Guarding His Body

by KS Augustin

  “I’ll have someone else ready as your back-up when you arrive,” he assured her.

  “Thanks, Ryan.”

  “If you need to talk.” The older man cleared his throat gruffly. “You know, if there’s anything you need me to do, call me.”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  She rested the phone quietly back in its cradle.

  Nothing to do with Alexandrov! The words danced her in her head, making her…what? Want to jump into bed with Yves with gleeful abandon? Ryan told her he had sent a gang of three opportunists packing, and all she could do was think of how that would affect her sexual relationship with Yves! Her mind was truly twisted.

  She stilled for a moment, listening for noise, but there was none, not even Yves’ quiet padding into the room. Quickly, before she had time to rethink, Helen slipped back into her room, hastily throwing on a tank top and jogging pants. After doing up a trusted pair of sneakers, she let herself out the front door. Unless Leonid Alexandrov had several geostationary satellites available for his surveillance use, she was sure Guy and Yves were quite safe, by themselves, in the house.

  It wasn’t Alexandrov, she thought with a grin. It wasn’t him!

  Fingers of dawn were lightening into a clear morning over the horizon when Helen bounded down the tall wooden staircase that led from the house to the beach. The timber was grey and weathered but still solid, broken every so often by a small platform where climbers could stop to catch their breath and look out over the Pacific Ocean. This was Byron Bay, the easternmost point of Australia, and there was nothing between Helen and South America but a few islands and the vastness of the ocean.

  She breathed in deep of the tangy air, stretching out her arms at the same time, and disturbed a flock of seagulls already awake and pecking at the tiny crabs that called the area between the tide lines their home. Helen walked to the stretch of damp sand, a surer platform for her running, then took off down the beach, her burst of happiness lending wings to her feet.

  This was one thing that made coming back to Byron so special. There was really nowhere in Brisbane where she could enjoy such isolation and peace. In front of her, the beach curved gently around several coves, all sheltered and quiet. It was easy to get out of shape in the city, but once she had settled in Byron, she could see these morning jogs becoming a special and permanent part of her day. The sand lightened from a grey to a sparkling white as the sun cleared the watery horizon. Helen ran, stretching her legs and taking deep breaths as she huffed along the sand. Two kilometres down from the timber staircase, the cliffs dipped down until they became sand dunes, and a town emerged from the surrounding hills.

  Remembering the need for groceries, Helen headed up Main Beach, walking past the tall pine trees until she reached grass and the road. Already, the sun’s rays were warming her back as she walked into the town centre. It was going to be another warm day.

  The small supermarket she frequented was closed, but the lights were on, indicating somebody was already at work. With a thoughtful frown on her face, Helen walked up to one of the plate glass windows, waving frantically as she saw the owner, Bill Cook, checking one of the cereal box displays. He turned at the movement outside and smiled widely at her, hurrying to open the staff entrance door.

  Bill was a slight, dapper man in his mid-forties, who had been born in Adelaide but had holidayed with his family at Byron Bay in his youth. That one trip had been enough to fire his imagination he told Helen, and, after a string of jobs, he decided, in his early thirties, to move to Byron Bay permanently and try his luck. In his case, it had worked out. He landed the job of assistant manager at the supermarket, met and married a wonderful woman by the name of Gloria, and had three children still attending the local school. He was content with his life, and it showed.

  “Hel, are you back in town?” he greeted, stating the obvious. “When did you get in?”

  “Hi Bill. Late last night.”

  He ushered her inside and locked the door behind her. “Are you staying long?”

  “A week. I’ve got a couple of visitors with me,” she added carefully. “Some tourist friends down from Brisbane.”

  “Well, Byron’s a great place to bring them.” Bill beamed with pride. “I’m sure they’ll like it here.”

  Helen wondered how to keep a lid on the grapevine and decided to stick as close to the truth as possible. “They’re rather well known,” she added, lowering her voice even though there was nobody around. “There could be photographers asking after them. I’d appreciate it if you kept mum about them being around.”

  “Flying in those circles now, are you?” he replied, winking. “No worries. Nobody’ll hear it from me. And I’ll make sure Gloria keeps her trap shut, too.”

  Helen shrugged. “With avoiding people, I didn’t have time to get any groceries in.” She petered out, hopefully, and Bill laughed at the expression on her face.

  “You’d starve without me, Helen Collier! Go on, get whatever you want. You can square up with me next time you’re in town.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “What are you going to do? Lift up that house and drive somewhere else? I know where you are. Besides, it doesn’t look like you’ve got a wallet in those sporty pants of yours.”

  She pecked him quickly on the cheek and did a quick flit up and down the aisles, taking just enough food for breakfast and lunch. Bill packed everything for her in carry bags and, after being assured that she was fine for the walk home, waved her good-bye from the door of the supermarket.

  It took more than half an hour to walk home, but that didn’t bother Helen. Life moved at a different pace than in the city, and although she kept a brisk pace, she was happy to be strolling rather than taking Bill up on his offer of a lift.

  She was so caught up in the serenity of the morning that she didn’t realise anything was amiss until she was walking up the driveway to her house. While still a few metres away, the door flung open with a bang, and Yves emerged, his expression dark and angry. His hair was spiky and unkempt, as if he had run his fingers through it several times, and he was in a pair of striped pyjamas. He must have thrown on the top hurriedly, however, because only one of its buttons was done up. His brown feet were bare.

  “Merde! Where have you been?” he demanded. “I wake up and you’re gone.”

  He was obviously flustered, and Helen noticed his accent was a bit more pronounced than usual, as if he was concentrating all his energy on his anger. “Anything could have happened. You leave no note, no sign. I–Guy and I have been frantic. We are stuck here in…in…” He gestured expansively. “Wherever this place is that nobody knows about, and the only link we have is missing. Believe me, cherie, this is not pleasant to wake up to.”

  Helen heard the endearment, knew what it meant, but attached no meaning to its significance. It was like an action star from the old movies calling someone “sweetheart”. Still, she had been remiss in not leaving a note.

  She grimaced as she moved past him. “I know. I’m sorry. I should’ve let you know. I thought I’d be back before you woke up.”

  “Where have you been?” he demanded. “You’ve been gone for hours.”

  Helen thought that was an exaggeration, but she set the bags down on the kitchen table and moved to fill the kettle, plugging it in and switching it on. “I went for a quick jog then I did some shopping.”

  “Shopping? Faire du shopping? Could it not have waited?”

  “Not if you wanted breakfast,” she replied, dryly.

  The kitchen door banged open and Guy walked in, still rumpled in the clothes he’d obviously slept in, and also barefoot. He started saying something in French then caught sight of her and subsided. “Oh. I see you’ve found her.”

  “It appears she was never lost. Merely,” Yves glanced at the groceries she was unpacking, “buying food.”

  “Ah.” He considered that, then grinned. “Bien.”

  The taller man let out a long breath. “Oui, I suppose so.�
� He was still for a moment as if reliving an unpleasant memory then his lips quirked. “Do I have time to get dressed before breakfast?”

  Helen slanted him a glance then looked away. “I think so.”

  When he left, it was like a void formed in the room, and Helen couldn’t help the small sigh that escaped her. She had it bad. She didn’t even have to look around to see where he was, she just knew, by the tingle along her skin or the prickling of her scalp. And all she had was a week. One week before he tied up the loose ends and flew back to Europe. What would he end up doing about Alexandrov? She didn’t know. If anything indicated the futility of their relationship, it was that one fact. She was responsible for his personal safety, yet she knew that the job ended—firmly and irrevocably—at the shores of the country. Once he flew beyond Australia’s boundaries, his well-being ceased to be her concern.

  “Would you like some help?”

  For a moment, she’d forgotten Guy was even there. She turned and smiled at him. He was also a good looking man, younger than Yves—perhaps around her own age—with warm brown-green eyes instead of the blue glaciers she found so compelling. Why couldn’t she have fallen for Guy instead? Then the what-if questions that echoed in her mind wouldn’t sound so desperate, so hollow. She ran her gaze from the top of his head, down his rumpled sleepwear, and to his bare toes that twitched self-consciously.

  “I think I’ll be fine,” she told him warmly. “You’ll have to line up for the bathroom, but why don’t you go get ready while I start on breakfast?”

  He nodded and left the room.

  Helen decided to cook a more traditional Australian breakfast. It might not be the healthiest choice or the favourite of her two French guests, but it meant she could work on automatic and do some thinking while she prepared the meal.

  With deft fingers, she liberated the sausages and bacon slices from their plastic coverings, piling them into a frying pan she set on the stove, and put aside half a dozen eggs to scramble. After switching on the oven to a low temperature, she pulled plates from one of the cupboards above the counter and rummaged for three mostly matching sets of cutlery. Her parents had never been great sticklers for the latest in interior design or fashion, which was one thing she’d loved about them. They’d both been down to earth people, who’d taught her that what was inside a person was more important than the outward trappings they wore. Idly, as she beat the eggs to a froth in a bowl with some cream, she wondered what they would think of Yves. He had the ornaments of great wealth, but he was also a strong and confident man in his own right. She had seen for herself the respect he had for Guy, and the respect he had shown her—that comment about women on the drive down notwithstanding—and she wondered what he’d be like in his natural environment.

  Now that she knew that Yves was safe, one of the biggest barriers to continuing an intimate relationship with him was gone. It was like a bar of a cage disappearing. It didn’t mean other bars didn’t exist, but it made escape easier.

  Did she want that escape? Yves still wanted her, she knew, and she still wanted him. But their affair was doomed to failure. Unless… What if he invited her back to France with him? As his bodyguard? As his mistress? Would she go?

  Helen groaned as she turned the sausages and slices of bacon over in the frypan. There was nothing holding her in Australia. She had already mentally distanced herself from her business in Brisbane and was in that in-between state before she focused her energies on her move to Byron Bay. Emotionally too, there was little in Australia for her, especially with her brother Nick happily living and working in northern Italy. In fact, if she moved to France, she would be closer to Nick, and they could visit each other more often.

  But… She flipped the mental coin to the other side. She was definitely counting her chickens before they hatched. It seemed like a lifetime ago that Sue told her Yves was ‘France’s hottest property’. And, given that fact, what were the chances that he was even interested in anything more than a temporary dalliance with some woman thousands of kilometres away? Helen didn’t have to think too hard to imagine him at public events, a tall, leggy, superbly coiffed female at his side. He’d be facing the cameras, an arm snaking out to hold his companion close, his brown fingers closing possessively on the curve of her waist.

  Viciously, she turned the bacon and sausages onto the plates and set them in the oven to keep warm before tackling the scrambled eggs.

  The bowl of eggs and cream resembled her brains, beaten up beyond reason.

  “What do you want from life, Hel?” she muttered to the warming saucepan.

  Did she want safety? In which case, she was best to stay as far away from Yves as possible. Or did she want passion? In which case, she should lose herself with him again. But even if she did decide on the second option, with a body that yearned for his touch, where did that leave her in a few days’ time when he was officially out of her life? There was no guarantee that Yves would want her tagging back to France with him. By the sounds of things, he had more offers of companionship than he knew what to do with.

  So, what did she want? More great sex and further heartbreak? Or celibacy and a sense of empty righteousness?

  When the two men entered the kitchen, Helen was composed and on the edge of a decision that she knew would have an effect on her for the rest of her life.

  She set the plates on the table, each containing a hearty breakfast, and doled out the bunch of cutlery that lay on the counter. Both men smelt clean and fresh, reminding her that she still hadn’t had time to freshen up after her morning jog. The table was small, and they were squashed, but it felt comfortable. Yves was not going out of his way to send seduction signals across breakfast, for which she was most grateful, and even Guy looked happy as he tucked into his food.

  “Did you say you have internet access here?” Yves asked near the end of their meal.

  “It’s in the living room, by the desk.”

  “I think we may have to do some work.”

  Guy, his mouth full, nodded.

  “Perhaps we can find out how the investigation into Alexandrov is going.”

  Helen could understand why Yves would want to get such a dangerous and dangling sword removed from above his head. The constant threat of violence from another person was a stressful burden. But the part of her that had become super-sensitive, seeking out layers of meaning in his every word—simply because she loved him and couldn’t see a future for them both—took the sentence apart, and wondered whether he said it because he was looking forward to leaving Australia. Already, it must be more inconvenient than expected, with a rival tracking him down and two separate assaults on his person. Maybe, he might think that he’d be better off back in his familiar, European environment. It was difficult to know what he thought behind those blue and mysterious eyes of his. Yves de

  Saint Nerin was a man who only showed what he wanted the other person to see. Helen only wished such a trait made him more difficult to love but, alas, it didn’t.

  Chapter Eleven

  It was evening and Yves felt well rested. Not content, but rested. Earlier in the day, Helen had driven down into the town centre—to pay for her morning grocery bill and do some more shopping, she told him. She was quite definite about the fact that he wasn’t invited, although Guy was. If he weren’t such a confident man, he might have felt himself waver at that moment, but what she said made sense, even in the face of his objections.

  She conceded that the last assault on them in Brisbane was not inspired by Alexandrov, but refused to budge from the position that he still lie low for the next couple of days, for the sake of his safety. To his chagrin, Guy agreed, and Yves was left to the uncharacteristic sight of watching a woman he lusted after go traipsing out the door with his assistant.

  His mood didn’t improve when he connected his laptop to the house internet cable—no wireless here. That was something he’d have to change for the future, he thought idly—pulling up his email and finding a reply from Delph
ine sitting in his inbox.

  He forgot he had scratched off that impulsive email, had regretted its emptiness for an instant before the events of the day overtook him, and now back it was, with her reply. Grimly, Yves opened the email and read its contents.

  My dear one,

  Adrienne, Theron and the children are fine. But I think you would have already known this if you had called them yourself, non?

  He should have known he couldn’t put one past his dear friend. A reluctant smile tugged at his lips as he continued reading.

  So I must wonder the reason for your most uninformative of emails. You do not mention what Australia is like or where you have been or even if Guy has finally succeeded in annoying you over something. That boy is unnaturally perfect, in my opinion.

  Even thousands of kilometres away, as I am, my feminine intuition kicks in. Have you met someone?

  Yves wondered what Delphine would think of Helen. They would like each other, he thought. Helen was perhaps a little more irrepressible, but Delphine had come from a more restrained environment in the first place. And suddenly, the thought of someone meeting his best friend didn’t send shudders down his spine like it normally did. It was strange and wonderful, but he actually looked forward to introducing the women to each other, and that happy anticipation was something he had never felt before in his life.

  If you have, then believe I am very happy for you. Perhaps you could consider bringing her to France, rather than keeping her secret so far away?

  Whatever you decide, know that I will always be,

  Your Delphine

  He toyed briefly with the idea of replying, of telling Delphine that she was correct, but a niggling doubt scratched at the back of Yves’ brain. Yes, he wanted to tumble Helen into bed with him once more. Yes, he wanted her to see France and meet Delphine. Yes, he was actually thinking of proposing a more permanent arrangement—with Helen Collier of the brilliant tourmaline eyes, untameable hair and calm assurance. But there were questions in the back of that steady blue gaze that he still didn’t have the answers to. Why was she sad? Why was she holding herself back? Did she have any ties to this country? What, or who, exactly did he have to fight in order to get her to give all of herself to him?