Guarded Moments

by JoAnn Ross

  Reminding himself that he had a busy day ahead, he attempted to get some sleep, but instead he kept staring at the ceiling, seeing Chantal's exquisite face, surrounded by flames, in the plaster swirls overhead.

  Chantal had always slept well in hotel rooms. This trip, however, was proving different. She tossed and turned, finding sleep to be elusive as the past ten days with Caine kept running through her mind over and over, like scenes from an all-night movie.

  She couldn't stop thinking about him. At first light, during their early-morning runs, she'd noticed how their strides were so perfectly matched and couldn't help wondering if everything between them would be such a close and perfect fit.

  During the long and wearying days, as she extolled the genius of the various artists represented in the exhibit, she'd make the mistake of glancing across the room and her gaze would collide with his—steady and watchful. Invariably, their eyes would hold, and in that suspended moment there would be a flash of heat so brilliant, so warm, that she was amazed they hadn't set the museum on fire from spontaneous combustion.

  After that initial argument over where she would be eating her evening meal, he'd done his best to guide her to some wonderfully authentic ethnic restaurants, but although she was certain that the food was every bit as delicious as promised, she hadn't tasted a bite. All her attention had been riveted on Caine, on the smallest of details, like the lines fanning outward from his eyes, or the cleft splitting his chin, or the way his long, dark fingers curved around the handle of his coffee cup.

  Afterward, driving back to the hotel in the limousine, Chantal would sit beside him, drinking in a dark, masculine scent that owed nothing to shaving lotions or expensive colognes but was his alone, and wonder what his lips would taste like on hers. How those strong, capable hands would feel on her body…

  Damn, she thought, sitting up to punch the plump goose-down pillow into a more acceptable shape, he had no right to take over her mind this way. She still couldn't believe the rash way she'd thrown herself at the man. Now that the seductive moment had passed, Chantal could admit to being grateful that he'd rejected her. Making love with Caine would have created problems she was not prepared to deal with.

  If it had merely been a physical attraction, Chantal would have had no trouble handling it; she had, after all, been practicing self-denial for most of her life without any great difficulty. She'd simply thrown her passions into her work, experimenting with new styles, new textures, playing with pen and ink, chalk, flirting with misty, dreamy watercolors for a time before finally returning to her first love—oils.

  Before coming to America, her mind had been filled with new ideas, and had it not been for this tour, she probably would have locked herself in her studio, working feverishly around the clock, ignoring her family's insistence that she stop to eat, until all her visions were safely captured on canvas. That was the way she worked. Unrepentantly impulsive, she'd always painted in mad dashes as inspiration struck.

  Logical Burke, on the other hand, would mull over a problem for as long as it took, looking at all sides before acting. And Noel, despite her amazing gift of clairvoyance and her romantic streak, was as practical and unfrivolous as a Montacroix farm wife.

  The truth was, Caine O'Bannion frightened Chantal. If she wasn't careful, she knew, she could fall head over heels in love with him. And that, she reminded herself, picking up her sketch pad as she abandoned trying to sleep, was not something she would permit to happen.

  Ten minutes later, she was putting the final touches on a sketch of the man she could not get out of her mind.

  In a rented room directly across from the hotel, Chantal's would-be assassins were forced to bide their time, as they had been doing since her arrival in the country twelve days earlier.

  "This waiting is beginning to get on my nerves," the bearded man complained.

  The other man looked up from his crossword puzzle. "Patience, Karl." He frowned as he tried to think of an eight-letter word for revenge. "By this time tomorrow, our mission will be accomplished."

  "What makes you think we can pry her loose from O'Bannion?"

  "By changing her plans at the last minute and deciding to stay with her friend in Philadelphia, the princess has taken care of that little matter for us…Of course! Vendetta." He smiled as he filled in the blanks.

  Satisfied, he rose from the table, poured some schnapps into a pair of glasses and handed one to the man whose gaze was directed at Chantal's darkened window. "To Philadelphia," he said, raising his glass in a toast.

  "To Philadelphia."

  After a sleepless night, and his early-morning run with the princess, Caine sat in the coffee shop of the hotel, drinking a five-dollar cup of coffee and plotting strategy with Drew Tremayne.

  "You sound as if you're taking the sister's premonition seriously," Drew said, plucking a fresh cinnamon roll from the silver basket between them.

  There weren't many men in whom Caine would have confided his fears. After having worked with Drew for six years, he was one of a select few. Caine would trust his friend with his life, as indeed he did every time they went on an assignment together.

  "I can't afford not to," he said, cringing as Drew stirred a second spoonful of sugar into his coffee, tasted, then added one more for good measure. "I'm amazed you have any teeth left."

  "Never had a cavity. According to my daddy, all us Tremaynes are born with strong teeth and bones, quick minds and incredible good looks."

  "Don't forget modesty."

  He grinned. "That, too," he said, digging into a bowl of cereal.

  "I can't believe I actually know someone who eats colored cereal with miniature marshmallows for breakfast."

  "Beats the hell out of those nuts and twigs you eat."

  "You and the princess would get along great."

  "Think so?"

  "Yeah, she never met a food she didn't like, either."

  "You know," Drew murmured, "I'm really beginning to like that lady." He licked the bun's white frosting off his fingers. "Are you going to eat that blueberry muffin?"

  "The two of you are definitely a match made in heaven," Caine muttered, pushing the basket across the table. "Think of all the gooey pastries you could get the royal baker to whip up."

  "The idea is sounding better and better," Drew said, plucking the muffin from its bed of white damask. "Unfortunately, I'm afraid I'd strike out before I even got up to bat. The lady is far too busy mooning over you to even notice me."

  "That's ridiculous."

  Drew stopped in the act of buttering the fragrant, hot muffin. "What is it about Chantal that bothers you, Caine? The fact that she's ridiculously rich or breathtakingly beautiful? And, besides being sexy as hell, is genuinely nice?"

  It was certainly not the first time he and Drew had discussed the opposite sex. As a matter of fact, women usually finished in the top three categories of conversation, right up there with work and the Redskins. But something about Chantal—about his reaction to her—had Caine feeling strangely unsettled.

  "What bothers me is the fact that she's the most intransigent, impossible woman I've ever met. And much as I'd love to stay here and watch you create havoc with your cholesterol, I'd better get upstairs before she takes it into her fool head to leave without me," Caine grumbled as he stood up.

  "She's a mite headstrong, all right," Drew agreed easily with a slow drawl that was the result of seven generations of Tennessee ancestors. "But some men prefer a challenge." Repressed laughter glinted in his eyes as he looked at Caine. "Seems to me I remember you being one of those men."

  "The princess is a helluva lot more than a challenge," Caine growled as he signed the check. "She's an ulcer just waiting to happen."

  "You could always 'fess up. Hell, Caine, she's an intelligent lady. If she heard all the facts, she just might be a little more cooperative."

  "There's nothing I'd love better than to drop all this damn pretense. Unfortunately, that decision isn't mine to make."
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  "So, I guess all we can do for the time being is stick close and wait for this guy, whoever he is, to make his move. You realize, of course, that when she does find out how we've lied to her, the princess is going to be madder than a wet hen."

  Drew wasn't saying anything Caine hadn't already considered. It had crossed his mind more than once that when Chantal did ultimately discover his deception, she wouldn't want anything further to do with him.

  As unappealing as that idea was, Caine didn't dwell on it. For now, all his thoughts had to be directed toward keeping her safe. But as he left the restaurant, he realized that sometime between their initial clash at the airport and last night's heated kiss, he had crossed the line between professionalism and his escalating obsession for a woman who was light-years beyond his reach.

  7

  The Philadelphia Museum of Art crowned Fairmont Hill like a massive, resplendent, misplaced Greco-Roman temple. Although it wasn't as dazzling as Washington's National Gallery of Art, Chantal felt that the facade of the beautifully proportioned building seemed to promise something extraordinarily wonderful waiting within. A promise the museum definitely lived up to, she discovered.

  She spent the better part of her first day in the city with the curator on the second floor of the museum, supervising the final touches on the exhibit. If she was at all intimidated by the idea of her works being hung in close proximity to works by Poussin, Rubens, or Cezanne, Chantal did not dwell on it. For too many years she'd puttered around at her art, longing to work up the nerve to paint seriously but always afraid that she'd never produce anything that came close to the art of Picasso. Or Matisse. Or any of the other artists who'd come before her.

  Finally, it had been her mother's statement about how she'd had to learn not to compare herself with other performers—everyone had a unique gift to offer—that finally gave Chantal the courage to try. Although that had been only five years ago, it seemed she could not remember a life without her art. Heaven knew, it had certainly gotten her through some tough times these past couple of years.

  She was relieved at how fast the work on the exhibit progressed. The paintings, having been sent on ahead, had arrived the day before, and fortunately, the museum employees were well prepared; each of the accompanying white cardboard cards had been printed with careful accuracy, the walls had been painted a soft ivory in order to better display the paintings, and complementary lighting had been installed. Although she'd never considered herself a superstitious woman, Chantal decided to take the fact that everything was turning out to be absolutely, amazingly perfect as a propitious omen.

  "Can you believe how smoothly everything went?" she exclaimed happily to Caine as they walked back out to the waiting car.

  When she had first expressed surprise that they would be having the same driver throughout the tour, Caine had mumbled some vague explanation about security clearances. Although she hadn't really understood, she rather liked the idea of Drew Tremayne traveling with them. Not only was his presence making it more difficult for her to succumb to temptation with Caine, she was beginning to genuinely like the man.

  Although he probably hadn't said more than a dozen words to her, there were times, especially when she and Caine were arguing about something, that Chantal would glance up into the rearview mirror and see Drew smiling back at her. His easy, good-natured grin did wonders to soothe her temper whenever Caine began behaving like an ogre, which seemed to happen every time she decided to scrap the carefully planned itinerary and take off somewhere on the spur of the moment. Spontaneity, she had decided, was definitely not Caine O'Bannion's strong suit.

  "It wasn't as bad as I expected it to be," Caine admitted gruffly. His eyes, ever alert behind his dark glasses, scanned the grounds, looking for… what? he wondered.

  He'd been distant all day. Chantal found herself missing his dry humor and reluctant smiles, even the way he had of issuing orders like some Far Eastern potentate. She couldn't help wondering if his behavior was due to what had happened between them last night, but not wanting to reopen such a potentially dangerous subject, she opted not to push.

  The view from the top of the hill was breathtaking. Chantal paused, looking out over the broad sweep of Benjamin Franklin Parkway as it disappeared into the lush greenery of Fairmount Park. Sunset gilded the serpentine Schuylkill River as scullers' oars cut smoothly through its waters; in the distance she could see the Victorian wedding-cake facade of City Hall. Flat-roofed row houses spread outward in crisp geometric formation for miles and miles.

  "I wish we had time to visit the park," she murmured, her gaze drifting over the acres of trees that were wearing their bright spring coats of kelly green. Pink and white hyacinths, sunshine-yellow daffodils and azaleas added enticing splashes of color. "I'd give anything to kick my shoes off and run across all that grass."

  "That doesn't sound like very royal behavior to me."

  "Perhaps not." If he was trying to annoy her, he was right on target, but Chantal was feeling too good to respond in kind. "But it certainly sounds like fun." Exhaling a slight sigh, she glanced down at her watch and continued walking toward the car. "I suppose we'd better be going."

  "We should if you want to change clothes before your friend's dinner party," Caine agreed. "Speaking of which-"

  "I'm not going to give in on this one, Caine," Chantal insisted, holding up her hand to stop his protest. "There is no reason why I should stay at a hotel when Blair Sherwood has a perfectly fine guest room. She was my best friend during our boarding school days together in Lucerne. We haven't seen each other for years. We'll probably be up all night talking."

  Caine had several very good reasons why she should be staying at a hotel instead of this old girlfriend's house. And every one of them had to do with Chantal's safety. All day long he'd been tempted just to tell her the truth—everything, beginning with the president's request that he protect her to her sister's late-night phone call. Unfortunately, an order was an order. He wondered if the president realized just how badly he'd tied Caine's hands.

  "People change," he said, opening the car door for her.

  "Now there's a pithy phrase. Remind me to write that one down." The smile she gave him as she slid across the seat took the edge off her words.

  "What I was trying to point out," he continued, "was that perhaps you and this Sherwood woman won't have anything in common any longer. Perhaps you'll run out of things to talk about before you finish the soup course. Worse yet, maybe you'll hate each other. Or there's always the possibility that she'll be so jealous of your position she'll make your visit miserable."

  "I believe I'll risk it."

  "You are a princess, don't forget."

  Chantal reminded herself that temper took more energy than she was prepared to summon right now. "How could I? When you are so kind as to keep pointing it out."

  There was a sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh from the front seat. When Chantal met Drew's eyes in the rearview mirror, he flashed her yet another of his encouraging grins. "Besides, I was also a princess years ago, and it certainly didn't get in the way of our friendship then."

  "People change."

  "So you said."

  Having reached a stalemate, both fell silent as the limousine inched along in the rush-hour traffic on the parkway. Chantal wondered once again what it was that had Caine so cross.

  Caine knew he'd been behaving abominably. He also knew that Chantal was puzzled by what she perceived to be his gruff, inattentive attitude. How could he explain that all his senses were on red alert, watching for something, anything that might harm her? He'd actually begun to wonder if clairvoyance were contagious.

  "I still don't know why you had to change your plans at the last minute," he said for what had to be the umpteenth time that day. "Why can't you get your girl talk over with, then return to the hotel?"

  "And have Drew stay up all night waiting for my call?"

  "It's his job."

  "Whatever you ma
y think of pampered royalty, my parents taught me to be considerate of others."

  Caine wondered what Chantal would say if she knew that instead of making Drew's life easier, she was complicating it. Because unless he could get her to change her mind before dinner was over, he and Drew were going to be spending the night parked across the street from the Sherwood house. Caine could only hope that such surveillance would be enough to prevent Noel's unsettling dream from becoming a reality.

  Caine decided that Blair Sherwood's gray stone Germantown mansion was a tribute to both great wealth and even greater taste. The facade of the house was actually rather plain, befitting the simplicity endorsed by its original Quaker owners. But once inside, a visitor was greeted by a vast checkerboard floor of Valley Forge marble leading to a gracefully curving stairway.

  Blair Sherwood was an attractive, self-assured young matron who, as Chantal had predicted, appeared not a whit intimidated by the idea of having a princess as a houseguest. After greeting Chantal with a hug, she proceeded to lead them on a grand tour of the recently refurbished house, chatting gaily as she pointed out the hundreds of authentic colonial implements.

  "It took David three years to collect those pipes," she said, pointing out the inlaid Federal pipe rack filled with long clay meerschaums. "We spent every weekend cruising the antique shops and flea markets."

  "Flea markets?" Chantal asked with amusement. She couldn't picture the teenage girl who'd arrived at school with an entire closet of haute couture haggling over prices at a flea market.

  "I know, I know," Blair agreed on a throaty laugh. "This from the girl who was always afraid of chipping her manicure. But really, Chantal, Philadelphia is just one big attic filled with heirlooms. You've no idea the treasures you can find in a flea market."

  She pointed out an intricate chessboard stand, hinged so it could fit against the wall. "I bought that from a young couple who had inherited her grandmother's home and were cleaning out the basement. You'd never believe what I paid for it."