Книга - Her Private Bodyguard

Her Private Bodyguard
Gayle Wilson


A MAN IN THE SHADOWSEx-CIA operative Grey Sellers had settled into a quiet, anonymous life. No secrets, no bullets, no nightmares…just the way he wanted it. Until he was hired to protect reluctant heiress Valerie Beaufort from a killer. He'd sworn not to get emotionally attached to the assignment–but Valerie was so much more than that….Valerie hadn't wanted a bodyguard, even one as sexy as Grey Sellers. But with him, Valerie finally felt like a woman–a woman willing to let a man into her heart. Yet Grey's secrets were deep and his past even deeper. Would she discover the man he truly was–before it was too late?









“All the things that should be in your records aren’t. It’s as if you didn’t exist before you opened your investigative agency.


“Which makes me curious as to what you were doing before then,” she added.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Why are you in hiding?” Valerie asked.

“I’m not in hiding. I run a business. I advertise. My number’s in the phone book. You can check all that out—”

“Yes, I know. You told me. Except the man who recommended you seems to have disappeared. So…I’m not exactly sure anymore why you’re here, Mr. Sellers.”

“I’m here because I’m being paid to do a job—”

“And did that job involve trying to get me into bed?” she asked softly. “Or was that just some sort of…extra compensation you thought up all on your own?”

“No,” Grey said seriously. “I don’t have any hidden agenda where you’re concerned.…”


Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

You wanted MORE MEN OF MYSTERY by Gayle Wilson—now you’ve got ’em! Gayle’s stories about these sexy undercover agents have become one of Harlequin Intrigue’s most popular ongoing series. We are as impressed by her outstanding talent as you, her readers, and are thrilled to feature her special brand of drama again in Her Private Bodyguard (#561). Look for two MORE titles in August and November 2000.

Also available this month, Protecting His Own (#562) by Molly Rice, an emotional story about the sanctity of family and a man’s basic need to claim what’s his.

There’s no more stronger bond than that of blood. And Chance Quarrels is determined to see no harm come to the little daughter he never knew he had as Patricia Rosemoor continues her SONS OF SILVER SPRINGS miniseries with The Lone Wolf’s Child (#563).

Finally, veteran Harlequin Intrigue author Carly Bishop takes you to a cloistered Montana community with a woman and an undercover cop posing as husband and wife. The threat from a killer is real, but so is their simmering passion. Which one is more dangerous…? Find out in No Bride But His (#564), a LOVERS UNDER COVER story.

Pick up all four for variety, for excitement—because you’re ready for a thrill!

Sincerely,

Denise O’Sullivan

Associate Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue


Her Private Bodyguard

Gayle Wilson






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




ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Gayle Wilson is the award-winning author of twenty novels written for Harlequin. She has lived in Alabama all her life except for the years she followed her army aviator husband—whom she met on a blind date—to a variety of military posts.

Before beginning her writing career, she taught English and world history to gifted high school students in a number of schools around the Birmingham area. Gayle and her husband have one son, who is also a teacher of gifted students. They are blessed with warm and loving Southern families and an ever-growing menagerie of cats and dogs.

You can write to Gayle at P.O. Box 3277, Hueytown, Alabama 35023.




Books by Gayle Wilson


HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

344—ECHOES IN THE DARK

376—ONLY A WHISPER

414—THE REDEMPTION OF DEKE SUMMERS

442—HEART OF THE NIGHT

461—RANSOM MY HEART* (#litres_trial_promo)

466—WHISPER MY LOVE* (#litres_trial_promo)

469—REMEMBER MY TOUCH* (#litres_trial_promo)

490—NEVER LET HER GO

509—THE BRIDE’S PROTECTOR‡ (#litres_trial_promo)

513—THE STRANGER SHE KNEW‡ (#litres_trial_promo)

517—HER BABY, HIS SECRET‡ (#litres_trial_promo)

541—EACH PRECIOUS HOUR† (#litres_trial_promo)

561—HER PRIVATE BODYGUARD‡ (#litres_trial_promo)

HARLEQUIN HISTORICALS

211—THE HEART’S DESIRE♥ (#litres_trial_promo)

263—THE HEART’S WAGER♥ (#litres_trial_promo)

299—THE GAMBLER’S HEART♥ (#litres_trial_promo)

349—RAVEN’S VOW

393—HIS SECRET DUCHESS

432—HONOR’S BRIDE

483—LADY SARAH’S SON




FOR YOUR EYES ONLY


CIA

AGENT PROFILE









FOR YOUR EYES ONLY




CAST OF CHARACTERS


Valerie Beaufort—Val had never wanted any part of the millions her father’s company generated. Now she was stuck with the money and all that went along with it, including a private bodyguard. And someone who had murder on their mind.

Grey Sellers—The ex-CIA agent had left the agency and the External Security Team because of a mistake that had resulted in a good man’s death. He never again wanted to be in a position where someone else’s life depended on him. But now he was falling in love with the woman he had been charged with protecting.

Billy Clemens—Clemens would become the majority owner of Av-Tech Aeronautics if something happened to Valerie. With the millions involved, wasn’t that a good enough motive for murder?

Porter Johnson—Porter had known Valerie all her life and had treated her like a daughter when she had lost her own father. Could he really be involved in what was going on?

Harper Springfield—Another of her father’s partners, Harp had as much to gain by Valerie’s death as any of the others.

Emory Hunter—Did Emory’s soft Southern accent and courtly manner hide a murderer?

Autry Carmichael—The head of Av-Tech security formed his own theory of what was going on out at Valerie’s ranch as soon as he discovered Grey Sellers was a man without a past.

Constance Beaufort—Connie, Valerie’s stepmother, had been virtually cut out of her late husband’s will. Could she be angry enough to kill?


For all the girls who post in my folder

(and for all you lurkers, too).

You are the best!

This one’s for you!




Contents


Prologue (#u05fbcb81-33d9-581a-8401-6f73b5c3cab5)

Chapter One (#u3a4be7d8-8a70-5d62-89ad-015e8b18eb08)

Chapter Two (#u95f6e252-cb8c-5661-948b-b5584f5bbd3e)

Chapter Three (#ud1006829-f5db-5205-9e20-a1b93c367be3)

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)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)




Prologue


A hell of a way to acquire a few hundred million dollars, Valerie Beaufort thought, looking down on her father’s flower-draped coffin. And she would have given all of it, of course, not to be standing here. They were his millions. Money she had never wanted. And didn’t want any part of now.

“If there’s anything we can do, Valerie, dear,” Porter Johnson said, taking her hand and patting it gently, “you let us know. You know Betsy and I love you like our own daughters.”

Porter’s touch brought Val out of her heartsick reverie and made her realize that the brief graveside service was over. The people who had gathered around the final resting place of Charles Valentine Beaufort were already beginning to stream back to their cars, parked haphazardly along the edges of the vast cemetery.

She supposed she should have listened to whatever the minister had had to say about her father, but she didn’t really need any eulogy to remind her of how he had lived his life. Or of how much she had loved him.

“There wasn’t a better man in this world than Charlie Beaufort,” Johnson said softly. “I never had a better friend.”

Touched by the quiet sincerity in his voice, Valerie leaned forward to press her lips against his cheek. His skin was as soft as old velvet, crepey with age. But then, Porter was even older than her father.

Actually, she remembered, he was the oldest of that small group of men who had founded Av-Tech Aeronautics. They had had no way of knowing then what an industry giant the tiny company they had started on a shoestring after the Korean war would become. Maybe if they had, things would have been different.

“So sorry about your daddy, honey,” Emory Hunter said, as soon as Porter and his wife moved away. Emory patted her cheek, just as he had when she was a little girl. “Charlie was a real good man. Maybe the best I’ve ever known. That should be a consolation to you, just like the size of this crowd should be.”

He indicated the hundreds of people scattered across the sweep of green lawn, centered by the tent they had set up over her father’s grave. They hadn’t lowered the casket yet. Maybe they didn’t do that until everyone was gone. She wasn’t really up on funeral etiquette, which was a good thing, she guessed.

“It is a consolation,” she agreed, finding a smile for another of her father’s partners, men she had literally known all her life. “And it helps to know he had friends like you.”

“You call me in a few days, and we’ll talk some about your old man. I know stories I bet he never told you. Probably didn’t want you to know what a hell-raiser he really was,” Emory said, laughing before his expression sobered. “It’s good to talk about folks after they’re gone. Healthy to remember the good times. It keeps them alive for us a little longer.”

Hunter had never lost his Southern accent, despite the number of years he had lived in Colorado. Since he was now in his late sixties, Val didn’t suppose he ever would.

“I will,” she said, smiling at him. “I’ll call, I promise. And thank you, Emory. Your friendship meant a lot to Dad.”

He moved away, and Valerie turned to the next person waiting for her attention. Soon the faces and the condolences started to run together. She seemed to be repeating the same phrases over and over again, her mind a million miles away, just as it had been during the service.

All she wanted to do was to get this over and go home. Get out of these clothes and into a pair of jeans. Ride out the tension that had grown into an ache between her shoulders. Get the scent of hothouse flowers out of her nostrils and the sound of all these voices and their words of comfort out of her head.

That wasn’t a lack of respect for her father. He would have been the first to agree that riding over the isolated landscape they both loved was a better idea than standing over his grave. Charlie Beaufort had loved the high desert and the mountains with a deep and abiding passion. Just as he had loved the ranch that sat in a small, sheltered valley in the middle of the tract of rugged land he’d bought more than forty years ago. He had built the main house and most of the outbuildings with his own hands.

During the past ten or fifteen years, however, when Av-Tech had really taken off, he hadn’t had time—hadn’t taken time, Val amended—to get away and visit it. When she was a little girl, they had gone out to the ranch almost every weekend. Piled in an old station wagon, her mother, father and Val would spend Friday evening driving out there, arriving long after midnight.

Some of her best memories of her father were associated with the ranch. Those were the memories she wanted to get in touch with. And those were the years she wanted to remember.

“Val, honey, if you’ve got a minute…” Harper Springfield whispered in her ear. “While they’re finishing up here…” Hand firmly on her elbow, Harp, another of Av-Tech’s founders, applied pressure to direct her away from the grave, where people were still waiting in line to speak to her and her stepmother.

Constance Beaufort’s perfectly coifed blond hair and beautiful features were covered by a sheer black veil, her slender figure clothed in a black designer suit, black hose and black kid pumps. There wasn’t a spot of color or a piece of jewelry, except for her gold wedding ring, of course, to spoil the image Connie was aiming for.

The grieving widow, Val thought as she turned away. Who had been grieving in earnest when she’d learned the terms of her late husband’s will. Charlie Beaufort might have been foolish enough, Val thought regretfully, to marry a woman younger than his daughter. But thankfully, his lawyers had been smart enough to make him have her sign a prenuptial agreement.

There would be a generous settlement for Connie, plenty of money to live on, but she would get no shares of Av-Tech. And there, of course, was where Charlie Beaufort’s real wealth lay.

Only when Val managed to pull her eyes away from her stepmother’s artful performance did she realized where Harp was leading her. On a slight rise looking down on the grave site, the co-owners of her father’s company were standing in a semicircle, waiting for Harp to bring her to them.

She had thought the firmness of Springfield’s grip on her arm was an unnecessary and unwanted concern for her bad leg, but now it began to feel like some kind of strong-arm tactic. Although she would much prefer to believe the latter than the former, she couldn’t imagine why her father’s partners would think she needed to be coerced into meeting with them. Most of them had bounced her on their knees when she was a baby.

They were looking decidedly nervous, however, as she and Harp approached. Because she was now the majority owner of the company that had been their bread and butter for so many years? After all, they were of a different generation. They might have concerns about a woman directing an international company, especially one that specialized in cutting-edge missile delivery systems and the latest satellite technology.

The first thing she needed to do, Val decided, was let them know she had no intention of trying to run things. She didn’t have the expertise, even if she had wanted to. And she didn’t want to, of course. She had walked away from her father’s money more than ten years ago. She wasn’t going back to that life now. No matter what his will had said.

“We all thought we needed to talk about what happens next,” Billy Clemens said as she and Harp walked up to the group.

Trust Billy to cut to the chase, Val thought. The most outspoken of the four men who had been her father’s partners for more than forty years, Clemens was also Val’s least favorite, although she could never quite pinpoint the reason. Billy was fond of saying that with him, what you saw was what you got. He was right. Val just didn’t particularly like either.

Maybe her father hadn’t, as well, Val thought, although he had never openly expressed any disparagement of Clemens. However, if her dad had arranged for his shares to be divided among his partners at his death instead of saddling her with them, Billy would now be the majority owner, and all the responsibility that went with the position would be his instead of hers.

“What happens next?” she repeated, although she certainly knew where this was heading.

“There’s a lot of stuff going on with the company right now. A lot of contracts that have to be met, with some pretty substantial penalties involved if we don’t meet them. I’m just wondering what you’re planning to do about those.”

“I’m planning to see those contracts are fulfilled,” Val said. “And that the company doesn’t have to pay any penalties.”

“You’re going to step into your father’s shoes?” Harp Springfield asked bluntly.

“You all know as well as I do that no one can do that. Av-Tech was my father’s life. If I try to step in, I’ll botch it.”

“You’re the majority shareholder, Val,” Porter Johnson reminded her. “Somebody’s got to command the ship.”

“Are you volunteering, Porter?” she asked softly.

There was little doubt what his answer would be. Johnson was suffering from prostate cancer. He wouldn’t want the responsibility of the company. Of course, neither did she. As a matter of fact, Val doubted that any one of them, with the exception of Billy Clemens, would even consider taking over.

“You know better than that, Val,” Porter said. “Your dad was the heart and the soul of this company. The last couple of years…Well, even Charlie wasn’t able to see to everything.”

She was grateful Porter hadn’t made that sound any worse than he had. Her father’s health had been failing for a long time, and she hated to admit she hadn’t even been aware of how much. At least, not until his first stroke two years ago.

“That’s why we’re going to get someone in there who can tell us what we need to do with the company,” she said reassuringly.

“You aren’t talking about selling?” Clemens asked. “You can’t do that.”

“Right now, all I’m talking about is hiring a management consultant,” Val said. “Someone to look us over, examine the books, look at those contracts and make some suggestions. I think that’s what my father should have done when he got sick. If he had been himself, he would have.” There was a small pause, but no one challenged what she’d said, so she continued, thankful they were at least giving her the opportunity to tell them what she’d been thinking. “I’ve already asked our attorneys to locate someone with management expertise specific to our patents.”

She was a little surprised at how easily those phrases came. Our attorneys. Management expertise specific to our patents. For someone who had spent years professing to have no interest in any of this, she talked a good game. Maybe she was more her father’s daughter than she had realized.

“Your daddy didn’t believe in consultants,” Porter said.

“My daddy’s dead, Porter. And up until the last couple of years he knew exactly what he was doing as far as Av-Tech was concerned. I don’t. However, as the majority owner, I have a responsibility to the other shareholders—that’s all of you, by the way—as well as a responsibility to the people who work for us. I’m going to get some help figuring out what’s best for the company. I may not have taken an interest in all this before, but it’s my responsibility now. I am Charlie Beaufort’s daughter,” she reminded them.

“And I’m not going to let the company he loved go down the tubes,” she continued. “I want to get someone who knows what they are doing in place there as soon as possible. I hope you’ll all be willing to cooperate with him.” As her gaze circled their faces, she didn’t see anyone who looked upset by that plan. Not even Billy Clemens.

“I think your dad would have been proud, honey,” Emory said. “That makes a lot of sense to me. And frankly, it’ll be a relief to know that what we started will be in good hands.”

Now that Hunter had broken the ice, there was a polite murmur of what sounded like agreement. At least no one objected openly. It wouldn’t have mattered if they had, of course. She had the shares to do whatever she wanted. Still, it was nice not to have a mutiny on her hands over her first decision.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a long way to travel to get back home. I’d like to make it before nightfall,” she said.

She didn’t give them time to protest. She turned and retraced her steps down the rise. Her knee had begun to ache, and she was overly conscious of her limp. Of course, she always was when she knew someone was watching her.

As she passed by the tent, her stepmother was still holding court. Two of the men from the mortuary were beginning to take the flowers off the casket in preparation for lowering it into the ground. Ashes to ashes, she thought, turning her blurring eyes quickly away and examining the smoothly rolling green lawn with its dotting of trees and crosses instead.

And dust to dust. Goodbye, Daddy, her heart whispered.

Deliberately she wiped the scene from her mind, picturing him instead behind the wheel of that battered old station wagon, driving them out to the ranch for the weekend. Still young and happy, with all of life ahead of him, and her mother at his side. That was the way she wanted to remember him.

Behind her, she could hear the screech of the crank as it turned, lowering his casket into the ground, and her stepmother’s voice, exclaiming to someone about the depths of her grief.

Four days later

“BODYGUARD?” Grey Sellers asked, his deep voice rich with disbelief. “What the hell makes them think somebody would need a bodyguard in this place?”

“That’s what I’m telling you,” Joe Wallace said, easing his bulk down into the chair across the desk. “Piece of cake. I’m gonna hire somebody to make these folks happy, so why shouldn’t it be you? Take their money, pay some bills, enjoy the scenery.”

The pay-some-bills part struck the right note, Grey acknowledged, and he wondered if Wallace could know that. There were more than a few unpaid bills piled on his desk right now. What wasn’t piled there were cases.

Not that he was complaining about that, he admitted. At least, he hadn’t been until the notices of nonpayment had started arriving. The ones that began with “Dear Valued Customer” and ended by threatening legal action.

“I’m not a bodyguard,” Grey said, resisting temptation.

The flat statement wasn’t exactly a lie. He had the skills, and he’d had the training, all of it acquired at government expense. Grey had done a lot of things during the fifteen years he’d spent with the CIA. Not anything he could classify as pure bodyguarding, however. The closest he had come to that…

He blocked that memory, just as he always did. It was the thing that had driven him away from the agency and the team. Away from the only friends he had. Of course, after what he’d done, he doubted he could still consider many of them friends.

“So?” Joe asked, shrugging. “You don’t have to know what you’re doing ’cause she doesn’t really need a bodyguard. This is a paperwork deal. Somebody snatches Valerie Beaufort, and this insurer might get hit for a loss, so they got to cover their butts. Only, you and I both know nothing’s gonna happen. We’ve never had a CEO kidnapping out this way. Not that we got all that many CEOs to begin with,” Wallace added with a grin. “They must have got us mixed up with California. I’m telling you, this is a piece of cake. And somebody’s gonna get the job. Might as well be you. Easiest money you’ll ever make.”

“You know what they say about easy money,” Grey said.

He was surprised to find he was thinking about it, however. He had to admit it was tempting. Hell, anybody looking for this Beaufort woman would probably get lost before they found that ranch. From what Joe had told him, it was at the back of beyond.

He took his booted feet off his desk and put the front legs of his chair down on the floor. Then he stood up and stretched the kinks out of his back and shoulders. Too many hours spent hunched over his desk this morning, trying to figure out how to keep his investigative agency afloat.

Investigative agency, he thought wryly. He supposed that did sound better than hole-in-the-wall-surveillance-of-straying-spouses-and-insurance-fraud-con-men service.

“Not really,” Joe said. “Don’t think I ever heard that one. So whatta they say about easy money?”

Grey walked over to where the air conditioner was sluggishly churning out air that didn’t feel any cooler than that outside. He played with the controls a few seconds, and then turned around, letting the lukewarm current blow on his back. It would evaporate the moisture that was molding the soggy material of his shirt to his skin, and the chill that provided would at least give an impression of coolness.

“That it usually isn’t easy.”

“You need a new unit,” Joe advised, ignoring the less than original observation about money.

“I need a lot of things,” Grey said. Starting with a stiff drink, he thought. A little hair of the dog.

Since it was only ten o’clock on a typically noneventful weekday morning, however, he didn’t announce that particular need to his prospective client. He didn’t think it would be conducive to impressing Wallace with his dependability to say that he was hung over and just a little bit shaky as a result.

When he had opened his agency here over a year ago Grey had known things would be slow. At least for a while. He just hadn’t known how slow. And since Joe Wallace was one of his few repeat customers, he didn’t want to blow the guy’s confidence. For some reason, Wallace seemed to think Grey knew what he was doing, and he couldn’t afford to lose his business.

Wallace represented several major out-of-state insurers. And he had thrown Grey most of the surveillance cases he’d had during the past few months. The jobs Joe provided, investigating fraudulent insurance claims, along with a few calls from the locals asking Grey to spy on a straying husband or wife, had pretty much made up his caseload since he’d started.

It was boring stuff, no challenge involved, but he did it all with a dogged persistence, even on days like this. Even when he was hung over and aching for another drink. He did those jobs as well as he could because that was the way Griff Cabot had trained him. Nothing left to chance. Nothing ignored, no matter how insignificant it appeared.

He also did them because they provided him with food, a roof over his head and the occasional bottle of bourbon. Lately, it had been more than the occasional bottle, he admitted. Lying to himself wasn’t something Grey Sellers did. He never had.

And at some time during the past year, Grey had decided he liked boring. If he didn’t, he would learn to. After all, he had already had all the excitement he ever wanted. Enough to last him a couple of lifetimes, he thought bitterly, remembering again, without wanting to, the last mission he had undertaken for Griff Cabot and the CIA’s very elite, very clandestine External Security Team.

“Take this job and get some of those things you need,” Wallace suggested.

Grey’s lips tightened as he tried to think why he shouldn’t. Other than the fact that he didn’t ever intend to be in that position again. The ghost that drove him to crave a drink way too early in the morning was too closely connected to protection. Or rather with a failure to provide it. A failure on his part.

“Easy money and somebody’s gonna get it,” Joe said, watching his face, maybe reading that need. “Might as well be you.”

“What do I have to do?” Grey asked, knowing in his gut this was a mistake. And every time he hadn’t listened to his gut—

“Look around. Make some security-type recommendations on the place. Do surveillance on the insured until they get something else set up. Do the paperwork.” Joe nodded toward the packet of documents he had dropped on the cluttered desk.

Grey hadn’t even looked at them. Paperwork was something he was familiar with. This couldn’t be much different from the government red-tape-type crap he’d dealt with for years. Griff had taken care of most of that, but everyone on the team had occasionally had to do their debriefing on paper.

He again pushed those memories back where they belonged, and despite the pounding in his head, tried to wrap his concentration around the particulars of this case.

“And the policy isn’t even on the Beaufort woman?” he asked, trying to remember the details Joe had mentioned before he had thrown in that pay-some-bills part and gotten his attention.

“The policy, as it’s written,” Joe said patiently, “covers the CEO of Av-Tech Aeronautics, which by virtue of her father’s death last week, Valerie Beaufort now is. So someone at Beneficial Life finally figured out that the policy covers her. It’s pretty standard. All the big companies have these things for their executive officers. The insurers agree to pay the ransom if a CEO is kidnapped. That kind of stuff.”

“And there isn’t any reason to believe she might really need protection.”

Joe laughed. “The insurers are covering their butts. Just like I am. They’ll make her set up some kind of state-of-the-art security system on that ranch. Until she does, they want somebody to guard this broad on a temporary basis,” Joe said, shrugging. “That’s the deal. Like I told you—piece of cake.”

“Okay,” Grey said, still reluctant, even as he heard the agreement come out of his mouth. And he was not completely sure why he was so resistant. More messages from his gut, he guessed.

“I got to provide them with a résumé. Your credentials. You got a sheet with the stuff on it, I can just fax it to them.”

Leaving the air conditioner, Grey walked over to the battered black metal filing cabinet that stood in a corner of the tiny office. Pulling out the top drawer, the only one that had anything in it, he thumbed through the mostly empty folders until he found the one that contained the information he had put into the ads he’d placed when he had first set up the agency.

He handed one of the sheets to Joe and then sat back down behind his desk as Wallace read it. Joe looked at it a few seconds before his eyes came back up. The insurance agent took his pen out of his shirt pocket and put the paper down on Grey’s desk, poised to write. “References?” he asked.

How about a supposedly dead ex-deputy director of the CIA, Grey thought, a little amused by the idea of putting Griff’s name down. Cabot would vouch for him, all right, providing a postdated letter of reference if Grey wanted it, but he didn’t intend to ask Griff or anybody else for any favors. Not to get a job he had reservations about taking in the first place. If these folks didn’t like his credentials, they could get someone else.

“Ex-military,” Grey said. “That’s all on there.”

“I mean somebody who could verify your qualifications.”

“What you see is what you get,” Grey said softly. “If they don’t like it, they can get themselves another bodyguard to watch over their little heiress. You know, the one who doesn’t really need a bodyguard at all.”

Joe’s gaze rose again, and he studied Grey’s face a moment. He looked as if he wanted to ask other questions, but after a few seconds, maybe because of what was in Grey’s eyes, Wallace put the pen back into his pocket and stood up. He folded the sheet Grey had given him and stuck it in the same pocket.

“There ain’t nobody else,” he said, smiling, his good humor restored. “Not out here. I know that, and you know it. Besides, they aren’t gonna quibble over a résumé. This job won’t last but a few days at the most. You give ’em somebody’s name, and they probably wouldn’t even take the time to check ’em out. So why bother, right? I’ll vouch for you.”

Grey nodded, again wondering why he was doing this. His instincts were still telling him it was a bad idea.

When Joe reached the door, he hesitated before he opened it, looking back over his shoulder. “Might be good if you stay out there twenty-four seven. You know, so if anything goes wrong, they can’t come back on us and say, ‘Well, that wouldn’t have happened if…’ You know,” he said again, seeming to run down.

“You want me to stay out at the Beaufort place?”

“Might be best,” Joe said. “Until they get the security system in. Just as a precaution.”

“I got a business to run,” Grey said, knowing how ridiculous that excuse was, even if Joe didn’t.

“Yeah, well…Just a precaution, you know. And you got an answering machine and all.”

“I thought you said—” Grey’s protest was cut off by Joe’s voice.

“Almost forgot. Here’s the first payment,” he said, walking back to lay a check on the desk. “Retainer and the first week.”

Grey looked down at the nice round sum on the check. Fifteen hundred dollars would take care of most of those bills, at least the ones that had “third notice” attached.

“A thousand bucks a week plus expenses,” Joe said. “They’ll want receipts for those. Bean counters,” he said dismissingly.

Grey heard the door close before he looked up. Wallace was gone, and he was alone with a check on his desk and a job he didn’t want but had, for some reason, apparently agreed to take.

“Son of a bitch,” Grey said. “Stupid son of a bitch.”

Angry with himself, he pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk and poured a shot of whiskey into the small tumbler he kept there. He tilted his head and knocked it back, closing his eyes as the liquor burned all the way down to his empty stomach, producing a small, satisfying glow. He put the glass back into the drawer and recapped the bottle with fingers that trembled.

That telltale vibration bothered him. He had had the reputation of having the coolest head and the steadiest hands of anyone on the team. Steadiest hands of anyone except Hawk, of course, he acknowledged with a small, twisted smile.

At least he hadn’t begun drinking it straight out of the bottle, he comforted himself caustically. That would probably come next. Probably right after his first encounter with Miss Valerie Beaufort and her millions.




Chapter One


Two things were clear immediately. The battered pickup parked in front of her house now hadn’t been there when Val left a couple of hours ago. And she didn’t recognize it as belonging to anyone she knew. Since she didn’t get many visitors, especially ones she didn’t know, both of those things made her wary. It was pretty hard to stray off any beaten path and end up out here. Her eyes studying the unfamiliar vehicle, she slowed her gelding to a walk, guiding Harvard slowly toward the ranch house.

The truck sported Colorado plates, along with half a dozen pings and dents. There was more dirt on its paint job than the normal surface dust a vehicle would acquire in making the trek out here. This one had been in need of a wash job for a while.

Her eyes traced over the porch, sweeping quickly over and then coming back to the shape that didn’t belong there. Almost hidden in the late-afternoon shadows, a man was sitting in one of her mother’s rockers, booted feet crossed at the ankles and propped on the wooden porch railing.

A black Stetson had been pulled down over his face as if he were asleep. Val would be willing to bet money that he wasn’t.

The boots were well-worn, she noted, her eyes moving upward to assess the length of his legs—long, muscular and clad in faded jeans. And a broad chest covered by a chamois-colored shirt, the sleeves turned back, revealing tanned forearms that were crossed over the man’s flat belly. Long-fingered hands lay totally relaxed on either side of his waist. As she watched, one rose, its thumb pushing the Stetson up off the man’s eyes.

They were gray. Ocean-gray. Storm-gray. Rain-cloud gray. Valerie had time to come up with a couple of other totally inane analogies before he straightened in the rocker, putting his feet down on the porch and pushing the hat all the way back.

His hair was coal-black and just a little longer than she normally liked for a man. Val couldn’t decide whether that was a stylistic decision on his part, or if he were just badly in need of a haircut. Her gaze came back to his face, but she found it hard to look at any feature other than those compelling eyes.

They were silver now, opaque in the shadowed light, and set in a frame of thick black lashes. Their color was the only softness in a face as harsh as the country that surrounded them. The features were lean and darkly weathered. It was obvious his nose had been broken at least once, maybe more, and it sat defiantly crooked above thin, hard lips.

“Ma’am,” he said, touching his hat in the traditional gesture of respect. A respect missing from the silver eyes. They examined her face as thoroughly as she had examined his.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice demanding, a little arrogant. That was a front, the tone developed long ago to hide her habitual nervousness at meeting strangers.

“My name’s Grey Sellers, ma’am. Beneficial Life sent me.”

There were a couple of slow heartbeats of silence.

“Sent you for what?” Val asked. She really couldn’t imagine. He certainly didn’t look like any insurance salesman she’d ever seen.

“To be your bodyguard,” he said.

For just a second there had been something behind those shuttered eyes. Amusement? Val wondered. The emotion had disappeared too quickly for her to be sure of its identification, replaced by the same bland politeness that was in his voice.

“My…bodyguard? Is this somebody’s idea of a joke?”

“Not as far as I can tell. Their check was good.”

This time his amusement was obvious. It underlay the deep voice and touched the edges of that hard mouth, tilting a corner.

“Let me get this straight,” Val said. “Somebody paid you to come out here and be my bodyguard?”

The word was so ridiculous she almost couldn’t bring herself to say it. It was one of those words that belonged only in the movies. Or on bad TV shows. The people she knew didn’t have bodyguards. Not even the rich ones.

“Beneficial Life,” he said.

“I don’t have a policy with Beneficial whatever,” she said. “Now, if you’ll just get off my porch, Mr…?”

“Sellers,” he supplied obediently, the upward quirk of his lips increasing minutely.

“Mr. Sellers,” she echoed. “If you will just get off my porch and off my property, I’d be very grateful.”

She had already begun to turn Harvard toward the barn when he spoke again. “They had a policy on your father, ma’am.”

That stopped her. The wound of her father’s death was too new for any information about him not to give her pause. When she turned back, Sellers was holding out a packet of papers.

Without reaching for them, she asked, her voice full of sarcasm, “And they sent you out here to pay it off?”

No one with half a grain of sense would trust this man with money, not as disreputable as he appeared, and they both knew it.

“No, ma’am,” he said, still rather obviously amused. “If you’re short of cash, I’m afraid it wasn’t that kind of policy.”

She took a breath, holding on to her temper. She realized that, surprisingly, she didn’t feel any sense of threat. Even her initial wariness at finding a stranger on her porch had begun to fade, turning to skepticism instead.

“Then what kind of policy was it, Mr. Sellers?” she asked with studied patience, as if she were talking to someone who wasn’t quite bright.

“You can look at the paperwork,” he said, laying the packet on the railing. “But as I understand it, the policy assured the other owners that nothing untoward was going to happen to the CEO of Av-Tech Aeronautics.”

“Nothing…untoward,” she repeated. The word was as unexpected on his lips as his lean body had been on her porch.

“As I understand it.”

“You’re here to see that nothing untoward happens to me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said solemnly, but again there was a flash of something in the depths of those gray eyes.

“I don’t think that there is a single untoward thing lurking around out here. Do you?” She raised her eyebrows and waited.

His gaze circled the neat yard and then rose to the mountains that loomed over the narrow valley where the ranch and the spring that fed it were located. It was that spring that made her small operation possible in all this barrenness.

“I deposited their check,” he said, his eyes seeming to consider the line of fencing that faded off toward the barn.

She waited a moment to see if there would be some further enlightenment as to why he had thought she might be interested in that revelation. “And?” she asked finally.

“And frankly, I’d play hell giving that money back,” he said, turning to face her again. The mobile corner of his mouth had inched upward a little farther, almost a smile. His eyes, however, were still carefully neutral. Still opaque.

“Well, I think that’s probably going to have to be between you and them, Mr. Sellers. It seems to fall in the category of not my problem. I want you off my place in…two minutes?” she asked, looking toward the battered truck.

“I could do that, ma’am, providing my truck will start, of course. And sometimes that’s doubtful. But I don’t think they’d be any too pleased if I did. Beneficial Life, I mean.”

“You know, I don’t really give a damn whether they are pleased or not,” Val said. “I want you out.” She didn’t raise her voice, but the last word was sharp. And final.

“I wish I could oblige you, Ms. Beaufort. I really do. But I have a professional obligation, ma’am. I’m sure you, being the C-E-O of a big company and all, can understand that.” He had said the initials slowly, emphasizing each, drawling them out mockingly. “I took their money, and now I’m obligated to do the job. Whether you or I like it very much,” he added.

“You’re planning on protecting me,” she said, her anger building, “whether I want you to or not. Is that what you’re trying to tell me, Mr. Sellers?”

“That’s what I’m telling you, ma’am,” he agreed solemnly.

“Don’t you imagine that’s going to be hard to do without my cooperation?” she asked, her voice falsely sweet.

“Well, it would certainly be easier with your cooperation, but I think I can probably manage the other,” he said.

She drew a deep breath, feeling Harvard stir beneath her. He was probably responding to her tension. She was furious, but she wasn’t sure at whom she was angrier. Beneficial Life? Av-Tech’s attorneys for not telling her about this policy, if it even existed? Or with this smug son of a bitch sitting on her porch? She edged Harvard closer to the railing and reached out to retrieve the tri-folded packet of documents he’d laid there. When she had it in her hand, she backed the gelding.

“Get out,” she said softly.

“They’ll just send somebody else,” Sellers said, his tone devoid now of the amusement that had lurked in it before. “They aren’t going to leave you alone out here without some kind of security system in place. And I assume you don’t have one.”

She’d be a fool to tell him she didn’t, of course, but she had never seen the need for security. When you lived at the back of beyond—in the devil’s armpit, as her dad used to say—you didn’t worry about the occasional burglary. Especially when there was nothing out here worth stealing in the first place.

“What would make you assume that?” she asked, controlling the gelding’s impatience with the ease of long practice.

Grey Sellers held her eyes a moment before he unfolded his length out of the rocker and walked over to her front door. He opened it, and then he waited. Nothing happened, of course. There were no alarms. No automatic notification of the sheriff’s office. Considering the roads that led to the ranch and the distance from the nearest town, by the time anyone from the Bradford County Sheriff’s Department could get out here, anything that was happening would be long over with anyway.

Then Sellers walked over and pushed up the window behind the rocker he’d been sitting in. It wasn’t locked. Val didn’t worry too much about locking windows either, of course.

He turned to look at her, his hat shadowing his face. “Your alarm system doesn’t seem to be working, Ms. Beaufort.”

“That’s because there isn’t one. As you are well aware.”

“So are they,” he said. “The insurance company, I mean. Something happens to you, they pay Av-Tech through the nose. And they don’t like paying. Can’t say I blame them.”

“What do you think is going to happen to me out here?”

“Nothing,” he said. And then he added, his tone again amused, “At least, not as long as I’m around.”

He came back to the railing, looking up at her from under the brim of that dusty black hat. Appropriate, she thought. This one certainly wasn’t a member of the white hat brigade. Those shadowed eyes had seen too much.

And how the hell do I think I can tell that by looking into his eyes? she wondered in disgust. She seemed to have developed an eye fetish in the past few minutes.

Harvard snorted, tossing his head and working at the bit. Sellers put his hand on the horse’s nose, running the heel down the length of it from between the gelding’s eyes to the nostrils. He leaned forward and blew on them, an old horseman’s trick.

“Easy, buster,” he said. “Mind your manners.” The words were low and caressing. The tone of someone who liked horses.

They’ll just send somebody else, he had said. They aren’t going to leave you alone out here without some kind of security system in place. And he was probably right.

She wasn’t Val Beaufort, penny-ante horse breeder and trainer, anymore. She was the CEO of Av-Tech Aeronautics, and like it or not, there were certain restrictions that went with the position. Restrictions she couldn’t do much about right now.

She would, she vowed. She wasn’t going to live her life chained to that damn company as her father had. Chained to the headaches that went with it. They’ll just send somebody else. They would. And she’d deal with that one when he arrived.

“Tell them I’ll get someone out here to set up a security system at the earliest possible opportunity,” she said.

“If you don’t, they will.”

“On my property? I think that’s called trespassing.”

“And I think the policy Av-Tech agreed to gives them the right to take adequate measures to safeguard their investment. Beneficial Life wouldn’t have written it unless it did.”

“I’ll straighten this out as soon as possible, Mr. Sellers,” she said, feeling that he was probably right and she was wrong. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant feeling. “Thank you for making me aware of the policy. And now, if you would be so kind…”

She turned and looked pointedly at the truck again.

“They’ll just send someone else,” he warned the second time. “It’ll take a few days to get a system in place. They won’t leave you unprotected while that’s going on.”

“Then I guess I’ll have another visitor tomorrow. In the meantime, it’s a long way back to civilization. And it’s almost dark, just in case you haven’t noticed. The roads out here can be a little harrowing at night.”

His eyes held on hers a long moment. Finally he touched his hat again and walked across the porch and down the shallow steps, boot heels loud on the wooden planks. He climbed into the pickup and closed the door. Val didn’t move, almost anticipating what would happen next.

She wasn’t disappointed. The motor ground a few times, but it never turned over. He had telegraphed that move with his comment about the unreliability of his truck. While he was waiting for her to get home, he had probably removed the wires from the spark plugs or something so the truck wouldn’t start.

She could dismount and try it herself. Or she could ask him to pop the hood and let her look at the engine. If he had done much fancy tinkering with the motor, however, she’d just end up looking like a fool, which was something she worked hard at not doing. She knew far more about horses than she did about internal combustion engines.

For some reason, his interaction with Harvard flashed into her head. But just because he liked horses didn’t mean he was harmless, of course. She took a breath, fighting frustration.

While he ground the motor a couple more times, she unfolded the papers she’d picked up off the railing. The heading at the top was Beneficial Life, and they looked official enough.

They’ll just send somebody else. At least this one knew the back end from the front end of a horse, which was something in his favor. To her, anyway. And for some reason, Val wasn’t afraid of him, despite what she thought she’d seen in his eyes.

The slamming of the truck’s door brought her attention from the papers she held to the man who had presented them. He walked around the back of the pickup and stood looking up at her.

“I know what you’re probably thinking,” he said disarmingly. “I can give you Joe Wallace’s number. You can call him and verify that he sent me out here, if that will make you feel any better. I’m not sure he’ll be in the office this late, but—”

“There’s a bunkhouse,” Val said shortly. “You can sleep out there tonight. I’ll talk to Beneficial Life in the morning.”

“Fair enough,” he said.

“And Mr. Sellers?”

“Ma’am?”

“I may not have a security system, but I do have a Smith & Wesson. And I know how to use it.”

“That’s a real comfort to me, ma’am,” he said.

The amusement was back in his voice, although his expression hadn’t changed. There was no twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a hint of laughter in the silver eyes. Just a rich layer of amusement in his voice before he turned and picked up a nylon gym bag from the bed of the truck.

Her eyes followed him until he had disappeared behind the barn. Then, realizing what she had been doing, she touched her heels to Harvard and headed him in almost the same direction.

GREY SELLERS WAS STILL fighting the urge to grin as he approached the bunkhouse she’d directed him to. It looked as well kept as everything else on the place. He wondered how much help she had. So far, he had seen no signs of human life other than Valerie Beaufort herself.

After he’d arrived this afternoon and discovered she wasn’t home, he had wandered around a little. With an eye to security, he had told himself, justifying the snooping.

Although it had been a long time since he’d lived on a working ranch, he had immediately felt at home. It seemed to be the same kind of small-potatoes outfit he’d grown up on, minus the cows. Until a few minutes ago, however, it had looked as if he wasn’t going to get a chance to savor this kind of life again.

Sitting on top of that big old roan, Valerie Beaufort might look fragile enough that a good wind would blow her away, but she had a mouth on her. And a very clear sense of what she wanted. Or what she didn’t want, he supposed, in his case.

Grey wasn’t sure what had changed her mind about letting him stay. Maybe just his winning ways, he thought, again fighting the urge to smile. His sparkling wit. Since he’d taken time to shave before he’d driven out here and had, in the process, gotten a really good look at himself in the mirror, he couldn’t imagine it was his physical appearance. He looked rough. Like he’d been rode hard and put up wet. Which was pretty much how he felt.

The aspirin he’d taken before he’d left the office was wearing off. Driving out here over those narrow roads and looking into the afternoon sun the whole way hadn’t helped the headache his hangover this morning had begun.

And he could use a drink, he acknowledged. He had deliberately left the bottle of bourbon in his desk drawer. He didn’t drink while he worked. He never had. Griff wouldn’t have put up with it, of course. Not from anybody on the team. Too many lives depended on them being able to do their jobs and do them well. Not that the booze had been a problem back then. That had all come about since—

He heard the squeak of the double doors at the front of the barn. They had made the same sound when he had opened them earlier this afternoon and taken a look inside. He glanced up and found that since the Dutch door at the back was standing wide open, he could see straight through the barn.

Valerie Beaufort was leading her gelding inside. He’d been right about the fragility, he thought, automatically assessing her figure, revealed clearly by the narrow-legged jeans and cotton shirt she was wearing. She was too thin for his taste. Small breasts and hips narrow as a child’s. She had pushed her hat back, revealing hair the color of leaves turning in the fall. No wonder she had a temper, he thought.

It took a second or two for his brain to register the other, although it should have been obvious from the first. Her stride was uneven. Noticeably so. An unexpected frisson of emotion uncoiled in the pit of Grey’s stomach. And he wasn’t even sure what it was he was feeling.

Head down, eyes on the ground, she hadn’t noticed him watching her as she limped across the barn, the big horse docilely following. Despite the feeling that this made him some kind of voyeur, Grey couldn’t seem to look away, and whatever he had felt in his gut when he’d noticed the limp stirred again.

She had been too damned prickly for him to be feeling sorry for her, he decided. But maybe this was why she was so standoffish, he thought, remembering that determined lift of her chin when she warned him she had a gun. Maybe it was this, instead of all that money, like he’d been thinking.

Just at that moment she glanced up, her gaze meeting his. Her eyes widened, and he was embarrassed to have been caught staring. He didn’t allow his eyes to fall, however. He had a pretty good idea of how she’d interpret it if he looked away now.

Her lips tightened before she opened them to ask, “Did you need something else, Mr. Sellers?”

“No, ma’am.”

Neither of them moved. Behind her, the gelding made some movement, but she ignored him. Her brown eyes, seeming too big for the small, oval face, held on Grey’s challengingly.

“You can use any bed in the bunkhouse,” she said finally. “Dinner’s at nine. Later than you’re used to, maybe, but I don’t like eating while the sun’s up.”

“Are you inviting me to dinner, Ms. Beaufort?”

“Hospitality forbids that I let a guest go hungry, Mr. Sellers, even an uninvited one. Don’t read anything else into the invitation, however. I figure having you come up to the house is easier than carrying a tray out there,” she said, gesturing with her chin toward the bunkhouse behind him.

“Yes, ma’am,” Grey said.

He realized that watching her limp across the barn had destroyed whatever perverse pleasure he had taken in baiting her. To do that now would make him feel petty, like taking cheap shots at someone who was not quite capable of defending herself.

Of course, she hadn’t seemed to have a problem dealing with his sarcasm, so he knew that was all in his head—and he knew why. He didn’t much like that reason being there, and he knew damn well she wouldn’t. He suspected she wasn’t the kind who would welcome pity, however dressed up it was and masquerading as something else.

“I don’t want you to get the idea that it’s an invitation to anything else, Mr. Sellers,” she said, bringing his attention back with an unpleasant jolt. “I don’t want to be your friend. I don’t want any closer acquaintance with you. I didn’t want to be your host, not even for one night, but it seems that choice has been taken out of my hands. So…Dinner. That’s all.”

“Grey,” he suggested. “I don’t get called Mr. Sellers often enough to feel real comfortable answering to it.”

He smiled at her, the nice, safe, polite one he pulled out for little old ladies and loan officers and cops who were holding ticket books. Not the smart-assed one he’d been carefully pretending to hide while he sparred verbally with an attractive woman from across a porch railing.

Her lips tightened. “Nine o’clock, Mr. Sellers. No need to dress up.” She turned her back and began to unsaddle the horse.

From the quickness of her movements there was no doubt she knew exactly what she was doing, and that she had been doing it on a regular basis for a long time. Despite his previous acknowledgment that this was one proud, prickly woman, Grey set down the bag he was holding and walked into the barn. It was already dusk, the light from the dying sun fading quickly.

He was surprised at how much darker the barn’s interior was than it had been outside. And surprised at how familiar were the smells. How evocative. He took a deep breath, inhaling a combined fragrance of hay, horse manure and oiled leather. Scents that would always mean home to him.

He walked toward the horse and his rider, watching as her small hands worked efficiently. As soon as she had loosened all the straps, Grey stepped forward, moving in front of her without warning. He lifted the saddle off and set it atop the rail of the nearest stall.

When he turned around, Valerie Beaufort’s eyes were on his face. There was a bloom of heat in her cheeks, and her lips were set so tight they were nothing but a white line.

“Don’t you ever do anything like that again,” she ordered.

The madder she got, the quieter her voice. He had noticed that on the porch. Which must mean she was furious right now.

“I don’t know what kind of men you’re used to being around, Ms. Beaufort, but I was raised to be a gentleman. I would have done the same for any lady.”

“You’re a lying son of a bitch,” she said. “You figured you’d just help the poor little cripple out, whether she needed it or not. Maybe get on my good side by showing what a gentleman you are. Or maybe you just wanted to feel better about yourself by doing your good deed for the day. I don’t really give a damn why you did that, but if ever I want your help, I’ll ask for it. If I don’t ask, Mr. Sellers, then you leave me the hell alone.”

A matching anger grew as she spit words at him. Maybe it was the nagging headache he’d fought all day. The need for a drink that he hated like hell to admit. Or maybe it was pure guilt because she had come too close to the truth. Whatever the reason, his own rage suddenly boiled up past his normally well-developed self-control.

He grabbed her upper arms, locking his fingers around them hard enough to make her flinch. Her pupils dilated in shock. Ms. Rich-bitch Beaufort had probably never had a man touch her, he thought, in anger or any other way. With this kind of attitude, who the hell would want to? Despite the fact that his brain was already telling him he had made a huge mistake, he shook her. Not hard, just a single, sharp movement.

The bones of her upper arms were thin under his hands. As childlike as the rest of her appeared to be. Vulnerable. And realizing that should have destroyed his anger. It should have made him ashamed of the fact that he was manhandling someone so much smaller than he was.

Someone who was also…crippled. It was the word she had used. He didn’t like having it in his head. The fact that it was there, just as she had accused, seemed to fuel his anger.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with you, lady,” he said, his voice low and deliberately menacing, his hands still gripping her arms. “I came out here because I was hired to do a job. And because I need the money. Believe me, I don’t want to be your friend, either. And if you think offering to feed me gives you the right to be rude, you need to rethink your policy on hospitality. I would have taken that saddle off for any woman. That’s how I was raised. You can be damn sure, however, that being nice to you is a mistake I won’t make again.”

He released her so abruptly she staggered. He fought the urge to grab her elbow and steady her until she regained her balance. Instead, he pushed between her and the flank of the roan and strode angrily across the barn and then outside to where he’d left his bag. He scooped it up without looking back and walked into the bunkhouse, slamming the door closed behind him.

The noise didn’t help his headache appreciably. Neither did the blood that was pounding through his temples. It had been a long time since he had really lost his temper. A long time since anyone or anything had driven him out of the fog of apathy that had surrounded him since he’d quit the External Security Team. He couldn’t even begin to explain why he had lost it now.

But it made him ashamed. And exposed. As if he had opened himself up and revealed to this woman that all the gears and cogs that were supposed to be turning smoothly inside his head had gotten a little out of whack. Or maybe, considering what he’d just done, a lot out of whack.

He threw the bag on top of the bunk nearest the door and watched the dust lift in a small cloud around it. She’d probably file a complaint. He hoped it was with Beneficial Life rather than with Joe Wallace. After all, he could con Wallace with some tale about why this hadn’t worked out.

And he’d have to pay back the money somehow. He didn’t have a clue how he was going to manage that. He sat down on the edge of another bunk and put his aching head into his hands.

Way to go, hotshot, he thought, everything he had said to her running through his head. The way to win friends and influence people.

I don’t want to be your friend, Valerie Beaufort had said. He sure as hell couldn’t blame her for that.




Chapter Two


Valerie stuck her fork into the pork chop on her plate, making another neat row of holes. When Grey Sellers hadn’t shown up for dinner, she had sat down at the table a few minutes after nine, feeling righteous. And indignant. And then nauseated.

I rode too far in the afternoon heat, she told herself.

You acted like a jackass, her conscience jeered, because a man had the nerve to take the saddle off a horse for you.

Which he did for all the wrong reasons.

Feminist bull. Since when is it a crime for a man to help a woman?

When he does it for the wrong reasons.

You’re a mind reader? You know for sure why he was moved to do that terrible thing to you?

Tired of the internal conflict and especially of trying to answer that last question, Val pushed back her chair, picked up her plate and carried it over to the garbage can. She opened the can with the foot pedal and dumped the battle-scarred pork chop, the roll and green beans in. Then she set her plate in the sink and turned to look at the serving bowls on the kitchen table. It’s a shame to waste all that food, she thought.

Especially when there’s a hungry man out in the bunkhouse who would probably be more than willing to take care of it for you. A man you invited to dinner under the guise of hospitality and then attacked because he reciprocated with what was possibly nothing more than an act of kindness of his own.

Some act of kindness. He grabbed my shoulders hard enough to bruise, she reminded herself, determined to hold on to her anger because she hadn’t found a way to let go of it without admitting she’d been partially at fault in the situation.

She advanced on the table and began to pick up dishes and carry them over to the counter. She didn’t open the garbage can again until she had everything transferred, but even then she couldn’t bring herself to throw the food away.

Instead, she took another plate out of the cabinet, almost slamming it down on the counter, and piled two pork chops, three rolls and the rest of the green beans onto it. She set the plate on a tray, along with the bowl of fruit salad and a fork, a spoon and a knife. Then she took a clean napkin out of the drawer and spread it over the top.

She stood looking down at the covered food for a few seconds before she reached across the sink and turned on the lights out in the yard. She picked up the tray before she could change her mind and carried it through the door, pushing the screen open with her hip.

When she rounded the corner of the barn, she could see a dim light coming from the bunkhouse. The patch of ground where she was standing was still in darkness, however, out of range of the lights from either building. Safe, she thought, grateful for the concealing shadows. Safe from what? the voice of her own logic, which she was beginning to despise, taunted.

Still reluctant to face the man she had yelled at this afternoon, she had to make herself walk over to the door and knock, balancing the tray on her hip. There was no sound from inside the bunkhouse, and no answer to her rather tentative tap. After a couple of minutes she knocked again, more forcefully this time, and then she turned the knob, pushing the door inward.

“Mr. Sellers?” she called.

There was still no response, so she pushed the door wider and stepped inside. The bunkhouse appeared to be empty. Maybe he was out doing another security check, she mocked mentally. She had been aware that he was making a check of all the windows and doors while she had been cooking dinner. She had already locked them as soon as she had come inside, of course, so he hadn’t had any reason to complain about her security measures.

She set the tray down on the table in front of the potbellied stove and turned to leave. For a moment her eyes surveyed the building her father had built. Pretty primitive by any standard. There were six bunks, three on each side; the table she had put the tray on and its four chairs; the stove; and bookshelves that held a variety of puzzles, games and books.

All of it was covered by a fine layer of silt that the desert wind had brought in. She hadn’t cleaned out here in a long time because no one had lived in the bunkhouse in years, which was exactly the way she wanted it.

Her father had accused her of being a recluse. Maybe she was. But the confrontation with Grey Sellers this afternoon made her know she didn’t regret the life she had chosen. She didn’t need that kind of upheaval again, especially not now.

That kind of upheaval. She repeated the phrase, wondering why she had used it in relation to Sellers. There was nothing in this situation that was anything like the other.

Her eyes rose, sheer instinct maybe, and found him watching her from the doorway that led to the bunkhouse’s communal bathroom. His black hair was wet, glistening with blue highlights under the glare of the bare, swaying electric bulb. Obviously he had just gotten out of the shower, which was why he hadn’t answered her knock or her call.

He was wearing the same jeans he’d worn this afternoon, but he was barefoot. And he was in the process of rebuttoning the chamois-colored shirt. As he did, those gray eyes, which had taken her breath this afternoon, rested inquiringly on her face.

His long fingers continued to work the buttons through their holes, one after the other, not seeming to hurry over the task. The open edges of the shirt revealed a flat brown stomach, centered by an arrow of dark hair. Her eyes had time to trace down it, all the way to where it disappeared into the waistline of his low-riding jeans, before he got to that last button, pulling the shirt together and destroying her view.

“I brought your dinner,” she said, forcing her gaze back up.

For some reason, her mouth had gone dry, so that the words were hard to articulate. She hoped he wasn’t aware of the effect that glimpse of his body had on her normally guarded emotions.

He glanced at the tray of food she had set down on the table, and then back at her. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said.

“And I wanted to apologize for…flying off the handle at you this afternoon,” she said, forcing the words out and hearing their clipped coldness.

It was a grudging apology at best, but her people skills were rusty. And this man seemed to have the ability to throw her off balance, just by looking at her. Just by that subtle movement at the corner of his mouth, which was happening again.

As if he knew something amusing, but didn’t intend to share. As if he were laughing inside. Laughing at her? she wondered. Paranoia, she chided, pulling her eyes away from his lips.

“I don’t like people assuming I can’t do whatever I set out to do,” she continued doggedly, determined to get this out of the way, to offer some explanation as to why she had reacted as she had this afternoon, without getting too close to the painful truth that she hated being treated as if she were handicapped.

“I didn’t assume anything about what you can or can’t do, Ms. Beaufort,” he said, his voice without inflection. “I told you. I was raised to be a gentleman. Old-fashioned, I guess. At least nowadays. But since you were obviously offended, I apologize. For…everything,” he finished softly. “I assure you, nothing like that will ever happen again.”

His eyes held on her face, saying more than his words. Those were probably meant to make up for the fact that he had put his hands on her. Except he hadn’t even mentioned that. There had been no apology for manhandling her.

Of course, she acknowledged, he wasn’t the only one who was not explaining everything. Usually she just ignored people who made a point of noticing her disability. With him, she had made a big deal of it. And if she were honest, she would have to admit that she knew why.

This was the first man she had been attracted to in years—more years than she wanted to remember. The first one to affect her with this subtle sexual tension since she had broken her engagement to Barton Carruthers.

Nothing like that will ever happen again, he had promised. The “that” carefully unqualified or defined. And she was equally unwilling to pursue a discussion of that physical contact. Grey Sellers would be gone in the morning. She would see to that, even if she had to drive him into town herself and then send someone out here to tow his truck off her property.

When she had, she’d talk to Wallace or to the insurance company, and all of this nonsense would be over. Maybe she had overreacted this afternoon—she wouldn’t deny that—but there was no need to continue to do so. Grey Sellers had chosen to ignore the fact that he’d touched her, and she would, too.

“And thanks for bringing the tray out,” he said, his voice low. “I figured the invitation to dinner had been rescinded.”

Rescinded. As strange a choice of words for the man he seemed to be as untoward had been. But the soft sincerity in his voice made her conscious again that she didn’t feel threatened by him. She hadn’t, not even when he’d shaken her. His action had been only a reflex, a reaction to her anger and her accusation.

“Good night,” she said, deliberately breaking the connection that was growing between them. She didn’t want to know any more about Grey Sellers than she already did. She didn’t want to think about him any more than she already had.

She limped across the room, conscious that her footsteps echoed unevenly on the old boards. Conscious that his eyes were on her, even if she couldn’t see them. Let him watch. Let him get a good look, she thought, suddenly angry and unsure why.

After tomorrow, she told herself again, things would go back to normal. At least, as normal as they could be until she had gotten rid of the albatross that was Av-Tech.

And the sooner she did that, the better, she decided, shutting the door of the bunkhouse firmly behind her. All the way back into the house, however, it seemed she could feel the force of those silver eyes, still watching her.

“IT’S OKAY,” Valerie crooned to the stallion, keeping her voice low and soothing. “Easy now. Easy, boy. Everything’s okay now, you big old bad boy.”

This on top of everything else, she thought, feeling the tension, which she had spent most of the nearly sleepless night trying to destroy, seep back into her neck and shoulders.

Being tense wasn’t a real good thing, of course, when you were dealing with a spooked horse. And despite her continued attempts at reassurance, the black was still upset, head up and ears forward.

One reason she had chosen Kronus as her first stallion was because of his disposition. For a stud horse, he was remarkably well behaved. She had watched him work, and his previous owner had vouched for him. And since she had owned the stallion, he had never given her any cause to question that reputation.

Until today. As soon as she’d come out of the house this morning, shortly after dawn, she had heard him banging in his stall. He had even splintered one of the rails, which meant she didn’t want to leave him in the tiny holding pen until she could make repairs.

Probably better to put him into the corral, she had thought. The other horses were all in the pasture that surrounded the spring, so there would be nothing to bother him out there. Nothing beyond whatever it was that had made him so edgy already.

He’d be in a less confined space and less apt to do himself damage. She took her eyes off the black long enough to glance back into the stall she had just led him out of. It was inside the simple enclosure that she had built herself when she decided she needed to buy her own stud. Granted, the building was very small, but it had seemed plenty secure, and it was far enough from the barn that he didn’t cause problems with the other horses.

She could see nothing in the stall to provoke this kind of display. However, a lot of things could spook a horse, from an unexpected or unfamiliar noise to a piece of plastic blowing along the ground.

Maybe Kronus sensed there was a stranger on the property. As she led the jittery stallion by the bunkhouse, her eyes focused briefly on the door, still closed against the growing light. She realized that she had been aware of that door the whole time she’d been in the yard.

Anticipating when her uninvited guest might open it? she wondered, leading the stud toward the corral. If so, it was an anticipation she didn’t want to feel. Despite her resolve, however, she remembered the impact of Grey Sellers’ eyes. And that small tug of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

She had been momentarily distracted by that memory, but her attention was abruptly brought back to Kronus, where it should have been all along. He had been nervous throughout the short journey. Now he threw up his head, jerking against the lead, and jigging to the side.

She shortened the nylon rope by changing the position of her hand, intent on controlling his head. She was by his shoulder, right where she needed to be. Even so, she could sense the gathering of muscle in those powerful hindquarters, his front hooves even seeming to lift a fraction from the ground.

Val knew that he just wanted to be gone, just to get away from whatever was frightening him. That flight instinct was highly developed in horses, and that’s exactly what Kronus wanted to do. Just get the hell out of here.

Although she was talking to him the whole time, she could feel his tension building. And she still couldn’t understand why. There was nothing—

He jerked his head up, pulling strongly against the lead she held, the whites of his eyes showing. She stayed with him, fighting to keep control. They were so near the safety of the paddock. If she could just get him through that gate and inside.

She reached for the gate with her free hand, and Kronus crow hopped, trying to pull away. He dragged her a few inches away from the fence before she was able to get his head back down.

She could feel her bad knee beginning to tremble, however, as it always did under strain. She ignored it, gritting her teeth against the pain, and grimly hung on as he jumped to the side again.

It would be dangerous for the horse to let him get loose, as crazy as he was acting. Although her land was fenced around the perimeter, there were too many ways he could do damage to himself if he got away out there.

Where it wasn’t covered with the dust he’d kicked up, Kronus’ ebony hide gleamed, his eyes still showing white. He reared again, and she held on for dear life, grateful for the leather gloves that kept her hands from being burned by the nylon rope.

When he came down, she was forced to back up a little to get out of his way. Her bad knee buckled, throwing her to the side. As she tried to regain her balance, the stallion lurched into her. The move was not deliberate, but it was effective. Still off balance, and hanging on to the lead for dear life, she fell, banging the side of her head on one of the rails of the corral before she hit the ground.

Even with the impact of her skull against the wooden post, she didn’t lose consciousness. The air around her thinned and darkened, however, and as she fought to stay conscious, she realized that she was still clinging to the lead. Instinct, maybe, but probably a foolish one, given the horse’s panic.

She couldn’t seem to will her muscles to release it and let Kronus go. Her only thought was that he could be seriously injured out on that rock-strewn terrain.

Of course, she could be even more seriously injured lying almost under his feet. She edged to her right, hunching her shoulder, as the horse reared again, almost jerking the lead out of her hand. Just then, a flash of long, blue-jean-clad legs appeared in her peripheral vision.

“Let it go,” Grey Sellers commanded, as the horse reared again, totally panicked now.

Knowing she had no choice, she released the rope. Grey had already wrapped his arm around her body and now he lifted, pulling her up and back, just as the horse came down, hooves striking the ground, too close to where Val had been only a heartbeat before.

Then the stallion whirled and took off toward the open and away from the two humans who were still on the ground. It took a second or two for Val to realize the potential for danger in what had happened. Another couple to become aware that she was practically sitting in Grey Sellers’ lap, her back against the solid muscle of his chest, his arm still around her, just beneath her breasts.

He was holding her so tightly it was hard to breathe. Or maybe that was simply delayed reaction to the events of the past few seconds. And that’s all it had taken for everything to get out of control.

Weak and disoriented, she leaned her head against his shoulder, fighting a wave of nausea. She looked up at the turquoise sky, breathing through her mouth.

“All right?” Grey asked, his voice at her ear, his lips so close that the warmth of his breath touched her cheek.

She nodded, turning her head a little so she could look at him. As she did, the abrasiveness of his early-morning beard brushed her temple. After a moment, he turned to look in the direction in which the stallion was rapidly disappearing, thundering over the dry ground.

Val knew he could run for several miles without encountering any fencing. As for the other obstacles he might tangle with on that high desert range, that was in the hands of fate. She said a quick prayer for the horse’s safety, watching him grow smaller and smaller as he raced toward the backdrop of the mountains.

When the stallion was no more than a dark speck, Grey turned to her, his voice touched with the same humor she had heard in it yesterday. “Is he always like that? ’Cause if he is, lady, you’ve got a hell of a lot of nerve.”

“He’s never done anything like that before,” Val said truthfully.

“Any idea what set him off?” Sellers asked, echoing her own questions.

She shook her head, trying to think what could have happened in the stall to make him so edgy. And there had been nothing at all on the way to the corral that had called for that reaction. She had no explanation for the horse’s uncharacteristic antics.

“All I know is, he’s going to get hurt out there,” she said, struggling against Grey’s hold. His arm was still wrapped around her rib cage, her small breasts resting on top of it.

He loosened it at her first movement, and she began to push awkwardly off his lap, embarrassed by the intimate position of their bodies. Emergency, she told herself, determined not to overreact as she had yesterday.

He would think she was some kind of neurotic. Afraid of men. Afraid of having any contact with them.

She got to her feet, but when she put weight on her leg, a shard of agony lanced through her damaged knee. The vertigo closed in again. When the world swam back into focus, seconds later, thankfully she wasn’t back on the ground. She was still standing, but she was leaning against Grey. His arm was around her again, supporting her competently and impersonally.

“I hit my head,” she explained, looking up into his eyes.

In the morning light they were like smoke, less opaque than last night. Suddenly he took her chin in his hand and turned her head. She was too surprised to resist, despite the flutter inside that his touch set off.

She quickly realized Grey wasn’t looking at her face, however. He was examining her temple, the one that had struck the wooden railing when Kronus had knocked her down. She watched his eyes widen slightly before they came back to meet hers.

“Looks like you’re going to need a few stitches,” he said.

She put her fingers over the injury, finding it unerringly, although she hadn’t been conscious of pain. She winced as she touched the gash.

Vertigo threatened once more, and, determined not to faint in his arms like some stupid Victorian, Val bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to compete with the burn at her temple and the ache in her knee. Although it hurt like hell, the sharpness of the bite had the desired effect, clearing her head.

“It’s nothing,” she said, more worried about her stud than about herself.

“Might leave a scar if you don’t get it sewed up.”

When she laughed, his eyes widened again. Did he really think she cared about a scar? Of course, he couldn’t know how many of those she already had. And she sure wasn’t concerned enough about this little cut to drive into civilization to get it stitched up. She had more important things to attend to. Like seeing to her most recent investment, whose black hide was at this moment very vulnerable, as he ran like a mad thing over some pretty rough territory.

“I have to catch him,” she said, pulling away from Grey’s hold. Thankfully, there was no vertigo when she moved this time.

Limping heavily, each step sheer torture, she made it as far as the fence, a matter of two feet, before she realized that catching the black was going to be an impossibility. She could barely walk, much less do what she needed to do to find him and bring him back.

“By the time you get mounted,” Grey said, “he’ll have disappeared. And you aren’t going to track him on that ground.”

It was possible she could still ride, she decided, assessing the pain in her knee with the ease of long practice, but he was right about the other. Even if that rocky ground lent itself to tracking, she couldn’t manage the dismounting and remounting that process would almost certainly require.

“I can’t just let him go.”

“You can until we get that tended to,” Grey said.

“But he’s my animal. My responsibility,” she protested.

“And you’re mine, Ms. Beaufort,” he said quietly. “Or have you forgotten?”

She had. She’d forgotten that this man had been sent out here to be her bodyguard. Bodyguard, she thought again, ridiculing the concept. And she never responded well to being told she couldn’t do something. At least, not since her accident.

“This is different,” she argued, her eyes drawn back to the fading trail of dust.

“Nothing in my instructions said there were things I’m not supposed to protect you from. I think that covers concussions and possible bleeding inside the skull. And I told you,” he said, “I’ve already spent their retainer. I’ll go get the car.”

She grabbed for his arm, jarring her leg again, and got sleeve instead. “I can’t just leave him out there.”

“I don’t think you’ve got much choice,” Grey said.

She didn’t, she admitted. At least, not as far as getting on a horse and hunting Kronus down was concerned. However, there was nothing to say that Grey couldn’t do that for her.

Of course, he wasn’t getting paid to look after her stud. That was not why Beneficial Life had given him that retainer he kept talking about. But what did she have to lose by asking him? she thought. Except maybe her pride. And she would gladly trade that to have Kronus safe and sound.

“You could go after him,” she suggested softly.

“I could. If I didn’t have you to look after.”

“You don’t need to look after me. I’m not in any danger. He’s the one who could get hurt. And,” she added, thinking this might sway him, “he’s a very valuable piece of horseflesh.”

That was the absolute truth. The stud represented every bit of the profit she had made last year. That wasn’t the primary reason she wanted Grey to go after him, of course. She just didn’t want the horse to be seriously injured. Maybe he’d calm down after he’d run himself out, and then—

“My responsibility is doing the job I was paid to do,” Grey said.

“Meaning you’d want to be paid to go after the horse?” she asked. “I think that can be arranged. Will you take a check? I’m afraid I don’t have much cash on hand. Of course, I may not have enough for you in my bank account. Just how much is it going to cost me, Mr. Sellers, to get you to go after my horse?”

There was a silence before he said, “It must be hell to be that cynical.”

“Not cynical,” she denied. “Just experienced. Money seems to have an almost mystical influence on people.”

“Not on me, Ms. Beaufort. Sorry to disappoint you. And the sooner we get that place on your head treated, the sooner I can get back out here and try to track your horse.”

“By then it may be too late.”

“Take it or leave it,” he said, stooping to pick up the black Stetson from the ground and beating it against his leg to knock the dust off.

“I should have known a horse wouldn’t mean much to someone like you,” she said angrily. She wasn’t even sure what she meant by that, but it felt good to make the accusation.

She began to limp away from him, heading toward the pasture and using the fence for support. Her leg seemed to get tighter and more painful with each step.

“I think you can probably afford another horse, Ms. Beaufort. Your life is another proposition. You only get one shot at that.”

The edge of sarcasm in that first sentence was obvious, just like his comment about being sorry her father’s policy wasn’t the kind that paid out cash. Both remarks said “rich bitch” so loudly he didn’t have to. It was a tone Val had heard most of her life, at least until she had moved out here, and, furious, she turned to face him.

“Kronus represents every bit of profit I made last year, Mr. Sellers,” she said. “Just for your information. But this isn’t about money. Not everything is, you know.”

She regretted saying that as soon as the words came out of her mouth. Like yesterday she didn’t seem to be able to control her tongue when she was around him. Somewhere deep inside she knew why. That knowledge wasn’t something she wanted to deal with right now, however.

“I want to look at his stall, so maybe you better join me,” she said instead, injecting sarcasm to keep her voice from betraying her. “If whatever spooked Kronus is still in there, you’ll be right there, ready to protect me from it.”

THEY DIDN’T FIND ANYTHING in the stall to explain the horse’s actions. Grey wasn’t really surprised. If something like a snake had spooked the stallion, it would have been long gone. And somehow he didn’t think that would have caused exactly the reaction he’d just seen. Maybe the horse would have been upset, but he wouldn’t have been out-and-out loco once he was away from the danger.

His eyes were examining the broken board when he became aware that Valerie Beaufort was sitting on the ground of the stallion pen, her back against its rough boards, eyes closed. As he watched, she put her head down on her bent knee.

She didn’t move, even when he walked over to stand in front of her, although she must have heard his footsteps. “You okay?” he asked.

Her head came up, eyes open, wide and very dark. Pupils dilated? Or did they just look that way because her face was so pale? Shock? Or concussion? he wondered. The gash at her temple was still bleeding sluggishly. The hair around it was matted with blood and even the shoulder of her shirt was stained.

“A little dizzy,” she said, putting her forehead back on her knee. The other leg, the one that she favored when she walked, was stretched straight out in front of her.

“Come on,” he said, holding out his hand.

She lifted her head enough to look at it and then up at him, but she didn’t reach for his outstretched fingers. She shook her head once, and then rested her forehead on top of her knee again.

“We need to have somebody take a look at that cut,” he said. “You may have a concussion.”

“I’m just dizzy.”

“All the more reason—”

“I told you I’m not driving into town for this scratch,” she said, overriding his attempt to make exactly that suggestion.

He watched her a moment more, weighing his options. He knew a fair amount of first aid. Even if she did have a concussion, all a hospital would do would be to keep her overnight and observe her. He could do that here, of course.

However, observing Valerie Beaufort all night wasn’t something he was eager to do. Whenever he looked at her, something happened in his gut that he didn’t understand.

Maybe it was her vulnerability. That little-girl-lost look. Or maybe she had been right before, although he didn’t like the idea any better than he knew she would. Maybe it was the fact that she limped. All he knew was that the thought of her being injured or in danger had become far more personal than any assignment should be.

“You can walk. Or I can carry you,” he said harshly. “It’s strictly up to you.”

Her eyes came up again at that. Widened first with shock that he would talk that way to her, then becoming defiant. He meant what he said, however, and something in his face or in his voice must have told her that. Her mouth tightened, but finally, after a long moment of studying his eyes, she put out her hand.

As his fingers closed around it, there was again that unwanted frisson of emotion in the bottom of his stomach. Maybe because her life was his responsibility, and because it had been in danger this morning. Or maybe, he acknowledged bitterly, it was because he knew he wasn’t good enough anymore to handle that kind of responsibility.




Chapter Three


“Taken to banging your head into brick walls now, have you?” Halley Burgess asked Val with a grin.

His big fingers were gentle, however, as he swabbed the clotted blood off the gash on her temple. Even if they hadn’t been, Val doubted she would have felt it much, considering the size and volume of her headache.

It had grown with each rut Grey had driven over to get her here. After his ultimatum, she hadn’t bothered to argue with him anymore. She had handed over the keys to her Jeep and given him the directions to Halley’s clinic on the outskirts of Rainsville.

Halley had been her doctor since she had moved out to the ranch ten years ago, although she could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she’d visited him. In spite of her thinness and her limp, she was as healthy as the proverbial horse. Except, as the doctor had just suggested, when she had been banging her head against something that was equally hard.

“Actually, it was a fence post,” she said.

She was sitting on the end of his examination table, thankful Halley hadn’t made her lie down. She felt less like an invalid—and a whole lot less like a fool—sitting up.

“How’d you manage to do that?” he asked.

“The stud horse I bought from Kirby Gills went loco this morning. He knocked me down, and when I fell, I hit my head on the fence.”

“Went loco?” Halley echoed.

“Just…went crazy. Totally spooked. I still don’t have any idea what set him off.”

Halley didn’t say anything in response. Apparently he had cleared away enough of the dried blood to finally get a look at the wound under it. At least he had stopped dabbing and talking. After a moment he moved back, dropping the bloodstained gauze pad he’d been using onto the tray beside him.

She turned her head carefully, looking up at him. “So what’s the verdict? Am I going to live?”

“I expect so, but your friend was right. Needs a few stitches to pull that together, as fragile as the skin is there. Maybe take four or five. Then you’ll be right as rain.”

“No concussion?” she asked.

“I didn’t say that. Eyes look good, though,” Halley said, assessing them. “Head hurt?”

Val hesitated. She had a lot of experience living with her various aches and pains, and she hated to complain about any of them. An evaluation of her head injury was part of what she had come here to get, however, so it seemed stupid not to give Halley all the information that would allow him to make one.

Of course, she hadn’t exactly come voluntarily. And she suspected that Grey would ask about the possibility of a concussion, which was why she had mentioned it to Halley in the first place. And with a bang on the head there was always the chance of internal bleeding—which she didn’t want to risk.

“It feels like somebody’s working inside my skull with a jackhammer,” she said truthfully.

“I can give you something for that. Make you a little drowsy, but that’s okay, since you aren’t driving. That guy that brought you in a new hand?” he asked.

He lifted his eyes from hers and raised his eyebrows, an obvious signal to his nurse, who was standing on the other side of the examination table. Halley was probably indicating that he was ready for the local he would use to deaden the area around the cut before he sewed it up. One prick as opposed to several.

“Or is he something else?” the doctor asked, his eyes coming back to her as the nurse moved to the other side of the room.

“Something else,” she agreed.

“Boyfriend?”

“Oh, please,” she said dismissingly, her tone mocking.

“Not a ranch hand, and not a beau. You keeping secrets from old Doc Burgess, Valerie?”

“Maybe I should. The truth sounds pretty far-fetched,” she warned. “Actually, it sounds downright ridiculous. And I don’t particularly want to become a laughingstock.”

The nurse handed Halley something, keeping it behind Val’s back and out of sight, as if Val wouldn’t know what was going on. She couldn’t help smiling at that not-sosubtle subterfuge.

“I could use a good joke,” Halley said as he prepared the needle.

Val grimaced at the sting. She wasn’t sure if Halley’s comment about needing to hear a good joke was a reaction to her amusement at the nurse’s tactics or to her saying she didn’t want to become a laughingstock. And it didn’t really matter. She supposed she would have to tell him the truth in any case.

“He’s my bodyguard,” she said.

Halley’s hands hesitated, hovering a couple of inches over her temple. “Did you say…bodyguard?”

She started to nod, but he had already put his fingers on her chin, turning her head slightly to position it. He slid the needle in once more, on the other side of the gash this time. The local anesthetic must have already started to work, because the sting wasn’t nearly so bad.

“I told you it was ridiculous,” she said. “Something to do with an insurance policy the company took out on Dad. It seems that when I inherited his part of Av-Tech, I also inherited that policy. Its terms require that I have a security system on the ranch. Since I don’t, they sent him out to guard me until I can get one put in.”

“Well, he looks tough enough to handle most any kind of security,” Halley said. “Bodyguard, huh?”

She heard his chuckle as he took the suture needle the nurse handed him. It would take a minute or two for the local to take effect, so she suspected that she was going to have to give Halley the whole story while they waited.

“If he’s supposed to be guarding you, how come he let that horse beat you up?” he asked.

“He’s the one who dragged me out from under him.” Then she hesitated, knowing what she was about to say was the truth, even if she wasn’t overly eager to confess it. “I guess if he hadn’t been there, I could have really been hurt.”

“Is that when you reinjured your knee?” Halley asked.

She had been grateful when the doctor had made no comment on her limping progress into the examination room. Her leg had stiffened up royally on the ride over here, so that climbing out of the Jeep had been a test of will. Grey had offered his hand, and again she had been forced to accept, leaning on his arm as they slowly made their way inside the office.

The feel of his fingers lingered in her head. They had been rough, a little callused. A working man’s hands. And under her forearm they had felt every bit as strong and steady as they looked.





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