THE PRINCESS AND THE P.I.

by Donna Sterling

  "And then you can take a pain pill," Noreen advised. "The cut on your arm probably should have had stitches, and that ankle of yours was swollen pretty badly yesterday. I can imagine what it looks like now. You're limping."

  "I'm fine," he murmured on his way to the bedroom. It wasn't exactly true. His ankle hurt like hell, but he didn't want to fog his mental state with any kind of medication. He had to stay alert to protect Claire.

  Quietly he paced into the bedroom and peered at the woman asleep in his bed. She was so damn beautiful. Just looking at her made him ache in ways he'd never ached before. And just thinking about the possibility of permanent injuries to her turned him sick and cold.

  He'd had to make a tough decision yesterday—to take her to a Florida hospital, which could have exposed her to the bomber again, or fly her to safety, which could have worsened her medical condition. His crew, whom he summoned from a phone at a nearby farmhouse, had come to his aid by finding a nurse to fly with them on the jet. He'd sent the woman back to Florida generously rewarded. He only hoped she hadn't recognized her famous patient—or wouldn't talk about it if she had.

  Thankful that Claire seemed to have come through the ordeal intact, he reluctantly returned to his guests, who now sat with coffee and sausage biscuits in his kitchen.

  "I take it that by now, you have the whole mountain surrounded by armed guards," remarked Noreen, the tall, stately physician with cocoa-brown skin and only a few glints of silver in her short, ebony curls.

  Tyce nodded, sat and took the steaming mug she handed him. Brianna fixed him a plate of food. He realized then that they, along with Brianna's husband, Jake, were probably the closest he'd had to friends since Joe had been sent to prison. Until now, he'd always considered them business acquaintances. He'd handled investigations for them, and Jake had advised him on investments. There were few people he trusted more.

  Right now, he even had doubts about a couple of his own security agents. Someone had planted a bomb in the pickup. The only way they would have known about that pickup was if his crew had been followed, their actions monitored and their conversations overheard.

  Tyce vowed to find out how and who. He'd take nothing for granted.

  He wouldn't even trust her uncle, the man who'd hired him to follow her, or anyone else in her family. Though he hadn't asked her yet about the terms of her will, he suspected her family figured prominently in it. A fortune such as hers could be one powerful motivation to kill.

  Even if her uncle was innocent, the bomber could have found Claire through Tyce's contact with him. If word had leaked out about his hiring Tyce to find her, a clever and determined nutcase could have tracked Claire through the investigators who'd been working for him. Tyce and his crew might have unwittingly led some psychopath to her. He'd make no more reports to her uncle until the would-be assassin was in custody.

  He forced himself to eat, his mind roiling with half-formed plans, concerns and questions.

  "Tyce, why don't you go get some sleep?" Brianna suggested, always the mother hen, though she was probably younger than him. "You look exhausted. Valentina might need you later."

  He couldn't argue with that. With an absent nod, he headed toward his bedroom.

  "Uh, Tyce." Brianna lifted a tawny brow. "You might want to use another bedroom. Our patient is sleeping in that one."

  He paused with his hand on the bedroom doorknob. Only then did he realize the absurdity of what he'd almost done. He'd been about to lie down in bed with Valentina Richmond as if he had every right to do so. It probably would have humiliated her, being wakened by Noreen or Brianna at the next hourly interval to find her bodyguard in bed with her.

  Her bodyguard.

  What had started out as a ruse had become fact. He'd taken the task upon himself without anyone hiring him to do so. His top priority—his only priority—was to protect Claire.

  But that certainly didn't give him any personal claim on her. What the hell had he been thinking, heading for her bed? With a disgusted shake of his head, he veered off toward one of the guest bedrooms.

  He hadn't been thinking at all. He'd simply wanted to hold her.

  Bright sunlight pried Claire's eyes open, and she found herself in a log cabin of some sort. A ski chalet, maybe. Had she been skiing? She sat up against the pillows and pain shot through her head. Pain! She'd been hurt.

  She probably had been skiing.

  But then memory filtered back to her in strange bits and pieces—standing on a beach, riding in a car, running from someone. A helicopter. Paparazzi. An explosion. Tyce!

  Her head spun with worry, questions and pain. Had she seen him after that, or had she been dreaming? The memories seemed so foggy and unreal. She looked around with growing panic, finding only a woman in the room with her. A stranger, seated in an armchair beside the bed. Fear pumped through Claire. "Where's Tyce Walker?"

  The woman glanced her way and set aside a sheaf of papers she'd been reading, her hazel eyes meeting hers with warmth and reassurance. "He's here. We talked him into getting some sleep. He was up all night, arranging for your protection." Slim and attractive in beige slacks and top, her tawny hair drawn up in a twist, the woman smiled. "I'm glad to see you're awake. We were worried. How do you feel?"

  Claire sat up higher against the pillows, feeling achy and bruised all over. "Like I've been run over by a truck."

  "I wouldn't doubt that. You're probably exhausted, too. Dr. Myers insisted we wake you every couple hours last night."

  She tried to remember. Slowly it came back—hazy recollections of being wakened and forced to answer a trite question or two. "A doctor was here?"

  "She still is. She's on the phone with her office at the moment. For security reasons, Tyce refused to take you to a hospital, but he had Dr. Myers waiting here when you arrived. She's an excellent physician, and a good friend of ours."

  A good friend of ours. Had she been speaking of Tyce and her? Who was she to him?

  "By the way, I'm Brianna Rowland." She extended her hand for a businesslike shake. "I'm glad to meet you, Ms. Richmond."

  Disappointed to be called by her real name, Claire politely shook the woman's hand. She wasn't ready to go back to reality yet. And she wasn't at all sure that this Brianna Rowland or the doctor she'd mentioned could be trusted to keep her identity a secret. "Please, call me Claire."

  Brianna inclined her head in gracious agreement.

  "What happened?" Claire asked. "I remember an explosion. What was it?"

  Dismay flickered in Brianna's eyes. "The truck you'd been riding in exploded."

  "Was it a bomb?" Her insides clenched with anxiety at the very possibility.

  "The police believe it was. Tyce is sending his own investigators to find out more."

  Her anxiety deepened into fear. They'd almost been killed, Tyce and she. Intentionally. By whom? The stalker? The thought of someone being so twisted and obsessed terrified her.

  Brianna reached across the rumpled blankets and laid a hand over hers. "Don't worry. You're safe here, Claire. Tyce will make sure of that."

  The woman's gentle touch helped calm her. "Has Tyce been hurt?"

  "If so, he won't admit it. Too macho, you know." Her eyes sparkled with rueful fondness.

  Claire hoped fervently that this Brianna wasn't romantically involved with Tyce. She wanted to like her. The possibility that she was involved with him hurt far more than any of her physical pains. Why should that be? She should be thinking of her grave situation—not wondering whether this woman was Tyce's lover. Forcing her thoughts back on track, she asked, "Has the media picked up on the explosion?"

  "It was mentioned briefly on the news last night, but only as an unexplained vehicle fire. No one, not even the police, knows you were involved. Tyce said he carried you away from the scene before they got there."

  Claire wondered how long it would take for the media to put the puzzle together. If the paparazzi had found her at the beach, she didn't doubt they'd connect her
with the vehicle bombing. The search for her would intensify mercilessly then. Her cousin would worry that she'd been killed, seriously hurt or kidnapped. She wished she could call him, just to assure him she was okay.

  Looking around the spacious, log-walled bedroom, Claire asked, "Where are we?"

  "Tyce's house. His summer cabin, actually."

  Another surprise. He'd brought her to his place. The idea warmed her. Then again, if this was Tyce's place, why was Brianna acting as her hostess? Maybe it would be better not to know.

  "Are we in Florida?" Claire queried. "Georgia?"

  "Ohio."

  "Ohio!"

  Brianna smiled at her surprise. "You might not remember very clearly, but he brought you here by jet yesterday. We're surrounded by forest and Amish farmland. The closest town is a forty-minute drive, and it's so small I'm sure you've never heard of it. Tyce likes the isolation. I think that's the main reason he bought this house and land, even though he spends most of the year elsewhere."

  He spends most of the year elsewhere, she'd said. Not we. That much was encouraging. Claire then noticed the gold-and-diamond ring on Brianna's left hand. Her heart gave a sudden, painful lurch. Surely she couldn't be Tyce's wife?

  "You're married?" croaked Claire.

  "Very," she replied with a grin. "If you stay here for a while, you'll probably meet my husband, Jake, and our daughter. We live a few miles up the river."

  The relief was almost painful. Brianna was happily married to someone else. Why in heaven's name should that matter? But it did, she realized. It mattered too much. "I'd love to meet your family," Claire replied with much more warmth than she'd shown earlier. A sudden worry occurred to her. "But I wouldn't want to endanger them, or you. I mean, if someone is targeting me…"

  "Tyce will find them, whoever they are," stated a mellow-rich feminine voice from the doorway. Dressed in a navy blazer, slacks and a white blouse, a handsome woman with smooth, dark brown skin strolled into the room. The stethoscope around her neck, the blood-pressure kit in her hand, and an air of unmistakable authority proclaimed her profession. "I'm Dr. Myers, and I can promise you one thing. If anyone can keep you safe and hunt down the bad guys, it's Tyce Walker. Now hold up your arm so I can check your blood pressure."

  Claire did as she was told, worrying even more about Tyce. She'd known he was protecting her, of course, but hadn't expected him to actively "hunt down the bad guys." The danger he'd be putting himself in made her feel sick with anxiety.

  "Tyce said you're traveling incognito. I'm not sure whether to call you Ms. Jones or Ms. Richmond. Which would you prefer?" Dr. Myers raised her brows questioningly as she pumped up a band that grew taut around Claire's arm and monitored the results.

  "I'd rather you call me Claire."

  The doctor removed the pressure band. "Then I'd rather you call me Noreen."

  Claire felt truly honored. She didn't think many people who weren't personal friends would be granted the right to address this woman as anything other than "Doctor."

  "Put your mind at ease, Claire. You hired the right man." Noreen sat on the edge of the bed and flashed a small light into her eyes. "When things seem their worst, Tyce Walker has a way of setting them right. That's how I met him, you know. I hired him to clear my son's name."

  "Your son?"

  Noreen clicked off her little penlight. "He'd run off to New York City to make a name for himself with his music. Only nineteen, not even out of college yet, and thinking he had a chance to break into the big time. He broke into the big time, all right. The 'big house.' New York State Penitentiary." Her voice lowered. "They said he robbed a store at gunpoint. He was convicted of armed robbery."

  Claire's heart went out to her. Though her tone was still light, her lips had tightened and her eyes dulled with bleak remembrances.

  "I'm a widow, a single mother. I had to leave my practice here—my only income—and travel to New York. I spent two years and every dime of my savings hiring defense lawyers. The police had no evidence against him. The store owner himself didn't even identify him beyond a doubt. All they had was hearsay—from the local street gang that terrorized the neighborhood. But it was enough." Noreen's pained gaze focused on Claire. "My boy's not like that. He doesn't steal or rob, and he doesn't hold with any kind of violence. He didn't deserve to be locked away in prison with the scum of the earth who—" Her voice wavered and broke off. She looked away, sucked in a sharp breath. After a moment, she forced a tight smile. "I heard about Tyce from another mother who'd come to visit her son at the prison. By that time I had no money. Not even credit left to my name. But I was desperate, so I called him." She shook her head, as if she still couldn't believe it. "He investigated the case. Rounded up the so-called witnesses, interviewed the store owner, dug up evidence the police had overlooked. Then he put up his own money for a high-priced attorney to reopen the case." A fine sheen coated her eyes, and her nostrils flared. "He got my boy off. Brought him home to me."

  No one said a word. Claire's chest was too tight for her to speak. It hurt to think that injustices like that happened. It made her glad, fiercely glad, that Tyce had cared enough to set things right.

  "He investigated a case for my husband, too," Brianna quietly informed her from the armchair. "Got his brother released from an embezzlement charge. Found the woman who did it and brought back the money."

  "Oh, my," Claire finally uttered. "And I hadn't even realized he handled investigations. I thought he was only a driver and a bodyguard."

  Both women raised their brows. "A bodyguard?" Noreen echoed.

  "A driver!" Brianna exclaimed. "Tyce owns one of the biggest investigative and security agencies in the country. He's got teams of highly trained detectives and protection agents in several states. I hadn't heard of him ever personally acting as a bodyguard or a driver."

  "With someone as famous as Claire, though, he probably made an exception," Noreen conceded. "He obviously wanted to make sure she had the best protection possible."

  "But at the time, he didn't know my real identity," Claire argued. Uncomprehending frowns settled over their faces. "My cousin hired him," she explained, "and gave him a false name for me. Tyce thought I was Claire Jones, a prize-winning poet."

  Noreen tilted her head. Brianna rested her chin on her fist. Both women stared at her with deepening frowns. A little inkling of unease skittered down Claire's spine. "He would personally guard a prizewinning poet … right?"

  "Right," they chimed in unison, nodding a little too emphatically.

  Claire bit her bottom lip. Whether they believed it or not, he hadn't known she was Valentina Richmond when he'd taken on the assignment. It had come as quite a shock to him.

  "Of course he'd personally guard a prize-winning poet," Noreen attested, more convincingly this time. "Poets are important, too. Aren't they, Brianna?"

  "Oh, yes, very important."

  "Anyway," said Noreen with a dismissive wave, "around here, he's considered a hero. And if you have any doubt about Brianna or me keeping the secret that you're here, well … don't. There's not too much we wouldn't do for Tyce Walker."

  Claire nodded with a grateful smile.

  "I hope you'll get the chance to know him, Claire," Brianna said. "He might not say much or show what he's thinking, but under that granite exterior, he's a compassionate man. You can trust him to do whatever's best for you."

  A lump rose in Claire's throat. They thought she didn't know him. Maybe she didn't, but she felt that she did. She felt that she knew him better than she'd known anyone in her entire life.

  "Let's finish with your checkup," murmured Noreen, adjusting the stethoscope to her ears. "You took a pretty good bump to your head and you've got a few nasty bruises, as I'm sure you've figured out by now." Brushing open the collar of the oversize man's shirt Claire was wearing—a shirt Claire had never seen before—the doctor pressed the stethoscope to her chest and listened. She then took her pulse and asked questions about pain and dizziness. "S
tay in bed for the rest of today," she finally pronounced. "By tomorrow you should be up and around. I'll give you a pill for that headache."

  "She's awake?"

  The hopeful, masculine voice at the bedroom door turned the doctor around and set Claire's pulse to leaping. Tyce. He looked worn and worried and so dear to her that her heart rose into her throat. He didn't look injured; at least, not that she could see from a distance. His gaze locked with hers as he crossed the room. "Claire!"

  She sat up, and without giving it a thought, reached for him. He came straight into her arms, catching her to him in a tender embrace. "I was so damn worried about you," he whispered hoarsely.

  "Oh, Tyce." She pressed her face against his neck, tears of relief clouding her eyes as she savored his strength, his warmth, his wholeness. "Are you really okay?"

  "Me?" He cast a quick glance at the two women who stood gaping, and they immediately turned away into a discussion of their own. Lowering his voice to a husky whisper, he said to Claire, "What about you? You scared the living hell out of me." His breath stirred her hair as he rested his cheek against her temple. "Are you in a lot of pain?"

  "No, no. I'm just so glad to see you're okay."

  "The explosion knocked you off your feet, and you hit your head." He brushed the hair out of her face and dashed her tears away with his thumbs. "Thank God, you were wearing that crazy wig. It was ugly as hell, but it cushioned you just enough."

  "Ugly?" A protesting half smile trembled on her lips. "You didn't like me as a brunette?"

  "I like you any way, every way…" he whispered devoutly, placing a kiss against her forehead. "Except dead. When I saw you lying there against that tree—" His voice broke off, his muscles clenched.

  She pressed her cheek against his and closed her eyes, warmed by the emotion she'd seen in his gaze. "You saved me. You saved my life. Again. First from a demented kid on a Boogie board, then from a booby-trapped pickup truck."

  His arms tightened around her, and for a moment he just held her.