Beauty and the Bodyguard. Merline Lovelace
his eyes. Silvery blue and framed by black lashes a good number of her friends would have committed serious mayhem for, they riveted hers across the crowded room.
For several long seconds, those cool blue eyes held her pinned. To Allie’s considerable surprise, his scrutiny sent a spine-tingling tension arcing through her. The tiny hairs at her nape lifted, as though stirred by an unseen breeze. A sort of prickly awareness drifted across her shoulders and down her back, left bare by the plunge of her dress. For a moment, the excited buzz of conversation about Fortune Cosmetics’s new product line seemed to lose its sharp-edged focus.
Being watched wasn’t a particularly unique experience for a woman who’d spent most of her adult life under the harsh, unforgiving eyes of makeup artists and stylists and photographers. Yet an inexplicable little shiver shimmied along Allie’s nerves as the awareness intensified. With the ease of long practice, she maintained an unruffled poise as she returned his stare.
Then, slowly, deliberately, his gaze traveled from the top of her upswept hair, down the soft lines of her lemon-colored chiffon tank dress to the tips of her open-toed sandals. When his gaze snared hers again, she felt a small jolt of surprise.
Allison Fortune had learned to expect a wide range of reactions in men’s eyes when they looked at her. Cool dismissal wasn’t usually one of them. Her interest piqued, she took a small sip from the crystal champagne flute she held in one hand.
“Would you like another glass?”
The deep, slightly slurred voice at her side pulled her attention from the dark-haired stranger across the room. “No, thank you, Dean. I’m fine.”
Dean Hansen’s blond brows slanted into a frown. “You’ve been nursing that glass for over an hour. It’s probably flat by now.”
“I’ve got to watch my calories,” she returned lightly. “I’m leaving for a shoot tomorrow, remember?”
Her escort’s scowl deepened, marring the lines of his handsome, classically Scandinavian features. “I remember. God, Allie, you just flew in from New York this morning. When are you going to spend a little time in Minneapolis? More to the point, when the hell are you going to spend some time with me?”
His voice rose querulously, carrying over the hum of conversation and the jazzy beat of the trio at the far end of the high-ceilinged living room. Several heads turned, and Allie caught sight of her older sister’s face, sharp-set with worry. As chief of marketing for the vast array of products produced by Fortune Cosmetics, Caroline Fortune Valkov shouldered a heavy responsibility. Since their grandmother’s death in a plane crash six months ago, those responsibilities had become almost unbearable burdens.
Although their father, Jake, had stepped in and taken over full control of the corporation at Kate Fortune’s death, he’d had to reorganize and streamline several subsidiary companies to keep the huge conglomerate afloat while the lawyers sorted through Kate’s financial affairs. As a result, stock values had nosedived. To make matters worse, a series of break-ins and a fire at their main chemical lab had caused several severe setbacks in the development of the new line of products Allie would help launch.
They’d staked so much on this new line, her father and Caroline and every other member of the Fortune family. Even without the secret “youth” formula her grandmother had been working on when she died, this collection of new beauty products would buy them time to pull the corporation out of its financial slump. Thousands of people worldwide depended on Fortune Cosmetics for their livelihoods. There hadn’t been a layoff in Kate’s lifetime. Jake was grimly determined that he wouldn’t be the first Fortune to send their workers to the unemployment lines.
Which was why Allie had put her budding acting career on hold and agreed to be the “face” for the new line. Why she hadn’t told anyone but her twin the precise details about the frightening phone calls she’d received. And why, with those sharp lines in Caroline’s forehead, she didn’t need Dean Hansen causing a scene at her sister’s party.
Allie studied the man she’d been dating off and on for several months. Dean’s flushed face told her this would be the last function she’d attend with him. The brimming tumbler of Scotch in his hand also told her he wouldn’t take his marching orders well. Deciding it was only fair to him to settle things between them before she left for New Mexico tomorrow, she set her champagne flute on a sofa table.
“Why don’t we go out on the terrace?” she suggested, nodding toward the bank of French doors lining one wall. With any luck, the breeze from the lake would counter the effects of his Scotch.
Dean’s frown disappeared. Amber liquid sloshed as he set his drink down beside her. “Lead the way, beautiful.”
Allie wound through the noisy crowd and stepped through the open doors. Crossing the wide terrace, she leaned both hands on the low stone balustrade and dragged in a deep, welcome breath of the August night. After two weeks of meetings and consultations with advertising executives in New York City’s sweltering mugginess, the Minnesota air felt unbelievably clean against her skin.
Dean’s uneven tread echoed on the flagstones behind her, almost lost in the rise and fall of laughter and music from inside. His big hand curled around her arm.
“Let’s get away from the noise. Walk down to the lake with me.”
Nodding, Allie slipped off her sandals and left them on the terrace. When she stepped off the stone stairs, her toes curled into the dewy grass. She’d run barefoot through these lush lawns with her twin sister so many times during the summers they stayed with their grandmother. She and Rocky had chased fireflies and giggled and shared their girlish dreams with Kate. Now Kate was dead, and Allie had put her dreams on hold.
With Dean beside her, she made her way down to the lake. The long, sloping lawn muted the sounds of the party. Gradually the noise died to a faint murmur. For a few moments, she heard only the lapping of indigo water against grassy banks and the cheerful chirp of cicadas. Then Dean’s hoarse voice disturbed the harmony of the night.
“God, Allie, you’re so beautiful.” Sliding a hand behind her neck, he turned her to face him.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” she replied, “but…”
His thumb pressed her lips. “No buts. Not tonight. Not when you’re leaving in the morning.”
When he tried to pull her forward, Allie placed her palms against his chest. “We need to talk, Dean.”
“We’ll talk later.”
To her surprise, he dug his fingers into the back of her neck and dragged her forward. Frowning, she stiffened her arms.
“Dean, please!”
“Dammit, Allie, don’t do that! Don’t freeze up on me again.”
“You’ve had too much to drink,” she said evenly. “Let me go.”
“Not this time,” he growled, his breath hot and smoky with Scotch. “I’ve been dancing to your tune for months now. Every time I try to get close, you poker up or turn away. What’s with you, Allie? What kind of game are you playing with me?”
“I don’t play games, with you or anyone else.”
“The hell you don’t. What else would you call it when you put on that beautiful come-hither face, then pull back every time I try to touch you?”
Wedging her arms against his chest, Allie fought to keep her voice steady. Although she’d inherited a fair share of her grandmother’s fire, along with her hair, she’d long ago learned to hide her own emotions behind the smiling facade the public wanted to see.
“I’ve told you repeatedly. I like you…as a friend. I enjoy your company…as an escort. But I’m not going to go to bed with you.”
“Why not?”
He sounded so aggrieved, so much like a sulky teen denied the use of the family car, that she had to smile. “Because I don’t want to, Dean.”