Guardian Angel

Chapter 1-1

Chapter 1His left shoulder ached in the cold, but of course he’d been warned by his doctor that such a thing was likely to happen. A gunshot wound never fully healed. Damn, Jimmy thought, stretching out his arm and trying to rid himself of the stiffness, “it’s going to be a long winter.” He’d taken a bullet last fall during the Stage Fright case. Not all of his cases were that dangerous. Of course, the future always held the potential for worse.

Considering the wound and the dropping temperatures, it didn’t help that this was the first Saturday after Thanksgiving, and snow was already falling. Messy wet flakes coated the sidewalks of Manhattan, slippery if you weren’t being careful, and the lady clinging to his arm was doing just that, being careful, even though they hadn’t yet stepped out of the back of the car. She just had an overly familiar nature about her, like a snake trying to make nice with its prey before consuming it. He gazed away from the sight of the snow, his eyes reverting to her, the long dress, the shapely legs revealed by an edgy, high-cut slit, her black pumps, an outfit as inappropriate for the weather as it was necessary for the occasion.

“Jimmy, you are a dear for helping me out,” spoke Serena Carson in her upper-crust voice.

“I do what I’m asked,” Jimmy replied. “Especially when the client is paying.”

“Client. I don’t like that word. It’s so…impersonal.” With that, she tightened her hold on him. He could smell her perfume, a powerful floral scent that wafted through the back of the car. He could also feel the pull at his shoulder. Pain shot through him. He didn’t show it. One thing you didn’t show a client was weakness.

How strange it was to be in the rarefied company of a legendary New Yorker like Serena Carson, the real estate heiress who became famous at age eight when she walked away from a private plane crash that claimed the lives of her wealthy parents. She was front-page news then, now, too, if not the headline grabber she used to be. The Post’s Page Six still loved to report on her exploits. She was an ageless fifty-one, Jimmy was a weary thirty, and the way she leered at him just now—not to mention the heave of her bosom—set off warning bells inside his mind. Not that she wasn’t attractive and not that he wasn’t unaware of her cougar-like reputation—she’d never married, preferring to snatch up boyfriends who only got younger as the years passed—it’s that Jimmy never mixed business with pleasure, not to mention the simple truth that women had never interested him, not in that way, not even obvious ones like Serena, not that he was involved with anyone else at the moment. That issue was complicated.

Jimmy closed his eyes and tried to shut out all the confusing notes in his mind. Even for him, those were a lot of notes to absorb. Life, as usual, seemed to be missing vital pages from its instruction manual. On this night, at least, his world was filled with beautiful images and imagery, the silver-tinged snow set aglow by the golden streaks from the city’s streetlamps. No colored lights had surfaced yet. Lincoln Center’s annual tree lighting was not until next week, same for Rockefeller Center, so the city seemed in holiday limbo, digesting turkey and football scores while awaiting the arrival of Santa Claus.

Tonight, though, it was Serena Carson, among many others of the city’s privileged elite, whose presence was expected. Jimmy was just her guardian, an imposter in a tuxedo.

Jimmy had ordered a sleek Lincoln Town Car to take them to Lincoln Center, where they were attending a benefit performance of The Nutcracker. Given the number of boyfriends she had been through over the years, Serena had laughed over the irony of the show’s title when she invited him. So the holiday season was beginning in grand style, with VIP guests and Hollywood royalty scheduled to attend the performance and subsequent big-money charity reception for the Help Is Here Foundation. Serena sat on the board, influence built from deep pockets. Gazing through tinted windows, Jimmy could discern eager paparazzi, flashes of light going off as some other celebrity attendee arrived on the red carpet.

This was the third job he’d done for Serena, having escorted her to a fashion show just last week and two weeks ago to a dinner party where he’d waited outside with the other bodyguards. He was her protector, not her date, then and tonight. Seemed Serena had gained herself a stalker, a man she’d dated for a few months who didn’t seem to get the message that things had gone kaput between them. Not even the order of protection issued by a judge who happened to be a friend had an effect on the guy. If the well-connected Henderson Carlyle discovered what events Serena was attending, he would simply score an invite as well; he was from the same world; they shared similar friends. They had met as board members of Help Is Here—though she claimed Henderson had been voted out a few months back. Far worse, he’d been ordered to stay two hundred feet away from her, but that didn’t stop him from sitting in the back row on the opposite side of the runway or from possibly sitting in the mezzanine section of a theatre while she sat in the orchestra. As Serena had told Jimmy during their initial meeting last month, “I can feel his eyes on me.”

Jimmy’s eyes gave her body the once-over, as though he were seeing her the way Henderson did. He saw she noticed his lack of subtlety.

“I wasn’t leering,” he said.

“You I don’t mind, Jimmy, not that it would make any difference,” she said with a laugh.

“Wasn’t that my selling point, no danger of entanglements?”

“Such a fun word. You’re both a catch and a waste, Jimmy McSwain.”

Jimmy’s sexuality was one of the reasons he’d been hired. Given her notorious nature for falling for men of all ages, often men who were all wrong for her, she’d vowed her guardian would be someone totally unavailable. She didn’t want to be one of those people who ended up in affairs with their security guard, mostly because those hookups tended to play out on the front page of the tabloids. Serena insisted she was trying to downplay her reputation. Jimmy knew reputations often preceded the actual person, perception before reality. Still, when he’d received the call from his friend, Isolde Calloway, that the notorious Serena Carson was originally thinking of hiring a woman to protect her, another solution presented itself. Isolde knew how to keep things simpler for Serena.

Serena patted Jimmy’s leg, met his eyes with hers, like sparkling emeralds. “A gay private detective. Who would have thought?”

“They don’t go hand in hand, but they’re not mutually exclusive either,” Jimmy said.

“I’m sure I don’t know what that means,” she responded with a throaty laugh that had lured countless men into her clutches.

Serena wasn’t a nasty woman, nor a vindictive one, but she was intimidating nonetheless. She’d grown up alone in the spotlight, and she continued to do so, nearly twenty-five years since she’d arrived back in New York to take the city—and its men—by storm. She was the classic Poor Little Rich Girl, now a woman with an unhealthy thirst for men and attention. A hellion when she was younger, she never shied away from admitting to her age. Being brazen meant she could do as she pleased. It was expected.

Through lips painted a ruby red, she said, “I wonder how many inches we’ll get?”

Jimmy paused until he realized she’d been looking at the falling snow. He was saved from answering as the car pulled up along the long stretch of stairs before Lincoln Center’s wide plaza. He got out, edged around to the other side, and helped escort Serena to the sidewalk. Flashbulbs went off, several people with cell phone cameras held behind metal barricades screamed out her name. She didn’t wave, merely offered up a knowing smile instead. She slid her arm into the crook of Jimmy’s, trying to sidestep the mushy snow with her expensive pumps as they made their way to the David H. Koch Theatre, where the classic ballet had been performed every holiday season for decades. Jimmy noticed she was scanning the crowd, a furtive glance hooding her green eyes.

“You okay?”

“Just wondering. This is the type of event Henderson loves: hoi polloi, money.”

“Isn’t that why I’m here with you?”

“Sitting right next to me. You do like the ballet, don’t you, men in so-tight tights?”

“There are things to admire about it,” Jimmy said.

“At least we have that in common,” Serena said, again releasing her noted laugh. “Oh, look there, it’s Meryl and her daughters…excuse me won’t you…”

Jimmy felt her slip away from his hold, her sudden action wrenching his shoulder. A shock of pain felt like a dagger inside him. Taking a deep breath, he swallowed the pain and trailed after Serena, who was finishing up her talk with the acclaimed actress. Jimmy sidled up to her, tossed her a look that said don’t do that again. She slipped her arm back into his, tightening her hold on him. It was time to walk down the red carpet, tonight thankfully covered by a white tarp. The fans outside were as cut off as the snow. Jimmy was suddenly bathed in bright lights, more so when the photographers started clicking away. He wore a tux, because she’d asked him to, and she was in a couture gown of gold, which she revealed when she slipped off her fur.

“Who’s your date, Serena? Another young one…” called out a reporter with a microphone.

“He is a darling, isn’t he? Jealous?” she shot back.

Jimmy hoped that was the last of it; the spotlight wasn’t his world. He lived in the shadows, accustomed to the dark streets and noisy bars of Hell’s Kitchen, blocks from here but miles away in quality of life, but there were a few more photographers along the red carpet to endure and a few pestering questions from reporters about Jimmy. The former she happily absorbed; the latter she cagily avoided. Soon the two of them were whisked inside the warmth of the theatre’s lovely lobby. A glistening chandelier hung over them, its lights reflecting off Serena’s gown, emphasizing her natural beauty. Still, Jimmy felt a tense shift in her body language, a clutch of his arm as her feet stopped in their tracks. Jimmy easily saw the reason why. Across the room at the champagne bar was none other than the man she most wished to avoid.

Henderson Carlyle was indeed in attendance, also dressed in a tuxedo, and damn if it didn’t look like an extension of his skin. Jimmy filled his out nicely, but he was more muscled than this toned man. His first up-close look of him, he could see what about him had attracted Serena. At forty-one, he was tall, slim, and tanned, with a shock of premature salt-and-pepper hair. He came from money and knew how to make people notice him. He also had about as nasty a reputation as you could get, and according to his research, Henderson had once been arrested in his twenties for beating a woman back in his hometown of Santa Fe. Not much had changed for him. Serena was just a recent victim. How many were there between the first and latest? Seeing his smarmy look now, Jimmy wondered what motivated him and what protected him. The former, no doubt a powerful insecurity; the latter, money. Money bought clean police records.

With a sideways glance at Serena and by default Jimmy, Henderson made the word smug ashamed of its definition. A simple raise of his glass seemed like a taunt, yet he remained in place, careful not to violate the terms of the restraining order. He might be an asshole, but he was a smart one, which also made him a dangerous man.

“How about we get our seats?” Jimmy suggested.

“Actually, I could do with a glass of bubbly myself,” she said.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. No reason to aggravate the situation.”

“He won’t try anything, not here, not with such a hunk on my arm.” She paused then, with a vulnerable tone to her voice which surprised him, said, “Don’t let go of me, Jimmy.”