She pulled back to read his eyes. "Did you get hurt? You must have." Before he realized it, she'd unbuttoned his shirt halfway down.
"What are you doing?"
"I want to see for myself. I can't believe you're not hurt at all." He caught her hands, but she'd already managed to tug his shirt off one shoulder. "You are! You're cut! I see a gash. Dr. Myers," she called, remembering the other two women who were presumably still present, "did you see this gash?"
"For God's sake, Claire," Tyce protested with an embarrassed laugh, shrugging his shirt back onto his golden, muscled shoulder, "it's nothing."
"It is. It's a deep cut." In her most regal manner, she commanded, "Take off your shirt."
"No, I'm not taking off my shirt."
With an exasperated sigh, she swept her hands down his muscle-corded arms, which were suspiciously concealed by long sleeves. "Are you hurt somewhere else, too?"
"He bandaged his right forearm," confirmed Noreen from the foot of the bed. "Wouldn't even let me do it. And his ankle was so swollen last night he couldn't keep his shoe on."
"Thanks a lot, Doc," he muttered dryly. "She needed to know that."
Claire held his lean, stubble-roughened face between her hands. "I'm so sorry. I nearly got you killed!"
"That's the craziest thing I've ever heard. If either of us is to blame, it should be me. It was my job to protect you. Wait till I get my hands on the bastard who—"
"You're not going after the bomber, are you? Please don't, Tyce. It's too dangerous. Let the police handle it."
"Do you want me to tell the police that you were with me in the truck when it exploded? If I do, it'll hit the worldwide news in minutes flat. The police, maybe even the FBI, will contact you for questioning, and when they do, the bomber will get a chance to find you. As it is, he doesn't know if you're alive or dead. You can stay here, under armed guard, while I handle the investigation my way. It's up to you."
Thoroughly miserable at the choice facing her, she wrung her hands and silently debated with herself. She was so afraid of endangering his life again. "I could go home," she said. "I have personal protection agents who guard me."
"I won't let you go anywhere until I know you're safe. First we have to…" He hesitated, as if hating to broach a subject. "We have to figure out who would want to kill you."
A chilly feeling of dread wormed its way through her. "There's a man who has been stalking me and sending hate mail."
"He's definitely a suspect, and I'll be checking up on him. We also have to look at … others. People you know. Someone who … might stand to gain something from your death."
She didn't want to talk about this. Didn't want to even think about it. "You mean my family, don't you?"
"Who would inherit your money in the event of your death?"
Old questions reared up, doubts digging in with new ferocity. For so many years she'd wondered if her relatives loved her. Now she had to wonder if they had attempted to kill her. "If I die without a child of my own," she murmured, "the money would be divided among my family." She focused a pained gaze on him. "I understand there's plenty to go around."
He gathered her to him and cradled her against his chest. "I'm sorry, Claire. I know this must be painful for you. I'll do everything I can to find the bomber. And if he was hired to do it, I'll find out by whom."
"Does that mean you're leaving?"
"I have to."
"Please don't go. If you must, then I'll go with you."
"No way in hell. Promise me you'll stay here."
"Promise me you'll come back."
He tightened his embrace, shutting his eyes and rocking her.
Behind them, the women slanted each other a glance. Brianna cleared her throat and called, "We're, uh, going to go clean up the kitchen, and then, uh, catch up on some sleep. Just call if you need anything."
The embracing couple acknowledged with only the slightest of nods. The interlopers withdrew from the room.
"Something tells me," Noreen said, closing the door behind them, "there's been a lot more going on there than bodyguarding."
* * *
9
« ^ »
By the time he forced himself to leave her, Tyce felt as if an invisible cord had wrapped around his heart, and that if he ventured too far away from her, that cord might cut him in half.
Crazy, to feel so damn desperate.
Crazy to have kissed her. But the moment the bedroom door had closed behind Noreen and Brianna, he'd given in to a kiss he'd craved in a profound, bewildering way.
The kiss gradually turned from tender to needful, and he found himself wanting to disregard both his wounds and hers and make slow, fortifying love to her. She seemed to want that, too, pulling him down with her onto the pillows and kissing him with an urgency that hardened his body and electrified his blood. He wanted to merge with her, fill her so completely that they couldn't ever fully separate again.
As the kiss ebbed and surged, she opened the shirt she wore, and he filled his palms with her breasts. She sobbed and moaned and kissed him deeper.
Neither of them actually undressed. They unbuttoned, unzipped and shoved aside all barriers until skin pressed against skin. Her hands found his hardness. He found her softness. With his jeans pushed down to his thighs, he levered himself into her, deep into her tight, velvet heat.
Locked to her in ultimate closeness, dazed by a bliss that transcended pleasure, he didn't want to move. He wanted to stay as they were, to savor the intensity for as long as humanly possible. But the need to move grew to a throbbing ache as her tightness gripped him in subtle undulations. He caught at her hips to force her into stillness, but it did no good. He himself couldn't stop now, any more than the sea could stop its tides. The pleasure, the need, the sweet sharp emotion escalated to a feverish pitch.
As he strained to hold his climax at bay, she rasped against his ear, "I love you, Tyce. I love you!"
Neither heaven nor hell could stop him then. He thrust into her with such a forceful need to possess that they both cried out, detonating the explosion. The repercussions shocked him, rocked him, body and soul. And as he clutched her to him in trembling awe, he grappled with a dawning truth. He wanted her words to be true. He wanted her to love him … because he loved her. Deeply, mindlessly, with no possible good end in sight.
He loved her. Her laughter, her humor, her smile. Her beauty and her naiveté. Her warmth. Her body. He loved making love to her, and didn't want to stop. Ever.
Of all the idiotic, self-destructive needs known to man, this senseless desire for her had to be one of the worst. Even if she'd meant the words that she'd whispered, she was saying them to the man she thought he was—the man who had eased her loneliness and protected her from danger with no ulterior motives clouding the issue. She knew nothing of the real Tyce Walker, the man hired to betray her. The man who'd disregarded all the damning secrets he kept and made love to her. She would despise that man.
Slowly he eased his arms out from around her, tormented by his guilt. Loving her only made the guilt worse.
She glanced up at him, and her tender smile faltered. "Tyce? Are you hurting?"
"No." He was, but not in the way she meant. He wished he could tell her how and why, but if he did, she would probably leave. He couldn't chance that. The bomber was out there somewhere, hunting for her. The danger was simply too grave to risk telling her now.
"Tyce," she said again, her face warm with an alluring shyness, "if what I said made you uncomfortable, please, forget it. The words just slipped out somehow."
He tried to contrive a smile, but didn't quite succeed. So she hadn't meant them. He should be glad. "I suppose we've all said crazy things at one time or another, in the heat of the moment."
Her golden brows drew together, and a little frown darkened her eyes. "It might be crazy, and I hadn't intended to tell you, but I … I meant what I said. I've never felt this way about anyone before."
An odd mix of emo
tion kicked him in the chest—gladness that she'd meant it, incredulity that she could, and regret so strong it nearly choked him. If only things were different. If only she wasn't a billionaire celebrity, and he hadn't been hired to tail her. But wishes like those only made the reality harder to face.
"Don't trust feelings like that right now, Claire," he warned. "Danger has a way of twisting emotions around, making them into something they're not. You've been alone, and lonely, and vulnerable. And I … well, I was lucky enough to be there for you." His voice dropped to a husky murmur. "And we've been intimate." He couldn't help touching her silken hair, smoothing a lock of it from her face. "I'm no psychologist, but I can understand how all that might lead us to feel … something for each other."
"So you do feel … something … for me?"
Their gazes heated, and against his will, a whisper tore from deep inside of him. "Yes. I feel something for you."
The admission wrapped around them like a sheltering, intimate cocoon, blocking out everything except the two of them. A profound happiness illuminated her eyes, making him love her with a fierceness that scared him.
"You don't have to say anything more." Her smile was softer than a caress. "That's all I need to know."
"No, damn it, Claire, it isn't!" The harshness of the rebuke brought a startled flush to her cheeks. He shut his eyes and compressed his lips, trying to rein in his self-directed anger. When he again met her gaze, he managed to gentle his voice. "You don't know me, Princess. There are things about me that you wouldn't like."
"What things?"
Staring into her incredibly beautiful, trusting eyes, he knew that nothing in his life would hurt him more than having to tell her. Blowing out a rush of breath that had caught in his throat, he forced himself up from the bed. "I don't have time to go into it right now. I've got a flight to catch."
The pain that shot up his leg as he stood and zipped up his jeans reminded him of their injuries, both his and hers. He turned to her in concern, hating himself for forgetting her physical condition. "Claire, are you okay? Did I hurt you?"
"Physically, you mean?" She gave him a wry smile. "No. I'm just a little dizzy." As he shrugged out of his shirt to change into a fresh one, she noticed his injured forearm. A crimson stain was spreading across the bandage. "You're bleeding!"
"I'll take care of it."
"Have Noreen look at it."
"I'm already running late." He changed his shirt and strode toward the door, intending to shower in the guest bathroom and leave without another goodbye. Too much emotion clogged his throat as it was.
"Tyce," she called. Reluctantly he stopped near the door and glanced back at her. She bit down on the corner of her full bottom lip, her gaze excruciatingly tender. "Don't get yourself killed."
Unable to reply, he nodded and left her, feeling as if his heart were tearing in half. He would find the bomber and any co-conspirators and put them behind bars. And then he would tell her everything, the entire truth about his reason for finding her. He owed her at least that much.
But he harbored no false hope. She would despise him for his duplicity. And even if by some miracle she didn't, there could be no future for them. She was American royalty, a beautiful bright star who would soon return to her celestial orbit.
And he, regardless of how much money he had or would make, would always be a kid from the streets.
Claire spent the next few days worrying about Tyce's safety and her own, jumping at every unexpected sound or shadow, and holding her breath whenever the phone rang. What would she do if Tyce was killed? Even though she'd known him only a short while, she felt a soul-deep connection with him, one that ruled her entire heart, mind and body. She missed him with an unbearable ache, and longed to hear his voice, see his face, feel his touch.
She was in love with him.
What, she wondered, was the "something" he'd admitted feeling for her?
Sexual desire, certainly. There was no mistaking the heat that pulsed between them whenever they were together, or the passion whenever they made love. But she believed he felt more than that. She believed he was falling in love with her. That belief filled her with such a sweet, giddy joy that even these worrisome days without him seemed magical.
To distract herself from the highs of feeling loved and the lows of fearing for his safety, she took full advantage of the company offered by Brianna and Noreen. They dropped in for frequent visits, the only visitors allowed by the guards who patrolled the property. Brianna brought shorts, tops, sandals and other clothing that she'd bought for Claire at a local department store. Noreen kept a close watch on her physical condition.
Tyce called every day. He reported little progress in his investigation, and never stayed on the phone long, but she looked forward to his calls with a ridiculous yearning. "If all goes well, I'll be back by Sunday," he'd promised during his last phone call.
Sunday. She hoped he could keep that promise. She began counting the hours.
On Friday, both Brianna and Noreen spent the night. A "pajama party," they'd laughingly called it. They listened to music, drank wine and taught Claire how to play rummy. She taught them how to curtsy to a queen. As the hour grew late and they lounged on pillows strewn across the living room, their conversations grew personal.
Claire couldn't help mentioning Tyce and the funny, touching things he'd said or done.
"You seem to care about him," Brianna noted.
"I do," she whispered, her love for him welling up inside of her until she felt sure it must glow from her eyes.
"He seems to care about you, too," remarked Noreen. "I've never seen him act or talk the way he did with you. I thought about checking him for fever!"
"Women in town have been chasing him for years," Brianna put in. "He hasn't let anyone, male or female, get close enough to know him well. He holds us all at a distance."
Bothered by this insight, Claire chewed her lip for a moment. "He holds me at a distance, too," she confided. "Maybe not a physical one, but…"
They pondered the enigma of Tyce Walker in silence.
"I think it has to do with Joe," Noreen finally pronounced.
"Joe?" repeated Claire. "Who's Joe?"
"I don't know the whole story, but I gathered some of it from his letters. You see, Brianna and I have been helping Tyce in his effort to get justice for his kids. You know, street kids who were thrown into jail unjustly. We keep in touch with them through letters while Tyce gathers evidence on their behalf. There's only one prisoner writing to us who's an adult. Joe."
"But what can he have to do with Tyce personally?"
"They were kids together in a foster home." Noreen's voice grew solemn. "Things got bad, and they ran away. Lived on the streets of L.A. One night, some thugs jumped them with pipes and chains. One of the thugs died, and Joe … well, he was sent to prison as an adult. The cops called it murder."
"Murder!" exclaimed Claire. "It sounds more like self-defense."
"He was given life without parole."
Claire grew heartsick just thinking about it. It could have been Tyce, she realized.
"Tyce gets real intense whenever Joe's name is mentioned," Noreen said softly. "I think he blames himself. The thugs were after Tyce for some reason. Joe just happened to be there."
"Do you have any letters from Joe and the other kids?" Claire asked.
"Sure. I have a stack of them in my car that I brought to divvy up with Brianna."
"Could I help read and answer them?"
"I don't see why not. We can use the help."
Claire retired to Tyce's bed with a stack of letters. One was from Joe. His handwriting was nearly illegible, his spelling atrocious and the letter started off with, "Yo! How goes it, ladies?" He talked about trivialities—oatmeal cookies that someone named "Hattie" had sent him, a television cop show he liked, and a fight going on in the next cell. His humor made Claire smile, and though he didn't actually thank anybody for anything, his appreciation that someone
cared came through so loud and clear that her throat tightened. He finished with, "Remind Tyce that my team beat his last Sunday. Ha, ha."
She wanted very much to help Joe. And for some reason, she loved Tyce all the more.
As she set the letter aside, she felt vaguely ashamed of her childhood belief that poor children led happier lives than she. Her wealth had kept her isolated, but it had also kept her safe.
She also realized that she was still under guard, still virtually imprisoned, but now had no desire to run away. She felt needed, and strong, and hopeful that she could find a way to tear down the walls Tyce had built around his heart.
Early the next morning, while her two guests were still sleeping, a guard from somewhere on the property called on a walkie-talkie. "Sorry to disturb you, Ms. Jones, but a lady by the name of Hattie Pitts brought a package for Mr. Walker. She says it's urgent that he gets it immediately."
"Hattie? Did you say Hattie?" Claire remembered the name from Joe's letter. Could it be the same woman?
"Yes, ma'am. I have orders from Mr. Walker to keep everyone out, so I sent her on her way. But she left this package. I opened it to be sure there were no electronic devices in it. It looks like a letter and photographs. I'd forward it to Mr. Walker, but he told me this morning that he'll be back tonight."
"Tonight?" Anticipation lightened her heart. "Just bring the package to the house, then. I'll be sure he gets it."
Within moments, a square-faced, burly man in a security uniform met her at the door. With a sunny smile for him and for the beautiful, fresh-scented summer morning, she took the package, thanked him and relocked the door.
The preprinted return address read The Global Gazette.
She stiffened. She knew that name. It was a tabloid … the tabloid that had published the photos of Preston and her bridesmaids. Why would this woman named Hattie be sending an urgent package to Tyce from the Global Gazette?
She pulled out the letter and the photos. In dry-mouthed dismay, she flipped through them. They were pictures of her—on the beach, near the pool, in the condominium lobby. Then came pictures that included Tyce—the two of them walking on the beach, riding on a Jet Ski, dancing at the beach bar and talking near the sand dunes.
THE PRINCESS AND THE P.I. Page 13