Page 22 of Not the Bodyguard's Widow
Kimberly stopped mopping and pushed a lock of unsecured hair out of her face. She blew out a breath. “Sorry I snapped at you. I’m just so angry. I broke Candace’s freshman glass.” She burst into tears. “I’m so, so sorry.” The mop clattered to the tile floor as Kimberly covered her face with her hands and spun to leave the room.
Alex reached out to keep her from running into the open pantry door, then pulled her to his chest and let her sob. Abbie had given him some practice in whiplash-inducing mood swings the last couple of months. He rubbed her back and let her cry out her emotions. Every six months, they routinely made videos of all the contents of any protected property. With any luck, there would be a photo and the glass could be replaced.
“I broke her... first one our sophomore year... I never told her... I replaced it with mine. But she” —hiccup—“knew. Hers had a scratch across the school logo and mine didn’t. I wanted to keep mine perfect, so I used hers.” A fresh stream of tears poured out to be stanched by his damp T-shirt.
“It will be okay.” Alex rubbed her back. He’d never comforted one of his clients before. In the rare emergency when it was warranted, his sister and partner had been there for any female emotional support. No wonder his father had cautioned them against being alone with their single clients. Not that his oldest brother had listened. Kimberly was the perfect height, tucked in under his chin. The faster they could assign a female bodyguard, the better. He shouldn’t even be alone in the house with this widow, let alone holding her.
Kimberly stepped back. “Now I’ve ruined your shirt.”
“Nah, it will dry. Are you still hungry?”
Kimberly opened the fridge. “Did I put rice pudding on my list?”
No. No pudding.“If you did, I forgot to get it.”
“I probably forgot I liked it. Hmmm.” She tapped her chin and examined the contents of the fridge, then dove in and grabbed one of the Greek yogurts he’d purchased for himself. “Vanilla. Perfect.”
Alex opened the drawer behind him and handed her a spoon.
Kimberly tore off the foil lid. “Thanks for cleaning up after me. I’m sorry I woke you.” She tossed the lid in the garbage and exited down the back hallway. “Good night, Mr. Alexander” echoed through the house.
Alex turned off the lights and returned to bed. “Good night,” he whispered back into the darkness.
* * *
Light beamed through the cracks in the blinds, painting stripes across the covers. Kimberly checked the phone. 9:15 a.m. The last time she’d slept late may have been in this very house on a Sunday during college. She stretched, and her pregnant body demanded she get up immediately. Not fair. No one had pointed out eating for two meant she needed to go to the bathroom for two. Technically, that wasn’t exactly true, but it still had to do with the amniotic fluid. Kimberly rushed to the bathroom, hoping Mr. Alexander was in his end of the house.
A spot of blood.
That didn’t mean anything, did it? Kimberly pulled up the search engine on her phone. Great. Only hundreds of different answers ranging from “Don’t worry,” to “Talk to your doctor,” to “Rush to the hospital.” The last was out. She didn’t have enough cash for the hospital, not to mention her not wanting to be identified. According to her research, she needed $5000 for a midwife, leaving about $1000 a month for everything else. If she could get to the rest of her money, there wouldn’t be an issue. She should have self-insured last fall. But the medical benefits through Thompson were so much better. Could she add insurance now? She’d wrestled with these questions weeks ago but hadn’t talked with her agent or lawyer as they’d need deniability if her father-in-law figured out what she did all day when she “played” in her studio or realized why she and Jeremy had never filed joint tax returns.
Kimberly splashed water on her face. She pulled out an eyeliner pencil and wrote on the mirror.
1. $$—Can I get to any of it?
—Only author account.
—Withdraw $2k a day
—bank will know I am in Indiana.
2. Midwife—Mrs. Capps. Can I trust her?
3. Hospital—Can I go in with no ID?
Should-haves, could-haves, and would-haves filled her mind. None of them helped now. Theoretically, she could use her credit card at the hospital. Like her passport, it was in her maiden name, the one tied to her pen name. She had her business credit card too, but it would give her accountant fits. Midwife first. It would be easier to keep one midwife quiet than an entire hospital, and anything could play on the televisions while she was there.
4. Mr. Alexander.
That problem was a definite wild card. He’d been more understanding and kind than he needed to be yesterday. He was employed by Candace, so his loyalties were nearly the same as hers. But maternity issues were way above and beyond what she would expect him to help with.
Maybe she could ignore the spotting. If it happened again... Kimberly leaned against the counter and hung her head. A new number to deal with. Four miscarriages. To her doctor and husband it was only a number. To her mother it was something else to forget. To her publisher it was three missed deadlines. No one realized it was four pieces of her heart. Waiting wasn’t an option. She couldn’t part with the fourth or there would be nothing left.
Her stomach rumbled, reminding her it was well past her breakfast time. And time to face Mr. Alexander.
* * *
Noises in the back hall tempted Alex to check on Kimberly. He’d expected her up two hours ago. Not that there was any rush. Alan’s call this morning brought good news. And after yesterday, they needed some. Alan had grumbled about Elle being approved as part of Kimberly’s protection detail, but the rest of the team couldn’t be assembled for another two to three days. Jethro Hastings had determined that a small team of three could handle things.
