Beauty and the Bodyguard

by Merline Lovelace

  “How about Chinese checkers?” she asked, blowing the dust off a flat box held together with masking tape.

  “Fine.”

  Frowning, she shook the box, then lifted the lid. “Great. No marbles.” She replaced the box and pulled out another. “Parcheesi?”

  “You’ll have to teach me the rules.”

  “I don’t know them.”

  “We can make them up as we go.”

  “Sure. And I lose next year’s income.”

  “If you’re going to play, you have to pay, Allie.”

  “So I’m learning,” she said under her breath as she shoved the box back in the stack. “So I’m learning.”

  Frowning, she bent to peer under the lid of another box. Rafe restrained a groan, barely, as her jeans tightened across her thighs and rear. Okay, so long legs constituted a basic requirement for someone in the modeling profession. Did Allie’s have to go on for three and a half miles? And end in a perfect, rounded bottom?

  She straightened, her face brightening. “Hey, here’s a paint-by-number set. I haven’t done one of those in years. Want to give it a try?”

  Rafe rarely did anything by the numbers, and painting was something he never did at all. If pushing a brush around a piece of cardboard would keep Allie still for a few hours, however, he figured he’d start counting.

  “Look,” she breathed in delight as she knelt beside the pine-plank coffee table and emptied the box of its contents. “It’s a circus scene. A carousel.”

  Rafe eyed the faint squiggles and numbers dubiously. “How can you tell?”

  She didn’t appear to hear his question. Her gaze had drifted across the room to the little tin merry-go-round sitting on the nightstand beside the bed.

  “I remember how bright and colorful Kate’s carousel used to be. All reds and blues and brilliant greens.”

  Watching her in the firelight, Rafe caught the flicker of pain that crossed her face while she gazed at the little toy. Although he knew the answer, he asked the question anyway.

  “Kate?”

  “My grandmother,” Allie replied softly, her gaze returning to his. “She founded Fortune Cosmetics. She died about six months ago, and…I miss her.”

  He shouldn’t do this, Rafe knew. He shouldn’t draw Allie out about this grandmother she’d obviously adored. All day long, he’d kept things polite and superficial, determined to reestablish their client-employee relationship. As long as he was responsible for her safety, he wouldn’t allow anything else between them.

  After this was over, though…

  For the first time, Rafe admitted to himself the possibility of an after. He didn’t pretend for a moment that this undeniable flash point attraction between them could lead to anything permanent, but while it lasted it could be good. Better than good. Rare and beautiful.

  Like Allie.

  He’d sworn he wouldn’t get involved, wouldn’t let another woman complicate his life. Yet, seeing her now in the firelight, he could no more resist trying to ease her pain over her grandmother’s death than he could stop breathing.

  Rafe didn’t fight the fierce tide of protectiveness that slammed through him. What had begun as a job was now an elemental need. He wanted to shield Allie from every hurt, including the sadness that darkened her eyes to a deep, fathomless brown.

  “What was she like?” he asked quietly, sensing that this woman who kept so much of herself hidden behind her smiling public facade needed to talk, to share some of her loss. Rafe suspected her twin normally served as Allie’s outlet. Tonight, she had only him.

  “Kate was a lot like you,” she answered after a moment. “Gutsy and tough and independent as the dickens. She was piloting her own plane over the Amazon when it went down.”

  “She sounds like quite a woman.”

  The carousel drew her gaze once more. “She was.”

  Curling his hands into fists to keep from dragging her into his arms, Rafe searched for a nonphysical way to comfort her.

  “Why don’t we use those paints to restore your grandmother’s carousel?” he suggested. “While we work, you can tell me more about her.”

  Allie swung her head around, surprise chasing the shadows from her eyes. “What a wonderful idea! Do you know how to paint?”

  “What’s to know? You just slap a brush into one of those plastic jobbies of paint and splash some color on.”

  “Hmm…” She cocked her head. “Why do I think this little exercise is going to be more of a challenge than playing gin?”

  Sharing the small table beside the window and a half-dozen plastic containers of oil paint with Rafe was more than a challenge, Allie discovered some time later. It was a threat to her restraint.

  More than once, her heart thumped at the sight of his dark head bent as he hunched over the little toy, his big hand wielding a paintbrush no thicker than an average-size toothpick. Allie spent as much time watching his progress as making any of her own. Whenever a hard thigh accidentally bumped hers under the small table or an elbow nudged hers, she didn’t make any progress at all.

  As the hours slid by, she found herself telling Rafe about the entire Fortune clan. About fiery, feisty Kate. About her parents’ growing estrangement. About the joys and drawbacks of being a twin in a large, boisterous family.

  “Rocky and I loved switching identities when we were young,” she confided, squinting as she drew a fine line of red along the halter of a tiny prancing horse. “Occasionally it backfired, though. Like the time she went out with one of my boyfriends and he ended up falling for her, big-time.”

  Rafe scrunched his forehead and daubed a blob of green on an upturned muzzle. “The guy must have been a real jerk,” he commented absently. “Right up there in the Viking category. I can’t imagine a boyfriend not being able to tell you two apart.”

  She twirled the tip of her brush in the plastic paint container. “Can’t you? That’s because you saw Rocky in her leather flight jacket and jeans. When she’s not wearing her Red Baron gear, she’s…she’s…”

  She was Rocky. There was no other way to describe her.

  “She’s not you, Allie,” he muttered, concentrating on his artwork. “Whatever or whoever she is, she’s not you.”

  Startled by his uncanny echo of her thoughts, Allie’s hand stilled.

  “I’d say the two of you are like this little toy your grandmother left you,” Rafe mused, dipping his green-tipped brush into the container of orange and starting in on the mane. “The outer shell doesn’t matter. It’s the song within that makes you what you are.”

  Allie stared at his bent head, her throat tight. In a few succinct phrases, he’d articulated the haunting beauty of her inheritance. Yet she sensed that he still didn’t see its applicability to himself. Or, if he did, he wasn’t ready to admit it.

  He gave a little grunt and laid his brush down. “Not bad, if I do say so myself.”

  She glanced from the gaudily painted horse to see the smug satisfaction on his face and felt her heart thump once, very painfully. Then he grinned at her, and that same organ went into total meltdown.

  In that instant, Allie had the horrible suspicion that she loved him. She’d known that what she felt for this man went beyond mere lust. She’d entertained the secret hope that the attraction sizzling between them might develop into something more after the shoot. Until this moment, though, she’d defined that something as a loose, vague relationship…a testing and trying and exploring.

  She wasn’t ready for love, she thought in sudden panic. Not yet. She’d almost made one disastrous mistake with a fiancé she thought she knew and didn’t. She couldn’t be in love with a man she hardly knew at all.

  Especially not with this one. He irritated her as much as he intrigued her. He had an annoying habit of standing back and letting her fend off other men’s advances, and stubbornly refusing to advance himself. So far, she’d made every move in this cautious, tumultuous mating dance of theirs.

  Yet she felt safe with him,
Allie acknowledged. And wildly free when they ran together. And totally, erotically female when he took her in his arms.

  Shaken, she put down her paintbrush. She had to think about this. Seriously. Pushing her chair back, she rose and dusted her hands on the back of her sweater.

  “It’s late. I, uh… Maybe we should finish this tomorrow? Do you want the bathroom first?”

  “You go ahead. I’ll finish this mane, then clean the brushes.”

  Allie left him bent over the toy, a strand of dark hair spilling over his forehead as he hunched down to stroke the brush along a flowing mane. Snatching her sleepshirt off the bed, she closed herself in the bathroom. She stripped, then grimaced when she realized that she’d been too shaken to gather clean underwear.

  She stepped out of the bathroom some time later, wearing only her nightshirt. At that moment, Rafe shoved back his chair and rose. His back to Allie, he stretched.

  She stopped abruptly, mesmerized by the panther-like grace and utter masculinity of the lazy movement. His blue shirt shaped a form at once lean and powerful. The artist in her focused on the perfect balance between line and form. The woman in her tightened in response.

  Suddenly, he froze in midstretch, his whole body tensing. Wincing, he lifted his bent arm and slowly brought his elbow forward.

  Guilt stabbed through Allie like a sharp, serrated knife. Only last night, he’d admitted to her that the grafted skin pulled at times. Obviously, this was one of those times. Yet he’d hunched over her merry-go-round for hours in an attempt to keep her occupied.

  Turning on her heel, she marched back into the bathroom and dug through her cosmetic kit. When she emerged again a few moments later, she had a thick plastic tube in one hand.

  “Done?” Rafe asked, raking her bare legs with a quick glance.

  “No. Not quite. I’ve got one more task to do tonight.” She glanced around the room, then aimed the tube at the sturdy pine-plank coffee table.

  “Sit.”

  “What?”

  “Sit down. Over there, by the fire.”

  “Why?” he asked, eyeing the tube with some suspicion.

  “I saw you wince and try to stretch your shoulder a little while ago. I told you last night, I’ve got something that could help. We’re going to try a little massage.”

  “It’s okay. You don’t need to—”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Look, it’s fine. I don’t—”

  “Sit!”

  Rafe lifted a black brow. For long moments, he studied the determined expression on her face.

  “Do you have any idea how much you look and sound like your father right now? He doesn’t know how to take no for an answer, either.”

  Folding her arms, Allie tapped a bare foot.

  “All right, all right.”

  Reluctance was etched in every line of his body as he moved toward the fireplace. His fingers worked the buttons on his blue shirt, and then he tugged out the shirttails and slipped it off. Allie held her breath as he reached for the hem of his white T-shirt. Slowly he drew it over his head and tossed it on the sofa.

  She could do this, she told herself. She could squeeze a dab of cream onto her hands, warm it between her palms, and smooth it over his shoulder without dissolving into a puddle of liquid need at the touch of her hands on him. She could stand behind him, her bare knees pressing gently against his buttocks while she worked the lotion into his skin, and not bend to kiss the hard ridges.

  Maybe.

  Her hands kneaded his shoulder. Massaged his back. His flesh felt warm under her fingertips, his muscles tight.

  “Try to relax, Rafe.”

  He didn’t reply.

  Her thumbs moved in a counterrhythm to her fingers. Sweep, and gently squeeze. Smooth, and dig firmly into the resisting tissue. The dying fire flickered and wrapped them in an intimate circle of golden light. As the silent moments passed, Allie felt a primitive, instinctive awareness seep into her.

  She suspected this was how things had always been. A man reluctant to admit weakness. A woman having to assert her own strength to care for him.

  The incipient panic that had attacked her earlier disappeared in the absolute rightness of the moment. She wanted to care for this man, always. She ached to match her differing strength to his and join their separate halves into a stronger whole.

  Grimly Allie recalled her pledge not to force herself on him again. He had to come to her. He had to take the next step.

  Feel me, she urged silently. Feel the touch of my hands on you and the need in my heart.

  His skin was warmer now, but every bit as tense. She splayed her hands across the small of his back and worked upward.

  Feel my fire. My heat.

  Her fingers ached by the time she angled to his side and began to work the cream into his shoulder and the underside of his chin. His arm shifted, brushing against her breasts.

  Touch me, Rafe. Touch me as I’m touching you.

  She shaped the strong column of his throat. Stroking. Creaming. Loving.

  He stared straight into the fire, his jaw as rigid as his body. Allie fought the urge to kiss the fine lines at the corners of his eyes. To taste the faint sheen that dampened his brow.

  Heat coursed through his skin now, burning her wherever she made contact. Her breasts ached, their tips hard and tight. Her stomach clenched.

  He shifted again, brushing against her. Her womb tightened.

  Now, Rafe. Please.

  “Allie?” His voice was low, harsh,

  Her hands stilled. “What?”

  “Are you wearing anything under that shirt?”

  She wet her lips. “No.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  For long moments, neither of them moved. Then Rafe slowly slewed around and captured her between his knees. His hands rested on her hips, hers on his shoulders.

  Allie stood before him. Waiting. Hoping. Afraid to take more than a shallow breath. When he raised his eyes to hers again, they held a combination of reluctant surrender and blue fire that made her heart leap.

  “One good massage deserves another, sweetheart. Where’s that tube of grease?”

  Her hand shaking, she passed him one of the products Fortune Cosmetics had banked its entire future on.

  This time their loving was slow and deliberate and incredibly erotic.

  Rafe kept her caged between his thighs, naked and trembling. As he rubbed his palms together to warm the cream, he feasted his eyes on her breasts and belly and the dark red triangle between her legs. Where it wasn’t kissed by shadows, her skin glowed golden in the flickering firelight.

  He wasn’t quite sure exactly when or how he’d decided to abandon his rigid determination to keep his hands off Allie and his mind on his job. During the past few minutes, her need had somehow fired his own, well past the point of resistance. What he wanted from, and for, this red-and-gold, dusky-tipped woman now had no anchor in reality. Reality was yesterday, and tomorrow. Tonight was Allie’s alone.

  At the touch of his hands, her belly jerked and her breasts quivered. He gentled her as he would a nervous bird, with low words and soft strokes.

  “Easy, sweetheart. Easy.”

  He spread the cream onto her hips. His fingers kneaded the slender curves while his thumbs rotated on the flat surface of her stomach. A slight pressure brought her closer. His hands slid down the slope of her rear, massaging her and stroking and lifting her onto her toes in a shiver of excitement.

  Slowly he brought his hands up her back, rubbing gently at the knots of tension in her spine. His palms eased around her rib cage and lifted the soft weights of her breasts. Rafe took the tip of one in his mouth, tasting her sweetness while he suckled.

  “Oh!”

  She arched back, bowing. His thighs parted slightly. Holding her still with one hand, he slid his other down her belly.

  “Open for me, Allie,” he murmured against her breast.

  The inside of her thighs clenched, th
en loosened. Rafe felt the spasmodic movement as he speared his fingers through the silky curls at the apex of her legs. He pressed lower, parting her folds, and continued his erotic massage, his thumb rotating against her sensitive flesh.

  Tremors shook her. Dampness dewed his hand. Rafe used his teeth on the tight bud of her breast, nipping it into a thrusting point. Her head fell back as he brought the other to matching stiffness.

  He leaned away from her, his heart tripping as he took in her wild beauty. It held no trace of the sophisticated, glamorous supermodel. No sign of the laughing jogger who could still run circles around him in the cool dawn, or of the black-gowned opera aficionado whose elegance came from within.

  This was a pagan goddess. A creature of flame and liquid heat. A woman unashamed of her own sensuality and the pleasure he brought her. She gloried in her passion, and it took every ounce of strength Rafe possessed to curb his own until he satisfied hers.

  When he eased his hand from its wet, silken nest, she groaned a protest. Smiling, Rafe bent to replace his hand with his mouth. She arched backward, her small cry echoing through the cabin. He drank his fill of her, or tried to. While his senses registered honey and musk, his mind accepted the fact that he’d never get enough of Allie.

  A series of uncontrolled tremors told him she was nearing her peak. Keeping her legs spread and her desire primed, he shed his few remaining clothes. Taking time only to protect her from a pregnancy neither of them was ready for, he brought her down into his lap.

  Allie gasped when he slid into her. Then she wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck and covered his mouth with hers. As her climax neared, she moaned and buried her face in his neck.

  “Oh, Rafe,” she murmured in a ragged, throaty whisper. “I seriously think I could love you.”

  Limp with pleasure, Allie clung to Rafe’s neck when he carried her across the room some time later. She made no effort to convince him to join her under the down comforter. She didn’t have to. He pulled back the covers and eased into them with her still cradled in his arms. She stretched out beside him, her body pressed to his. With unerring instinct, her nose found the warm crease between his shoulder and neck.