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  BODYGUARD

  By

  Suzanne Brockmann

  It was a losing battle.

  "I thought you were dead," she told him, her voice muffled, her face buried in his shirt. "When those bullets hit you, I thought… I thought…"

  "Yeah, I know," Harry said, stroking her hair. His heart was in his throat. Was it possible she really cared that much? "I know you pretty well by now, Al. You thought, 'Oh, the dumb son of a bitch is dead. Now who are they going to send to annoy me?'"

  She lifted her face to look up at him, laughing tremulously through her tears—and that was it. He was toast. Completely. Utterly. Charred to a crisp. It was the red nose that did him in. He couldn't stop himself from leaning forward and covering her mouth with his own.

  He'd meant to take no more than a gentle taste of her deliciously soft lips. But as soon as his mouth touched hers, he knew that wasn't going to be enough. Not for him. And not for Alessandra…

  By Suzanne Brockmann

  Published by Fawcett Books:

  HEARTTHROB

  BODYGUARD

  BODYGUARD

  Suzanne Brockmann

  FAWCETT GOLD MEDAL • NEW YORK

  A Fawcett Gold Medal Book

  Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group

  Copyright © 1999 by Suzanne Brockmann

  Fawcett is a registered trademark and the Fawcett colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  www.randomhouse.com/BB/

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 99-90702

  ISBN 0-449-00256-X

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition: December 1999

  For Ed, Eric, Bill, and Scott, the survivors of the "Small or Large" incident,

  and brave Kathy who stayed in orbit with V'ger Snacktray. Thanks for Katonah.

  Chapter One

  "Okay," George Faulkner said, quieting the group of men around the VCR in the coffee room, "any second now he'll see what's going on through the window and come in."

  The video they were watching wasn't a typical blurry security tape. It was from a state-of-the-art surveillance setup, complete with audio track—designed to stop the sale of drugs among the broccoli and cantaloupes—paid for by the owner of a chain of New York City markets.

  Just hours ago, the camera hadn't caught an illegal drug transaction on video but rather a robbery attempt that easily could have escalated into a multiple homicide.

  Three perps, strung out beyond belief, had just shot the young store clerk. A very young teenage girl cowered by the front counter, weeping silently. One of the robbers—a short Hispanic kid with a bandanna around his head—had gone back behind the counter and was trying to open the cash register.

  The second perp, the man who'd shot the clerk, was so high he couldn't stand still. He danced around nervously near the door, a .38 clutched in his hand. The third was a tall, painfully gaunt man who stood threateningly close to the girl, watching intently as Bandanna wrestled with the cash register.

  "Here he comes," George murmured.

  The door opened.

  All three men looked up.

  Harry O'Dell, George's partner in the Bureau for the past eight months, walked into the market as if their guns didn't exist. In fact, he was moving a lot like the dancer, as if he, too, had just shot something toxic into his veins. It wasn't until he was all the way up to the checkout counter that the overhead light glinted off the gun he held in his own hand.

  The bandanna-wearer and the skinny man saw it at the exact same second, but it was already too late. Harry had aimed it directly between Bandanna's eyes at close to point-blank range. "Empty the cash register!" he shouted. "Nobody moves fast, nobody gets hurt!"

  "Holy God." The precinct's lieutenant was standing next to George, watching the tape. "He's pretending to rob the store. Is he completely insane?"

  George nodded. "Watch. It gets better."

  The dancer's indignation was off the scale. "You can't fucking hit this place, man, we're hitting this place."

  Harry turned and looked around the room, as if taking in the other guns and the cowering teenager for the very first time. "What do you mean, I can't hit this place? You got some kind of agreement with the owner says you're the only ones can rip him off?"

  He leaned over the counter to look down at the clerk who was out cold on the floor, bleeding. Harry's sharp gaze quickly assessed how badly the kid was hurt. George knew Harry saw the blood staining the clerk's pants, and that he could tell the worst of his injuries were from hitting his head when he fell.

  "Damn, you shot this guy in the ass. What, were you afraid he was going to sit on you?" Harry laughed uproariously at his own joke.

  "He is insane," murmured one of the detectives watching the tape.

  On the tape, the dancer wasn't happy. "Go away, man. I'm warning you!"

  Harry snorted. "You go away. I've been planning this job for days. Weeks."

  "Yo, we was here first!" Bandanna joined the shouting match.

  "Screw you. I'm here now! What gives you the right to come in here ten minutes too early and screw up my job, anyway? Go the fuck home and leave this to a professional."

  Bandanna laughed in disbelief. "A professional? Look at you, man! Who the hell does a holdup in a freaking suit? Not just a suit—a shitty suit that you've been sleeping in for three weeks."

  "Oh," Harry said quietly. "Perfect. Now you're slamming me for getting caught in the rain." He began to shout again. "When I planned this job, I didn't plan for it to rain, all right? Can you give me a fucking break here—"

  Skinny found his voice. "Yo, asshole, this is our territory."

  Harry turned and looked more closely at him. "Hey, Fat Jimmy, is that you?" he asked, his tone changing abruptly again, softer now, as if his sudden anger were instantly forgotten.

  The skinny man looked behind him. "Fat who?"

  Harry shouted with laughter. "You wily old son of a bitch, it is you! We were in Walpole, up near Boston, in '87 and '88, remember? How the hell are you, Fatman?"

  The look on Skinny's face was incredulous as Harry grabbed him in a bear hug. He struggled to get away. "I'm not Jimmy, and I'm not fat."

  "Christ, you lost a lot of weight since prison, didn't you? That fattening food up there really made it tough to keep those pounds off, huh, Jim? Hey—how the hell is Bennie Tessitada? You and the Benster were like blood brothers."

  "Is this guy completely fearless, or what?" the lieutenant asked.

  "Or what," George answered even though he knew the question was mostly rhetorical. "This is how he spends his first night off in seventeen weeks. Don't misunderstand me, he doesn't look for trouble. But somehow trouble always manages to find Harry."

  On the tape, the dancer looked as if he wanted to use his gun. "Get the hell outta here, man! You're messing things up."

  "I'm messing things up?" Harry laughed. "I'm messing things up? You're the geniuses shot the clerk in the ass before Einstein here realized he doesn't know how to get the register drawer open. And you're doing this in front of an audience, to boot." He focused on the girl. "What the hell are you looking at? Get out of here. Go home!"

  She was as terrified of Harry as she was of the three perps, but she tossed her blonde hair defiantly even as tears streamed down her face. "I'm not leaving Bobby."

  "What the fuck you doing, man?" The dancer was even more upset. "You can't let her go. She's our hostage!"

  "Wait a minute," Harry said, lifting the girl's chin and looking at her from both sides. "Oh, man. Of all your stupid choices tonight, guys, holding her hostage's got to win the stupid award. Don't you know who this girl is?" He didn't wait for them to answer. "She's Tina Marie D'Angelo. She's Antonio D'Angelo's daughte
r. He runs most of Newark, and while Jersey might seem like very far away to you, D'Angelo has very, very long arms. If you don't want him to reach out and touch you with a couple of bullets in the back of the head, you might want to help me show Tina here to the door."

  Skinny and the bandanna were properly taken aback, but the girl was not cooperating. "I'm not—"

  Harry yanked her toward him and she shrieked with alarm. "I've got a message for your father, Tina." He pulled her away from the perps, scowling. "It's private—do you mind?"

  He leaned close to the girl, whispering into her ear. And just like that, visibly, she calmed.

  "He's telling her he's FBI, and he needs her out of there before he can help the clerk," George said. "He's promising her that he'll die himself before he lets anything else happen to Bobby."

  And the girl believed him. Or at least she did after she looked up into Harry's eyes. His back was to the perps, and as he gave the girl a reassuring smile, all the craziness left his face. "I promise," he whispered.

  She decided to trust him and she nodded.

  "Go," he said, and she bolted for the door.

  Harry moved with her, blocking her in case one of the perps got startled. He already knew they were trigger-happy sons of bitches.

  "Good job clearing the room," the police lieutenant said.

  "You shouldn'ta let her go, man." Dancer was pissed. "Now, something goes wrong, we don't have a hostage."

  "No way do we want Tony D'Angelo's kid for a hostage," the bandanna said earnestly.

  "That was bullshit." The dancer spat on the floor. "She don't look Italian." He had to use two hands to level his gun at Harry. "You're fucking this up, man. I oughta fucking shoot you!"

  For the first time since he'd come in, Harry stood absolutely still, looking directly down the barrel of that gun, looking straight into the man's eyes.

  "You wanna shoot me?" he asked. His voice was so quiet the police lieutenant had to lean forward, straining to hear. "Go ahead and shoot me. I don't care. But you can bet your life, you shoot me—even in the head—I'll shoot you before I hit the floor."

  No one moved, not in the market, not in the coffee room. No one so much as breathed. Except George, who shook his head and laughed. "He does this all the time. He really doesn't care—which can be a little disconcerting. I've got to admit, when we're in a car together, I no longer let him drive."

  On the tape, the dancer lowered his gun.

  Harry burst into sudden laughter, moving back behind the counter. Skinny and the dancer exchanged uneasy looks. George knew they were thinking that whoever this guy was, he was definitely crazed. They were probably right.

  "Outta my way, kid," Harry pushed the bandanna-wearer aside, effectively putting himself between the clerk and the perps. "I can get this thing open." He reached down underneath the counter with his free hand. "What you've gotta do is find the secret release button, and it's right… here."

  Around them, a piercing alarm went off.

  "You dumb shit!" the skinny man shouted. "That's the alarm. Now the police are definitely gonna come."

  Harry smiled and raised his gun. "No, friend, the police are already here. Hands up, no one move—you stupid motherfuckers are under arrest."

  That was when the shooting started.

  But Harry being Harry, it was over almost before it began.

  Every light was on in the house.

  Alessandra Lamont pulled into her driveway and just sat, looking at the Tudor-style monster she'd called her home for the past seven years.

  When she'd gone out to visit Jane at the Northshore Children's Hospital not quite three hours ago, she'd only left the hall light burning.

  Now every light was on. And every window was broken.

  Less than three hours ago, the last of the cleaning teams had left. Less than three hours ago, the house had been pristine and perfect, ready for Sunday morning's real estate open house showing.

  She leaned forward slightly to get a better look out the windshield. Yes, indeed, every window—including the round stained-glass antique over the front door—had been shattered.

  It had been a very bad year, and it obviously wasn't over yet.

  In January, Griffin Lamont had rung out the old and ushered in the new. And at twenty-seven years of age, Alessandra had joined the washed-out ranks of the legendary first wives' club. At twenty-seven years of age, she'd been traded in for a newer, shinier model. At twenty-seven, after being the center of attention at every party she'd ever attended, after being the Heisman of all trophy wives, she'd been all but put down to die.

  In February, she'd sat down at a table with Griffin and their lawyers and worked out a divorce agreement. He'd sat across from her, his blond hair perfect, his blue eyes expressionless behind his glasses, his handsome face showing no regret, no remorse, no sign that the past seven years had even existed. He'd given her everything she'd asked for, though. The house. All three cars. A substantial percentage of his liquid assets. Apparently, the only thing he wanted was the azalea bush that had belonged to his mother—the one just outside the kitchen door.

  Alessandra had thought she'd won a major victory, particularly when she'd set the paperwork in motion to adopt Jane. Eight months old, severely handicapped, and born with a heart defect, Jane was labeled unadoptable by Social Services and the nurses at the hospital where Alessandra did fund-raising volunteer work. She'd taken to stopping in the nursery several times a week, helping to give bottles and warm arms to the unwanted babies.

  Most babies didn't stay unwanted for long, but Jane's physical problems were daunting. Still, her smile was pure sunshine, and Alessandra had applied to adopt as a single parent. Months earlier, she had gathered her courage and approached Griffin about the possibility of adopting the baby, but he'd flatly refused: "No way. Was she crazy?"

  Maybe.

  And in February, she thought she'd won.

  Until March.

  In March, she'd discovered that the house was triple mortgaged to the hilt, the cars were leased, and Griffin had filed for bankruptcy. He was broke. There were no liquid assets. And as a result, she was broke.

  In March, Alessandra had received word that she had been turned down by the state. She wouldn't be allowed to adopt Jane. With her finances in disarray, with the sheer amount of her debt, she no longer had the ways or means to care for the baby, particularly since she would be a single mother.

  Griffin's leaving had hurt, but this broke her heart. No one else wanted the baby who had been named Jane Doe. What would become of her?

  Just tonight, Alessandra had found out that Jane would be placed in an institution as soon as she was strong enough to leave the hospital.

  January had been awful, February was bad, but March really took the cake.

  In March, Alessandra had found out that Griffin was wanted by the police in connection to a drug deal that had gone wrong. And later in March, the police had come to her door again, this time bringing her the news that her soon-to-be ex-husband had finally been found, his body washed up in the East River, near LaGuardia Airport. His hands had been tied, and the autopsy report revealed he'd been shot twice in the back of the head. He'd been the victim of a classic gangland slaying.

  It was terrible. She'd been angry with him, sure, but she hadn't wished him dead.

  When the police questioned Alessandra, she'd told them she didn't know who or what Griffin had been involved with.

  She didn't know, but she sure had her suspicions.

  Michael Trotta. Alleged mob boss. Griffin had met him nearly ten years ago, playing golf at some local charity tournament. She herself had been to barbecues and cocktail parties at his Mineola home.

  As she gazed expressionlessly at the broken windows in her house, her car phone rang. She picked it up, years of training and elocution lessons enabling her to sound cool and detached despite this latest disaster. "Hello?"

  The voice was harsh, wasting no time on pleasantries. "Where's the money?"


  "I'm sorry," Alessandra said. "What did you—"

  "Find it," the voice rasped. "Fast. Or you're next."

  The call was disconnected.

  Apparently, March wasn't over yet.

  Harry had put his head down on the table in the interview room and had fallen asleep. He was out cold, a cup of coffee still clutched in his hand. He slept exactly the way George expected him to sleep—with his teeth gritted and his eyes tightly, fiercely shut. There was absolutely none of that boyish-angel, relaxed serenity stuff happening when Harry slept, that was for certain.

  George gazed at the precinct lieutenant over Harry's head and shrugged. "It's been a tough couple of months. We were working nonstop with a task force over in Jersey City, looking to indict Thomas Huang."

  The beefy lieutenant sat tiredly at the table, across from Harry, as he shook his head. "You take out one mob boss, two weeks later his replacement's got the show up and running again."

  "Not this time. We got the whole top half of Huang's organization. Harry made sure of it. He's a stickler for things like that."

  The lieutenant looked at Harry. "He doesn't look like a stickler. Or a fed."

  George adjusted his tie and brushed nonexistent lint from the sleeves of his own impeccable jacket. "He hasn't been my partner for long. We're still working on the suit thing."

  "You want me to get a couple of the boys from the squad room to help you carry him out to your car?"

  "No, thanks. He'll walk."

  "Are you sure? One of the detectives wanted this room, shook him, but couldn't wake him."

  George smiled. "I can get him on his feet." He leaned closer to Harry and whispered, "Michael Trotta."

  Harry lifted his head. "What? Where?"

  George spread his hands, gesturing See? "The task force worked so well, we're keeping it intact but moving it out onto the Island. Our next target's out near Mineola. A gentleman named Michael Trotta. He's allegedly hip deep in illegal drug sales, prostitution, and graft. To name but a few potential charges—leaving out little things like murder one."