His to Defend (The Guard Book 2) Page 2

  He glanced back at his lover, who sent him a glare, probably believing herself duped into thinking she held importance to him, like so many others. Quietly, he pulled the door closed. Lillian tugged on his arm again.

  “Do not rush me, woman. See what you did back there?”

  “Oui. Do you see the position you put me into? You make me look like an incompetent fool every time you fail to show up when asked. If you lose Brun as your backer, how do you suppose you will race? Do you think another sponsor will be willing to throw another million euros at you after you’ve been so ungrateful about this sponsor?” She walked quickly, and his longer legs could outstrip her, though he remained a step behind, which made her feel like an irritated mother dragging her errant son behind her.

  “If I could take you by the ear, I would, Pierre.”

  That earned a laugh from the man. She swallowed a groan and towed him into the elevator with her. If she’d learned anything from working with the top racecar driver, it was that men really were children who needed led around. Some women preferred to lead them by the peckers, though Lillian took the upper hand by way of her foul American mouth mixed with her French father’s determination.

  Once the elevator doors closed, she rounded on him. “You stink of cheap perfume, and you have lipstick on your jaw.” With disgust, she whipped a tissue from her purse and thrust it into his hand. He dabbed at the wrong spot, and she grabbed his wrist to guide him to the right one.

  “You better kiss up to Brun. You better pour on the charm, Pierre.”

  He sliced a nonchalant grin her way. “I always smooth things over, do I not? Take the scowl from your face. It doesn’t become such a beautiful woman.”

  “You can’t charm me, Pierre. I see right through you. You’re a good racer but a lazy public figure. You do the bare minimum to slide by, and you think your pleasure comes first in life. The top don’t stay at the top very long if they don’t commit to the business practices it will take to succeed. Here, give me that.” She ripped the tissue from his hand and cleaned the last of the foul red lipstick off his jaw.

  “Have I told you how adorable you are when you’re angry?”

  She hitched her brows up so far that they probably disappeared under the fringe of hair on her forehead. “Moreau, I swear you are the most infuriating man. You better walk out of that meeting with Brun with enough money to give me a pay raise.”

  He chuckled and gave her a small bow of his head as the elevator doors opened. She followed him to the restaurant and put on her nicest smile for Monsieur Brun as he rose to greet them. Pierre swept in and took over with his apologies.

  Assured their discussion could continue without her, she slipped away and returned to her hotel room and work. For long moments she stared at her laptop and the list of people to return calls to. She needed to focus. She enjoyed the work. And while Pierre drove her crazy sometimes, she did enjoy handling his publicity.

  When her phone rang, she breezed across the room to the desk set up as her personal office. She took the call from a smaller sponsor who wanted Pierre to sport their brand logo on the side of his car. The request came as a bit last minute, but they wanted a prominent position on the car, highly visible when he went into the turns, and one that would cost the sponsor a pretty penny.

  By the time she ended the call, she felt a little warmer toward her client and this business. Not to pat her own back, but she did a good job for Pierre. One way or another, she’d be getting that raise in pay. Then she could pack the money away for a life of leisure in the French countryside.

  Chapter Two

  “Brother.” Oz Morgon reached out and pulled Lars into his embrace. He thumped a fist on his back, and Lars returned the gesture.

  “It feels good to walk through those doors without being accused of anything.” Lars drew back and smiled at his boss. The founder of the organization known as The Guard believed in Lars through the worst of the treason charges he faced months ago.

  Oz’s stare drilled into him. “She found you then.”

  Lars nodded. “Was it your idea to send such a beauty to give me information?”

  A grin hooked the corner of Oz’s mouth. “Believe it or not, Madeline set all that up.”

  “Maybe she’s trying to apologize for agreeing with the others in accusing me of being a Russian spy.”

  They started walking through the big cathedral that housed their operation. The dim light of a foggy day barely cut through the already dark space. Shadows clung to the walls and might create a scary atmosphere to anybody who didn’t know their organization, The Guard, also known as the Church, stood for light and freedom. Its members worked for the good of the people and saved many. Now the time had come for Lars to protect a famous racecar driver.

  As they moved through the large space, Lars focused on questions concerning the task ahead. The Guard would back him up in all ways, providing everything he required to do his job and do it to perfection. They never failed.

  Oz stepped up onto the altar and crossed before the scene of Heaven on the back wall. Lars spent many an hour studying that artwork and wondering if a room existed in paradise for men like him who committed acts of violence and even took lives in order to save others.

  He glanced at Oz’s arm, and though he could not see the backward roman numeral seven tattooed on his arm, he knew his friend bore it in ink just as they all did on their souls. The angel number of seven turned backward, because these guardian angels did wrong in order to save their wards.

  Oz stepped through the door of the private chamber that a priest would use and now provided a conference space for members of the Church.

  Oz moved to the side table and picked up a bottle of vodka. “Drink?” he asked Lars.

  “Yes, Father.”

  A rough laugh emitted from Oz as he poured two glasses of spirits. “I thought our friendship was beyond you teasing me with that term. Now what do you know of your mission?”

  “That I’m guarding a driver who will race in 24 Heures du Mans.”

  Oz raised his glass in salute. “As always, your French is impeccable. Do you practice?”

  He lifted a shoulder and let it fall in a dismissive shrug. “We all know languages here. My ability is no more than others.”

  “But your skill at handling a vehicle is.”

  Lars sipped his vodka, the burn welcome as they discussed more details about his upcoming mission. “So I am to impersonate the man.”

  Tipping his head, Oz studied him. “That’s up to you. You determine your moves on the missions. Why question yourself now?”

  “I guess I don’t want to break any more rules.” He tossed the shot down his throat and breathed through the burn. “There’s a hit out on this guy.”

  “Yes. Word came through the usual channels, along with a case of human trafficking.”

  “Trafficking is becoming our number one game, isn’t it?”

  Oz nodded and swallowed the last of his vodka too. “Unfortunately, yeah. North and Frisco are handling it.”

  “And I get to guard some racer with a swollen ego who pissed off the wrong person?”

  “Wrong people, it seems. Moreau’s at the top of his game, but these guys want to unseat him.”

  “That’s the only motive? Move someone else into top rank?” Lars stared at his friend.

  “There’s also a small matter of an insurance policy taken out on him. And rumor of a bet with high stakes.”

  “So it’s gambling. If Moreau’s knocked out, these people collect on a bet, receive a fat check from a life insurance company and get to move whoever they want into the running for the title.”

  Oz gave a single nod. “You’re as astute as always.”

  Lars sat back in his chair and thought of the beautiful redhead again. Maybe he should have taken her to bed, after all. A window of time remained open for personal pursuits before taking the private jet to France.

  “Do they plan to kill him on the track?”

&n
bsp; “Precisely.”

  “Which means one of the contestants is the hitman.”

  “Yes. And we knew only you were capable of handling yourself at speeds over two hundred miles per hour.”

  Lars converted that number to kilometers. It sounded a hell of a lot better in American terms.

  “Yeah, I can handle the speed. But who guards Moreau while I’m driving his car?”

  “Missionaries will be on site to help in any way you need.”

  He nodded. The Church—set up like a real parish—kept missionaries all over the world doing good works, same as him. “I guess all I need to do is brush up on my driving skills.”

  “We figured as much. There’s a car waiting for you at the local track.”

  He shot Oz a grin. “You up for a small competition between friends?”

  He cocked a brow. “What do you have in mind?”

  Lars grunted. “As if you could outdrive me, old man.”

  “Who are you callin’ old man?” Roman sauntered through the door and stopped at seeing them at the table. “Should have known you’re talking about Oz.”

  “I might have some white in my hair, but I’m just hitting my prime.” He scraped his hands through his dark hair. “I will decline the wager, Lars. Rose would kill me herself if she heard I was racing at speeds like that. Besides, I can’t give my sons any ideas.”

  Recently, Oz had reunited with his lover from years before and learned he’d fathered twin sons. Over the past few months, they’d been adjusting to life as a family, and Lars saw changes in Oz, such as the happy crinkles that never seemed to leave the corners of his eyes.

  “Too bad. I was looking forward to some healthy competition.” He looked to Roman. The man didn’t like him much, and Lars couldn’t say the sentiment didn’t run both ways. “You willing to take the challenge, Roman?”

  For a moment, he held Lars’s gaze. “You’re on.”

  Oz stood. “Don’t kill each other. You’re both far too valuable to lose. Lars, I trust you’ll remain in touch on your mission.”

  “Of course.” He shifted to his feet and gripped Oz’s hand in farewell. Then he turned to Roman. “Well, friend, you ready to burn some rubber?”

  * * * * *

  Lillian scanned the group of drivers, but she didn’t see Pierre among them. “Damn that man,” she bit off under her breath and strode toward a spot where he should be getting suited up in his fire retardant gear for the race.

  Another driver exited the racers-only locker room, and she stopped him. “Is Moreau in there?”

  He dipped his stare over her very slowly and then back up. “No.”

  “Are you sure?” She balled her fist as the man’s gaze crept over her. Instead of punching him, she reached for the door handle.

  “Mademoiselle, that dressing room is for men only. I can’t account for what will happen to a pretty lady who goes inside.”

  “I’ll take my chances.” She whipped open the door and stepped in. One quick rotation of the space earned her some strange looks and a proposition to come back after the race when they had more time for fun and games. But Moreau wasn’t there.

  She strode back outside and glared toward the place where the pit crew combed over Pierre’s car. Her jaw dropped. The man already stood there.

  Pierre never made it out this quickly. He preferred his big entrances after the crowds waited far too long for him to make his appearance, and then he’d receive the most applause.

  He positioned his back to her. Did his suit always fit him that well? The cut across his shoulders and down to his hard back fit to perfection.

  “Mademoiselle Delphine, a word about our driver, if you would.” Brun’s thick French drew her around.

  “Of course,” she answered, throwing another glance at Moreau, who had one of the techs laughing. How unusual. Moreau rarely spoke to the pit crew, and she always thought he treated them like the lowliest servants. No one should ever treat a human being that way, especially one working to keep him safe.

  She stepped to the side, out of the crowd, with Brun. At first, he didn’t speak, just gazed out over the track. Colorful banners decorated every inch of space, and one of the largest marketing campaigns belonged to Brun and his group.

  “Everything is in order?” she asked him.

  “Oh yes. I’m surprised our driver made such an early appearance today.”

  I was thinking the same.

  “Pierre is very dedicated to his career.” She cut a sideways glance back to Moreau, who had more of his crew clustered around him. She looked at him more closely. The dashing profile of the driver every woman in the country wanted drew her attention most. Something appeared different about him today—maybe he’d foregone the pre-race parties and tucked himself into bed early.

  “I see he’s on task today. You’ve managed your client well for this race, Mademoiselle Delphine.”

  “Thank you. Will we be seeing you at the after-party?”

  “For a brief time, yes. I’m afraid the long races like this exhaust me. I’m no young man anymore, and I can’t stay awake the full twenty-four hours to see who travels the greatest distance in that time.”

  “Imagine how difficult it is for the drivers, even taking shifts.”

  “Yes.” He smiled at her. “Thank you for all you’ve done to work with me, mademoiselle.”

  In the two years they’d been associated and working with Moreau, she’d never received thanks from Brun.

  “It’s my pleasure. We greatly appreciate your sponsorship and look toward a bright future together.”

  He stared at Moreau again. “Yes. A bright future. Excuse me, mademoiselle. I must speak to our driver.”

  When he took off toward Moreau, she watched him for a long minute. What an odd conversation, one that set her on edge, even though she had no good reason to be. She started toward them but stopped and instead gave them time to speak before the race. Relations between the men proved crucial to Moreau’s career.

  “You represent Pierre Moreau.” The statement brought her attention around to a short man wearing an ill-fitting suit jacket, though his eyes appeared bright with interest.

  “Yes, that’s right,” she answered. “Lillian Delphine.”

  “Lovely name.” He took her hand and shook it in a strong clasp that pleased her. So many times in this line of work, she faced men who looked at women as the weaker sex and refused to give her the same treatment as other men who did the same job.

  She smiled. “And you are?”

  “Robert Bisset.”

  “Since you’re in this area of the track, you must have an association with one of the drivers.”

  “Oh yes.” He pointed to one of Pierre’s biggest threats.

  “Best of luck to your driver, Monsieur Bisset.”

  “And to yours, Mademoiselle Delphine.” He dipped his head in farewell before moving off to speak with someone else.

  The energy of the race caught hold of her, and as usual when she felt so alive, she practiced a moment of gratitude to be here in this position, doing something she loved. From a very young age, her parents taught her this art of stopping and acknowledging that she was lucky to smell the roses. The act filled her with a peace and happiness that brought a smile to her lips.

  She glanced up and saw Pierre staring her direction. She stood too far away to make out his eyes, but the determination he wore on his face heartened her that he would win yet another race and make them all proud.

  She raised a hand to him, and he lifted his in return. After a long moment, he finally turned away.

  The call for the drivers to get ready blasted over the loudspeakers, and Lillian sank to her seat low in the stands to wait for the race to begin.

  * * * * *

  Pierre Moreau came into the race with two wins under his belt and one of the best teams in the world. His media demands alone took up way too much fucking time too, and Lars could think of a hell of a lot of better things to do with his time than
speak to sports broadcasters and journalists covering the race.

  When it came to the car, though, he could talk about it all day. The Toyota hybrid boasted enough speed and handling to win the race—and with luck on his side, dodge disaster. From what The Guard could tell, the hit would come on the racetrack. They planned for Moreau to wreck and someone would ensure he couldn’t walk away from the disaster.

  Lars didn’t know when it was coming, or on what portion of the track, but he needed to be prepared for all eventualities. Which meant he couldn’t relax for even one second.

  He ran his hand over the car. The big rear wings and the aerodynamics of the front end made him jittery with eagerness to climb behind the wheel.

  To impersonate Moreau, he utilized his mastery of disguise, all his acting skills and every bit of what he knew of Moreau. Having done a crash-course on the man’s speech inflections, gestures and expressions, he had Moreau nailed. So far, nobody seemed the wiser.

  His press agent remained the only person who gave him concern. Since they worked together closely, she might pick up on any small changes in his personality. He already planned to keep his distance from her, and luckily, she didn’t poke her nose in his business.

  When he climbed behind the wheel, he experienced a thrill. One thing he could say about his job—he lived life to the fullest.

  The first laps, he took at a leisurely hundred-twenty miles per hour. Along the track, people set up with tents and campers. One guy fixed a jacuzzi on top of his truck, and he lifted his beer in salute as Moreau passed. Or Lars impersonating Moreau did, rather.

  On a straighter stretch, he opened up the power of the engine and released a hoot of joy when the car surged forward.

  A glance to the side showed him a car coming up on his right. He tensed, prepared for impact. After a quick calculation in his head, realized that he was ahead enough of the car that a blow wouldn’t result in death. This guy simply wanted to play the game.

  Lars stepped on it. He rocketed forward enough to pass the car, but soon it raced next to him, neck and neck. Are you the motherfucker trying to kill Moreau? You’re fucking with the wrong guy.