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www.millsandboon.co.uk
To Melissa Jeglinksi, who provides focus, encouragement and laughs. I hate it when you’re right! And to Harlold & Ruth—I must have been in the “lucky” line when they handed out in-laws. You’ve been the cherry on top of my hot fudge sundae. I love you both.
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
One
He had been watching her for seven hours, since she’d left her Charlestown brownstone and taken a cab to Boston’s Logan airport. Maintaining a discreet distance, he’d kept her in sight as they checked in at the airlines, then they passed the next half hour in the club lounge, where he feigned interest in a paperback murder mystery as she tapped efficiently on her laptop computer, oblivious to his watchful eye. She spoke with only one person at length, engaging in a subdued debate with a fellow laptop user about spread-sheet software.
Shortly before takeoff, she gathered her belongings, and he trailed her to the airplane, his gaze touching every person, calculating who might interfere with the successful completion of his newest assignment.
Now they were a little over an hour from touchdown at San Francisco International. He’d used the long hours to append his personal knowledge of her and the written information he’d been given the day before. The facts—Paige O’Halloran, twenty-eight years old, the only child of Patrick O’Halloran, owner of the third largest shipping line out of Boston; graduated first in her class from Smith College, earned her MBA at Harvard; employed in her father’s firm for five years—current position, comptroller.
Another fact—she’d recently done something completely out of character for her, the results of which were still toppling dominoes.
From his vantage point across the aisle and one seat back from her he had passed the time by adding his own observations to the dossier he’d been given. He deduced that she was accustomed to traveling, because the moment she took her seat, she slipped off her high heels and donned soft ballet-style slippers. She ignored the movie to instead work on her computer, and no amount of turbulence fazed her. She simply steadied her computer with one hand and continued to enter information with the other. She carried no bestseller to while away the hours, instead flipped through U.S. News & World Report.
She visited the rest room twice during the flight, and he noticed with no small degree of surprise that her dark green skirt and ivory blouse never wrinkled; her medium brown hair didn’t droop a fraction from its elegant French twist; her makeup didn’t fade, except for her lipstick, which she replaced several times with the same bronze hue. She put her seat back once during the long flight, resting her eyes, but hadn’t slept. She chose the vegetarian entrée off the menu, consumed a glass of California Chardonnay, and finished everything on her tray except the two chocolate truffles packaged in a tiny box, which she dropped into her briefcase. She never failed to thank the flight attendant for his service and smiled as she made eye contact.
Her actions bespoke self-assurance and control, exactly as he had expected.
Conversely, her physical self seemed delicate, almost fragile, like a finely carved cameo, which he hadn’t expected. Although above average in height for a woman, she was small boned and pale skinned, as if easily bruised or broken. Her body was shaped more like a freeway than a mountain road—until she turned around. What she lacked in curves up front she more than made up for in the backside, her rear being nicely rounded, upside-down-heart shaped and full, her long legs the reason high heels were created.
In short, Paige O’Halloran was a woman who generally blended in with the background. Her first impression was probably no impression. Excluding the tantalizing view she offered walking away, there was nothing special to draw the eye, nothing in her mannerisms to call attention to herself, nothing that said, “Look at me. I’m special.”
If he hadn’t known about her “unfortunate adventure,” he would have guessed she was perfectly content with her life. But she had ruptured that image with her one indiscretion—and that made her intriguing, a dangerous pull in his line of work, in which allowing himself to be intrigued could mean personal disaster.
The cabin lights came on abruptly, a silent announcement of their imminent arrival. As passengers stirred, he made a quick trip to the rest room before the flight attendant served a light snack. On his return the subject of his observation dropped a floppy disk into the aisle as she packed away her computer.
He crouched to retrieve it, then paused as her scent drifted over him. He’d been blessed—or cursed, he couldn’t decide which—with exceptionally keen senses, but his sense of smell was extraordinary. Recognizing a person’s scent, even masked artificially with fragrance, had saved his hide uncounted times. He knew the smell of fear, sometimes subtle, sometimes overwhelming. He knew the smell of arousal. He had identified and mentally cataloged a staggering number of perfumes, colognes and after-shave lotions.
He couldn’t, however, identify her perfume—and that bothered the hell out of him. He breathed in several times, committing it to memory, but the fact he couldn’t give it a name irritated him; he arranged facts and observations in his mental file cabinet in alphabetical, chronological and logical order, and he liked it that way. But he could identify only elements of her perfume—an undertone of jasmine, a whiff of...rose? Maybe. But the overall effect was not exclusively floral. He’d figure it out later; he would have plenty of time.
He started to hand her floppy disk to her when his gaze settled on a subtle wrinkle of fabric along her thigh. A garter. This controlled, efficient, orderly woman wore a garter belt?
Shattered. All his perceptions of her were broken by that knowledge. Paige O’Halloran was a panty hose kind of woman; he would have bet his ample financial portfolio on it.
Her hand came into view, extended to receive the disk from him, and he noted short, unpolished fingernails, a clue to her steady use of a computer keyboard, no doubt, especially the smaller keys on laptops, but also indicative of her no-nonsense personality. He felt more comfortable slotting her into that pigeonhole.
“Thank you,” she said, her gaze sending a silent question his way as he delayed returning her disk.
Her eyes, he noted, were a kind of marbled hazel, more green than blue. Or was it the green eye shadow she wore that made them seem that way?
Mumbling something reminiscent of “You’re welcome,” he returned to his seat, willing his thoughts away from the perfume he couldn’t identify and the damned garter belt he couldn’t reconcile with the woman. He couldn’t allow himself any mental diversions.
He had orders to follow.
* * *
Paige O’Halloran slowed her steps when she spotted the uniformed man holding up a sign neatly penned with O’Halloran as she entered the terminal at the San Francisco airport. She approached the short, brawny man and identified herself.
“Are you waiting for me or another—”
“You, miss.”
She observed the placid expression on the fifty-something man who looked more like a boxer than a chauffeur. She didn’t take comfort in the once-broken-but-not-properly-set nose or the scartissue ridges scattered across his face. “I didn’t order a limousine.”
The man pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and passed it to her—a fax on O’Halloran Shipping letterhead, signed by her father, authorizing her pickup from the airport.
“I’ll accompany you to the baggage area, miss. If you would identify your luggage for me, I’ll take it from there.” He wrestled her briefcase and computer pack from her resisting hands, then he turned from her, indicating with a hitch of his head that she should follow.
It wasn’t her birthday, so why had her father arranged this surprise? She felt guilty enough having to fly first class this trip, but her need for space to prepare for the three upcoming meetings and her last-minute airline reservation had necessitated it. Her father knew she watched every penny of company expenses, never granting herself any luxuries she wouldn’t allow another employee. She called it streamlining the budget; he called it being unnecessarily tightfisted. But Paige remembered their almost endless years of struggling better than he did.
Standing beside the baggage carousel, she tapped her fingertips together, not knowing what to do with her hands, missing the familiar appendage of her briefcase. The small purse that held little more than her wallet and keys hung lightly from her shoulder, not requiring attention. She satisfied herself that her precious bags were safe with the driver, then her gaze strayed around the baggage claim area. It was close to nine o’clock at night, but midnight Boston time. People stood yawning and stretching, shifting foot to foot as they waited for their luggage to appear.
Her glance settled on a man who stood directly across from her, noticeably motionless—the man who had picked up her floppy disk on the plane and returned it to her...finally. He was big. She hadn’t realized how big, because on the plane he’d been crouched beside her. But she saw now how very tall he was—and big. A bodybuilder, undoubtedly. Military, she decided, eyeing the short haircut and smooth-shaven jaw. Except that he had a lone wolf sort of look to him. Something about him...
Sunglasses! He was wearing sunglasses on this, the shortest day of the year, at night. Talk about egotistical! Dismissing him with a toss of her head, she returned her glance to her bags before beginning a visual sweep of the cavernous area again—returning magnetically to the tall, still man.
He was a walking cliché, with his black leather jacket, black turtleneck shirt and unnecessary sunglasses, which hid what, judging from the angle of his head, was a blatant appraisal of a woman poured into a red minidress. His well-worn black jeans hugged contoured thighs and trailed long, sturdy legs, ending at—what a surprise—cowboy boots. She almost snorted at his predictability. God save us from testosterone-riddled men. At least he hadn’t caught her looking at him, thus encouraging his badboy fantasies.
Still, there was something rather fascinating about the solid bulk of him—
Mraaap. A loud, deep tone alerted them to the jerky start of the carousel. Within seconds, suitcases began spilling over the edge. Her garment bag and Pullman were scooped up by the chauffeur when she identified them, then she exited the terminal, her driver loaded with bags, her own hands empty. She felt embarrassingly helpless, so unflatteringly feminine following the overburdened man.
She trailed him to a curiously unoccupied area alongside the terminal. No one milled around, not employees or passengers or security guards. She eyed the back of the man carrying her bags, a frisson of unwanted anticipation traveling down her. Now, Paige, she cautioned herself, just because you don’t like his looks doesn’t mean he’s a threat. Stop being paranoid. Keeping herself beyond arm’s reach, she watched his every move as he stowed her gear in the trunk.
A soft, repetitious squeak penetrated the night in rhythmic cadence. She squinted into the darkness, torn between watching the driver and trying to ascertain the source of the sound. Leather boots, perhaps? Every instinct snapped to attention as the tall man in black appeared out of nowhere.
He didn’t have a suitcase—that fact struck her first. The same carryon bag that had been at his feet in the terminal now dangled from his hand, but he held no other luggage. Why had he been waiting at the carousel if he didn’t have luggage?
“Miss?”
Paige cast a swift glance at the chauffeur, who stood beside the open back door of the limousine. Relieved, she scurried into the seat. Before she could find asylum within, he filled the space beside her. Him. The man in black, who smelled of leather and menace.
The door slammed shut before she could utter a sound, much less muster a scream. She made a quick grab for the opposite door—
“Electronic locks,” he said as the handle wouldn’t budge.
Her father’s longtime fear for her surfaced. She had been kidnapped, really and truly kidnapped, after all. Digging deep for control, she fought the fear pulsating down her body as she faced her captor squarely. “Who are you? What do you want?”
He slid his dark glasses off and gave her a cool once-over. “Rye Warner. I’m your bodyguard.”
Two
“Prove it,” she told him. Proof was incidental—Paige recognized his voice, but she needed a little time to let the fear wash away completely.
The distinctive crinkle of leather sounded lightly in the confining space as he slid his wallet from inside his jacket, whisked out his driver’s license and passed it to her. Then he focused a penlight on it, spotlighting the pertinent details.
Bryan Henry Warner. Sex, M; Hair, Brn; Eyes, Brn; Ht, 6-05; Wt, 240. She calculated his age at thirty-five. A pink donor circle clung to the upper left corner above an extremely flattering picture of the man. Bryan Warner, Rye to his business associates. But to her he was—
“Warner the Barbarian,” she intoned as she flipped his license back to him.
“So, Harry, we meet at last.”
Paige settled against the luxurious leather seat, glad that the darkness hid her wince at the obnoxious nickname he’d given her during one of their many phone conversations over the last two years. “Harry, short for harridan, meaning shrew,” he had said pointedly, “although that’s being generous.”
Ignoring his taunt, she crossed her legs and smoothed the fabric of her skirt. “Why does my father think I need a bodyguard?”
“Patrick uncovered a plan to kidnap you.”
She dropped her head back and groaned. “Not again. And you believed him? Look, Warner, my father has hired bodyguards for me three times in my life, each time believing I was ripe for a kidnapping.”
“And?”
“There hasn’t been a genuine threat yet.”
“There is this time.”
Thrown by the absolute assuredness in his tone, she stalled by looking out the window but saw little through the darkly tinted glass as they traveled through the city. She felt his gaze on her.
“Why you?” she asked.
“Probably because I’m the best.”
She couldn’t stop the soft snort of disbelief. “The most expensive, anyway.”
“Now, Harry, we’ve quibbled about this for two years. My fees may be a little higher—”
“Substantially higher.”
“But I do the job in half the time. In the end, you pay the same, probably less.”
“It must be really tiresome lugging that ego around with you.”
“And it must be a real drag following rules all the time,” he countered.
Yes! she wanted to scream. But who would keep her father under control if she didn’t enforce the rules and regulations? Who would keep the company from bankruptcy?
“So, who’s allegedly after me this time?” she asked.
“Seems your fiancé got himself into a bit of financial trouble with the wrong people.”
Paige stiffened. “I do not now have, nor have I ever had, a fiancé.”
“Now there’s a surprise,” he muttered.
“Meaning?” The word skated across ice.
“Does the name Joey Falcon ring a bell?”
Joey Falcon, her fall from grace. She swallowed the embarrassment. “He asked me to marry him. I turned him down.”
“He used you as collateral.”
“How? And why would he?”
“Seems Falcon was on that cruise you took because he was hiding out from his...shall we call them creditors? He had a friend on the ship’s staff who gave him a passenger list. He zeroed in on you.”
“And here I’ve been thinking he fell for my charm and beauty.” Sarcasm coated her words, the self-deprecation genuine and lifelong, as natural to her as breathing and as likely to change as it would be for her to stop breathing.
She didn’t like a lot of change in her life, wasn’t comfortable with it. The only way to keep control was to establish and stay with a routine, physically and mentally. She spent a lot of effort adhering to the structure she enforced on her daily life, starting with a half hour of yoga in the morning and ending with a half hour bubble bath at night.
The only time in her adult life when she hadn’t followed that routine had resulted in disaster; she was sure she’d suffered a personality transformation for that single week recently because she’d substituted a walk on the deck of the cruise ship for her morning yoga, and dancing in the moonlight for her nighttime bubble bath.
Never again. She’d never, ever set aside the meditation and relaxation time she so desperately needed to maintain her inner peace merely for a frivolous moment of pleasure. Joey Falcon had cured her of that.
Paige sighed inwardly. She should have identified her restlessness before impulsively making reservations for a seven-day Caribbean cruise. She should have stopped and taken stock, written down and analyzed her reasons for going, then perhaps she wouldn’t have been susceptible to the very charming Joey Falcon. But for the first time in her life she’d acted and reacted without first weighing the pros and cons. And for the first time in her life she was embarrassed by her behavior.
Joey had leaned his arms against the railing beside her as the ship left port and had rarely left her side in the ensuing days. Usually a woman who didn’t command much notice, she was flattered by his attention, by the way he catered to her every whim. On the sixth day at sea he proposed, but by then reality had intruded. When he hadn’t been exuding charm, she’d seen a glimpse of something else—something that had made her uneasy. At the least, he’d been insincere. At the most? Not frightening, exactly, but not trustworthy, either.
He had refused to believe she didn’t want to continue seeing him and had called her daily for the past two weeks, had showered her with flowers and gifts. Her restlessness had been replaced with exasperation, followed by irritation, even a little fear.
“Actually, it’s a relief to know Joey was only greedy,” she said, breaking a long silence. “If he really was in love with me, I might never be rid of him. I assume he approached my father for the money.”
Rye shook himself to attention. Knowing Lloyd was driving allowed him to relax his guard, but Paige’s silence while she analyzed her situation had threatened to put him to sleep. “When Patrick refused to pay his debts,” he said through a yawn, “Falcon informed him that he’d been given an extension on the loan based on your engagement and the potential money available. Now he’s gone back into hiding, and his creditors want their money. Falcon insists they’ll grab you for ransom.”
“At least he warned us. That’s more than I would have given him credit for doing.”
“The report I saw indicates Falcon has major financial problems. Given a little more time, we should know in more detail what we’re up against.”
She shifted, impatient. “So I’m forced into hiding, too. Doesn’t that make my father a target?”
“He’s using a local security team.”
“How long do I have to stay in San Francisco?”
“Until Falcon’s been flushed out.”
“What if my meetings are done earlier?”
“The meetings were a ruse. You really are in hiding, Paige. You’re not to have contact with anyone but me. I’ll be in touch with Patrick.”
She held herself aloof, cool as a spring runoff, apparently unconcerned with the danger. But Rye knew her blood ran hotter than that. A little garter told him so.
And her “unfortunate adventure” told him that under that cool facade she craved excitement.
“Where are we going?” she asked. “To your home?”
“To a small, discreet hotel.”
“Why San Francisco? I know you live here, but with only a little investigating, anyone could find out you work for us occasionally. If your reputation is as farreaching as you’d like to believe—”
“I’m doing this as a favor to your father. He caught up with me by phone in London and begged me to help, so cut the insults, Paige. I landed at Logan, tracked you, then stayed awake the whole time watching over you. I’m tired.”
“If you flew in from London, you should have luggage. Where is it?”
“Being held at the airport until Lloyd can get over to pick it up.”
“This is idiotic! Why couldn’t we just hide out somewhere near home?”
“Because I have work to do. I can stay with you and also catch up on what’s been neglected while I’ve been gone.”
“You’ll be prorating your bill, I assume,” she said, her voice dripping honey.
“What?”
“Well, it’s only fair. Why should we pay while you work for other people?”
Rye didn’t know whether to laugh or explode at her relentless guardianship of O’Halloran Shipping funds. “I won’t be off the clock with you for a second, Harry.”
Lloyd swung the car into a driveway, negotiated a narrow road around a three-story house-turned-hotel, then stopped in front of a small building. The headlights offered a quick glimpse of a brick cottage sheltered by a profusion of climbing ivy and low bushes before the beams were doused, leaving only a soft yellow glow coming from a porch light.
“Wait here,” Rye ordered Paige before he left the car and followed the driver into the bungalow, which at one time served as a caretaker’s housing. A low fire gleamed from the hearth, the light casting flickering shadows around the impeccably furnished living room. “Everything secure?” he asked Lloyd, who came up behind him and deposited suitcases on the plush carpet.
“As you requested, sir.”
“Don’t call me sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rye turned to look at the man, seeing past the scarred face and crooked nose to the strength of character beneath. The perpetually bland expression hid a wealth of feeling. “You did a great job, as usual, Lloyd. And on particularly short notice.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Rye shook his head, exasperated, as he inspected the rest of the cottage—a bedroom sporting a huge four-poster bed and a second fireplace, also lit, then a bathroom containing an oversize tub. “Looks good,” he said.
“You may find the couch a bit confining.”
“I noticed. I’m so tired it won’t matter at this point. I may feel differently tomorrow night.”
“Get some sleep. I’ll watch from outside tonight.”
“Thanks, old friend.” He came very close to sighing. “Well, the princess awaits. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long, long assignment.”
“She doesn’t seem to, ah, particularly care for you, sir.”
“Ms. O’Halloran and I have a history of disagreement.”
“She’s quite attractive, if I may be so bold as to say.”
“You think so? Maybe I can’t see past the nitpicking Scrooge that I know her to be.” He pressed a button on a palm-size remote control as he returned to the car, unlocking it.
“How dare you lock me in,” Paige said, low and angry as she ignored his hand and slid out of the car.
“On the contrary, Harry, I was locking others out.”