Finding Lyla: Book Ten In The Bodyguards Of L.A. County Series Read online

  FINDING LYLA

  BOOK TEN IN THE BODYGUARDS OF L.A. COUNTY SERIES

  CATE BEAUMAN

  Finding Lyla

  Copyright © January 2016 by Cate Beauman.

  All rights reserved.

  Visit Cate at www.catebeauman.com

  Follow Cate on Twitter: @CateBeauman

  Or visit her Facebook page: www.facebook.com/CateBeauman

  First Print Edition: January 2016

  ISBN-13: 978-1519659996

  ISBN-10: 1519659997

  Editor: Invisible Ink Editing, Liam Carnahan

  Proofreader: Kimberly Dawn

  Cover: Demonza

  Formatting: Rachelle Ayala

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are a work of fiction or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Table of Contents

  DEDICATION

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Thank you!

  About The Author

  DEDICATION

  To Kimberly Dawn, proofreader extraordinaire. Thank you for all your hard work.

  Chapter One

  Moscow, Russia

  February 1991

  Jonathan’s heart raced as the steady rhythm of the machines tracking his wife’s vitals filled the operating suite.

  “Hold me tighter,” Mina whispered as she stared up at him and nervously licked her dry lips.

  “You’re doing great. He or she will be here before we know it,” he reassured her, sliding his fingers down Mina’s smooth neck and shoulder, one of the few places he could touch on their side of the bluish-green curtain.

  “I can’t stop shaking.”

  He glanced at Mina’s delicate, trembling arms strapped into place on the table, as if she were affixed to a cross, and he felt his pulse kick up another notch with his sense of helplessness. “It’s cold in here.” He smiled, kissing Mina’s nose and brushing at the silky blond wisps of hair escaping her surgical cap. “Soon this will be over and we’ll finally get to meet the little one who’s been kicking you for months.” He smiled again as Mina did, doing his best to reassure her while his stomach continued its greasy roil.

  For hours, they’d waited for their new son or daughter. For hours, Mina had endured the excruciating pain of labor and the frustrations of endlessly attempting to push their child into the world, until the baby’s heart rate took a dangerous dip that had yet to recover. Only minutes had passed since the doctors and nurses rushed them down to the operating theater, but it felt like days while they waited for the new life to be born.

  “The head’s stuck,” someone muttered on the other side of the curtain separating them from the gore of Mina’s cesarean section.

  “Work faster,” another demanded quietly as a wet suction sound filled the room. “The outcome will not be good if we don’t.”

  Jonathan sat farther up on the uncomfortable stool as the urgency in the doctors’ tones registered. A year ago, he would have struggled to understand the rapid-fire Russian they spoke, but now he understood just fine that even though emergency surgery was taking place, the baby was still in trouble. He swallowed while sweat dribbled down his back and Mina blinked up at him.

  “Widen the incision,” another doctor said.

  “Everything’s okay,” he mumbled, stroking Mina’s forehead, praying his words were true, even though it was clear things weren’t going well.

  Mina sucked in a breath as her body was roughly jostled. “Why are they pulling so? Even with the drugs, I feel as if I’m being ripped in two.”

  “It will be over soon—very soon,” he promised as the fetal alarms started beeping the way they had when the doctors raced around in the upstairs delivery room.

  More tense seconds passed while Jonathan stared into Mina’s pretty blue eyes.

  “Finally,” said the doctor closest to Jonathan’s side as he listened to his child’s first lusty wails.

  The nurse peeked her face over the curtain, holding up a tiny, screaming infant covered in goop and blood. “What do you have, Mina?”

  “A girl.” Mina grinned as Jonathan laughed his relief.

  “We have a daughter.” Jonathan followed the nurse’s movements with his gaze as she quickly walked his baby over to the warming station. “She’s really here.” He kissed Mina’s forehead and relaxed his tense shoulders for the first time in days. “You did it. You did it, Mina,” he whispered next to her ear. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “I did nothing more than lay here like a log. Kiss me again, my darling, and tell them I need to see her.”

  He pressed his mouth to Mina’s and smiled as he wiped away her tears, surprised that it was possible to love her more than he already did.

  “Tell them, Jonathan. Tell them we must see her, or I’ll simply die from the anticipation.”

  Nodding, he chuckled as his daughter’s cries echoed, certain he’d never been so overcome with joy. Mina had been waiting for this moment since the doctor confirmed her pregnancy. “Okay.” He moved to stand as the nurse walked their way.

  “Sit, Papa, and you will hold your daughter.”

  He settled on the stool again, reaching for the small bundle, careful to support her head. “Hi, beautiful.” He brought her close, breathing her in, touching his cheek to her forehead. “You’re so warm and soft.” He eased her back for another good look, already in love. “I’m your dad.”

  “Let me see, darling. Let me see.”

  He angled the baby for Mina’s view.

  “Oh, she’s perfect.” She struggled to move her hand secured beneath the restraint. “May I be undone?”

  The nurse released her wrist from the tie.

  “Thank you. I must touch you. I’ve longed to touch you, little one.” Mina stroked the baby’s forehead.

  “Lyla, right? We’re sure her name is Lyla?”

  “Yes.” Mina nuzzled the baby’s cheek with her own. “Our little Lyla Katarina.” Mina awkwardly tugged at the tightly wrapped blanket. “Her feet. I must know her fate, Jonathan. Who will she be?”

  He helped Mina unwrap the white cotton, exposing tiny pink legs and feet.

  Mina laughed. “She has my arch.” Mina kissed miniature soles. “Russia’s princess. You, my love, will be Russia’s
next great prima ballerina.”

  “Just like your mama.” Jonathan caressed his new daughter’s knuckles as Lyla’s hand wrapped around his finger, unable to get enough of the perfect little girl. “I think she’ll have your hair color. She definitely has your nose.”

  “She has your chin.” Mina stroked Lyla’s head, stomach, and arms as the baby started to fuss again. “You are dear to my heart already, my girl. So dear.” Mina kissed Lyla’s palm and dropped her trembling hand back to the table as she rested her head against the small cushion.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. I’m overwhelmed with happiness.” She smiled and closed her eyes. “Wrap our sweet Lyla back up, will you? We don’t want her getting cold. We want her healthy and lovely when she makes her debut to the world in the morning.”

  Newspapers, reporters, and Mina’s millions of adoring fans were the last thing on his mind as he struggled to swaddle his daughter while the baby blinked up at him. “I think I’ve got it.” He grinned as he tucked the lip of the blanket in place. “I’ll need more practice but—”

  “Mina, open your eyes.” The nurse gave a rough rub to Mina’s pale cheeks as alarms began to beep behind the curtain. “Mina.” The nurse gave her another aggressive scrub.

  “You must go out now, Diplomat Avery.” One of the nurses took Lyla from Jonathan’s arms while another helped him from the stool, quickly ushering him toward the doors of the operating suite.

  “Stop.” He pulled away, fighting to turn around. “Wait.”

  “Out. Please, Sir.” She gave him a small shove.

  “What’s going on?” he demanded in English and shook his head, remembering that few of the staff members here were fluent in his native tongue. “What’s happening?” he tried again in Russian.

  “Mina’s losing too much blood.”

  He swallowed a wave of terror. “She’s going to be okay? She’ll be all right?”

  “We will work hard to restore her health.” The nurse turned away, and the door to the operating room closed, echoing behind her.

  Jonathan glanced around in the silence of the long, dim corridor and sank into one of the plastic chairs in the corner. Clenching his jaw, he bobbed his legs up and down. Mina was so delicate. Her body was strong, but her labor had been so hard. He closed his eyes as he rested his head against the wall, consumed by a sickening dread. They should have gone to The States for the delivery like he’d wanted. The technology was top-notch—some of the best—but Mina had insisted their baby be born here in her country, where the times were still far behind the advances in the West. He should have put his foot down and demanded that they think of both hers and the baby’s health and safety, but it was a rare day when he could deny his beloved wife anything she asked.

  His eyes flew open and he rushed to his feet when two more doctors ran down the hall and pushed through the doors to the operating room. He blew out a long, shaky breath with a renewed sense of trepidation and paced back and forth while his mind raced. What was taking so long? Why was there no news about Mina? Surely they’d given her blood to counteract the loss and had her ready for the recovery room.

  “Diplomat Avery.”

  He whirled and closed the distance between himself and Doctor Nabatov with several huge steps, as the obstetrician rolled Lyla out in a portable bassinet. “How is she?”

  “Your girl is perfectly fine—very healthy.”

  “How’s Mina doing?”

  “I’m afraid Mina lost a lot of blood.”

  “So give her a transfusion.”

  He took Jonathan by the arm, guiding him over to the row of chairs Jonathan had abandoned. “Sit, please.”

  The grim apology in the physician’s eyes made him hesitate. “I don’t want to sit.”

  “Sit, please.”

  He did as he was told. “Doctor—”

  “Mina has died, Diplomat Avery.”

  His head went light and he closed his eyes, afraid he might pass out. This couldn’t be happening. Only moments ago Mina had been smiling at him and their baby. “How can—Mina died?”

  “I’m sorry to share this news, Diplomat. This is a huge loss not only for you, but for Russia and me as well. Our—”

  “No.” He shook his head, ready to stand, but sat where he was, certain his legs wouldn’t hold him. “How did this happen? How could this happen to Mina?”

  “This birth had many complications.”

  “Mina is healthy. She’s strong. She’s so strong.” His voice broke as he tried to comprehend that Mina was none of those things any longer.

  “Words cannot express my regret.” He stood and picked up Lyla, handing her over to Jonathan. “Hold her. Take comfort in your child.”

  Jonathan settled the baby in the crook of his elbow, cradling her close as tears raced down his cheeks while Doctor Nabatov spoke to him in medical jargon he barely grasped. He struggled to pay attention to the physician’s droning words while he stared in shock at his beautiful, motherless daughter.

  Chapter Two

  New York, New York

  January 2016

  Lyla paused by her dressing room door and smiled as one of the new interns from the Manhattan School of Ballet passed her in the hallway. “Hi.”

  “Hello.” The pretty teenager waved shyly, smiling back and quickening her pace.

  Lyla turned, adjusting her heavy bag on her shoulder, and opened her door, wincing when the troubling ache in her ankle made itself known. “Don’t you start,” she muttered as she shut herself inside and twisted the lock. “I don’t have time for this.” Limping slightly, she made her way to the soft, cushy chair in the corner and sat, rolling her stiff joint, attempting to alleviate the issue before it started causing her problems as it had in Boston a few short weeks ago.

  Extending her calf and pointing her toes up, she felt the tightening in her tendons and huffed out a frustrated breath. She’d been so careful to baby her foot with extra physiotherapy and stretching, but her slight misstep in class today had brought back the familiar discomfort. She pulled her ankle on top of her opposite knee, examining her anklebone for any signs of swelling—a move she never would have attempted in the studio, but no one watched her here. Choreographers and artistic directors weren’t there to scrutinize her every move in her dressing room the way they were in the unforgiving lights upstairs.

  Narrowing her eyes, she poked at her skin, relieved to see only minor inflammation instead of the major swelling and deep purple bruising that had forced her off her feet and backstage during the last two productions of Swan Lake in late December. Luckily there were no telltale signs of her injury. Hopefully she would be able to nurse herself back to health without involving the staff physicians or the private doctor she occasionally consulted with. At this point, no one needed to know that something wasn’t quite right. This was ballet after all; the show had to go on.

  With a final rub, she stood and caught a glance at herself in the vanity mirror, doing a double take and blowing out a breath as she studied her sweat-soaked hair escaping her messy bun and her rosy cheeks after another grueling set of morning classes. Geoffrey rarely held back on the pace. Today was no exception.

  Nibbling her lip, she glanced toward her tiny bathroom and the small shower stall she clearly needed to use, then looked at the clock. Twenty minutes wasn’t much time, but she was willing to live on the edge. Showing up to an interview looking like a dirty, drowned rat wasn’t exactly professional. She hurried into the bathroom, stripped down, and showered in record time, giving her hair a thorough washing and her body a quick scrub. She wrapped herself in her robe and emerged from the bathroom, grinning as she looked at the clock—six minutes and thirty seconds. “Not half bad.”

  It was tempting to sit down and prepare for her upcoming question-and-answer session with Roman, but she went to her closet instead, grabbing her bucket, then ice from the miniature fridge/freezer combo, and added several inches of water from the faucet. She plunked down in front of th
e mirror and sucked in air through her teeth as she submerged her foot in the frigid slush, eager for the glorious numbness to settle into her abused joint.

  With her bum ankle seen to for the moment, she got down to business, applying a light coat of powder foundation—her makeup, not the stage gunk she used regularly when performing for the crowds. Today she would be performing again, but this was different. Her yearly interview with Roman Akolov, one of Russia’s most well-respected senior journalists, was something she was accustomed to. For the last six years, since her eighteenth birthday, she’d granted him and Russia a glimpse into her private life. Since the day of her birth, her mother’s country had been fascinated by her every move. Her father and grandmother had given her the gift of relative normalcy until the day she left for dance school overseas. Agreeing to an occasional interview kept the press at bay and her in control of the media fodder.

  She picked up another compact and dashed blush across her high cheekbones, then glided the mascara wand over her long lashes, accentuating her ice-blue eyes before she applied a glossy coat of subtle pink to her full lips. She reached for her hairbrush as her phone alerted to an incoming Skype call, and she smiled, already knowing who waited on the other end. She grinned into the tiny lens as she answered. “Daddy.”

  His handsome face filled the screen. “Ly-Ly. How’s my girl?”

  “Good.” She angled her phone against the mirror to keep her view of her dad and slide her brush through the yards of her thick blond hair. “Busy.”

  “How were your classes?”

  “A workout.”

  “Geoffrey’s pushing hard?”

  She nodded her confirmation as she started the task of twisting her long locks into a French braid. “With the debut show only two months away he doesn’t have much choice.”

  “I guess not.” Her father popped something into his mouth and chewed.