37 Her Highness and the Bodyguard

by Christine Rimmer

  She gazed up at him, dark hair shining in the lamplight, brown eyes infinitely soft. “We can get a few hours of sleep, at least.”

  He knew she was right. She needed her rest. But he needed...her. He gathered her close and kissed her.

  She opened for him, sighing. And then she tried to pull away.

  He didn’t allow that, but instead deepened the kiss, holding her even closer, wrapping his arms so tightly around her, using the taste and the feel of her, the wonderful scent that belonged only to her, to help him forget all the things he would have to remember when daylight came.

  Eventually, he did lift his head. She stared up at him dreamily and whispered in a tender tone, “Marcus. Bedtime...” Taking his hand, she turned for the bedroom.

  He didn’t argue with her. She was leading him exactly where he wanted to go. Once they reached the side of the bed, he took off all her clothes and his own, as well, kissing her as he did it, caressing her tenderly, with practiced care.

  By the time he was finished undressing them both, she wasn’t thinking about sleeping, either. He took her down to the pillows and he kissed her some more. He touched her, the way he liked best to touch her.

  Slowly. Everywhere.

  Until she was pliant and eager, flushed and so willing—willing in every way except one.

  She still wouldn’t marry him.

  But he would not despair. No matter how many times she told him no, he would never give up. His child would have a father who never, ever gave him up.

  And she? No, he couldn’t give her all the things she so richly deserved. But he would always protect her, always take care of her. He would be there, at her side, anytime she needed him. He would never arrive too late, never not be there when she needed him the most....

  Turning her so she lay on her side, facing him, he traced a hand over the marvelous curve of her hip, sliding his palm along the taut smoothness of her thigh, lifting her knee and wrapping her leg over his.

  She was so wet, so soft and sweet and ready, and she moaned when he pushed into her, moaned and canted her body up to him, taking him in all the way with that first stroke—at which point he couldn’t hold back a moan of his own.

  The sweetness, as always with her, was close to unbearable, the way any extreme pleasure tends to be. He had to go carefully, slowly, deliberately, had to try and be mindful of making it last, while his body constantly threatened to throw off all restraint and make that mad dash for the quick, hard finish.

  He didn’t want that.

  He wanted more of her sighs and her soft, tender cries.

  And he had them. They rocked together, arms wrapped around each other, for a fine, endless time.

  He watched the finish come over her, saw the deep flush that flowed up her throat and over her cheeks, the glazed sheen in her almost-black eyes. Her breathing quickened, became a little bit frantic, and her hips jerked against him, harder, faster, with a sudden furious, hungry intent.

  By then, he was gone, too, lost in the fine, swift rhythm she set. She cried out and pressed strongly against him. He held on tight as the rush of his climax shuddered through him.

  It was perfect. Satisfying. Exactly what he needed.

  But then, it always had been with her.

  She took him to paradise so easily, brought him the best kind of forgetfulness. At least for a little while.

  * * *

  The lawyer’s name was Anthony Evans. They met him in front of a Century City highrise. He was tall, tanned and fit, with silver hair. He grabbed Marcus’s hand and pressed a business card into it. Then he turned a gleaming white smile on Rhia. “Hello.”

  She murmured her first name and took the hand he offered. He glanced past her shoulder at Joseph. She gave a light laugh. “That’s Joseph. He provides security.” At the mention of his name, the bodyguard gave a slight nod. Rhia added, “I promise you, Anthony, Joseph won’t be in the way.”

  Anthony’s office was on the top floor of the high-rise. They sat in fat leather chairs in a large conference room—except for Joseph, who stood near the door. Anthony explained that he and Roland often played golf together, that he’d met Roland more than two decades ago at City Bistro, the restaurant Marcus’s father had owned.

  “Your father had a very special kind of genius,” Anthony said. “He made every customer feel special. Valued. And he had a hell of a memory. The second time I ate at the Bistro, he knew the table I preferred and that I wanted Glenfiddich neat the minute my butt hit the chair.”

  Marcus had no idea what to say in response to that, so he didn’t say anything.

  Rhia, sitting beside him, slipped her hand into his, twined their fingers companionably together and made the right noises. “This is all such a shock to everyone.”

  “Ahem, yes, well,” said Anthony. “Difficult. Very difficult. My condolences. Roland will be missed.” He put on a pair of reading glasses and gestured at the folder with the ring of keys on top of it that waited on the table in front of Marcus. “Your copy of your father’s will. It’s all quite self-evident. Except for a small bequest to the housekeeper, everything goes to you. The house, the cars, the cabin in the Sierras—and the money, of course. Your father was a canny investor.”

  The house, the cars, the money. Marcus heard the words and realized he could very well be a wealthy man now.

  He really wished it mattered more.

  Anthony was still talking. “It’s all in there.” He gestured at the folder again. “Roland asked that there be no funeral service and that he be cremated, that the ashes be entrusted to you and that you scatter them off the coast of Montedoro, in the Mediterranean Sea.”

  Ashes. He was expected to scatter Roland’s ashes?

  Rhia squeezed his hand. He saw that Anthony was looking expectantly at him.

  So he nodded again. “All right. Yes. Of course.”

  “The autopsy will be performed by the first of the week, though it’s merely a formality, due to the unexpected nature of the death. Once that’s done, the remains will be transported to the Neptune Society. You can give them a call and they will tell you when you can come for the ashes.”

  “All right.”

  “And you’ve been to the house, I’m sure...”

  He started to nod automatically, but then the words actually registered. “No. I haven’t.”

  If that surprised Anthony, he didn’t show it. “Ah. Well, it’s no problem. There’s a list in the inside pocket of the folder. Addresses, phone numbers, bank accounts, alarm codes. Everything you need to know. Your father seems to have assumed you will be selling the various properties.” Your father. Marcus longed to tell the lawyer not to call Roland that. But what would that prove, ultimately? Nothing. Anthony asked, “Is that the plan?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Excellent. Because it’s all set up that way. Roland’s real estate broker will be contacted Monday to arrange to put the house and the Sierra cabin on the market. But still, it’s all up to you now. Your father made it very clear that if you want the house, or anything else, you only have to say so and we’ll make the necessary arrangements and adjustments.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And you have the keys.”

  Marcus glanced blankly at the folder again, and the keys that waited on top of it. “Yes. I see.”

  “Anything else, any questions, you have my number. Do not hesitate to call.”

  * * *

  A few minutes later, they stood on the sidewalk on sunlit Century Boulevard. Rhia’s driver pulled the limousine up to the curb at the sight of them. Joseph opened the door.

  “Back to the hotel?” she asked him once they were safely inside behind the tinted windows.

  “Yes, all right.”

  She took his hand again, scooted over next to him and put her head on his shoulder. He took comfort from the feel of her so close and thought about what a fine, good woman she was. Thought about all she deserved and all she meant to him.

  A
nd how he devoutly wished he might be...more, in so many ways.

  At least he would have his own money now. If she ever said yes, he wouldn’t have to live the rest of his life with her paying for everything. Too bad it was money that came from the man who’d abandoned both him and his mother. There was certainly some very rich irony in that.

  His pride and his anger kept jabbing him to refuse it all. To call Anthony Evans and tell him he’d changed his mind, he wanted every penny of Roland’s fortune turned over to St. Stephen’s Orphanage in Montedoro.

  But then he thought of the child. In the end, Roland’s money would benefit the child, as well as allow him, Marcus, to contribute in a meaningful way to the financial support of his family.

  That meant he couldn’t indulge his anger and simply give it all away.

  Once in the suite again, he sat down at the desk in the sitting room and read the will through. It was all true, what Anthony had said. There was a lot of money. There were a lot of things.

  It would be enough that he could make a generous bequest to St. Stephen’s and have plenty left for the baby’s future, for Rhia.

  And as Anthony had promised, Roland had it all worked out. Marcus didn’t really have to do anything. If he took no action, everything would be sold and the money, in time, would be his, the funds transferred to the Bank of Montedoro into an account that had already been set up in his name.

  Roland’s only request was that Marcus would dispose of the damn ashes off the coast of Montedoro.

  In the other room, he heard Rhia talking on the phone. He closed the folder and pushed back his chair, rising to his feet as she appeared from the bedroom.

  She came to him, put her hands on his shoulders. “Well?”

  He shrugged. “I am quite well-to-do now, as it turns out.”

  She smiled, but her eyes were sad for him. “I wish that I might have met him.” He didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing. And she soothed, gently, “Never mind.” With a shake of her dark head, she brushed a kiss against his lips. “Do you want to visit your father’s house?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe tomorrow. Or the next day.” Or maybe never. “Who was that on the phone?”

  “I talked to Allie. She sends her best. And then to my mother. She wishes you well and wants you to know she keeps you close in her thoughts. And did I tell you I have Bravo relatives here in Los Angeles?”

  “I remember. Jonas and Emma Bravo.”

  “They were wonderful to me when I was at UCLA. They invited me over for dinner often. I asked you to come with me once, if you’ll recall. But you refused. Because we were a secret.”

  Her hair was down, the way he liked it best. He eased his fingers under the silky mass and clasped the nape of her neck, loving the feel of her skin, and the way the warm strands brushed the back of his hand.

  He reminded her, “Keeping what we shared a secret was the only way for me then.”

  She pressed her lips together and hitched up her chin in that proud way of hers. “I hated it, that secret. The lies. Pretending for all those years that I hardly knew you. Everyone in the family knew that there was...someone. Someone I couldn’t get over. Someone who had broken my heart.”

  He pulled her close, pressed his lips to her forehead. “I’m sorry, Rhia. You can’t know how very sorry.” He breathed the apology against her skin—and knew that it wasn’t enough, that it couldn’t make up for all he had put her through.

  She tipped her head back to look at him again. Her eyes flashed dark fire. “I’m still angry about that, about the way you demanded that no one could ever know.”

  “It was a long time ago. Can’t we let it go?”

  Apparently not. She pinched up her mouth at him. “You mean the way you let things go? By refusing to speak of them. By...denying their existence? By walking away and not looking back?” She brought her hands up between them and pushed at his chest.

  He released her. “My faults and sins are endless, I know it.”

  “Please don’t become noble on me. I can’t bear it right now.”

  How had they gotten here? A few minutes ago, she’d been all smiles, asking him so thoughtfully if he might want to visit Roland’s house. He frowned down at her. “Is this a big fight we’re working up to here?”

  She remained defiant. “Maybe a big fight would clear the air.”

  He shut his eyes for a moment, drew in a slow breath. “Please, Rhia. I don’t want to fight with you. I only want a chance to care for you, to help raise the child we made. I only want to be your husband.”

  Her mouth trembled then. She looked away. When she met his eyes again, he saw that her fury and defiance had fled. “You’re doing the best you can, I know that. And it’s been an awful day for you. I suppose the last thing you need is a hard time from me. That would be...unfair, I do realize. After all, I told you I was coming here to help.”

  He touched her hair again. She didn’t pull away. He said gruffly, “I’m glad you’re here.”

  Her brows drew together. “It’s strange. More difficult than I imagined. Being here in Los Angeles again, where we met. Where we...loved so long ago.”

  “Too difficult?” Was she saying she didn’t want to stay?

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you—”

  She stopped him with a finger to his lips. “It may not have seemed like it a moment ago, but I do want to be here. I want it very much.”

  He wondered if he would ever understand the way a woman’s mind worked. “You’re certain?”

  “Yes. And I spoke with Emma Bravo after I talked to Mother and Allie. Emma has invited us to her house for dinner tonight.”

  Just what he needed. To spend the evening making idle chitchat with her Los Angeles relatives. “I don’t feel like going out.”

  “We’re going. Live with it.”

  He was grateful that she’d put aside her anger over the past. And that she really did seem to want to be here with him, to see him through the grim task of dealing with Roland’s sudden death. Plus, he knew she was right about the dinner with her Bravo relatives. Sometimes a man just had to get out and deal with other people, no matter how disconnected from his real life he might feel. “Fair enough. Dinner with the Bravos. I cannot wait.”

  “That’s what I needed to hear.” She said it cheerfully and he realized he felt better about everything. “But we have hours until then. I think we should try and forget all our problems, all the sadness over Roland, the stress and the worries. What do you say? The pool? The beach?”

  He traced the V-neck of the light blouse she wore, and remembered that she used to have a blouse something like it eight years ago. He had a quick, vivid image of her pulling that other blouse over her head, and her long hair crackling with static, lifting and then falling to curl on her shoulders as she tossed the blouse onto the rickety chair in the corner of the bedroom in the motel where they used to go. “Do you ever think of La Casa de la Luna?”

  She scanned his face, her eyes seeming brighter suddenly, a glowing smile lighting her up from within. “I do. I have. Often—and let’s do that, then. Let’s go see how much has changed at the House of the Moon.”

  “I wasn’t really thinking we should go there.”

  “But why not?”

  “You said yourself that it’s hard enough being here in Los Angeles, where it all started for us.”

  “No. Seriously, Marcus. I think we should go. I want to see if it’s still the same....”

  He realized that she was determined. And he had brought it up. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. “A lot can happen in eight years. We should check first to make sure it hasn’t been torn down.”

  She whipped out her smart phone and punched up the name. And then she grinned and turned the phone so he could see the display. “Still there. Let’s go.”

  * * *

  “It looks smaller, don’t you think?” she asked when they stood on the sidewalk at the front of the Spanish-style motor h
otel, with the limo waiting behind them and Joseph standing there at attention by the backseat door.

  “Looks about the same to me.” Aside from the fact that the stucco walls had more cracks than he remembered and the landscaping seemed a bit more overgrown.

  She leaned her shoulder against his. “Let’s try and get our room.”

  He wrapped an arm around her and whispered into her hair, “It won’t be the same.”

  “Oh, Marcus. I know. I don’t care. It’s not supposed to be the same. Please.”

  So he signaled to Joseph, who led the way up the chipped tile steps. The bodyguard entered the lobby first to have a quick look around. A moment later, he opened the door for them and they joined him inside, where a rangy white cat lay in a pool of sunshine on the red tile floor and a different clerk stood behind the front desk, an old man with a white scruff of beard and a sour expression on his lined face.

  “How can I help you?” The old fellow craned to the side and peered around them at Joseph, who stood patiently over near the door, in front of a display rack full of brochures of things to do in Los Angeles.

  “Is room one-twelve available?” Rhia asked.

  The old man frowned. “Might be. But I’m not putting more than two in that room.”

  Rhia slid Marcus a glance. They both tried not to laugh. And she said, “Oh, that’s not a problem.” She tipped her head in the bodyguard’s direction. “Joseph provides security. He will have to go in the room and give it a quick once-over, but then he will wait outside for us until we’re ready to leave.”

  “Security?” The ancient fellow made a scoffing sound. “Come on, lady. You think you really need security?”

  “Apparently, I do.” She smiled at him sweetly. “May we have the room?” With a flourish, she indicated Marcus and then herself. “Just the two of us, I promise you.”

  The old man grumbled, but he let them have the room. Marcus paid for it with cash. They went out and along the central walkway to the room, where Joseph entered first.

  They waited down the steps from the door. The birds of paradise were still there, to either side of the steps. They’d grown quite large and the birdlike flowers on their long stems sprouted wildly, hanging over the concrete walk, begging for a good pruning. Back at the entrance, the old man stuck his head out the lobby door, probably to make sure that no threesomes were being committed on his watch.