The Summer of the Bodyguard

My vineyard, my daughter, my life. I did not ask for a bodyguard. The insurance company sent me Emeric Callas anyway: one broken nose, one-word sentences, and a lycan nose that can smell a matchbook from a hundred yards. Somebody is burning Sonoma estates, mine is next, and the only place I have to put him is the guest cottage. So he picks with my crew, sleeps in my barn, and tells my eight-year-old daughter about volcanic soil. And I almost forget that nine years ago in Ensenada I spent one night with a stranger and never got his last name. Almost. Emeric knows. He knew the first morning he saw Paloma's face. He says nothing for six weeks, because he's a man who thinks shame is a personality. When he finally stops the arsonist and packs his truck, I am standing at the gate with my daughter on my hip, and I am not letting him leave until he answers one question.