THE MASTER'S GAME PLAN

CHAPTER 9 - THE BODYGUARD

The Bodyguard

PHOENIX AGENCY...

"Villareal, we need to talk!"

"BODYGUARD? A GUARD DOG? ARE YOU SERIOUS, CHIEF?" Gian wanted to shout, his fists clenched in front of the chief's desk.

He had stormed out earlier without a word to the guests.

He'd thought the chief was joking when he said he would guard Don Jaime's granddaughter. Then the old man showed up in person, and the joke stopped being funny.

"I didn't like what you did, Villareal."

"With respect, Chief, why me? I lead Alpha Team, and I'm about to ship out."

"This isn't just anyone, Villareal. She's the granddaughter of the man who gave you a second life."

Gian went quiet.

The chief's voice softened, and his temper followed. "It's temporary. The moment Don Jaime finds a replacement, you're out. One month."

"My body still aches. My wounds haven't closed." He rubbed the back of his neck. "What if I need patching up again? Didn't you say her last bodyguards died? I'm not ready to die, sir."

"I understand. But out of everyone here, Don Jaime chose you. You brought down the syndicate."

Gian leaned in and lowered his voice. "Chief, do you honestly believe Don Jaime has no part in it?"

The chief laughed. "Where did that come from? Rich and powerful doesn't mean dirty. Not one report has linked him to anything. He's generous. He's kind."

He still wasn't convinced.

"Sir, I'm S.E.S. I'm here for the mission. I need to get back."

"I know. I've spoken to the main base in Manila, and they agreed. I told them you need rest to recover. One month, Don Jaime promised. He's hiring an international bodyguard, but for now there's no one."

Gian exhaled slowly.

"The Lopezes aren't an ordinary family. Don Jaime sits at the top of the Zamboanga Business Club: the richest, the most influential, the most powerful. And you'll be protecting his only grandchild."

An honor, sure. Just not for a man who had never done this kind of work.

"They don't know I'm S.E.S?"

"No. Refuse, and they'll start wondering. I told them you're newly assigned here. No one can know why you're really here. My fault he saw you on television."

"One month, Chief." It came out like a surrender.

"You have my word."

One month, he told himself. Call it a breather before the real mission waiting in Manila.

---

LOPEZ MANSION...

If there was one thing Gian hated, it was owing someone.

A debt money could never settle. So he would settle it with service.

He sank into the plush sofa and let his eyes travel the room.

The Lopez fortune was dizzying, written into every inch of the mansion. Modern lines folded into the classical, the antique.

But the longer he looked, the more his mind circled the job ahead.

Guarding a woman. The lowest rung on the protector's ladder.

'Being a protector without a mission is useless.'

Then something pulled his attention from across the hall.

Their eyes locked before either could look away.

A maid in uniform, frail in appearance, fierce in presence.

"Mr. Villareal!"

He turned to the old man in the wheelchair, white suit, hat, an attendant standing behind him.

"I'm glad to see you!" the Don said, smiling.

Gian drew a deep breath. "Don Jaime."

The Don turned to the maid. "Julia, call my granddaughter."

"Yes, Don Jaime," she said, and left.

"Sit. Have you had breakfast?"

"Yes." He sat.

The Don's eyes moved slowly over him, head to boots. He knew he was being studied, so he kept his gaze on the room.

"I've read your record. Hand to hand combat. Firearms. Strategy. So you're not just strong, you think. That's what I need."

"Thank you, sir."

He barely knew the man, yet he sensed a goodness beneath all that power.

"Relax." The Don patted his shoulder. "One month, and I'll find your replacement. My granddaughter insists on a single bodyguard. I chose you because I know you can protect her."

He'd known he would be chosen. The debt made sure of it.

Footsteps on the stairs. A woman descended, her hair in a messy bun.

Authority rolled off her, the kind that could bend anyone to her will.

No makeup, just a sleeveless top and shorts, and still she looked polished.

He swallowed without meaning to.

"Gian," the old man whispered, "she looks like a lamb. Be careful. She's a tiger."

He straightened and studied her again from beneath his brows.

When she reached them, the Don spoke. "Gian, my only granddaughter, Ellah. Ellah, this is Gian Villareal, the best man I could find."

He rose. "Good evening, ma'am."

She looked him over, head to toe. "Is this the man from the television?"

His brow creased. 'Television?'

"Yes, hija," said the Don.

"Don't call me that. Address me as miss."

So they had only seen him on television. Same as he'd seen her.

"I remember you, miss..." he cut in.

All eyes turned to him.

"...A woman at the audition," he said, calm.

"What?"

"Ah, hija, Gian is the best of them all. One man, worth four."

He lifted his chin and stood straighter, as if to prove every word.

She looked him over again. Head to toe. Toe to head.

"Fine, Grandpa. He looks human enough." She sat on the couch.

His jaw tightened.

'What does she take me for? An animal? Who does she think she is, Miss Universe?'

The Don leaned toward him. "Forgive her. She's blunt."

Truth was, he wanted to throttle her. Sweet voice. Razor tongue.

The Don settled beside her. "Here's the arrangement. You're her bodyguard and driver. The uniform is a tux. There's a room in the guards' quarters if you want it."

He had never worn a tuxedo in his life. "Does it have to be a tux?"

"Yes."

"I don't want him looking like a goon," Ellah said, eyes fixed on him.

"Are the terms agreeable, hijo?"

He cleared his throat. "I won't be living here."

"Suit yourself."

"But Grandpa, what if there's an emergency and he's not here? Say, on my dates?"

Heat climbed his neck. 'A date is an emergency now?'

"Ma'am, I'm your driver and bodyguard, not your errand boy. My hours are your working hours."

"Excuse me? How dare-"

"Ellah, he's right. He's with you during working hours only."

Her stare sharpened. Fine. She wasn't the only one forced into this.

"I'll leave you two. Ellah, he's yours to deal with."

"Yes, Grandpa."

When the Don had gone, the heiress crossed her legs, smooth and flawless in plain view. She didn't care if he looked. He cared even less and met her eyes.

Her expression was formal, empty. Like his.

"Mr. Villareal, how old are you?"

"Thirty."

"Married?"

"No."

"Kids?"

"Definitely not."

"Girlfriend?"

"No."

"Ex?"

"Yes."

"Fling?"

He looked at her. "Is my relationship status part of the job?"

"It is. How do I know someone won't yank my hair out because she's your fling?"

He almost smiled. She sounded jealous.

"No. I have no fling."