“Not a one,” he said, even as he wondered.
Could he deliver on what he’d just promised?
It wasn’t his strength to explain anything, least of all himself.
How would he tell her about Farah? Where would he begin?
What if the truth turned Jacquie against him for good? Pierce knew from experience that not every woman was thrilled to be in the company of a man in his profession.
Was he making a big mistake?
Pierce obviously didn’t know where to start.
Jacquie waited, sitting opposite him in the little coffee shop, but he didn’t begin his story. He didn’t make small talk either, but seemed unnaturally intent on his croissant and then his coffee. She guessed that he didn’t really want either of them, but that he did want to talk to her enough to accept them as the price of conversation. She’d take that as encouragement.
He was wearing a black sweater and jeans, and had hung his black leather jacket over the back of his chair. He looked like he should be starring in an action movie, except for his glasses. Not for the first time, she had the impression that he was in disguise, or had a secret life.
She wished, a bit late, that she had peeked in his file at the club.
She realized she wanted to know a lot more than the story of Farah.
As Pierce remained silent and the moments stretched long, Jacquie realized that he wasn’t in the habit of confiding in anyone.
Maybe he’d never shared a story before.
Maybe he really was a lone wolf. That made her feel a bit sorry for him. She couldn’t imagine a life of solitude and her difficulties in adjusting to her kids’ absence just proved it.
She remembered that Cole had been like this as a child. Always a good kid, when he believed that he had strayed beyond the bounds of what he should do, he felt compelled to confess—but he’d always needed encouragement to get the words out. Jacquie had spent a lot of time sitting across from Cole, waiting for him to start, so she knew that drill.
She was glad that Pierce wanted to confide in her, even if he didn’t know how to start. It felt like they were meeting halfway.
He’d said he liked that she was direct. She could work with that.
Jacquie put down her mug and gave him a steady look. “Now or never,” she invited.
His brows rose as he flicked a very green look her way. “I can’t figure out where to start.”
“At the beginning, of course.”
He studied her, obviously at a loss.
“Start with the easy details,” she suggested. “Who is she?”
His reply came without hesitation. “The royal princess Farah Elizabeth Fleur LeMayne-Rashid of Greater Alghenia.”
Jacquie blinked in surprise, knowing that Pierce was watching her reaction. “The one who’s in those tabloids about royal families?” she asked.
He nodded, then frowned slightly. “Probably to the dismay of my former employer, the head of palace security in Greater Alghenia.”
Jacquie sipped her coffee. She hadn’t expected Pierce to have that particular secret past. He knew royals—or at least one. How did he know them? She could guess, given the identity of his former employer, but she wanted him to tell her. “Just what do you do for a living?”
His expression turned wary. “I’m retired.”
“From?”
“Security.” It wasn’t the first word that rose to his lips, but it was the one he said out loud.
“I thought you might be ex-military.”
“I am.”
“They say you were a Navy SEAL.”
He inclined his head. “Also, formerly in charge of personal security for a certain princess.”
Aha.
“Is that like being James Bond?”
His smile was fleeting, but just as attractive as she recalled. It lit his eyes, too. “Not exactly. 007 was a spy not a bodyguard.”
“Damn,” she teased. “So, no cool toys?”
“A few. Surveillance gadgets.”
“Weapons?”
He didn’t quite nod. “No sports cars from Q, though.” There was a twinkle in his eyes, but Jacquie thought of that gold convertible.
How had he even gotten such a job? Every question Pierce answered gave Jacquie six more. Security for royals. People didn’t just apply for that kind of work off the street. She studied him. “What did you do to protect her?”
“Planning, mostly. Research and strategy.”
Jacquie knew her confusion showed.
Pierce continued. “When someone is traveling, for example, there has to be a logistical plan to defend him or her every step of the way. How long will each phase take? What are the risks? Where are the obvious locations that there could be an intervention? Where are the weaknesses where we could be surprised? How many people need to be involved? How should they be equipped? How long will it take them to move from point to point? Will all of them travel with the individual, or will some be positioned in advance? What other agencies need to be informed and how do we coordinate with them?” He shrugged. “Etc. Etc.”
Jacquie smiled. He’d given her a lecture series compared to his usual replies, which meant he really did want to explain. “You actually make it sound similar to my job. All those part-time instructors, with areas of specialty and training, preferences, minimum and maximum hours, locations and equipment, links to social media and online instruction.” She finished her coffee. “Etc. Etc.”
Pierce chuckled. “Back room planners, both of us.”
“I guess so.” She studied him. “Were you good at it?”
“Said to be the best.”
“But not anymore, even so?”
“I’ve been consulting.”
Jacquie laughed. “That’s what I always said when I was between jobs.” Pierce’s gaze flicked and she knew she’d hit a nerve. She changed the subject. “Do you have a gun?”
Pierce’s expression became inscrutable. “Do you really want to know?”
Jacquie looked down at the table, knowing she’d gotten her answer and that she wasn’t really surprised. The similarities in their professions were superficial. He’d lived like a Mission Impossible operative and she’d worked hard to raise her kids alone, trudging through a daily life of errands and lists. He’d probably jetted all over the world, living in luxury himself as he guarded
