Page 1 of Grant
Chapter One
“Notanotherbabysittingjob!”Grant threw himself into a chair and tossed his leather jacket onto another. Heaven knew why he’d brought it with him. The early summer heatwave made it unnecessary.
“Stop whining. You suggested we offer bodyguard services, remember?”
Grant sighed. “Cap … I know they’re valuable jobs, and worthwhile ones, too, but this is the sixth in a row. I’m so bored I’m losing the will to live.”
“Are you now?” Fritz’s expression didn’t change as he pushed a folder across the desk. “Here. Got an email enquiry yesterday morning. Prelims make my nose itch. He’s coming in at nine for a chat. Listen in. If you really don’t want this one, ask Luca to take it. You’re the only two with room in your schedules this week.”
That should please him, Grant knew. When they’d set up White Knight Security after leaving the army, Grant had worried work might be too thin on the ground to keep the four of them fed. Rescuing Amelie Croft two days before Christmas had brought their nascent business a grant from the LightSpiel Foundation, Amelie’s expertise in setting up the legal and financial side of White Knight Security, and recommendations to her and her husband’s friends and clients. On top of that, they’d had Fritz’s power of persuasion. Fritz—whose aunt had lived in the area for generations and had known absolutely everyone—had worked through Isabel Knight's huge list of contacts, offered help and asked for referrals. Half a dozen small jobs later, they’d been up and running, and their firm grew busier by the week. They offered private investigations, surveillance, and close protection. They’d even done a couple of jobs in tandem with the local police force. Grant loved it, but he preferred to be up and doing. Close protection, where he needed to stick to his target like glue even if they spent their day in an office, was his least favourite job.
“What is it this time?” He opened the folder, and his jaw dropped when he saw the photo on the first page. “Fuck me!”
The image showed a man leaning against a railing. The grin on his face—half sultry, half mischievous—tightened every muscle in Grant’s body. He was a sucker for dark eyes and golden hair. So what?
“Stunning, right? He’s a trauma surgeon at Stoke Mandeville. Excellent credentials.”
“And he needs us because?”
“He has a stalker.”
Grant’s gaze was glued to the photo. He sensed the focus and dedication behind the cheeky grin, and he didn’t want to imagine fear on those enticing features. “Why doesn’t he go to the police?”
“Precisely what I’m going to ask him,” Fritz replied. “Are you in, or shall I talk to Luca?”
“No. I’m in.” Grant’s voice came out scratchy and rough. When was the last time he’d reacted like this to a mere photo?Fucking never.He closed the folder and stood. Cold water. That was what he needed. Cold water, and then coffee and half a dozen Danish pastries. “I’ll get set up next door.”
“You do that.” Fritz didn’t look up. Grant imagined he was smirking. And wasn’t that annoying?
Spencer found the offices of White Knight Security in a tiny village halfway between London and Oxford. From an arched gate, the drive led to a square-set manor house built from brick and timber. It stood on the edge of a lake, which Spencer hadn’t spotted through the thick stand of ash and beech trees shielding the house from the road. He wondered whether it had started life as a moat.
A peaceful place to work, and an even better place to live. Spencer imagined himself sitting at the end of the short jetty, glass of wine in hand and feet dangling in the water, watching the sunset without a care in the world.
Dreams and make-believe, of course. Worries were omnipresent, even for people who owned a gorgeous house beside a lake.
He turned off his engine and checked his watch.
Fifteen minutes early. Damn! His mind was uneasy enough without spare time to second-guess his decision to consult a security company. He needed to move. Stretch his legs. Walk to the lake or up the drive to admire the house.
A knock on his side window made him jump. Damn, he was nervous! He got out of the car. “Sorry. You startled me.”
“Dr Corel?”
“Yes. No. Mister, please. I’m a surgeon. And I … I’m early.”
“Not a problem. I’m Fritz Bronnley.”
“Oh.” Spencer had made an appointment with the head of a private security firm, not a man who looked like an investment banker. Fritz Bronnley’s deep blue silk shirt brought out the touch of silver in his dark hair, and his relaxed demeanour suggested that the day’s biggest challenge was his golf handicap.
“Would you like to come inside?” Bronnley offered a reassuring smile. “We have coffee.”
“Oh yes, please. You’d be saving my life.”
“Really now?”
“Night shift,” Spencer explained. “An uneventful one—which I normally don’t complain about. Only…”
“It leaves you too much time to think.”
