Читать книгу The Heiress and The Bodyguard - Ryanne Corey - Страница 7

This job was cake.

Billy Lucas lay stretched out on the bed, a banana Popsicle in his hand and three sinfully comfortable feather pillows behind his back. The Popsicle and the pillows were perks of the job. Ask for anything you need, Harris Roper had told him.

Being Billy, he’d taken advantage of the offer. Besides, there was a lovely Latin maid who hustled over from the kitchen whenever he ordered food. She spoke no English, but had beautiful black eyes and giggled whenever Billy winked at her. Whatever it took to draw a woman’s attention, Billy had in spades. It was a gift he had enjoyed thoroughly in his life, but never abused. He respected women deeply, but had little regard for his own ability to make a lasting commitment. Life was far too interesting to settle down in the suburbs. Even the thought made him shiver.

His room had originally been intended for a chauffeur, or so he assumed. He had not been born into the Palm Beach set, but rather into the crime-ridden Oakland, California, set. They didn’t have apartments for the chauffeur where he grew up. They had bars on the windows and jagged broken bottles topping cinder-block fences. The fine art of staying alive had kept him on his toes, however. Never once in his thirty-three years had he felt the boredom he’d seen on the faces of these poor Palm Beach trust-fund babies.

And he knew what he was talking about. There were five separate camera monitors mounted on the ceiling above his bed. One gave him a panoramic view of the front of the pink-tiled palace, another covered the walk-way leading to the guesthouse. One covered the west side of the guesthouse, another the east side, which included the garage. And the last camera—his personal favorite—gave him a close-up of Julie Roper’s front door.

For nearly two weeks now, he had watched Julie’s comings and goings night and day. On the rare occasions when she went out alone, he was an invisible shadow. Once, very late at night, he’d followed her down to the beach, watching from the redwood dock as she’d skipped barefoot through the surf. She’d actually skipped, like a child who could hardly contain her own energy. He’d known then she was one lady he would never be able to predict, which made the job all the more interesting. She had pure class written all over her. Her shoulder-length hair was dark blond, artfully streaked with platinum, and whenever she walked, her shoulders were thrown back and her head held high. Billy had never seen an actual princess, but he imagined princesses would walk something like Julie Roper did. She dressed with the classy nonchalance of someone who could afford the best, but who put on the first thing in her closet and forgot about it. She was small, with fine bones and a look of fragility, which he was beginning to suspect might be deceptive. For whatever reason, she chose to live in the small guesthouse rather than the palatial main house. He was having a hard time getting a fix on her personality, which was very unusual for Billy Lucas. He was famous in his humble circles for being able to predict someone’s next move with uncanny accuracy, but little Julie Roper kept him guessing. A gazillion-dollar heiress skipping through the surf? A woman who chose to live in a cottage rather than a palace? A woman who was terribly easy on the eyes, yet had no dates beyond an occasional evening with a stocky fellow who looked like a marine sergeant? No kisses, no cuddling, just a bear hug at her door.

And speak of the devil…

Billy perked up, watching as she emerged from the stucco monstrosity he had dubbed the Palm Beach Hilton. Her short white-sequined dress, slim-fitting but modest, sparkled as she strolled down the well-lit pathway to the guesthouse. She walked slowly, as if she had no place to go and all the time in the world to get there. Her head was down, her hair obscuring the expression on her face. Even her posture looked different, more brokenhearted than cool and composed. Her small figure looked incredibly defenseless, a little blond angel framed on either side by hedges of vibrant tropical blooms.

Something was wrong.

Change camera. She walked slowly to her front door, motion-sensitive lights keeping her well-illuminated. She punched in a security code beside the door, then disappeared inside. The windows of the cottage lit up one by one.

Shirtless, his longish dark hair tumbled, he sat up on the edge of the bed. His heavy-lidded blue eyes took on a new intensity as he kept them on the camera. He might not be able to predict Julie Roper, but he knew when trouble was brewing. That talent had kept him alive and almost in one piece after working the gang unit in Oakland for eight years. Three puckered scars on his back from bullet wounds gave witness to his survival instinct. Another jagged scar on his abdomen above his low-riding jeans was a memento of his one and only stab wound. It was a sad fact, but most everyone on the streets, good guys and bad, had guns these days. His third trip to the hospital had resulted in a medal of valor and an early retirement from life as an undercover cop. He hadn’t minded. He’d known for some time he was pushing his luck. Besides, he liked the idea of setting up a little security business for himself. There was very little chance of being shot while baby-sitting the rich and the paranoid.

Billy watched Julie’s shadow crossing back and forth behind the blinds of the bedroom window. Suddenly, she was moving quickly, as if now she had a purpose. Billy shrugged on a flowered shirt and started putting on his runners, never taking his eye off the cameras for more than a few seconds at a time. What are you doing, little sister?

And then he had his answer. The garage door opened, spilling a square of light on the driveway. Billy stood up and grabbed for his wallet, watching as Julie’s Porsche backed out at thirty miles an hour, tires squealing. The lady was in a hurry. This was no midnight visit to the beach.

Billy knew his Rent-a-Wreck would have a tough time keeping up with the Porsche, particularly with an emotional blonde driving the fancy car. He grabbed his cell phone and sprinted out of the apartment like a bat out of hell, with no time to obey Harris Roper’s number-one rule of little sister surveillance: Call me immediately if anything unusual happens.

Billy could take the time to call Harris and risk losing his charge, or follow Julie and call Harris ASAP.

Some decisions practically made themselves.

For Julie, it had started out as an ordinary, yawn-stifling evening. Harris had thrown one of his exclusive parties, inviting the few acquaintances he deemed suitable to associate with his sister. Her brother had terribly high standards, and none of his friends were particularly outgoing. Still, they could all trace their ancestry back to the May-flower, and each and every one was on the Forbes 500 list of wealthiest people. As usual, the party had turned out to be very small and very subdued. The ladies congregated on the sofa, keeping their legs crossed and their hands folded modestly in their laps. The gentlemen were gathered at the mirror-backed bar, drinking little but gazing often at the splendid figures they made in their designer tuxedos. The one exception to this was Beauregard James Farquhar III, a Palm Beach trust-fund baby who sat next to Julie, stood next to Julie and walked beside Julie the entire evening. He was a long-time friend of the family, a man Harris deeply respected for his financial acumen, impeccable manners and doggedly patient character. He looked like a tennis pro, with tanned skin, a perfectly trimmed blond crew cut and a square face that always reminded Julie of a young Ted Kennedy. Beau had returned from a wine-and-spirits tour of Europe that very day, a good ten pounds heavier than when last she’d seen him. He’d proclaimed himself “frightfully happy” to see Julie; indeed, he had been frightfully happy to see her on each and every occasion since Julie could remember. He was completely devoted to her and had been since she was eighteen. She had managed to keep him at arm’s length until she returned home from college a few months earlier. Prior to his leaving for Europe, he’d been constantly underfoot, rather like a co-dependent housepet. Julie knew it was only a matter of time before Beau asked her to marry him. Her twenty-third birthday was hanging on the horizon like a dreadful storm cloud. Beau had hinted that this year her special day would be truly a monumental occasion. He had also asked her ring size. Julie had suffered from a nasty case of hives ever since.

Although it was not yet 10:00 p.m., Julie was wrestling with an overriding urge to take a nap in the middle of Harris’s party. The pianist her brother had hired for the evening was like a musical sandman, playing “Somewhere over the Rainbow” ever so softly. She sat on the sofa next to Beau and tried to appear interested in his detailed description of a smooth yet complex little cabernet he’d discovered in Italy. Unfortunately, Beau knew his wines, and could go on forever rhapsodizing about the subtle integration of aromatics and tannins. Julie had fallen asleep twice, her lolling head connecting painfully with the carved sofaback. Finally she’d pleaded a headache and politely excused herself from the festivities.

The urge to sleep left her the moment she walked into the small guesthouse she called home. Away from Beau, the pianist and all talk of financial dealings, she was suddenly wide-awake and positively smoking with restlessness. She decided to take her Porsche out for a spin before bed. She didn’t bother changing from her evening dress, although she did lose the panty hose and exchange her high heels for a comfortable pair of high-top sneakers. She looked utterly ridiculous but felt more comfortable than she had all evening. Besides, no one would see her. More than likely, Harris wouldn’t even know she had left the grounds.

She drove mindlessly, enjoying the cool air on her flushed cheeks and pondering the strange culture of the well-bred and confused. She’d mingled with Palm Beach’s finest families sporadically throughout her life, yet she always felt like a stranger in their midst. Six months earlier, she had graduated from a private women’s college, and now poor Harris didn’t know what to do with her. The two jobs she’d had since then had lasted four weeks and four days, respectively. First, she’d given in to Harris and accepted a job on the board of Roper Industries, doing what seemed to her absolutely nothing for an obscene amount of money. She had traveled to work with Harris, had lunch with Harris and traveled home with Harris. By week four she was bored to tears and told Harris she thought her destiny lay elsewhere. On her own, she had found a job as a personal shopper at a terribly chic oceanside boutique. It wasn’t something she wanted to make a career of, but she thought it might keep her occupied while she tried to figure out what to do with the rest of her life. Unfortunately, the self-absorbed clientele, set hours and lack of challenge was worse than working at Roper Industries. She was “voluntarily unemployed” after only four days. Harris was becoming more and more concerned about her future, and he made no secret of that fact. He was a dear soul, but a chronic, intense, agonizing worrier. Julie had been seven years old and Harris only twenty-one when their parents had been killed in a sailing accident. Julie thought of them often, remembering sparkling, beautiful people full of love, laughter and spontaneity. She had no idea how two such oddball personalities as Harris and herself had emerged from the family gene pool. Harris had done his best for her through the past sixteen years, but his responsibilities had been terribly heavy for one so young. He obsessed over her welfare as he obsessed over the management of the family fortune. Julie hadn’t realized just how much it had all worn on him until she’d returned from college. Suddenly he looked far older than his thirty-seven years, with shadow-rimmed blue eyes, pale skin and shoulders that hinted at weariness. Julie had tried to make him understand she wasn’t his responsibility any longer, but Harris continued to worry himself to death when it came to her safety and security. The Roper mansion might have some forty-odd rooms, but Julie was plagued with overwhelming claustrophobia. Harris was here, there and everywhere, forever anxious and apprehensive. It had taken Julie months to talk him into allowing her to move from the main house to the guesthouse. Two weeks earlier he had positively stunned her by finally giving his permission. This had given her hope that someday she would be able to actually move off the grounds…until Beau had made it clear it was only a matter of days until he popped the big question. Julie had listened with barely disguised horror, visualizing a helium balloon going boom.

Seeking advice on the best way to let Beau down, she’d approached Harris on the subject. His reaction had been uncharacteristically vehement. Although he didn’t go so far as to actually raise his voice, he demanded to know how long Julie was going to skim the surface of life like a paranoid butterfly, never committing to anything or anyone. She couldn’t do any better than Beau, and he had certainly proven himself to be truly devoted. She had to dedicate herself to something someday. Why not now? Why not a fine, decent fellow like Beau?

Why not indeed? Julie thought. Beau certainly wasn’t the man she dreamed of, but the faceless fantasy she had visualized probably didn’t exist. Each night in her dreams her imagination went for a walk and came back with a mysterious, thrilling superhero who inspired a great deal more than respect. Logically, however, she knew Beau Farquhar would never mistreat her, and he’d proven long ago he was hopelessly devoted. The man was steady, persistent, kind, persistent, good-natured and persistent. He was also persistent. Why not indeed? Poor Harris had worried himself sick over her welfare too long as it was. She wasn’t particularly interested in getting married nor was she particularly determined to stay single. Quite honestly, she wasn’t particularly focused on anything. The death of her parents at such an impressionable age had left Julie emotionally scarred, wary of attachments which could result in vulnerability. Harris had been the only constant in her world. She loved her brother deeply and would do almost anything to repay him for all the sacrifices he had made on her behalf. She had been his responsibility for far too long.

And so it came down to this: realistically, she knew there was very little chance of her falling head over heels in love. She truly believed it was an impossibility, given her own fear of caring too deeply for anyone or anything. Beau was a good man who knew her well and expected very little. Harris obviously thought the match was made in heaven. If he thought it was the best thing for her, it probably was. Heaven knew Harris deserved a life of his own. He would never concentrate on his own happiness until Julie’s welfare was secured.

She continued driving for well over an hour. She didn’t care where she was going, she only knew she had to be someplace else. Eventually she lost the lights of the city, finding herself on a narrow two-lane road crowded on both sides with thick cypress. It was too dark to see anything beyond the shadows of foliage surrounding her. The air grew heavy and wet, as if she were heading into a swamp. She’d never been in an actual swamp before, but the word alligator kept popping into her mind. She was terrified of animals whose teeth were larger than her own. Her palms on the steering wheel became wet.

Julie wasn’t accustomed to checking the gas gauge in her car. In fact, all the maintenance on the Porsche was done by Harris’s “people,” invisible and ever-diligent. Usually Harris insisted she used his car and driver if she needed to go out. When she did drive her own car, it was always ready, bright and shiny and filled with gas. Naturally she knew such things as oil and fuel were necessary for a car to run, but the particulars of it all had never been a concern.

Until the Porsche sputtered, coughed and died. The gas gauge read empty.

She managed to pull over to the side of the road before the car came to a complete stop. Greenery scratched eerily against the passenger window, sounding like someone trying to get in. She panicked, locking the doors and putting on her seat belt for the first time, as if this would save her from her predicament. Other words scuttled through her mind besides alligator: snakes, spiders, green slimy things. Beyond the windshield, the circles of the headlights barely illuminated ten feet of the utter void surrounding her. In her conscious mind she knew it wasn’t a good idea to leave the lights on when the engine wasn’t running. She also knew there was no way in heaven or hell she was going to sit in utter darkness. She turned on the interior light and tried to find the emergency flasher lights, but nothing she punched, pulled or turned did a thing, beyond turning the windshield wipers on. She asked herself what a true heroine would do in this situation. She answered herself: she probably would have had the sense to put gas in the car in the first place. Still, she could simply call Harris on the cell phone…if she’d had the foresight to bring the phone with her. Her beautifully manicured nails tapped a frantic rhythm on the steering wheel. What to do, what to do…?

From out of nowhere, a car pulled up beside her and stopped. The driver sat in shadows, but she had the impression of a portly build and a bushy beard. He motioned for her to roll down her window. Julie shook her head frantically. He held up two hands as if saying, How do you expect me to help you, then?

They’ll find my body dumped by the roadside, she thought despairingly. Not right away, but in a few days when the humidity and heat and alligators have taken their toll. She would look utterly terrible for the funeral. Poor Harris would think it was all his fault for allowing her to live in the guesthouse and be guilt-ridden the rest of his life. And he would never have an answer to the million-dollar question: What on earth was Julie thinking, driving through that sort of neighborhood?

Suddenly a hand tapping on her window interrupted her morbid musings. She jumped as high as her seat belt would allow her, staring into dark eyes that looked glazed and unfocused. He looked about forty years old, a very large man with more hair on his arms and face than his head. He wore a thin white undershirt stained on the front in several places.

Her panic doubled and redoubled in the space of five seconds. She might not have much experience with men, but she knew this person walking around in his underwear was not the answer to her prayers.

“Do you need help?” he shouted.

Julie shook her head frantically.

“Can I give you a ride?”

Julie shook her head harder, her brown eyes enormous.

At this point he dropped his smile and tried to open the driver’s-side door. If Julie had been able to breathe, she would have screamed. Unfortunately, the only sound she could make was short and faint, like a baby hiccup. For whatever reason, she pressed her hand on the horn and kept it there.

It took a moment before she realized another car had pulled up directly behind her. She wondered what the possibilities were of two men with extremely bad intentions happening upon her in this tropical wilderness. Was there a convention of highway muggers somewhere near here? Did these sort of people lie waiting in the dark for idiots like herself to run out of gas?

At that point, everything happened quickly, like a nightmare in fast-forward. The driver of the second car got out, leaving his engine running and the lights on. He said something to white-undershirt person, but Julie still had her hand on the horn so she couldn’t hear. There was the briefest scuffle outside her window; she saw the whirl of a flowered shirt and a fist flying. Almost immediately the fellow who’d been trying to get inside her car dropped out of sight.

Two arms leaned against her door. Her rescuer—at least she hoped he was her rescuer—leaned down to look inside. He had longish dark hair that covered his ears, moving softly around his face with the night wind. She couldn’t make out the color of his eyes, but saw them sparkle, as if he were greatly amused.

“Stop that,” he mouthed, pointing at her hand on the horn, then at his own ears.

For whatever reason, Julie did as she was told. She continued to stare at him like a helpless deer caught in the headlights.

“Thank you,” he said when the noise suddenly stopped. He grinned at her, showing very white teeth against a very tan face. For a simple smile, it was amazingly powerful, glinting in his eyes, denting his cheeks and lending an aura of boyish charm to very masculine features. Julie was reassured enough to roll down her window one-half inch.

“Looks like you’ve got yourself in a sticky situation,” he said.

Julie cocked her head, trying to see where the worrisome bearded person had gone to. “Did you kill him?” she asked, her voice trembling with nerves.

He looked perplexed. “Why on earth would I kill him? You’re a complete stranger. Don’t take offense, but I really don’t want to go to jail for someone I don’t even know.”

“Did you beat him unconscious?” she persisted, warming to her subject.

He rolled his eyes. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a little dramatic? He told me if I knew what was good for me, I’d keep driving. I told him I’d never done what was good for me and hit him once. Now he’s taking a nap here on the road. He’ll be fine.” He paused, added, “Except for the black eye he’ll have. So what are you doing out here in the wee hours of the morning? If you don’t mind my asking.”

The window went down another inch. “I’m sitting here because my car broke.”

“What do you mean, it broke?”

“It’s out of gas.”

He considered this for a moment, and the grin came back. “Yeah, I guess that would break it all right. So how can I help?”

“Well…” Julie considered her options, starting up the tapping on the steering wheel again. “Do you happen to know where I am?”

He bit his lip, trying not to laugh out loud. “You’re a couple of hours north of the coast.” He paused. “The Florida coast.”

“I know I’m in Florida,” Julie replied indignantly. “I just wondered if there was a town nearby, somewhere I could get some gas.”

“I’m a tourist, so I’m afraid I don’t know. I’m exploring myself. I’d be happy to give you a lift to a gas station, if you’d like.”

“That’s probably not a good idea,” she said nervously. “I should be able to handle this myself.” Still, there was such an enormous difference between should and could.

“Whatever,” he shrugged. “This isn’t exactly a freeway, so you may be here for a while. Keep your doors locked, especially when what’s-his-name here wakes up. He won’t be a happy camper. See ya.”

“Hold it!” Julie’s yelp stopped him from walking away. She rolled her window down another two inches. “Maybe I will take you up on your offer, if I won’t be putting you out.”

“Fine by me.” He lifted his hand, sticking four fingers through the top of the window. “I’m Billy.”

“Julie,” she said, taking his lead and foregoing last names. Hesitantly she took the tips of his fingers in her hand and shook them politely. “How do you do?”

This time Billy laughed, the sound rich and deep, lingering in the heavy air. “How do you do? Has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like Grace Kelly? Same voice, too. Very cultured.”

“Is that good?”

“If you like Grace Kelly. I loved her myself.” He stepped back, hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. “I don’t want to scare you, but you’ll need to get out of your car if this is going to work.”

Julie still hesitated. “Maybe I should sit here and wait for you to bring some gas back.”

Billy sighed, digging his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. He flipped it open, allowing her to see the flash of his old police badge. As a retired cop, this was highly illegal. That fact didn’t stop Billy from doing it now and again. “You couldn’t be safer, ma’am. I’m an officer of the law, sworn to protect and serve the citizens of California when I’m not on vacation. I wouldn’t do anything mean to the citizens of Florida, either. Could we hurry this up? The mosquitoes are eating me alive.”

Julie realized this was the first time she had met an actual public policeman. The well-dressed private security people Harris hired were nice, but hardly battle-scarred veterans of the streets. Immediately her mind took off on a fantasy flight, imagining the dire and dangerous situations he must face in his work. How thrilling. “Do you shoot people?”

He assumed a terribly serious expression. “Only very bad people who shoot at me first.”

“Where do you keep your gun?”

Billy almost lost it at that point. He stared down at the toes of his runners for a good fifteen seconds before he could talk. “I’m on vacation,” he finally managed. “Besides, the shoulder holster would look terrible with this shirt. Any more questions?”

“Not at the moment,” Julie said graciously, turning off the interior light and pushing the button to unlock the car doors. “I do appreciate your help.”

“Hold it a minute,” Billy told her. If she got out now, she would step on the beer belly of her unconscious, not-so-good Samaritan. He took him by the arms and pulled him away from the Porsche. “Okay, princess. Your carriage awaits.”

Princess, Julie thought, smiling to herself. This was getting better and better. She couldn’t have come up with a more perfect hero if she’d tried. He was an authority figure, an officer of the law. He had gone into battle for her. He was charming. He was absolutely gorgeous. Her nervous tension was gradually being replaced by unexpected excitement.

She got out of the car, sparing a quick look at the fellow in the undershirt. He appeared to be sleeping peacefully. “Are you going to report this?” she asked Billy.

“As soon as I can,” he replied, thinking of poor Harris Roper. While following Julie, he’d tried using the cell phone, only to realize the battery was out of juice. He’d have to do this the old-fashioned way and use a pay phone as soon as he could. “It’s part of the job, princess.”