Книга - Glass Slipper Bride

Glass Slipper Bride
Arlene James


VIRGIN BRIDESCelebrate the joys of first love with unforgettable stories by your most beloved authors.CINDERELLA…IN NAME ONLY?It was a fairy tale come true…almost. Charming, courageous Zach Keller had asked poor little Jillian Waltham to be his bride. But his proposal was just a formality. For the sexy bodyguard had promised to protect Jillian with his very life, and the only way to keep her 100% safe was to watch over her day…and night.He vowed never to succumb to his bride's blossoming beauty, to remember their marriage was only make-believe. Yet the tempting virgin in his arms was putting Zach's hands-off policy to the test. Dare he take the ultimate risk and make his glass slipper bride a true-love wife?







“You aren’t going to marry Jillian!” (#u1c454cb2-e86a-530e-a0eb-96246d0836a6)Letter to Reader (#ua745eb3f-2d3c-5fa2-ac61-1d080e72bc23)Title Page (#ubb2d79cc-4c4e-54be-ad88-36e55150fc6a)About the Author (#ucbaccb8a-2eb2-5056-b802-9efe8877afc9)Letter to Reader (#u033f39ae-2831-54ed-921d-2de81b4dd887)Chapter One (#u1c4f2c34-2e07-569c-8eb7-c1f868bddf47)Chapter Two (#u7e4c3300-e107-5d47-8a05-18afeb069b51)Chapter Three (#u36c67953-9f6b-5ce7-a3db-88720a59b947)Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


“You aren’t going to marry Jillian!”

“Is that so?” Zach muttered dangerously.

Jillian tried to plead with her sister to keep quiet, but she wouldn’t be stopped. “Jillian told Mother and me that you wouldn’t have her even after she threw herself at you!”

Humiliated beyond endurance, Jillian groaned. “Camille, please—”

“You think I didn’t sleep with her because I didn’t want to?” Zach asked incredulously. “Let me tell you, I didn’t sleep with Jillian because I respect her too much. And you have nothing to say about me marrying her. Does she, Jillian?”

“You don’t have to go through with it,” Jillian replied instead, praying that he’d declare with heartfelt sincerity that he wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his life with her.

Instead, Zach took a deep breath, his eyes full of apology and regret. “You know I wouldn’t insist if it wasn’t the only solution. For now.”

For now. Jillian blinked back tears and nodded. Only for now.


Dear Reader,

The wonder of a Silhouette Romance is that it can touch every woman’s heart Check out this month’s offerings—and prepare to be swept away!

A woman wild about kids winds up tutoring a single dad in the art of parenthood in Babies, Rattles and Cribs... Oh, My! It’s this month’s BUNDLES OF JOY title from Leanna Wilson. When a Cinderella-esque waitress—complete with wicked stepfamily!—finds herself in danger, she hires a bodyguard whose idea of protection means making her his Glass Slipper Bride, another unforgettable tale from Arlene James. Pair one highly independent woman and one overly protective lawman and what do you have? The prelude to The Marriage Beat, Doreen Roberts’s sparkling new Romance with a HE’S MY HERO cop.

WRANGLERS & LACE is a theme-based promotion highlighting classic Western stories. July’s offering, Cathleen Galitz’s Wyoming Born & Bred, features an ex-rodeo champion bent on reclaiming his family’s homestead who instead discovers that home is with the stubborn new owner...and her three charming children! A long-lost twin, a runaway bride...and A Gift for the Groom—-don’t miss this conclusion to Sally Carleen’s delightful duo ON THE WAY TO A WEDDING.... And a man-shy single mom takes a chance and follows The Way to a Cowboy’s Heart in this emotional heart-tugger from rising star Teresa Southwick.

Enjoy this month’s selections, and make sure to drop me a line about why you keep coming back to Romance. We want to fulfill your dreams!

Happy reading,






Mary-Theresa Hussey

Senior Editor, Silhouette Romance

300 East 42nd Street. 6th Floor

New York, NY 10017

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont L2A 5X3




Glass Slipper Bride

Arlene James







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ARLENE JAMES

grew up in Oklahoma and has lived all over the South. In 1976 she married “the most romantic man in the world.” The author enjoys traveling with her husband, but writing has always been her chief pastime.


Dear Reader,

Don’t you just love to discover some hidden strength or goodness in yourself? It makes one feel a certain careful pride and a sense of accomplishment. Unfortunately those discoveries don’t come on soft summer days spent in a hammock with a good book and a tall glass of lemonade. Such self-discovery is always the result of some difficulty in our lives, something we feel helpless to face or change. Such is the case with Jillian Waltham.

Like most well-rounded adults, Jillian knows herself better than she realizes. She knows that she has talent and that she’s capable of loving selflessly. She even knows what she wants. What she doesn’t realize is that she can make others know those things about her, too, even Zachary Keller, the handsome hero who makes all the girls’ hearts go pitter-patter.

It’s difficulty and the very real threat of danger that brings a hero into Jillian’s life to begin with, but it’s Jillian herself who provokes him to his very greatest acts of heroism. In doing so, Jillian discovers the depth and value of her true self—and she begins to understand, along with everyone else, that she actually deserves true love as much as, say, Zach Keller.

I hope you enjoy Jillian’s journey to her true self and her true love as much as I have.

God bless,







Chapter One

Two broad slices of potato bread, lightly toasted and slathered with honey mustard. Mesquite smoked turkey breast, sliced paper thin, and a slab of lean roast beef. Shredded iceberg and butter lettuce. Tomato, lightly salted. No cheese. A relish of white onion, kosher dill and pickled jalapeño pepper. And for the finishing touch, black olives cut into tiny rings and sprinkled liberally over the whole with just a dash of red wine vinegar.

Jillian pressed the second slice of potato bread carefully over the monstrous sandwich, neatly “diapered” it with waxed paper and a toothpick, wrapped it a second time and slipped it into the brown paper sack printed with the words Downtown Deli. To the sandwich in the sack she added a small bag of barbecue potato chips, a shiny red delicious apple and a single piece of dark-mint chocolate, which he would eat first instead of last. The lunch safely packed, she poured a large container of strong black coffee, capped it with a lid and placed both lunch sack and coffee container in a cardboard punch-out tray. Now it was time to look to herself.

She washed her hands at the far sink, removed her smudged white apron, smoothed the straight skirt of her pale-gray uniform, pushed her glasses farther up on her nose and patted the headband with the white paper decoration that declared her a Downtown Deli Delight and held back her wispy, caramel-colored hair. She sighed, knowing exactly what she looked like. At five feet ten inches and 130 pounds, she was a gangly, awkward excuse for a woman, with waiflike pale-blue eyes twice the normal size dominating a pointy face more suited to a gnome than a female. Ah, well, Zachary Keller, of Threat Management, Inc., wasn’t likely to notice the first thing about her.

She doubted that in the seven weeks since she’d come to work here behind the counter of the deli in his office building he had noticed her even once, despite the fact that she’d built him the same sandwich at least a dozen times. Now she needed his help. She was about to pass from the cipher behind the counter to supplicant and then intermediary. Soon, she suspected, she would be dismissed altogether. The important thing was to engage his interest on Camille’s behalf, and she could do that. She could.

So what if her knees went weak every time she saw him? Every tall, hunky, dark-haired, green-eyed, chiseled-faced man did that to her. If she couldn’t exactly remember any others, that signified nothing. They hadn’t noticed her, either, she was sure. Camille was the one who got noticed, petite, pretty, blond, successful Camille, the Camille who was all the family she had, her much admired, much loved elder sister.

Jillian waved at the counter manager and received his permission to leave in the nod of his balding head. Carrying the cardboard tray, she slid from behind the deli cooler and walked across the tiny dining space toward the bank of elevators across the lobby. Tess, one of her co-workers, paused while wiping down the hubcap-sized glass top of a tiny wrought-iron table recently vacated by two secretaries taking a late coffee break and called out encouragement.

“You go, girl! Get that good-looking man in your corner!”

Jilly laughed and held up crossed fingers. Every female in the building had a crush on the man. His quick smile, enigmatic green eyes and extremely fit, muscular build were the stuff of fantasies, but according to his secretary, Lois—fifty-something, divorced, pragmatic, efficient and talkative—he didn’t date much. Some of the girls suspected a deep emotional wound, perhaps even a broken heart.

Jillian stepped into the elevator and punched the seventh-floor button.

At the rap of his secretary’s knuckles upon his office door, Zach looked up from the notes from which he was dictating, switched off the recorder and cleared his throat before assuming “the position” by leaning back in his chair and propping one cowboy-booted foot negligently on the corner of his desk. “Yeah?”

The door swung open, and Lois’s long, thin face, piled high with too-dark hair, appeared. “Lunch!” she announced brightly.

Zach launched a normally straight eyebrow into an expressive arch as he sat upright and glanced at the black onyx face of his watch. “Bit early, isn’t it?”

As often happened, Lois wasn’t paying the least attention. Instead, she stood gesticulating at someone out of sight. Resignedly, Zach leaned back once more and lifted both legs to prop them on the corner of his desk, then crossed them at the ankles. Hands folded complacently over his belt buckle, he admired his reddish-brown, round-toed, full-quill ostrich boots and the stiff crease in his dark jeans for a moment, quite sure that whatever was up would soon be forthcoming. Sure enough, a tall, slender woman in a tacky, ill-fitting, gray-and-white uniform and large square glasses appeared in the doorway, holding a cardboard tray. He recognized the bag wedged into one end of the tray, and his mouth watered. The woman took a moment to place—behind the deli counter. She was a lot taller than he’d realized and willow thin, with an interesting, piquant face almost obscured by those huge, hideous glasses. He’d always figured that she was nearsighted, because her eyes could not possibly be that big; they must be distorted by the lenses.

“I didn’t order lunch today,” he said, pleasant but dismissive.

Her small, plump, bow-shaped mouth trembled slightly above her delicately pointed chin. “I know,” she admitted breathlessly. “It’s a bribe.”

He almost laughed, but the seriousness of her expression somehow quelled the impulse. “Policemen can be bribed,” he pointed out, “but I’m not a cop any longer, Miss—?” He made it a question.

Lois took over then, saying, “Waltham. It’s Jillian Waltham. Jilly, this is my boss, Zachary Keller. Jilly has a problem, Boss, just the sort you manage best. I promised her you’d help.”

So that was it, another charity case. For some reason, that irritated him when it never had before. He turned away no one who really needed his help—women, usually, whose mates battered and berated them. Most of his paying clients were celebrities of some sort who needed protection or just “buffering,” someone to stand between them and the public. Occasionally, if business was slow, he worked standard security for corporations and organizations, seminars, private banquets and such, but he much preferred helping individual clients remove themselves from danger and dead-end lives. And yet, for some reason, he didn’t want to deal with this woman. He didn’t want to, but he would.

Zach dropped his feet and leaned forward, reaching for the bag with a smile on his face, as if to say he’d save the world for a Downtown Deli sandwich. “Have a seat, Jillian Waltham, and tell me how I can help you.”

She handed over the tray and practically collapsed into the small armchair opposite his desk. “I know I should have made an appointment, but I was afraid it would be weeks before you could see me.”

.Business was good, but not that good. Thankfully. He waved away the statement with one hand while unfolding the top of the bag with the other. “No problem. We try to be accommodating.”

“It’s just the way you always order it,” she said helpfully, meaning the sandwich.

He shot her a look and moved on to the coffee, lifting the container from the tray and carefully removing the lid before tossing it into the trash basket under his desk. Settling back into his chair once more, he sipped the strong black brew and contemplated the woman opposite him. He was surprised to find that behind those hideous glasses and beneath that laughable headband was an arrestingly pretty face. It was almost elfin. In fact, if her ears were pointed she’d look just like the drawing of a fairy princess in his nephew’s book of fairy tales. And, by golly, those enormous eyes were just that. Upon closer inspection, he rather doubted that she really even needed those glasses and their seemingly flat lenses. For some reason that irritated, too. What was she hiding from? Who was she hiding from? Or was it something more sinister?

Zach had learned from sad experience that the more controlling, abusive husbands and boyfriends typically belittled the very objects of their desire to the point of self-hatred. It was as if such men could not bear for the world to see what attracted them. Women so beleaguered tended to see themselves as unattractive, humpy, even ugly, and to present themselves accordingly. He wondered who had convinced Jillian Waltham that she was unattractive.

“Are you married?” he asked, taking a peek at her bare ring finger.

She seemed surprised by the question. “Ah, no.”

“Ever been married?”

She frowned. “No.”

“It’s a boyfriend, then,” he surmised authoritatively, “someone who tells you that you don’t deserve him and then won’t let go. I’ve seen it dozens of times.”

She pushed her glasses up on her short, sharp nose and studied him. Suddenly enlightenment softened her face, and she laughed, a light, chiming sound that seemed to make magic. In that instant she wasn’t pretty at all. She was beautiful, breathtakingly so. Zach set his cup down with a muted plunk, hot coffee splashing over the rim onto the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. He shook his hand and rubbed it against his thigh, mesmerized, and suddenly he knew what it was about her that bothered him.

Serena.

Jillian Waltham reminded him of Serena.

He immediately squelched the spurt of emotion that thinking of Serena inevitably brought him. It had been almost five years, and the thought of her senseless death still enraged and pained him. Desperately, he pushed the thought away and tried to listen to Jillian Waltham.

“It isn’t my boyfriend,” she was saying, leaning forward. “It’s my sister’s.”

“Sister’s,” he echoed dumbly.

“Maybe you’ve heard of her, Camille Waltham, Channel 3 News.”

Camille Waltham. Channel 3 News. Sister. Something familiar swam around the edges of his mind and then suddenly dove into its center. He saw a trim, effervescent, conventionally pretty blonde with smartly styled hair and perfect makeup. The sound of her voice came to him: “This is Camille Waltham, Channel 3 News, thanking you for watching. Because we’re YOUR news station.” Reality snapped into focus. Not Jillian Waltham. Not someone who reminded him of Serena. And not a charity case, thank God. Camille Waltham, newscaster. He opened a drawer and took out a pad and pen. After flipping open the pad, he began to write.

“Let me get this straight,” he said, “someone is threatening your sister.”

A brief silence alerted him, and he looked up. Jillian Waltham sat with a pensive expression on her face.

“Not threatening, really.”

Zach laid down the pen, feeling seriously exasperated.

“It’s more like he’s stalking her.”

Ice slid through his veins. Zach picked up the pen, all business now. “Any idea when this started?”

“Oh, yes. When she broke up with him. And it’s just like him, too. Janzen never could take no for an answer. It’s like putting up a red flag, issuing a challenge. Even if he doesn’t want it, he’ll go after it just because you told him he couldn’t have it.”

With a sigh, Zach laid down the pen again and reached for patience. “I really need a date.”

“A date?”

The squeak in her voice confused him. “Yes, please.”

“Well, all right,” she said, “but we have to take care of my sister first. She’s all the family I have.”

He stared at her for several long seconds before all became clear, and then he didn’t know whether he was amused or appalled. “Uh, you, um, misunderstand me, I think. What I need is the date your sister broke up with this boyfriend.”

“Oh! That date!” She laughed, but it was nothing like before, and the red flags of color rose in her cheeks. “I thought...but, I should have known better! You sounded a little desperate there, and a man like you wouldn’t...” She laughed again, the sound so strained and false that it made him want to shake her. She must have sensed his mood, for she took a deep breath then and said solemnly, “It was almost two months ago when they broke up. Say, May 8 or 9. Camille would be able to tell you exactly, of course.”

Of course. He cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the knowledge that she considered herself beneath him. But that wasn’t his problem. He tried to concentrate on business. Question number one. “Why, exactly, am I talking to you about this instead of your sister?”

“Oh, Camille’s scheduled for every moment,” Jillian said. “You know how it is, the station’s always sending her out on public relations stuff. It’s that local celebrity thing.”

He knew too well the demands made on and by celebrity types. “Okay, then, let’s take it from the top, Miss Waltham.”

“‘Jillian,”’ she said.

He nodded.

“Or ‘Jilly,’ if you prefer.”

He didn’t prefer, actually. The sobriquet seemed to further trivialize her somehow, but again, it wasn’t any of his business. He made himself nod and smile. “Could you start from the beginning, please, and explain exactly why you’re here?”

She slid to the very edge of her seat and confided, “It was the broken window.”

He opened his mouth to elicit an explanation, then closed it again, hoping that he would do better to let her tell it in her own way. The fallacy of that notion quickly became obvious.

“Camille says it was an accident,” Jillian went on. “and it probably was. He’s not all that coordinated. I mean, you’d think someone who’s involved with music, even if it is just advertising on the radio, could at least dance, you know, but not Janzen—not that he knows it. He doesn’t. He thinks he’s the world’s greatest dancer, just as he thinks he’s God’s gift to women. So maybe he broke it when he was trying to paint it.”

Zach realized he was grinding his teeth and relaxed his jaw to ask, “The window, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“He was painting a window?”

“With words,” she confirmed.

“Words. Ahha. And what words would those be?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. We couldn’t read them after it broke.”

“The window, you mean.”

“Yes, of course.”

Of course. Zach contemplated the container of coffee growing cold on his desk and wondered if it was possible to drown in it. He rejected that particular avenue of escape and sat back again, elbows propped on the arms of his chair, fingers templed. “So your sister broke up with her boyfriend, Janzen, and he tried to write words on her window and probably broke it that way, so no one knows what he was writing.”

“Except you.”

“Me?”

“No, you. The word you. That part was written on the brick next to the window.”

Zach swallowed something hot and acrid that tasted strangely like anger, but he couldn’t have said just with whom he was angry at that moment. He rubbed a hand over his face and said, “So he wrote something that ended in the word you.”

“Exactly.”

Zach waited, but she didn’t say anything else; so he thought perhaps he would offer some suggestions. “What do you think he wrote? I hate you? I want to kill you?”

She shrugged, not quite meeting his eyes.

“But it was a threat of some kind,” he pressed impatiently.

She sighed. “I think so.”

He floundered helplessly. This obviously was getting them nowhere. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to speak with your sister.”

Jillian closed her enormous eyes in obvious relief. “Oh, thank you! I’m so worried about her.”

He nodded, “Right. So, um, shall I call her?”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Jillian said. “Just show up around six o’clock.”

“Show up?”

“At Camille’s.”

“You want me to come by her house at six o’clock this evening?”

Delicate, wispy brows drew together. “Is that a problem?”

It wasn’t, actually. He often made calls to women’s shelters, private offices and police stations, and he could make this one on his way to dinner at his brother’s. Why, then, was he looking for excuses not to go? He shook his head. “Just tell me where, exactly, I should show up.”

She rattled off an address in North Dallas between the Park Cities and LBJ Freeway. He grabbed the pen and wrote it down in his notebook.

“And your sister—will she be expecting me?”

“Absolutely.”

He closed the notebook and laid the pen atop it. “I’ll see her, then.”

Jillian got up from the chair and attempted to smooth her wrinkled skirt, saying, “I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Keller.”

“No problem.” He stood and thrust back the sides of his pale, tweed sport jacket to place his hands at his waist. “Thanks for the lunch.”

“My pleasure.”

He nodded and forced his mouth into a semblance of a smile until she’d maneuvered around the chair and turned toward the door. Then for some reason, without even planning to, he heard himself calling her back. “Jillian.”

She turned and blinked owlishly at him. “Yes?”

“About that, um, date thing.”

Her cheeks immediately flamed pink. “Oh, don’t worry about that. It was a silly misunderstanding.”

“I know, but it’s not that I wouldn’t... That is, I have a policy about getting involved with clients. It’s not wise. Emotions tend to run high in situations like these, and I can’t let myself take advantage of that.”

“Of course,” she said. “You’re a professional.”

“Exactly.”

She smiled wanly. “I understand.”

“Good.”

Still smiling, she pushed her glasses up on her nose and went out the door. It had barely closed behind her before he remembered that she wasn’t a client at all. Her sister might be, but Jillian Waltham was not. No reason really existed why he couldn’t ask her out on a date if he wanted to. Not that he wanted to. He just didn’t want her to think that he didn’t want to, which didn’t really make any sense even to him.

It was the Serena thing, no doubt. Funny that she should put him in mind of Serena, though. She didn’t look like Serena—well, other than that tall, model’s build—and she certainly didn’t behave like Serena, who had been quietly confident and well-spoken. No, it was something else. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on just yet.

He sat down and contemplated the brown sack containing the lunch he hadn’t ordered, but it was Serena’s face he saw. A perfect oval framed by long auburn hair, expressive green eyes, straight, slender nose, a full lush mouth. That face had sold everything from mascara to opera tickets. But as lovely as it had been, it was nothing compared with the loveliness of her soul. Serena had been that rare, true beauty who was as pretty inside as out. And she was gone, killed by a crazed, obsessive fan who had fancied himself somehow rejected by her. As was that naive, cocky young policeman who had fed the threats and complaints into the system, believing that would be enough to protect her. He knew better now.

The system was hamstrung by minutiae and overburdened by the sheer volume of similar cases. The average policeman’s hands were literally tied by what seemed to Zach to be nonsensical laws and the unscrupulousness of the criminal population. Law enforcement was an honorable profession, one embraced wholeheartedly by his family, but Serena’s loss had convinced him that he could do more by working the system from the outside than the inside, and he had done a lot of good since then. He admitted that without vanity or ego. It was the balm that made old pains bearable.

So why did he recoil from this case? Jillian Waltham wasn’t even the target. He probably wouldn’t even see her again. Even if he found cause for concern and took the case, he would be protecting Camille Waltham, not her sister—and for pay. Talking news heads tended to make good money, even if they were only local. So it was settled, not that it had been in question, really. He would stop by Camille Waltham’s neighborhood and see what she had to say about this broken window and her former boyfriend. If he did take the case, he’d be dealing with Camille. It should be simple enough to stay clear of Jillian’s path.

It occurred to him that the whole thing might be blown out of proportion by a nervous sister; Jillian had said that Camille considered the broken window an accident. He’d reserve judgment until he’d heard the whole story. Then, even if Camille did need and want his services, he could see no reason for Jillian to be overly involved.

He felt slightly foolish now. Talk about overreacting! He pictured Jillian Waltham’s pixie face behind those big, clunky glasses and laughed at himself. What was he thinking? She was nothing like Serena, really, and she wasn’t the target, so he wouldn’t have to see her even if he did take the case.

He began to unpack the lunch sack, his stomach growling in anticipation of the treat to come. With Jillian Waltham and her arresting eyes tucked firmly out of mind, he leaned back, propped his feet and dug in.

When she opened the door and smiled at him, his stomach dropped. The baggy khaki shorts and oversized red camp shirt were not much improvement over that awful deli uniform, and yet she had definitely improved somehow.

“Jillian. I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, trying not to study her too closely.

“No? Didn’t I tell you that I live here?”

He shook his head. “I thought your sister lived here.”

“She does. It’s her house. She took me in after my parents died.”

Great, he thought. Now how do I keep you out of this? He lifted a hand to the back of his neck. She stepped back and pushed the door open wider.

“Come on in and have a seat.”

He could think of no way to refuse and gingerly stepped past her into a cool gold-and-white entry hall with a twelve-foot ceiling and an impressive glass-and-brass light fixture that looked as though it belonged in an ultramodern office building. He followed Jillian down the hall and through a wide doorway on the right. The formal living room was done in shades of white, cream and pale green. It had an unused air about it. She waved him down onto a pristine sofa covered in cream-colored linen and decorated with pale-green fringe before opening a cabinet in one corner, revealing a small bar.

“What can I get you to drink?”

“Nothing, thanks. I’m not much for alcohol.”

“Me, neither,” she said, opening the door of a tiny refrigerator to reveal rows of canned colas. “But I do like a jolt of cold caffeine on a hot evening.”

“In that case, I’ll have what you’re having.”

She removed two cold cans and popped the tops. “Want a glass?”

“Nope.”

She carried the colas over to the couch and sat down, offering one to him. He took it carefully, avoiding contact with her fingers.

“Thanks.”

“No problem,” she said. “You’re easy. I don’t even have to wash a glass.”

“Stays colder in the can,” he said, taking a sip.

She nodded and pushed her glasses up on her nose. “Camille’s not here right now, but she’ll be along in just a minute. The TV station’s got her going out to some charity gala tonight, so she had to get a dress.”

He filed that away for future reference and turned the conversation to a subject that had been bothering him since she’d mentioned it. “You said that she took you in after your parents died.”

Jillian nodded. “That’s right. My mom and dad were killed in a boating accident when I was eleven. Camille was only seventeen, but she insisted her mother take me in.”

“I thought Camille was your sister.”

“She is. My half sister, anyway. We had the same father but different mothers.”

“I see.”

Jillian nodded and curled one long leg up beneath the other. Her feet were bare, and he couldn’t help noticing that they were long and slender with high arches, her second toe longer than the first, the nails oval and neatly trimmed. He wondered irrationally if she would appreciate a good foot rub as much as Serena had after a long photo shoot. To block that train of thought, he searched for something else to say and came up with, “It must seem like you’re full sisters if Camille’s mother raised you from the age of eleven.”

“She didn’t,” Jillian said, then she seemed surprised that she’d said it. “I mean, Camille was more a second mother to me than Gerry—that is, Geraldine.” She grimaced and went on. “Don’t misunderstand me. Gerry’s been great. It’s just that my father left her for my mother, who was his secretary at the time, so naturally she doesn’t look on me as another daughter, just her daughter’s half sister.”

Zach lifted a brow at that. “Must’ve been awkward, living with your father’s ex-wife.”

She shrugged. “We’ve gotten used to it over the years.”

“You mean you all still live together?”

“That’s right. Only it’s Camille’s house now. After Gerry’s last husband died she moved in with us.” Jillian leaned forward then and confessed, “There have been three—husbands, I mean—including my father, who was number one.” She sat back. “Anyway, it’s a big house.”

Her background sure made his look pedestrian. His own parents had been married thirty-six years and currently divided their time between Montana in the summer and Texas in the winter. With one older and one younger brother, both married and settled, both cops like their father, he was the closest thing to a black sheep in the Keller family. Even among all the aunts, uncles and cousins there had been few divorces and fewer deaths. He sipped more cola and thought of another question to keep the conversation going.

“Don’t you have any other family?”

Jillian shrugged. “I have an aunt by marriage and a couple of cousins in Wisconsin. My uncle was still living when my father died, but he was disabled, so my aunt really couldn’t take on anything else. My mother was an only child born late and unexpectedly in her parents’ lives. I don’t even remember them. If not for Camille, I’d have been fostered somewhere or sent to an orphanage.”

“So she’s really all you have,” he commented softly.

Jillian nodded. “And I can’t let anything happen to her.”

Just then a door slammed somewhere in the back of the house. Voices and footsteps could be faintly heard, then a shout. “Jilly!”

Jillian got up and went into the hall. “We’re in the living room, Camille.”

“We?”

“Zachary Keller and I.”

A long silence followed and then someone shouted, “Bring him into the bedroom.”

The bedroom? Jillian glanced at Zach and shrugged apologetically. “She’s awfully busy, and she does have this public evening out.”

He got up. “Maybe I should come back another time.”

“Oh, no!” She rushed toward him. “Please at least talk to her.”

He wanted to say no, but he couldn’t quite look into those huge, worried eyes and manage it. He nodded. “If you’re sure she has the time.” He took a long drink of the cola and handed it to her. She carried the half-filled can to the bar and left it on the marble countertop.

“Follow me.”

She hurried out of the room on her slender, bare feet. He took a deep breath and trailed her across the hall and through a formal dining room, glimpsing a kind of den on the way, and out the other hall into a smallish but well-appointed kitchen, which opened onto yet another hall, where she turned right. She went down the hallway to the end and led him through an open door—into utter chaos.

He got a fleeting impression of lavender and pale green, formal draperies, graceful furnishings and plush white carpet, before the frenetic motion of several bodies moving at once enveloped him. A tall, rawboned woman with ink-black hair scraped into a sophisticated roll on the back of her head swept past him toward the bed, trailing a garment on a hanger. A small man with a gray ponytail trotted by carrying a large white leather case, a rat-tail comb stuck into the clump of hair at his nape. A petite, middle-aged blonde with beauty-shop hair and skin that looked as though it had been stretched too tautly against her skull swayed past in an expensive pink suit, barking orders to the room at large.

“Be careful with those silk stockings,” she was saying. “Someone get the beaded handbag and the blue satin shoes. I’ll get the sapphires myself.”

“Did anyone order flowers?” a man wanted to know. “I was told it was taken care of.”

Zach turned his head to find a man in a tuxedo sitting in an armchair beside the bed, calmly thumbing through a magazine.

“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 was 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.

They were halfway down the hallway before he realized that he was still holding her hand.

She kept expecting him to drop her hand at any moment, and yet when he did, she felt an unexpectedly intense disappointment. Or was that guilt? She hadn’t expected to be quite so torn about telling him the whole story. Camille had only agreed to speak with him on the condition that Jillian go along with her version of events, and Jillian knew all too well that any deviation from the plan would bring down censure and blame on her head, from Camille. as well as Gerry. Still, it seemed unfair to keep anything back. Not that it would make any difference in this case. Camille and Janzen had broken up, and he seemed bent on punishing Camille. Why, didn’t really matter. Did it?

They reached the back door, and Jillian turned the knob unminkingly. A wave of heat engulfed them as she pulled the door open, and as usual she couldn’t help thinking that it had been a sizzling Texas summer that had driven her parents onto that sailboat off the coast of Galveston Island and to their deaths.

“Is the door always left open like this?” Zach asked incredulously, catching it as she stepped back to let it swing inside.

She stopped in her tracks. “Well, yeah, I guess so, whenever anyone’s home, anyway.”

He elbowed past her to examine the locking mechanism. “I was right This has to be replaced. Get a dead bolt and chain installed, too. And from now on keep it locked, bolted and chained whenever anyone’s home.”

“All right.”

He turned to examine the security system component mounted on the wall. “This is a dual system. You understand, don’t you, that once it’s activated you’ll have to key in a security code every time you come in to keep the alarm from sounding?”

She hadn’t actually, but she nodded anyway. “What, exactly, is a dual system?”

“It means there are two alarms, one here that’s meant to scare off an intruder and warn the occupants, another to alert the police. This particular setup gives you about a minute and two tries to key in the code.”

“I see.”

He ushered her through the door and pulled it closed behind him. “Let’s take a look at that window.”

She led him away from the carport, across the patio and through the gate in the fence around the pool, then along the back of the house to the broken window. The double-wide window was set in the wall at about shoulder height A board had been nailed over it, and broken glass littered the ground, none of the pieces larger than a man’s hand. Zach went down on his haunches and gingerly stirred and studied the shards, some of them streaked and speckled with bright-red spray paint. After a few moments, he looked up at the three-letter word sprayed onto the brick.

“When did this happen?”

“Last night about 1:00 a.m.”

“Did anyone hear or see anything?”

She nodded. “I was asleep in this room, and the shattering of the glass woke me up.”

“This is your room?”

“Uh, no. It’s, um, more private than my room sometimes, though.”

He lifted an eyebrow at that but made no comment. “What happened after the window broke?”

“I called for Camille because the glass was all over the floor inside and I couldn’t get to my slippers without cutting my feet. She phoned the police, but he was long gone by the time the call was made.”

“But you’re sure it was Eibersen?”

“Who else could it be?”

He didn’t answer that, just stood and turned in a slow circle, surveying the area. He pointed back toward the pool gate. “He must have come from that direction. The fence is too tall on the other side, and I assume the pool gate is left open all the time?”

Jillian shrugged apologetically. “Yes, sorry.”

“Get a chain and lock for it,” he said dismissively. She nodded, adding that to her growing mental list. He turned back to the house, muttering, “Wonder why he chose this window. Why not Camille’s bedroom window? I assume he knows which that would be.”

Jillian felt the bottom drop out of her stomach, but she managed to keep her voice and tone level. “Oh, yes, he knows.”

“Probably he was afraid of being seen through the larger windows,” Zach mused. “What room is this room anyway?”

Jillian. bit her lip. “Well, it’s supposed to be a maid’s room, but we don’t have a live-in maid. Since my own room is right next to Camille’s, I thought this one might be more private, but the broken window changed my mind about the desirability of that.”

Zach nodded and made no further comment, and Jillian let herself relax again.

“Well, I guess that’s it for now,” he said, starting back the way they’d come. “You’ll see to the locks and the security system?”

“Yes, first thing tomorrow.”

“Good.”

He led the way back across the pool yard and the patio, then held open the door beneath the carport as she passed through it into the hallway and blessed coolness. He followed her down the hall to the kitchen. It was her favorite room in the house, with its bright-yellow walls and clean white cabinets, stainless-steel appliances, pale, natural woods and terra cotta dishes. “Want another cool drink before you go?” she asked hopefully.

“Glass of water would be nice,” he mumbled distractedly. He stood at the bar, arms folded and one hand rubbing his chin, obviously deep in thought, while she took down two glasses from the cabinet and filled them with ice water through the refrigerator door. She placed them on the bar and pulled out a stool, then perched on top of it.

“Have a seat.”

Instead, he turned and leaned forward, bracing his upper body weight on both elbows. “It doesn’t make sense that he chose to paint that particular window. I mean, it’s behind the fence. Someone would have to go swimming in order to see it.”

Jilly felt a hard knot form in the center of her chest. “Well, um, C-Camille swims every morning, year-round. The pool’s heated.” She didn’t bother saying that she, too, liked to get in twenty or thirty laps before breakfast most mornings.

Zach nodded. “Okay. That kind of makes sense.” Straightening, he picked up the glass left for him and drained it in one long gulp, the ice clinking and tinkling. “Ah-h-h. Nothing like a Texas summer to make you appreciate cold water.”

“Funny you should mention that,” Jillian said softly, her thoughts returning once more to her parents.

“Why’s that?”

She stroked her fingertip through the condensation forming on the side of her glass. “Oh, it’s just that my parents said something very like that before they left on the last impulsive jaunt that got them killed.”

Zach swirled the ice in his glass thoughtfully. “I think you said that it was a boating accident?”

She nodded. “That’s right. Dad always said that the Gulf of Mexico was a poor excuse for an ocean, but it was so hot that week, and it didn’t seem worthwhile to fly all the way to the West Coast just for the weekend, so they flew to Houston, drove down to Galveston and rented a boat.”

“And you never saw them again,” he concluded.

She sighed. “The bodies were never even recovered.”

He seemed to be searching for the right words to say, and finally came out with, “Man, that’s tough. How old were you again?”

“Eleven.”

He shook his head. “So young. How come you weren’t with them?”

She smiled wanly. “I’m not much of a sailor. I like to swim, but boats do a number on my stomach, always have.”

“That’s certainly fortunate.”

“It was hard to think of it that way at the time,” Jillian said.

He nodded and murmured, “I can imagine.” He shifted positions, signaling a shift in subject. “So you wound up here with your half sister and your father’s ex-wife.”

“Not here as in this same house, but yes, I wound up with Camille and Gerry.”

“And no doubt you’re grateful for that.”

“Of course,” she said lightly.

“Which is why you let her treat you like a lower life form,” he said, almost offhandedly.

Jillian blinked in shock. “I beg your pardon!”

He grimaced and backed up a step, throwing up his hands. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

She got to her feet. “You certainly shouldn’t have! Camille does not treat me like...” Jillian bit her lip. “She’s overprotective, is all. She still thinks I’m thirteen and mad at the world.”

“Were you?” he asked. “Mad at the world, I mean.”

She looked down, surprised to find that she was twisting her hands together. “Maybe,” she said, but in truth she didn’t remember it like that. She only remembered feeling lost and alone, a disappointment to those she loved most. Forcing her hands down to her sides, she said, “You don’t understand Camille. Hers is a tough business, and she’s learned to use arrogance as a shield against criticism. She’s not really like that. In fact, sometimes I think she’s really very insecure.”

He lifted an eyebrow as if doubting the correctness of her assessment, but he merely remarked, “It really isn’t any of my business. I apologize if I offended you.”

“I just don’t want you to think that Camille is a bad person,” she told him softly.

“I can see that you love her very much,” he said, as if that was all that mattered.

Jillian smiled. “She’s my sister, and she gave me a home when no one else would or could.”

“And that’s very commendable,” he said. A heartbeat later he added, “Well, I’d best be going. I have a dinner engagement. Thanks for the cold drink, or rather, drinks.”

“I’ll show you out,” she said, moving away from the counter. Nodding, he followed her through the house to the front door.

“I didn’t realize we were interfering with your social life,” she said, even knowing that it was none of her business.

“Oh, it’s no big deal,” he assured her. “My brother and sister-in-law know only too well the demands of my business.”

Jillian felt a flash of relief. It wasn’t a date, then; rather, a family engagement. “Well, extend my apologies if we’ve made you late.”

“Not necessary,” he told her, pausing at the front door. “Don’t forget, now, locksmith and security service, first thing tomorrow morning.”

“I won’t forget.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

“Excellent.” She opened the door for him, and he started out into the heat. “Oh, and, Zach, uh, Mr. Keller?”

He stopped and turned back. “Zach will do. What’s up?”

“I just wanted to thank you.”

He smiled and bowed slightly from the waist. The effect was absolutely dazzling. “All part of the service, ma’am.” He winked and started off down the sidewalk, calling over his shoulder, “Later.”

She watched him all the way to his car, a sporty, two-door model in black with a white convertible top. For once she didn’t feel the heat—except on the inside. This time, it was all inside.

The shrill, familiar sound pierced the darkness of a deep, easy sleep. Zach jerked awake knowing exactly what that sound represeated. On his stomach as usual, he levered up onto one elbow and reached for the cellular phone on his bedside table with the other hand. The antenna was up, and the phone within easy reach on an otherwise clean tabletop. Rolling over, Zach pushed the send button, clapped the tiny phone to the side of his head and cleared his throat. He’d had a busy couple of days and gotten to bed late after taking in a Friday-night movie with his older brother, Brett, and Brett’s wife, Sharon, but his mind was clear as a bell.

“Keller here.”

“He came into my house!” blurted a shrill voice. “He came right in while we were all sleeping and destroyed my kitchen!”

“Calm down and tell me who this is,” he barked.

A shocked silence followed. “Well, who else would it be? Do you just go around handing out your emergency number on every street corner? You may be good-looking, Zach, but you’re not very smart if that’s how you do business.”

Camille Waltham. Zach rubbed a hand over his face. He didn’t bother to tell her that he had other clients. He doubted that it would penetrate that monumental ego. “Is anyone hurt?” he demanded.

He heard a huff, followed by, “Not really. He bumped into Jilly in the dark and knocked her down, but I don’t think she’s really hurt.”

He was throwing back the covers before he even thought about doing it. “Have the police arrived?”

“I thought you were supposed to take care of things like this.”

He caught the phone between his shoulder and his ear and reached for his jeans, then yanked them on. “We need documentation!” he snapped. “The police have their uses, too.”

She started grumbling something about him not making himself clear, but he interrupted her. “I’ll take care of it myself from here. Don’t touch anything that he might have touched. Lock the doors and stay together. I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”

He hit the button, cutting her off before she could say anything else, then dropped onto the bed and grabbed for his socks. One of them went on inside out, but he couldn’t have cared less. After picking up the phone again, he turned it on and punched in the police dispatch number. As he stomped into his boots and threw on a clean chambray shirt, he told the dispatcher where to send the patrol car, pocketed his wallet and grabbed his keys.

Clipping the phone to his waistband, he flew out of the apartment and down the hall to the elevator. Forty-five seconds later he was backing the convertible out of its parking space and heading down the garage ramp. Less than ten minutes passed before be pulled to a stop in front of the Waltham house. The police were already there and moving up the sidewalk. Fortunately he knew both officers.

“Jennings! Carpenter!”

Both stopped. “Hey, Keller,” said the older man. “This one of yours?”

“Afraid so.” He caught up to them and ushered them both up the walkway. “My client says the perp broke into the house and destroyed her kitchen.”

“Is this the Camille Waltham who’s on the news?” asked the younger man, Jennings.

“The same.”

“She seems real nice,” mused Jennings.

“Seems,” Zach muttered, reaching for the doorbell.

The door opened almost immediately, revealing Gerry in pink silk and a white teny-cloth turban. Devoid of makeup, her face looked older and harsher. “It’s about time!” she exclaimed. “We might have been murdered in our beds!”

Zach bit his tongue to keep from reminding her that only two days earlier she’d doubted very much that Janzen Eibersen meant harm to anyone. Instead, he pushed past her and into the house, motioning for the officers to follow him. “Where is everyone?”

“In the living room.”

He walked into the room and found that everyone consisted of Camille. in a pretty blue chiffon gown, her head in her hands. Alarm shot through him. “Where’s Jillian?”

She looked up, her eyes going wide at the sight of his unbuttoned shirt. “In the kitchen, I think.”

He turned around and left her without another word, motioning for one of the officers to take his place. Since Carpenter was already questioning Gerry, Jennings got the assignment. Zach hurried through the house. When he entered the kitchen, he barely noticed the garish red marring the yellow walls and white cabinets. His attention was taken, instead, by Jillian sitting at the bar in a big T-shirt, a damp, folded towel pressed to her face, her long legs and slender feet bare. Her hair was disheveled, wisping about her face like a feathery cap. Those abominable eyeglasses were nowhere in sight. She made him think of a fairy who had lost her wings.

“Jillian,!”

She looked up at the sound of his voice, and a myriad of emotions roared through him at the sight of those big blue eyes and her battered face: rage, dismay, compassion, fear- Desire. Instinctively, he opened his arms, and with a small cry, she rushed into them. Her arms slid around his waist inside his open shirt, her bare skin against his igniting explosions along his nerve endings. He rocked backward, not because of the impact of her slender body, which was negligible, but because of the breathtaking effect of her unfettered breasts pressing against his chest with only a single layer of soft fabric between them.

He knew then that this battered imp of a female had somehow worked her way beneath his professional armor and his satisfying well-ordered existence had gone painfully awry.


Chapter Three

“Are you all right?”

Jillian nodded, sniffing. She seemed fragile and feminine in his arms, dangerously so. After a moment, he slid his hands to her shoulders and eased her away from him.

She smiled up at him, blue eyes glittering softly. “What is it?”

He had trouble forcing out the words, rage choking him. “Did he hit you?”

She shook her head, putting a hand to it as if the motion hurt her. “No.”

He swallowed down the rage before steering her back toward the bar and lifting her up onto the stool there. She was as light as a feather. He picked up the cold, folded towel and held it gently to her cheek. “Tell me what happened.”

She slid her hand over his, and he let her take the towel. Leaning on her elbow, she took a deep breath and told him everything. “I couldn’t seem to sleep for some reason. About two, I heard someone here in the kitchen, and I thought it was Gerry, who sometimes has trouble sleeping, also. So, I got up and came out into the hall, thinking I’d offer to make us some warm milk or herb tea. It was dark. For some reason I didn’t turn on the light in my room, but I expected to see the light from the kitchen. Still, I wasn’t particularly frightened—until I heard the hissing.”

“The hissing?”

“I thought it was gas escaping from the stove,” she said. “I ran down the hall to the kitchen, and that’s when I saw the light.”

“You said the light was off,” he pointed out.

She nodded. “Yes, the kitchen light was off, but he had a flashlight.”

“Eibersen?”

“I think so. I didn’t actually see his face. He was dressed all in black and his hair was covered up.”

Zach grimaced with disappointment. “Go on.”

“Well,” she said, “I screamed.”

“And what happened then?”

She shrugged. “It all happened so fast. I think I must have scared him half to death, because he jumped about a foot, dropped the can and took off. He was scrambling like a madman, and he bumped into me. My foot kind of caught with his, and I went down, smacking my cheek on the other side of the bar there and landing on my shoulder.” She laid down the cool towel and put her hand to her shoulder, wincing as she rotated the joint. “I grabbed at him,” she went on, “and broke a fingernail.” She held up her right hand, displaying an index finger with the nail torn back into the quick. “Before I could get to my feet again, he was gone. Camille came in and turned on the light. That’s when we saw this.” She waved a hand toward the cabinets, and for the first time Zach really looked around him.

“Holy cow!” he said, his jaw dropping as he took it all in. “The can he dropped was obviously a paint can.”

“Spray paint seems to be his medium of choice,” she commented wryly.

Zach was shaking his head, trying to make it all out as he read aloud. “This time my heart knows—”

“‘Its mind.’” she supplied. “‘This time my heart knows its mind. I am yours. You are mine.’ It’s from a poem.”

“A poem?” he echoed incredulously.

Sighing, she recited the whole thing for him. It was a pretty sappy piece about finding true love after many false hopes and mistakes, only to be rejected. “‘But I am constant,’” she recited, ‘“and will not be swayed. True love always finds a way.’”

Zach studied the sloppy letters dripping bright red on the walls, cabinets and appliances. “This guy is nuts,” he decided finally. “I’ve been told that he’s fixated, but this doesn’t sound like he’s punishing Camille. It sounds like he wants her back and thinks vandalism is a courtship technique!”

Jillian closed her eyes wearily. “I take it you haven’t found him yet.”

Zach pushed out a disgusted sigh and shook his head. “He seems to be moving around, one night in this motel, one night in another. From what rve gathered so far, he’s sold or given away just about everything he owns.”

“Isn’t that what suicides do?” asked a worried voice from the doorway.

Zach turned to find Gerry and the others there.

“I don’t have any indication that he’s planning a suicide,” he told her.

Camille pushed her way past her mother then, her nose turned up haughtily. “You don’t have any indication of anything, from what I can tell! You haven’t even found him yet!”

Zach rolled his eyes, holding on to his temper. “As I just told your sister, he’s been moving around a lot, but we’ll come across him sooner or later.”

She waved a hand angrily at Jennings, who peered sheepishly over Gerry’s white turban. “Just tell this idiot to go out and arrest him!”

Zach sent the man an apologetic look. “It isn’t that simple, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t understand why not!”

“I didn’t see his face, Camille,” Jillian said, taking the blame. “I can’t swear that it was him.”

“And even if she could,” Zach said irritably, “the cops don’t know where to look for him.”

“They would if you’d do your job!” Camille snapped.

“I’m doing my job!” he told her heatedly. “If you don’t like the way I’m doing it hire someone else.”

She folded her arms but said nothing more. He pushed a hand through his hair. “What I can’t figure out is how he got past the security system.” Camille looked away. Gerry suddenly got busy folding and smoothing the collar of her robe.

It was Jillian who cleared her throat and said, “The security system hasn’t been activated.”

Zach couldn’t believe it. Throwing up both arms he bawled, “What? You told me you’d activate the system that next day.”

“I tried,” she said defensively. “But you have to choose a security code, and Camille—”

He whirled on Camille then. “I should have known! You just couldn’t be bothered, I suppose!”

She drew herself up regally. “I am a very busy person, I’ll have you know, and—”

“You egotistical little twit!” he yelled, and then he turned to Jillian once more. “What about the locks? You got those changed, didn’t you?”

She gulped and bowed her head. “The locksmith was booked up. He’s coming tomorrow afternoon.”

“But he’s the very best,” Gerry added helpfully. “I believe in always going with the very best in the field. Why, he’s installed locks for the Pipers, and everyone knows they have a priceless art collection, not to mention all those jewels.”

Zach rolled his eyes back in his head and smacked the heels of his hands against his temples, suppressing the urge to do worse. “God help me,” he groaned. “You three don’t need a private cop—you need a keeper!”

Carpenter elbowed his way into the room then, asking Zach, “Want us to get a crew in to dust for prints?”

“Won’t matter,” Jillian muttered warily. “He was wearing gloves.”

Zach targeted her with a narrow look. “You’re certain?”

She nodded. “I told you, he was dressed all in black, head to toe. He was even wearing a hood and a mask. I saw his hand where he was holding the flashlight, and he was definitely wearing black gloves.”

Zach sighed. “Bag the paint can,” he said to the police officer, suddenly weary. “Maybe we can trace the buy.” Carpenter nodded and fished a rubber glove from one pocket and a plastic bag from another.

Jennings came forward as his partner bagged the can, saying reluctantly, “I, um, better get a formal statement from her.” He pointed an ink pen at Jillian. Zach nodded reluctantly, hands at his hips. “Okay, but make it quick. She’s been through enough already.”

The man parked himself in front of Jillian, legs braced wide apart, notebook in one hand, ink pen in the other. She told her story all over again, answering questions along the way. It was over in fifteen minutes.

Afterward, Carpenter conferred with Zach. “We can post a drive-by every hour or, so for the next twelve, if you want.”

Zach rubbed a hand across his nape. That was exactly what he’d ask for under almost any other circumstances, but something wasn’t right about this situation. “It’s all right. I’ll...I’ll stay till morning.” He sent a murderous glare at Camille and added, “At which point the security system will definitely be activated.”

Camille flipped a shoulder unconcernedly. “What I want to know is who’s going to take care of this mess?”

Jillian immediately volunteered. “I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”

“It really ought to be wiped down now,” Gerry said.

“I want pictures of it first,” Zach said. “Besides, Jillian isn’t wiping down anything. She’s been injured, in case you didn’t notice.”

Gerry seemed to think she’d been insulted. “Well, really!”

“Yes, really,” Zach snapped.

Camille huffed in a put-upon way. “Are you all right, Jillian?”

Jillian nodded. “I’m okay. You go on to bed.”

“I do have an early call tomorrow,” Camille said, “as usual.”

“Just make yourself comfortable, young man,” Gerry said, pattering after her retreating daughter.

“Sure,” Zach drawled. “Thanks.” Gerry didn’t seem to even hear the sarcasm.

“I’ll show you where to sleep,” Jillian said softly.

“Never mind,” he said, irritated at her behavior. “The couch will do me just fine. Right now I want to take a look at the point of entry. Do you have any idea where that might be?”

“Well,” she said, “he went out the back door.”

A muscle twitched in Zach’s clamped jaw. He motioned to Carpenter. “You come with me. Jennings, have you got a camera in that squad car?”

“Sure do. I’ll run get it.”

“Wait here,” he told Jillian. She nodded and pressed the cool towel to her cheek once more.

It didn’t take long to determine that the lock had not been forced. They looked around for a few minutes but found nothing unexpected. By the time they were satisfied that there was nothing helpful to be found, Jennings had taken all the necessary photos of the damage done to the kitchen. Zach saw the police officers out and returned to Jillian. She looked unutterably weary.

“Well, whoever it was, he definitely has a key,” Zach said.

“Yes, I’m sure he does,” she admitted.

“But you’re willing to wait for the Pipers’ society locksmith,” he said caustically. Then he pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger, eyes closed, and tried to calm himself. “I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you. It’s Camille’s house and Camille’s problem.”

“Which I’m sure Camille will take much more seriously now.”

He lifted an eyebrow at that but said only, “How’re you feeling?”

She shrugged and winced. “Shoulder’s tightening up, but otherwise—”

“Here,” he said, stepping around behind her. “Let me have a look.” He pulled down the soft neckline of her big shirt, exposing her shoulder blade. Sliding his fingers over her satiny skin, he gently probed, rotating the joint slightly. “I don’t see any bruising,” he said, mouth suddenly dry. “It’s not out of joint.”

“I didn’t think it was,” she whispered huskily.

The sound of her voice sent shivers up his spine. He jerked his hands away, saying, “Got any frozen peas?” The question came out strangled.

“What?”

He cleared his throat. “Frozen peas. They make a great ice pack.”

“Oh. Probably in the freezer.”

She started to slide off the stool, but he held up a hand to stop her. He went over to the double-wide freezer-refrigerator in the corner, opened the door on the left and rummaged around the bins. finding what he needed. “Frozen corn works just as well,” he said, carrying the bag over to the counter. He started pulling open drawers until he found another towel. He carried the towel and the bag of frozen corn back to the bar. Folding the bag inside the towel, he fashioned a sling to hold the “ice pack” in place by looping the towel under her arm and tying it around her shoulder. “Now, let me see that finger.”

She held up her right index finger. “It’s no big deal.”

He surveyed it briefly. “Where’s the peroxide?”

“Uh, there’s a first-aid kit in the cabinet above the sink.”

He went there, used a paper towel to open the messy door and took down the kit, then carried it back to the bar counter. He fished around inside, extracting Band-Aids, antibiotic cream and a small pair of scissors. Using the scissors, he clipped the nail neatly. Then he applied the cream and two Band-Aids, one over the end of her finger and the other wrapping around it. “That ought to do it,” he said.

She thanked him timidly, adding, “You don’t have to take care of me, you know.”

He pulled out the other stool and sat down, knowing perfectly well that he ought to keep his mouth shut, but somehow, he just couldn’t. “Someone has to,” he said. “Your sister obviously won’t.”

Jillian couldn’t quite seem to look him in the eye. “It wouldn’t occur to her. You have to understand how busy she is.”

“I understand that she dumps everything that doesn’t have to do with her precious career on you.”

She didn’t even argue with him. “I don’t mind,” she said. “I like doing things around the house.”

He wanted to shake her, to make her stand up for herself, but it wasn’t any of his business. Why, he wondered, did the sweet ones always get treated like this? Suddenly he realized what he was thinking, and was shocked at himself. It must have shown, for she laid a hand on his forearm and asked earnestly, “What is it?”

He didn’t want to talk about it. He really didn’t, and yet... “You remind me of someone I used to know,” he finally said.

“Oh? And who would that be?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “We’re getting off the subject We were talking about how you let certain people take advantage of you and then put you down, when they ought to be grateful and supportive.”

She smiled wryly, as if touched by his concern. “It’s not like that. I’ll admit that it hasn’t always been easy, but it’s more Gerry than it is Camille, and before you start in on her, just think about it from her viewpoint She was replaced, literally, by my mom, who was several years younger, and yet she still took me in when I had no place else to go. It’s natural that she should resent me, don’t you think?”

“Maybe,” he admitted, “but that was a long time ago. It doesn’t explain this subservient role they’ve cast you in.”

Jillian seemed to be searching for the right words to explain. “I know this sounds absurd, but it’s almost as if Gerry is jealous of me on Camille’s behalf. I can’t imagine why, though.”

“Oh, please,” he said scathingly. “Your sister has the personality of a diva.”

Jillian sighed. “I guess you’re right,” she admitted, “but she still has more personality than me, not to mention looks.”

He could have let it pass. He should have let it pass. Instead, he said, “There’s nothing wrong with your personality or your looks. You have those enormous blue eyes and that model’s build going for you.”





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/arlene-james/glass-slipper-bride/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.