Her Bodyguard

“I’m sorry,” Gillian said, glancing at Lara’s troubled face.

“Why?” Trace snapped.

“What?” Swinging to face him, she found his eyes had gone darker, the pupils expanding like those of a cat when it sees a bird.

“Why are you sorry?” he demanded softly.

Bewildered by his intensity, she shrugged. “Of all the letters I had to choose...”

A two-heartbeat pause, then Trace looked down again. “Most unfortunate,” he agreed smoothly.

“I’ll say!” Joya sniggered. “First day on the job and the girl hits a home run! Way to go, Gillie.”

“It’s hardly Gillian’s fault,” Lara protested. “Not her fault at all! If anyone ought to apologize, Gillian, it’s me. I should have warned you. Once in a blue moon you’ll get a fan who’s a little...”

“Or a lot,” Trace observed wryly. He was using his two pencils now to maneuver the manila envelope across the desk to his side.

“Oh, pick it up, for Pete’s sake!” Joya reached for it. “Ow!” she yelped as he rapped her knuckles with the eraser end of a pencil. “Did you see that?” she demanded of Lara. “I’m supposed to put up with this crap?”

“Fingerprints, darling,” Trace murmured, bending to study the envelope. When he straightened again, there was a stillness about him that hadn’t been there before. “This envelope came from which box, Gillian?”

“Th-the one on the end.” Whatever Joya might think, this man was nobody’s lapdog. Gillian had met rottweilers with kinder eyes. “Why?”

“This is today’s mail. Postmarked Saturday in Boston. So today, Monday, is the first day it could have been delivered. So who brought it up to the house?” His eyes swung to Joya.

She squirmed, shrugged, looked up at him with an odd defiance. “Okay, so I did, so what? When Toby and I came in from breakfast, it was there in the mailbox, so I brought it up—brought it here to the office. So what?”

“I believe we had an understanding, Joya. I bring up the mail.”

“You think that’s all it takes to earn your keep around here?” she jeered, backing away from him toward the door.

“Joya!” Lara protested.

“Oh, spare me. I don’t want to hear it, okay? I’m late for lunch. Gillie, call me a cab and tell it to meet me at the front gates.” Joya stalked out of the room without a backward glance.

CHAPTER SIX

AT SEVEN-THIRTY IN THE evening, a rosy light still lingered in the western sky. Standing at his office window, Trace could see, beyond a hedge of lilacs, a shadowed stretch of the service driveway. “Come on, Gillian.” She’d told Lara that she taught an eight o’clock class at the Y Monday nights. Women’s weights, she’d said. “Get a move on.” She’d have to leave the carriage house any minute now to make it on time. And he couldn’t move till she did.

Just one more roadblock in a day filled with frustrations.

After that ugliness in the office, Lara had gone straight to bed. She’d claimed a raging headache and Trace didn’t doubt it. Since her fall she was subject to those, and stress looked to be a trigger. But it wasn’t just pain troubling her, he’d thought, when he brought her her lunch on a tray.

The lady was blue, it struck him, in spite of her brave front. Not frightened, which seemed the more reasonable response to such a blatant threat, but deeply depressed. And not willing to talk about it—at least not with him. Not till he’d apologized for thwarting Joya.

But Trace had no intention of apologizing to the silly brat. He’d explained to Lara that he didn’t want her car out on the street unsupervised, where it might be sabotaged. But he couldn’t say that to Joya, since she and Toby lived in a state of blissful ignorance, unaware that Lara was being stalked. Or that their stepmother’s “accident” on Cliff Walk was no accident. Only the chief of Newport police and his top detective, Jeremy Benton, were privy to that secret. Lara had wanted to avoid publicity. And Trace felt he had a better chance of nailing her assailant if no hue and cry was raised.

Since the last few minutes, even hours, before a traumatic head injury were often wiped from the victim’s memory, whoever had pushed Lara off the cliff had good reason to hope she’d forgotten the assault. Let him or her think so, Trace had urged. The better to catch you, you freak!

For the same reason, he lived at Woodwind under cover, with no one but Lara and his police contacts knowing his true role in the household. Because he didn’t want to deter a threat—postpone Lara’s troubles till he’d gone. He wanted to lull the stalker, lure him or her into his reach. Look, here’s poor little Lara, protected by no one but her bumbling gigolo. Come and get her!

Or be gotten.

TRACE STRAIGHTENED as headlights blossomed beyond the lilac leaves, then wheeled downhill toward the gates. Gillian’s little Toyota. He breathed a sigh of relief. Action at last.

He left the mansion by the kitchen door, checking that it locked behind him. Barbara Heath, Lara’s longtime cook and housekeeper, and Maureen, the upstairs maid, had both retired to their third-floor apartments. As had Harriet, Woodwind’s perpetual houseguest. The resident layabouts, Toby and Joya, were out for the evening. If they followed their usual pattern, they wouldn’t return till the bars closed at one o’clock. Or later, if they found an after-hours party.

And his client was locked in her impregnable suite with his locket buzzer around her neck. He didn’t like to leave her, but it was Lara’s choice to hire only one bodyguard. There was only so much he could do.

Nail Sarah XXX and he could stop worrying.

Trace circled the noisy gravel of the courtyard, then approached the carriage house through a flower bed on the downhill side. The copy of the key he’d made two days before—without telling Lara—fit sweetly into the lock and turned. At the top of the stairs, he glanced at his watch—7:55 p.m. He’d give himself till 9:00 to toss the place. It took longer when you meant to leave no signs of a search.

Inside, he paused, listening to the silence. Smelling it. Already the air carried a suggestion of Gillian. Lemons? New-mown hay? The same sunny, subtle perfume that clung to her tawny hair. He’d noticed it that first time he held her. Must be imagining it now, surely.

He padded into the room. After he’d disposed of Sarah XXX’s latest offering, Gillian had spent the rest of the morning working on the fan mail. In the afternoon she’d retreated to her apartment. To unpack and settle in, she’d said. Noting a vase of wild roses on the table in the window nook, Trace smiled in spite of himself. Whatever else she might be, she was all girl.

His smile faded. Whatever else she might be. He didn’t want Gillian to be his psycho. Found it almost impossible to imagine she could be. But if she was? Then the odds are very good that the lady owns an orange University of Miami sweatshirt, he reminded himself. Find that, and his search was over. Trace headed for the closet in the bedroom.

“GOT A NOTE TO YOU FROM your class,” said the front-desk attendant at the Y. “One of them called it in.”

Gillian unfolded it on her way up to the locker room:

Gillian, we forgot to tell you that it’s Jennifer’s BIG FORTY tonight. She opted for champagne instead of tummy crunches, so we’re carousing at Yesterday’s. Join us, why don’t you, and bring the rest of the class. The Rat Pack.

Gillian laughed and shoved on into the dressing room. The Rat Pack were five women friends who’d signed up together for her weight class. A good time was always their first priority; shaping their figures with small free weights ran a distinct second. With those five truant, she’d have only two students tonight.

She’d changed to her exercise togs before leaving the carriage house, but she stopped by her locker to drop off her thigh-length cotton sweater. “Well, blast!”

“Blast?” inquired Bobbie, the sixth member of Gillian’s class, sitting down on the bench behind her.

“I’m missing a sweatshirt and I was sure I’d left it here.” Her favorite orange sweatshirt, which her brother, Chris, had sent her years ago, when he was attending the University of Miami. She’d looked for it this evening to wear to class and not found it. But if it wasn’t back at the carriage house, wasn’t in her car and wasn’t here in her locker, then—Michele! “One of my roommates has struck again. She puts meaning on the word ‘borrow’ that would make a burglar blush. I’m down three pairs of earrings, a baseball cap, two T-shirts and a pair of 501 Levi’s, at last count. And now my favorite sweatshirt,” Gillian slammed the locker, then checked the clock on the wall. “Well, ready to hoist some metal?”

Bobbie glanced around the room. “Where are the others?” Two swimmers chatted quietly as they toweled off, but otherwise the place was empty.

“Birthday party for Jennifer at Yesterday’s, to which we’re invited after class. And looks like Nancy is a no-show tonight. So you get my full attention, kiddo.”

Bobbie responded with a wan smile and a shake of her head. “You know what, Gillian? I almost didn’t come tonight. I’m having cramps... Would you be hurt if I weaseled out on you and sat in the sauna, instead?”

“Not at all!” She’d be delighted to call it a day herself.

LEANING OUT THE WINDOW of her car to reach the keypad, Gillian punched in the code to open Woodwind’s gates. Lara had given her the number that morning, and a good thing, since the mansion was dark. Eight-thirty and everyone had gone to bed? Lights in Lara’s suite, situated on the oceanside of the house, wouldn’t show, though, come to think of it.

Bed sounded inviting. The day had been a long one, crammed with too many impressions, too much emotion. That horrible letter. If that’s life as a celebrity, Lara can have it! She shuddered and put the letter from mind while she parked the car.

After entering her apartment, she turned to lock the door, turned back—“Oh!” She flinched against the door, one hand to her stuttering heart.

Standing at the counter in her kitchen, Trace Sutton glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll have to buy you a decent corkscrew.” He held up the simple bartender’s device he must have found in her utensil drawer, then jabbed it into the cork of a wine bottle.