Beauty and the Bodyguard. Merline Lovelace
jaunts. As for those eight hours a night in bed…
With some effort, he banished the combustible image of Allie Fortune all doe-eyed and sleep-soft. Telling himself he was ten kinds of a fool, Rafe agreed. Reluctantly.
“I think we can accommodate your schedule.”
She hesitated, obviously as unenthusiastic as he was about the next two weeks. “Then I’ll leave you to negotiate the terms of your contract with my father. If you decide to accept the job, I’ll meet you at the airport. We have a ten-o’clock flight to Santa Fe.”
“Well, I’m glad that’s settled,” Erica said with a sigh of relief as her daughter brushed a kiss across her cheek and started for the door.
“Not quite,” Rafe drawled.
Allie paused with one hand on the doorknob.
“If I’m going to be responsible for your safety, Miss Fortune, I have a couple of conditions of my own.”
“Such as?”
“Such as no more strolls down to the lake—or anywhere else—unless I go along as a chaperon.”
After so many years in front of the camera, hiding her thoughts had become almost second nature to Allie. Her job was to project the emotions the photographer and art director wanted, not her own feelings. So she kept her expression carefully neutral while she debated whether to tell Rafe Stone to take a flying leap in the lake—or anywhere else.
As much as she wanted to put this man in his place, however, Allie had to admit the idea of a bodyguard had some merit. Although she routinely exercised basic security precautions against the weirdos who regularly fell in love with faces in magazines, these late-night calls had become too personal, too disturbing. She didn’t want this crazy to continue disrupting her life. Even more to the point, she didn’t want him to disrupt this shoot. Her older sister, her parents, her entire family, had staked everything on this campaign. Their tightly planned schedule allowed for minimal slippage.
Despite his brusque manner, or perhaps because of it, this Rafe Stone had routed Dean Hansen easily enough. He certainly looked as though he could take care of one obnoxious, if obsessive, fan. Besides, she’d only need his protection for two weeks. Three at most. Just while they were on location. The police had assured her the security at her New York condo was adequate. She could dispense with his services when they returned to the city for the final studio work.
Two weeks. She could put up with Rafe Stone’s constant presence for two weeks and still maintain the inner equilibrium.
Maybe.
“What’s your second condition?” she asked.
“If I perceive a threat to your safety, you follow my orders. All of them. Immediately. Without question.”
Allie wasn’t stupid. Nor was she foolhardy. In the event of a real threat, she’d be more than happy to let this man handle it.
“Agreed.”
Her acquiescence didn’t appear to afford him a great deal of pleasure. “I’ll pick you up at nine and take you to the airport,” he said brusquely.
“No further negotiations with my father, Mr. Stone?”
“No. And the name’s Rafe.”
She hesitated, then extended her hand. “I go by Allie.”
Her touch was warm and smooth and altogether too electric. Rafe curled his fingers around hers for the required few seconds. When she slid her hand out of his, her heat tingled against his palm, and he felt the damnedest urge to make a fist and trap it.
Two weeks, he told himself grimly. He’d spent almost that long on his belly in the dust, staking out a supposed terrorist hideout in southern Spain. If he could handle that band of inept would-be revolutionaries, he could handle himself around Allie Fortune.
Maybe.
By eight-thirty the next morning, Allie was having second, third and fourth thoughts. She’d spent a restless night, trying without notable success to adjust to the idea of Rafe Stone’s disturbing presence in her life. Her sleeplessness hadn’t been helped by her sister’s acid observation that she’d let Jake do it to her—again.
“Why didn’t you stand up to him?” Rocky asked, picking up the refrain she’d left off last night only when Allie threatened to tie a pillowcase over her head. Perched comfortably on a window seat in the bedroom the girls had shared since childhood, Rocky went after her twin with the piranha-like ruthlessness of a loving sister.
“You should have told Jake to stuff it when he pressed you to do this campaign. You know how burnt out you are. You’ve been trying to stuff acting lessons in between your runway shows and advertising shoots. You only have time for an occasional date with jerks like Hansen. And now you’ve got this creep calling you in the middle of the night. What you need, sister mine, is a hot and fast and furious affair.”
“Right.”
“I’m serious. You need someone to make you kick back and enjoy life again. Preferably a man who doesn’t worship at the altar of your beauty.”
“What I need is for you to get off my back,” Allie retorted, tossing a nightshirt into her weekender.
“Me, or Jake?”
“Both of you.”
“So tell him!”
“I’m not you, Rocky. I don’t make an art form out of challenging people.”
“Bull-loney! Don’t pull that innocent act on me. You never hesitated to challenge anyone when we were younger. You just did it so sweetly, no one but Kate ever saw through your angelic facade. It’s just since her death that you’ve let Jake and Caroline and the whole family take over your life.”
Allie gripped her zippered makeup bag in both hands as a now familiar pain lanced through her. Involuntarily her gaze drifted to the battered tin carousel sitting on the dresser.
Kate had seen her granddaughters’ wide-eyed fascination when she’d first acquired the carousel. Laughing, she’d given the German-made toy to the girls to play with, even though it was an expensive antique. As Kate was so fond of saying, there was nothing more precious in the world than a child’s joy. The tomboyish Rocky had soon tired of the little merry-go-round, but Allie had delighted in its filigreed canopy and prancing horses throughout her childhood. Now dented and dinged from years of use, the tin carousel was Allie’s most cherished reminder of her grandmother. Kate had left it to her in her will as a personal keepsake.
Dropping the makeup bag, Allie walked over to the dresser. Unerringly, her fingers wound the key just the right number of times. Too many, and the melody tripped and hurried, like a twittering sparrow chasing another bird away from its nest. Too few, and it slowed to a sluggish crawl.
She released the key, and a Chopin polonaise tinkled through the air. One after another, the miniature horses dipped and rose, pawing the air in time to the music.
As the music wound down, Rocky sighed. “God, I miss her.”
Allie swallowed to ease her aching throat. “Me too.”
Pulling her nightshirt out of the suitcase, she wrapped it carefully around the little carousel, then tucked the bundle in amid her underwear.
“That’s why I didn’t tell Jake to stuff it,” Allie told her sister slowly. “And why I’m going to New Mexico. Kate spent her life building Fortune Cosmetics. If I can help keep it from falling apart, I will.”
“All right,” Rocky conceded, rising. “Have it your way. But I wish you’d let me fly you to Santa Fe. I’d feel better about the whole situation if I had a chance to shake out this goon Jake’s hired and see what he’s made of.”
Allie shuddered. “The idea of you shaking us out is exactly why I don’t want you to fly us to New Mexico. The last