Her Bodyguard

Her Bodyguard
Peggy Nicholson

In a sumptious Newport Mansion…Gillian Mahler has a plan–take the job as soap opera star Lara Corday's personal assistant. Maybe she can endear herself to Lara first, then spring the news that Lara is her birth mother, who abandoned her as an infant twenty-eight years before.Trace Sutton has a plan, too–work undercover as a bodyguard, posing as Lara Corday's gigolo. Maybe then he can discover the identity of the faceless stalker who wants Lara dead.In Lara's sumptuous mansion high on a cliff above Newport, Rhode Island, Gillian and Trace meet–and attraction sparks right away.This certainly complicates their plans.Gillian can't possibly allow herself to fall for a man who's her long-lost mother's lover, and no way can Trace blow his cover as bodyguard–especially when some sleuthing reveals that Gillian has an excellent motive for murdering the woman he's guarding!

“S-stop!” (#ud39a67db-2c00-5a09-b976-0debba8e8f82)ABOUT THE AUTHOR (#ue506db20-c703-565a-915d-425dc076a1b4)Title Page (#u5945fa66-215a-5768-94da-09854a1aba52)CHAPTER ONE (#u604c6b27-2418-5dbe-8dbf-070ac3d91925)CHAPTER TWO (#ub0903779-b47c-5c9f-95b0-b7145c8a1c6e)CHAPTER THREE (#u916c8433-7a24-5a47-9845-8f7397e7c0dc)CHAPTER FOUR (#u5954f3c0-8778-5d11-a9b1-0823a033804f)CHAPTER FIVE (#u2443ae37-bed6-5f94-b104-0cb30608ca7e)CHAPTER SIX (#u8265c517-f21f-5198-b67b-7f3d4adb2c80)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

“S-stop!”

Gillian tore her mouth away and moaned as Trace circled the delicate rim of her ear with his tongue.

“Mmm?” He rubbed his face through her fragrant hair. She could not possibly mean that.

“We’ve got to stop,” she insisted, but without conviction.

“Who says?” He kissed the tip of her nose. “You don’t want to stop. I don’t want to stop. So we’re stopping?”

‘Yes.“ She said the word softly, but with no compromise this time.

“Mind telling me why?”

She laughed incredulously. “Trace!” He could feel her shake her head. “In a word? Lara, that’s why.”

He swore silently, viciously, then tipped back his head to consult the invisible rocks above. let me explain! Except that he couldn’t He couldn’t break his cover while there was one chance in a million that Gillian was untrustworthy.

And he wouldn’t have done it even if he was entirety sure of her. Being undercover meant you lived the part night and day till you were done. People died when you broke that rule.

Which meant he could come to Gillian only as Trace Sutton, faithless gigolo, not Trace Sutton, heart-free bodyguard....

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

For ten years Peggy Nicholson lived aboard a boat moored in Newport harbor. Nowadays, during southeast storms, she can hear the rumble of waves breaking against the Cliff Walk from her office window. She often runs the cliffs at dawn.

Her Bodyguard

Peggy Nicholson

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CHAPTER ONE

SHE TRADED YOU FOR A CAR. A shiny red Mustang—that’s all you ever meant to that little lady. Now, why would you want a mother like that?

“I don’t,” Gillian said to the door she stood facing. One of two double doors, twelve feet tall, carved from some golden wood varnished to gleaming perfection. They barred an entrance almost wide enough to admit a Mustang car, shiny red or otherwise. She clenched her hand to knock, but her arm stayed straight at her side. I don’t want her, she’d told the lawyer—a horrible little man—nearly two years ago. I want the facts. My facts.

Like the name of her father. Whether she had any brothers or sisters or grandparents. Whether she might be deathly allergic to anything else besides bee stings. Facts that it seemed, some days, the whole world was conspiring to hide from her.

The people who’d raised and loved her, the doctor who’d delivered her, the lawyer who’d arranged her adoption, the woman who’d borne her almost twenty-eight years ago—every one of them had lied or twisted or forgotten or lost or hidden her facts. Or simply refused to give them.

Her facts lay behind this door and she’d come to steal them, since asking politely had gotten her nowhere.

Had gotten her much worse than nowhere. Her letter of shy and hopeful inquiry last year had earned her a stinging, contemptuous response: “If I didn’t want you when you were born why would I want you now, Sarah, if that’s who you really are? So go get a life! And stay the hell out of mine!”

And so I will, Mother. Just as soon as I have my facts. Gillian Sarah Scott Mahler raised her fist, held her breath and knocked, then noticed the doorbell and jabbed that, too.

But of course a woman who owned a mansion in Newport, Rhode Island, a millionaire by marriage and a queen of television soap opera in her own right, didn’t open her own front door. How idiotic to have expected it. Gillian blinked at the frowning older woman who swung back the door. “I...” She swallowed and tried again. “I have a ten o’clock appointment with Mrs. Corday. About the job. I’m Gillian Mahler.”

“And just how did you get in here? Nobody buzzed the front gates,” declared the woman.

Must be a member of the household rather than a maid, Gillian guessed, if she felt free to quiz visitors. She might even be a relative, an aunt or cousin, though Gillian could see nothing of herself in the dour and freckled face, the short square body, of her inquisitor. “I walked in,” she said as the woman tapped one foot impatiently. “Someone was driving out as I arrived, and waved me through.”

“Those kids!” The woman glared over Gillian’s shoulder toward the massive iron gates at the end of the driveway, although the couple, a blond young man and woman in a Range Rover, were long gone.

“I really do have an appointment,” Gillian insisted. She didn’t care if she’d broken some unwritten rule of the household. No one was turning her back now, not when she was this close.

“Well, come on, then.” Leaving her to shut the door herself, the woman marched away.

Gillian hurried after her, dimly aware of high, high ceilings, cool marble that clacked underfoot, a grand staircase that swept up to the floors above. Her mother’s house. Assuming Lara Corday—Lara Leigh to her adoring fans—was really her mother. And she is. Same birth date. Same high-school photo. Of course she is.

So why wouldn’t she acknowledge her own daughter?

Traded you for a car and never looked back, the lawyer assured her for the thousandth time in memory. That’s all I can tell you.

If that trade had set a girl named Lara Lee Bailey on the road from a ramshackle cabin in the hardscrabble mountains of West Virginia to this palace, maybe it had been the smartest deal a girl of fifteen had ever made. But why—

“Wait here and I’ll tell her you’ve come.” Gillian’s guide opened a paneled door, waved her inside and closed it firmly behind her.

“Whew!” Gillian leaned back against the door and pressed one hand to her thundering heart.

“Damn it all!” A golf ball rolled across the carpet before her. It bypassed a crystal vase laid on its side and disappeared under a sofa. “So much for my birdie!”

A man stood in front of the fireplace, glaring after his errant putt. He lowered his golf club and leaned on it, then turned his attention to her. “And who the devil are you to mess up a man’s game?”

“I’m G-Gillian. Gillian Mahler.” And who are you? Not Lara Corday’s husband, the famous TV writer and producer. Richard Corday had died in his sleep two years ago. And Corday had been in his late sixties, not mid-thirties like this man.

So friend of the family then, or even a relative—Lara’s relative and therefore hers? It was conceivable. Gillian was tall for a woman, yet he was taller. Six-one or -two easily. Hair darker than her own light brown. His eyes were too deepset to see the color from where she stood. Still, she felt an odd shock of... something. Recognition on some instinctive level?

Or maybe it was just the mood of him as he glared at her from under his black level eyebrows that made the impact, and her sense of kinship was entirely false. Everyone was a potential relative once you learned you were adopted. You found yourself staring at faces as you walked down the street.

He crossed one running shoe over the other and slouched more comfortably against his putting iron. “You sky-dive, Gillian Mahler? Or maybe you made your approach by sea.” He tipped his head toward the six pairs of French doors that formed the entire south wall.

Beyond them stretched the lawn, then the back side of the estate’s unbreachable granite wall, and then the cliffs, with Newport’s famous Cliff Walk meandering high above the blue waters. Gillian had strolled that path often enough these past four months, staring up at this mansion. And now she stood inside it, about to meet her mother. At last.

“You scuba?” the golfer prodded mildly. “Left your wet suit and fins out on the terrace?”

Why was everyone so intent on learning how she’d gotten in? “Helicopter, actually.” She edged away from him toward the windows. I don’t want to talk to you, whoever you are. I came to meet my mother.

“Funny, I didn’t hear it. Didn’t even hear the buzzer for the front gates.” He straightened and ambled across the room to the sofa, then stooped with ease to peer beneath it. “You climbed over?” he hazarded idly, and swept his well-muscled arm under it for his ball. “Grappling hooks and all that?”

The ball he sought had rolled out in front of the sofa. Gillian picked it up and toyed with the notion of stuffing it into his mouth. Would you please, please shut up? Her whole life was about to change. Knowingly and unknowingly, she’d been coming to this encounter for almost twenty-eight years, and now, just when she needed to savor the moment, prepare for it, rehearse the role she meant to play and the first cautious words of her script, this big babbling...jock wouldn’t leave her in peace. “I walked in the gates when a couple drove out, all right? They saw me. It isn’t as if I snuck in.”