Cabin Fever - Roe Horvat Page 0,3

like to see him dead from religious nuts, jealous lovers to dissatisfied business associates. Maybe even some scorned porn stars?

The kid was going to be a spectacular mess to babysit.

However, the attempts to kill him had been professional work—highly professional and very well paid. Otherwise, they never could’ve infiltrated the staff close to Michael. Which was what had caught my interest.

It had been Bartholomew Bourgeon who contacted me first. Age sixty-three, once a governor of Connecticut, Michael’s uncle and former legal guardian. Uncle Bart. Michael was paying the budget himself, but his uncle seemed to be his advisor on all legal and financial matters, using his many contacts to give his nephew the best possible protection.

I’d been ready to quit the personal security business. Thanks to an old buddy who was still with the Bureau, I had a cozy, safe job as a consultant with home office and flexible hours waiting for me whenever I wanted. No weapons needed. My realty agent was finding me a fixer-upper farmhouse, and I was even bringing home a puppy with me in two months—a border collie, black like the night, born last week. I’d named her Julie.

When Bart Bourgeon first called, I asked for twelve thousand a day, hoping it would be too much for him and he’d find someone else. Instead, he offered me fifteen if I started immediately.

The murder attempts were kept secret. The tabloids could only wonder why Michael Bourgeon had suddenly disappeared from public life. New York’s wildest enfant terrible hadn’t been seen venturing outside for two months, his Manhattan apartment empty and quiet. Rumors were flying about rehab, which sounded like a logical explanation to most people who knew Michael. In reality, the twenty-four-year-old heir had been hiding in one of his family’s fort-like residences in Connecticut, protected by an entourage of security details, while the FBI was hunting the perpetrator—or perpetrators. Despite all that, he was shot in his arm last night, a clean sniper shot through the bedroom window. The contract killer had gotten into the garden and shot from a fucking tree branch. Luckily, the weather had been shitty. It had rained, and the wind had been strong. The shooter had missed the mark, but they’d made it in and out of the protected area without harm. Unless they were Black Widow, they must’ve bribed someone on the inside.

I spent a while shuffling through the paperwork and browsing for pictures. Michael was a talented artist with a varied style. His large, bold abstract canvases seemed to have gained him the respect of the critics, despite his young age and terrible reputation.

Inevitably, late at night, I ended up staring at photos of Michael Bourgeon. He was strikingly good-looking with a playful, provocative smile and sharp green eyes. Cocky and wild. Exactly the type of boy I liked to take home when I had the chance. I could spend an evening teaching him a thing or two, before sending him on his way again, with my handprints all over his sore ass.

Yeah, I shouldn’t be the one protecting him.

Yet some of the pictures showed a different quality to his expression. In family photos with his uncle or as a teen next to his late mother, he seemed kind, almost bashful. Maybe it had been the vulnerability in those green eyes that finally swayed me.

I’d told myself it was great money for probably only a six-week gig at most, since the Bureau was providing a decoy at the same time to lure the killer out.

I’d taken the job.

It might turn out to be one of the stupidest things I’d ever done.

Now Michael was looking around the log cabin with a condescending smirk on his pretty face.

“This is quite picturesque. Are we going fishing tomorrow? Bear hunting?”

I didn’t bother replying. Instead, I opened the door to the bedroom where he was going to sleep. When I gestured for him to enter, he passed by me and dumped his bag onto the floor next to the bed.

“Now what?” He stood, hands on his hips.

“I’ll show you around tomorrow. What you need to know right now is that there’s a small panic room accessible through the closet.” I opened it and shoved the discreet sliding panel to the side, revealing the security metal door behind it. The panic room was a narrow sliver of space along the cabin’s wall, perfectly isolated with ventilation, a water tap, a plastic shaker, and one bag of protein shake on the single shelf. A fleece