Sweet Caroline's Keeper

by Beverly Barton

  Somewhere along the way Caroline had ceased to be his ward and had become his woman.

  She meant more to Wolfe than he dared to admit, even to himself.

  Now, as she stood in his arms, she looked up at him with a wistfulness in her eyes. "I care about you. I care too much. But you must know that I don't dare love you. And without loving you, I can't—"

  He pressed his hand over her mouth, ending her pronouncement. Then, when she quieted, he caressed her face.

  "My sweet Caroline, you're very wise not to throw away your love on me. Save it for a man worthy of you."

  God help him, how he ached to be that man. . ..

  * * *

  "Expertly blending romance and suspense, Beverly Barton knocks our socks off with another fabulous adventure of the heart."

  —Romantic Times Magazine

  THE PROTECTORS: SWEET CAROLINE'S KEEPER

  Copyright © 2001 by Beverly Beaver

  ISBN 0-373-48430-5

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the editorial office, Silhouette Books, 300 East 42nd Street, New York, NY 10017 U.S.A.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of die author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  ® and TM are trademarks of Harlequin Books S.A., used under license. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

  Visit Silhouette at www.eHarleqiim.com

  CLS 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed In U.SA.

  For the readers who have made

  THE PROTECTORS

  series a big success!

  And special thanks to my editors,

  Lynda Curnyn and Leslie Wainger.

  Prologue

  Caroline asked the Harpers' chauffeur to drop her off at the back of the house. She had her key with her, knew the se­curity code and could easily slip in through the kitchen en­trance. If she went in through the front door, Preston would hear her, learn that she was sick and insist on phoning her mother. Lenore wouldn't like being called away from the Mitchells' party. Caroline had learned through experience that it was best to never interfere with her mother's plans, even if that meant trying to handle things that were difficult for a twelve-year-old to handle alone.

  Last year, she had overheard her stepfather and mother arguing and had learned something that she had suspected all her life.

  "Good God, Lenore, what kind of mother are you?" Pres­ton's voice had trembled with near rage.

  "I'm the kind of mother who gave birth to a child she didn't want simply because her husband and her family left her no other choice."

  "Even if you didn't want Caroline, you must love her. You must care about what happens to her. She's a sweet child. Intelligent and—"

  "I endure her presence on holidays and breaks from school," Lenore had said. "But next summer, I'm sending her to my sister-in-law Dixie in Mississippi, so don't you dare bring that brat of yours here for the summer. Send him off to camp or tell your ex-wife to keep him."

  Caroline banished the memory now as she sneaked through the darkened kitchen and up the backstairs of their Baltimore, Maryland, home. Although she spent little time here with her mother and Preston, her mother's third husband, she loved the house and especially her room. Preston had been the one who'd hired an interior designer to prepare the room for her shortly after his marriage to her mother, five years ago. Car­oline had no memory of her real father, who had died when she was barely two. And all she remembered about Bruce Verner, Lenore's second husband, was that he'd always smelled of tobacco and had had a boisterous laugh. During that marriage, Caroline had been cared for by a succession of nannies.

  As she made her way up the backstairs, Caroline thought she heard voices in the study, but more than likely Preston was just watching something on television. Lately her step­father had seemed totally uninterested in the glamorous par­ties her mother so loved. She had noticed, too, that he had been closing himself off in his study a lot, at least for this past week since she'd been home for the Christmas holidays. She suspected that her parents were having marital problems. Her best friend, Brooke Harper, with whom she was sup­posed to be spending the night, had told her that she'd over­heard her mother and father talking about Preston and Lenore Shaw's imminent divorce. Brooke had asked Caroline what imminent meant

  "It means something that's going to happen soon," Car­oline had explained.

  She didn't want her mother to divorce Preston. She loved her stepfather. He was very good to her. Better than her own mother had ever been. He visited her at school sometimes. And whenever his own son, Fletcher, came to visit for a weekend, he insisted that she come home so that they could share family time together. Her mother had begrudgingly par­ticipated in the picnics, horseback riding and theater excur­sions. What would happen to her, if her mother divorced Preston? She would lose the closest thing she'd ever had to a father.

  Caroline couldn't bear the thought of losing Preston.

  Another wave of nausea hit her full force. Just as she rushed down the hall and toward her room, the voices down­stairs grew louder. Men's voices. Arguing. Preston's voice. Shouting.

  Caroline barely made it to her bathroom before the bile spilled from her mouth. Hurriedly, she nipped on the light switch, then leaned over the commode, emptied her stomach and dropped to her knees. Her sleepover with Brooke had come to an abrupt halt the minute she'd started vomiting. With the Harpers attending the same party as Caroline's mother, the task of summoning the Harpers' housekeeper had fallen to Brooke. When Caroline had asked to go home, the housekeeper had quickly awakened the chauffeur to drive Miss McGuire, as she referred to Caroline. Caroline supposed she'd caught a virus of some sort. One of those twenty-four-hour bugs. She'd just sleep here on the bathroom floor if necessary and try not to disturb anyone. Maybe if she did her best not to annoy her mother while she was home during the holidays, Lenore might be nicer to Preston and to Fletcher and maybe even to her. And if they could be a family during Christmas, perhaps Lenore would never divorce Preston.

  Caroline scooted across the tile floor, lifted a washcloth from the stack on the wicker tier table and reached up to grab the rim of the sink. Hoisting herself up, she stood on shaky legs, her hands gripping the rim of the sink. She turned on the cold water, wet the cloth and washed her soiled mouth.

  Her stomach settled somewhat and she breathed a relieved sigh. She had vomited twice at Brooke's house, then once on the way home and again just now. About every thirty minutes her insides churned and she erupted like a volcano.

  Maybe she could lie down for a while. Until the next time. Her bed looked inviting. A white French provincial four-poster decked in baby-pink eyelet lace. If she soiled the bed linen and her mother found out. . .! Caroline didn't even want to consider the possibility. Of course, the housekeeper, Mrs. Claypool, never ratted on her anymore, not after the first time, when Caroline had accidentally spilled cola on the car­pet and Lenore had gone ballistic. No, she didn't dare risk sleeping in her bed tonight. She'd have to settle for the ce­ramic bathroom floor.

  But before she settled in for a long night, maybe she should change int
o her pajamas and then go back downstairs, to the laundry room, and wash the vomit out of her blouse before the stain set in. There would be no way to hide the garment. Maybe if she hurried, she could go down, wash the blouse and return before another bout of nausea hit her.

  She stripped out of her clothes. The blouse came first. She draped it across the rim of the bathtub, then removed her shoes, socks and jeans. These items went into the clothes hamper on the floor of the linen closet. She took off her underwear and stuffed them into the small "delicate items" bag that her mother insisted she use. Her mother had taught her that a lady always washes her own intimate apparel.

  As she entered the dark bedroom, illuminated only by the light from the bathroom, she caught a glimpse of her naked body in the cheval mirror. She was round and plump, her body just beginning to develop feminine curves. For all in­tents and purposes, however, she was still a child. If her hair were blond or red, she might resemble a chubby cherub, but she'd never seen a painting of an angel with black hair.

  She rummaged in the dresser drawer, found a pair of pink-and-white-striped flannel pajamas, pulled them on and then searched the closet for her fuzzy pink house shoes. She'd have to be very careful not to disturb Preston. He would be sure to notice that she was sick. Her stepfather had a keen sense of observation. He would take one look at her and surmise that she wasn't feeling well, regardless of what ex­cuse she gave him for not spending the night with Brooke.

  After returning to the bathroom to retrieve her soiled blouse, she sneaked down the backstairs, trying her best to be as quiet as possible. When she entered the kitchen, she heard a rather odd noise, as if something had fallen over in the den, which was diagonally across the hall. And from the sound of it, whatever had crashed to the floor had been a rather large object. Should she investigate? she wondered.

  Suddenly she remembered what Amelia Randall had told the girls at boarding school about her grandfather. He'd had a heart attack, fallen unconscious on the floor, and if it hadn't been for the quick action of her grandmother, the man would have died. Had Preston had a heart attack? He was old— more than forty. It was certainly possible, wasn't it?

  Just tiptoe down the hall and peek into the den, she told herself. It's probably nothing. Preston might have acciden­tally knocked over something. But you should make sure that he's all right before you go back upstairs. Caroline scurried into the washroom, dropped her blouse in the sink, ran enough cold water to cover the garment, then rushed back through the kitchen and out into the hall. The light in the foyer, at the end of the hallway, spread a long, dim glow over the hardwood floor and cast shadows along the corridor walls. The den door stood open. Caroline crept slowly, cau­tiously down the hall. Preston usually kept the door to his den closed.

  When she reached the doorway, she peered into the room; Preston's large oak desk was the one object in her direct line of vision. The banker's lamp on her stepfather's desk emitted the only light in the room. She dared to take one step over the threshold, just to get a better look. But before her eyes could scan the entire room, she noticed that the huge world globe that sat center stage lay on the floor, along with the heavy wooden stand on which it normally rested. And there, beside the globe, lay Preston.

  Caroline gasped. Silently. Mercy! Had he had a heart at­tack, just like Amelia's grandfather? Panic momentarily con­trolled her. She knew nothing about helping someone who'd had a heart attack. But she had to do something or Preston might die. Think, Caroline, think. What must you do first? Call for an ambulance immediately. Without giving her own sickness another thought, she ran into the room, heading for the telephone on Preston's desk. But as she reached for the phone, she noticed blood seeping onto the wooden floor. Blood pooling around her stepfather's head. And then, just as the reality of what had actually happened began to dawn on her, Caroline heard something behind her. Turning abruptly, she saw a man. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing dark clothes. Black slacks. Black pullover sweater. Black gloves. She caught only a glimpse of his face, the light brown beard and mustache, the hawk nose, the shaded eyes as his gaze narrowed and pinned her to the spot. Her gaze collided with his.

  Was he a thief? she wondered. Perhaps, but he was also a murderer. For she knew in that one terrifying moment that Preston was dead. Killed by this intruder. The tall stranger still held the weapon in his hand. Caroline stared, hypnotized by the big gun. He would have to kill her, too, wouldn't he? After all, she had seen him, even if not very clearly, hidden as he was in the shadows.

  Instinctively, Caroline opened her mouth and screamed. What else could she do? The quivering began inside her body and quickly spread outside, from head to toe. She kept screaming as she trembled. Her eyes squinched with fear. Her heartbeat accelerated wildly, the rhythm drumming in her head. She was going to die. He was going to kill her.

  Seconds passed, agonized moments of sheer terror, as she waited for the sound of the gun firing. Waited for the bullet to hit her. Waited for her life to come to an end.

  Minutes flew by. She kept screaming and screaming, un­able to control the hysteria that had claimed her. Her vision clouded with unshed tears. Why hadn't he shot her? What was he waiting for? She blinked several times, clearing her vision enough to see that the man had moved out of the shadows. Where was he?

  She scanned the room. No sight of him anywhere. She heard the front door open and close. He had left the house. And he hadn't killed her. But why? Why had he let her live?

  Caroline glanced down at her stepfather. She shivered. Then as if in a trance, she picked up the telephone receiver, dialed the emergency number, and the moment she heard another human voice, she asked for help. She told the person her name, her address and that someone had just killed her stepfather. Then, while the person asked her several more questions, Caroline stopped speaking. She dropped the phone. The receiver fell to the floor, dragging the base to the very edge of Preston's desk. She turned her head and vomited into the nearby wastebasket. Her mother would scold her for making a mess. But Preston would take her side. He always tried to protect her from her mother's wrath. He was so kind and good and gentle.

  Caroline wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then walked over and sat down on the floor beside Preston's body. She lifted his limp hand in hers and held it tightly.

  "I'll stay right here with you," she told him. "I won't leave you alone."

  Aidan Colbert parked the nondescript black sedan in the underground parking garage at Peacekeepers International in Washington, D.C. With expert ease, he removed the 9 mm from his shoulder holster, then lifted the case from the floor­board, placed the weapon alongside the silencer and closed the lid. Following instructions, he left the case on the seat, then got out of the car, locked the doors and walked toward the elevator. He punched the up button. The elevator doors swung open. He removed his ID card from his pants pocket, inserted it into the appropriate slot, and then hit the one-inch-square, unmarked blue panel.

  As the elevator rose higher and higher, taking Aidan to­ward Ellison Perm's office atop the Peacekeepers building, he tried not to think about the child. But he knew he probably would never be able to erase that moment from his mind-when their gazes had locked and she realized he had killed her stepfather. For just a split second he had seen Brendan's little face, Brendan's blue eyes, Brendan's frightened fea­tures. Aidan had seen on the girl's face tonight the exact look that had crossed his little brother's face only moments before his father had struck the fatal blow that had ended Brendan's life nine years ago.

  The child had thought he was going to kill her.

  The elevator stopped. The doors opened to reveal the en­trance to the office suite occupied by the current head of Peacekeepers International. Fellow agent Gavin Robbins, an­other new recruit, waited for him in the outer office.

  "Mr. Perm is waiting for you," Gavin said, his dark eyes staring accusingly at Aidan. "Word has already reached him that there was a problem—a witness you didn't eliminate."

  Aidan
glared at Gavin but didn't respond verbally. There was something about Gavin that rubbed Aidan the wrong way. They had disliked each other on sight the moment they'd met six months ago when they began their training together. Aidan followed Gavin into the ultramodern office, dominated by black leather sofas and chairs, contemporary paintings on the stark white walls and pieces of expensive avant-garde metal sculpture placed strategically on glass-and-chrome desks, tables and bookshelves.

  Ellison Perm stood a tad over six feet tall, a good two inches shorter than Aidan, but he possessed a commanding presence. A professional athlete's build. Large. Muscular. Without an ounce of fat on his body. His all-seeing eyes were a shade lighter than his steel-gray hair, which gleamed like polished silver against his light olive skin.

  "We know that Shaw's stepdaughter was at the house," Ellison stated in a matter-of-fact way. "She wasn't supposed to be there. I'm not sure what happened. Our man followed Preston when he took her to the Harper house several hours earlier."

  "She saw me," Aidan said. "I don't think she got a good look, but—"

  "You should have eliminated her." Standing as if at at­tention, Gavin puffed out his chest as he issued his opinion. "By allowing her to live, you compromised the mission."

  Aidan glowered at Gavin. "I thought it was our job to protect the innocent, not kill them."

  "Aidan is right," Ellison said, a world-weary look on his face. "As a Peacekeeper, he could not have murdered that child without going against the very principles on which our organization was founded."

  "But if the child can recognize him—" Gavin said.

  "The child is traumatized," Ellison told them. "The initial report I received states that she's in shock and has been un­able to help the local police in any way." Ellison surveyed Aidan from head to toe. "Shave the beard and mustache."

  "Yes, sir,'' Aidan replied.

  "And to be on the safe side, I'll send you to our London office. You can work from there for the next year or so, until Preston Shaw's death becomes just one more unsolved mur­der."