Glass Slipper Bride

by Arlene James

  “I have the flowers,” a female said, coming into the room behind Zach, “and the makeup base.”

  “Thank God!” the man with the ponytail exclaimed, practically bowling over Zach in his hurry to take the small bottle of cosmetics from the blue-jeaned newcomer who brushed past them both. The tuxedo didn’t even bother to look up from his magazine.

  “Shall I return the rest or keep them on consignment?” the tall woman wanted to know.

  “Consignment,” said the middle-aged blonde, carrying a pair of shoes in one hand and a sapphire necklace draped over the other.

  “I wish we had time to wash this mess,” the ponytail complained, yanking free the comb.

  “Anyone know when the limo arrives?” asked the tuxedo disinterestedly.

  Jillian cupped her hands around her mouth. “Camille?”

  The pink blonde turned on her. “Do you have to shout, Jilly? Can’t you see your sister’s busy?”

  Jillian ignored her. “Camille?”

  “I’m not a miracle worker, you know,” the ponytail said, furiously back-combing someone’s hair.

  “I could use a cold drink.” said the tuxedo.

  “I’ll get it,” said blue jeans, “as soon as I find the evening bag.”

  “Camille,?” Jillian said once more above the general hubbub.

  They all ignored her, even the pink blonde, who was busy laying out the sapphire necklace and a pair of matching earrings on the bed. Zachary had had enough. He put two fingers into his mouth and let loose a long, shrill whistle that brought the whole room to an instant stop.

  He looked from face to face and failed to find what he was looking for. “I have an appointment with Camille Waltham,” he announced in a tone that commanded not only attention but obedience. “Where is she?”

  Bodies shifted and drifted, clearing a path through the center of the room. There in front of the massive, multipaned windows stood a small French-provincial dressing table and before it on a tufted stool sat a dainty, fragile woman with the features of a porcelain figurine and vivid blue eyes. Even ratted wildly, her long golden-blond hair made a gleaming halo around her angelic face. She was smaller than he’d imagined and appeared surprisingly vulnerable in a royal-blue silk robe that seemed much too large for her. She looked him over, head to toe, with her calm, vibrant eyes, and then she smiled welcomingly.

  His stomach turned over. He glanced almost guiltily at Jillian, who had pushed her glasses up on top of her head, and the very same smile as that aimed at him from across the room curved her mouth.

  Double trouble, he thought with ominous confidence—and wondered if it was too late to run.

  Chapter Two

  Camille Waltham rose regally From the velvet tuft, her dainty feet encased in ridiculously elegant silk slippers with bows on the toes. She smoothed down her wild hair with both hands, then planted her hands at her slender hips and lifted her chin, blue eyes glittering as they held his. Something hovered about her cupid’s bow mouth, held at bay by sheer determination. Then she abruptly switched her gaze to his left, targeting Jillian, suddenly imperious.

  “You said he was good. You didn’t say he was good looking.”

  The unctuous tone of her voice soured in the pit of Zach’s stomach, raising distaste and instant dislike. Good-looking? Was he supposed to be flattered? Even knowing that somehow he would have been, had the comment come from anyone else, didn’t make him like the woman any better. Jillian, at least, seemed to realize that her sister’s behavior was tasteless. She attempted to normalize the situation by rushing into introductions.

  “Zachary Keller, I’d like you to meet my sister, Camille Waltham. Camille, this is Mr. Keller.”

  Camille at first appeared piqued; then abruptly she floated across the room and offered a small, perfect hand, her gaze measuring him with the efficiency of a laser beam. He wondered if she meant for him to kiss it. Instead, he gave it a brief squeeze and dropped it like a hot potato. Something indecipherable flashed across her face and was quickly replaced by hauteur. She addressed herself to Jillian once again.

  “I suppose he would be an acceptable bodyguard.” She turned away and floated back toward the dressing table. Casting a coy look over one shoulder, she added, “He’d have to pose as a suitor, of course, a love interest, a boyfriend.”

  Jillian glanced an apology in his direction and opened her mouth, but he beat her to the reply.

  “No way. Out of the question.”

  Camille Waltham turned back to him almost petulantly. “Oh? And why is that?”

  “Because I have a few ironclad rules concerning my business,” he told her, folding his hands and widening his stance, “and number one is that I don’t get involved—or pretend to be involved—romantically with my clients. Period.”

  She lifted her chin. “I don’t see why—”

  “It tends to aggravate the problem, especially in partner abuse cases. Otherwise, it’s just bad policy.”

  She inclined her head. “Surely you can make exceptions for high-profile—”

  “No exceptions,” he interrupted flatly. “The bottom line is this. If I’m going to help you, you’re going to have to do things my way.”

  “And if I don’t?” she challenged mildly.

  He shrugged. “I’m the professional here, so I give the orders. If that doesn’t work for you, find somebody else to take care of your stalker.”

  Camille shot a glance at Jillian, then suddenly dropped onto the tuft in front of her dressing table. “Who says I’m being stalked?”

  Jillian stepped forward once more, worriedly glancing in Zach’s direction. “Camille, you have to take this seriously. You know how Janzen is. He won’t just go away, because that’s exactly what you want him to do.”

  “And whose fault is that?” the blonde in pink snapped.

  Camille turned a resentful glare on the woman, then seemed to subside, leaning an elbow on the edge of the table. “What do you recommend?” she asked reluctantly.

  Zach assumed the question was meant for him.

  “For starters,” he said, “I recommend you send the flunkies out for coffee and give me a few minutes of your undivided attention. Now.”

  For a moment he thought, hoped, she would refuse, but then she jerked one hand and the majority of the room’s occupants tried to beat one another to the door. Only two remained, Jillian and the blonde in pink. He turned a pointed glare on the blonde, who drew herself up sternly then ruined the effect by sniping pettily at Jillian, “If she can stay, so can L”

  “They both stay,” said Camille. sounding bored. “Jillian, as you know, is my sister, and this is my mother, Gerry.” She waved a hand at the pink suit.

  “That’s ‘Geraldine,’” the blonde in pink said, “Geraldine Hunsell Baker.”

  “Actually, that’s Geraldine Porter Waltham Hunsell Baker,” Camille said slyly.

  Zach made no acknowledgment of the litany of names, not even the two socially prominent ones. Instead, he removed a small notebook and an ink pen from his jacket pocket and prepared to take notes. “All right,” he said. “Let’s have the whole story.”

  Camille shrugged and began applying makeup with tiny sponges as she talked, explaining how she had met, dated and eventually become engaged to a once successful but now-unemployed advertising executive named Janzen Eibersen, whom she had allowed to move in with her. According to her, Eibersen had at first seemed to actually enjoy the “public socializing” that, again according to her, was part of her career. Gradually, however, it became obvious that Janzen had a drinking problem, and he began embarrassing her. They argued, and he drank more. Absenteeism became a problem on his job, and he was eventually fired. When she broke up with him and threw him out the house, he blamed her with all his problems and vowed that “she wouldn’t get away with it.”

  His “punishment” of her began with repeated phone calls and letters that were returned or destroyed unopened. He had even called her boss to complain that she wa
s trying to control and ruin his life. His latest effort was an act of vandalism that had resulted in a broken window, a sure sign of growing desperation, even though Camille sniggered that it had to have been an accident because Janzen would never risk injuring himself to make a point She had no idea where to locate Eibersen and had met only a few of his friends. She believed that he would grow tired of the game when he saw that he was not affecting her noticeably and just go away, but for Jillian’s sake, she was willing to take the situation more seriously. Jillian, for her part, stood mutely with her arms wrapped around her middle as if holding in something that she desperately wanted to say.

  Zach was uncertain what to think, really. Was Janzen dangerous or merely irritating? Had Jillian overreacted, or was Camille downplaying the seriousness of the situation? He knew only one thing for certain: it made no sense to take chances. If Camille was right, she’d have spent some money—which she obviously could afford—for no definite reason. If she was wrong, spending that money on her own security would be the best investment she ever made.

  “I’ll want to see that window before I go,” he said, “but right now I have a few questions.”

  She waved a hand as if granting him permission to ask what he would while she applied lipstick with a brush.

  He tamped down his irritation and focused. “Has this Eibersen ever hit you?”

  She considered her reflection in the mirror for a moment, smacked her lips and said, “Not intentionally.”

  Jillian made a slight movement that he caught with the corner of his eye. Turning his head, he lifted a brow, inviting her to speak. She did so as if explaining for her sister was something she did every day. “Janzen was drunk. He took a swing at Plato, missed and clipped Camille on the chin.”

  “She could hardly speak for a week,” Geraldine said, as though it were somehow Jillian’s fault.

  “And never missed a newscast,” Camille said, batting her eyelashes as she brushed mascara into them.

  Zach asked, “Who’s Plato?”

  “Camille’s hairdresser,” Jillian answered.

  “The gray ponytail? What’d Eibersen have against him?”

  Camille capped the mascara and tossed it away. “Jan liked my full attention,” she said, giving her full attention to her reflection in the small lit mirror standing atop the dressing table.

  Zach could just see a drunken Janzen trying to talk lucidly with a preoccupied Camille while the hairdresser fluttered around her ratting her hair until it filled the room. He could almost feel sorry for the guy, but that didn’t mean he could overlook the fact that Eibersen had thrown that punch. He sighed. “Any other episodes of violence?”

  Camille picked up a hairbrush and began dragging it through her shoulder-length hair, smoothing and caressing. Jillian said, “He used to throw things, stomp around yelling and screaming.”

  “He threw a bowl of caviar on the kitchen floor,” Geraldine said, no doubt considering it proof of insanity. “A crystal bowl.”

  “He drove his car up onto the sidewalk, knocked over some potted trees and crashed right into the barrier in front of the TV station,” Jillian said quietly. “I was at the reception desk. I thought he was going to come right through the glass into the building.”

  No doubt about it, the guy definitely had a screw loose. Zach finished scribbling in his notebook, flipped it closed and dropped it into his pocket. “Okay. Here’s the deal. I’ve heard enough to believe he can be dangerous, and you’re a public personality, Ms. Waltham, which makes you even easier to get at than the average individual. So I propose we bring in a couple of subcontractors to keep an eye on you.”

  She turned away from the mirror then. “I can’t have a couple of goons trailing me everywhere I go. What would people think?”

  Zach just barely curbed the urge to roll his eyes. “I don’t use ‘goons,’ as you put it. These men are professionals. They can keep a discreet distance. It won’t be enough to completely protect you, so you’ll have to be on your guard.”

  Camille turned back to the mirror, her reflection laughing at him. “For Pete’s sake. Keller, all I want you to do is stop the man from bothering me. He’s not trying to kill anybody.”

  “Not yet,” Zach said. “But who can say he won’t cross that line if he gets frustrated enough.”

  She had coaxed her hair into a sleek flip. She smoothed it now with her hands, turning her head this way and that “Jan was born frustrated,” she said in a bored tone, “but he’s not stupid. He won’t do anything in front of witnesses, and since I’m never without an escort in public, I don’t see what the problem is.”

  Zach felt an instant of relief. He could just turn around and walk out now. He’d given her his take on the problem, and she’d rejected it. Nothing was keeping him here now—except a pair of big, sky-soft eyes clouded with worry. It occurred to him that if he washed his hands of Camille Waltham right here and now he could ask her sister out on a proper date, and just the thought of that kind of freedom scared him right back into Camille Waltham’s corner.

  “Is that tuxedo in there an example of the kind of escort you take out in public with you?” he demanded.

  It was Geraldine who came to the man’s defense. “And just what’s wrong with my ex-stepson?” she asked in a mystified tone.

  Zach smirked. “I’m sure he’s from the very best of families, ma’am, but I doubt he could disarm a cranky toddler with a sucker, let alone a drunk with a grudge and a gun.”

  The color bled right out of her face. “We don’t know that Jan has a gun,” she said weakly.

  “We don’t know that he doesn’t.”

  He gave that a few seconds to sink in before he went on, addressing himself to Camille this time. “Maybe we can compromise with protection in public only, provided you follow my instructions.”

  “Listen to him, Camille,” Jillian pleaded softly. “Please.”

  Camille rolled her eyes. “Oh, all right, if you’re that scared of the harmless loser, I’ll let the big, bad expert handle it.”

  Jillian seemed relieved, but Zach frowned. He didn’t like being put down by a stuck-up little broad with more hair than sense, but he really didn’t like watching her put down the sister who was so obviously concerned for her. Still, their interpersonal relationships were no business of his. His business was protecting the little witch, and he got down to it without further ado.

  “Starting tomorrow,” he said, “I’ll want a list of your public appearances so I can have someone on hand to protect you. I’ll need a photo of Eibersen to show them.”

  “I’ll have my secretary take care of both,” Camille said tersely.

  “You should be safe at the office,” Zach went on. “Security’s usually pretty tight at television stations, but I’ll check to be sure. How do you get to work?”

  “The station provides a limo.”

  “Okay. I’ll talk to the driver. Now about this house. I noticed a security system monitor in the front hall. Is it activated?”

  Camille shook her head. “It was here when I bought the place. I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Well, I do,” Zach said. He took out his wallet and went through it until he found the card he wanted. Walking forward, he laid it on the corner of her dressing table. “Call that number and get the system activated.”

  She glanced at the card, picked it up and held it out to Jillian, who hurried forward and took it. Obviously Jillian would be deputized to take care of the details on the home front, so he addressed the next order to her.

  “Call a locksmith and get the locks changed. Even if Eibersen never had his own key, the locks I’ve seen so far are more decoration than security. I want a dead bolt and chain on every outside door. Got that?”

  Jillian nodded solemnly. He took another card from his shirt pocket and handed it over, knowing that it contained nothing but a ten digit number. “That’s how you can reach me, anytime, anywhere, in case of an emergency. And I do mean an emergency.”
He turned back to Camille, brushing back the sides of his coat to settle his hands at his waist. “If you want to talk over arrangements or check on my progress, you call the office. Understand?”

  Camille swiveled all the way around on her upholstered stool then. “What progress?” she asked.

  “I’m going to do some investigating,” he said, “see if I can locate Eibersen and figure out what he’s up to. I should have a better handle on the situation in a few days. I like to know what I’m up against”

  Camille sniffed at that. “You’re up against a hapless boozer,” she said dismissively.

  “Maybe so,” he said, “but all it takes to pull a trigger is a finger that works.”

  “You don’t really think he’d try to kill her, do you?” Geraldine asked worriedly.

  He gave her his most reassuring look. “I don’t know, but until I do, I don’t want her taking any chances. That clear?” He addressed that last to the room at large and got murmurs and nods. “Okay. Now, where’s that window?”

  “I’ll show you,” Jillian said, and he held out an arm, turning toward the door with her.

  It was then that Camille Waltham finally remembered her manners. She came up off the tuffet and flitted across the room toward them, calling, “Oh, Mr. Keller.” She stopped and smiled. “Zachary.”

  “‘Zach,”’ he responded, letting her know that he had no objection to the familiarity and that she had his attention.

  She sparkled in a very deliberate manner and said, a little breathlessly, “Thank you. I appreciate you taking the time to handle this.”

  “You’ll get a bill,” he told her ungraciously, disliking the sparkle as much as the hauteur.

  She turned on a brilliant smile. “Of course.” She tugged on the sash of her robe, letting it fall open as she switched her attention to her sister. “Send everyone in, Jilly. And tuck in that shirttail. You look like a rebellious teenager.”

  Zach was unmoved by the flash of compact curves that he got before she whirled away, so much so that he didn’t even bother to react. Instead, he grabbed Jillian’s hand, keeping her from tucking in that shirttail as she’d been instructed, and all but dragged her out of the room. Rebellious teenager, indeed. Somebody ought to take Camille down a peg or two, but it wouldn’t be him. Nosinee, Bob. Not in this life. She wasn’t his sister, after all. He found himself wanting to say something about it to Jillian, but he reminded himself that it wasn’t any of his business. None whatsoever. And that was just the way he wanted it to stay.