Chapter 3

CALLIE STRETCHED OUT ON top of her bed, her body sore from dance practice. Homework was ignored, her books spread out on the bed. She’d been surprised by Hunter Lightfoot. Until now, her minders had all been big older guys - except for the one female, Jill, who’d lasted three months. Hunter Lightfoot was very different.

First off, he was much younger than any of the others, maybe under thirty. She’d have to ask him. He was slender and lithe, not muscled or overweight like the others. And he dressed completely casual. Where were the suits that made the others stand out, an “I’m her bodyguard, be careful” statement?

In jeans and a brown leather Bomber jacket, he looked like he belonged in Paris. As far as she could tell, he didn’t even carry a gun, unlike Jeff Benton.

Callie wondered what his story was. Clearly he was different. It wasn’t just the clothes. His looks and attitude were different. Dark, almost black hair fell unfashionably to below his collar, his skin bronze colored. But his most fascinating feature was his eyes; restless, observant, and almost obsidian they were so dark. They were disconcerting, too - she couldn’t read him. He didn’t smile, didn’t talk to fill the silences, didn’t seem interested in her. Yet she didn’t feel he disliked her, more like she was an inanimate object being protected. He responded politely enough when she talked to him, just never initiated conversation. Hunter was cool, aloof, distanced. One thing she did know - he looked exhausted; lines around his eyes, slightly disheveled, clothes wrinkled.