Guarded Moments

by JoAnn Ross

  The sudden surge of tenderness came as a surprise to Caine. Feeling like a first-class heel for causing that haunting shadow to drift into her eyes, he reached out and took her hand in his. The compassionate caring man in him wanted to apologize, to assure her that she didn't have to tell him any of this. The professional in him recognized a possible motive for her sudden rash of "accidents."

  "Who are 'they'?"

  Distracted by the feel of his thumb tracing slow circles on the delicate skin of her palm, Chantal failed to comprehend Caine's question. "Pardon?"

  Her skin was soft, like the underside of camellia petals. And warm. As he watched the need rise in her eyes, Caine's body responded with an answering heat. "The people who talk about you," he said, forcing himself to keep his mind on his assignment. "Who are they?"

  The treacherous thumb had moved to the inside of her wrist. Chantal wondered if he could feel the hammering of her pulse. "No one."

  Caine was not accustomed to having his concentration sabotaged this way. And he damn well didn't like it. Princess, hell, he decided as he fought the need to drag her out of this tacky diner and into the back seat of the limousine, where he could finally satisfy his taste for those full, dark lips. She was a witch. A siren. For the first time in his life, Caine understood his father's obsession with Jessica Thorne; like mother, like daughter.

  "Someone was talking about you," he pointed out, his voice brusque as he struggled to regain control of both mind and body. "And it bothered you enough to ask your father."

  It was his curt tone that brought Chantal back to earth with a bang. Fool, she chided herself. She had no doubt that Caine knew exactly what he was doing to her equilibrium and was enjoying himself immensely.

  "I don't understand," she said softly, retrieving her hand with a slight tug. "Your duty, as I was led to believe, is merely to see that my upcoming tour goes smoothly. That nothing will happen to embarrass your country."

  "That's about it in a nutshell."

  "Then why are you so interested in me?"

  Good question, Caine acknowledged silently. The pearl on her finger gleamed like white satin, making the narrow silver band beside it appear almost austere. The two pieces of jewelry were as dissimilar as the disparate personalities he'd witnessed. Who the hell was Princess Chantal Giraudeau, really? And why was the answer suddenly so important?

  "You're right. My job is simply to take care of your travel arrangements and make certain that you're comfortable."

  He was lying. Of that Chantal was certain. Why he was lying, she didn't know. "The story of my childhood is not important. I don't know why I brought it up."

  "I believe you were attempting to point out that I was no better than those Montacroix citizens who harbored prejudice against an innocent child," Caine said mildly.

  He might be rude, but Chantal had to admit that she liked his directness. So unlike a diplomat, she mused yet again. "You can be quite astute when you put your mind to it, Mr. O'Bannion."

  "Caine."

  She nodded. "Caine. And as it appears that we will be practically living in each other's pockets for the duration of this tour, you must call me Chantal."

  Caine had already determined that it was going to take every ounce of his concentration during the next three weeks to keep his professional distance. He wasn't certain he wanted to dispense with yet another barrier.

  "I don't know…"

  "Please." Although the restraint necessary for a princess had been drilled into her from a tender age, touching came naturally to Chantal. She reached out and touched his arm, feeling the muscle harden involuntarily under her fingertips. "I really will go mad if you insist on calling me Princess for the next three weeks."

  Knowing when he was licked, Caine shook his head. "Does anyone ever say no to you?"

  Satisfied with having gotten her way and pleased by the reluctant smile curving his grim lips, Chantal grinned. "There are always a few brave souls who attempt it."

  "And what happens to them?"

  "What else?" she asked, mischief sparkling in her dark eyes. "I have them flogged."

  Her throaty laughter tugged at some unseen chord deep inside Caine. "What else?" he muttered as he tossed some bills onto the table and rose to leave.

  It was high time he got the princess back to her hotel room before she touched him again and made him forget his lifelong tenet of never mixing work with pleasure.

  4

  Caine lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling and thinking about the woman sleeping in the adjoining suite. As beautiful as she'd always appeared in the various magazines, the photos didn't begin to do her justice, he mused, remembering the way her dark hair gleamed under the sparkling lights of the embassy's crystal chandelier. Her complexion possessed the smooth, fine glow usually associated with fine porcelain. And those tawny eyes… A man could easily drown in those eyes. That is, if he was weak or foolish enough to permit himself to get that close.

  Caine had never considered himself either weak or foolish.

  Although he had been assigned to the princess to protect her during her stay in America, Caine knew that if he really wanted to keep Chantal from harm, the best way to do it would be to figure out who was staging these so-called accidents. With that in mind, he gave up on sleep. Slipping into a pair of old tennis shorts and a sweatshirt, he took the manila folder out of the closet safe and began reading…

  The sun had just barely risen over the horizon, splitting the pearl-gray sky with brilliant shafts of amethyst and gold, when Caine heard movement in the room next to his. Instantly alert, he shoved his feet into a pair of ragged sneakers and reached for his revolver.

  Her door opened, then closed. Cracking his own open a fraction of an inch, Caine watched as Chantal pressed both palms against the wall of the hallway, then stretched the long, taut muscles of her calves. A moment later, she entered the elevator and was gone.

  Cursing himself for not knowing about the princess's exercise habits, Caine was out the door in a flash, headed for the stairway.

  Chantal smiled as she ran through the peaceful neighborhood. She knew that soon there would be noisy traffic on the street and the sidewalks would be crowded with harried pedestrians making their way to work. But now, in this early-morning light, there were only a few other people stirring. An elderly woman walked an overweight dachshund. A young man in helmet and racing pants madly peddled his bicycle as if he were toning up for the Tour de France. A delivery truck bearing the name Martini's Fresh Fish turned up an alley to deliver seafood to a Spanish restaurant; when the driver rolled down his window and wolf whistled, Chantal decided that some things about America were rather nice.

  She'd been running about twenty minutes, checking her time on the diver's watch Burke had given her for her last birthday, when she saw him out of the corner of her eye. A man. A tall, dark-haired man who seemed to be following her.

  Chantal increased her pace. Glancing sideways into a shop window, she noticed that the man, without any overt effort, speeded up, as well.

  She slowed. The stranger followed suit.

  Although she'd never considered herself a hysterical sort of woman, Chantal realized her heart was pounding in her ears. Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, she turned down an alley, looking for someplace to hide.

  Caine was mentally cursing a blue streak as he watched her turn into the narrow alley. Running alone on the streets of any major metropolitan city was foolhardy; taking off down alleys in this neighborhood was downright suicidal.

  He'd barely entered the alley himself when Chantal suddenly stepped out from behind an enormous orange dumpster. "It's you!"

  Caine stopped dead in his tracks. "What the hell are you doing out here?" he demanded, grabbing her shoulders.

  Chantal jerked free of his hold. "What does it look like?" she snapped back, as bewildered by his behavior as she was angry. "I'm running. As you undoubtedly know since you've been following me for at least three blo
cks."

  "Following you? Princess, your paintings must really be something to see, because you have one wild imagination."

  Although he tried telling himself that the only reason he hadn't spotted her was that he hadn't expected her to hide behind a trash can, such a feeble explanation didn't ease his feeling of self-disgust. If he'd been this careless two months ago, the president would be lying under an eternal flame at Arlington National Cemetery. Caine didn't know who he was angrier at: Chantal for risking her life this way or himself for not doing a proper job of protecting her.

  They were nose to nose, close enough for Chantal to see the blazing fury in his eyes. Along with the anger was another emotion that she could not quite discern. She was not allowed to dwell on it, because as he glared down at her, Chantal experienced a quick flash of desire so hot, so strong that it left her stunned.

  Reminding herself exactly who—and what—she was, she wrapped herself in the emotional cloak she had learned to don whenever her fellow students at her private Swiss boarding school had begun whispering behind her back.

  "I suppose it is my imagination that you and I just happen to be running on the same street…at the same time?"

  Her jaw was jutting out and her back was ramrod straight. A dangerous tempest swirled in her eyes, daring him to lie. Caine wondered if she would be as passionate in bed as she was at this moment and decided that with the right man, she just might be.

  "Coincidence is a funny thing," he said with a half shrug.

  "Coincidence."

  Caine was beginning to wish he'd opted for the CIA instead of Presidential Security after his stint in the navy. He might have gotten killed trying to pull off a dangerous covert operation in some godforsaken country, but at least he would have learned how to come up with an acceptable cover story.

  "I run every morning. This is the logical route from the hotel."

  Her eyes were still stormy, but now Caine could see a growing seed of doubt in them, as well. "I suppose you could be telling the truth."

  "Of course I am. Why would I lie?"

  Chantal frowned as she considered his question. "Why, indeed?" she murmured.

  "And now that we've had a little breather, how about I accompany you back to the hotel?"

  With her long stride she easily kept up with him as they ran back the way they'd come.

  As they approached the hotel, Caine noticed a nondescript brown sedan parked across the street, the face of the driver hidden by the pages of the Washington Post he was reading. Although he couldn't swear to it, Caine was certain that he'd seen that same car parked in the identical spot when they'd returned from the reception last night. Making a mental note of the license plate, he decided to have Drew run a check. Just in case.

  The soaring, angular East Building of the National Gallery of Art was a dazzling example of artistic inspiration. Inside was an explosion of space and light: marble staircases, flying bridges. A vast skylight floated high overhead like a shimmering cloud, flooding the building with sunlight, creating a kaleidoscope of constantly changing colors on the pink marble floors and walls. A bright and whimsical tapestry reflecting Miro's fanciful vision of woman spilled some thirty feet down the central court's south wall.

  The gallery had been designed, not as some dark and formal place where visitors would be intimidated, but as intimate rooms where one was invited to absorb the art.

  After all the effort she'd put into the Modern Images of Europe exhibit, Chantal had been gratified to see that the works had attracted a crowd of both Washingtonians and tourists.

  "It appears that you're a hit, Princess," Caine observed as they sat over sandwiches and coffee in one of the gallery's cafes. Although it had taken some coaxing, he'd finally managed to pry Chantal away from a clutch of adoring art fans who seemed to be every bit as fascinated by this real-life princess as they were by the paintings she'd brought to this country with her.

  "They're marvelous works," she said, beginning to relax for the first time since she'd entered the building. "More than capable of attracting crowds even without my participation. And, of course, the children's artwork always receives rave reviews."

  "You can't deny you're an added draw."

  "Now you sound like my father. He was the one who insisted that I come to America after learning about the cultural exchange program. He said that as the family's resident artist, it was only proper that I represent Montacroix."

  Caine wondered what Chantal would say if she knew that the real reason for her father wanting her to come to America was to get her out of harm's way. Away from whoever it was who was threatening her life.

  "I suppose this is where I tell you that I'm impressed by your own paintings." Although what little Caine knew of painting came from an art history class he'd taken in his plebe year at Annapolis, even he could tell that Chantal possessed an enormous gift.

  There were three of her works exhibited, the first two abstracts done in primary colors that were so vivid, so filled with joie de vivre that it would have been impossible to keep from smiling while viewing them. The third, however, was the one that the director's wife had obviously been inquiring about at the reception a couple of nights ago. It was as different from the others as night from day.

  "Thank you."

  "May I ask a question?"

  "Of course."

  "Why did you paint that third painting?"

  Chantal had known all along that it had been a mistake to include that particular painting in the exhibition. But Noel had insisted that by allowing others to view the painting Chantal had done immediately after her separation from her husband, she would finally succeed in exorcising the man as well as the disastrous experience from her life. When Chantal had continued to waver, Burke stepped in, agreeing with Noel, and soon Chantal found herself relenting under the velvet steamroller of her sister and brother's united front.

  "Why does any artist paint anything?" she asked with a careless shrug, turning to gaze out the window over the vast green expanse of the Mall. A young man clad in jeans and a Washington Redskins T-shirt was tossing a Frisbee to his Irish setter. But Chantal was only vaguely aware of the dog and his owner as she sought to soothe the panic that had suddenly begun to pound in her head. "It was simply a creative impulse. Nothing more."

  "It must have been a pretty grim impulse." The beautiful but cold and stark winter landscape, done in shades of gray and black, double matted in white and framed in cool, polished aluminum, lacked the vivid colors that made the first two paintings such a delight to view.

  For not the first time, Chantal wondered what it was about Caine that had her telling the truth when a polite little lie would do. "It was."

  "You know," he suggested mildly, "if you're not prepared to talk about it, perhaps you should pull that particular painting from the exhibit."

  His tone was so calm, so damn self-assured. Chantal waited for the annoyance, vaguely surprised when it didn't come. "Noel and Burke talked me into it. They said it would do me good."

  Caine found it interesting that anyone could talk this woman into doing anything. "And?"

  She glanced down at her watch. It was fashioned of antique gold pounded wafer thin. "Really, Caine, I believe it's time I returned to the exhibit."

  Recognizing the emotional barriers she was erecting between them, Caine realized he had two choices: he could either skirt them or charge right through. Although he'd always considered himself a proponent of the direct approach, he decided that perhaps in this case, diplomacy might achieve the desired results.

  "Anything you say, Your Highness," he agreed easily.

  Chantal searched his impassive face, looking for a sign of humor at her expense. Finding none, she rose from the table and started toward the door.

  She'd dressed in a bolero jacket and slim-skirted dress of scarlet silk that had made her stand out in a room of pretty spring pastels. But as Caine followed her out of the cafe, watching the pleated peplum skirt sway with the smooth mo
vement of her hips, he decided that Drew was right—the princess could probably wear a burlap bag and still be the sexiest, most desirable woman he'd ever seen.

  He spent the next few hours suffering that now-familiar pull of sexual attraction that occurred whenever Chantal was near and trying to forget that puzzles—all kinds—had always fascinated him.

  Late that afternoon Drew informed him that the brown sedan had been a rental. The papers had been signed by a Max Leutwiler, an officer of Credit Suisse in Geneva.

  "So the car's clean," Caine mused.

  "Seems to be," Drew agreed.

  Although he could think of no reason why a Swiss banker would want to harm Chantal, a little voice in the back of Caine's mind was telling him that something about the situation didn't quite ring true. "Let's run a check on this Leutwiler guy," he said.

  Drew had worked with Caine long enough to trust his friend's instincts. "I'll get on it right away."

  That evening, as they left for a dinner at the White House, Caine looked for the car. When it wasn't there, he told himself that he should have been relieved. But he wasn't.

  Later that night, across the street from the hotel, two men—one blond and bearded, the other dark and clean shaven—sat in the rented sedan, watching Chantal's window as they drank coffee from plastic foam cups.

  "Her lights just went out."

  "And O'Bannion has not left the hotel. Again." The gravelly voice was thick with scorn.

  "Perhaps he's acting as a bodyguard."

  "Don't be naive. In the first place, there's been no sign that anyone suspects that the bastard princess's recent incidents have been anything more than a rash of unfortunate accidents. And in the second place, when I telephoned the State Department this afternoon and asked to speak to Mr. O'Bannion, I was told that he's currently on assignment." The dark-haired man cracked open a window and lit a cigarette. "Diplomats make poor bodyguards."

  Although the days were growing warmer, the nights were still tinged with the chill of winter. The bearded man turned his coat collar up around his ears and hunched lower in his seat as the cold came whistling through the open window. "Do you think they are having an affair?"