The Bodyguard's Promise

Ten minutes later she entered the sunroom. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” she said, although no apology rang in her tone. “I had to chase down Maddie Walker, Gracie’s secretary, to get the letters from her.”

She’d changed clothes. Gone was the bathing suit and cover-up, replaced by navy slacks and a navy- and royal-blue blouse that intensified the color of her eyes. Her hair was loose, falling below her shoulders in shiny waves. Instead of smelling like chlorine and coconuts, the fragrance that wafted from her smelled expensive.

She sat in the chair opposite him and stared down at the bundle of letters she clutched in her hands. “These are copies of the letters. I gave the originals to the private investigator I hired. I’m hoping you’ll read these and realize that Gracie’s agent has overreacted and there is no danger.” When she looked up at him there was absolutely no emotion shining from her eyes.

She pushed the letters across the table toward him, then leaned back and stared out the window over his shoulder. “How many people handled the originals?” he asked.

Her gaze shot to him and a little frown marred the flawless skin of her brow. “I don’t know. The mail carrier, Gracie’s secretary, her agent, me…” Her voice trailed off.

With all those people handling the letters, it was doubtful that the investigator could lift any usable prints. He reached for the first envelope and noted the post date: May 15th. Almost two months ago.

He pulled out the letter and quickly scanned it.

Dear Gracie,

I think you should get out of show business. You think you’re cute, but you’re not. You think you’re a little princess, but you’re nothing. You might fool some people but you don’t fool me. You’re a talentless piece of nothing.

It was signed, “Not A Fan.”

There’d been a total of eight letters sent over the course of the past two months. What concerned Clay was that each seemed to be an escalation of emotion, culminating in the last letter.

Dear Gracie,

Why don’t you just die, you little bitch?

It wasn’t just the words, a growing anger showed in the handwriting itself. The first letter was neatly written in block letters. The last letter was still in block letters but sloppy and the pen pressed so hard in places it appeared from the copy as if the paper had ripped.

Rage.

He looked at Libby. “I don’t think Gracie’s agent overreacted. If Gracie were my daughter, I’d be more than a little concerned about these letters.”

She held his gaze for a long moment and in the depth of her eyes he saw a flicker of emotion for the first time. An edge of fear. A whisper of vulnerability. So, the woman had an Achilles’ heel, and it was her daughter, apparently.

She swept a hand through her hair, causing it to ripple across her shoulder. “So what do we do now?” she asked, then cleared her throat as if swallowing a lump.

“We keep your daughter safe,” he replied. For the first time since he’d arrived he felt as if he had her full, undivided attention. “What I’ll need from you is Gracie’s daily schedule.”

“Done.”

“I also need you to make a list of all the people who surround her.”

She frowned again. “That’s going to be quite a list. Gracie is in the middle of filming a movie. Her schedule is hectic and there’s no way I can list everyone who works on the movie set.”

“Do the best you can,” he replied. “I want teachers, staff, along with everyone she interacts with outside the house. From now until we decide the threat has passed, she won’t go anywhere without me.”

Libby’s frown deepened and she tapped perfectly manicured fingernails on top of the glass table. “This is going to get complicated. We’re in negotiations for her next movie role. It’s important that the press doesn’t get hold of this, that nobody knows we’re worried about Gracie’s safety.”

“Unfortunately there’s no way I can be inconspicuous,” he said. God forbid they screw up Gracie’s next movie deal, he thought with a touch of irritation.

She stopped her finger tapping and leaned back in the chair, her eyes focused once again out the windows. “It’s going to look odd, you hanging out everywhere with Gracie. People will wonder who you are and why you’re hanging around us.”

Clay remained silent, wondering what she was going to come up with to explain his presence. He’d obviously entered a place of illusion, where nothing was as it seemed and appearances were everything.

Her gorgeous blue eyes focused on him once again. “I suppose if anyone asks, we can say you’re my boyfriend.” Her expression held a touch of distaste, as if she found the very idea rather appalling.

He wasn’t too thrilled with the idea, either. She sure as hell wasn’t his type of woman. He didn’t go for the ice princess types. “You’re the boss,” he replied.

“We’ll tell people we met several months ago at a charity function and have been secretly dating ever since.” Her gaze flickered down the length of him. “You’re a wealthy retired rancher, and that’s all anyone needs to know.”

“Won’t your friends wonder why you haven’t mentioned me before to them?”

“This is Hollywood. I don’t have close friends,” she replied.

He had a feeling that the fact that she didn’t have close friends was less about Hollywood and more about the woman herself. She didn’t seem like the type who would give much of herself to anyone. Of course, it was too early for him to form any definite opinions about her.

Her gaze flickered over him once again. “We have a lot going on over the next couple of weeks, events that will require formal dress. I don’t suppose you have a tuxedo in that little suitcase of yours.” There was a tone in her voice that indicated she doubted he’d ever worn a tux, let alone owned one.

“Unfortunately, when I packed my bags my tux was at the cleaner’s,” he said dryly.

“I’ll have Enrique bring some things over for you from his shop. If you’re going to attend the various events with Gracie and me, you need to be dressed appropriately. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of the cost.”

The irritation Clay had been fighting since the moment he’d arrived rose up. “That’s not necessary. I can afford to buy my own clothes, even in Hollywood.”

She opened her mouth as if to protest, but must have seen something on his face that made her think twice. “Suit yourself,” she said. “I’ll make the arrangements for sometime tomorrow afternoon with Enrique.”

“Where is Gracie now?” he asked.

“Up on the third floor with her voice teacher. There are several rooms up there, including a place where Gracie has her various lessons and works out with her physical trainer.”

A physical trainer for an eight-year-old? Once again he realized he was in a world unfamiliar to everything he knew.

“If we’re finished here, then I’d like to go up to the third floor and take a look around.”

“All right, and I’ll see to it that you have a schedule of her daily activities and that list of people by the end of the evening.”

She stood, looking as if she’d like nothing better than to escape his presence. “Dinner is served at seven in the dining room. If you need anything else, I’ll be in my office getting together those things for you.”

Clay stood as she left the sunroom, the scent of her perfume lingering in the air. He’d hoped that when he read the letters he’d be able to tell her there was nothing to worry about and he’d be able to leave la-la land and head back home to Cotter Creek.

But the letters had disturbed him. It was possible they were nothing more than the work of a harmless fanatic, but he wasn’t willing to take that chance. He might gamble on other things, but not on a little girl’s life.

He left the sunroom and headed for the stairs to the third floor. He’d thought his gig in Las Vegas had been torturous, but he had a feeling that was nothing compared to playing bodyguard to an eight-year-old and pretend boyfriend to a woman he didn’t even like very much.

It was almost seven when Libby left her bedroom for dinner. She’d spent the past hour getting the things together for Clay and trying not to let thoughts of the man distract her from the job.

Something about him put her on edge as nobody had in a very long time. She’d called Charlie, Gracie’s agent, to find out more about Clay West. What he’d told her had surprised her.

Wild West Protective Services, the family business Clay worked for, was a million-dollar industry owned by Red West, Clay’s father. When Clay had said he could afford to pay for his own clothing, according to Charlie, he wasn’t lying.