Читать книгу Glass Slipper Bride - Arlene James, Arlene James - Страница 9
ОглавлениеChapter Two
Camille Waltham rose regally From the velvet tuft, her dainty feet encased in ridiculously elegant silk slippers with bows on the toes. She smoothed down her wild hair with both hands, then planted her hands at her slender hips and lifted her chin, blue eyes glittering as they held his. Something hovered about her cupid’s bow mouth, held at bay by sheer determination. Then she abruptly switched her gaze to his left, targeting Jillian, suddenly imperious.
“You said he was good. You didn’t say he was good looking.”
The unctuous tone of her voice soured in the pit of Zach’s stomach, raising distaste and instant dislike. Good-looking? Was he supposed to be flattered? Even knowing that somehow he would have been, had the comment come from anyone else, didn’t make him like the woman any better. Jillian, at least, seemed to realize that her sister’s behavior was tasteless. She attempted to normalize the situation by rushing into introductions.
“Zachary Keller, I’d like you to meet my sister, Camille Waltham. Camille, this is Mr. Keller.”
Camille at first appeared piqued; then abruptly she floated across the room and offered a small, perfect hand, her gaze measuring him with the efficiency of a laser beam. He wondered if she meant for him to kiss it. Instead, he gave it a brief squeeze and dropped it like a hot potato. Something indecipherable flashed across her face and was quickly replaced by hauteur. She addressed herself to Jillian once again.
“I suppose he would be an acceptable bodyguard.” She turned away and floated back toward the dressing table. Casting a coy look over one shoulder, she added, “He’d have to pose as a suitor, of course, a love interest, a boyfriend.”
Jillian glanced an apology in his direction and opened her mouth, but he beat her to the reply.
“No way. Out of the question.”
Camille Waltham turned back to him almost petulantly. “Oh? And why is that?”
“Because I have a few ironclad rules concerning my business,” he told her, folding his hands and widening his stance, “and number one is that I don’t get involved—or pretend to be involved—romantically with my clients. Period.”
She lifted her chin. “I don’t see why—”
“It tends to aggravate the problem, especially in partner abuse cases. Otherwise, it’s just bad policy.”
She inclined her head. “Surely you can make exceptions for high-profile—”
“No exceptions,” he interrupted flatly. “The bottom line is this. If I’m going to help you, you’re going to have to do things my way.”
“And if I don’t?” she challenged mildly.
He shrugged. “I’m the professional here, so I give the orders. If that doesn’t work for you, find somebody else to take care of your stalker.”
Camille shot a glance at Jillian, then suddenly dropped onto the tuft in front of her dressing table. “Who says I’m being stalked?”
Jillian stepped forward once more, worriedly glancing in Zach’s direction. “Camille, you have to take this seriously. You know how Janzen is. He won’t just go away, because that’s exactly what you want him to do.”
“And whose fault is that?” the blonde in pink snapped.
Camille turned a resentful glare on the woman, then seemed to subside, leaning an elbow on the edge of the table. “What do you recommend?” she asked reluctantly.
Zach assumed the question was meant for him.
“For starters,” he said, “I recommend you send the flunkies out for coffee and give me a few minutes of your undivided attention. Now.”
For a moment he thought, hoped, she would refuse, but then she jerked one hand and the majority of the room’s occupants tried to beat one another to the door. Only two remained, Jillian and the blonde in pink. He turned a pointed glare on the blonde, who drew herself up sternly then ruined the effect by sniping pettily at Jillian, “If she can stay, so can L”
“They both stay,” said Camille. sounding bored. “Jillian, as you know, is my sister, and this is my mother, Gerry.” She waved a hand at the pink suit.
“That’s ‘Geraldine,’” the blonde in pink said, “Geraldine Hunsell Baker.”
“Actually, that’s Geraldine Porter Waltham Hunsell Baker,” Camille said slyly.
Zach made no acknowledgment of the litany of names, not even the two socially prominent ones. Instead, he removed a small notebook and an ink pen from his jacket pocket and prepared to take notes. “All right,” he said. “Let’s have the whole story.”
Camille shrugged and began applying makeup with tiny sponges as she talked, explaining how she had met, dated and eventually become engaged to a once successful but now-unemployed advertising executive named Janzen Eibersen, whom she had allowed to move in with her. According to her, Eibersen had at first seemed to actually enjoy the “public socializing” that, again according to her, was part of her career. Gradually, however, it became obvious that Janzen had a drinking problem, and he began embarrassing her. They argued, and he drank more. Absenteeism became a problem on his job, and he was eventually fired. When she broke up with him and threw him out the house, he blamed her with all his problems and vowed that “she wouldn’t get away with it.”
His “punishment” of her began with repeated phone calls and letters that were returned or destroyed unopened. He had even called her boss to complain that she was trying to control and ruin his life. His latest effort was an act of vandalism that had resulted in a broken window, a sure sign of growing desperation, even though Camille sniggered that it had to have been an accident because Janzen would never risk injuring himself to make a point She had no idea where to locate Eibersen and had met only a few of his friends. She believed that he would grow tired of the game when he saw that he was not affecting her noticeably and just go away, but for Jillian’s sake, she was willing to take the situation more seriously. Jillian, for her part, stood mutely with her arms wrapped around her middle as if holding in something that she desperately wanted to say.
Zach was uncertain what to think, really. Was Janzen dangerous or merely irritating? Had Jillian overreacted, or was Camille downplaying the seriousness of the situation? He knew only one thing for certain: it made no sense to take chances. If Camille was right, she’d have spent some money—which she obviously could afford—for no definite reason. If she was wrong, spending that money on her own security would be the best investment she ever made.
“I’ll want to see that window before I go,” he said, “but right now I have a few questions.”
She waved a hand as if granting him permission to ask what he would while she applied lipstick with a brush.
He tamped down his irritation and focused. “Has this Eibersen ever hit you?”
She considered her reflection in the mirror for a moment, smacked her lips and said, “Not intentionally.”
Jillian made a slight movement that he caught with the corner of his eye. Turning his head, he lifted a brow, inviting her to speak. She did so as if explaining for her sister was something she did every day. “Janzen was drunk. He took a swing at Plato, missed and clipped Camille on the chin.”
“She could hardly speak for a week,” Geraldine said, as though it were somehow Jillian’s fault.
“And never missed a newscast,” Camille said, batting her eyelashes as she brushed mascara into them.
Zach asked, “Who’s Plato?”
“Camille’s hairdresser,” Jillian answered.
“The gray ponytail? What’d Eibersen have against him?”
Camille capped the mascara and tossed it away. “Jan liked my full attention,” she said, giving her full attention to her reflection in the small lit mirror standing atop the dressing table.
Zach could just see a drunken Janzen trying to talk lucidly with a preoccupied Camille while the hairdresser fluttered around her ratting her hair until it filled the room. He could almost feel sorry for the guy, but that didn’t mean he could overlook the fact that Eibersen had thrown that punch. He sighed. “Any other episodes of violence?”
Camille picked up a hairbrush and began dragging it through her shoulder-length hair, smoothing and caressing. Jillian said, “He used to throw things, stomp around yelling and screaming.”
“He threw a bowl of caviar on the kitchen floor,” Geraldine said, no doubt considering it proof of insanity. “A crystal bowl.”
“He drove his car up onto the sidewalk, knocked over some potted trees and crashed right into the barrier in front of the TV station,” Jillian said quietly. “I was at the reception desk. I thought he was going to come right through the glass into the building.”
No doubt about it, the guy definitely had a screw loose. Zach finished scribbling in his notebook, flipped it closed and dropped it into his pocket. “Okay. Here’s the deal. I’ve heard enough to believe he can be dangerous, and you’re a public personality, Ms. Waltham, which makes you even easier to get at than the average individual. So I propose we bring in a couple of subcontractors to keep an eye on you.”
She turned away from the mirror then. “I can’t have a couple of goons trailing me everywhere I go. What would people think?”
Zach just barely curbed the urge to roll his eyes. “I don’t use ‘goons,’ as you put it. These men are professionals. They can keep a discreet distance. It won’t be enough to completely protect you, so you’ll have to be on your guard.”
Camille turned back to the mirror, her reflection laughing at him. “For Pete’s sake. Keller, all I want you to do is stop the man from bothering me. He’s not trying to kill anybody.”
“Not yet,” Zach said. “But who can say he won’t cross that line if he gets frustrated enough.”
She had coaxed her hair into a sleek flip. She smoothed it now with her hands, turning her head this way and that “Jan was born frustrated,” she said in a bored tone, “but he’s not stupid. He won’t do anything in front of witnesses, and since I’m never without an escort in public, I don’t see what the problem is.”
Zach felt an instant of relief. He could just turn around and walk out now. He’d given her his take on the problem, and she’d rejected it. Nothing was keeping him here now—except a pair of big, sky-soft eyes clouded with worry. It occurred to him that if he washed his hands of Camille Waltham right here and now he could ask her sister out on a proper date, and just the thought of that kind of freedom scared him right back into Camille Waltham’s corner.
“Is that tuxedo in there an example of the kind of escort you take out in public with you?” he demanded.
It was Geraldine who came to the man’s defense. “And just what’s wrong with my ex-stepson?” she asked in a mystified tone.
Zach smirked. “I’m sure he’s from the very best of families, ma’am, but I doubt he could disarm a cranky toddler with a sucker, let alone a drunk with a grudge and a gun.”
The color bled right out of her face. “We don’t know that Jan has a gun,” she said weakly.
“We don’t know that he doesn’t.”
He gave that a few seconds to sink in before he went on, addressing himself to Camille this time. “Maybe we can compromise with protection in public only, provided you follow my instructions.”
“Listen to him, Camille,” Jillian pleaded softly. “Please.”
Camille rolled her eyes. “Oh, all right, if you’re that scared of the harmless loser, I’ll let the big, bad expert handle it.”
Jillian seemed relieved, but Zach frowned. He didn’t like being put down by a stuck-up little broad with more hair than sense, but he really didn’t like watching her put down the sister who was so obviously concerned for her. Still, their interpersonal relationships were no business of his. His business was protecting the little witch, and he got down to it without further ado.
“Starting tomorrow,” he said, “I’ll want a list of your public appearances so I can have someone on hand to protect you. I’ll need a photo of Eibersen to show them.”
“I’ll have my secretary take care of both,” Camille said tersely.
“You should be safe at the office,” Zach went on. “Security’s usually pretty tight at television stations, but I’ll check to be sure. How do you get to work?”
“The station provides a limo.”
“Okay. I’ll talk to the driver. Now about this house. I noticed a security system monitor in the front hall. Is it activated?”
Camille shook her head. “It was here when I bought the place. I don’t know anything about it.”
“Well, I do,” Zach said. He took out his wallet and went through it until he found the card he wanted. Walking forward, he laid it on the corner of her dressing table. “Call that number and get the system activated.”
She glanced at the card, picked it up and held it out to Jillian, who hurried forward and took it. Obviously Jillian would be deputized to take care of the details on the home front, so he addressed the next order to her.
“Call a locksmith and get the locks changed. Even if Eibersen never had his own key, the locks I’ve seen so far are more decoration than security. I want a dead bolt and chain on every outside door. Got that?”
Jillian nodded solemnly. He took another card from his shirt pocket and handed it over, knowing that it contained nothing but a ten digit number. “That’s how you can reach me, anytime, anywhere, in case of an emergency. And I do mean an emergency.” He turned back to Camille, brushing back the sides of his coat to settle his hands at his waist. “If you want to talk over arrangements or check on my progress, you call the office. Understand?”
Camille swiveled all the way around on her upholstered stool then. “What progress?” she asked.
“I’m going to do some investigating,” he said, “see if I can locate Eibersen and figure out what he’s up to. I should have a better handle on the situation in a few days. I like to know what I’m up against”
Camille sniffed at that. “You’re up against a hapless boozer,” she said dismissively.
“Maybe so,” he said, “but all it takes to pull a trigger is a finger that works.”
“You don’t really think he’d try to kill her, do you?” Geraldine asked worriedly.
He gave her his most reassuring look. “I don’t know, but until I do, I don’t want her taking any chances. That clear?” He addressed that last to the room at large and got murmurs and nods. “Okay. Now, where’s that window?”
“I’ll show you,” Jillian said, and he held out an arm, turning toward the door with her.
It was then that Camille Waltham finally remembered her manners. She came up off the tuffet and flitted across the room toward them, calling, “Oh, Mr. Keller.” She stopped and smiled. “Zachary.”
“‘Zach,”’ he responded, letting her know that he had no objection to the familiarity and that she had his attention.
She sparkled in a very deliberate manner and said, a little breathlessly, “Thank you. I appreciate you taking the time to handle this.”
“You’ll get a bill,” he told her ungraciously, disliking the sparkle as much as the hauteur.
She turned on a brilliant smile. “Of course.” She tugged on the sash of her robe, letting it fall open as she switched her attention to her sister. “Send everyone in, Jilly. And tuck in that shirttail. You look like a rebellious teenager.”
Zach was unmoved by the flash of compact curves that he got before she whirled away, so much so that he didn’t even bother to react. Instead, he grabbed Jillian’s hand, keeping her from tucking in that shirttail as she’d been instructed, and all but dragged her out of the room. Rebellious teenager, indeed. Somebody ought to take Camille down a peg or two, but it wouldn’t be him. Nosinee, Bob. Not in this life. She wasn’t his sister, after all. He found himself wanting to say something about it to Jillian, but he reminded himself that it wasn’t any of his business. None whatsoever. And that was just the way he wanted it to stay.
They were halfway down the hallway before he realized that he was still holding her hand.
She kept expecting him to drop her hand at any moment, and yet when he did, she felt an unexpectedly intense disappointment. Or was that guilt? She hadn’t expected to be quite so torn about telling him the whole story. Camille had only agreed to speak with him on the condition that Jillian go along with her version of events, and Jillian knew all too well that any deviation from the plan would bring down censure and blame on her head, from Camille. as well as Gerry. Still, it seemed unfair to keep anything back. Not that it would make any difference in this case. Camille and Janzen had broken up, and he seemed bent on punishing Camille. Why, didn’t really matter. Did it?
They reached the back door, and Jillian turned the knob unminkingly. A wave of heat engulfed them as she pulled the door open, and as usual she couldn’t help thinking that it had been a sizzling Texas summer that had driven her parents onto that sailboat off the coast of Galveston Island and to their deaths.
“Is the door always left open like this?” Zach asked incredulously, catching it as she stepped back to let it swing inside.
She stopped in her tracks. “Well, yeah, I guess so, whenever anyone’s home, anyway.”
He elbowed past her to examine the locking mechanism. “I was right This has to be replaced. Get a dead bolt and chain installed, too. And from now on keep it locked, bolted and chained whenever anyone’s home.”
“All right.”
He turned to examine the security system component mounted on the wall. “This is a dual system. You understand, don’t you, that once it’s activated you’ll have to key in a security code every time you come in to keep the alarm from sounding?”
She hadn’t actually, but she nodded anyway. “What, exactly, is a dual system?”
“It means there are two alarms, one here that’s meant to scare off an intruder and warn the occupants, another to alert the police. This particular setup gives you about a minute and two tries to key in the code.”
“I see.”
He ushered her through the door and pulled it closed behind him. “Let’s take a look at that window.”
She led him away from the carport, across the patio and through the gate in the fence around the pool, then along the back of the house to the broken window. The double-wide window was set in the wall at about shoulder height A board had been nailed over it, and broken glass littered the ground, none of the pieces larger than a man’s hand. Zach went down on his haunches and gingerly stirred and studied the shards, some of them streaked and speckled with bright-red spray paint. After a few moments, he looked up at the three-letter word sprayed onto the brick.
“When did this happen?”
“Last night about 1:00 a.m.”
“Did anyone hear or see anything?”
She nodded. “I was asleep in this room, and the shattering of the glass woke me up.”
“This is your room?”
“Uh, no. It’s, um, more private than my room sometimes, though.”
He lifted an eyebrow at that but made no comment. “What happened after the window broke?”
“I called for Camille because the glass was all over the floor inside and I couldn’t get to my slippers without cutting my feet. She phoned the police, but he was long gone by the time the call was made.”
“But you’re sure it was Eibersen?”
“Who else could it be?”
He didn’t answer that, just stood and turned in a slow circle, surveying the area. He pointed back toward the pool gate. “He must have come from that direction. The fence is too tall on the other side, and I assume the pool gate is left open all the time?”
Jillian shrugged apologetically. “Yes, sorry.”
“Get a chain and lock for it,” he said dismissively. She nodded, adding that to her growing mental list. He turned back to the house, muttering, “Wonder why he chose this window. Why not Camille’s bedroom window? I assume he knows which that would be.”
Jillian felt the bottom drop out of her stomach, but she managed to keep her voice and tone level. “Oh, yes, he knows.”
“Probably he was afraid of being seen through the larger windows,” Zach mused. “What room is this room anyway?”
Jillian. bit her lip. “Well, it’s supposed to be a maid’s room, but we don’t have a live-in maid. Since my own room is right next to Camille’s, I thought this one might be more private, but the broken window changed my mind about the desirability of that.”
Zach nodded and made no further comment, and Jillian let herself relax again.
“Well, I guess that’s it for now,” he said, starting back the way they’d come. “You’ll see to the locks and the security system?”
“Yes, first thing tomorrow.”
“Good.”
He led the way back across the pool yard and the patio, then held open the door beneath the carport as she passed through it into the hallway and blessed coolness. He followed her down the hall to the kitchen. It was her favorite room in the house, with its bright-yellow walls and clean white cabinets, stainless-steel appliances, pale, natural woods and terra cotta dishes. “Want another cool drink before you go?” she asked hopefully.
“Glass of water would be nice,” he mumbled distractedly. He stood at the bar, arms folded and one hand rubbing his chin, obviously deep in thought, while she took down two glasses from the cabinet and filled them with ice water through the refrigerator door. She placed them on the bar and pulled out a stool, then perched on top of it.
“Have a seat.”
Instead, he turned and leaned forward, bracing his upper body weight on both elbows. “It doesn’t make sense that he chose to paint that particular window. I mean, it’s behind the fence. Someone would have to go swimming in order to see it.”
Jilly felt a hard knot form in the center of her chest. “Well, um, C-Camille swims every morning, year-round. The pool’s heated.” She didn’t bother saying that she, too, liked to get in twenty or thirty laps before breakfast most mornings.
Zach nodded. “Okay. That kind of makes sense.” Straightening, he picked up the glass left for him and drained it in one long gulp, the ice clinking and tinkling. “Ah-h-h. Nothing like a Texas summer to make you appreciate cold water.”
“Funny you should mention that,” Jillian said softly, her thoughts returning once more to her parents.
“Why’s that?”
She stroked her fingertip through the condensation forming on the side of her glass. “Oh, it’s just that my parents said something very like that before they left on the last impulsive jaunt that got them killed.”
Zach swirled the ice in his glass thoughtfully. “I think you said that it was a boating accident?”
She nodded. “That’s right. Dad always said that the Gulf of Mexico was a poor excuse for an ocean, but it was so hot that week, and it didn’t seem worthwhile to fly all the way to the West Coast just for the weekend, so they flew to Houston, drove down to Galveston and rented a boat.”
“And you never saw them again,” he concluded.
She sighed. “The bodies were never even recovered.”
He seemed to be searching for the right words to say, and finally came out with, “Man, that’s tough. How old were you again?”
“Eleven.”
He shook his head. “So young. How come you weren’t with them?”
She smiled wanly. “I’m not much of a sailor. I like to swim, but boats do a number on my stomach, always have.”
“That’s certainly fortunate.”
“It was hard to think of it that way at the time,” Jillian said.
He nodded and murmured, “I can imagine.” He shifted positions, signaling a shift in subject. “So you wound up here with your half sister and your father’s ex-wife.”
“Not here as in this same house, but yes, I wound up with Camille and Gerry.”
“And no doubt you’re grateful for that.”
“Of course,” she said lightly.
“Which is why you let her treat you like a lower life form,” he said, almost offhandedly.
Jillian blinked in shock. “I beg your pardon!”
He grimaced and backed up a step, throwing up his hands. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
She got to her feet. “You certainly shouldn’t have! Camille does not treat me like...” Jillian bit her lip. “She’s overprotective, is all. She still thinks I’m thirteen and mad at the world.”
“Were you?” he asked. “Mad at the world, I mean.”
She looked down, surprised to find that she was twisting her hands together. “Maybe,” she said, but in truth she didn’t remember it like that. She only remembered feeling lost and alone, a disappointment to those she loved most. Forcing her hands down to her sides, she said, “You don’t understand Camille. Hers is a tough business, and she’s learned to use arrogance as a shield against criticism. She’s not really like that. In fact, sometimes I think she’s really very insecure.”
He lifted an eyebrow as if doubting the correctness of her assessment, but he merely remarked, “It really isn’t any of my business. I apologize if I offended you.”
“I just don’t want you to think that Camille is a bad person,” she told him softly.
“I can see that you love her very much,” he said, as if that was all that mattered.
Jillian smiled. “She’s my sister, and she gave me a home when no one else would or could.”
“And that’s very commendable,” he said. A heartbeat later he added, “Well, I’d best be going. I have a dinner engagement. Thanks for the cold drink, or rather, drinks.”
“I’ll show you out,” she said, moving away from the counter. Nodding, he followed her through the house to the front door.
“I didn’t realize we were interfering with your social life,” she said, even knowing that it was none of her business.
“Oh, it’s no big deal,” he assured her. “My brother and sister-in-law know only too well the demands of my business.”
Jillian felt a flash of relief. It wasn’t a date, then; rather, a family engagement. “Well, extend my apologies if we’ve made you late.”
“Not necessary,” he told her, pausing at the front door. “Don’t forget, now, locksmith and security service, first thing tomorrow morning.”
“I won’t forget.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
“Excellent.” She opened the door for him, and he started out into the heat. “Oh, and, Zach, uh, Mr. Keller?”
He stopped and turned back. “Zach will do. What’s up?”
“I just wanted to thank you.”
He smiled and bowed slightly from the waist. The effect was absolutely dazzling. “All part of the service, ma’am.” He winked and started off down the sidewalk, calling over his shoulder, “Later.”
She watched him all the way to his car, a sporty, two-door model in black with a white convertible top. For once she didn’t feel the heat—except on the inside. This time, it was all inside.
The shrill, familiar sound pierced the darkness of a deep, easy sleep. Zach jerked awake knowing exactly what that sound represeated. On his stomach as usual, he levered up onto one elbow and reached for the cellular phone on his bedside table with the other hand. The antenna was up, and the phone within easy reach on an otherwise clean tabletop. Rolling over, Zach pushed the send button, clapped the tiny phone to the side of his head and cleared his throat. He’d had a busy couple of days and gotten to bed late after taking in a Friday-night movie with his older brother, Brett, and Brett’s wife, Sharon, but his mind was clear as a bell.
“Keller here.”
“He came into my house!” blurted a shrill voice. “He came right in while we were all sleeping and destroyed my kitchen!”
“Calm down and tell me who this is,” he barked.
A shocked silence followed. “Well, who else would it be? Do you just go around handing out your emergency number on every street corner? You may be good-looking, Zach, but you’re not very smart if that’s how you do business.”
Camille Waltham. Zach rubbed a hand over his face. He didn’t bother to tell her that he had other clients. He doubted that it would penetrate that monumental ego. “Is anyone hurt?” he demanded.
He heard a huff, followed by, “Not really. He bumped into Jilly in the dark and knocked her down, but I don’t think she’s really hurt.”
He was throwing back the covers before he even thought about doing it. “Have the police arrived?”
“I thought you were supposed to take care of things like this.”
He caught the phone between his shoulder and his ear and reached for his jeans, then yanked them on. “We need documentation!” he snapped. “The police have their uses, too.”
She started grumbling something about him not making himself clear, but he interrupted her. “I’ll take care of it myself from here. Don’t touch anything that he might have touched. Lock the doors and stay together. I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”
He hit the button, cutting her off before she could say anything else, then dropped onto the bed and grabbed for his socks. One of them went on inside out, but he couldn’t have cared less. After picking up the phone again, he turned it on and punched in the police dispatch number. As he stomped into his boots and threw on a clean chambray shirt, he told the dispatcher where to send the patrol car, pocketed his wallet and grabbed his keys.
Clipping the phone to his waistband, he flew out of the apartment and down the hall to the elevator. Forty-five seconds later he was backing the convertible out of its parking space and heading down the garage ramp. Less than ten minutes passed before be pulled to a stop in front of the Waltham house. The police were already there and moving up the sidewalk. Fortunately he knew both officers.
“Jennings! Carpenter!”
Both stopped. “Hey, Keller,” said the older man. “This one of yours?”
“Afraid so.” He caught up to them and ushered them both up the walkway. “My client says the perp broke into the house and destroyed her kitchen.”
“Is this the Camille Waltham who’s on the news?” asked the younger man, Jennings.
“The same.”
“She seems real nice,” mused Jennings.
“Seems,” Zach muttered, reaching for the doorbell.
The door opened almost immediately, revealing Gerry in pink silk and a white teny-cloth turban. Devoid of makeup, her face looked older and harsher. “It’s about time!” she exclaimed. “We might have been murdered in our beds!”
Zach bit his tongue to keep from reminding her that only two days earlier she’d doubted very much that Janzen Eibersen meant harm to anyone. Instead, he pushed past her and into the house, motioning for the officers to follow him. “Where is everyone?”
“In the living room.”
He walked into the room and found that everyone consisted of Camille. in a pretty blue chiffon gown, her head in her hands. Alarm shot through him. “Where’s Jillian?”
She looked up, her eyes going wide at the sight of his unbuttoned shirt. “In the kitchen, I think.”
He turned around and left her without another word, motioning for one of the officers to take his place. Since Carpenter was already questioning Gerry, Jennings got the assignment. Zach hurried through the house. When he entered the kitchen, he barely noticed the garish red marring the yellow walls and white cabinets. His attention was taken, instead, by Jillian sitting at the bar in a big T-shirt, a damp, folded towel pressed to her face, her long legs and slender feet bare. Her hair was disheveled, wisping about her face like a feathery cap. Those abominable eyeglasses were nowhere in sight. She made him think of a fairy who had lost her wings.
“Jillian,!”
She looked up at the sound of his voice, and a myriad of emotions roared through him at the sight of those big blue eyes and her battered face: rage, dismay, compassion, fear- Desire. Instinctively, he opened his arms, and with a small cry, she rushed into them. Her arms slid around his waist inside his open shirt, her bare skin against his igniting explosions along his nerve endings. He rocked backward, not because of the impact of her slender body, which was negligible, but because of the breathtaking effect of her unfettered breasts pressing against his chest with only a single layer of soft fabric between them.
He knew then that this battered imp of a female had somehow worked her way beneath his professional armor and his satisfying well-ordered existence had gone painfully awry.
