by Janet Dailey
“I keep telling myself it’s only eight in L.A.” Delaney sat straighter in her chair and automatically flexed her shoulder muscles to ease their stiffness. “You’re up late yourself. Couldn’t you sleep?”
“I was practicing my lines for tomorrow. What’s your excuse?”
“Riley and I have been going over the letters from this Laura woman—and trying to make sure we have everything covered for your location shoot the day after tomorrow.” She glanced at the map on the desk and sighed. “Believe me, I wish your director had picked a site other than Central Park for your confrontation scene with the bad guy.” She leaned forward to again study the detailed map of the park that Arthur had obtained for her. “It’s a security nightmare.”
Especially when Rina Cole’s New York apartment overlooked that end of the park, but Delaney carefully avoided mentioning that particular detail.
“It could have been worse.” He wandered into the room, his hands buried in the slanted side pockets of his trousers.
“Really?” She arched him a dubious look.
“Sure. It could have been a chase scene through the park.”
“Touché.”
He came around the desk and stood next to her chair, leaning a hand on the desk and bending forward to look at the map. “What’s the plan?”
“The scene will be filmed here.” She used the pencil to point out the actual location to him. “That won’t be so bad. The police will have that area cordoned off. But it’s getting you to and from the site, as well as to and from your trailer, that presents the problem. We know we’ll have a gauntlet of fans and reporters to run—plus who knows how many weirdos who might feel you need to be punished for your wicked ways.”
“You’re very encouraging, Delaney.” But the note of dry amusement in his voice told her he didn’t mean to be taken seriously.
“Sorry.” Briefly she smiled up at him, then turned her attention back to the map.
“Makeup and wardrobe will be done here at the apartment that morning instead of on the set. We plan to use a hired car to sneak you onto the site and let your limo be a decoy. On the set, I’ll have security teams deployed here, here, and here.” She marked the locations for him on the map.
“As much as possible, I’d like to keep you in this protected zone and not go back and forth to the trailer unless it’s a long break.” She rocked back in the swivel chair, resting her elbows on its arms and holding the pencil horizontally between her hands. “What do you think?”
He turned sideways and lounged against the desk, leaning a hip against its edge. “I think it’s very thorough. I also think you’re damned good at your job.”
“I told you I was.” Actually, after going over the plan with him, she felt more confident about it. not seeing any holes—any contingencies—that couldn’t be covered.
“What about tomorrow?”
“The soundstage makes it much easier. And we’ll be dealing with a closed set. Your producer was quick to agree to that. I suspect the last thing he wants at this stage is any problems that might cause a delay, especially when the filming is so close to being done.”
“That’s an understatement,” Lucas replied, then touched one of the faxed letters lying on the desk. “What’s your take on these love notes from this Laura person?”
“I think she’s an ardent fan, the kind that triggers alarm bells.”
“Why is that?” He leaned over to study the letter more closely. “I admit reading it gives me an uneasy feeling, but the things she writes seem harmless enough. Sad and pathetic, but basically harmless. Where’s the threat?”
“I see it in the part where she talks about the two of you being ‘together forever.’ Truthfully, if she had said she planned to kill you next Thursday, I would be less inclined to take her seriously. The dangerous ones invariably talk in terms of shared destinies—of uniting with someone—or being together forever.”
“I’m impressed,” he murmured.
“You’re supposed to be.” She briefly smiled at him.
“What’s the next step?”
“With the letters? Inform the authorities, turn over the originals of any letters you still have, and make certain any new ones go to them with the minimum of handling.”
“That’s it?”
“No, they’ll probably ask about any women you’ve met named Laura.”
“That will take some thinking.” He grinned wickedly, then feigned deep concentration. “Let’s see…there was a cheerleader named Laura in high school who accused me of getting her pregnant. I also knew an aerobics instructor called Laurie—she was especially fond of the slant board,” he added. “And there was the wife to one of Fortune’s Four Hundred who was into blindfolds and ice cubes. Who knows how many groupies at my rock concerts might have been—”
Delaney stopped him. “The list of your conquests is obviously legion. Maybe you’d better save them for the police.”
“Why?” He gave her his trademark smile. “Don’t you want to know so you can track down the right Laura?”
“I think I need to explain a few things so you’ll have a better understanding of our role,” she said. “Wescott and Associates is not a detective agency. We don’t investigate and we don’t gather evidence. That is the province of the police. Naturally we cooperate with them, and pass along any information we happen to obtain. Other than that, we are here solely and strictly to protect you. That is our job—our only job. If we find out who Laura is and where she is, we will monitor her movements—but only as a defensive tactic.”
“You’re all business, aren’t you?” He studied her thoughtfully, curiously.
“All business.” Delaney nodded.
“Too bad.” He moved away from the desk, crossing to the window. “You have quite a view of the city at night from here.”
“I’ve been too busy to notice.” Idly curious, Delaney pushed out of the chair, taking advantage of the chance to stretch her muscles and take a short break. She crossed the short space to stand at the window and gaze at the bands of streetlights below, the concrete towers with their uneven patchwork of lighted windows, and the shimmering reds, greens, yellows, and whites of neon signs and traffic lights.
“That jeweled crown over there is the Chrysler Building.” Lucas shifted closer to point out the structure to her. “And those ropes of diamonds are the Queens-boro Bridge.”
“It’s beautiful.” She could smell his aftershave lotion and tried to identify the fragrance, finally deciding it was Giorgio for Men.
“Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”
“That all depends on how personal it is.”
“How did you get into the bodyguard business? Were you a lady cop or—what?”
“Actually Wescott and Associates is in the security business, which may or may not include serving as bodyguards.” It was a typical misconception, one that Delaney was used to correcting.
“My mistake.” Lucas dipped his head in mock apology.
“It’s a common one.”
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
“Isn’t it a bit late to be checking on my qualifications?” she asked, faintly amused.
“I hired you. I can fire you, contract or not.”
“True.”
“So, what are your qualifications?”
Delaney smiled briefly at his persistence. “While I was in college, I was recruited by the FBI. I suppose the idea of becoming an agent sounded romantic and daring. But by the time I graduated from the academy at Quantico, I was already having second thoughts. After two months on the job. I knew law enforcement wasn’t my line of work. So I went back to school and became a lawyer.”
“A lawyer?” He arched an eyebrow in surprise. “That makes me even more curious to know how you got into this?”
“I got into it by accident, I guess.”
“How’s that?”
“The firm I was with at the time had a wealthy client who’d been receivin
g death threats,” Delaney said, then paused to explain. “This was almost seven years ago. One day I was on my way out of the office just as this client was about to leave.” She stared into the night’s blackness, recalling that she had been in a hurry that day to get some motions filed on a case that was pending. She couldn’t recall the details of the case, yet she could see Sanford Green, one of the firm’s most important clients, standing there in the lavishly paneled reception area—his dark hair shot with gray, his fifty-odd years fleshing up his thin frame, his head tipped to catch a murmured comment from one of the senior partners.
Then he had looked up and noticed her. The down-turned corners of his mouth had lifted in a quick smile, his blue eyes lighting up with an innocently flirtatious gleam. “Well, Miss Wescott, where have you been hiding? It’s been weeks since I last saw you gliding in and out of these halls.”
“It has been a while, hasn’t it?” Somehow she had managed to disguise her haste and continue forward to shake hands with him. “How are you, Mr. Green?”
“Fine, fine.” But the declaration had held a false ring.
Belatedly Delaney had noticed the faint pallor to his face and the lines of strain newly etched in it. In recent weeks the office rumor mill had buzzed with reports about the trashing of Sanford Green’s executive offices on Wilshire and the mutilation of his beloved black Scottie dog, events that had magnified the continued death threats.
Delaney had cast a brief but curious glance at the bodyguard who now accompanied Sanford Green everywhere. Even in a sportcoat and open-collared shirt, he had looked like what he was—an ex-cop, burlychested with a bulldog jaw and an unsmiling manner that had prompted the office to nickname him Dick Tracy.
“Tell me, Miss Wescott,” Sanford Green had said in a jollying voice, “has Adams here offered you a full partnership in the firm yet?”
Robert Adams had almost cringed at the question, although his mouth curved stiffly in a forced smile. With a rush, all the feelings of dissatisfaction with her job had swept through her—feelings that she hadn’t known whether she should blame on the stifling atmosphere of the firm, the lack of challenge in her chosen field of law, the tedium of whereas and wherefores, or the claustrophobia of four walls.
She had managed to laugh at Sanford Green’s question, pretending that he had made a joke. “Not yet, Mr. Green. Not hardly yet.”
Robert Adams had almost sighed in relief at her response, then instantly braced himself when Sanford Green had spoken again. “Better not sit on your hands too long, Adams. She has the makings of a damned fine trial lawyer. Remember how fast she spotted the inconsistency in Thorgood’s testimony in that patent infringement case last year,” he’d said, referring to a lawsuit in which she’d acted as an assistant to the trial lawyer.
Obeying the rules of office politics, however grudgingly, Delaney had stepped in, eliminating the need for Robert Adams to come to the defense of his partner and colleague. “You are very flattering, Mr. Green. And as much as I would like to hear more”—she had made a show of looking at her watch—“I’m afraid I have to run. It was good to see you again.”
After an exchange of goodbyes, Delaney had backtracked to the receptionist’s desk. “Jeannie, I’m on my way to the courthouse. With luck I’ll be back in an hour. If Riley Owens calls while I’m out, tell him I’ve received his incorporation papers back from the state. He is officially in the fishing charter business. Have him set a time for us to meet.”
“Have a good day, Miss Wescott,” Sanford Green had called in final farewell as he headed out the heavy oak doors that opened directly to the street, preceded as always by his bodyguard.
Delaney had lifted her hand in an acknowledging wave. As she turned back to the receptionist, she had caught a glimpse of the gardener through the multipaned windows that looked out to the street. She had idly wondered what he was doing, since he had finished all the clipping and pruning yesterday. With a second glance, she had realized the man outside wasn’t the regular gardener—more than that, he wasn’t a gardener at all. So why was he standing next to the oleander bush? And why was he glaring at the entrance to the law firm’s office with an expression of pure hatred?
At that instant she’d had a sudden, sickening feeling that the object of his hatred was not the law office. At almost the same moment the man had moved out of view, heading toward the landscaped path that intersected with the main sidewalk a scant twenty feet from the building.
Certain she had just seen the man behind the threats against Sanford Green, Delaney had run for the door, intent on warning him of the danger and driven by the fear she might be too late. “Call the police. Quick,” she had told a startled Robert Adams, choosing not to waste valuable seconds explaining her reason.
She had charged outside in time to see the bodyguard move ahead of Sanford Green to shield him from the slightly built man who approached them, his hand raised in the supplicating gesture of a beggar. Delaney had moved hesitantly forward, watching as the bodyguard took the man by the arm to send him on his way. But the man had slipped the hold with a suddenness that caught the bodyguard flat-footed. In the next instant, the man had stepped past him and swung his arm in an arc, striking the guard on the back of his head and sending him sprawling to the sidewalk.
In a mad dash, Delaney had managed to reach Sanford Green’s side at the same instant that the man spun around and leveled a gun at him. “You didn’t really think that dumb ape was going to stop me, did ya, Green?” he had taunted.
Aware she had no time to think, only to act, Delaney had taken one quick step forward, bringing the man within range. Then she had swung her foot in an arcing, straight-legged kick, the inside arch of her foot hitting the man’s gun hand and driving it upward.
As the gun discharged harmlessly into the air, she had shouted to Sanford Green: “Run!” and followed through on her advantage, grabbing the man’s arm and shoulder and executing a leg sweep before rotating him off balance and letting him fall to the ground. The force of the impact had knocked the gun out of his hand and sent it skittering across the sidewalk.
But Sanford Green hadn’t moved. He had remained standing there in ashen-faced shock. Unwilling to press her luck, Delaney had grabbed him and hustled him inside the building.
“So you saved his life,” Lucas Wayne observed.
Delaney nodded absently. “He fired his bodyguard on the spot and insisted that I go to work for him.”
“I assume you did.”
“To paraphrase that very famous movie line, he made me an offer I would have been a fool to refuse—twice my current salary and one full year’s wages guaranteed. Luckily I’d met Riley a couple of months earlier. He was ex-Secret Service, so I turned to him for help.” Delaney paused, remembering the half-frantic phone call she had made to Riley later that same day.
Hearing his voice on the other end of the line, she clasped the receiver a little tighter. “Hello, Riley. It’s Delaney Wescott.”
“Delaney. How’s the beautiful barrister this afternoon?”
“Truthfully? Either she’s lost her mind or she’s having a midlife crisis a few years early,” she admitted, then went on to explain about her rescue of Sanford Green and his subsequent job offer. “I accepted the job, Riley. Now I desperately need a crash course in personal protection. Could I hire you? Maybe even talk you into some on-the-job training?”
After an agonizingly long pause, Riley said, “You’re right, Delaney. One of us needs their heads examined and I think it’s me.”
“Then you’re going to do it.” She breathed in relief.
“I am.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me; thank those two couples from Iowa I took out fishing this morning. All of them got seasick. I’ve spent the last three hours trying to get the stink out of my boat. Believe me, that is not what I had in mind when I named it The Life of Riley.”
Delaney smiled, detecting more than a trace of disillusionment in his voice.
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“So that’s when you hooked up with Riley.” Lucas shifted positions, angling his body toward her and leaning a shoulder against the thick pane of glass.
“More or less.”
“What about the guy who was after your Mr. Green? Did you ever find out why he wanted to kill him?”
“He thought he’d been cheated in a real estate deal.”
“What happened to him?”
“The police arrested him three months later for the murder of his mother.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Nice guy.”
“A real peach of a fella,” she agreed dryly. “Anyway, right after that, I formed Wescott and Associates.”
Far below, an ambulance raced along a New York street, its siren wailing, its lights flashing.
“As a woman, you probably encountered resistance.”
“Not as much as you might think.” She let her gaze wander over the geometric shapes of the skyline. “Actually, I’ve probably encountered less than a handful of men whose pride wouldn’t let them hide behind a woman’s skirt.”
“Is that why you wear pants? Because if it is, don’t wear them on my account…unless you have ugly legs,” he added teasingly.
A hint of a smile hovered around her mouth. “I wear slacks because of the unrestricted movement they give me. On occasion, that can be critical.” She turned her head slightly. “Any more questions?”
Fatigue was smoothing her features and giving a heaviness to her eyes. The glow from the desk lamp slid across the dark surface of her long hair, giving it a look of luxurious softness that invited his touch.
“You look tired.”
“It couldn’t be because I’ve been up since three this morning, could it?” she joked and glanced sideways at him, catching that interested look in his eyes.
“You’ve had a long day.”
“So have you.” She kept her voice level, her tone indifferently casual.
“Not really. I managed to grab a few hours’ sleep this morning.”
“Lucky you.”
“You’ve been at it nonstop since you got here. A beautiful woman shouldn’t work so hard.” He touched her cheek, softly tracing the curve of it with his fingertips.
