was her bodyguard—for the time being—no one was responsible for another person 24/7.
“I had to go out today for food, right? Assuming we’ll be here awhile, stuff like that is bound to come up again.”
It was more than that. She sensed it. Would he turn her over to someone else? A different bodyguard from the agency? Maybe Justice?
Justice was nice enough, but he wasn’t Leese.
“Pay attention, Cat. When I’m not here, I want to know that you have every advantage.”
Then you should always be here. But she didn’t interrupt again to say it—his instruction fascinated her too much. He covered every eventuality. Any room she went into would give her both a place to hide and a means of defending herself with a weapon already stashed there.
Cat thought he might have been so meticulous about the details for her benefit, but then again, Leese was a detail-oriented neat freak, so it could just be part of his personality.
By the time he finished, she knew where to find a hidden cell phone to call for help, how to block the doors to any room to make them more impenetrable, where to find hidden butcher knives and a few other sharp objects, and how to use hair spray, an ink pen or even an electrical cord to defend herself.
“We’ll work on all that,” he told her, his gaze skimming her thigh bared by the slit in the dress. “Tomorrow.”
“Can’t wait.” It’d be fun to learn some moves, more so with Leese as a hands-on teacher.
He popped his neck. “We’ll run some drills too. What to do, how to do it and how fast to do it in case of an emergency.”
“If you want, but I’m not sure I’d remember.” When she got scared, she went deaf and blind with panic.
“That’s why we do drills. Do something often enough, and it becomes automatic.” Quickly he grabbed for her.
Ducking, her face turned away, she jumped back, realized what she’d done and glared at him.
Leese smiled.
Suspicious, and more than a little flustered, Cat demanded, “What are you doing?”
“Proving a point. If I’d reached for you like this...” He gently closed his hands over her shoulders and pulled her closer, soothing her temper in the bargain. “No problem, right? But anyone lunging at you causes a programmed response. You protect your face and move away. That’s muscle memory.”
“That was fear!”
He smoothed back her hair. “It’s smart to be afraid when someone acts out of character—like me grabbing at you. In doing drills, you’ll get conditioned to do certain things the most efficient way, and you’ll learn how to counter attacks, which the attacker won’t expect. It’ll give you an edge.”
“Wow.” Now that he’d drawn her near, she took advantage and nestled closer. “You’re a fount of information. This is going to be fun.”
He laughed, and released her before she could get too cozy.
To keep him there with her, she said, “Explain this ‘muscle memory’ stuff to me.”
Shrugging one big, hard shoulder, he complied. “It’s how fighters learn. For every punch, there’s a counterpunch or a way to block it. If you have to stop and think, you’re already hit. So it has to become second nature. Often it’s not enough to duck, as you did. You not only need to avoid getting hurt, you have to be able to disable your attacker so you can advance, or in your case, escape.”
Cat lifted her chin. “Maybe I’d want to advance too.”
He clutched his chest theatrically. “Now you’re just trying to give me a heart attack.” Going serious, he said, “You will run and, when necessary, you will hide. That’s the plan, okay?”
Seeing the intensity in his gaze, Cat gave him the reply he wanted. “Okay.” For now. And in the meantime, once Leese started instructing her, she’d learn as much as she could.
By the time they were sitting down to dinner, Leese had learned how everything in the penthouse worked, especially the security system. He discovered that all the drapes, not just those in the bedroom, were on a remote and out of an excess of caution he closed them, denying her the view. Then for more than two hours, he researched the surrounding businesses. If he could see the building from the penthouse, he wanted to know all he could about it: who ran it, who was employed there, how long they’d been in operation and the hours they were open. When she asked him about it, he said if he could see them, they could see him, and he didn’t like leaving things to chance.
Would Webb hire people to spy on her in the penthouse? The thought gave her the creeps, and she decided the view wasn’t that interesting, after all.
Anyone who could “see” her could also put her in the sights of a high-powered rifle. How easy would it be to shoot her through the window, then disappear without a trace?
She’d seen it in movies plenty of times, but she had no idea if that related to real life or not.
After Leese finished his surveillance, he finally unpacked in the master bedroom. He didn’t have much more with him than she had—a few changes of clothes, a shaving kit, more cell phones than she had imagined, keys to several cars and a laptop.
While he did his thing, she trailed behind him, bored but not in the mood to be alone. He didn’t seem to mind.
For the most part he didn’t appear to notice her presence.
As he finished up dinner prep, she sat in the kitchen and watched. He looked so good there at the stove, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his hands deft at everything from chopping onions to tearing lettuce, that she knew she had to draw him.
Rummaging around in the drawers, she found the small pad of paper and a pen.
Good enough.
Leese glanced at her as she sat again, got comfortable and began to sketch.
“Making another list?” he asked with near dread.
“Nope.”
“So what are you doing?”
“Math.”
He laughed and, with his hands held out, wet from the salad prep, he looked over her shoulder. “Not math.” He studied the vague outline. “What is that?”
“Go cook, and I’ll show you again when it starts to take form.”
Skeptical, he shook his head and retreated. “Dinner will be done and on the table in five, so don’t get too involved.”
When it came to her fascination with him, she was already so involved she almost didn’t recognize herself. It always helped her to draw. Even doodles. This time, though, she composed a picture of Leese from the back, standing at the counter, preparing dinner.
Ink wasn’t an ideal medium for this because she couldn’t really shade. With pencils or chalk, she’d have emphasized all those gorgeous muscles and innate strength. But she made do, using small lines and squiggles to add texture, leaving some spots lighter, layering others for depth, and by the time Leese turned to her, arms folded over his chest, plates on the table filled with fragrant chicken, broccoli and rice, she’d all but finished.
Her imagination had delivered what sight couldn’t.
“Let’s see it.”