The Accidental Bodyguard

Couldn’t tell much other than the fact that Bethany Chandra damn sure had long legs and a cute butt.

Been there. Long legs and a cute butt had cost him big time. Joan had started by taking half of his estate. She’d won child support, lots of it. Then she’d dumped the boys back on him.

His housekeeper had quit the first day, shaking both fists and screaming, “Your sons are savages, Mr. Broderick. If you don’t pack them off to a military school, and soon, you’ll be sorry.”

No housekeeper he’d hired since had lasted more than a week, and his once elegant house was a shambles.

Forget Joan and the housekeeper problem.

The intriguing fortune hunter with the intriguing backside was living in an impoverished barrio and running a huge, privately endowed, highly successful, nonprofit organization called Casas de Cristo, which built houses for the poor all over northern Mexico. She had tribes of wealthy philanthropists who trusted her enough to donate their millions. She had church groups and college kids from all over the United States providing money and free labor.

Missionaries were a tiresome, impractical breed. He should know. His father had played at saving the world. What the hell? The more starving Indians he’d fed, the more babies they’d produced with more mouths to be fed. One thing was sure. The old man had damn sure failed to provide for his own sons. Lucas had had to work his tail off to get a start at the good life.

Thus, Lucas was mildly surprised that he felt such distaste at the thought of defaming this girl when such an immense fortune and therefore his own lucrative fee were at stake. All he had to do was drum up a few witnesses to say that Bethany was cheating her benefactors by building her houses for less than she said or that she was taking bribes from the poor families selected to have houses built for them.

He loathed do-gooders. Why should it bother him that there wasn’t a shred of evidence that she was anything other than what she appeared to be—that rare and highly bizarre individual like his father who actually wanted to help other people?

Odd that he didn’t particularly relish having to prove that Gertrude Moran had been senile when she’d drawn up her new will, either.

But that last part would be easier.

A flash of movement flickered across the golden urn that sat in the center of a library table. The urn, conspicuously located but now forgotten, was surrounded by stacks of legal documents, coffee cups, wineglasses, beer bottles and half-eaten sandwiches. Lucas glanced from it out the window, where he got a double surprise.

The sky was now an eerie green. A dark man in a black Stetson sat in a blue van parked beside his Lincoln. After studying the storm clouds and the newcomer for a tense moment, Lucas relaxed, dismissing them both as of no immediate importance.

Not that the Morans had noticed either the clouds or the van. And they had quit all pretense of interest in the urn that contained Gertrude Moran’s ashes immediately after the reading of her will, at which point they’d started hunting their lawyer.

Fortunately Lucas had been close by in San Antonio visiting Pete, his older brother, who was a doctor.

Lucas leaned forward in his chair and lifted the urn with his left hand. Whatever he had seen there had vanished. All he saw now was his own brooding dark face and his thick tumble of unruly black hair. Turning the urn carelessly with his other hand, he glanced at the portrait of the woman whose ashes he held.

Gertrude Moran’s sharp, painted eyes glinted at him with an expression of don’t-you-dare-try-to-mess-with-me-you-young-upstart. In old age with her soft snowy hair, she had remained a handsome woman. Holly had told Lucas that the portrait had been finished less than a month ago. Lucas found it hard to imagine someone who looked so forceful and intelligent not knowing exactly what she was doing when she’d drawn up her will.

Gertrude Moran had been shrewd all her life. The original Moran fortune had been in land and oil. She’d diversified, doubling her fortune while other oil people went broke. In an age when most rich people were stuffy and dull, she had been a hoot. The newspapers had been full of her stunts.

Lucas lowered his gaze. Well, she’d damn sure stirred the family brew by secretly changing all the ingredients in her will and leaving only a few million to these spoiled bastards.

“Well, Mr. Broderick, can you get us our money back or not?” Holly leaned forward and issued another invitation with her dark, glowing eyes and a display of cleavage.

Been there, he reminded himself, but he dropped the urn with a clang.

Stinky jumped as if he was afraid Gertrude’s spirit would spring out of the urn like a bad genie. A hush fell over the room, and for a long moment it did seem, even to Lucas, that those keen, painted eyes brightened with mischief and that some bold, alien presence had invaded the room.

He almost felt like clanging the urn again to break the spell.

His hard face tensed. “Can I get the money?” He leafed through the will. “It’s a crapshoot. It’s not too difficult to break a will that involves leaving one family member an entire fortune at the expense of the others. But charitable foundations with iron-clad, carefully thought out legal documents such as these are tricky, especially when the foundation will contribute substantially to several powerhouse charities who have teams of lawyers on their payroll.”

“But Beth bamboozled Gram into giving her everything—”

“Not quite everything. Your grandmother did adequately provide for you. At least most judges would see it that way. Technically your cousin won’t actually be inheriting the fortune, Ms. Moran. She would merely be managing the foundation.”

“For a huge salary?”

“A six-figure annual salary for overseeing such a vast enterprise would hardly be out of line.”

“Beth is a thief and a criminal.”

Lucas felt an insane urge to defend the absent heiress.

“Those are serious charges that might not be so easily proven. From the picture you’ve drawn of Beth—a goody-two-shoes Samaritan building houses for the poor in Mexico—it might be difficult and unpleasant to convince twelve disinterested people she wouldn’t sincerely honor your grandmother’s last wishes. If she’s a fake, we’ve got a chance. But if she’s not—” He paused. “Unfortunately juries and judges have a tendency to favor do-gooders. I suggest that you talk to your cousin. Try to persuade her it would be in her best interests to divide the money between all of you.”

“You have no idea how stubborn she is.”

“Maybe one of you will come up with a better idea.”

A pair of black-lashed, olive-bright eyes set in a gorgeous face met his, and Lucas was chilled when he sensed a terrible hatred and an implacable will.

The black clouds were rolling in from the west. The mood in the library had darkened, as well. Other faces turned toward him, and they were equally hard.

Lucas almost shuddered. No wonder the saint had run.

Strangely, his feelings of empathy for the girl intensified. He tried to fight the softening inside him, but it was almost as though he was on her side instead of the Morans’.

Ridiculous. He couldn’t afford such misplaced sympathies.

“If you take the case, how much will you charge?” Holly demanded.

“If I lose-nothing.”

“And—if you win?”

“I would be working on a contingency basis, of course—”

“How much?”

“Forty percent. Plus expenses.”

“Of nearly a billion dollars! What? Are you mad? Why, that’s highway robbery.”

“No, Ms. Moran, it’s my fee. I play for keeps—all or nothing. If you want me, and if I agree to take the case, I swear to you that if there is any way to destroy your cousin’s name and her claim to your fortune, I’ll find it. I am very thorough and utterly merciless when it comes to matters of this nature. I’ll study these documents and send my P.I. to Mexico to investigate Casas de Cristo and see what dirt I can dig up on her down there. She’s bound to have enemies. All we have to do is find people who’ll talk about her and get them talking. Fan the flames, so to speak.”

Lucas began gathering documents and stuffing them into his briefcase. “Just so you can reach me anytime—” He scribbled his unlisted home phone number and handed it to Stinky. “I’ll let myself out.”

Lightning streaked to the ground. Almost immediately a sharp cracking sound shook the house. Wind and torrents of rain began to batter the windows.

The drought was over.

But none of the ranchers who had prayed for rain rejoiced. They were watching Lucas’s large brown hands violently snap the locks on his briefcase as he prepared to go.