THE PRINCESS AND THE P.I.

by Donna Sterling

  "Is that what you were afraid I was going to do—sell some lurid blow-by-blow account of our night together?'

  "Any account of our night together would be bad enough," she declared, anguished.

  Tyce squared his jaw and looked away. He wasn't sure why he was so angry. He of all people knew her fear was legitimate. Hattie had hired him in hopes of getting just such a scoop. Claire's lie about her identity had been understandable. She really couldn't trust many people.

  Especially not him. Even now, he was hiding the fact that he'd been hired by both Hattie and her uncle to report on her. His hidden agenda weighed heavily on his conscience. He couldn't tell her the truth, though, or she wouldn't accept his protection.

  But he still couldn't stop the anger from gnawing at his insides. He'd wanted her to confide in him. Wanted her to turn to him for help. She hadn't. She planned to leave him, grab a taxi and ride away, without a backward glance. He'd meant nothing more to her than a casual romp to spice up her vacation … the "wild oats" she'd sworn to sow.

  Why should that bother you? he asked himself. She was a damn good lay. An unexpected perk after a long day on the job.

  "Let's not fight," she implored. Her gaze had lost its frostiness, and he felt a wrenching in his gut. "I'm so grateful to you for everything you've done for me, Walker. Like … back there, in the diner. I panicked. I felt so exposed. Thank you for getting me out of there."

  He realized then, staring into the eyes that still took his breath away, that his anger was only partially directed at her. A good deal of it had to do with the images he'd seen on the television screen. Although he'd known from the start that she was a billionaire celebrity, he'd somehow forgotten the opulence of her life-style. The gowns and jewels she wore cost more than most people's homes. The mansions, villas and chateaus she lived in would turn even the richest man's head. An army of servants awaited at each location around the globe to serve her and her jet-setting friends. The yacht he'd seen on the newscast—with elegant lounges, saunas and a full-scale gym—could rival any luxury cruise ship. Why the hell had he thought, even for a moment, that the time they'd spent together would affect her in any way at all?

  She was slumming, enjoying a brief sojourn into the lives of common folk, just to help her appreciate the luxuries she'd come to take for granted. She'd fly back to her enchanted existence in a matter of days, he was sure. His anger meant so little in the grand scheme of things that he felt ridiculous for having shown it.

  Forcing the anger aside, he said with all the graciousness he could muster, "I'm glad to have been of assistance." She gazed deeper into his eyes than he would have liked. Any deeper and he just might lose all perspective and kiss her. He couldn't let himself do that. Now that her identity was out in the open, even touching her unnecessarily would be out of the question. He was, officially, her bodyguard, as far as she knew. A hired employee. And she was, officially, a billionaire celebrity, light-years beyond his reach. Their game of make-believe was over. To divert his thoughts and reestablish the necessary level of civility between them, he uttered, "Good thing you didn't order caviar and cream cheese for breakfast."

  She blinked. "I would have, but I didn't see it on the menu."

  He bit his cheek to stifle a smirk. She really didn't get it, did she? He couldn't help a twinge of resentment for the life-style that placed her so far beyond his reach. In a cooler tone, he queried, "Anything else you're beginning to miss?"

  "Lobster-stuffed mushrooms, I guess. The way my chef makes them." She fell silent, and as he turned his face into the sea breeze, she laid a hand on his arm. Reflexively he stiffened. He wasn't sure he could take her touching him. "I don't even know your whole name," she said in an oddly beseeching whisper.

  "Tyce. Tyce Walker."

  She pulled her hand away, and the corner of her mouth lifted in a troubled smile. Softly she repeated, "Tyce."

  He squared his shoulders, sucked in a breath, and silently cursed her for looking vulnerable. He could swear she was tucking the name away in her heart, as if to savor it later. Since when had he grown so damn fanciful? He had to put an end to this madness. "My offer still stands. I'll drive you wherever you want to go."

  The troubled look in her violet-blue eyes deepened. "Thank you. The nearest train station, I suppose." She turned to head for the car.

  "You don't need to take a train," he called after her. "I said I'd drive you."

  "Even if I want to go across country?" she asked over her shoulder, her curls a bright flurry in the sea-scented wind.

  "Yes."

  She halted and turned so quickly he nearly walked into her. "Why?" she demanded.

  "In case you've forgotten, I've been hired to drive you and protect you." Another lie—he'd been hired to report on her. But he'd protect her with his life, if need be.

  "That was before you knew who I was."

  "What difference does that make?"

  "Plenty. To me, at least." She searched his face with an intensity that brought to the forefront of his mind all the secrets he hid from her. "Can I trust you, Tyce?"

  Her use of his first name surprised and warmed him. Her question annoyed him to hell and back. "What kind of question is that?"

  "A serious one. Can I trust you to keep my whereabouts a secret and my private affairs private?"

  A deep frustration welled up within him. He couldn't make that promise. "If I say you can trust me, does that mean you can? It's like asking a man if he's honest. If he's not, he's going to say he is, anyway. What good would it do if I got down on my knees and swore on a hundred bibles that I could be trusted?"

  "If you say you can be trusted—" she said, sounding as if she were just now reaching an important conclusion "—and I mean you, Tyce Walker … then I'll believe you."

  His lips pulled tight, and the anger he'd been holding at bay twisted into something almost painful. She was too trusting for her own good. "And if I don't say it?"

  Her golden brows drew together. His back teeth gritted and locked. His gaze waged a battle with hers that neither of them thoroughly understood. She backed away first, but claimed victory with a simple pronouncement. "I'll trust you anyway."

  She trudged off to the car. Tyce stood rooted to the spot, feeling as if he'd been blindsided.

  The helicopter had been a stroke of genius. It would be overlooked by anyone on the beach as just another tourist copter taking vacationers up for a panoramic view of the coast. Even now, another helicopter hovered a few miles to their west, and small planes flew advertising banners above the beach. Couldn't ask for better cover than that.

  The pilot, however, would have to be replaced. Twice now, he'd messed up a perfectly good shot with his unsteady flying.

  "Hold this thing level, will ya?" Hattie yelled to the pilot over the roar of the wind and the whirring of the propellers. She then turned to the balding, potbellied photographer who aimed a camera through the open door. "Zoom in on 'em now, Sam."

  He clicked a few shots of T.K. and the Perfume Princess standing on a sand dune.

  Hattie smiled, well pleased. Slick Sam was the only photographer she trusted to keep his mouth shut about a story as hot as this one. She'd given him good cause. She'd promised him stock in her tabloid. She might have even turned this scoop over to him entirely instead of bringing T.K. in on it, except that Sam had been down with the flu at the time.

  The day she'd hired T.K. to tail Valentina, she'd poured a whole pot of chicken soup down Sam's throat, force-fed him antibiotics and kept a bedpan beside him at all times in case he threw up. So far he hadn't. But if this pilot didn't hold the damn copter steady, Sam would be sure to hurl. Which would make them miss some good photo ops.

  "Oh, hell, they're leaving." Nervously she shoved a cigarette in her mouth.

  "What's the big deal?" croaked Sam, looking a little green as he fell heavily against his seat and set the telescopic camera aside. "We got plenty of pictures. How'd those ones turn out that you took from the cartridg
e of T.K.'s sunglasses?"

  "Fine. Nothing real hot, though." Hattie lit her cigarette. "Hey, pay attention, Frankie!" she shouted at the pilot. "Follow that car!"

  "Think T.K. will take any more pictures?" Sam asked.

  "Who knows? I put a fresh cartridge in, but he gets touchy about pictures, especially when the story has to do with her. Don't ask me why. Remember when he broke your telescopic lens before her debutante ball?"

  "Yeah." Sam uttered a few choice curses. "Could have had some great cover shots."

  "That's why I took the cartridge out of his sunglasses last night when I had the chance. The way they were looking at each other on the dance floor, I figured he'd change his mind about giving the photos to me. I'll bet he'd have kept 'em for himself."

  "Wouldn't have made much difference. I got some great shots myself after you left." His double-chinned grin was the one Hattie loved—the one that meant they'd hit pay dirt. "You're gonna flip when you see 'em." Sam chuckled and shook his head. "That T.K. … he's one lucky bastard."

  "Hey!" Hattie backhanded him across the chest, sending Sam into a spasm of coughing. "Don't talk that way about my kid."

  "Oh, sorry. Didn't mean no disrespect. By the way…" The look that came over Sam's rotund face now made the hairs stand up on Hattie's arms. Greed. She hadn't expected to see it on Sam's face anytime soon. Hadn't she promised him enough to buy his loyalty? "I've been offered twice as much for these photos as what you're willing to pay. Even including the stock in the tabloid."

  She glared at him. If her hands hadn't grown unsteady and her eyes too weak, she would have taken her own pictures. She hated getting old. "Are you telling me you put those pictures up for bid?"

  "I just asked around, that's all."

  "Asked around! Are you crazy? By now, word is out that we've got something hot. How long do you think it'll take for everyone and his brother to move in on us? We've probably led 'em right to her."

  "You're missing the point, Hattie. With the pictures I've got, I can retire." That double-chinned grin split his face again. "As a multimillionaire."

  Hattie took a long, hard drag on her cigarette, then blew the smoke out in steady white streams from her nose. "No, you're missing the point, Sammy. Those pictures are mine. And if they should find their way to another paper, I have a few photos of my own that your sweet little wife might be interested in seeing. Took 'em back in January. A hotel outside of London."

  The light of greed in Sam's eyes extinguished, and that sickly green pallor returned. "You wouldn't."

  '"Course not." She might be getting old, but she hadn't forgotten the importance of good management techniques. "I wouldn't do a thing like that to my partner, now … would I?"

  * * *

  7

  « ^ »

  "Let's head for Dallas. The woman who raised me—Nanny, I used to call her—told me it's a wonderful place. She has family there. I wonder if they'd still remember me? I met some of her grandchildren at Christmas one year…" She must have realized he was only partially listening to this American princess he'd been calling "Claire," the one who stubbornly insisted on trusting him. She fell silent, then asked, "Is something wrong?"

  He didn't want to worry her, but he saw no way around it. "It's possible that we're being followed."

  "Followed!" She whipped around in her seat to look behind them. "Here, in the sand dunes?"

  Tyce nodded grimly and gazed through the rearview mirror as he drove down the sandy path between the dunes. He understood the doubt in her voice. They seemed to be very much alone.

  "I don't see anyone," she ventured, both anxious and hopeful.

  "That helicopter back there, over the water."

  "The helicopter? Oh!" She breathed a sigh of relief. "That's only one of those tourist rides. I saw a couple of them when we first got here, and believe me, I almost hit the floor to hide, but then I realized what they were. Hadn't you noticed them flying up and down the beach yesterday?"

  Yesterday. Had it only been yesterday? Their day on the beach seemed a lifetime ago. She'd been masquerading as an ordinary vacationer, and though he'd known she wasn't, he'd taken her playacting a little too seriously. He wished the truth hadn't come out in the open. It sat between them like an unscalable wall, at least for him. "Yeah, I noticed the copters yesterday. This one could be a tourist ride, and the passengers could be looking through binoculars at the panoramic view … but I don't like the way it circled back around to us."

  Like a candle snuffed out, the relief vanished from her face, and she looked skyward through her passenger window.

  Tyce silently cursed himself for the hundredth time in the short few days he'd been with her. He should have spotted the copter sooner. He'd been too caught up in her to pay much attention to the sky around them. Subconsciously he must have noticed, though, because a feeling of unease had grown in the pit of his stomach. By the time he'd ushered her to the car, he'd known something wasn't quite right, and had searched around him for a clue to his unease.

  "The helicopter is following us!" she cried as he steered the car onto the paved highway. "It's paparazzi … isn't it?"

  It wasn't really a question. She knew as well as he did. "I believe so."

  She shut her eyes and leaned her head back. "They found me again. We can't shake them, can we?" Her voice shook with disappointment. "The whole elaborate plan, the risk, all for nothing. It's over."

  "Hey, it's not over. We'll lose 'em."

  "No, we won't." Her eyes opened, and they were glazed with a hunted look. "I can't get away from them."

  "Claire." He reached an arm around her and pulled her to him. She was his "Claire" right now, the woman he'd held and kissed last night, not the heiress on the television screen. He wished he could stop the car to hold her closer. "Don't throw in the towel yet," he said against her temple. "They're too far away to do anything right now, and we're going to lose them."

  She shook her head. "They're everywhere." In a tight whisper, she added, "Even when I close my eyes, I see them."

  "I'll keep them away." A brash promise, he knew, but one he'd try his best to keep. Holding her tightly with one arm, he kept a hand on the wheel and his eyes on the road.

  Silent now, she let herself rest against him. After a moment, she pulled away and settled in her own seat. She was, once again, the princess. But when she turned her pale, heart-shaped face his way, he saw anger simmering there. "They force their way into the most private parts of my life, until I don't have a private life at all."

  Her fervent words shamed him for having worked in the profession that preyed on her. He wanted to bear down on the accelerator and tear around the other cars, but it wouldn't be smart to let the paparazzi know they'd been spotted. They'd only follow more closely, more blatantly. Better to pretend he was unaware of their presence and lose them with a decoy.

  Fred and the small, handpicked crew he'd summoned earlier that morning should have arrived by now in Panama City. He'd call them, but not on the cell phone, or the conversation could be picked up on a scanner. He'd have to stop at a phone booth, an inside one where the paparazzi couldn't see him making the call.

  "How could they have found us?" she wondered, sounding anguished. "We were so careful."

  "I don't know." His first guess was Hattie. He should have known better than to trust her promise not to keep him under surveillance, or her claim that legal battles would be keeping her in the office. "Don't worry—we're going to lose them."

  He blended smoothly into the flow of traffic on the highway, taking care not to pass too many cars or look as if he were in any particular hurry. His mind, however, raced. If Hattie was following him now, she probably had been keeping track of his location electronically from the outset.

  She could have used tags on the car he'd rented, his luggage, his cell phone—hell, just about anything, since she probably had access to his apartment before he'd left. He doubted he'd been tailed in person until now, but he had to admit, he coul
d have overlooked someone in the crowded bar last night.

  He recalled Claire "losing" the sunglasses he'd given her, the ones with a microcamera in the frame. He'd bet a small fortune that they'd been stolen from her purse at the bar. Again, he suspected Hattie. She knew about the camera in the sunglasses and would have found the opportunity irresistible to steal the photos he'd already taken of Claire. Memory flashed of the guy in the Hawaiian shirt this morning who'd pushed rudely past them in the condo hallway, right before they'd found the sunglasses. He could have planted them there. Hattie would have wanted to return the sunglasses, undoubtedly with a fresh cartridge, so he could take more pictures.

  Good thing for Hattie that she was out of reach. He would have cherished the opportunity to strangle her. The idea of having those photos published—photos he himself had taken of Claire—suddenly seemed like an unforgivable betrayal. He wished he'd never taken them. Ironically enough, he'd decided last night to keep the photos for himself, a memento of his time with her. He realized now that mere photos, or any memento, would never be enough.

  "The copter's still following us, isn't it?"

  "Yeah. Keep your face covered," he advised. "They can't sell pictures as easily if you're not identifiable in them."

  She tugged her sun hat low over her face and slouched down in the seat. He hated that she had to ride with a hat over her face. He hated even more all the secrets he hid from her. Like the fact that he'd taken photos of her that would probably end up in a tabloid. At least the photos were innocent beach shots that could have been taken by anybody. But Hattie or whoever was following them would have other photos by now. He could just imagine the camera shutters whirring last night at the bar. And afterward.

  Foreboding curled like talons in his chest. Exactly which of many possible candid poses would be immortalized?

  "If paparazzi are following us now," he reasoned out aloud, his throat tight with dismay, "they may have been yesterday, too."

  "Yesterday? You mean, on the beach?"