Beauty and the Bodyguard

by Merline Lovelace

  Shoving open the door, she stepped inside. “Rafe! What happened?”

  He brought his head around. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “Never mind me. What’s the matter? Why are you bleeding?”

  “I’m not, anymore.”

  Pushing her tangled hair out of her eyes, she stared at him in confusion. “But…what happened?”

  “The strobe cut through my tux when it swung past and nicked the skin, that’s all. Go back to bed. I’ll be done here in a few minutes and won’t disturb you anymore.”

  She didn’t even dignify that with a reply. Taking the plastic bottle from his hand, she glanced down at the label.

  “Do you always carry emergency medical supplies, as well as maintain an escape route and alternate… What was it?”

  “Rendezvous point.” He shook his head, grinning a little. “No. I got the antiseptic from the manager when I checked in. Go back to bed, Allie. I’m almost done.”

  “Turn around.”

  His grin faded. “I can manage.”

  “Turn around, Rafe.”

  He stared down at her for a moment, his blue eyes unreadable.

  “Turn around,” she ordered softly.

  The tendons in his neck corded. For a moment, she thought he would refuse. Then he shifted so that the light fell on his back.

  This time, Allie managed to control her gasp. Barely. The bloody slash across the ridged and puckered flesh of his shoulder was more than just a nick. Blood had smeared where Rafe had reached it, and crusted where he couldn’t.

  Grabbing a pad of folded toilet tissue, she splashed it with antiseptic and dabbed it on the gash. Rafe flinched at the sting, his muscles contracting involuntarily under the scarred flesh.

  Frowning, Allie wiped away the dried blood. “This should be stitched.”

  “It’s not that deep.”

  “How would you know?” she retorted. “You can’t even see it.”

  He twisted his head to look over his shoulder. “It just needs cleaning.”

  “Hold still!”

  Biting down on her lower lip, Allie folded a fresh pad and dabbed at the cut. The more she cleansed, the more she worried. She didn’t know much about wounds, but this one looked like it needed suturing.

  “I think we should get you to a doctor. This needs to be stitched, or it won’t close properly. It could leave a—”

  She broke off, flushing. To her infinite relief, his eyes held only a glimmer of wry amusement when he twisted around.

  “It could leave a scar,” she finished tartly. “An other scar, which you obviously don’t need. Hold still and let me finish.”

  As she worked, the tension in the small room seemed to lessen by imperceptible degrees. Under her gentle hands, Rafe’s back and shoulders lost some of their rigidity. For long moments, Allie focused only on the bloody gash and the sharp scent of antiseptic. Gradually the warmth of the skin under her fingertips nudged into her consciousness. Along with the sweep of Rafe’s lean, powerful body. And the tiny arrow of dark hair at the small of his back. It disappeared into the loosened waistband of his slacks, Allie noted, wondering distractedly whether it followed his spine all the way down to the swell of his buttocks. He had tight, taut buns, she remembered suddenly. She’d gripped them last night, when…

  “Are you finished?”

  “What?”

  He peered over his shoulder. “Are you done? It looks okay from here.”

  Dropping the folded pad in the john, she flushed it. “Well, the cut’s crusted over and it’s not bleeding, but I still think you should have a doctor look at it.”

  “Maybe later,” he answered with a shrug, reaching for the bottle she held in one hand. While he screwed on the cap and cleaned up the sink, Allie brought down the toilet lid and perched on the seat. Drawing up her knees under her baggy sweater, she wrapped both arms around them.

  “What caused the explosion, Rafe?” she asked, her voice quiet over the splash of water in the sink.

  His hand stilled. “How do you know it was an explosion?”

  “I asked Michael to run a background check on you,” she replied, uncomfortable about admitting she’d invaded his privacy but beyond evasion. “He stopped by on his way to L.A. to deliver it.”

  “Your cousin struck me as an efficient type. Didn’t his report include all the gory details?”

  “No. Tell me. Please.”

  He twisted the tap to shut off the sluicing water. “Why, Allie? Why do you want to know?”

  She wet her lips, a little unnerved by the hard demand in his eyes. “I want to know about you, Rafe. As much about you as you’ll share with me. If I’m going to make any sense of last night…” She swallowed painfully. “If I’m going to know whether I’m confusing lust with…with something else, I need to understand you.”

  Rafe stared down at her, battling an instinctive withdrawal. Over the years, he’d learned to field the sometimes prurient questions about his scars with a shrug or a cold stare. He couldn’t shrug off Allie, though. There was no trace of morbid curiosity in the brown eyes that held his. She wanted to know about him, as much of him as he was willing to share.

  He hadn’t shared with anyone for a long time, Rafe realized. Too long. Still, reluctance tugged at him as he propped a bare foot on the edge of the tub and rested his elbows on his knee.

  “I was bringing a client out of Central America,” he said slowly, forcing each word past a solid wall of reticence. “An oil-field exploration engineer who got caught in the middle of a nasty little revolution. The ruling junta thought he’d aided the rebels in the field. The guerrillas thought he’d betrayed the location of their headquarters to the federalistas. I never found out which side planted the bomb under the car.”

  With a deliberate effort, Rafe blanked the shattering explosion, the leaping flames, the screams of the engineer he’d dragged from the wreckage, from his mind.

  “At least the bombing caught the attention of the world press. The U.S. was able to pressure the junta into releasing us after a few unpleasant weeks in what passed for a hospital.”

  “And when you got home?” Allie asked softly. “Couldn’t the doctors do anything?”

  Rafe lifted a shoulder. “The oil company paid for a whole team of plastic surgeons. After several skin grafts, and more time than I wanted to spend in hospitals, I decided I’d had enough.”

  So had his wife, Rafe remembered. His brief marriage, already shaky from his prolonged absences, hadn’t survived the reconstruction period.

  “Do they hurt?” Allie asked, her gaze gentle on the scars.

  “The skin gets tight and pulls a little at times, but it doesn’t hurt.”

  If someone had told Rafe that he’d be standing with one foot propped on the edge of a bathtub in the middle of the night, discussing his scars with a tousled-haired woman perched on a toilet seat, he would’ve snorted in derision. He hadn’t talked about the bombing and its aftermath to anyone. Ever. He didn’t like talking about it now.

  Allie tilted her head. “Does massage help? I’ve got some lotion in my bag. I could rub it in, to keep the skin supple.”

  That was all he needed, Rafe thought. His body was still tight from the feel of Allie’s hands on it once tonight. He didn’t think he could handle another session, no matter how innocent.

  “No, thanks,” he replied, rising. “Not tonight.”

  Not any time in the foreseeable future, he resolved. The only way to get them through the next few days was to keep his hands off her and hers off him.

  Her bare feet slid to the floor. “Are you sure? This is good stuff. Fortune Cosmetics’s newest formula. Guaranteed to erase lines, drench dry cells, and generally take off ten years or so.”

  She stood close. Too close. Rafe caught a faint scent of the perfume that had tortured him all during the drive along the narrow, twisting mountain road.

  “Not tonight. You need your sleep, remember? Eight hours minimum.�
��

  “Eight hours minimum…during a shoot.” Her eyes clouded, and worry crept across her face. “How long do you think we’ll be here?”

  “Two days. Maybe three. Until I get some answers from the New York and Santa Fe police.”

  “We’re supposed to wrap up here by the end of the week,” she replied, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. “We’ve got studio time reserved in New York next week, and taping for TV spots scheduled the following week.”

  “They might have to be rescheduled.”

  “But Dom and the crew will just be wasting their—”

  “Forget about Dom and the crew,” Rafe said roughly. “Think about yourself for once.”

  She blinked, startled by his vehemence.

  Rafe couldn’t help himself. He violated the firm rule he’d just laid down for himself and brushed a thumb across the fragile skin above her cheeks.

  “You won’t be much good to Avendez with shadows under your eyes and worry etching lines in your face. Just relax for the next day or two. Give the police time to do their jobs.”

  Oh, sure, Allie thought. She was supposed to relax, with the entire crew twiddling their thumbs? With her father and Caroline and the entire Fortune clan waiting anxiously for the launch of the new line? With nothing to distract her from Rafe’s constant presence?

  Not hardly.

  Rafe dropped his hand. “Get some sleep, Allie. I’ll finish cleaning up in here.”

  Nodding, she opened the door and stepped out of the bathroom. Only then did she discover that the cabin contained exactly one other room.

  She halted, her brows slanting as she stood in the middle of the floor and surveyed the spacious living/sleeping area. Enough light streamed out of the bathroom for her to make out a stone fireplace against the far wall, a rustic-looking sofa and pair of chairs grouped in front of it, a table with two chairs beside the window, and the rumpled bed she’d crawled out of some moments before.

  As her eyes became more accustomed to the shadows, she made out the shape of a folded blanket and pillow that had been tossed on the sofa. Obviously Rafe planned to sleep there. Three yards away from her. In the same cabin.

  And he imagined she was going to get some rest?

  Shaking her head, she crossed to the queen-size bed. She had tucked her icy toes inside the down comforter and started to slide beneath its billowing warmth when a gleam of reflected light caught her eye.

  Reaching out, she plucked the carousel off the bedside table. Unerringly her fingers wound it just the right number of times. When she set it down and released the key, the tinkling melody that had followed her into sleep as a child more times than she could count filled the night. Sighing, she snuggled into the depths of the covers.

  On the other side of the bathroom door, Rafe froze, with one arm poking through the neck of a clean T-shirt. His tensed muscles slowly relaxed as he identified the sound that drifted to him.

  He didn’t recognize the song, although it sounded vaguely familiar. The tune was delicate, and hauntingly beautiful, like Allie. Classy…like Allie. Listening intently, Rafe shoved his other arm into the T-shirt.

  He clicked off the bathroom light a few moments later and walked into the outer room, standing still until his eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness. While he waited, the song tinkled to a stop. In the quiet that followed, he made out the slow rise and fall of Allie’s breathing.

  Eleven

  It should have been the perfect setting for a quiet, restful evening. A pine fire cackled in the stone fireplace. Patsy Cline crooned soulfully over the radio that constituted the sole form of electronic entertainment in the rustic cabin. The built-in shelves beside the fireplace had yielded a stack of old magazines, children’s games, and a well-worn edition of Tom Clancy’s first blockbuster novel.

  Rafe stuck a finger in the paperback to mark his place and shot the woman pacing restlessly in front of the fire an exasperated look. He hadn’t read two pages in the past hour. Hell, he hadn’t read two pages all day. Allie smiling and serene was enough to make any man break out in a cold sweat. Allie impatient and in a snit could drive a saint to seriously consider ropes and chains and other forms of bondage.

  Rafe had never claimed to be anything close to a saint.

  “Allie, for Pete’s sake. Will you please relax?”

  She whirled, her hair a fan of dark auburn against the brighter red of the flames. “I can’t. We’ve been here almost twenty-four hours. How long does it take to test for fingerprints or track down phone records?”

  “I told you. The detective working the phone records was out with the flu. His partner’s running them down now. And the Santa Fe police sent the cable housing to a special lab in Albuquerque. They promised to call with the results as soon as they get them.”

  “And my father was satisfied with that? He didn’t suggest he use his influence with the mayor or the governor to speed things up?”

  “He suggested it.”

  “Well?”

  “I told him to apply whatever pressure he wanted, but you weren’t returning to the shoot until I had some answers.”

  “I still think I should have talked to Dom,” she muttered. “Explained the situation…”

  “I explained as much as he needed to know.”

  “Right. I can just imagine how warm and friendly that conversation was. I’ll be surprised if he’s still at the rancho when we get back.”

  “I’ll be surprised if he isn’t.”

  As Allie surmised, his conversation with the Zebra had been brief but explosive. Although Rafe had pretty well moved the photographer to the bottom of his list of possible suspects, he still didn’t like the man or the way he constantly criticized Allie.

  Even now, with her nose shiny and her lips un-glossed and her figure encased in a gray sweater reaching almost to her knees, she was perfect in Rafe’s mind. Well, almost perfect. Since being confined to this small cabin with her, he’d discovered that Allison Fortune hid a healthy temper of her own behind her porcelain-smooth exterior. Without the outlet of her morning run and the demands of her work, her natural energy spilled over into irritation and this endless pacing.

  So much for his intention to see that she got some rest, Rafe thought ruefully.

  “I can’t believe it,” she exclaimed, taking another turn in front of the fireplace. “The flu!”

  “Police officers are human. They do get sick once in a while.”

  Spinning, she planted both hands on her hips. “Don’t patronize me. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not in a mood to be rational.”

  “I’ve noticed,” Rafe drawled.

  Allie glared at him, annoyed by his relaxed slouch and too-patient air. She knew darn well what was driving her to this tense, uncharacteristic edginess, and she suspected he did, too. It was one part worry, one part excess energy, and six parts Rafe Stone.

  Except for brief excursions to the lodge restaurant for meals, they’d spent their time in this small cabin. Waiting. Maintaining a careful distance from each other. Playing cards with the well-worn deck Rafe discovered among the children’s games on the shelves beside the fireplace. Talking, without coming anywhere near the brief intimacy they’d shared last night.

  True to his word, Rafe was holding to that damned professional code of his that said he couldn’t mix business with personal needs. True to her promise to herself, Allie had refrained from forcing herself on the man. But she was finding it harder and harder to keep that promise with each passing hour.

  Getting through the early-morning rituals had been difficult enough. She’d stumbled into the bathroom to find a towel damp from his use. Caught the spicy scent of his after-shave. Seen the tan leather case with his toiletries next to her scarlet-and-gold one. As she stripped and stepped into the shower, Allie couldn’t shake the overwhelming awareness that he was only a few steps away.

  Allie had spent far longer soaping and shampooing this morning than she usually did. The thought of Rafe in the smal
l cubicle with her, his hard body pressing hers against the old-fashioned tiles, his hands sliding over her slick, sudsy skin, had left her wet and aching…all over.

  The long daytime hours that followed had been even worse. The fright from the near accident at the opera had faded in the dazzling sunshine. In any other circumstance, the sharp, clean mountain air would have cleared her mind and her senses. Instead, Rafe’s constant presence had taken them close to overload status. Whenever she turned, she’d caught a glimpse of his broad shoulders encased in blue broadcloth. When they went to eat, his touch as he helped her in or out of the car had burned through her layers of sweater and light jacket.

  If the early-morning and daylight hours had added to her growing frustration, however, this enforced intimacy of the night made it a hundred times worse. The crackling wood fire threw out a circle of light that drew them within touching distance. The sofa and chairs invited lazy conversation and mindless fire-watching. Allie didn’t feel the least bit lazy or mindless. She felt itchy and restless and wire-tight.

  “You want to try your luck again at gin?” Rafe asked casually.

  She gave an unladylike snort. “No way. If we’d been playing for real stakes this afternoon, I’d owe you my net income for the rest of the year. I think you cheated.”

  “I did,” he replied with a crooked grin, locking his hands behind his head.

  Allie’s stomach lurched. Of all the times for him to turn that rakish lopsided grin on her. They were in the middle of a desperate situation, for heaven’s sake. He should be as edgy as she was. At the very least, he could show one or two signs of the racking sensual tension that had kept her tighter than an overwound roll of film all day.

  Desperate for something to take her mind off Rafe’s nearness, she headed for the built-in shelves beside the fireplace. “Let’s see what else we have here. Maybe there’s a game you can’t deal from the bottom of the deck.”

  With Allie’s back turned to him, Rafe closed his eyes and muttered a fervent prayer that she’d find something, anything, amid the haphazardly stacked boxes to distract her. And him. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could maintain this pose of relaxed indifference.