Free My Biker Bodyguard by J.R. Turner Page A

show, she had learned the term
proactive. That's what she needed to do here. If she wanted
some say in her future, she couldn't continue to sit back and let
others trample all over her. After much consideration, she had
decided that no fortune, large or small, was worth the lives of
those she loved.
She would simply give the money to charity and everyone
could go home.
To be honest with herself, she admitted the glamour of
living the rest of her life being catered to and waited on was a
real temptation. Especially since she and her dad worked so
hard. They never took a vacation or closed the shop, except for
Mondays. Even then, they worked in the garage–mostly out of
habit from the days when they wanted to build a good
reputation, but how much luxury could they enjoy if they were
dead?
The officer stopped at a nondescript door. No hint at what
might lay beyond. She forced herself to breathe as the young
cop rapped his middle knuckle on the door twice and opened it
without waiting for an answer. "Here you go."
"Thanks," she muttered and stepped inside.
The door swung closed slowly, revealing first Mitch, then
her father. She smiled in relief and in greeting. Then she
noticed the looks on their faces and the two rigid men at the
head of the long conference table. Her smile dissolved.
Whoever these strangers were, judging by Mitch's and her
father's matching unibrows of worry, they didn't bring good
news.
She grasped the back of the only empty chair and exhaled.
Time to be proactive. "Okay, guys, this is what I've come up
with. I want to give my inheritance to charity. I don't want the
money if it means that my family and I will be threatened for
the rest of our lives. So, we'll give it away and everyone can
go home."
There, she had said it. She looked at her audience and her
heart sank. Mitch was already shaking his head, her father
refused to meet her eyes, and the two men at the head of the
table glanced at each other with brows raised.
The one on the right, who looked like he'd eaten too much
cheese, said, "I'm Special Agent Mordstrom and this is Special
Agent Davis of the FBI. Please have a seat, Ms. Owen."
The FBI? What next? The CIA? Might as well call in the
Marines while they were at it .
Nonplused, Jess sat down. She couldn't compete with the
experts. They hadn't even responded, at least vocally, to her
plan. "I'm sitting. Now tell me what you have against my idea.
I don't see any reason it won't work."
"Ma'am," Mordstrom said. "I'm afraid it's impossible."
"Mitch said I was next in line to inherit. That doesn't
mean I have to accept, does it?" She glanced at her father for
support, but he still refused to look at her. Mitch shook his
head again. She wanted to ask him why he disagreed, but
Davis spoke first.
"You are next in line to inherit, but until you do, you can't
decide anything regarding your family's estate."
Her family. How odd that he should refer to her mother as
part of her family. The woman had given up the title of mother
when she'd taken off and never returned. "So, what do I need
to do to get control? Sign a paper, something else?"
"No, Jess," Mitch said. "It's not like that. I think you
misunderstood."
"Misunderstood what?" Angry, Jess wanted them to know
what it meant to lie to her, how much got all screwed up simply
because they wanted to treat her like a kid who couldn't hear
the truth. "What part of 'my mother's dead' do you think I
didn't get?"
Mitch winced. "I never said your mother was dead. I said
you were next in line."
Jess sat back in her chair and tried to keep her jaw from
dropping. Could he mean what she thought he did?
"Jess," her father said from down the table. When she
didn't turn away from Mitch, he cleared his throat and said her
name louder. "Jess."
She looked at him, prepared for anything now.
"Your mother's not dead, hon. She's in a coma, but she
ain't dead." He had the decency to look ashamed of himself. "I
didn't know you thought she was