Illusions

by Janet Dailey

  “Let’s get right to it, Delaney,” he said. “What do we have to do to protect Lucas Wayne from that madwoman?”

  Before Delaney could ask whether the restraining order had been issued, a petite blonde burst into the room, clad in a blue satin slip dress with rhinestone-studded straps. “I heard the doorbell. Is my driver—” She halted at the sight of Riley and Delaney, and lifted a hand to her throat in a self-conscious and practiced gesture. “I’m intruding. I’m sorry, Arthur.”

  Standing no more than two inches over five feet, the woman was the delicate ingenue type that always made Delaney feel like an awkward giant. Out of nowhere came the lyrics, “Five foot two, eyes of blue, but oh! what those five feet can do.” Delaney knew instantly that behind the blonde’s angelic face and baby blue eyes was a mind constantly working. Even now, the blonde looked at Delaney and Riley with unabashed interest, trying to assess whether they were important.

  “You see”—she wisely aimed her apologetic smile at Riley—“I’ve been waiting forever for a car to come pick me up. Naturally when I heard the doorbell, I thought it was the driver.”

  “An easy mistake,” Riley agreed.

  “These are the security people I called in from the Coast,” Arthur stated.

  “I should have guessed. I knew Mr. Golden was expecting you,” she declared, walking over to extend a slim hand to Riley. “I’m Tory Evans.”

  “Riley Owens.”

  “Delaney Wescott.” Delaney stood straighter, absolutely refusing to slouch. “You were with Mr. Wayne last night. Is that right?”

  “Yes.” There was a demure lowering of her lashes, accompanied by a rush of pink to her cheeks. At that moment Delaney decided Tory Evans’s success in show business was assured; anyone who could blush on cue was bound to make it. “It was a terrifying experience. I have never been more frightened in—”

  Her performance was interrupted by the strident ring of the telephone. Arthur picked it up. “Yes?” Barely four seconds later he hung up and turned to the actress. “Your car is downstairs, Miss Evans.”

  “Thank heaven!” she declared, then caught back her smile and sent a concerned look at Riley. “It is all right if I leave, isn’t it? The police said I wasn’t in any danger, that Rina wasn’t after me.”

  Riley smiled and nodded. “I’m sure it’s safe for you to leave.”

  “Thank you.” She pressed a hand on his forearm and let it trail off as she moved past him toward the door. “I’d stay if I thought it would help Lucas, but I’m afraid it would just make everything worse.” She glanced quickly at Arthur. “Tell Lucas goodbye for me. The door to his bedroom was closed and I didn’t want to wake him if he was asleep. Ask him to call me later, will you?”

  Arthur smiled in reply, which she took to be an affirmative. When the door closed behind her, Arthur smiled with cynical amusement.

  “Last night she was desperate to keep her name out of the papers, afraid it would ruin her image of virginal innocence,” Arthur told them. “This morning she sees the coverage this is getting. Now she’s furious about all the publicity she’s missing. She’s been on the phone with her agent half the morning—that is, when she could unglue herself from the television set. She thinks she’s going to be the next Lolita and get a million dollars for a nude spread in Playboy. A smart agent might get it for her, too.” He raised his hands and formed an imaginary frame of a headline. “‘The blonde who drove another woman to attempt murder.’ It would work. ’Course, she’d need to have a sexier hairstyle—and drop that saccharine act.”

  “I have a feeling you didn’t tell her that.” Delaney smiled.

  Arthur smiled back. “Not without a piece of the action.”

  “That’s what I thought,” she said. “Now—back to business. Was a restraining order issued?”

  “It’s been issued, but I don’t know whether it’s been served.”

  “I’m curious,” Riley spoke up. “Did she file countercharges, claim that Wayne assaulted her? Maybe even hinted at past physical abuse?”

  “Sid Bloom—the attorney I called in—he mentioned that possibility. So far, she hasn’t. Personally, I don’t think she will. She can get more mileage and public sympathy out of playing the wronged woman. That’s the tack I would recommend, and Rina Cole has some sharp people behind her. If she didn’t, her career would have gone down the tubes long ago.”

  “The legal maneuverings and jockeying for the most favorable press position aren’t my concern,” Delaney said. “Only his security.”

  “I will need some advice from you, Delaney. I have his own PR people coming over this afternoon so we can put our heads together and figure out how we’ll combat whatever she throws at us. But the last thing I want is to antagonize her into trying again. At the same time, I can’t sit by and let her smear his name.”

  “I wouldn’t be too concerned about that,” Delaney told him. “It’s true Rina may get a lot of public sympathy as the wronged woman, but that won’t hurt your client. If anything, it should enhance his appeal. The infidelity of men is notorious. And there’s nothing that attracts—or challenges—a woman more than a Casanova with a string of broken hearts behind him. It seems to be a basic flaw in us.”

  “True.” He nodded thoughtfully. “I like that.”

  “I’m glad,” Delaney said and started to unfasten the flap to her shoulder bag.

  At that moment, Lucas Wayne appeared in the dining room arch, a glass of orange juice in his hand. Delaney recognized him instantly. How could she not when in the last three years his face had been plastered all over Hollywood and half the country?

  There was no question it was a handsome face, sculpted in strong, roguish lines with just enough character to keep it from seeming too perfect. An adoring reporter had once raved that he had Brando’s bedroom eyes, Eastwood’s smile, and Redford’s hair, albeit a much darker and longer version. Delaney had never been able to dispute that. Now, seeing him in the flesh, she found even less reason, despite the day-old stubble that shadowed his cheeks and the tracks left by combing fingers in his rumpled hair.

  All he had on were the bottoms to a pair of paisley silk pajamas. They rode low on his hips, exposing the navel in the middle of his incredibly flat stomach. He had a marvelous physique, his shoulders wide and all the muscles well defined.

  “Sorry, Arthur. I didn’t know you had company.”

  When he started to turn away, Arthur called him back, “Don’t go, Lucas. Come in. I want you to meet Delaney Wescott.”

  Lucas Wayne swung back, his glance briefly falling on her before skipping to Riley. But she felt the impact of it and took a quick, steadying breath, realizing that his charm, his magnetism, his charisma—or whatever the current buzzword happened to be—was potent. It was something she needed to remember, especially when she knew she had all the normal urges—urges that hadn’t been satisfied in some time.

  As he crossed the room, Delaney made another discovery: he was tall. He wasn’t one of those Hollywood larger-than-life illusions; he was actually tall, topping six feet by a good two inches. For a change, she was the one who would be eye-level with someone’s mouth instead of the other way around.

  He went straight to Riley and extended a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Delaney, although I wish it could be under different circumstances.”

  Riley threw an amused look. “I’m Delaney Wescott,” she corrected, not at all surprised by the mix-up. It wasn’t the first time a prospective client had expected Delaney Wescott to be a man.

  His head snapped toward her; a frown of disbelief claimed his expression. “You are Delaney Wescott?”

  “I am,” she replied evenly and gestured at Riley. “You were about to shake hands with my associate, Riley Owens.”

  If Lucas Wayne had heard her, he gave no sign of it as he continued to stare at her. Then, suddenly, unexpectedly, he threw his head back and laughed.

  Delaney stiffened. Over the years she’d encountered varied reactions fr
om prospective clients to her gender—anger over a perceived deception, open skepticism of her ability, even an occasional chauvinistic display of outright rejection—but she had never been laughed at. She felt anger rising icy-hot, and fought to suppress it.

  With laugh lines still creasing his face, Lucas Wayne turned from her, declaring: “Arthur, you are priceless! When you told me you were importing more bodyguards from the Coast, I expected a pair of musclebound gorillas. Not a woman. What is she? The latest status symbol?” he asked, turning to again survey her.

  Delaney clasped her hands behind her back, the action accenting the width of her square shoulders. Her chin lifted with a certain resoluteness that gave a cool tilt to her head.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Wayne, but I fail to see the humor that you so obviously do.” Her voice had a nice frost to it that matched the smooth smile she gave him.

  “Maybe because you’re not a man,” he suggested and raised the juice glass to his mouth.

  “You’ve lost me again, Mr. Wayne.”

  Lucas Wayne found himself admiring her granite poise, a poise that didn’t crack despite the very human anger he sensed in her. “It’s simple, Miss Wescott. You see, I wasn’t exactly overjoyed at the thought of being accompanied everywhere by a pair of Vegas rejects—my male ego surfacing, I suppose. I prefer to think I can take care of myself, that I don’t need a bunch of muscle to protect me.” His smile widened, his gaze drifting over the womanly curves of her long body. “It never occurred to me a bodyguard came packaged like you.”

  “Life is full of surprises, isn’t it?” A trace of acid humor crept into her voice.

  “It is,” he agreed lazily. “Which leads me to wonder whether you’re good at your job?”

  “She’s good, Lucas.” Arthur Golden pushed away from the bar and came toward him. “You can’t hire better. I wouldn’t have called her otherwise.”

  “Arthur is telling you the truth,” Delaney inserted, careful to sound confident, but not cocky. “My company is very good at what we do, Mr. Wayne.”

  “Really?” he replied with heavy skepticism and turned away to leave, then swung sharply back, his glance narrowing with sudden question. “Wait a minute.” He shot a look at Arthur. “Is this the same personal security firm that made all the headlines last year when they saved the life of Sanford Green, that big, high-profile executive?”

  “The same.” Arthur’s expression was somewhat smug.

  Lucas Wayne turned his attention on Delaney with new and reassessing interest. “You killed the guy who was after him.”

  “It was a regrettable incident.” Delaney took no pride in it. “My company operates on the basis of restricting our clients’ exposure to danger. We do our best to avoid situations where we have to place ourselves between you and danger. Or—to put it more succinctly—we have every intention of spotting trouble before it ever gets close to you.”

  “You can’t know it, Mr. Wayne,” Riley inserted, breaking his self-imposed silence, a faint smile lingering at the corners of his mouth. “But that’s one of Delaney’s many rules to live by: The best way to avoid trouble is to see it coming.”

  “That sounds very wise,” Lucas Wayne remarked. “But you don’t always succeed, do you?”

  There was a hairline crack in her poise, but only Riley saw it. “Let me put it this way—all my clients, both past and present, are still alive and—without a scratch, I might add.” Delaney glanced pointedly at the trio of long red marks on his forearm.

  Lucas laughed softly at that, then turned the full force of his wicked smile on her. “You have me there, Miss Wescott.”

  “Delaney,” she instructed and pretended not to notice that he was flirting with her. “If you don’t mind, I prefer to dispense with such formality. Mr. Wayne can become a mouthful in an emergency.”

  “Delaney,” he repeated as if testing the sound of it, the glint in his dark eyes a little too warm and much too intimate.

  She turned crisply from it and walked over to her purse. “Speaking of formalities”—she opened it—“I have a contract for you to sign.” She gave it to him to read over, explaining, “It spells out our rates, the type of expenses you’ll be required to reimburse, and the weekly billing schedule.”

  He skimmed the document, borrowed a pen from Arthur, signed it, and handed it back to her. Delaney tucked it into her purse and took out a notebook and pen, then sat down on the sofa, moving a navy silk pillow out of the way. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to ask you a few questions. There’s a great deal that has to be planned, organized, and coordinated, but first Riley and I need some information from you.”

  Taking their cue from her, the others found themselves seats. Riley perched himself on the arm of the sofa near an ashtray; Arthur hitched his trousers and sat on the sofa, while Lucas Wayne settled himself in an armchair positioned at right angles to the sofa.

  “About the movie you’re doing,” Delaney began, “how many days of filming do you have left?”

  “Probably four. They shot around me today.”

  “Are we talking soundstage or location shots?”

  “Both.”

  Scenes shot on location invariably involved public places, and any public place represented a potential security risk. Aware of that, Delaney said, “You’ll need to get together with the line producer today, Riley, and take a look at the location sites. While you’re at it, you might as well check out the soundstage.”

  “Right.” Riley jotted a note to himself in the skinny spiral pad he carried in his suit pocket. “I’ll also see about coordinating our operations with the film’s existing security.”

  “Good.” She added that to the list under Riley’s name, then turned again to Lucas Wayne. “In the meantime we’ll need a copy of your shooting schedule and your script for the remaining scenes as well.”

  “I can get that for you,” Arthur told her.

  “The sooner the better. What about the rest of the schedule this week? Any interviews, parties, personal appearances, dinners—anything we should know about?”

  “I’m supposed to have dinner this week with the producer and his wife, but I don’t remember what night.”

  “Forget it,” Arthur said. “That can be canceled. I’ll handle it.”

  Delaney put a question mark beside that notation and moved on. “How long will you be staying in New York after you’ve wrapped up the film?”

  “Not any longer than I have to,” Lucas replied. “With luck, I’ll leave on Saturday.”

  “Will you be taking a commercial flight to L.A.?”

  “I’m not going to L.A.”

  She looked up from her notes. “Then where?”

  “Aspen.”

  “Aspen, Colorado?” The mere mention of the place awakened old memories, old hurts. Delaney had never been to Aspen in her life, but…he had lived there. As far as she knew, he still did. She felt Riley’s gaze on her, and carefully avoided looking in his direction.

  “Yes, Aspen, Colorado,” Lucas confirmed. “I have a house there. When the movie’s finished, I have a month free. I thought I’d go to Aspen and get away from it all for a while.” He eyed her curiously. “Why? Is that a problem?”

  “Not really,” Riley spoke up, covering for her. She threw him a grateful look, then hesitated, surprised by the hardness in his expression. “It just means that Delaney will need to leave a couple days early to get everything organized on that end before you arrive.”

  “Who knows?” Delaney grabbed a desperate, half-formed hope. “By the end of the week, it may not be necessary for us to accompany you to Aspen—at least, not both of us.”

  “What do you mean, it won’t be necessary?” Arthur frowned.

  Thinking fast, she said, “As I assess the current situation, our role will consist mainly of shielding Mr. Wayne from reporters and any misguided Rina Cole fans who might turn nasty out of sympathy for her.”

  “What about Rina?” Arthur argued. “She tried to kill him, remember?�
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  “Of course. But I question whether she poses any immediate threat. Assuming she would want to make another try at him, all the media attention will effectively hamstring her.”

  “Maybe that’s true today, even tomorrow, but what about next week? Next month?” Arthur protested. “This woman blames Lucas for everything that’s gone wrong in her career the last two years. She thinks he’s out to ruin her. I tell you she’s gone over the top. It’s become an obsession with her. Do you think those nobodies out on the street are the only ones who can go berserk? Just because she’s Rina Cole, does that mean she can’t go off the deep end?”

  “Of course not—”

  “Then I don’t want to hear any more of this nonsense that you aren’t going to Aspen with Lucas. I didn’t fly you all the way out from L.A. to do a half-assed job of protecting him. I—”

  “Arthur, I only mentioned that as a possibility for the two of you to consider,” Delaney broke in. Lucas Wayne was the biggest celebrity ever to engage her services. To have him as a client meant success in a town where success was everything. She had worked too long and too hard to lose a chance like this—even if it meant going to Aspen. “If you think it’s necessary for us to go to Aspen, then we’ll go. But that’s your decision to make, not mine.”

  “Then consider it made,” Arthur stated. “You are going.”

  “Fine.” Delaney reluctantly made a side note to have Glenda obtain the necessary authorization from the state of Colorado to allow them to be legally armed.

  “Speaking of Rina,” Riley inserted, “do we know where she is now? On our way from the airport, we heard on the radio that she’d been released on bond.”

  “According to my attorney, she’s at a friend’s apartment somewhere on Fifth Avenue across from Central Park.”

  “It might pay to monitor her comings and goings,” Riley suggested.

  Delaney nodded. “Exactly what I was thinking.”

  “I know a guy—a paparazzo,” Arthur said. “He’s probably camped outside her door right now. For a price, he’ll keep me posted.”