THE PRINCESS AND THE P.I.

by Donna Sterling

  She hadn't realized how intimate they'd looked.

  The last photo wrenched a cry from her. It was a close-up of their passionate kiss in the corridor of their condo.

  The violation of her privacy sickened her. What did she have to do, where did she have to hide, to escape this torment? And now she'd brought Tyce into the public spotlight. His past and present would be mercilessly examined, and his business would surely suffer. Would he come to hate her for it?

  With her heart in her throat, she unfolded and read the letter that accompanied the photos.

  T.K.—

  I can delay the publication of these photos for only a day or so. Hope you know how much this delay will cost me. I have the jump on the competition, but for how long? Anyway, I've included the crowd shots you've requested.

  I also wanted to remind you about the photos that might still be in the microcamera of your sunglasses. If you took any more, that is.

  Enclosed is a partial payment of your fee. Send me your receipts for expenses incurred so far and I'll reimburse you.

  —Hattie

  P.S. What do you think of the headline The Princess & The P.I.?

  Claire stared at the letter and its attachment in numb disbelief. This couldn't be what it seemed. Tyce couldn't possibly be "T.K."

  Her hands trembled as she found the check stapled to the letter. It was from the Global Gazette. Made out to Tyce Walker. For "Investigative Services, V. Richmond."

  * * *

  10

  « ^ »

  She'll be happy, Tyce thought as he drove a rented car to the Los Angeles airport. He knew how upset Claire had been to think that the bomber could be someone in her family.

  He would set her mind at ease when he got home. The stalker had been the one who planted the bomb, after all. Tyce's team of investigators had dredged up clues that led back to Los Angeles.

  Evidence pointed to Malcolm Forte, the thirty-year-old son of her uncle's secretary. He hadn't known Claire personally, but seemed to fixate on her when his mother began working for Edgar Richmond last year. Through his mother, Malcolm had gotten access to the report Tyce had submitted. He then concentrated his efforts on finding Tyce's agents who were working on the case. A clever sociopath. The most dangerous kind.

  The challenge now was to find enough hard proof to put him away. They'd matched his movements to the stalker's previous intrusions and the vandalism to Claire's New York town house. They'd searched his apartment where they'd found weapons and explosives. Malcolm's alibi for the day of the bombing was weak, but Tyce still needed evidence that placed him in Panama City Beach.

  He'd thought of the photographs he and presumably Hattie had taken of Claire. What if they'd inadvertently captured Malcolm's face in one of those photos?

  Hattie hadn't yet returned his calls. She'd been out of the office, he was told. Knowing her, she was still hunting for Claire. At least she hadn't yet published any of the photos he was sure she'd taken … maybe because of the dire threats he'd left along with his request for the photos.

  He dialed his office number on his cell phone and asked his secretary if any packages had arrived from Hattie Pitts.

  "No, sir, but yesterday she was nosing around the airport where we keep the corporate jet. She introduced herself to the pilot as your mother. He swears he didn't tell her much, but can't remember exactly what he did say."

  Tyce's muscles tightened with foreboding. After the explosion, he'd flown Claire to Ohio. His pilot could have easily mentioned the recent trip. Hattie knew Tyce owned a cabin in Ohio. It wouldn't take her long to pinpoint his property … and to find Claire.

  Cursing beneath his breath, he disconnected from his secretary and prepared to call his guards at the cabin. As he began to dial, the phone rang.

  Brad Demming, the guard he'd left in charge, blurted, "Ms. Jones just left with Dr. Myers. I tried to stop them, but Ms. Jones said she'd sue me for false imprisonment."

  "False imprisonment!"

  "She's madder than hell, sir. I think it might have something to do with the package I gave her from Hattie Pitts."

  Tyce cursed out loud this time—cursed Hattie for her meddling, the guard for his naiveté, and himself for hurting Claire.

  I love you, Tyce, she'd told him.

  He felt as if a punishing fist had grabbed hold of his heart. How betrayed she must be feeling! He had to talk to her.

  "Follow her, Brad. Keep her under guard. And stay in contact with me."

  "Yes, sir."

  Swerving over onto the shoulder of the Los Angeles freeway, Tyce stopped the car, shut his eyes and struggled to marshal his thoughts. She'd seen the photos he'd requested from Hattie. God only knew what kind of pictures Hattie had added to the ones he'd taken, or what kind of note she'd included.

  Fumbling for his wallet, he found the number of Noreen's cell phone. It rang a few times before she answered.

  "Noreen, do you have Claire with you?"

  "Tyce! Am I glad to hear from you. I don't know what's going on, friend, but you owe Claire one heck of an explanation."

  "Let me talk to her."

  "Great idea." But after a moment, Noreen came back on the line, sounding subdued. "She doesn't want to talk. And as much as I hate to get in the middle of this, I notice that one of your guards is following us. Is Claire still in danger, or, uh, does he intend to take pictures of her?"

  Tyce gritted his teeth. He deserved that. "I don't pay my guards to take pictures. She needs to be protected. Let Brad accompany her. Where are you taking her?"

  "I'm sorry, Tyce, but she doesn't want me to say."

  With a frustrated sigh, he leaned his head back against the seat. "Tell her we've found the bomber. We have him under constant surveillance, and we're looking for enough evidence to have him arrested. Turns out he's Malcolm Forte, the son of her uncle's secretary."

  He heard Noreen repeat what he'd told her, and a soft exclamation in reply. His hand tightened around the phone. "Please, Noreen, just give the phone to Claire."

  "Okay, but I can't guarantee she'll talk."

  A few moments of silence went by, and he heard Noreen urging her to at least listen. Noreen stopped talking, and Tyce formed a mental image of Claire sitting there with her lips compressed, holding the phone reluctantly to her ear.

  "Claire, are you there?" He received no reply, but went on anyway. "Claire, I'm sorry! I never meant to hurt you. I never meant to … oh, hell. I didn't know you when I took Hattie's case. I didn't know…" I didn't know I'd fall in love with you. But he couldn't say that now. He'd sound like the worst kind of opportunist, a con man trying to play back into her good graces. "I was going to tell you the truth, I swear, but I couldn't until I found the bomber. I knew you'd leave the minute I'd confessed. It was too dangerous to risk having you run off, like you're doing now." After another moment of tense silence, he said in a rough whisper, "Just let me know if you're listening.

  An inarticulate sound came through to him, and after a moment, she whispered, "Johnny hadn't sent you. And you knew who I was from the very start."

  He closed his eyes and gripped the phone harder. "Yes."

  "You knew I wasn't a poet."

  If it hadn't hurt so much, that statement might have made him smile. "Yes."

  She was silent for so long that he knew she was remembering all the times and ways he had lied to her. "I was such a fool," she whispered.

  "I never thought that, Claire."

  "Did you take pictures of me for a tabloid?"

  "Only a few. Beach shots. Ones that anyone could have taken."

  "I'd say it's apparent that your cohorts had to have taken the others—the ones that show you and me … together…" Her voice, sounding choked, faded into silence.

  "Claire, you can't believe that I'd knowingly allow someone to take pictures of … of us!"

  "You weren't there to be my bodyguard at all … were you?"

  "Not officially. But—"

  "How did you know
my assumed name and my travel plans?"

  He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He couldn't tell her that Hattie had bugged her cousin's phone, or Hattie could be arrested. It might serve her right—in fact, he might glean some definite pleasure from it—but he couldn't betray the woman who had once saved him from himself. "I'm sorry, Claire, but I can't—"

  Their connection went dead.

  With it went his glimmer of hope that he'd somehow find a way to see her, to touch her, to hold her, at least one more time. He wouldn't, he realized. Ever again.

  The small jet that she had asked Johnny to charter for her was ready by the time she and Noreen reached the private airport. She would have chartered the jet herself except she hadn't wanted to use her own name on the charge account. She knew better. The media would have been there to greet her in droves. She wouldn't be surprised if they were, anyhow. Tyce Walker's guard was still tailing her, which could mean trouble.

  She was going home.

  So much for finding freedom outside her sheltered world. There was no such thing for her. She'd have to make her own kind of freedom—by assuming absolute control.

  "I hate to see you leave like this," said Noreen, her dark eyes troubled as she handed Claire the small overnight bag of clothing that Brianna had bought for her earlier that week. "Maybe you should give Tyce a chance to explain."

  Claire adjusted the large sunglasses Brianna had also bought for her. She needed them not to guard against sun on this overcast morning, but to help preserve her identity during the flight. She tried not to remember how her previous efforts to do that very thing had been so deviously foiled. She tried not to think about the silver sunglasses Tyce had used on the beach to take pictures of her. He'd had a microcamera built in their frame. "He's explained all I need to know."

  "I don't blame you for being angry and hurt, but I still think he cares about you. A lot."

  Claire swung the strap of the overnight bag over her shoulder and felt a light drizzle against her face. It reminded her of the sea mist as she'd ridden on a Jet Ski through rainbows. A knot tightened in her chest. "He's a convincing actor. I'd say he missed his calling, but—" she forced a small, grim smile "—he seems to be very good at what he does."

  "Claire!" Noreen caught her shoulders and held her in a firm grip, her gaze forcing its way past the coldness that had descended to shield her from the worst of the pain. "Don't close in on yourself. You have so much warmth and goodness to share."

  "I have money. And houses, and yachts, and lots of … things. That's what I'll share … when I feel like it." Claire glanced away to fight the tightening in her throat. "I'd like to still help out with the letters to the prisoners. Now that I know about those kids, I can't turn my back on them."

  "I'll arrange for some of the letters to be sent to you."

  Claire gave her a quick, hard hug. "Thank you for everything. I'll never forget the time I spent with you." Before her control could slip, she hurried to the jet.

  The flight was long and tedious, but gave her time to think. She'd do all she could to help the kids she'd learned about from Noreen and Brianna. Large sums of money might help grease the wheels of justice.

  She also decided to have her uncle move out of her home, to replace any employees she didn't want to keep, and to meet with her bankers to inspect her investment portfolio.

  The time had come to take charge of her affairs.

  Once she had, she would finance some eager inventor to come up with gadgets to foil the paparazzi's cameras. Ultraviolet rays that would flash from her hat, maybe. Lasers that her bodyguards could shoot to damage film. Who knew what could be invented? She'd make it well worth the inventor's time.

  And she'd keep a bevy of private investigators on her payroll to monitor the media's movements regarding her. Let the paparazzi—the most annoying ones—feel the frustration of having to deal with a constant tail. She'd also buy stock in as many tabloids as she could, affect their management decisions from within. They'd declared war, and she meant to fight it.

  When the jet finally landed in Los Angeles, her protection agents and chauffeur met her. She rode home in utter silence.

  Her first order to her staff when she walked in the door of her Beverly Hills home was, "I'll take no calls and see no visitors. None."

  The police arrested the son of her uncle's secretary three days after Claire had returned home. Malcolm Forte was charged with a number of crimes ranging from stalking to attempted murder. His mother resigned from her post, and Uncle Edgar was now in the process of hiring a new secretary.

  Uncle Edgar was also preparing his beach house to become his residence. He'd been shocked and indignant when Claire asked him to move, but she'd refused to relent. He had plenty money of his own now, which she'd guessed long ago. It seemed to be killing him, though, to realize that his influence over her—or rather, over her fortune—no longer carried much weight. He still hoped for a reconciliation between her and Preston, which would cement his tie with the family. He'd always been involved with California politics and hated to see a solid alliance foiled.

  She'd only rolled her eyes at the suggestion. Preston and his infidelity no longer hurt her.

  He belonged to another world.

  She'd grown up since then.

  Throughout the entire week following Malcolm's arrest, she saw her name and face in the news as the stalker's intended victim. From her attorney, whom she instructed to follow the case, she learned that Malcolm had been caught in a photograph of her taken in Florida, which disproved his alibi.

  At least she now understood why Tyce had requested those photos from Hattie. His hunch had apparently paid off. But that didn't exonerate him for taking them in the first place. The very idea hurt more than any other betrayal ever had.

  Bracing herself for the worst, Claire sent a courier out to fetch her the latest tabloids. She told herself she didn't care what appeared in the Global Gazette, but she held her breath as she waited. When the courier returned with the tabloids, she hurried down the long, shadowy corridors to her bedroom, where she locked the door and spread the papers out on her bed. With nimble fingers, she flipped through their pages, looking for the photos she'd been dreading to see.

  Oddly enough, all she found were stories that focused on the stalking, with relatively old photographs of her.

  Why?

  She knew only too well that the Global Gazette had plenty of sensational photographs to choose from. In many that she remembered, she'd looked like a reckless, wanton creature who'd fallen hopelessly in love.

  It was the truth. She'd fallen in love with Tyce Walker, and had believed he was falling in love with her.

  Why hadn't those photos been published?

  The next morning she searched the daily newspapers for photos and came across a small one of Tyce that acknowledged his part in solving the case. Although Claire was mentioned as Malcolm's intended victim, not a word connected her to Tyce.

  She found herself cutting his photo out of the newspaper. It made no sense, this compelling desire to keep his memory close to her heart. He'd hurt her, humiliated her and betrayed her.

  He'd also made her feel more alive than she ever had. He'd given her a taste, even if it were a false one, of being loved. How would she ever manage to forget him? Certainly not by keeping a picture of him that she'd cut out of the newspaper!

  As she tried to talk herself into throwing the picture away, her uncle strode onto the sunny veranda where she lingered over her morning coffee.

  "The moving van will be coming soon for my furniture. I—" He stopped beside her breakfast table, his attention caught by the picture. "That's that Tyce Walker, isn't it? What are you doing with a picture of him?"

  "It was in today's newspaper," she mumbled, embarrassed to be caught with it. When her uncle's disapproval registered, she drew her brows together in puzzlement. "Do you know him?"

  "Of course. He's done investigative work for me for years."

  She st
ared at him in surprise. She couldn't have heard him right. "Tyce Walker worked for you?"

  "I employed his services to gather information on various candidates. Walker usually does a damn fine job. That's why I hired him to find you."

  Claire's head spun with incredulity. "You hired him?"

  "The way you called off your wedding and took off on your own, I felt sure you were involved with bad company. I hired Walker to find you and keep you under surveillance."

  While Claire struggled to absorb this information, Edgar sat beside her with an angry scowl. "Walker found you, all right … then after one lousy report, he refused to let me know where you were. I was worried sick, Valentina. Sick!"

  Claire stared at him in confusion. How could Tyce have been hired by both Hattie Pitts and Uncle Edgar?

  With a scoffing laugh, he went on. "I think Walker suspected I had something to do with that bombing. Can you imagine? The upstart! I gave him an ultimatum—to either turn over a full report on you, or forget the favor he'd asked." Vengefully, he muttered, "He can kiss that favor goodbye."

  Claire's heart turned over. "What favor?"

  "Some friend of his, in jail for murder. Walker wanted me to pull strings to get him a new trial. Ha! He made his choice when he refused to say where you were. Like I told him then and I'd tell him now—that fellow will rot in jail before I'll lift a finger to help him."

  Questions and emotions flooded Claire. "Was his friend's name Joe?"

  "Yes, I believe it was. How did you know?"

  But Claire's mind was no longer engaged in the conversation.

  Tyce had refused to betray her! Even knowing it would cost him the chance to free Joe, he'd refused to tell her uncle where she was. Grappling with the enormity of that discovery, she sank back into the wrought-iron patio chair as her uncle muttered something and left her.

  Why had Tyce done it? He'd stood to gain everything by submitting the report to her uncle and to lose too much by withholding it. He really had been protecting her, she realized in a daze, although no one had hired him to do so. He'd chosen her safety over Joe's freedom.