THE PRINCESS AND THE P.I. Page 3

  And why wouldn't her thoughts turn to the sensual? She'd had no lover other than Preston—they'd been engaged forever, it seemed—and it had been months since they'd been alone together. He'd kept a busy schedule. After seeing those photos of him with other women, she realized that she had been the only one to remain faithful. A desperate restlessness had kept her awake at nights. She'd felt as if life were passing her by.

  It had been. And now she would make up for lost time.

  The elevator doors opened and Walker escorted her out into a maze of concrete corridors. Her spirits had risen immeasurably. He hadn't a clue as to her real identity. She would ride out of this airport with him and—assuming the media was not in hot pursuit—direct him to a hotel. She'd dismiss him then. His job would be done. By the time the news broke of Valentina's disappearance and Walker connected her with John Peterson, she'd be long gone.

  And, amazingly, free!

  She found herself smiling as she followed Walker out to a parking garage. When he gestured toward a midsize gray sedan, she was surprised for the briefest moment that the car was not a limousine. Not that she was displeased. She liked the idea of riding in something other than a limo. Marveling over that simple difference, she stopped near the sedan's back door.

  Walker stopped near the front door.

  Claire stared at him blankly.

  "Excuse me, ma'am," he said in his deep, low voice that somehow warmed her insides, "if those reporters happen to see us driving away, they might wonder why my, uh, wife is sitting alone in the back seat."

  Although he'd spoken with all the deferential courtesy one expected of one's bodyguard, Claire swore she saw a gleam of humor in his gaze. But it was quickly gone, and he waited with stoic patience for her reply. He meant, of course, for her to sit in the front seat instead of her usual place in the back.

  A realization dawned on her then with an uplifting rush. This was one of those things that had suddenly changed. She could sit in the front beside the driver, and no one would care! And that was just the beginning. She could do all the things she'd always wanted to do; things her uncle, advisors, fiancé and peers would have frowned at. Yes, she thought. Yes!

  She would be … an average "Jane Doe." Or rather, "Claire Jones." She'd blend in with the common people—wear, say and do the things they did. And no one would give her a second glance, unless it was simply because she was doing something outrageous. Even then, they wouldn't recognize her.

  A little spurt of happiness bubbled up from her heart. "You're absolutely right," she told her new bodyguard-driver-pseudo-husband. "The front it'll be." She couldn't stop herself from beaming at him.

  Her smile seemed to take him aback. Why?

  There I go again, she scolded herself. Craving approval. Needing a quick fix of it … and from a temporary bodyguard, no less. A very temporary bodyguard. Good Lord, she'd even catered to her servants' likes and dislikes, she realized—classical music in the limo to please her driver, French cuisine for dinner to please her chef, starch in her blouses to please her laundress. No more, she swore. She would dedicate herself to discovering her own tastes and preferences—to liberating the real Claire—and to hell with anyone who didn't like her.

  Yeah. That was the spirit.

  Before climbing into the car, she stopped directly in front of the dark, unreadable man who held the door for her. "I'd like you to drive me to a downtown hotel, please."

  "A downtown hotel?" He frowned. "John Peterson had me rent a cabin for you in the mountains."

  Surprised, she considered the idea for a moment, then decided against it. She'd had enough of isolation. She wanted to be an anonymous face in a lively crowd. "No, I'd rather go to a hotel."

  "Any kind of crowd can pose a danger to you, Ms. Jones."

  "Would you rather I take an airport limo? I wouldn't mind. Really."

  He compressed his lips briefly, then murmured, "I'd be pleased to drive you anywhere you want to go."

  "Thank you. Cancel the cabin, then. And once we're out of this airport, I'm going to turn on the radio and play some rock and roll. Hard rock. Loud." She climbed into the front seat and added, "With all the windows down."

  He quirked one brow as he closed her door. "Yes, ma'am."

  Within moments they were leaving the airport behind, motoring along Interstate 85, the electric guitar music blaring, their hair whipping about in the wind from the open windows.

  Tyce couldn't remember seeing anyone look quite so happy. Her fingers drummed on the armrest in time to the beat as she gazed around in bright interest at the Atlanta skyline.

  He was getting used to her smile now. The first time she'd smiled at him—really smiled—he'd felt as if the breath had been knocked out of him. She was just too damn beautiful to go around smiling like that, even with those huge sunglasses on, especially if she didn't want to be noticed.

  She'd be noticed, all right. He hadn't been able to stop "noticing" her since he'd found her in the airport, looking alone and lost … and elegantly regal despite the cutoffs, T-shirt and tangled mop of curls. Maybe it was the way she held herself, or the grace of her movements. Whatever it was, she'd stand out in any crowd, especially if she smiled.

  He supposed he might be more sensitive to it than others. That one covert glance at her all those years ago through the telescopic lens had profoundly marked him. Without ever meaning to, he'd taken her with him into his nighttime fantasies; borrowed her face and body for his own private use.

  Now when he looked at her, sitting beside him in person, a real woman suddenly attached to the face and body of his imaginary lover, an occasional shock went through him. He didn't know this woman at all; didn't want to know her. But his body felt as if he had.

  He'd been hoping she'd go for the mountain cabin suggestion. He'd come up with the idea shortly after sweeping her into his arms. He could rent one with a quick phone call.

  Just as easily—with one quick phone call—she could discover his lies. Her cousin, John Peterson, hadn't hired him, of course, nor had he rented her a cabin. Tyce was banking on her statement to Johnny that she wouldn't call him for a month out of fear that the call might be traced. Her fear was certainly legitimate. But if she changed her mind and called, Tyce's game would be up.

  Until then, she was his.

  His responsibility, he amended.

  He'd been hired by her uncle to find her and report on her activities.

  It somewhat bothered Tyce that Edgar Richmond hadn't included protection in the agreement. Protecting his niece had not been part of Edgar's instructions. But how could Tyce possibly keep her under surveillance without also protecting her?

  He just couldn't.

  Hence, the bodyguard act. He could protect her and keep her under surveillance this way.

  A crowd would make both of those tasks difficult. A cabin in the mountains seemed the perfect solution. He'd have to find a way to get her there, whether she liked it or not. After cruising the Mediterranean and skiing in the Swiss Alps, Her Highness might consider an Appalachian mountain view akin to a jail cell.

  Too bad.

  Impatiently he checked his rearview mirror. Fred should be coming up behind them anytime now. Tyce hoped Fred and his other operatives would do a better job at tailing than they had with the video camera and microphone ruse at the airport. They'd let him slip away with her too easily.

  C'mon, Fred. Tail us, damn it. A little more anxiety might change her mind about going to a downtown hotel.

  "Hey, is that a Burger World?" cried his passenger, pointing toward the exit ramp.

  "It is! Oh, Walker, let's go. Do you know how long it's been since I've had a Whomper?" Uncertainty clouded her face. "They still make them, don't they?"

  "Well, yeah."

  "Great! Let's go. And … we'll get it from the drive-thru window." She said it as if that aspect of the experience was some great adventure.

  He shrugged to himself. Apparently her limousines hadn't pulled up to drive-thru
windows very often. With one last glance in his rearview mirror, he veered off the expressway toward Burger World. He hoped Fred had noticed the move … if Fred was even back there.

  She studied the drive-thru menu with open delight, then asked if she could do the ordering. "I've never ordered through one of these speakers before. The few times we've stopped, my drivers always did the ordering."

  He hoped she wouldn't say things like that to just anybody. They'd be bound to wonder who she was.

  She leaned innocently across him to call her order into the loudspeaker, an activity she did with gusto. Her nearness afforded him another whiff of her delicate roselike scent, which he'd noticed when he'd hugged her at the airport. It had surprised him, the sweet simplicity of her fragrance. He'd expected something more opulent from the Perfume Princess. The scent of roses, subtle though it was, had mingled with her warmth to fill his head during their embrace. She'd felt incredibly good in his arms—slender, vibrant and much too kissable.

  "What'll you have, Walker?" She was very near him again, her face only inches from his. "Nothing for me."

  "Oh, please have something." Although he couldn't see her eyes through her sunglasses, which she hadn't yet removed for even a moment, she peered at him with such childlike expectation that he couldn't refuse her.

  "Coffee."

  She twisted her mouth in wry disapproval and tossed her head, making her sunset-colored curls dance, but shouted his order into the loudspeaker, anyway. She insisted on paying for his as well as hers.

  When she opened her purse, his attention was immediately snagged by her cash—small bundles of denominations including hundreds and fifties, haphazardly crammed into her purse as if she'd just knocked off a bank.

  Carefully she extricated dollar bills and counted them out with patient care. She probably hadn't handled cash very often, he realized. Everything she wanted would have been charged, he guessed, or paid for by a personal protection agent. She couldn't, of course, use her credit cards for this trip. They'd give away her identity and leave too easy a trail to follow.

  But all that cash made her a target for petty thieves. She could get mugged for it.

  "You shouldn't be carrying around that much cash," he admonished when she'd been handed the drinks and food.

  Her eyes met his in surprise. "But I'll need it. My credit cards are, uh, were stolen."

  "A small amount of cash is fine, but you're carrying too much, and it's too visible. Why don't we stop at a bank and get traveler's checks?" The moment he'd suggested it, he knew she'd refuse. She'd be forced to buy and sign them with her fraudulent name.

  She bit her full bottom lip and turned her attention to her milk shake, which she carefully set down in the dashboard cup holder. "I, uh, prefer using cash."

  "Then put some of it in your—" He broke off abruptly. She couldn't very well put any in her suitcase since she didn't have one.

  Good Lord, she did indeed need his protection.

  Unperturbed, she savored her burger, fries and chocolate milk shake while he drove. Tyce searched his rearview mirror for sight of Fred. He hoped he'd show up soon. He had a sneaking suspicion that Valentina planned to fire him the moment they reached a hotel. From her phone conversation with her cousin, he knew she hadn't wanted a driver or a bodyguard.

  He simply had to supply her with the right motivation to want one. Where the hell are you, Fred?

  While supposedly driving her to a hotel, Tyce gave his employee time to find them by taking his passenger on a tour of Atlanta, pointing out the stadium built for the Olympics, the capitol's golden dome, the architecturally unique skyscrapers and towers. She nodded in appreciation over each sight, but the one that drew her excitement wasn't on his tour.

  He'd turned off onto a side street and she spotted a discount variety store. "Look—a Value Village!" More to herself than to him, she murmured, "Nanny used to shop at those." After a ponderous moment, she decided, "I'd like to shop at Value Village for a while, if you don't mind."

  He did mind. It was too public of a place. But he let her go in, anyway. He couldn't very well stop her.

  When an elderly employee greeted her at the door with a shopping cart—a routine courtesy extended at every Value Village—she profusely thanked him, exclaiming, "A cart! What a wonderful idea."

  Tyce supposed the shops in Rodeo Drive

  didn't have shopping carts. He trailed her at a discreet distance, watching as she flitted from aisle to aisle, exploring. He took the opportunity to call Fred on his cell phone. Fred, it seemed, was having car trouble. This little shopping break would give him time to catch up with them.

  Just as he slipped his cell phone back into his pocket, Valentina caught sight of him following her down the Women's Accessories aisle, and stopped with a horrified look on her face. "You're following me."

  He sauntered up to her, unperturbed. "Yes, ma'am."

  "Why?"

  "Mr. Peterson hired me to watch out for you, remember?"

  She compressed her lips and raised her chin, her delicate nostrils flaring. She did indeed look like a miffed princess. All she said, however, was, "If you must follow me, then at least walk with me." In a softer, more hesitant tone, she added, "Pretend we're friends."

  He hesitated. Pretend we're friends. He wasn't sure he knew how to do that. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a friend.

  Or rather, he didn't want to remember the last time he'd had what he considered a friend—fourteen years ago. He'd never allow himself another. He'd just as soon lay open his veins and let the blood flow than open his heart that way.

  But she'd only asked him to pretend.

  She seemed to take his cooperation for granted as she turned her attention to the shelves around them. Pulling down a large-brimmed straw hat, she held up a smaller white sun hat in her other hand. "Which one of these looks better?" She tried on each of them.

  He liked her better with her hair dancing freely about her face, but he nodded toward the straw hat. Her sunny smile returned, full force, and she filled a shopping cart with clothes, cosmetics, shoes and luggage. "I didn't bring much with me," she explained. "I'll need a few things."

  Blithely she moved on to the lingerie department. He couldn't help noticing the items she chose—sheer nighties, lacy bikini panties, satiny bras. Sexy, see-through things that were having an uncomfortable effect on him. He couldn't help picturing how she'd look in every wicked little piece. And how creative he could get, taking it off of her…

  He was thoroughly relieved when she headed for the checkout counter. Another adventure for her—setting each item on the rotating belt and watching the clerk ring up her purchases on the cash register.

  He had to admit, this princess puzzled him. She had to be accustomed to only the most expensive merchandise from world-class designers, yet here she was, shopping happily at Value Village. It had to be the novelty of it. He could see Hattie's headlines now: The Perfume Princess Goes Slumming.

  Uneasiness glanced through him. The role of bodyguard that he'd lightly assumed as a ruse now weighed heavily on his shoulders. He couldn't let her get hurt. He needed to get her out of here, out of the public's eye, before she was recognized. Anytime now, the news of her running away was bound to break.

  When she'd paid for her purchases, Tyce took hold of her elbow and steered her to the car. He opened her door, but before she settled in, she touched his shoulder and said in a quiet, shy way, "Thank you, Walker, for bringing me here and shopping with me. I know it was probably a bore for you, but I … I really did appreciate the company."

  She meant it, he knew. Her gratitude was heartfelt. Which bothered the hell out of him.

  She distracted him then with a soft smile that curved her lips—smooth, full, naturally rosy lips. He wondered what they'd taste like. And if her eyes, still concealed behind her sunglasses, could possibly pack the same punch to a man's gut. He vaguely remembered blue eyes from her photos. He suddenly wanted to see them for himself, those ey
es she'd kept hidden from him.

  She slid into the front seat of his car.

  He slammed her door without replying to her thank-you or returning her smile. Why the hell should she be grateful to him? It was his job, as far as she knew, to take her wherever she wanted to go and to watch over her. She shouldn't care whether he'd been bored or not. She shouldn't "appreciate his company." She shouldn't be that transparently vulnerable.

  With a sudden urge to toughen her up, to force her to lie—to make sure she could he—he asked as he started up the car, "So what kind of poetry do you write, Ms. Jones?"

  She glanced at him, obviously taken aback. "What kind? Oh … the kind that rhymes." After another moment, she ventured, "And sometimes the kind that doesn't." Worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, she asked, "Do you read poetry?"

  "Not really. But I wouldn't mind stopping at a bookstore and picking up one of your volumes. Having you autograph it for me."

  The alarm on her face was much too obvious, even with her eyes veiled by those damn sunglasses. "No, I'm sorry, we don't have time to stop at a bookstore. I have to get settled into a hotel as soon as possible."

  "Recite one of your poems for me, then."

  She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

  He narrowed his gaze and watched her squirm. She wasn't a very good liar. He couldn't resist pushing her a little further. "You can't recite even a few lines from one of your poems?"

  The silence between them thickened.

  Claire noticed the inexplicably stern expression on his face and felt as if she were failing some test. But he had no right to test her! He was only a bodyguard. She didn't need his approval. She should simply order him to leave her alone.

  But she hated to ruin the mood of her first day of freedom. And though no one in the world knew it, she had scribbled a few lines of verse that could be considered a poem. She'd written it in one of her darkest fits of boredom.

  "Okay," she relented. "But only a few lines."