Beauty and the Bodyguard. Merline Lovelace
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