Guarded Moments

by JoAnn Ross

  "Hey, Caine," Drew said without preamble, "I just thought you might want to know that I'm with the Giraudeau family now. Their plane has landed a little ahead of schedule, and we should be arriving at the hotel in thirty minutes or so."

  Thirty minutes. Hardly time to take care of one last item of business, let alone try to explain to Chantal why he was going to leave her. Well, Caine considered, it had been nice while it lasted. But it was time to return to reality.

  "Thanks. Could you do me one more favor?"

  "Sure."

  "Stay with them until my replacement arrives."

  There was a long pause on the other end of the line. "Be glad to," Drew said finally.

  "Thanks."

  Hanging up the receiver, Caine dragged his hand wearily over his face. Chantal was still in the shower; he could hear her singing over the sound of the water running. Part of him wanted to join her under the streaming warm water, to make love to her one last time. Another more responsible part of him cautioned against it.

  Picking up the phone again, he placed a long-distance call to Washington.

  "Believe me, Caine," James Sebring said after listening to Caine's request, "the fact that Chantal found out about your little deception and didn't throw a tantrum makes me even more convinced that you're the perfect man for the job. The princess has never taken well to authority figures. Her agreeing to remain under your protection proves that you've a talent for handling her."

  That was definitely one way of putting it, Caine decided grimly. "Sir, you don't understand," he tried again. "Things aren't as simple as they were."

  "Now that you are no longer having to pretend to be someone you're not, I would think things would be a great deal less complicated," the director countered.

  "No disrespect intended, sir, but there is nothing uncomplicated about Chantal." Perhaps it was the way he'd said her name—a softening of his tone, a lingering over the musical sound. Whatever it was, the director's next words gave Caine the impression that he'd revealed far more than he'd intended.

  "Do you know," Sebring said slowly, thoughtfully, "I seem to recall Chantal's father, Prince Eduard, saying much the same thing about her mother thirty years ago."

  "I don't believe you understand, sir," Caine protested.

  "On the contrary, I believe I understand all too well." There was another long pause. "I appreciate your dilemma, Caine. I also know that you're an honorable man and will do the right thing. Including keeping the princess safe."

  He decided to try one last time. "I believe I could be more effective tracking down her assailant." As he'd sat beside her all those long, lonely hours, watching her sleep, Caine had decided to find the man who'd done this to Chantal, to ask for a personal leave of absence in order to get the job done.

  "That's not your duty, Caine," the director said firmly.

  "I want this man, sir."

  "So do we all."

  "If you'd only assign someone else to the princess—"

  "While you're an exemplary agent, I'm ordering you to leave the detective work to the FBI. Is that clear?"

  Caine had worked at the agency long enough to realize when arguing would be futile. "As a bell, sir."

  Chantal was still humming when she exited the bathroom, a fluffy peach bath towel wrapped around her. As she heard Caine requesting to be relieved of his duty, a dark, spreading pain started in the pit of her stomach. He couldn't want to leave her. Not after all they'd shared. Some men might take whatever a woman was offering, then vanish. But not Caine. Please, not Caine, she begged, pressing her hand against her left breast, where the hurt threatened to take root.

  He'd no sooner hung up when Caine heard a slight sound behind him. Turning, he viewed a frighteningly ashen Chantal standing in the doorway. "Are you all right?" he asked, hurrying to her side. "Is it your head?"

  With a calm that belied the turmoil battering away inside her, Chantal met his concerned gaze with a level one of her own. "My head is fine."

  "You're too pale."

  "Honestly, Caine, I'm fine."

  The heat that had been practically emanating from her earlier was gone, and she'd cloaked herself in a sheet of ice. Strange, Caine considered, he would not have thought Chantal had it in her to be cold.

  "You're angry with me."

  Afraid of her tumultuous emotions, Chantal wrapped her arms around herself in an unconscious gesture of self-protection. "I am not."

  He put his fingers under her stubborn chin and tilted her head up. "Yes, you are. And I'll be damned if I know why."

  "You're imagining things, Caine. Just let it be."

  Tempted to shake her, Caine grasped hold of her arms. "No. Not until I get a straight answer."

  "You were arranging for a replacement," she said, jerking free. "Tell me, Caine, did you also expect this replacement to share my bed? Is that one of the perks of being an executive bodyguard?"

  He'd hurt her. Badly, it seemed. Caine wondered if he could do anything right where this woman was concerned.

  "Chantal, listen to me." He put his arms around her, holding her when she tried to resist. "What we've shared the past few days is very important to me. Not just the lovemaking, although that was definitely a highlight, but all of it. Even the arguments. And to tell you the truth, although I'm not at all sure how I feel about what's happening between us, I could never take it—or you—lightly."

  His hands moving up and down her back cajoled as his lips against her temple soothed and excited at the same time. "You were going to leave me," she murmured into the hard line of his shoulder.

  "I was going to explain later, after I made the arrangements."

  "For your replacement. So you could go back to Washington."

  "I wasn't going back to Washington."

  She tilted her head back, studying him gravely. "You weren't?"

  "No. I wanted to track the man down who did this to you. To make him pay."

  A host of emotions coursed through her, thrilling and terrifying at the same time. She reached up and traced the ridged line of his jaw. "I hadn't realized a professional could feel the need for revenge."

  "That's pretty much what Director Sebring said when I asked for a change of assignment." What Caine hadn't told the director was that while he was crawling through all that smoke, he'd realized that the need to protect Chantal had stopped being professional long ago.

  "Does that mean he refused?"

  "Turned me down flat."

  "Then you're staying with me? Until the end of the tour in Los Angeles?"

  Conflict raged in him. He wanted to leave now, while his heart and his life were intact. At the same time he wanted to lock the door, take Chantal to bed and spend the rest of his life making wild, passionate love to her. Go. Stay. The words reverberated inside his brain until he thought he'd go mad.

  "Until Los Angeles," he agreed, lowering his head. When his lips touched hers, ambivalence disintegrated. "Now, if you don't get some clothes on, Princess, I'm going to forget that your parents will be here in less than half an hour."

  Her family. How could she have forgotten that Caine had told her they were flying to America? "I suppose I should warn you."

  "Warn me about what?"

  "My father is a very perceptive man. If he suspects that there is more than business between us, I'm afraid you may be in for a parental grilling."

  "Don't worry about it. I was a Seal before I joined Presidential Security."

  "A seal? Like the sea animal?"

  "The navy's special forces. They trained us to survive torture techniques, so I can probably handle whatever your father might think up."

  Chantal sighed. "It is obvious that you do not know my father."

  The first thing Prince Eduard Giraudeau did upon entering Chantal's suite was to embrace his daughter in a huge bear hug. Then he turned toward Caine, his hands on his hips, a dark glower on his face. "You're O'Bannion."

  Caine would have had to have been deaf not to hear the a
ccusation in Chantal's father's tone. "I am," he replied.

  "Both your president and James Sebring assured me that you would protect my daughter."

  "Papa, Caine saved my life," Chantal protested. "He and Mr. Tremayne risked their own lives to get me out of Blair's house before the flames completely gutted it."

  Eduard harrumphed. "If he'd been doing his job properly, you never would have gotten yourself in such a fix in the first place," he insisted, not taking his fierce eyes from Caine's.

  "You're not telling me anything I haven't told myself a million times since it's happened, Your Highness," Caine said.

  Easing the awkward moment, Burke stepped forward. "I believe introductions are in order. I'm Chantal's brother, Burke. This is. our mother, and I believe you've spoken with Noel."

  As he stood face-to-face with Burke Giraudeau, Caine felt as if he were being thoroughly summed up. The younger prince had a lean, intelligent face and dark eyes that looked as if they never missed a thing. After shaking hands with Chantal's brother, Caine turned toward Jessica. "I've always admired your work, Mrs. Giraudeau. I wish we were meeting under any other circumstances."

  Jessica smiled. "Why, thank you, Mr. O'Bannion, although I wouldn't think you'd be old enough to remember any of my movies."

  "His father was in love with you for years," Chantal offered.

  "Really." Her pleasure was obvious. "I'd love to meet him. Perhaps, when all this is over, if your mother wouldn't mind."

  If anyone else had made such an offer, he would have thought it to be nothing but an attempt at polite conversation during a difficult time. But Jessica seemed sincere. A nice woman, he decided. And even more beautiful than she'd appeared to be on the late show. "My father died several years ago. But I appreciate the offer. Your films gave him a great deal of enjoyment."

  Caine turned to Noel. "Princess," he greeted her, nodding. He observed the two sisters standing together; they were a study in contrasts. Chantal's dark, sultry looks brought to mind rich Gypsy laughter and blazing camp fires. Noel's silvery-blond hair and bluish-violet eyes reminded him of a cool alpine stream rushing through flower-strewn meadows.

  Noel's smile, in its own way, proved every bit as devastating as her sister's. "Please," she said, extending her hand. Her unlacquered nails had been buffed to a glossy sheen. "I thought we'd already settled on Noel."

  As their fingers touched, Caine realized from the look in Noel's eyes that she intuitively knew that he and Chantal had been intimate. Caine's own gaze instantly became shuttered.

  Noel's glance was sympathetic as she looked over at her sister.

  "You needn't have come all this way," Chantal told her family as she took a seat. "As you can see, I'm quite well."

  Jessica Giraudeau poured a cup of tea from the pot that had been delivered by room service immediately after their arrival in Chantal's suite. A superb arranger, Jessica had used the cellular telephone in the limousine to order a light meal on their way to the hotel from the airport.

  "You're as lovely as ever, darling," she agreed, holding the cup out to her daughter. "But when one has a shock, one needs family close by."

  As she took the proffered cup, Chantal thought of all the other times her mother had come to her rescue with a steaming cup of tea. To Jessica, tea was a magic elixir, soothing everything from a headache to a broken heart. "You are all wonderful."

  A slight frown furrowed the smooth line of Jessica's brow as she watched Chantal stir a second spoonful of sugar into her tea, but she held her tongue. "It was all I could do to keep your father from hijacking the airplane in his hurry to cross the Atlantic."

  "They had no business holding the flight up like that," Eduard complained. "I explained the importance of our mission, but the imbeciles refused to listen." Volatile, outspoken, the prince radiated a lingering frustration that had Chantal sympathizing with the Air France flight crew.

  "They listened, Papa," Noel corrected mildly.

  "Then why did they refuse to take off?"

  "Perhaps the fact that the airport was engulfed in a cloud of fog had something to do with it," Burke said dryly. He was perched on the arm of Chantal's chair. "How are you, really, little one?" he asked, brushing her hair away to examine her stitches.

  "I'm fine. Really," she insisted as he gave her one of the long, probing looks that had always been her undoing. "Better than fine."

  "When we find the monster who did this," Eduard said, "I will insist that the legislature bring back the guillotine." He narrowed his eyes in warning to anyone who might want to argue the point. Understanding that he was still afraid and loath to show it, everyone remained silent.

  "And now that we have dispensed with the social amenities, Mr. O'Bannion," the prince said, turning back to Caine, "would you care to tell us exactly how you plan to protect my daughter during the remainder of her time in your country?"

  "Actually, I've been trying to convince your daughter that she should cancel the rest of the tour. But she's proven rather immovable on the subject."

  "Chantal has always known her own mind," Eduard said with the air of a man who might constantly fret over his daughter's intransigence but refused to hear a word of criticism from anyone else.

  "Tenacity is one thing," Caine said. "Pigheadedness quite another."

  " 'Pigheaded'?" Chantal said on a furious gasp.

  "Just calling them like I see them, Princess."

  It took a major effort, but Chantal resisted stamping her foot. "I am not pigheaded. And don't call me Princess."

  The impending fireworks were obvious, as was the electricity arching between them. Seeing the blazing fury in her daughter's eyes, Jessica stood up and put her hand on her husband's arm. "Darling, I am suddenly so tired I can barely stand. I'm afraid that jet lag has caught up with me. Would you mind escorting me to our room? Perhaps later we can all get together and discuss Chantal's plans."

  "But you never have jet lag." He pressed the back of his hand against her forehead, checking for fever. "Perhaps you've taken ill."

  "I'm merely tired," she assured him. "I'll be fine after a rest. Perhaps you'd care to join me."

  Eduard looked back and forth between Caine and his wife, as if struggling to make a decision.

  "You can speak with Mr. O'Bannion later, darling," Jessica suggested adroitly. "When you're not behaving like a hysterical father."

  "Why shouldn't I be?" he grumbled. "That's what I am. But you have a point, as always, my dear. I will allow you to cajole me into behaving in a more civilized fashion."

  "Thank you, Papa," Chantal said.

  He drew her into his arms, pressing his lips against her hair.

  "I love you, chérie," he said gruffly, his deep voice wavering. His dark eyes were suspiciously wet.

  Chantal's own eyes were none too dry as she put her arms around her father, allowing his solid bulk to comfort her. "And I love you. All of you," she said on what was nearly a whisper as her loving gaze took in her mother and brother and sister.

  Caine watched, strangely moved by the scene. He'd been attracted to Chantal from the beginning, but even as he'd begun to admit his feelings to himself, he'd tried to concentrate on her fire, her smoldering sex appeal. Now, as he watched her with her family, saw her in the role of daughter, sister, he had an inkling of another Chantal. A strong, loving woman who, oddly enough, reminded him a bit of his mother.

  "I really am sorry I hurt you," Caine said once they were alone again.

  "You needn't apologize, Caine. I overreacted."

  Caine reached out and twisted a few glossy, dark strands of her hair around his fingers. "I should have realized how you'd take my leaving right after we'd made love."

  "It wasn't your fault. Actually, it was more of a knee-jerk reaction dating back to my ill-fated, highly publicized marriage." Her smile, as she looked up at him, wobbled ever so slightly. "Greg had a habit of disappearing."

  To his surprise, Caine felt a jolt of something that uncomfortably resembled jeal
ousy at the mention of her former husband.

  "I suppose that's not so surprising for a Grand Prix driver." He wondered if Chantal had objected to her husband's traveling in order to earn his own living. Had she honestly expected him to remain in the palace like some royal lapdog? "The racing circuit covers most of the world."

  "I wouldn't have minded the racing. It was his extracurricular activities I found hurtful."

  "The guy played around?" What kind of idiot would stray when he had this sexy, passionate woman waiting for him at home?

  Appearing suddenly uncomfortable, Chantal crossed the room, where she stood looking out the window. Her suite had a breathtaking view of the Logan Circle gardens, but she was not seeing the brilliant flowers. Instead, her vision was directed at a scene several years and many miles away.

  "The first time was on our honeymoon. Greg was scheduled to race in the Monaco Grand Prix the following week, so we'd rented a villa in Eze. A small Riviera village between Monaco and Beaulieu," she explained at his questioning look. "It's a lovely, quiet, intimate little place, perched high on a hill, with cobbled streets and medieval houses topped with dusty red-tiled roofs, all removed from the hustle and bustle of the social hubs like Saint-Tropez and Monte Carlo."

  "Sounds like a great spot for a honeymoon," he said, coming up to stand beside her.

  "That's what I thought. Until I returned from the market, where I'd bought the most luscious fresh strawberries I'd planned to dip in melted chocolate. Greg had teased me about not being able to cook, so I'd bought a cookbook and had decided to begin with the desserts."

  "Knowing you, that makes perfect sense," he agreed, kissing her because it had been much too long.

  "Mmm," she murmured happily as her lips clung lingeringly to his. "I do so love the way you kiss, Caine."

  "You're not so bad, yourself, Princess. So, while you were out at the market, practicing to be a dutiful little housewife, your husband was home boinking the maid."

  "She was not a maid but a singer from the cabaret we'd visited the night before," Chantal corrected. "But yes, he was indeed—" the unfamiliar but easily understandable colloquialism slipped her mind "—whatever it was you said."