Her 24-Hour Protector - Loreth White Anne

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his mother by her hair and he cut his mother’s throat. Blood went everywhere. Lex dropped Mr. Teddy and scooted right to the back, pulling his mother’s dresses over him. He squeezed his eyes very tight, trying to shut out what he’d seen.

      He heard the man’s footsteps coming back to the closet. The door rattled, and Lex peed his pants. Then he heard police sirens—his mother’s 911 call must have gone though. The man swore, staggered wildly out of the room. Lex heard tires screeching.

      It fell silent in the room for a while before Lex heard the sirens growing really loud and stopping outside. There was noise again, lots of noise, all muddled up and not making sense—footsteps, yelling for paramedics. The girl from upstairs was sobbing, saying she’d heard fighting, a gunshot, someone running, a car fleeing. Then a male voice, deep like a drum, said an ambulance was no use. His mother was dead.

      Lex’s whole body went cold, like ice. He couldn’t think anymore. A big shadow came toward the closet door. And a little squeak of terror escaped Lex’s chest as the door was rattled again. Someone said something about a key on the body. The door was unlocked, pulled open and the dresses covering him were yanked aside.

      He blinked up into the sudden white glare of lights, saw the policeman’s badge.

      And that’s how the cops found him. Stuffed into the back of the closet behind his mother’s clothes. Mute with shock.

      It took a full year before Lex could speak again. But his mother never came back.

      And the police never found the man who’d cut his mother’s throat.

      Lex, however, would never, ever forget his voice. And he swore that one day he’d find that man. He would make him pay for what he’d done to his beautiful mother.

      FBI Special Agent Lex Duncan was due on stage right after the Vegas investment banker who was strutting down the runway with a long-stemmed rose clenched between his straight white teeth.

      “Now this, ladies—” crooned the Bachelor Auction for Orphans emcee, a popular Las Vegas television host with dulcet tones of honey over gravel and butter-gold hair to match “—is an investment banker with mutual interest in mind. What redblooded woman wouldn’t want this macho money man to manage her assets for the night? Who knows, ladies—” the emcee lowered her voice conspiratorially. “There might just be some long-term profit for the right bidder…”

      Shrieks and hoots erupted from the invitation-only crowd of almost one thousand very well-heeled Las Vegas women as Mr. Investment Banker shucked his pin-striped jacket, peeled off his crisply ironed shirt and got busy showing off some serious sweat equity of his own, obviously earned by heavy capital investment in the gym. The bids started, kettle drums rolling softly in the background heightening the tension.

      Lex swore and shot a desperate glance toward the glowing red Exit sign backstage. He felt edgier now than he had during his first FBI takedown of a violent felon. Somehow he’d ended up being slated as the last bachelor up for grabs tonight, and he was feeling the pressure. The men ahead of him had already driven bids all the way up to a whopping $50,000, which went to a rugged foreign correspondent whose “sword” was apparently mightier than his pen—a comment that had brought the house down as the evening eased into night, laughter oiled by the complimentary cocktails that were loosening the ladies’ designer purse strings and heating libidos.

      Whoever had staged this event in Las Vegas’s legendary Ruby Room with its massive art deco clock, shimmering chandeliers, red tones and old black-and-white photos that alluded to the thrilling mystique of Vegas’s dark mob past, knew exactly what she was doing.

      For more than an hour before the auction had started, women clad in sleek barely there dresses with plunging necklines had sipped free drinks as they mingled with men, sizing up the “merchandise, ” whose duty it was to make small—and seductive—talk.

      Lex had failed abysmally.

      He was not one for platitudes, let alone parties. And volunteering for a bachelor auction rated way down there along with…God knows what. He couldn’t think of anything worse right at this moment. Those sixty-three minutes of schmingling, and yes, he’d counted every one of those minutes, had been pure torture. Lex was not one for high-maintenance women, either. Been there, done that, had the scars and divorce papers to show for it. If he ever married again, he swore it was going to be to a Stepford wife who understood his devotion to his job and charity work with at-risk kids.

      The bidding out in the hall suddenly hit the $60,000 mark. The crowd of ladies exploded into raucous cheers, and the live band picked up the pace, ratcheting tension with a soft boom, boom, boom of drums. Lex tugged irritably to loosen his red tie.

      His partner, Special Agent Rita Perez, had suggested red—to get the blood pumping, she’d chuckled. She told him the color was a good foil to the classic dark FBI suit and white shirt. He was going to kill Perez for this. She was the one who’d coerced him into it in the first place.

       It’s for a good cause, Duncan. All proceeds will go to the Nevada Orphans Fund. Think of how it will help your boys.

      He adjusted his holster, his body heating under his jacket as the crowd thunderously applauded the top bidder who’d nabbed Mr. Investment Banker for an insane $62,500. Lex was up next, after the Clark County skydiving instructor standing beside him backstage.

       Think of the Orphans Fund…

      “You ever see so much cleavage in one place?” said Mr. Skydiver, eyes fixed on the shimmering crowd of women as he peered around the curtain. “Mostly pumas, I figure.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “They’re not all cougars over the age 45, check it out—” Mr. Skydiver edged the heavy curtain back. “See? Hot pumas, single or divorced females between the ages of 30 to 40, all with serious cash to blow. Best way to meet a prospective date if you ask me.” He jutted his chin toward the audience. “Each one of those women out there has had her bank balance vetted—a marriage made in pure heaven.”

      Lex stared at him blankly. This guy thought he was going to find commitment here? “This is Vegas, buddy. Place of transience, slight of hand, trickery and sin.”

      “Ah, but magic happens in Vegas.” Mr. Skydiver grinned, took a sharp swig from a small silver hip flask and offered the flask to Lex. “Dutch courage, in the name of Johnnie Walker?”

      Lex shook his head.

      Mr. Skydiver capped his flask. “Just ask any tourist,” he said as he slipped the flask back into his pants pocket. “When that plane touches down at McCarran International, all rational thought goes clean out the window, and suddenly anything is possible. Yeah, Vegas will do that to you.”

      The guy had clearly gotten a little too intimate with Johnnie Walker. Lex made a mental note never to book a skydiving lesson with this dude, but he vaguely wished he had taken him up on the offer of a nip from the flask. The man looked enviably happy, and this was one time in his life Lex sure wouldn’t mind numbing himself with a bit of false bravado. But before he could finish his thought, or change his mind and take up the flask, Mr. Skydiver was nudged abruptly forward by the bustling backstage coordinator taking his Johnnie Walker down the runway with him. And the next thing Lex knew, it was his turn.

      “You’re on, agent!” He was forced out from the protection of the curtain by the backstage boss.

      His throat dried instantly.

      Larger-than-life images of himself in various poses played out on a massive screen behind the emcee and the auctioneer. “Meet FBI Special Agent Lexington Duncan, girls!” Blinding stage spotlights swung his way.

      Lex blinked into the glare. All he could see of the crowd was a dark blot stabbed by the occasional glitter of jewels and flash of

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