PALADIN'S WOMAN

by Beverly Barton

  "Turn here," Addy said pointing. "It's the second house. White with black shutters."

  He parked the car in the small narrow driveway, killed the motor and glanced at Addy's home. Where her father's house was a replica of antebellum splendor, sporting huge white columns and a wraparound veranda, this house was authentic. Nick didn't know much about styles, but he could tell the house was old. Built long before the turn of the century would be his guess. Glistening snowy white in the noonday summertime sunshine, the house boasted a fresh coat of paint as did the glossy black shutters. Someone had spent a fortune restoring this place. That someone was probably Addy McConnell.

  Opening the car door, Addy stepped out onto the sidewalk, stretching her long, slender frame that had been cramped in the confines of the small sports car. Nick watched the way she moved, all fluid and graceful. Her arms arched above her head, hiking up her skirt. He got a good view of her legs—small ankles, well-shaped calves, and long, trim thighs. Nick felt a tightening in his gut, and cursed himself for being a fool. Kidding Addy about seducing her was one thing, but actually doing it would be quite another matter. Kidding her was fun; the thought of making love to her actually scared him.

  "Are you getting out or are you going to sit there staring at me all day?" she asked.

  "I'll get my bag." He grabbed the battered brown leather suitcase he'd used for countless years and followed her up the steps leading to the small front portico supported by double columns on each side. "How long have you lived here?"

  "For five years." She unlocked the front door. "Before that I shared an apartment with Janice. Before Ron came along."

  "Ron's the boyfriend, right? The sulky-looking guy who picked her up last night?" Nick stepped over the threshold and felt as if he'd been transported back in time. The pale yellow walls added warmth to the wide foyer. A dramatic staircase, built against the left wall, curved upward.

  "I didn't know you'd met Ron." Addy soaked in the beauty of her home, glancing around, proud of each familiar piece of furniture, each picture on the wall, every detail over which she'd fretted. "He's all right, I guess. Janice loves him and says they're getting married eventually. He's got a big chip on his shoulder when it comes to people with money. I think he's the type that would like to be rich, but doesn't want to work for it."

  "Is Janice rich?" Nick ran the toe of his shoe over the blue and cream wool rug that covered the wide plank floor.

  "It's a nineteenth-century Chinese rug." Addy pointed to Nick's feet. "And, no, Janice isn't rich. Her father squandered most of her mother's inheritance. All she has left is half interest in our grandparents' home, Elm Hill."

  "Is everything in this room old?" Nick asked.

  "Almost every item is antique," Addy said. "From the Federal period piano built around 1815," she pointed to the small musical instrument placed directly beneath the staircase, "to the Chippendale cherry side chairs, to that original Jan Weenix still life on the wall."

  "Mmm… Is Elm Hill worth anything?"

  "Yes, Elm Hill is definitely worth something. Why do you ask?"

  "If Janice isn't rich, why doesn't she sell her half of the estate?"

  "Our grandparents' will prohibits Janice from selling her half to anyone but me."

  "Has Janice asked you to buy it?" Nick wondered about Janice's boyfriend. Rusty had told him that Ron Glover was a low-life creep who'd spent most of his teen years in and out of juvenile court. He'd been arrested numerous times as an adult, but had never been convicted.

  "No. Why?"

  "Just curious."

  "Curious about Ron Glover, wondering if he's money-hungry enough to plot my kidnapping?" Addy placed her foot on the bottom step of the staircase.

  Gripping his walking stick with one hand, Nick tightened his hold on his suitcase with the other. "Is he?"

  Addy continued up the stairs, Nick following. "I don't know about Ron. It's possible. He's not a very nice man, but then neither is my ex-husband."

  "Gerald Carlton? You think he might be behind the kidnap plot? Why? Rusty said his second wife's father is quite wealthy, that he made Gerald a vice-president in his company."

  Addy opened the door to the first bedroom. "Gerald's wife is wealthy, not Gerald. Believe me, he's far more money-hungry than Ron Glover and far smarter."

  Nick walked into the guest bedroom, a medium-sized square room. The upper walls were pale cream, the bottom wainscoted surface had been painted a light olive green. The bed, with tall, thin posters, stood in the middle of the room, an embroidered chenille spread covering it. To the left of the bed a wooden cupboard filled with knickknacks fitted neatly into the corner and a huge bedside table rested on a large area rug to the right. A stack of books lay atop the old chest nestled at the foot of the bed.

  "Reminds me of a bed and breakfast I stayed in once a few years back." He set down his leather suitcase. "You really hate your ex-husband, don't you?"

  "I did hate him for a long, long time. Now—now, I'm not sure. I don't wish him dead, but—but I hate seeing him so happy with his wealthy wife and fat, healthy babies."

  "So we have two suspects," Nick said, sitting down on the bed, testing it by bouncing lightly up and down. "New mattress?"

  "What do you mean we have two suspects?"

  "Well, not counting the fact that the kidnapper may be some stranger, some unknown criminal out to get rich quick, we have an ex-husband who obviously hates you and your father as much as you hate him … and we have your cousin s boyfriend, who'd like to get rich without earning his money the old-fashioned way."

  "I see." Addy's face paled. "My room is right next door. I'm going to take a bath and change clothes. Why don't you look around and check the place out for yourself?"

  "What sort of locks do you have on the doors? Dead bolt? And what about the windows? Is there a security system?"

  "I don't know about the doors and windows, but, yes, there is a security system. It isn't on right now. I often forget to turn it on. I forgot last night. Daddy's always fussing at me."

  "What about some lunch?" Nick suggested.

  "Are you cooking?" she asked, then walked outside into the hallway.

  "How about if we order pizza?"

  "No anchovies," Addy said, "and lots and lots of black olives."

  Nick inspected the room, wondering if the entire house looked like this. Picking up his suitcase, he lifted it onto the bed, then looked around for a closet. There wasn't one. Instead he found a large, mahogany armoire, empty except for several ladies' straw hats lying across the single top shelf.

  Within a few minutes, he heard water running. Addy was taking a bath. His mind quickly spanned the short distance between Addy's bath and her naked body. He wished he wasn't so damned curious about what she looked like without her clothes. Probably skinny, he thought, then remembered the glimpse of her shapely thigh. Hell, he'd been a fool to agree to Rusty's request. He had no business playing bodyguard to Dina's future stepdaughter. He should have insisted Sam Dundee send in one of his best men from Atlanta.

  Nick hated admitting that he didn't want another man guarding Addy McConnell night and day for God knew how long. She was a needy woman, ripe for the picking and he couldn't bear to think of her giving herself to some other guy, some guy who would break her heart. He, on the other hand, had the willpower to stay with her and protect her without seducing her, despite what he'd led her to believe.

  And … he didn't trust anyone else to keep her safe. That was the bottom line. Addy was in danger, and there was something about her that brought out all the possessive, protective instincts deep inside him. The only way anyone was going to hurt Addy was over his dead body.

  * * *

  Addy and Nick sat in shield-back chairs with cane bottoms. The crusty remains of a large sausage pizza, with extra black olives, covered the grease-stained box lying in the middle of an oak trestle table. Nick took a deep swallow from his beer, sprawling his long legs outward, resting his heels against a braided t
hrow rug.

  "You know, Addy, you're taking this awfully well. A lot better than I expected. You've been playing the part of the perfect hostess ever since we got here."

  "I don't want you in my house." She picked up a canned cola. "I don't want anyone acting as my live-in bodyguard. But my seventy-year-old father has high blood pressure, a bad heart, and he refuses to stop smoking those awful cigars. Things are going to be difficult enough without my acting childish. I plan to cooperate with you as much as I can."

  "You're being too nice to me." Nick glanced around the huge, oak-paneled kitchen. The floors boasted their original wide planks, and a chest-high brick fireplace covered a third of one wall. "Are we playing some sort of game?"

  "You're the one who seems to enjoy playing games." Addy sipped her cola, then frowned at him. "My father wants you here. So be it. Despite the fact that I will not allow anyone, not even Daddy, to keep me locked up for my own safety, I know I'm in danger and I want protection, for my sake and for Daddy's. If anything happened to me—"

  "Rusty told me about your brother."

  "They—they shot him in the head. Daddy gave them a million dollars, and they killed Donnie anyway. He was only nine. I was six."

  "And after that, Rusty kept you in a gilded cage?"

  She nodded. He noticed the shimmering moisture glazing her eyes. She looked down at her lap, avoiding his scrutiny.

  "You're right," Nick said, staring directly at her. "I do like to play games, especially with women. And I can't promise that I won't play games with you, from time to time. You jump to the bait so quickly. I can get you riled up in no time and I admit I enjoy kidding you."

  "You annoy me by making sexual suggestions." Addy jumped up, pouring what was left of her cola down the sink drain. "If you keep doing that, we're going to be fighting all the time. Is that what you want?"

  "A little harmless flirtation is good for you, didn't you know that?" Nick picked up the pizza carton. Looking around for a garbage can, he saw none. "Where's the trash?"

  "In the pantry." She pointed him in the right direction. "Save your flirtation for Dina and other women who enjoy it."

  "You might enjoy it, if you'd give me half a chance. Most women think I'm irresistible." Nick tried not to laugh when he saw the anger in her eyes. Somewhere along the way, Addy McConnell had forgotten how to have a good time, how to joke and laugh and be carefree. Maybe, during their stay together, he could teach her a thing or two about enjoying life. When the image of her lying upstairs in his bed, her curly red hair spread out and covering her naked breasts, flashed through Nick's mind, he groaned.

  "I'm not into one-night stands or brief, meaningless affairs." Addy clutched the edge of the sink.

  "I said I liked flirting with women. I didn't say I bedded every woman I found attractive." In recent years, Nick's tastes had become very discriminating and he'd sought more than sex from his relationships. Maybe he was getting old, but the idea of finding the right woman appealed to him more and more. Of course, she'd be curvaceous and blond. She'd have a sense of humor, enough to laugh at his jokes, anyway. Naturally, she'd be dynamite in bed and no more interested in marriage than he was.

  "Since Dina pointed out that I'm not your type, why waste your time with me? Is it that important for all women to fall swooning at your feet?"

  Nick laughed, picturing Addy swooning at his feet. He liked the idea, and wondered if there was any possibility that she—

  The insistent ring of the telephone interrupted Nick mid-thought. Addy reached for the wall phone.

  "Hello? Yes, he's here." She handed the red telephone to Nick.

  "Nick Romero. When? … Where? … Yes, the wound would be in his right hand. A stiletto blade… Powerfully built. Young, maybe early twenties. Long brown hair… Okay. We'll be there shortly."

  Addy gazed at Nick, wide-eyed. "What was that all about?"

  "The police think they've found your would-be kidnapper."

  "What? Has he told them who hired him?" On trembly legs, Addy walked over to Nick, grabbing him by the arm.

  "He couldn't tell them anything. He's dead. Been dead since early this morning." Nick put his arm around Addy to steady her. She swayed into him slightly, then righted herself immediately, pulling out of his comforting embrace.

  "What do they want us to do?" she asked. "Identify him?"

  "Yes." He hated seeing that pale, haunted look on her face. "I can't leave you alone here, so I'll have to take you with me. But I can identify the body. There's no need for you to see him."

  "Whoever hired him, killed him."

  "It looks that way."

  "He—or she—will try again."

  "Probably." Nick wanted to pull her back in his arms and comfort her. He wanted to promise her that he'd take care of her, not let anyone hurt her. But Addy was afraid of him, scared of him as a man. And as much as he hated to admit it, maybe she had a right to be. He couldn't ever remember feeling so possessive and protective. Hell, maybe his taste in women was changing. Could it be that after all these years of chasing some bosomy blond dream, the woman destined to change his life was a skinny redhead?

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  « ^ »

  The room was cool. Nick was hot. He'd sprawled his big body out on the soft cream sheet, kicking the covers to the foot of the bed. Normally he slept in the raw, but considering the possibility that he might have to rush to Addy McConnell's defense at a moment's notice he'd left on his briefs.

  He wasn't sure of the time, but figured it was close to midnight. After a quick supper of cold ham sandwiches and potato salad, he and Addy had sat in her small den adjacent to the kitchen and listened to one of her favorite tapes, the musical score from Phantom of the Opera. Having been raised in Texas, Nick preferred the elemental sounds of country, but over the years he'd learned to appreciate various types of music. He found that Addy's tastes were more select. She preferred classical and semi-classical above all else. She was a patron of the arts, having season tickets to the symphony.

  More than one luscious blonde from Nick's past had exposed him to the social world of the ultrarich. He fit in just as well with multimillionaires as he had with his Navy SEAL comrades and his fellow DEA agents. If Nick Romero was anything, he was adaptable. He had discovered early in life that the people who succeeded were those who found a way to use the system to their advantage. Even a half-breed Mexican kid with an illiterate dirt farmer for a father and a whore for a mother could rise above his humble beginnings if he had the guts and determination to change, to learn and grow, to assimilate every new experience. In other words, to adapt.

  Listening to Addy move around in her room, Nick figured she was as restless as he, and was probably having a difficult time getting to sleep. Going to the police station had been far more upsetting for Addy than she'd been willing to admit. Nick was accustomed to crime, was used to being exposed to the seamier side of life where murder was a common occurrence. But Addy was not. When he'd tried to discuss the attempted kidnapping with her, she'd shied away from the subject and had downright refused to talk about the untimely death of her assailant, who had died from a fall off a steep embankment on Monsano Mountain.

  Addy was scared, but was trying hard not to show it. Nick wanted to assure her that it was all right to be afraid, that it was not only normal but smart. Bravery and fear were constant companions, as inseparable as life and death. Fear could save your life, whereas fearlessness often proved fatal.

  He heard the door to Addy's bedroom open, then the click-click tapping of her shoes. Suddenly, all sound ceased. He sat up in his bed, listening. The stairs creaked. Someone was walking up or down.

  Easing open his own bedroom door, Nick surveyed the darkened hallway. Moonlight spread out over the wooden floor like creamy yellow-white butter across dark toast. Still hearing the sporadic creaking, Nick eased carefully down the hall until he reached the landing. Addy, her satin high-heel slippers dangling from her fingers, tiptoed d
own the stairs. Nick sucked in his breath at the sight of her retreating back. Her tall slender body, visible in the soft moonlight, was draped in a pale lavender confection of gossamer silk and lace.

  What the hell was she doing? She looked like a woman running away, trying to escape from someone or something. He'd like to go back to bed, go to sleep and forget that Addy, upset, uncertain and scared, was wandering around downstairs. But he couldn't. She was his responsibility.

  He returned to his room, slipped into a pair of jeans and made his way quietly down the stairs, the faint tapping of his cane echoing in the stillness. From the foyer, he could see light under the kitchen door. He hated to intrude on her, to interrupt her privacy, but dammit, he wouldn't be doing his job if he didn't check on her.

  Easing open the door, he stopped dead still when he saw her standing in profile, slowly pouring herself a glass of chilled white wine. Her red hair, deep and rich and gloriously bright like the rusty, red clay earth of Alabama, hung in curly disarray down her back and across her shoulders. The silky peignoir set she wore swept the floor. The robe, a sheer concoction edged with heavy lace at the hem and across the bottom of each long sleeve, had fallen open to reveal an empire style gown of the same diaphanous lavender material. The bodice, cut low and revealing the slight swell of Addy's breasts, was covered with matching lace.

  Dear God, had he ever actually thought this woman, this smoldering female temptation, was plain? If Addy McConnell chose to dress circumspectly in public, she revealed her true sensuous self in her sleepwear. Nick's whole body tightened with anticipation. He didn't think he'd ever seen anything as desirable as the vision before him, one he found difficult to believe was real.