Her lips parted, her hands flew to her face. "I've lost them! They must have fallen off."
"Wear mine." He whipped his glasses off and placed them on her, feeling both relieved and deprived as the lenses hid her eyes from him again. A momentary pang of anxiety attacked him as he remembered the pictures he'd taken of her with the microcamera in the sunglasses' frame. She wouldn't know the camera was there; it operated entirely by remote control from switches on his key ring. But the fact that the pictures were there—the sultry images he'd snapped of her throughout the day—rode heavy on his mind, just as frustration rode heavy in his gut. "I think we've had enough sun for today."
As he turned away from her and headed toward shore, intent on buying her another pair of glasses in the lobby gift shop then barricading her in her room—alone—she called from behind him, "Walker!"
Reluctantly he turned again to face her.
"Is there … any thing you'd like to talk to me about? Or … ask me?"
After a blank moment, he realized the topic she was dancing around, the one that made her look so vulnerable and anxious. She wanted to know if he'd recognized her as Valentina Richmond.
"No. Should there be?"
She gazed at him for a long, uncertain moment. Children splashed in the waves a few feet away, sunbathers reclined behind them on shore, and an airplane flew its advertising banner in the azure sky below a late-afternoon sun.
Claire wished she could read his mind. Had he recognized her? Something certainly was bothering him. Something had made him put her aside just when she'd felt he would kiss her. She'd wanted that kiss. She hungered for it.
"It's getting late," he said. "We missed lunch. Let's grab a burger from the patio grill and take it up to the condo." Despite his plans that seemed to include her, he sounded cold. Bored. As if he wanted to be anywhere other than here, with her.
She knew then that he hadn't recognized her. Out of all the reactions people had when first meeting Valentina Richmond, the Perfume Princess, billionaire heiress, few were ever bored. If Walker had recognized her, his interest level would have gone considerably higher, she was sure, even if he'd try to mask it. The only thing he was trying to mask right now was his impatience to be gone from here. She wouldn't doubt that once they'd reach the condo, he'd retire to whatever room she wasn't in.
Anger tightened her fists. It wasn't fair that she should crave his touch, his kiss, when he wanted nothing at all from her. Especially after their closeness on the Jet Ski, closeness she'd felt had gone much further than even the physical. Although the shifting and flexing of muscle beneath sun-heated flesh had indeed contributed in a major way to her enjoyment—the mere memory made her knees weak—she'd felt as if she were part of him out there, as if their souls had been soaring together through that rainbow. Fanciful, she realized now. Was she that desperately lonely?
She lifted her chin, her pride rushing to her rescue. No. Infatuated, maybe, but not desperate. If she had to obsess about somebody, she'd find a man other than her bodyguard. A man who might actually return her interest.
"You go ahead and grab a hamburger," she suggested, trying not to sound resentful. "I'll meet you at the condo later." And before her attempt to stay reasonable wore thin, she sloshed through the waves toward the shore, angling sharply away from him.
"Claire."
She kept walking.
The sound of water swirling behind her warned of his approach. He caught her arm and swung her around. "Where are you going?"
"That's none of your business."
"Sorry, but it is."
"I can always rectify that." She met his green-eyed gaze. "I can fire you."
"Don't." His hands slid up her arms, his face darkening like a storm cloud, the scar across his cheek reminding her of lightning. "You need me, whether you admit it or not."
Oh, yes, she needed him. That was the problem. "There's only one thing I need," she said, her voice low but shaking, "and that's freedom to do as I please. It's what I came here for, Walker." And though she didn't mean to say it, the words tumbled out beneath his searching stare. "I have to figure out who I am … what I want out of life."
His frown deepened. "Like, going back to your fiancé?"
The question surprised her. She hadn't been sure he'd been paying attention when she'd told him earlier about breaking up with her fiancé. "No. That's one thing I'm sure of. But now I have to figure out what I do want to do."
"And you think you'll find the answer on this beach?" He sounded mildly scornful.
"I don't know where I'll find it, but I … I have to know what I've been missing!" She pulled back from his grasp, which seemed to have tightened. "I'm sorry if you're hungry or hot or bored. Do whatever makes you feel better. But I'm walking down this beach, and I'm finding a party. Yes, a party! And I'm going to dance, and drink, and make friends—"
"Friends!"
"And do whatever else I want to do. Is that clear?"
A muscle moved in his jaw. "Perfectly."
"Good." Straightening into a dignified stance, she turned and strode up onto the beach toward the pool deck. He followed her. And though she couldn't see him, she knew that an odd, powerful anger simmered within him. If ever a gaze could ignite a fire, she'd be in flames by now.
She stopped at the lounge chair where she'd dropped her beach bag, towel, hat and cover-up. Grabbing her short, crocheted tunic, she slipped into it and fastened a few buttons. Taking her compact out of her beach bag, she consulted the mirror as she combed the tangles from her half-dried hair, then slicked on a gleaming coat of lipstick. She would do exactly as she'd told him—find a lively beach party, make friends and have fun—or she'd die trying.
A shiver pierced her anger at that last thought. She'd rather not die trying.
But she'd seen no signs of stalkers or anyone following her since they'd lost the blue van back in Georgia. She'd escaped them all—the kooks and the paparazzi. She intended to enjoy every minute of the blessed respite.
Angling her makeup mirror for a covert look behind her, she saw that Walker stood at his earlier post near the bar, a formfitting black T-shirt now showcasing his muscled chest, his handsome face sullen, his sea-green gaze drilling holes through her. Good. At least he was paying attention. Leaving her hat and towel on the lounge chair, she sauntered across the deck, past the bar where Walker stood, and to the patio grill where an older man cooked hamburgers. "Two, please. With everything."
The chef smiled, fixed her hamburgers, wrapped them in foil and handed them to her. She paid him and paced back to where Walker stood. Without a word, she thrust the burgers into his hands, then continued walking. From her side view, she saw him throw the burgers in a trash can and follow her.
Something told her he wasn't a happy camper.
She found the party she was looking for a short way down the beach. Music blared from the crowded deck of a beachside bar, couples shimmied and writhed on a dance floor, and a volleyball game kept a dozen men and a few young women laughing, running and jumping on the beach below.
Claire perched herself on a bar stool, crossed her legs and bought one of those exotic rum drinks with a pineapple slice on the side of a curvy glass. The first few sips went down smooth, cold and sweet. The rock 'n' roll made her body move. The teasing conversation between the bartender and his customers made her smile. And the fact that Walker loomed a short distance to her right made her feel ridiculously safe, safer than her usual army of bodyguards had ever made her feel, despite the fact that he looked ready to kill her.
She munched on pretzels, chatted with the portly, balding man beside her, and ordered another drink. Afternoon slipped into early evening; Tiki torches lit up the lounge and beach; the volleyball game played itself out. And all those strapping young men with their golden tans and athletic physiques swarmed around the bar, giving each other high fives and loudly roasting the losers. Claire soon found herself accompanied by two burly teammates who lost no time in pulling up stools besid
e her, introducing themselves, and making her feel thoroughly welcome.
Resisting an urge to crane her neck for another peek at Walker, she was surprised to find another of those wonderful rum drinks set in front of her … compliments of Kev and Dave. The party was promising to be a great one.
Conversation consisted of a few trite questions, silly jokes, and banter exchanged by the men. One of the Kev-Dave duo asked her to dance. On her way to the dance floor, she located Walker in the crowd and was pleased to see that he was still watching her. She chose a spot on the dance floor where she'd have an unimpeded view of him. And he of her. For safety reasons, she told herself. Why make his job harder than she had to? The fact that his silent gaze stirred her more profoundly than any of the other men's flattery had nothing to do with it…
After the second dance, she was feeling so relaxed in the hazy blue and green lights of the dance floor that she took off the sunglasses Walker had given her, sauntered to her place at the bar and slipped them into her bag. No one would recognize her here. She wasn't the same woman she'd been before. She was new, adventurous, mysterious … a nameless stranger in a good-time crowd.
Returning to the dance floor, she gave herself up to the fast, hard beat, alternating songs between Kev and Dave. As the music, the colored lights, the fragrant sea breeze and the exotic rum drink all worked together to loosen her muscles and her inhibitions, she found her gaze drifting again and again to the dark, silent man who stood at the side of the dance floor, his muscled arms crossed, his frowning eyes following the movement of her body. And when their gazes connected, an electric thrill coursed down her spine, warming every part of her.
Though she danced with partners who lavished her with all the attention a woman could want, she watched Walker. And he watched her. And her body moved for him—her hips, her shoulders, her heart. She wanted him, she realized. Only him. No one else would do.
When Kev broke in to replace Dave as her partner, she barely noticed.
Tyce noticed. He noticed every move made by her and the men surrounding her. Whether she knew it or not—and he didn't think she did—she'd claimed the undivided attention of quite a few. Though her dancing was little more than subtle gyrations in time to the music, she was too damn sexy to move that way without inciting some form of riot. And even though swimwear seemed to be the apparel of choice for this beach crowd, she drew more than her share of attention in her bikini and loosely crocheted tunic. If the Florida summer night was usually hot, she'd raised the temperature by a few dozen degrees.
He wanted her so badly he could barely breathe.
And so did the other horny bastards who followed the sway of her hips, straining their eyes to see through the coarse netting of her tunic, drooling at flashes of lean, suntanned skin … and the long expanse of leg below. Tyce stood tensed, poised and hair-trigger ready for the first slobbering fool who made a move to touch her.
The pressure building within him increased as she shared a smile with her dance partner. The creep was nearly bursting at the seams to get his hands on her. To get lucky. A sudden doubt stuck in Tyce's craw. Would he get lucky? A vision blinded him for a gut-twisting moment: Claire taking some guy back to the condo with her … closing her bedroom door…
I have to know what I've been missing, she'd said.
His mouth went dry. The music had changed to a slow song and the lights had mellowed to a sultry violet that reminded him of her eyes. She wasn't returning to her seat at the bar. She was going to dance this love song in some man's arms. Some man who would hold her close.
Dancers on the floor paired off into couples. Without conscious thought, Tyce moved through the crowd, hungry and silent as a shark. She stood surprisingly still as the dance began, her eyes wide and her face flushed. As he drew closer, he realized why. Two young toughs beside her both seemed to have the same cozy idea in mind.
"This is my dance," one of them claimed.
"Beat it, Kev. I was here first."
"You had your turn, Dave. It's mine now."
"Please don't argue," Claire interjected, her cheeks flaming at the glances they were drawing from other dancers. "I think I'd rather sit this one out."
"She promised me this dance," Kev growled at Dave.
Worry clutched at Claire. Surely these two wouldn't fight over a simple dance. Would they? Dave's debonair smile was somewhat ruined by the clenching of his teeth, and Claire realized with a sinking heart that they just might fight.
"It's my turn," insisted Dave, reaching for her.
"'Fraid not." The challenge came from behind the two men, and both turned around to confront the interloper. Claire felt her heart expand with relief—and something more—as Walker shouldered his way between them, his dark, rugged face blazing with an inner intensity. He hooked a confident hand around her waist and pulled her into his arms. "This one's mine."
His gaze pressed that claim further, thoroughly possessing her.
Dave yelled, "Hey!"
Kev started. "Who the hell—"
"And if you two don't sit down," Walker warned in that quiet, iron-smooth drawl that raised the hairs on her arms as he shifted his gaze to the protestors, "you'll be mine, too."
Maybe it was the curbed violence that smoldered behind his eyes, or the deadly threat coiled within his tensed muscles, but to Claire's amazement, the two rivals stepped back, muttered curses beneath their breath and skulked off the dance floor.
With the same simmering intensity that had sent them on their way, Walker turned his attention to her. The night, for Claire, had suddenly taken on a deeper shade of magic.
"What are you doing here, lady," he asked hoarsely, fitting her against him, "driving all these gentlemen wild?"
"Dancing," she breathed, her voice lost to the sensual feel of his muscle-hardened body pressing hers into slow, rhythmic movement. A dance, only a dance, but the pleasure coursing through her somehow made it more. She was his for now; caught in his heated, virile embrace—and the mesmerizing power of his stare.
"Looked like you were doing more than that."
She tilted her head back and arched a brow, feeling much more womanly and desirable than she had all night. Or maybe all year. Or maybe all her life. "Did it look like I was being … naughty?"
"I'd say you were headed that way."
Her lips curled in enjoyment. His gaze lowered to her mouth and lingered there—intently so—until a serious heat washed through her. "I told you from the start," she whispered, "I want to be bad."
"Bad." He angled his face intimately toward hers. "With a man?"
"Yes. With a man."
He led her in a turn, his hand hard, warm and controlling at the small of her back. "In case you've been too busy to notice—" his gaze intensified "—I'm a man."
The hunger in his eyes took her breath away. Inexplicably, fear touched her, even as her pulse quickened with answering desire. He was dangerous; much more so than she'd realized before. "But you're hired to be with me," she said, searching for the reason she'd come to this bar, the reason she'd danced with men she'd barely seen. "I want someone who … wants to be with me."
His whisper was a heated growl against her mouth. "I want to be."
Desire suffused her, making her dizzy, muting her voice, leaving only her eyes to speak for her. His arms tightened around her and, without another word, he guided her off the dance floor.
* * *
5
« ^ »
He whisked her through the star-studded night, her sandals barely touching the darkened beach. Music and light spilled like waves from the hotel bars they passed, and the sea whispered secrets in the summer darkness.
Walker wanted her. The pressure of his arm around her, the urgency of his gait, the heat radiating from him in palpable waves, all thrilled her in a deep, elemental way … and at the same time, frightened her.
She knew nothing about pleasing a man. She wasn't sure she had ever pleased her fiancé. What made her think she could sa
tisfy a man as streetwise and virile as Walker? Her appeal was only an illusion, a larger-than-life image with more flash than substance.
She slowed as they reached the lobby of their condo, her fear engulfing her. "Walker…"
But an elevator had opened, and without stopping for as much as a questioning glance, he swept her onto it. "Walker," she tried again, her stomach clenching, her throat tight and dry. "When I said I wanted to be bad … well, my meaning of the word might not exactly match yours."
The doors slid closed, like a well-oiled trap.
He turned to her, and his green-fire stare backed her up against the elevator wall. "Thanks for the warning, Claire." Leaning close, he braced a dark, muscled arm on either side of her. "I'll try not to let you shock me."
The humor in his gaze was quickly overpowered by smoky, turbulent desire. That desire overpowered her, too, making her feel faint with longing. Oh, but she did want him! She wanted to submerge herself in his fire, his strength, until she found—what? What? She didn't know, but she yearned for it. Her gaze shifted and danced with his, a mutual searching, until she felt her very soul drawn from her depths.
He took her mouth in a kiss that stunned her.
There was no gentleness in it. No courting, no teasing. Only heat and need and a raw sexuality that cut to the core of the issue. Her own need flared in immediate response, shocking her with its carnal intensity. She'd never been kissed like this before, if that's what it was, this deep, hot mating of mouths. She'd never feasted this way before, her hunger roused by the taste of him.
She wanted more, and angled her head to get it. He clutched her fiercely against him and drove his tongue in erotic rhythm. A rush of sensation washed away all thought.
With some distant part of her mind, she realized the elevator had stopped and the doors had opened. Vaguely she heard voices. Without breaking his mouth from hers, Walker hit at a button. The doors closed, shutting out the intruders. The elevator continued its climb.
THE PRINCESS AND THE P.I. Page 7
