PROTECTED WITNESS
Harlequin Romantic Suspense
October 27, 2026
She wants his protection.
What if he wants her?
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Reviews
"This book was filled with a lot of suspense, twists and an ending that I did not see coming." —Melanie, Goodreads reviewer
PROTECTED WITNESS EXCERPT
COPYRIGHT 2026 BONNIE VANAK
A man in a charcoal gray suit, his dark hair cropped short, stepped out from the driver's side as two other men emerged. The driver removed sunglasses and scanned the area. Hovering behind a pillar, she noticed the flash of a sidearm as his jacket moved.
Armed with a handgun. She couldn't see his face clearly. Was this Sam Hendricks? Abandoning the shopping cart, she stepped behind the pillar and took a deep breath.
He saw her and walked over as the two others lingered, scanning the area. "Miss Simone?"
Be still my heart. Everything seemed to slow down and the world stopped spinning. Breath coming out in little pants, as if she'd run up five flights of stairs, Jenny could only stare.
Sam Hendricks. Was it truly him? For a moment she thought this was a dream inspired by her staring at the man's photo for so long.
His photo was all wrong. It failed to do justice to the real man and the tiny creases at the corner of those amazing green eyes, the faint streak of gray in his thick, dark hair, those lean cheekbones and full lips. Such soulful eyes, now filled with reserve and guarded.
The photo showed a man accustomed to laughter and delight in the world. This man was its polar opposite. No signs of laughter, not even a hint of charm. All business, as severe as a Wall Street investment banker informing a client the market was headed south. He was thinner as well, though trim, and had a hint of athletic muscle beneath the suit, starched white shirt and impeccable blue tie.
What happened to Samson "Sam" Hendricks?
His wife died. It must have crushed him. The thought made her throat close tight. Her mouth opened. Jenny compressed her lips lest she say something dangerous.
It was too soon to say anything right now. Too risky. But she wanted to cry.
No emotion. Couldn't afford the luxury of showing any emotion. Not now, when she was exposed to anyone who wished to take her out, and not in the dating sense, either.
"Miss Simone?" he asked again.
She could not find her voice. This was more upsetting than anticipated.
"Jennifer Simone?" he inquired again in the same robot monotone.
"Yes," she finally managed to whisper. "That's me."
He glanced around, saw no one close to them who might eavesdrop. "You are Jennifer Simone, daughter of Ian and Mary Sullivan and their only heir, who is to testify against Eduardo Romanov?"
"Yes." That much information she had given to the assistant US attorney.
Sam flipped through his phone. "Ian and Mary Sullivan, as they were last known, married for more than 25 years, and in their time together, it is estimated they murdered 46 people for hire in their work for the Watch. Real names Igor and Marinka Petrov, immigrated to the United States. Igor when he was fifteen, Marinka at the age of ten. They worked in hotels before they turned to killing people for a living."
He looked up from his phone. "Am I correct in my information?"
She didn't like that flat, accusatory tone. Jenny removed the sunglasses to better see his expression. Was that a hint of disgust on his face? Not due to her disguise, either.
Sidestepping, she faced him, forcing him to look at her. See her and not look away.
"I am not my parents. I was a child who didn't even know what my parents did for a living until I turned 16."
"I see," he said calmly.
Did he? She scowled. "I've never killed anyone in my life, certainly not for profit nor even to protect myself. Stop judging me."
He blinked. At least he'd lost that bored look of contempt she hated.
"Far from it, Miss Simone. I was ascertaining what your needs might be before the train arrives. Have you eaten? Need anything to drink?"
The robot marshal returned. He exhibited no more personality than her son's goldfish.
"You don't need to care for my needs, Mr. Hendricks. I am not a child."
"I see." More politeness, followed by another impartial expression. "My next question is if you needed to use the bathroom."
Jenny gritted her teeth. This was not going well. "Listen, Mr. Hendricks, I asked for you to escort me back home for protection, not to act as a caretaker. I'm 28, not 82,and certainly not a toddler. I don't need your permission to walk to the restroom."
A flash of humor in those green eyes, then it vanished. "Far from it, Ms. Simone. If you did need to use the facilities before the train arrives, I'd need to clear the bathroom to ensure no one is waiting inside to ambush you. Unlike your last bathroom encounter."
Her heart pounded as she remembered. Jenny struggled with her pride. "Thank you, but I am quite all right, Mr. Hendricks."
A brief smile, chasing away the robot and making him look almost human. "You're welcome, Ms. Simone. And I'm not a mister. Deputy U.S. Marshal Hendricks is my official title. Or, if you prefer to be casual, call me Sam."
Casual with him? Doubtful. She could never be casual with this man, not when he made her heart flutter and her knees weak.
Her palms went clammy, despite the intense July heat, and the sweat beading her temples wasn't from the heat, either. It was hard to be friendly or casual with this man.
For now, best to keep him at arm's length. Professional.
"Thank you, deputy. I'll be ready when the train arrives."
He cast a doubtful look at the backpack she carried. "Is this all your luggage?"
"All I need, until I reach my destination."
He studied her with such intensity for a heart-stopping moment, she wondered if he knew her secret.
"Deputies Baker and Andrews will escort you to New York, and then deputies from that district will escort you to Boston and beyond."
Not what she wanted to hear. Jenny shook her head. "I don't want any of them. I asked for you."
Those intense green eyes studied her. Cool. Calm. "Why?"
"Because…" She took a deep breath to center her anxiety. "I heard you were the best."
There's another reason, but I can't convey it yet.
"How did you determine that?"
So many questions, but she was prepared. "I read a newspaper article about your service award. You're young, but dedicated. You've never lost a witness you were assigned to protect."
Automatically her gaze dropped to his right hand. "Though you did lose two fingers."
He stretched out his hand. "Yes. Fortunately, I had an excellent surgeon who reattached them."
"I see. One was your middle finger. I'm certain that was a setback for you in South Florida traffic."
He blinked, recoiled, and then a smile, a real smile, touched his mouth. "It most certainly was."
Sam tilted his head as if trying to figure her out. Before he could say anything, she gestured to the track. "The train is coming soon."
Best to keep him distracted. Maybe she could convince him to accompany her all the way to New England, because her trust factor these days was lower than most people's trust of the government.
Nodding, he gestured to her bag. "I can take that."
"I'm fine," she shot back.
But something was off, she felt it in her bones. He must have felt it as well, because his green gaze sharpened as he scanned the area.
She barely caught the glint of sunlight on metal when he shouted, "Gun!" and pushed her to the ground.
