Rich (Benson Security #5) - Janet Elizabeth Henderson Page 0,19

with Rachel.”

“Aye aye, boss.” Ryan was clearly unconvinced.

“Did you do your rounds?” Harvard asked quietly.

“I scanned Rachel’s office for surveillance devices as soon as I got in this morning. It was clear. I didn’t get a chance to do the other offices on the exec floor because my shift partner was too damn nosey.”

“At least Rachel’s office is clear; that’s something. Anything else I need to know?”

“Nothing that can’t wait until the team meeting. You’re bringing pizza, right?”

Harvard stared at him.

“Guess I’ll bring the pizza,” Ryan said at last.

“I’ll talk to you later,” Harvard said. “I have a runaway fiancée to deal with first.”

“Now you know why no one else on the team volunteered to partner with the Queen of Darkness.” Ryan sounded amused. “We totally warned you, dude.”

Since he wasn’t supposed to know the security guard, Harvard didn’t think it appropriate to flip him off. Instead, he headed for the elevator.

And made it five steps past the door before he was waylaid by yet another of Rachel’s relatives.

“We haven’t met,” the man said. “I’m Charles Talbot, financial director and Rachel’s uncle.” He didn’t hold out his hand.

“People call me Harvard.” His trained eyes took in every detail of the man before him.

In his early sixties, with steel gray hair and a bit of a paunch under his tailored pinstripe suit, he looked like the stereotypical English gent. All ruddy complexion and permanent air of disapproval. After reading the file on the man, Harvard had pitied Rupert and Samantha for having him as a father. And their research had revealed that his wife wasn’t much better. Clarissa was the definition of simpering English flower—when she wasn’t stoned or drunk, that is.

“Congratulations on your engagement,” Charles said, in the same tone others would use to give their condolences.

“Thanks.” Harvard thrust his hands into his pockets and waited. He’d had many conversations like this over the years and knew how to read the signs of what was to come.

“I never imagined Rachel would…couple with an American.” He sneered the word, as though American was synonymous with dirt. “And an African-American at that. I hear you’re also her bodyguard. How very…modern of you both.”

Yeah, Rachel’s uncle was a racist asshole.

“According to the tabloids,” Harvard drawled, “if the peerage doesn’t modernize, they’ll die out. Probably a good thing Rachel’s bringing in some new blood.”

Charles puffed out his chest. “As her uncle and an elder to you both, I feel I should point out that the gossip rags will have a field day with your relationship. I say this only to spare Rachel the upset of going through the pain of such an experience, you understand. You must have noticed the way they raked Prince Harry’s wife over the coals, and she wasn’t nearly as…dark…as, well, you are.”

Oh, he wanted to punch the unctuous little prick right on his glowing red nose. “I didn’t realize the UK had a sliding scale for racism. Guess that wasn’t covered in my Welcome to England package.”

“I don’t believe you’re taking this seriously. It isn’t only the color of your skin that will cause issue, it’s also your class.” He lowered his voice. “For Pete’s sake, you’re working class. And American. It’s as though Rachel deliberately went looking for a man who ticked the most controversial boxes and dragged him home to her parents. Can’t you see what this is going to do to the family? To Rachel? We’ll be the laughingstock of the town. Do you really want to put her through that?”

Harvard’s hands curled into fists inside his pockets as he visualized the damage one good right hook would do to the man. “Just going from this conversation, I’d say people are already laughing at you.”

Charles’ face turned a strange shade of purple. “I don’t understand what Rachel could possibly see in you. You’re obviously only out to get your hands on her money, and I intend to make her aware of that at the very first opportunity.”

“You do that.” Harvard pushed the button for the elevator. “But you might want to invest in a bulletproof vest first; she carries a gun in her purse, and she’s quite the shot. She’ll shoot your balls off at twenty paces. She’s that good. Even a target that small won’t faze her.”

“Well, I never,” Charles blustered.

The elevator doors opened, and Harvard stepped inside. He turned to face good old Uncle Charles. “And another thing. While I was in the CIA, I learned a thing or two about torture and body