Bodyguards Boxed Set

by Julianne MacLean

  He let out a long, dispirited sigh. “Your cooperation.”

  Her smile was completely humorless. “Bingo. And as of now—” she flung the paper onto his desk and wheeled around “—I’m officially off this case.”

  “Dr. Cook!”

  She slammed the door so hard, Jamie half expected the glass to shatter. He watched her until she disappeared down the stairs, and then let out his pent-up breath in the form of a virulent curse.

  * * *

  THAT EVENING, INDIA watched Alfred Hitchcock’s Notorious in bed in the dark, with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey for company.

  She gasped when Cary Grant knocked over the bottle in the wine cellar and found it filled with glittering black metal ore. Hurry! she silently urged as he and Ingrid Bergman struggled to clean up the mess before her malicious Nazi husband, Claude Rains, found them spying on him. They raced upstairs and out the glass-paned garden door as Claude’s shadow rounded the corner.

  “Someone’s coining,” Ingrid whispered. “He’s seen us!”

  India sat perfectly still with the spoon in her mouth, heart tripping in her chest, as Cary pulled Ingrid into his arms. “Wait a minute,” he murmured. “I’m going to kiss you.”

  “No, he’ll only think—”

  “What I want him to think.”

  Claude—and India—watched the kiss in stunned silence. The hesitant, impassioned caress of their lips, the ardent whispers, the eyes filled with desperate longing....

  The phone rang, startling India. Gulping down her spoonful of ice cream, she fumbled for the remote and hit the Pause button. The image froze on the screen—a dramatically lit black-and-white tableau of The Kiss in extreme close-up. Cary Grant was in shadow, Ingrid bathed in silvery light. Their lips barely met; her expression was one of anguished desire.

  Something about this scenario felt familiar, and as India studied the on-screen lovers, she realized what it was. Cary and Ingrid were doing what she and Keegan had done a few days before, parked outside Lorillard Press. They were staging a kiss so that the onlooker wouldn’t suspect their true motives for being where they were. But in both cases, there was an inescapable undercurrent of real feeling, real need, that couldn’t be denied.

  The phone rang again, but India couldn’t tear her gaze from the screen—from Ingrid’s half-closed eyes, glittering with passion. She recalled all too clearly the passion that had coursed through her as James Keegan held her in his arms and gave her the first kiss she’d had in four years. She had absorbed his desire into her, made it her own. It had been a novel experience, but also completely terrifying. Not knowing which thoughts and feelings were hers and which were his, had stripped her of her sense of identity, robbed her of any command at all over herself. She couldn’t have felt more powerless and panicky if she’d been swept up in a tornado. All in all, a very frightening experience, and one she hoped never to repeat.

  The knowledge that she must continue to guard against being touched filled her with despair. God, how she missed feeling the heat of a man’s body, the feverish excitement of his lips and hands, the indescribable thrill of taking him deep inside. Before the lightning struck her, she had taken lovemaking for granted. Now that it was forever denied her, she mourned its loss.

  Another ring. Her gaze locked on the screen, India tossed aside the remote and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

  A pause. “Dr. Cook?” She recognized the voice immediately. Deep and virile, and just slightly Irish-flavored. “I’d just about decided you weren’t there. This is James Keegan.”

  India studied Cary Grant’s half-lit profile as her hand tightened around the container of ice cream.

  “Dr. Cook?”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice oddly throaty. “Yes. Hello, Lieutenant. Um... what can I do for you?”

  Another pause, followed by a low chuckle. “Have you been drinking, Dr. Cook?”

  “What? No!” She lifted the pint of ice cream, as if he could see it. “I’ve been eating Chunky Monkey ice cream!”

  A gust of surprised laughter. “That explains it, then. I’m quite fond of that flavor myself.”

  India squinted at the luminous TV screen. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” she repeated.

  “You can listen to me while I try to talk you into going to the lumberyard tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Lieutenant—”

  “Just listen. Please. Hear me out.” India said nothing, and after a moment of hesitation, he continued. “I know I haven’t exactly handled this whole business of your involvement in the case very well. I guess I’ve been rude, and... you’re right about that interview I gave Sylvie. I was out of line.” Again he paused, and again India remained silent, her gaze riveted on Cary Grant’s shadowy face. “You’re not going to help me out at all on this, are you?” Keegan asked.

  “No.”

  A deep breath. “I believe you when you say you really didn’t want any publicity, and I’d like you to know that I’m sorry for forcing it on you.”

  “Does that mean you believe in my powers?”

  A long pause. “I think it’s possible that you believe in them.”

  “Right. Look, Lieutenant, I’m sorry, but I just don’t see the point to my continuing with this—”

  “The point is I need you,” he said quickly, then added, “We need you. The department. For that matter, Mansfield needs you.”

  “But not for my powers. You refuse even to acknowledge them. You just need me to lure the Firefly into the open. You want to use me as a decoy.”

  “Look, this may be as good a chance as we get to identify this nut and stop him before he strikes again. Next time this guy burns something down, it may not be a cat that gets hurt—or killed. It may be a person.”

  India groaned. “Don’t do this, Lieutenant.”

  “A child, even,” he added, obviously realizing he’d struck a responsive chord.

  “You’re bringing out the heavy ammo, Lieutenant. What woman can stand the idea of a child being hurt?”

  “I don’t know of any.” There was amusement in his voice. “Then you’ll be there?”

  On the TV screen, the time limit for the pause function expired, and the kiss came alive again. Lips brushed and parted and brushed again.

  “Please say yes,” Keegan implored, an edge of desperation in his low voice. “I really do need you.”

  On-screen, Ingrid Bergman closed her eyes, her head thrown back, overwhelmed by a passion that mustn’t be—couldn’t be—but was impossible to resist.

  “You win, Lieutenant,” India said, sinking back against the headboard. “What time should I be there?”

  * * *

  JAMES KEEGAN WAS already there when India parked her car on the edge of the big concrete lot in back of McGill’s Hardware and Lumber at two the following afternoon. So were several dozen onlookers, congregated behind a barricade of yellow tape marked Crime Scene—Do Not Enter, which kept them about fifty feet away from the barnlike lumber shed—or rather, the charred remains of the half that was still standing. The rest was a blackened heap of ash and debris, and the whole thing reeked overwhelmingly of burned wood. Lumber that had been salvaged during the fire was piled in disorderly heaps around the shed.

  The sun shone brightly, so for once, India wasn’t the only person in dark glasses. Nevertheless, it was an unseasonably bitter day, and even her thick shearling coat couldn’t keep her from shivering... until Lieutenant Keegan saw her and instantly smiled. The smile seemed so spontaneous, so sincere, as if he were truly delighted to see her. It filled her with a delicious and consuming warmth, despite the wintry bite in the air. She couldn’t help smiling back as he beckoned her to join him in the cordoned-off area, glancing curiously at the cat carrier she set carefully on the ground.

  “Thought I’d bring Phoenix,” she said, unlatching the carrier’s door and hauling out the reluctant tom. “That’s a good boy,” she soothed, enclosing him in her arms. Keegan took a step back, eyeing the cat wari
ly. “You are afraid of cats!” she said.

  “I told you before. I’m not afraid, I just don’t like them. Why’d you bring him, anyway?”

  “I thought he might be able to help.”

  Keegan frowned. “Help with what?”

  “With what I’m supposedly here for—coming up with psychic clues. He seems to be an excellent medium for them.”

  He digested that for a moment. “Oh.”

  “I am perfectly well aware,” she said levelly, “that you have zero interest in anything I might come up with today. I know that my true function—as you see it—is to draw out the Firefly. But, as I see it—” she shrugged “—why waste valuable time pretending to search for evidence, when I can actually do just that?”

  “Then, by all means, search away,” he said easily. “I trust you’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  “Well said, Lieutenant. I’m impressed.” She glanced toward their audience, milling and chatting among themselves on the other side of the tape. “Half of Mansfield is here.”

  “I know,” he said, scrutinizing the crowd. “It’s a pretty mixed bag. Everyone from Father Kelly to Ginger Maxwell.” India frowned in puzzlement. “Mansfield’s only streetwalker,” he explained, then pointed to a group of young men in black leather, smoking cigarettes and practicing kick-boxing moves. “That bunch over there are all Finns.”

  She squinted. “Is that Tommy? With the chains on his jacket?”

  He shielded his eyes. “No, that’s his cousin, Darrell.” He signaled to a fresh-faced uniformed patrolman with a camera, who swiftly aimed and captured the group on film. “All the Finns look alike.”

  “Similar coloring. But Darrell’s bigger than Tommy.”

  “And meaner.” He blew on his hands and rubbed them together. “Of all those rotten eggs, he stinks the worst. You should have picked him to be your Firefly.”

  India drew herself up. “I didn’t pick anybody, Lieutenant. I didn’t even say the face I saw was necessarily the Firefly. I just—”

  “I know,” he said. “I worded that poorly. I seem to do a lot of that.” He shrugged, his smile slightly amused, but mostly apologetic, it seemed. The frigid breeze whipped his tie and trench coat and tossed his hair into his eyes. India had an impulse to reach out and smooth it back off his face. One of her more idiotic impulses, she thought ruefully—for many reasons, not the least of which was that any touch, no matter how casual, would inundate her with his thoughts and feelings. But then she noticed the look in his eyes as he gazed down at her, and had to admit that it might, after all, be interesting to know what was on his mind at this particular moment.

  “Keegan!” Turning toward the voice, India saw an elderly little lady in an oversize parka glowering from behind the yellow tape. She pointed with her cigarette toward the young patrolman, hovering nearby. “Will you tell this mouth breather who I am?”

  “What’s in it for me, Sylvie?” Jamie cheerfully demanded.

  With a sneer, she growled, “I’ll be your best friend.”

  “Don’t threaten me.” Jamie waved her in. “She’s press, Billy.”

  Billy muttered something apologetic as he lifted the tape. The woman ground her cigarette beneath her heel and ducked into the restricted area, spearing the rookie with an I-told-you-so glare.

  Keegan said, “Sylvia Hazelett, India Cook.” India used her armload of cat as an excuse to avoid shaking hands. “Sylvie’s the force behind the Courier,” Keegan told India. “And quite a force she is.”

  “Really.”

  Sylvie settled a pair of reading glasses on her nose and pulled a steno pad out of her pocket. “Dr. Cook, I was wondering if I could ask you a question or two before you start your—” she waved a bony little hand toward the blackened remains of the lumber shed “—séance, or whatever it is you’re planning on.”

  India mouthed the word séance? at Jamie as the reporter located her pen. “Dr. Cook, have you always had ESP, or is this a recent—”

  “Some other time, eh, darlin’?” Jamie settled a long arm around the reporter’s shoulders. “You’ll get your turn. But this afternoon, India Cook is all mine.”

  He smiled at India. All mine... She felt her face grow warm. Had he meant it the way it sounded? Something glittered in his eyes. He had.

  “A five-minute interview,” Sylvie cajoled.

  “Sylvie, you harpy!” called someone from the crowd. India smiled when she recognized a grinning Alden Lorillard, his silver-haired good looks enhanced by a dove gray cashmere overcoat and silk scarf. “Leave the poor girl alone and let her do what she came here to do!”

  “Shame on you, Lorillard!” Sylvie scolded. “You’re a publisher! You, of all people, should support freedom of the press.”

  “I also support freedom from harassment.” He lifted the tape and said, “May I?” to Billy. The young cop directed a questioning glance at Jamie, who nodded and beckoned Alden into the enclosure.

  India said, “Alden, do you know Lieutenant Keegan?”

  “Only by sight.” Alden removed a kid glove and shook Jamie’s hand. “And, of course, by reputation—and quite an impressive one at that. Lieutenant. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”

  “Same here, Mr. Lorillard.”

  “Alden—please.”

  “Jamie.”

  Sylvie rolled her eyes. “Should I go mix up a pitcher of martinis, or does anyone besides me remember why we’re here?”

  “A séance, wasn’t it?” Jamie winked at India. “What do you say, Dr. Cook? Are you ready to begin, or do you need me to fetch your crystal ball and candles from the car?”

  India smiled and said, “I think I can manage without them this time, thank you.”

  “I’m not going to get that interview, am I?” Sylvie groused.

  “It appears not, my dear,” said Alden. “But you still have the pleasure of our company. That must be some consolation.”

  Snorting in derision, Sylvie stuffed her steno pad back in her parka. “I’m outta here,” she said as she marched away.

  For the next half hour or so, Jamie and Alden made polite small talk as they watched India—still holding Phoenix—pick her way gingerly through the incinerated remains of McGill’s lumber stock. Her gaze seemed mostly directed toward the ground, although every once in a while she stopped and looked around, as if trying to get her bearings. Occasionally she squatted and touched some unidentifiable bit of debris, then frowned and shook her head as if in frustration.

  Before yesterday, Jamie would have assumed it was all part of the act, an act he was all too familiar with. Now he wasn’t so sure there was an act. Her outrage at being exposed as a psychic seemed too authentic to fake—so real, in fact, that Jamie had lain awake half the night before, grappling with the guilt of having been the instrument of her exposure. It didn’t matter that her psychic “powers” were a product of her imagination. What mattered was that she evidently believed they were genuine, and that he had violated her trust and thereby destroyed the privacy that seemed to mean so much to her. That he hadn’t meant to really didn’t absolve him from blame.

  “Cigarette?” Alden flipped open a box of Dunhill cigarettes and held it out to Jamie.

  “I don’t smoke, thanks.”

  “Good for you.” The older man tapped a brown cigarette on the box, then shielded it with a gloved hand while he lit it with a match.

  George Plimpton, thought Jamie. That’s who Lorillard reminded him of—the looks, the voice, the refined geniality. Very much the antithesis of rigid, sanctimonious Henry Cook.

  “So,” Jamie began, “I understand you and Dr. Cook’s father were friends for a long time.”

  Alden shrugged as he pocketed the matchbook. “Almost forty years. We shared a passion for hunting.”

  Jamie nodded, understanding the unspoken message: Alden Lorillard and Henry Cook hadn’t really been such close friends. All they’d had in common was hunting.

  “Then you’ve known Ind
ia Cook since she was born.”

  Alden grunted affirmatively. “Funniest looking baby I ever saw. Pinched little face and hair all higgledy-piggledy. Grew out of it, thank God.”

  Jamie shielded his eyes for a better view of the subject of their conversation, running her hand along a half-burned beam. “How long has she... felt herself capable of... well...”

  “She became telepathic at the age of twelve,” Alden said. “Only lasted about a year, mind you.”

  Became telepathic. “Ah.”

  Alden regarded Jamie with a bemused glint in his eye. “Funny. From that article in the Courier, I gathered you put considerable stock in India’s abilities. It would appear I assumed too much.”

  “I didn’t say—”

  “It’s written all over your face. That’s all right. I was skeptical myself, until the evidence simply became overwhelming. She sensed things—knew things—that she couldn’t possibly have known by ordinary means. After a while, I couldn’t deny the truth. The child had a gift, an extraordinary gift. A gift with great potential.”

  Jamie fisted his icy hands and shoved them into the pockets of his trench coat. “What kind of potential?”

  “My God, man! Limitless potential! Unfortunately, Henry couldn’t see it. I tried to convince him to use India to help pick juries. You know. Tell him which jurors would be inclined to side with him, and which with the prosecution.”

  “Is that legal?”

  “Must be. I didn’t invent the idea. It’s been done for decades.”

  “You’re kidding. What was Henry’s reaction?”

  “Oh. Well.” Alden waved his cigarette. “He was outraged. Henry, you see, was rather... orthodox in his approach to the law... to life, for that matter. Extremely unyielding to new ideas and strategies. That’s one of the reasons I dissolved our law partnership. He refused to take risks of any kind. But without risks—” he flashed a broad, white-toothed smile “—life would hardly be worth living. Henry could never see it, though. What’s more, he never did believe in India’s powers.”