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“The clinic offered me a part-time position,” she said. “I’m going to be their new community health educator.”
He looked impressed. “Congratulations.”
She thanked him with a nod. Although she’d done a lot of volunteer work during her final semester of college, this would be her first paid job. She was freshly graduated, ready to make a difference.
“They’re asking for you backstage,” he said, touching the microphone at his ear.
Her stomach exploded with butterflies. She had the terrifying premonition that she’d trip over her dress, hyperventilate at the podium, or faint from an attack of nerves. “I can’t do this,” she said in a rush.
“You’ll be great.”
“Do I look like a clown?”
He examined her face, smiling. “No.”
“You look good, Mama,” Cruz said, gazing up at her. “As pretty as the ladies on Telemundo.”
Owen laughed at this compliment. Perhaps he was familiar with the scantily clad female performers on the popular Spanish-language channel. When he saw her worried expression, he sobered, letting security know they were on the way.
An event organizer escorted the three of them through a maze of passageways until they reached the backstage area. Penny found her mark and stood there, taking deep breaths. She would enter on one side while her mother waited on the other. She didn’t dare peek around the curtain to gaze at the crowd.
Cruz was supposed to sit with Leslie and Raven in the family balcony. When her grandmother came to retrieve him, he hid behind Penny’s skirt and refused to let go.
“You can’t walk out on stage with me,” she told Cruz.
“I’ll stay behind the curtain with Abuelita.”
Penny’s grandmother agreed to this suggestion; she rarely said no to Cruz. He stomped toward her, purposefully noisy in his shiny new shoes. She held his hand and let him wander around backstage.
Penny was too nervous to argue. She hoped he wouldn’t cause a scene during the introduction. Cruz didn’t throw temper tantrums as often as he used to, but he had a lot of energy and got into his share of mischief.
“He’ll be fine,” Owen said.
She practiced her lines, heart racing.
“Can I get you anything?”
For some reason, his polite offer bothered her. She didn’t want a bodyguard or a servant. She wanted a friend. A man. “Do I really look okay?”
“You’ve never looked better.”
“The dress isn’t...too much?”
His eyes traveled down the bodice and back up. “Not quite enough, I’d say.”
The words held no judgment, only mild admiration. He was making a joke to put her at ease, not giving her his sincere opinion.
“I feel like a fraud,” she whispered. “Or a whore.”
This sparked an honest reaction in him: anger. “Why?”
“They’re using me for sex appeal. Selling my image, my...tasteful cleavage.”
He said nothing, unable to deny the truth.
“Do you think it works?”
“Yes.”
“Are votes so cheaply had?”
“Some are.”
“What about yours?”
His lips quirked into a smile. “I’d vote for you, if you were running.”
She assumed he supported the opposition, but she didn’t ask. He respected her father too much to admit it. Which was kind of ironic, considering the circumstances. It was no coincidence that her father had offered Owen a job as soon as he’d come to L.A. Jorge Sandoval expected his daughters to marry wealthy Latinos. He’d hired Owen to keep him under his thumb—and off-limits to Penny.
She was annoyed with her father for manipulating Owen, and with Owen for letting him. Most of all, she was frustrated with herself. She’d always felt stifled by her family’s strict religious beliefs. If not for Cruz, she’d have left home long ago. She’d traded stability for independence, suppressing her own desires.
“People say I don’t know who Cruz’s father is.”
“Fuck them,” he said succinctly.
Her worst critics were members of the Freedom Party, an ultra-conservative group her father had courted and abandoned after winning the primaries. Now that he needed to focus on gaining ground with undecided voters, he could no longer afford to be affiliated with extremists. In recent weeks, his social media accounts had been inundated with suggestive comments about Penny, ethnic slurs and anonymous threats.
Maybe she’d spoken her mind during the interview in an attempt to break free from her family chains. But the move had backfired. Here she was, at another campaign event against her will. She didn’t want to be put on display, or to help her father win. What she longed for was right in front of her. She wished she had the nerve to tell Owen how she felt. To shed her inhibitions and offer herself to him.
“What if they boo me?” she asked.
“They won’t.”
Penny pressed a palm to her stomach. If she choked, the media would have a field day. If she tripped and fell, the video clip would go viral.
“Try to picture the audience naked,” he said. “I’ve heard it helps.”
She started with him, her eyes trailing down his body. Years ago, she’d seen him bare-chested. He was lean and strong, built more like a runner than a weight lifter. She knew he’d had some of his tattoos removed. She remembered one on his shoulder, a three-leaf clover. It wasn’t quite as offensive as the rest.
“Kiss me,” she said, meeting his gaze. “For luck.”
He stared at her in disbelief. She crossed her fingers and waited, pulse racing. When he realized she was serious, he glanced around to see who was watching. Her grandmother and Cruz were nearby, their backs turned. Her mother studied her cue cards on the other end of the stage, more than a hundred feet away.
She didn’t know if he did it because she asked, or because he wanted to. But he stepped forward and lifted his hand to her face, indulging her request. His fingertips skimmed the side of her neck as he leaned in. She held her breath, longing for a tongue-tangling kiss. At the last second, he moved to the left, brushing his lips over her cheek.
Chaste. Respectful. Distant.
But when he retreated, she saw the heat in his eyes. The want.
After they broke apart, her grandmother approached with Cruz. “Leslie can’t find Raven. I have to go look for her.”
“Cruz can hang out with me,” Owen said.
Penny didn’t challenge the arrangement. Babysitting wasn’t part of Owen’s job, but neither was kissing, and she’d only be onstage for thirty seconds. While her grandmother went to search for Raven, Owen chatted with Cruz, avoiding Penny’s gaze. His expression showed no indication that they’d just shared an intimate moment.
Penny focused on the heavy curtains, her anxiety spiking. An innocent peck on the cheek was the most action she’d had in the past five years. She could still feel his mouth on her skin, his thumb against her throat.
When the production assistant gave her the go signal, she glanced at Owen and Cruz. They both smiled at her encouragingly.
Taking the plunge, she walked out on stage. The crowd stretched into infinity, red signs waving, a blur of excited faces. She continued toward her mark, terrified. Don’t trip. Don’t forget your lines. Smile.
She reached the podium without incident. Gripping its comforting wood edges, she stared at the blinking red light on the center camera, aware that her image was being broadcast on a huge screen behind her.
Smile.
Her heart threatened to burst out of her chest. There were no boos or rude remarks. Someone in the far corner whistled, causing a ripple of laughter in the audience. Then her tension eased, and she stopped worrying about flubbing her lines.
She didn’t value the opinion of the bigots in the Freedom Party, a vocal right-wing minority. Let them criticize her wardrobe, her figure or her conduct. The only thing that mattered was getting through the introduction and moving on with her life.
Channeling confidence, she leaned forward to start her introduction. Before she’d uttered a single word, an alarm sounded, splitting the air with high-pitched wails. She stepped away from the microphone, flinching at the loud noise.
The stadium erupted into chaos.
CHAPTER TWO
OWEN HAD NEVER WANTED to be Penny’s bodyguard.
It wasn’t that he didn’t care about her. He’d give his life for her or Cruz in a heartbeat. He had self-defense training, rescue experience and an EMT certificate. After three years in prison, he’d learned how to read tensions in a crowd and anticipate violence. Even his entry-level position at Sierra National Park had been more dangerous than he’d anticipated.
But private security wasn’t his field of interest, and he was a poor candidate for Penny, in particular. He’d had a crush on her for years. It was extremely difficult for him to focus on the surroundings instead of her. He found himself following her every move, studying her body language and facial expressions...imagining them together.
In protective services, getting emotionally involved with a client was a bad idea. Engaging in sexual fantasies about her was downright stupid.
She often tried to draw him into conversations with her, which didn’t help. He was already distracted by her beauty. He liked her voice, her animated gestures, her smile. Her personality was irresistible.
And that kiss. Jesus.
He could get fired for touching her. There were cameras all over the place. If Sandoval heard Owen was sniffing around his daughter, he’d cut him loose without the recommendation Owen desperately needed.
Owen had developed a few coping strategies for keeping his cool around Penny. He avoided eye contact. He memorized her clothing details at a glance. When he had to look at her, he concentrated on her attire, not the body underneath. He treated her like an assignment, blanking his mind of their previous interactions.
It didn’t always work, obviously. He was slipping.
After Penny walked across the stage, Cruz tugged at Owen’s hand, pointing to a dark corner he wanted to explore. Owen might be biased, because he’d helped bring Cruz into this world, but the kid struck him as ridiculously cute. He had Penny’s honey-colored complexion and big brown eyes.
Owen pressed a finger to his lips and shook his head. He couldn’t let the boy wander off. There was a fleet of security personnel at this event, so he didn’t have to monitor the audience, but he had to stay alert.
A second later, an alarm sounded, indicating an emergency that required immediate evacuation.
Penny.
He tightened his grip on Cruz’s hand and strode toward the podium to retrieve her. She was already on her way backstage. As soon as she saw Cruz, she bent down and picked him up, her face tense.
The voice in Owen’s ear told him what to do: find the closest exit. He was familiar with the layout of the building. A production assistant waved a group of people forward. Owen placed his hand on Penny’s shoulder as they skirted around stage and lighting equipment. He looked for Penny’s mother but didn’t see her.
The alarm continued to go off in loud, intermittent blares. He couldn’t hear any more instructions from his boss. Pressing the button on the microphone at his collar, he checked in. “Moving toward the exit,” he said, reciting their code names and basic location.
They spilled out the door into a pavilion on the side of the main building. Audience members were emerging from multiple exits. Most of them headed west, to the area behind the convention center. It offered access to the harbor, parking lot and adjoining hotels. The production assistant went the same direction with the rest of the employees.
Owen didn’t follow. Penny would get recognized in the crowd, and his team was prepared for this kind of situation. They had a driver waiting in the loading area in front of the building, ready to whisk them to safety.
“To your left,” he said, squeezing her upper arm. It was early evening, just before dark, with good visibility. There were some random people milling around, along with a couple of photographers in casual clothes.
Owen hated the paparazzi even more than he hated those Freedom Party rejects who criticized Penny for having a baby out of wedlock. At the last political event she’d attended, some jerk had thrown a water balloon at her, soaking her blouse to near transparency. Of course the cameras had flashed before Owen could remove his jacket to cover her. The photos had been posted everywhere online.
He’d heard that one of the sleazy gossip magazines had offered to pay top dollar for a “crotch shot.”
Over his dead body.
Owen understood the public fascination with Penny. Her father was running for president. She’d grown up in the lap of luxury, made relatable mistakes and survived one of the worst natural disasters in U.S. history. She expressed herself sincerely. It didn’t hurt that she had a movie-star face and a figure like a Victoria’s Secret model. With her long legs, dark hair and radiant smile, she was stunning. The media loved her.
He spoke into his microphone once again to communicate their whereabouts, directing Penny toward the Cadillac at the curb. Secret Service had their own vehicles, so this one was used exclusively by Penny and her sisters. As they approached the car, Owen sensed a presence closing in on them. It was probably one of the photographers, hoping to get an angle up Penny’s skirt as she climbed into the backseat. He opened the back door, urging Penny and Cruz inside. Their driver, Keshawn Jones, was at the wheel.
Before Owen could glance over his shoulder to assess the threat, he noticed a rush of movement by the driver’s side. A masked man jabbed his fist through the open window, striking Jones in the neck.
The next few seconds passed in a blur. Owen reached for his mic just as he was tackled from behind. His fingers never found the talk button. A sharp pain hit his midsection, radiating through his torso like a bolt of lightning. Not a gunshot wound or a knife laceration. Electroshock. He was incapacitated before he even collapsed.
The man with the taser shoved him into the vehicle and climbed inside. Owen quaked like an epileptic. He couldn’t fight back or even resist. His body shook uncontrollably, and his thoughts scattered.
He was vaguely aware of Cruz’s muffled screams as Penny tried to quiet him. Everything else was pain. Pain in his torso, where the device had struck him. Pain in his muscles, which had seized up. His face contorted into a grimace, and his chest tightened. The pain went on and on, never ending.
Darkness edged in. Soon he’d be unconscious. Dead.
Owen didn’t realize the man with the weapon was still stunning him until he stopped, taking the device away from his side. The door slammed shut, and the vehicle accelerated. Owen slumped over, his cheek mashed against the leather seats. The worst of the pain receded, but the twitching continued.
“You didn’t have to tase him that long,” someone said from the front seat. “You almost killed him.”
Even in his fractured state, Owen recognized the voice.
It was Shane. His older brother, who’d just been released from prison. Shane must have pushed the driver aside and taken over.
“He’s still alive,” his attacker said. Then kicked Owen in the ribs for good measure.
Owen hardly felt the added insult, though he struggled to fill his lungs with oxygen. Cruz wailed in dismay, asking about Owen and sobbing his name repeatedly.
“Mommy, Mommy, what’s wrong with Owen?”
“Shut that kid up.”
