Joe took a deep breath when Glen got to the question he’d been waiting for.

  Could the old man have caught wind of his son’s apparent downfall and jumped on the bandwagon with information no one else could give?

  “Last I checked he’s up in Alaska, living in some remote place, fishing for a living. I guess his one stint in prison after the foiled bank robbery convinced him a life of stealing wasn’t for him. After he testified against me as a kid, he’d said he let me take the blame to save us, save our family. He’d known that if he went away, there’d be no more us, that I’d be sent away from him for good. I believed him at the time. I’d like to believe him still. And to hope that there’s no way he’d do this to me, but how would I know?”

  There. It was all out. Every sad, sorry detail of a life he’d escaped. He’d thought permanently.

  “What about your mother?”

  Joe heard Glen’s question. He could feel McKenna’s gaze but avoided it completely. Hated what she’d just heard. Didn’t want to think about what any of it meant.

  “My mother died when I was four,” he said. And left it at that.

  He’d been wrong. Not every sad, sorry detail had escaped. There were some he got to keep to himself forever.

  “And there was no other family?”

  McKenna’s impatient sigh, coming from across the table, hit him funny. In a way that didn’t hurt.

  “No other family,” he said, liking that his bodyguard was ready for the excruciating questions to be done, too.

  “I’ll get someone checking out your father as soon as we’re off here,” Glen said. “If he’s still living remotely in Alaska, once we locate him it should be an easy enough task to see if he’s behind the leak—most particularly if he’s in one of the areas without cell and internet service. And don’t worry, we’ll be discreet. If he is involved, we don’t want to alert him that we’re on to him.”

  “Which leaves us most likely dealing with someone in law enforcement.” McKenna sounded...capable. Ready. “And that tells me that Joe and I have to blend in more. Keeping our distance, but not seeming to hide at all. At least until something tells me differently, I think we’ll stay put right here. Spend some time at the river, a married couple on vacation, maybe renting a fishing boat, waving at other couples...”

  On one hand, Joe liked everything about her plan—so much that he was fine to never have it end. On the other...every word she spoke spelled disaster.

  The last thing he needed was more intimacy with his bodyguard.

  “If we’re on the road, and there’s someone out there with access putting BOLOs on radios—”

  “Hud’s team has already put out an anonymous post from a new account saying that you all were seen heading up toward Utah,” Glen interrupted.

  “Okay, good. We’ll unhook the car, make it look like we’re comfortable, settling in. Keep the rig off the grid, if we can. And, based on what you’re seeing...do we think it’s safe for me to keep the phone on? I need to be alerted the second anything changes on your end.”

  “It’s a risk,” Glen’s response came back. “But maybe the lesser of the two?”

  McKenna’s touch on his arm brought Joe’s gaze straight at her for the first time since she’d heard he was a thief. “It’s your life, Joe. Your call.”

  Such a small thing. Turning to him.

  And it was everything.

  Giving him back a semblance of the control that had been stripped from him. As though she knew...and was there, having his back, even on that.

  “Keep the phones on,” he told them, without any hesitation. “Have someone tracking them both 24-7—I don’t care how much it costs. We need you to be able to contact us immediately if you find anything.”

  And if someone found them...

  If a cop stopped them, they had to respond in the event that the cop was legitimate and had reason...

  McKenna was an expert at keeping her clients out of danger. She had a weapon and was trained to use it.

  He didn’t and wasn’t.

  And if someone got too close, it was him they wanted, and he was willing to die before he’d let anything happen to her.

  End of story.

  * * *

  She’d been thinking about protecting her client. Period. Staying put meant he was exposed to fewer people who could recognize him.

  On the road, he was on display, sitting up in the driver’s seat of the rig. Every single person passing by could get a look at him.

  When posts on the hashtag to find him had only numbered in the thousands, the chances of someone having seen the posts and recognizing him had been minimal, and the need for him to throw off anyone on his tail had been paramount.

  But once the hashtag had gone viral, there was no telling how many people had seen his photo or joined the hunt to get their own picture of him to post. Most of the lookers were harmless.

  And at least some of those who’d crossed over from the dark web were not. Game players, entertainment seekers could lead a killer straight to Joe.

  Either an angry, out-of-control, desperate person out to make him pay for the loss of their life savings, or the person who’d framed him for fraud, expecting him to go down for the crime, needing him dead before the truth was exposed.

  Without Joe, no one would be looking for the true culprit. Bellair and prosecutors were certain they had their man.

  For the job, she’d made the right choice.

  As soon as they were off the phone, she and Joe drove to the closest box store, him with a bandanna tied around his head, and the start of a mustache, to quickly pick up a pair of matching straw hats, several prepaid credit cards, cornstarch, food coloring and packets of powdered orange punch drink, paying at self-checkout. They were back in the car within seven minutes, and she’d noticed no one giving them a second glance.

  “You have a sudden penchant for orange drink?” he asked as they left the parking lot. She’d known the question was coming.

  Who bought food coloring while guarding a live body?

  Taking a deep breath, she told him, “You’re getting a few homemade henna tattoos.”

  “A what now?”

  “I’m not a great artist, so your choices are going to be limited, but I’m thinking one on each forearm and one where your neck meets your collarbone. We don’t want you looking like a gangbanger, but the tattoo will not only draw eyes away from your face, it will also definitely not match the photos of you going around.”

  She spoke quickly. Ready for his arguments. And ready to get her way—even if he threatened to fire her over it.

  When he said nothing at all, she glanced his way—their faces much closer in the closer confines of the car—expecting to confront his frown with convincing arguments.

  He was shaking his head. And had that funny little almost grin on his face again. Needing to keep her gaze outside the car, making sure there was no one tailing them or staying close enough long enough for camera shots, she quickly turned her attention back to the road. But felt the growing-familiar tug in her groin area.

  Seriously? Just from a not smile?

  “You have all kinds of tricks in that arsenal of yours, don’t you?”

  “I take my job seriously. And prefer to get the work done without physical battle whenever possible.”

  “So...this tattoo, exactly how does it happen?” he seemed to be musing—just a guy on vacation—though she knew a whole lot more had to be going on in that brain of his.

  He knew anyone could recognize him at any time.

  If he needed distraction to help get them back to the rig, she’d give it to him. He just needed to drive safely.

  “I’ll mix powdered drink mix with cornstarch, food coloring and water. And I’ve got a little eyeliner brush in my cosmetic bag that will work fine as a paintbrush.”

  Tattoo talk was much better then thinking about being alone in the rig with him, leaning over him, painting on his neck.

  “You planning to do this every morning? Because if you think I’m going to forgo a shower, with us in such close quarters, you’re going to want to think again.”

  Showering. Close quarters. All parts of the plan she’d deliberately not contemplated when she’d announced on the phone that morning . Instinct told her that her idea was the best way to keep Joe safe.

  “We let the paste sit for twenty minutes, maybe a little longer, and the dye stains your skin. We’ll treat it with lemon juice and sugar—both of which we already have on hand—to keep it moist, and that will help it last longer. If we’re lucky, you’ll still be wearing them when you head back to your real life.”

  The words started out in jest.

  As she heard them, her stomach tightened, and her spirits took a dive.

  He would be leaving. Probably very shortly.

  And she was emotionally attached to the event.

  But then, she’d been emotionally jumbled by the end result of her last job, as well. Sending a young man off to live without his family for the rest of his life. She’d hurt for him. For his mom and sister. And she’d moved on to her own life.

  Wanting to believe leaving Joe would be the same, McKenna really tried, but she knew if she bought into that theory, she’d be lying to herself.

  Chapter 15

  Just no way to hide the evidence. She’d had him sit in the chair behind her captain’s chair up in the cab, because it swiveled, giving her easy access, and because it had arms upon which he could place his own upper limbs so they were steady while she painted. And didn’t move while the paint dried.

  Only problem was, when the light touch of her brush on his forearms raised tingles across his body, and his lower member grew in response, sticking out with obvious formation beneath the shirt resting across it, he couldn’t move a hand to cover himself.

  The pain grew as she lowered her head to her work, making him want things he should not be wanting from her, things he hadn’t had in too many months.

  Things he hadn’t even wanted in more months than he could count.

  The fresh soapy scent of her, those red curls, all just right there, taking up his view, leaving him with nothing else to concentrate on.

  He’d chosen to have the word Freedom on one arm. Was thinking maybe he should have shortened it to Free. Or even F.

  She was going to do a vine with the word Truth crawling up his other arm.

  And the one on his neck would be an infinity sign.

  At the rate they were going, he was going to be embarrassing himself with leakage before she finished with the F.

  “Tell me about your mother.” McKenna’s statement, so out of the blue, shocked him a bit.

  “What?”

  “You said she died when you were four. I’m assuming you have memories of her. What was she like?”

  He could almost feel her breath on his skin as she spoke, but the words...they took him in a whole other direction. A road he would not normally have traveled.

  “She laughed a lot, I think,” he told her, not quite eager but willing to let his mind wander back as it distracted him from his most immediate discomfort. “I remember her laughing. In the kitchen. And in the car. She’d run with me out in the yard and laugh when she caught up to me. I think I let her catch up.”

  It had been so long since he’d called any of it up...things had faded.

  “She made the best chocolate chip cookies,” he said then. “I’m not sure I actually remember what they tasted like, but I remember her handing me a cookie one time when I was upset. I have no idea what about. And years later, my dad still talked about those cookies.”

  It was about the only time his old man had mentioned his mother.

  There were other memories, though. “She took me to a public swimming pool once. I wanted to go off the diving board. I don’t think she was into it, but I remember her standing at the edge of the pool, ready to jump in if I needed her to.”

  “Did you jump?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did she?”

  “Nope. I swam to the side just fine and went right back up on the board.”

  “You still swim?”

  “There’s a pool in my backyard.” It had been months since he’d done any morning laps. Months since he’d lived any semblance of a normal life.

  The light touch of bristle against his skin had normalized some.

  “How’d she die?”

  About to prevaricate, Joe wondered why. She already knew the worst. And it wasn’t like he was ever going to see McKenna again after he was exonerated and free from public scorn.

  The news wasn’t sealed. It could come up.

  Her company could find it in their search for other things.

  He’d rather she hear it from him.

  “An overdose of sleeping pills.”

  “Prescription?”

  “Over-the-counter. She swallowed two bottles of them.”

  “Wow. I’m so sorry.”

  He’d have shrugged if he could move his arms. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Where were you at the time?”

  “Home alone with her.”

  “You found her.”

  “Yep. They’d made her sick. She died on the bathroom floor. I thought she was just sleeping.”

  Because some things just didn’t fade, no matter how many years had passed.

  She was still painting. Slowly. Meticulously. He could feel the strokes.

  Couldn’t see for her bent head.

  And wasn’t watching, anyway.

  Even when his vision wasn’t inward, he’d been staring at the back portion of the rig. The conversation wasn’t pretty, but his body wasn’t hard anymore, either.

  “I was there when my mom died, too.” The words were so soft he’d thought maybe he imagined them. The brushstrokes hadn’t changed. There was no indication she’d just told him something so significant.

  No sense that she’d just given him an intimate part of herself.

  For a second, he didn’t know what to do with it.

  But he couldn’t leave something so significant just hanging there. It mattered that she’d shared with him. Far more than what he’d revealed that day. His ruminations had been a part of the job.

  “You were just three.” The response wasn’t his best. Didn’t please him overly much. Repeating something she’d already told him.

  He couldn’t imagine...a little three-year-old McKenna processing something like that.

  “Had she been sick?”

  “No.” The brushstrokes stopped for a moment. “She was killed. A robbery gone bad.”

  Joe felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. Turning toward her, needing to offer...his empathy at the very least...he saw her head still bent over his arm. Brushstrokes started again.

  She was calling the shots. Telling him she didn’t want any more from him.

  She’d just wanted him to know.

  They’d both been present at their mothers’ horrific deaths.

  A god-awful thing that they had in common.

  * * *

  She’d been doing tattoos for years, ever since learning them as a form of disguise in a class she’d taken after completing her criminal justice degree, and then bodyguard training from a nationally known tactical and security program. She’d even had a booth where she’d painted on children at Shelter Valley’s annual festivals. They were an art form she oddly enjoyed.

  Until Joe.

  Painting on his skin, being that close to him without touching him elsewhere, in other ways, had been one of the more difficult physical exercises she’d ever done.

  When she’d seen evidence of his similar struggle, shortly after she’d begun, knowing they had to get through at least three brandings, she’d grabbed at the one thing she could think of to save them from imminent disaster.

  Brought up the mother he’d so clearly not wanted to talk about that morning.

  The fact that she knew so much about him, and not that, had bothered her then. Hearing the truth had certainly solved the tattoo-as-a-precursor-to-sex problem.

  And had only drawn her closer to him in a far more dangerous way.

  Physical cravings they could take care of if necessary.

  Matters of the heart between them—never.

  Her artwork pleased her, though, turning out even better than she’d expected.

  Joe had seemed to find his new tats not too hateful as he looked them over and then complimented her on yet another talent.

  Their gazes had met—and she’d had to get them out of there. Instantly.

  He’d been as agreeable as always, maybe with a hint of desperation mirroring hers. With their new hats on their heads, shading their faces, his lightened hair in its new ponytail style, they’d set out to be a couple enjoying their early-October vacation in the vicinity of others along the river, walking the beach, in sight but far enough away to keep facial features unrecognizable.

  She’d taken his hand as soon as they’d headed out. “We’re a married couple enjoying alone time,” she reminded him, and herself, as she felt his fingers close around hers. “We need to appear engrossed enough in each other to not offend others by our lack of interaction, and to discourage others from engaging with us.”

  She could feel her pulse racing, even as she said the words. Wondered if he could feel it, too. Talked about the water as they got down toward the shore, grassy land interspersed with beach areas, all dotted with people. Mostly families. Set apart in individual groupings here and there.

  No one paid them any attention, just as they passed by others in the distance without looking at them. They were all just part of the landscape.

  Just as she’d hoped.

  But with the job going so well, she was left walking along the river in balmy eighty-degree sunshine with a gorgeous man at her side, holding her hand.