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A Bodyguard for Christmas
Donna Young
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
DONNA YOUNG, an incurable romantic, lives in beautiful Northern California with her husband and two children.
To Ray & Geri, Steve & Debbye, Mike & Sheila, Terry & Janice, Trish & Ed, Matt & Robbie. For your humor, love and immense support, I love you guys!
Timothy Severs was wired.
Cocaine-wired.
The shock sent his heart into overdrive, pumping blood until it sizzled and snapped in his veins. A high-pitched hum set his teeth grinding, his muscles twitching.
A split second later, euphoria hit. And with it, the rush of confidence, the heightened senses, the understanding he could live forever.
Ironic really, considering his plans for the day.
Using his finger, he rubbed the excess white powder over his gums, then clicked his tongue against the numbness.
He could have done the line in his apartment before coming to work that morning. But the prospect of snorting coke under Big Brother’s eye added a sharp, seductive edge to his buzz.
Unhurried, he flipped the latch open and stepped out of the bathroom stall. A quick glance told him he was alone.
With a laugh, he leaned over the sink and adjusted his tie in front of the beveled mirror. He was not an attractive man, with glazed, bulging eyes of watery blue and a receding hairline. Small, red splotches appeared on his pale, slightly pitted skin, betraying his drug habit, which he tried to hide beneath a thin layer of makeup.
He washed his hands, ignoring the slight tremor in his fingers when he grabbed a nearby paper towel. Well, his reputation was about to change.
The only child of David Severs, a prominent Supreme Court Justice, Timothy had been expected to continue the tradition of law in his family. But a drug bust and the accidental overdose of an underage girl—the daughter of a senator—in his dorm room, created a scandal that even his family’s connections couldn’t cover up.
But with his father’s help, Timothy eventually secured an assignment as junior aide to an obscure British attaché. He should be grateful, his father lectured. After all, Timothy had thrown away a promising future. And for what? His father demanded. Sex? Drugs?
Nothing wrong with either, Timothy mused. After a final check in the mirror, more for vanity than necessity, he opened the restroom door and stepped into the hallway.
“Mr. Severs?”
Timothy jumped, slightly startled by the hand on his shoulder. He turned, noting the marine’s uniform more than the man wearing it. With short cropped hair and flat, heavy-boned features, the soldier stood a good six inches over Timothy’s five-nine frame.
“Yes?” Timothy demanded, taking a deliberate moment to scan the battle-scarred lines and leathery skin before dismissing the man to look at the name badge on the soldier’s chest. “Cooper.”
The soldier’s eyebrow rose. “I was instructed to tell you that your new chair has arrived,” Cooper said quietly, but a sickle-shaped scar on his cheek flexed with the tightening of his jaw.
The chair. Excitement caught in Timothy’s chest, but he managed to keep his features schooled. “Good,” he replied, his tone arrogant. With a dismissive wave, he continued down the hallway to his office.
The other staff called him the Fish behind his back. He heard their smirks, saw the women’s features before they could hide their repulsion.
Even the British Ambassador, Sir Christopher Beck, couldn’t always conceal his distaste.
Only one person ever understood him, appreciated his talents. And sadly, that one person would never witness his moment of triumph.
When Timothy reached his office, he closed the door and carefully turned the lock. The room wasn’t the smallest in the British Embassy, but it certainly was the ugliest. No family pictures hung on the wall or sat on his desk. No plants—artificial or living—cluttered the corners.
He required nothing more than a small metal desk with a computer to do his job. And now behind it, the high-back, leather swivel chair.
For a moment he ran his fingers over the seat, enjoying the cool smoothness, recognizing the top quality of the grain. He let out a small laugh and flung himself into the chair, sending it spinning.
Finally, dizziness forced him to stop. He folded his arms on the desk and leaned forward until the room tilted back into place.
Smugness swelled inside him, riding high on the back of the cocaine. He jerked his desk drawer open and grabbed a pair of scissors. He stood and with shallow slashes, he hacked at the leather until it shredded beneath the blades.
“Come to daddy,” he gasped, out of breath from the exertion. Murky drops of sweat and makeup rolled down his face. He wiped away the trickle from his cheek, ignoring the tan smear against his suit sleeve.
Underneath the shredded leather lay a slim, flat clay brick of C-4 wrapped in wax paper. With shaky hands, he picked it up, enjoying the weight of its power. He opened his briefcase and placed the plastic explosive inside. From a nearby drawer, he pulled out the electronic detonator.
Delta had ordered him to use a timer, but the power behind being the human