Beauty and the Bodyguard
Pushing back the sleeve of her pink gabardine tunic, Allie flicked another glance at her watch. Normally, she handled delays with more patience. They were inevitable in her profession. Photographers always seemed to need a different lens. Props mysteriously disappeared just when they were needed. But Rafe’s tardiness only added to her burgeoning doubts about their tentative arrangement. So much for his promises to accommodate himself to her schedule.
When the chimes sounded a few moments later, she opened the door, wincing a bit as splashes of fire-hydrant red, carroty orange and violent purple filled her vision. Last night, Rafe’s tie had intrigued her. In the bright light of day, it assaulted her senses.
“Good morning,” she offered in a clipped tone, reaching for her bag. “We’d better hurry. We’re late. The others will be waiting.”
Rafe’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. After three years, he should be used to the reaction his appearance caused. But Allie’s involuntary flinch and curt greeting came on top of a near-sleepless night and several long hours on the phone this morning, nailing down the status of the investigation into her calls. Rafe didn’t like being late, any more than he liked the information he’d finally pulled out of the New York Police Department. Consequently, his greeting was as terse as hers.
“They’ll have to wait a little longer. You need to change. You’re too conspicuous.”
Surprised, she glanced down at her outfit.
Rafe didn’t have any problem with her black slacks, but the hot-pink tunic with the black braid looped under one arm and the military trim in glittering jet would catch any man’s eye, especially with Allie wearing it.
“I’ll share one of the tips of the trade with you,” he told her. “Unless you’re baiting a trap, you do your best to disguise the prey.”
Rafe could see that she didn’t particularly like hearing herself described as prey. But after listening to the transcription she’d given the police of her late-night calls, he couldn’t describe her as anything else.
“For the next few weeks, at least,” he continued, “you need to remain as inconspicuous as possible.”
Thick, shining hair brushed her shoulder as she tilted her head, studying his face. Rafe braced himself as her gaze drifted to his neck.
“It might be easier for me to remain inconspicuous if my bodyguard didn’t wear red and orange fish-eyes,” she suggested.
Rafe fingered his tie, wondering for a moment if he’d misread Allie’s reaction when she opened the door. He’d barely restrained a wince himself when he first saw the item in question. But it had been a gift from the five-year-old he’d rescued from an enclave of vicious, heavily armed white supremacists. The girl had been kidnapped by her father, who didn’t believe that the courts or his ex-wife held any authority over him. Jody had picked out the tie herself, she’d told Rafe solemnly. He’d worn it then to please her, but the thing had since become a sort of personal talisman. In this instance, at least, it served a useful purpose.
“I’d rather people’s eyes were drawn to me than to you,” he told his client. “The tie helps, almost as much as the scars.”
Her eyes widened slightly at his reference to his disfigurement. Rafe had learned that most people preferred to tiptoe around the subject, if they mentioned it at all. He’d never learned to tiptoe.
“You can do your part by dressing a little less like a…” He raked her with a quick glance. “Like a supermodel.”
Rafe half expected a pout or a protest. In his admittedly limited experience, the last thing a beautiful woman wanted was to downplay her attractions. To his surprise, she curbed her obvious impatience at the delay and motioned him inside.
“I didn’t bring much with me from New York, but I can borrow some jeans or something from Rocky.”
Rafe turned the name over in his mind as he stepped inside. Rocky. Rachel Fortune. Allison’s twin sister.
“Do you want a cup of coffee or something while I change?”
“No thanks.”
“I’ll just be a moment.”
Shoving his hands in his pockets, Rafe leaned a shoulder against the wall and made a leisurely inspection of the entry hall and the huge living room beyond. Last night, the house had overflowed with noise and people. Rafe had noted its elegance, but absorbed little of its character.
This morning, sunlight streamed through the fan-shaped window above the door and warmed the oak flooring to a golden glow. Fresh flowers added bright spots of color to the greens and blues of the high-backed chairs and overstuffed sofas grouped around the living room. For all its vastness, the Fortune mansion gave the impression of a home.
Rafe certainly couldn’t have said the same for the apartment he’d moved into in Miami after his divorce. Although it was furnished with all the basics, it lacked some indefinable homelike quality. Maybe that was due to the fact that he spent only a few days a month there, if that. For a moment, Rafe toyed with the idea of coming home to a place imbued with beauty and quiet elegance…and to a woman with the same qualities. A woman like Allie.
He shook his head at the errant thought. He’d been down that road once. He wasn’t about to travel it again. The sound of footsteps echoing against the oak floor banished his unpleasant memories, and Rafe straightened as Allie walked into view.
His first thought was that he’d done some stupid things in his life. Having his client exchange her loose slacks for well-washed denims that hugged her hips and showed off the tight curve of her bottom ranked right up there among the dumbest. Every male past puberty would trip over his tongue when she walked by.
His second was that she’d changed more than her clothes. At first, Rafe couldn’t pinpoint exactly what. Her sorrel hair swept her shoulders in the same thick wave. Sooty lashes framed the same chocolate-brown eyes. Her full mouth looked as tempting as it had when she opened the door to him a few moments ago. But something about the way she held herself triggered an instinctive, gut-level question in Rafe’s mind.
It took a few seconds before he realized that the woman returning his stare wasn’t Allie.
Christ! The dossier had indicated that she and her sister were identical twins, but that brief annotation didn’t begin to describe their astounding similarity. If Rafe hadn’t spent half the night imprinting his client’s features and mannerisms on his mind, he might never have known this wasn’t her.
Their differences, he decided objectively, were more a matter of style than of appearance. Unlike Allison’s classic sophistication, Rachel opted for a more rugged look. She wore a brown leather aviator jacket with the sleeves pushed up, a white knit top, boots, and the jeans that had made Rafe’s heart skip a few beats. He could only hope they wouldn’t hug Allie’s slender figure as faithfully as they did her sister’s.
“You must be Rocky,” he said slowly.
Grinning, she nodded. “Right. And you, I sincerely hope, are the hired gun.”
Before he could respond to that, Allie walked back into the vestibule. Rafe saw instantly that his hopes had been in vain. In glove-soft jeans, a cream-colored turtleneck and a misty blue tweed jacket, Allison Fortune looked like every man’s dream of a very bright, very sexy campus coed.
The only way he could make her inconspicuous, Rafe decided grimly, was to wrap her in a blanket from head to toe.
He dug a small, specially designed beeper out of his pocket. “Here, clip this on, and make sure you keep it within reach at all times.”
Frowning, she turned the little black box over in her hand. “What is it?”
“It’s a tracking device and emergency signal.”
“How does it work? I don’t see any button to push.”
“There isn’t any button. If you need me, just grip the unit in your hand and squeeze. The pressure and heat from your palm will set off a pulsing signal on my unit.”
She fumbled with the tight clip.
“The rest of the time, the device emits a continuous signal keyed to a special frequency that only my unit can pick up.”
Her hands stilling, she glanced up. “Continuous?”
“So I can track you anytime, night or day.”
“I’ve heard these devices were available,” Rocky put in. “The military developed them initially. Now people buy them to keep track of their dogs,” she added, grinning at her sister.
A look of distaste crossed Allie’s face. “I’m not sure I like the idea of being on a leash, like someone’s toy poodle.”
“It’s part of the security package.”
Rafe’s brusque tone said clearly that she could take the entire package or leave it. Allie didn’t miss the unspoken message. Her mouth tightening, she lifted the clip and jammed the unit onto the inner pocket.
“Let’s go,” she said shortly. “We’re late.”
Twenty minutes later, Rafe pulled off the airport access road and drove up to the private hangar Allie indicated. She’d told him some of the site crew would be traveling with them on the small chartered jet. She hadn’t bothered to mention that half the population of Minneapolis would be turning out to see her off.
He stepped out of the rental car, tensing as a figure darted out of the milling crowd and dashed toward them. Rafe relaxed only marginally when he saw that it was a teenage girl.
“Hi, Allie! We heard you were leaving this morning. Will you sign my T-shirt?”
Before Rafe could put himself between his client and the girl, the passenger door slammed and Allie walked forward. “Sure. Got a pen?”
“I got some new test shots for my portfolio,” another long-legged, coltish girl said shyly as she joined them. “Would you look at them?”
Within moments, Allie was surrounded by a clutch of tall, gangly young women. Wannabes, Rafe presumed, all pressing her for tips or advice or autographs. The rest of the crowd appeared to consist primarily of men in coveralls with logos from various airlines on their pockets. They watched the proceedings with avid interest. Occasionally one would nudge another in the ribs and share a comment that resulted in a lewd grin.
Rafe’s jaw tightened at their expressions, but Allie seemed impervious to the reactions she caused among her male admirers. Smiling and answering the girls’ peppered questions, she made her way toward the hangar. The men fell back to let her pass. As she reached the side door, Rafe turned to scan the crowd for the representative of the rental agency he’d arranged to pick up his car.
At that moment, Allie gave a little squeak.
Rafe spun back around just as an arm looped around her neck and dragged her through the door.
Three
R afe crashed through the hangar door and launched himself at Allie’s attacker.
Seconds later, she was pushing herself up off the floor, gasping. Her assailant lay facedown on the concrete, with one arm twisted up between his shoulder blades and Rafe’s knee planted squarely in his back. When he sputtered an obscenity and tried to dislodge the crushing weight that held him pinned, Rafe shoved his arm up higher.
“Ow!” His shout bounced off the high hangar ceilings.
“Break his other arm, if you like, but not that one. He can’t shoot left-handed.”
The low, husky voice penetrated Rafe’s pounding, adrenaline-charged consciousness at the same instant as Allie’s breathless protest.
“Rafe! That’s…Dominic. The photographer!”
The man’s nose scraped concrete as he turned his head toward the sound of her voice. Only then did Rafe notice his hair. Or the lack of it. The left side of his scalp was buzz-shaved to a glistening white. The right sported long, flowing black locks. The effect was every bit as startling this morning as it had been when Rafe first saw the man, last night at the party. He loosened his grip on the man’s wrist, but took his time unplanting his knee.
“Get him…off me!”
“Rafe, please! This is Dominic Avendez. He’s my photographer.”
When the man finally regained his feet, he rubbed his wrist and glared at his attacker. Rafe knew the exact instant the photographer noted the scars. His gaze snagged at chin level, and he swallowed visibly. Turning to Allie, he demanded an explanation.
“Who is this character?”
“He’s…”
“The name’s Stone,” Rafe replied deliberately. “Rafe Stone. I’m Miss Fortune’s bodyguard.”
“Bodyguard? Since when does she need a bodyguard?”
Flashing Rafe a silent warning, Allie stepped forward. “It was Jake’s idea, Dom. With so much riding on this ad campaign, he wanted a little extra insurance.”
“Insurance? Hell, the whole shoot almost went down the tubes because of him.”
“Are you okay?”
“No.” Scowling, he rotated his aching shoulder.
Allie moved to his side. “Come on, let’s get you to the plane.”
In what Rafe now guessed was a habitual gesture, the man started to loop his good arm around Allie’s neck. He caught himself just in time and threw her bodyguard a wary glance. His scowl deepened at the expression on Rafe’s face, but he tucked his arm through Allie’s, instead of wrapping it around her neck.
Rafe stood still for a moment, watching the unlikely pair walk toward the small, sleek jet parked just outside the open bay doors at the far end of the hangar. Allie towered over the stocky photographer by half a head, and her luxuriant reddish brown mane formed a stark contrast to his long/short, black/white hair style. But it was obvious they were good friends. Very good friends. Her face held genuine sympathy and an unmistakable affection as she soothed the man’s ruffled feathers.
So why hadn’t she told Avendez about the calls? Rafe wondered. Why didn’t she want her…friend…to know the real reason behind the sudden appearance of a bodyguard in her life, any more than she’d wanted her parents to see her fear last night?
Not for the first time, it occurred to Rafe that Allie Fortune hid a good part of herself behind the face she showed to the public. Wondering at the woman behind the mask, Rafe bent to pick up the duffel bag he’d dropped when he launched himself through the air.
A throaty chuckle brought his head around. A short, stocky woman with cropped brown hair grinned up at him.
“The last time Dom’s face scraped the ground, he had a camera angled up Allie’s skirt. That shot did more for the panty hose industry than any ad campaign in its history. I’m Xola, by the way. Dom’s stylist. I do the drops and props.”
Rafe took the hand she held out, not surprised at its firm grip. She might stand a good ten inches shorter than his own six foot one, but she exuded a down-to-earth, no-nonsense air that contrasted with the startling sensuality of her voice.
“Welcome to the team, Rafe.”
“Thanks.” He flicked a glance at the semiscalped photographer climbing into the plane. “I think.”
Xola’s laughter flowed over him like melted chocolate, rich and dark and deep. “Don’t worry about Dominic. Allie will coax him out of his sulks eventually. She always does. Come on, we’d better load up, or we’ll get left behind. If you haven’t already noticed, Allie’s a stickler about keeping on schedule.”
“I’ve noticed,” he drawled. “Tell them I’ll be right there. I just have to find the rep from the rental-car agency.”
Rafe strode toward the hangar door, making a mental note to have background checks run on the entire crew, particularly one Dominic Avendez.
By the time they arrived at Rancho Tremayo, the sprawling old hacienda a few miles north of Santa Fe where the rest of the crew had already assembled, Rafe had discovered that his client was a stickler about a number of things in addition to punctuality.
Her diet figured right up there near the top of the list. Throughout the long flight, she politely had refused the snacks the others offered. Since Rafe hadn’t had either the time or the foresight to lay in supplies for the trip, he’d gratefully dug into Xola’s cache of Snickers, unsalted cashews and grapefruit juice. By late afternoon, his stomach had been rumbling with increasing frequency and resonance.
As he and Allie followed the resort manager through the walled adobe compound to the guest houses, the tantalizing scent of beef cooking in a spicy sauce that filled the air added to his growing discomfort. The hacienda had been converted into a world-class resort, he’d discovered, and its main restaurant had won a coveted Excellent rating from Gourmand magazine. Rafe was all set to settle Allie in her quarters and explore the validity of the culinary rating when he ran smack up against another one of his client’s sticking points—her tendency to modify the rules of the game to suit her own preferences.
Her luxurious, beam-ceilinged casita enchanted her. Smiling, she complimented the effusive manager on the striking Navajo blanket hanging above the fireplace and the combination of pale pink adobe walls and mauve floor tiles shot with turquoise.
The manager stuttered something about soothing desert jewel tones and ushered her through an arched doorway to the bedroom. Rafe guessed he still hadn’t quite recovered from the combined effect of Allie’s stunning long-legged beauty, Dominic’s half head of hair and Xola’s spine-shivering, rippling laughter.
While the too-tanned, too-attentive manager and Allie chatted, Rafe did a quick security sweep of the three rooms. The bedroom’s windows were set high in the walls, he noted with satisfaction, and fixed with sturdy locks. The only other entrance to the casita was through a side door in the kitchenette, which could be bolted from within. That left the main door opening onto the sitting room. It had a peephole and locks any ten-year-old with a plastic library card could get through in a few seconds flat.
“I want a locksmith out here within an hour to install a dead bolt,” he told the manager. “We’ll need two keys for it. I’ll keep one, and Miss Fortune the other.”
The man brushed a hand over his styled hair. “But… But the housekeeping staff will need to get in. And Maintenance…”
“Miss Fortune will call when she’s ready for housekeeping. You can contact me if Maintenance needs access.”
The manager looked to Allie for confirmation. She hesitated, then endorsed Rafe’s orders with a nod. “You’d better have the locksmith make three keys, though. Dominic will need one.”
Rafe refused to acknowledge the feeling that spiked through him. It wasn’t any of his business who his client chose to spend her time with, as long as she did so under certain controlled conditions. He didn’t consider Avendez much of an improvement over the Viking, but he didn’t think Allie would appreciate his opinion on the matter.
“Two keys,” he countered. “I won’t be responsible for your safety if I can’t control access.”
Her mouth thinned. “I don’t think you understand. Dom and I will be working late most nights, reviewing the day’s production and the next day’s schedule.”
“Fine. You can let him in, or I will. You agreed to play this by my rules, remember?”
For a moment, Rafe thought she would argue. The smooth skin of one cheek twitched, and a spark of anger or resentment darkened her eyes. It was gone before he could decide which it was. When she turned to face the manager, the cool facade she showed to the public was back in place.
“Two keys,” she said stiffly.
“My casita is right next to yours,” Rafe told her. “Number eight. I’m going to dump my gear, then go to the office to go over the guest lists. After that, I need to check the physical layout of the resort.” And scarf down some food. “I’ll be back for you in an hour. Use the beeper if you need me before that.”
With a supreme exercise of will, Allie refrained from slamming the door behind the two men.
Damn Stone! With his beepers and his keys and his controlled access, he was making her feel caged. Or like a dog in obedience training. Tossing her purse onto the bed, Allie yanked at the zipper on her case.
By the time she’d put away her clothes, she’d calmed enough to realize how counterproductive her anger was. She hadn’t even begun the stressful part of her job, and already she was wound tighter than a steel spring. If she was going to make it through the next few weeks, she’d have to shrug off Rafe’s abrupt manner, just as she did Dom’s mood swings and Xola’s exacting demands.
She could do this. She was a professional. So was Rafe. He was just doing his job, as she had to do hers. She just needed to call on the reservoir of patience she’d stored up all these years in front of the camera. Pretend he wasn’t there, as she did the crew that hovered around her during a shoot.
Not four hours later, Allie had reached the bitter conclusion that she couldn’t share the same planet with Rafe, let alone the same general vicinity, and maintain the inner tranquillity needed for her work.
She didn’t understand how one man could invade her space and her consciousness so completely. It wasn’t that he put himself forward or was the least bit intrusive. On the contrary, when he escorted Allie to dinner at the resort’s restaurant, he chose a table for himself at the periphery of the noisy crew, who welcomed her into their midst. But she’d noticed the startled glances he drew, and Xola’s friendly smile when she joined him for coffee. Allie had been conscious of him all through dinner, and now, when she should be concentrating on her work, she felt his presence in every pore.
He sprawled with loose-limbed grace on the sofa, one foot propped on the edge of the rough-planked coffee table as he skimmed with astonishing speed through a paperback. Slanting him a sideways glance, Allie studied him with a model’s keen insight for line and form. He’d shed his awful tie, opened the neck of his dark blue cotton shirt and rolled up his sleeves to reveal strong, muscular forearms. The gleaming high-lights in his dark hair made a startling contrast to the rugged, tanned planes of his face and…
“Are you interested in this new production-scheduling technique or not?”
Allie slewed her attention back to the man seated in the chair beside hers. “Of course I am.”
Dom stabbed at the keyboard of the notebook computer he’d set on the table between them. Within seconds, a colorful flowchart was painted across the screen.
“Pay attention,” he ordered irritably. “I get big bucks to teach this at RIT, you know.”
“I know,” Allie said soothingly.
In his more generous moments, she knew, Dom would acknowledge her own contribution to his spectacular career. His earlier shots of Allie had helped him break into the tough, competitive world of fashion photography. Their later work together had solidified his international reputation and led to an appointment as a guest lecturer at the Rochester Institute of Technology, a center of excellence for photographic arts and sciences since George Eastman had rented a factory loft there in 1880.
In his crankier moods, though, Dom tended to forget their long association, as well as his manners and his maturity. Unfortunately, he’d remained cranky since Rafe had slammed him into the concrete earlier this morning. Despite Allie’s best efforts to coax him into a better mood, he’d been terse and uncommunicative all day. When he showed up at her casita after dinner for their usual preview of the next day’s schedule, she’d hoped his enthusiasm for his work would restore his good humor. It hadn’t.
A moment later, she winced as Dom slammed down the lid on his computer.
“I can’t concentrate,” he announced, tucking the notebook under his arm. “I’m going to drive into town and check out the sites we’ll be using for the shoots.”
Halfway to the door, he stopped and issued an ungracious invitation. “Want to come? With your watchdog’s permission, of course.”
“No, thanks,” she replied easily, too used to Dom’s sarcasm to let it bother her. “If you want to start shooting by seven, I’ll have to be in makeup by six. Which means…”
“I know, I know. You have to be up at five for your run. So go to bed and get some sleep, or even I won’t be able to disguise the lines in you face. You’re not getting any younger, you know,” he added with a touch of malice.