Читать книгу Her Bodyguard - Peggy Nicholson - Страница 11

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.

Her wine, she realized, recognizing the label. Her heart was still stampeding, but fright was giving way rapidly to rage. How dared he simply walk in like this? “Wh-what d’you think you’re doing here?”

The cork popped softly. He poured the bardolino into two glasses.

“Well?” she demanded, throwing her sweater on the couch and stalking toward him. The creep had kept a key to her apartment—that much was obvious!

He lifted the glasses, began to walk toward her—and stopped, his eyes dropping to her legs.

Which were bare below her nylon gym shorts. As were her arms, since she wore a sleeveless T-shirt. She swerved toward the sweater she’d abandoned too hastily, then stopped herself. Show no fear. With the thought, a twinge of alarm skated along her nerve endings. He was very large and already he’d proven he didn’t respect normal boundaries.

“I thought your first day at Woodwind was a little... rough and you deserved a drink.” Trace handed her a glass.

“Of my own wine?” If she dashed her drink in his eyes, would that slow him down enough? The distance to her door was twelve steps at least, and then she’d have to throw the dead bolt. Remembering the speed with which he’d crossed the office that morning, she abandoned the notion as soon as it formed.

“I’ll do better next time,” he assured her.

There won’t be a next time, buddy! Was he that vain that he thought he could simply barge into a woman’s apartment and be welcome? That with one smoldering look she’d fall into bed with him? Granted, no woman could deny his appeal, but still...

And what about Lara? God, she’d forgotten Lara! Trace wasn’t just a sexy lout; he was Lara’s lout. Too angry to speak, she took a gulp of the wine. And rattled as she was, she tipped the glass too far.

A drop dribbled past her bottom lip and fell. “Damn!” On the slope of her breast, a blood-red spot stained the white cotton.

She looked up to find his eyes aimed at her heart, his pupils gone wide and black as gun bores. His eyes lifted to hers, then slowly one of his dark eyebrows rose in a question. Well?

As she imagined his lips on her breast, his hands clamped on her waist, the pressure of his mouth bending her backward, a wave of raw heat washed through her. A tingling awareness spread from the back of her shaky knees and climbed. It didn’t matter that he was a vain and faithless brute—in his mind he was kissing her breast and in her mind she was responding helplessly. She turned away—felt his eyes caressing her hips and spun back again. “Get out!”

She stalked past him to the sink. Found a dishcloth and dabbed furiously at the spot. A useless effort, of course.

He came to lean on the counter beside her, so close she could feel the heat of his big body. Stood sipping wine and watching. “Seltzer?” he suggested huskily at last. “That’s what my sisters always use.”

Sisters, seltzer and spot removal. The sheer domesticity of the images banished fear. And there were rules at play here, even if she didn’t understand them. Trace wanted her, that was clear enough, but he wouldn’t use his size to take what he wanted—he’d have done so by now.

He expects me to give of my own free will? Oh, he was unspeakably vain! She threw down the dishcloth and wheeled. “I said, get out.”

He tipped his dark head in mocking acquiescence, then said, “May I finish my wine first?”

May I. Her sense of control grew with the question, and after a moment of icy silence, she nodded. She wanted him out—meant to have him out—but she didn’t need to make an enemy. Because faithless or not, Trace was Lara’s lover. She’d seen who won the battle over Lara’s car this afternoon. Trace had the clout at Woodwind. He could persuade Lara to fire her, if he really wanted to; of that she was certain now. So I walk a tightrope here.

He took another savoring sip. She watched his strong brown throat move as he swallowed. Another sip. He had a beautiful mouth, though very masculine. She could see why a woman might want him hanging around. Why he’d expect a woman to want him. Did Lara know he was unfaithful? Or was that simply an accepted part of the celebrity life-style? Maybe Lara didn’t care. Not everyone valued fidelity as Gillian did.

“You know, you’ve been worrying me,” he said softly, rousing her from her trance.

“Oh?” Her ever-ready sense of guilt came alive. She didn’t want to worry anyone at Woodwind. She’d come here to be the fly on the wall. To silently see all, then fly away. Bluff it out, she told herself. She lifted his empty glass from his fingers and set it emphatically on the counter, then tipped her head at the door and moved purposefully toward it.

He pushed off the counter and padded alongside her with the loose-limbed grace of a sleepy tiger. “I’ve decided that someone who...” He paused and let the silence stretch.

“Who...?” she prompted evenly. He’d noticed some discrepancy on her résumé? Or maybe—Reaching the door, she flipped the dead bolt and opened the door wide. Stood waiting for him to take the hint and go.

He moved one step into the doorway, then swung back, much too close to her. His hand rose slowly.