The Accidental Bodyguard

by Ann Major

  Queasily she opened his briefcase.

  And then she could only gape as she lifted a color blow-up of herself. In the picture her head lay across a stone block as she made a face at the camera.

  Where? When?

  Nothing clicked. Not even a blue flash. Absolutely nothing.

  The photograph could have been that of a stranger. She lifted the paper under the photograph.

  It was a pencil sketch. Again she recognized herself.

  She dropped the photograph and the sketch as Lucas kicked his sheets off. She whirled and saw that he was watching her now from the shadows, his silver eyes predatory in the hot dawn light.

  “What are you doing?”

  She jumped at the steely sound of his low voice and slammed his briefcase. “I—I thought you were asleep,” she whispered guiltily, her low voice betraying only the slightest trace of her fear.

  “So you decided to spy.”

  “I was on my way to my room so the boys won’t find us together.”

  “Leave my stuff alone and go,” he commanded harshly, crawling out of bed.

  “Who am I, Lucas?”

  He hesitated and then said forcefully, “I don’t know, damn it.”

  “Don’t you?”

  Before he could answer she turned and ran, too shaken by his dark look and rough tone to admit she’d seen the photograph of herself taken in another time and place and the sketch of herself as well.

  Angrily he bunched the black embroidered spread at his waist and chased after her, catching her just inside her door.

  “The boys,” she whispered in a hurt, baffled voice. “I don’t want them to hear us.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the boys.”

  “You’re angry, then?”

  “No,” he said softly, surprising her. “I’m sorry for the way I treated you. You caught me by surprise, that’s all.”

  Very slowly he lifted her hands to his shoulders and then grasped her waist, drawing her stiff, reluctant body against his.

  The bedspread fell to the floor.

  She felt like she was melting in his heat.

  “Marry me,” he whispered.

  “What?”

  As always with her body plastered warmly against his, she found it impossible to think. But she knew that a proposal from him was no light, impulsive matter. And it scared her even more than the photograph.

  “Forget your questions and doubts about me,” he begged, “and I swear I’ll forget mine about you.”

  “What if I can’t?” she whispered, even though she was thrilled by his nearness as well as by the prospect of becoming his wife.

  “We belong together. No matter what you’ve done or what I’ve done. No matter who you are. No matter how crazy and fast all this seems.”

  “I can’t. Not till you tell me everything.”

  “Damn it, we met in my shower for the first time yesterday!”

  “The truth is more complicated than that. My body held no secrets for you.”

  “Damn it. I can’t explain my feelings. But you were a virgin. I swear I never made love to you before.”

  “Maybe we did everything else except for—” she blushed “—except the sex act itself.”

  “We didn’t. I swear it. I never saw you. I never touched you. I never kissed you—before yesterday.” He stared at her, his dark face intense and baffled. “But I can’t blame you for thinking that. I don’t have amnesia, but every time I’m with you I have the feeling I know you, too. You don’t even have to talk, and I know what you’re thinking and feeling. When you came to my door earlier, I knew you were out there even before I opened it. I’m confused, too. And a little scared. All I can think of to do is to give it time.” A slow smile played around the corners of his mouth. “Maybe we should just enjoy it till we figure it out.” He lowered his lips to hers.

  “Are we going to make love again?”

  His voice grew husky. “Is that an invitation?”

  When she was silent, he lifted her into his arms and carried her inside, kicking the door shut behind them.

  He wasn’t telling her everything.

  But his body radiated heat and his touch was tender as he laid her beneath him on the bed.

  She didn’t know whether his kisses were taking her to heaven or hell. His hard body rasped silently against her soft breasts and stomach and thighs. His mouth and hands explored her hungrily, leaving no part of her unclaimed. When he pushed her legs apart and drove inside her, she cried out because the indescribable pleasure he gave her made her whole.

  In that final heated moment of melting release, she didn’t care who he was. Or who she was.

  Or even if he was her worst enemy.

  She put a hand on either side of his hot cheeks, and with utmost deliberation, kissed him on the mouth.

  The act was a pledge.

  No matter who he was, she belonged to him.

  She always had and she always would.

  Seven

  Billion-Dollar Moran Heiress Wanted For Murder.

  The two-inch-high newspaper headline slammed into Lucas’s gut as hard as a balled fist.

  If Chandra read that headline, she might get her memory back in a hell of a hurry. But what would such an unpleasant shock do to her?

  His hand jerked, causing him to splash hot coffee all over himself. On the front page was a full-color photograph of Chandra and a lurid shot of the coffin that contained what was left of Miguel Santos. There was a small story about Gertrude Moran’s new will and rumors that the notorious Lucas Broderick had been hired by the family to break the will.

  Damn.

  A feeling of profound dread filled Lucas.

  Chandra had looked so pale and fragile this morning when he’d left her asleep in her bed. Too fragile to deal with this.

  Any minute she’d be down for breakfast. If some slimy bastard really was after her, he could have leaked the stories to the press to flush her out. If she turned herself in to the law and didn’t get her memory back, the cops would crucify her.

  Lucas decided he couldn’t let her see this yet. She didn’t need any additional trauma. But that wasn’t what scared him the most. To tell her the truth now might be a further risk to her life. If she felt compelled to talk to the cops or to reporters, the killer would know exactly where she was.

  Grabbing a towel, Lucas sopped up the spilled coffee and then raced to the den, where he punched his television remote. News stories about the Moran scandal blared from every channel. One showed Santos’s weeping widow in a black shawl with her five weeping children slumped together on rickety folding chairs in a small adobe chapel for the funeral service. Another showed shots of officers pulling sacks of drugs out of the burned van. In still another a cop was saying that they had the red T-shirt Chandra was last seen wearing, and that Santos’s blood was all over it. There was only one positive story. It was about Casas de Cristo and the houses Chandra had built for barrio families. Lucas listened closely to the interviews with Mexican officials and several poor families who touchingly defended her, saying that Chandra could not possibly be involved in anything illegal.

  When his phone rang, Lucas grabbed it, and a drunken Stinky roared obscenities into his ear.

  “I’m as upset about this as you are, Brown. But if you call me at home again, we’re through.” Lucas slammed the phone down.

  The heat to solve the mystery was on. Only it was even worse than Stinky had predicted. The press was going to town with the scandal. Chandra was so hot, she had even upstaged the serial killer who’d threatened Lucas.

  Suddenly Lucas heard his boys’ stampeding footsteps and rough shouts as they raced downstairs. As he switched off the television set, Montague and Peppin burst in upon him.

  “We know who she is, Dad,” Peppin exclaimed in a breathless rush. “Her name’s Bethany Ann Moran and she’s real real rich and—”

  “I know,” Lucas said quietly.

  “They’re framing her, Dad!” This
from Montague. “She didn’t kill anybody. We gotta make the cops see that.”

  “Look, guys, I’ve been thinking. Maybe it’s not such a hot idea to turn her over to the cops—I mean, right now, when some goon is after her and before she gets her memory back. We need to be able to prove she’s innocent. Otherwise the cops might slap her in jail. It’s a good idea to come clean, but we can always do it later. I want you to get every television set and radio out of the house and put them in my car.”

  “But, Dad, maybe if we tell her who she is, she’ll get her memory back. Maybe she can tell the cops exactly what happened. Who the real killer is. And then she could live here always.”

  “No, dumbo. She’s rich. Do you think she’d still want to stay with us after she found that out? She’d leave.”

  Both boys grew silent at that possibility.

  “I don’t think we should decide anything without medical advice,” Lucas said. “I’m driving her to San Antonio to see Pete today. And I’m not even going to try to find a sitter for you guys—so I want you two to come straight home from school and intercept and destroy every newspaper or magazine that carries this story.”

  “Dad, how come you’re trying to help her when those guys on TV say you’ve been hired to break the Moran will—”

  “Shut up, Peppin. We gotta start uplugging stuff fast,” Monty ordered tersely. “Dad’s on her side the same as we are.”

  “Holy cow! She’s rich and the bad guys are after her. Maybe after us, too. This is way better than a movie,” Peppin crawed. “I’m gonna get my baseball bat out of my closet and hide it under my pillow along with my knife.”

  “What good will that do?”

  “Stupid! What if he gets in here?”

  “Boys, not now.”

  Electrified into action that appealed to them immensely, they raced up and down the stairs, whispering and arguing about strategies a mile a minute while they filled Lucas’s trunk and back seat with every electronic gadget in the house.

  Lucas went to Chandra’s bedroom to distract her. When he entered the lilac room, Chandra was dressed in the new yellow dress with the tight bodice and full skirt he’d bought her. She was leaning across her bed, so that he got a marvelous view of her slim waist, shapely hips and long legs as she straightened the spread.

  He closed the door with a click, and she stopped tucking the pillow under the lilac silk spread and smiled spontaneously.

  Enraptured, he could only stare at her speechlessly.

  “So, there you are,” she said, rushing to him. “I just couldn’t seem to wake up after—”

  A wanton image rose in both their minds of their bodies writhing together. Blushing, she tossed her mane of hair and laughed. Her blue eyes glowed. The shadows beneath them were very faint.

  “You look wonderful in that dress.”

  “Thank you. You have excellent taste.”

  “Not usually.”

  She could not seem to stop looking at him any more than he could stop looking at her. Again he was stunned that the foundations of his life had shifted so swiftly and so irrevocably.

  “I was afraid you might have already gone to your office,” she said hesitantly.

  “Without kissing you goodbye?” he murmured.

  As she stretched on her tiptoes to offer him her lips, he caught her fiercely against his immense frame and held her for an endless moment. And as he did, a lifetime of bitter emotion flowed out of him.

  He had known her a mere twenty-four hours, and already she was the single thread of his life, the one thing that, if severed, would destroy everything. No matter what he had to do, no matter what lie he had to tell or what secret he had to keep, he couldn’t lose her.

  “I am going downtown, but not for long,” he murmured. “I’ve decided to spend as much time as I can with you—until I’m sure you’re completely recovered.”

  “But, Lucas, that’s not necessary. The last thing I want is to be a burden to you.”

  “You’re not. I’m linked by modem, telephone and fax to my office. I can work here almost as easily as there. But I’m taking off today to drive you to San Antonio.”

  “Why?”

  “My brother is a doctor. I want him to check you and to make sure that you’re really okay.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Just say you’ll go.”

  “But—”

  “I thought you wanted to make me happy.”

  “I do.”

  “So, will you go?”

  “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

  He grinned at her. “Why can’t you say that when I ask you to marry me?”

  “I will…soon. I’m sure of it. Only—”

  Her voice trailed off. Her blue eyes were troubled, her white face fragile.

  Lucas’s heart filled with panic. He was used to getting what he wanted when he wanted it. If she didn’t marry him now, maybe she never would.

  He analyzed the situation with his cold lawyer’s intelligence that not even the fire of his new passion could altogether extinguish. Once she knew who she was and who he was, once the media and the police and her family started in on her, anything could happen.

  He needed time to win her.

  Time to figure this mess out.

  And he was running out of time.

  Lucas strode hurriedly across the plush Oriental rugs and unlocked the cabinet that contained his private fax machine. There were two curled pieces of shiny paper in the tray. He picked them up and began to read.

  TIGER ONE SECURITY AGENCY

  1414 Shoreline Boulevard

  Corpus Christi, Texas

  Fax to: Lucas Broderick

  Fax from: Tiger Security

  Dear Lucas:

  Subject held in high esteem in northern Mexico by Rafe and Cathy Steele.

  The Steeles temporarily in charge of Casas de Cristo since subject’s disappearance. Steele very suspicious and belligerent to our questions.

  Subject regarded highly by her benefactors and employees. Friends swear drugs were planted in her houses.

  Truck driver who picked subject up on highway night van burned has positively identified her photograph.

  Unable to contact witness who says subject was driving burned vehicle.

  Subject’s fingerprints all over the unregistered Colt 45 police claim killed Santos.

  Police determined to build a case against subject.

  Media camped outside Moran ranch.

  Holly Moran pretended to be reluctant about giving evidence, but she told police that Chandra had said she was on her way to ranch. She also gave damning evidence about subject’s mental state.

  Everybody at ranch denies seeing subject or van at the ranch the day of memorial service.

  Henry Moran illegally sold guns to Central American freedom fighters.

  Stinky Brown’s parents died in bizarre boating accident. Stinky did jail time in the eighties for beating up and nearly killing a rich debutante who jilted him right before he dated Chandra.

  Unable to confirm Brown’s claim that his brother Hal has gone east to visit relatives.

  No criminal record on any of the Morans or Hal Brown.

  More details to follow.

  Sincerely,

  Tom Robard

  The second fax was a long list of Chandra’s unsavory boyfriends.

  Lucas wadded it up and burned it in his ashtray.

  As he watched the names go up in flames, he felt a raging jealousy. Until he remembered that she’d been a virgin.

  Feeling calmer, Lucas locked Robard’s fax in a drawer filled with other confidential reports in the same cabinet that contained his private fax machine.

  Lucas felt more restless and dissatisfied than ever. Other than her friends’ belief in Chandra, there was nothing to exonerate her.

  Damn it. She was innocent.

  But he had to prove it.

  Lucas sat down at his desk and dialed Stinky.

  “Have you found her?” Stinky�
�s slurred voice was like ice.

  “No.”

  “Then you’re fired, counselor.”

  Both men slammed down their phones.

  Lucas sighed ruefully. If only the rest of this mess could be solved so easily.

  His intercom buzzed, and Lula’s brisk voice informed him that a police detective, a Lieutenant Sheldon, was outside.

  “And there’s a reporter from the Caller who wants to talk to you when the lieutenant is finished.”

  Black-gloved hands clenched the steering wheel. “Gotcha!” A poisonous hammering began inside the watcher’s skull.

  From the driver’s seat of a nondescript gray car that was parked four houses down from Lucas’s opulent white wall, the watcher smiled as Lucas Broderick’s Lincoln swept out into the bustle of traffic on Ocean Drive.

  The watcher’s eyes went glassy with delight when they fastened on the girl in her late twenties with the showy blond hair. Beth!

  Broderick’s arm was draped over the seat, his hand casually resting on her bare shoulder. She was thinner, but she looked almost well again. Maybe not completely. But no longer was she the battered, bleeding, vacant-eyed zombie who had emerged from the burning van and dashed suicidally in front of that truck.

  She leaned closer to Broderick, and the watcher realized she was in love.

  Big damn surprise.

  So, the sickening hunch had been dead on the money. All the waiting and careful plotting worth it.

  Broderick was a liar and a thief and a gold digger. He’d had her the whole damn time.

  When the bastard had seen a way to do better than his forty-percent fee, he’d sure as hell gone for it.

  Broderick had lied to the family as well as to all the authorities.

  Which meant the bastard had to die, too.

  The beast inside the watcher smiled grimly.

  The gray car slid into traffic and, lagging a safe distance, followed the Lincoln all the way to San Antonio.

  All the way to Dr. Pete Broderick’s discreet brick mansion in the woody hills on the fashionable northwest side of San Antonio.

  Bastards. All of them.

  But they’d be sorry.