Ridge: The Avenger

Mere seconds passed and Ridge was pulling her to her feet. She thought she heard him swearing, but the support from his body felt wonderful.

“Let’s get you out of—”

“I’m sorry, lady.” The little boy who had accidentally pushed her hung back from the rest of his friends.

“We need to move you,” Ridge muttered, and began to guide her toward the curb.

“Wait a minute.” Dara stopped as best as she could.

“I was just tryin’ to help,” the boy said, wringing his hands. “I didn’t mean to push you.”

Despite her throbbing knee, Dara’s heart went out to him. No more than seven years old, he looked miserable. “Of course you didn’t.” She felt a trickle of blood run down her shin and bit her lip. “Tell you what. I need to get a bandage. Would you carry the banner for me?”

His brown eyes lit up. “Wow. Can I really?”

She ruffled his hair. “Really.”

Ridge tugged her along. “Time to go,” he said firmly. “I’ll take you back to the limo and—”

Dara shook her head. “I can’t leave yet. I’ve still got to present the awards for the in-line skating races.” She gave a wry smile to the mayor who was bearing down on them, along with a half dozen other people. “Sorry about my little spill. Does anyone have a bandage?”

Within five minutes Dara traded her in-line skates for tennis shoes and had a bandage placed on her knee. While staying by her side for the next two hours, Ridge developed a healthy dose of respect for her. When he’d pointed out that no one would fault her for leaving early, she’d dismissed the option. “They’re counting on me.”

So he watched her smile and laugh even as she favored her right leg, and he thought that perhaps the statement about Dara being pure gold went deeper than the surface after all.

“Who’s your sexy shadow?” Kit Brubaker, a longtime friend from Dara’s alma mater asked as she gestured toward the waiter for a second round of margaritas.

“My bodyguard. Just until the end of the campaign.” Dara licked the rest of the salt off the rim of her glass and sighed. It was such a relief to talk to someone not connected to the campaign. “My godfather insisted,” she added, and glanced around. Ridge had selected well. The elegantly appointed hotel bar had great service and drinks. Of course, Ridge was far more pleased that the hotel had security and the hotel bar had security. Dara was beginning to feel as if Wells Fargo had taken over her life.

Kit’s eyes widened. “A bodyguard. I can just hear Whitney Houston singing something sexy in the background!”

Dara didn’t find that amusing. “Then you’re suffering from delusions. Ridge is no Kevin Costner.”

Kit glanced at Ridge again and nodded. “You’re right. He’s better looking than Kevin Costner.”

Dara tried to affect a stern expression, but the combination of the eventful day and margarita were too much. She giggled past her frown. “You’re right. He is better looking.”

A gamine blonde who’d always been known for her sense of the absurd, Kit grinned. “So, what’s it like having a bodyguard? Has he picked you up and carried you out of a crowd? Is he with you every minute of the day?”

Dara shook her head. “Did you get a part-time job with one of those scandal sheets?” she returned with a meaningful expression.

Kit’s face softened in compassion. “You do have to think about the press all the time, don’t you?” She gave a mild shudder. “I don’t envy you that. But there’s a reason they put you in front of a mike and camera, Dara. You’re good.”

“Thanks. You’re nice to say that, although I’m not always sure exactly what I’m accomplishing.” Dara gave a brief smile of gratitude to the waiter for the drinks. “It’s not always bad, but we’re at the end of the campaign right now, so the pressure to avoid any screwups is incredible.” She took a sip. “That’s why I called you. I knew I could count on my old sorority sister to help me blow off a little steam.”

Kit placed a hand over her heart. “I’m honored, and I do take my duty seriously. But since it’s not likely that I’ll ever need a bodyguard, I hope you’ll take pity on me and give me the dirt on what it’s like to have one.”

Dara sighed, but relented. Briefly glancing at Ridge, she thought about how she was always aware of him. The only respite she got was when she slept, and not always then. “He tells me what I can’t do and where I can’t go, which is just about anything and anywhere not preplanned. We disagree on how cautious I need to be. And you wouldn’t believe the things he checks before I even enter a hotel building.”

Kit looked disappointed. “This isn’t nearly as exciting as I’d imagined,” she confessed. “Have you had any personal conversations with him?”

“Not many. He’s all business.” Feeling a trace of guilt about discussing him, Dara lowered her voice even though she knew Ridge couldn’t hear her. “He hovers—constantly.”

Kit made a face and shrugged. “If he’s that bad, why don’t you ditch him?”

“My godfather won’t fire him, so—”

“No.” Kit shook her head emphatically. “I mean, if it’s driving you nuts for him to hover, why don’t you escape?”

Dara blinked at the suggestion. Alarm and a heady, naughty excitement shot through her. “You mean, sneak away without telling him? Sneak away to go shopping, or buy ice cream, or…?” Her list was endless.

“Or anything you want to do. You deserve it, Dara. You’ve worked like a dog during this campaign.”

Why did she feel like she was talking to the devil himself? “Harrison would never approve.”

“That’s true,” Kit admitted, but Dara also knew that Kit didn’t give a damn about gaining the approval of others. In Dara’s opinion, it was one of Kit’s most admirable qualities.

“Clarence would probably have a stroke.”

Kit nodded. “Yep.”

“And it would infuriate Ridge.” She took a sip of her drink and thought out loud, “The mature, responsible choice would be to continue to allow Ridge to do his job. Then, after the election, I’ll be free to go where I please.”

“Right. So what are you going to do?”

Wavering on her inclination to be mature and responsible, Dara smiled slowly. “That’s a good question.”

Ridge folded the last section of the newspaper, glanced at his watch, then at the door to Dara’s bedroom. She’d mentioned something about sleeping in, but she’d never slept past eight-thirty before. He wondered if those margaritas were slowing her down this morning.

The phone rang, and since she had insisted, he waited for her to pick it up. He waited six rings and frowned. Why wasn’t she answering? Was she sick? He’d put off checking on her because he didn’t think the sight of Dara in bed would do a hell of a lot for his resolve to maintain a professional distance from her. Brushing that thought aside, he crossed the living room and was lifting his hand to tap on her bedroom door when he heard a knock on the suite door. Ridge turned away to answer it.

Newspapers clutched in both hands, Clarence Merriman burst in full of excitement. “How’s our girl this morning? She must have been tired if she canceled our breakfast appointment. Have you seen these papers?” Clarence waved them in front of Ridge. “Drew Forrester is beside himself with joy. Said he tried to call Dara a few minutes ago and couldn’t reach her. He told me to get her on the phone immediately, so he can congratulate her.” Clarence winked knowingly. “I think he’s got his eye on our Dara. Is she in the shower?”

Ridge’s frown deepened. Drew Forrester was starting to get on his nerves, and he hadn’t even met the man. “She’s not in the shower.” He shoved away from the doorway. “I was just getting ready to check on her.”

Surprise crossed Clarence’s face. “She’s not up yet. That’s not like Dara. I hope she’s not sick.”

Ridge tapped lightly on her door and waited a moment. Then he knocked a little more firmly. “Dara,” he called. “Open up. Clarence is here.”

He opened the door a crack, then pushed it the rest of the way open. Surveying her room in a one-second glance, he swore out loud. His chest squeezed tight.

Dara was gone.

His mind racing at the different possibilities, he dashed into the room and snatched up the note on her bed. As he read it, Ridge’s alarm quickly shifted to anger. Clarence was talking a mile a minute. To halt the older man’s panic attack, he shoved the note in his face, then immediately picked up the phone.

And while he dialed, Ridge thought about wringing Darlin’ Dara’s pretty little neck.

Anticipation shimmered throughout Dara. Five minutes to go. She adjusted her sunglasses and tugged the bill of her cap forward. The huge sunglasses were her own; the cap, one of the treasures she’d picked up at the flea market this morning. Her two hours of freedom had left her feeling more intoxicated than the margaritas from the night before.