Her Bodyguard. Peggy Nicholson

p.m. He’d give himself till 9:00 to toss the place. It took longer when you meant to leave no signs of a search.

      Inside, he paused, listening to the silence. Smelling it. Already the air carried a suggestion of Gillian. Lemons? New-mown hay? The same sunny, subtle perfume that clung to her tawny hair. He’d noticed it that first time he held her. Must be imagining it now, surely.

      He padded into the room. After he’d disposed of Sarah XXX’s latest offering, Gillian had spent the rest of the morning working on the fan mail. In the afternoon she’d retreated to her apartment. To unpack and settle in, she’d said. Noting a vase of wild roses on the table in the window nook, Trace smiled in spite of himself. Whatever else she might be, she was all girl.

      His smile faded. Whatever else she might be. He didn’t want Gillian to be his psycho. Found it almost impossible to imagine she could be. But if she was? Then the odds are very good that the lady owns an orange University of Miami sweatshirt, he reminded himself. Find that, and his search was over. Trace headed for the closet in the bedroom.

      

      

      “GOT A NOTE TO YOU FROM your class,” said the front-desk attendant at the Y. “One of them called it in.”

      Gillian unfolded it on her way up to the locker room:

      Gillian, we forgot to tell you that it’s Jennifer’s BIG FORTY tonight. She opted for champagne instead of tummy crunches, so we’re carousing at Yesterday’s. Join us, why don’t you, and bring the rest of the class. The Rat Pack.

      Gillian laughed and shoved on into the dressing room. The Rat Pack were five women friends who’d signed up together for her weight class. A good time was always their first priority; shaping their figures with small free weights ran a distinct second. With those five truant, she’d have only two students tonight.

      She’d changed to her exercise togs before leaving the carriage house, but she stopped by her locker to drop off her thigh-length cotton sweater. “Well, blast!”

      “Blast?” inquired Bobbie, the sixth member of Gillian’s class, sitting down on the bench behind her.

      “I’m missing a sweatshirt and I was sure I’d left it here.” Her favorite orange sweatshirt, which her brother, Chris, had sent her years ago, when he was attending the University of Miami. She’d looked for it this evening to wear to class and not found it. But if it wasn’t back at the carriage house, wasn’t in her car and wasn’t here in her locker, then—Michele! “One of my roommates has struck again. She puts meaning on the word ‘borrow’ that would make a burglar blush. I’m down three pairs of earrings, a baseball cap, two T-shirts and a pair of 501 Levi’s, at last count. And now my favorite sweatshirt,” Gillian slammed the locker, then checked the clock on the wall. “Well, ready to hoist some metal?”

      Bobbie glanced around the room. “Where are the others?” Two swimmers chatted quietly as they toweled off, but otherwise the place was empty.

      “Birthday party for Jennifer at Yesterday’s, to which we’re invited after class. And looks like Nancy is a no-show tonight. So you get my full attention, kiddo.”

      Bobbie responded with a wan smile and a shake of her head. “You know what, Gillian? I almost didn’t come tonight. I’m having cramps... Would you be hurt if I weaseled out on you and sat in the sauna, instead?”

      “Not at all!” She’d be delighted to call it a day herself.

      

      

      LEANING OUT THE WINDOW of her car to reach the keypad, Gillian punched in the code to open Woodwind’s gates. Lara had given her the number that morning, and a good thing, since the mansion was dark. Eight-thirty and everyone had gone to bed? Lights in Lara’s suite, situated on the oceanside of the house, wouldn’t show, though, come to think of it.

      Bed sounded inviting. The day had been a long one, crammed with too many impressions, too much emotion. That horrible letter. If that’s life as a celebrity, Lara can have it! She shuddered and put the letter from mind while she parked the car.

      After entering her apartment, she turned to lock the door, turned back—“Oh!” She flinched against the door, one hand to her stuttering heart.

      Standing at the counter in her kitchen, Trace Sutton glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll have to buy you a decent corkscrew.” He held up the simple bartender’s device he must have found in her utensil drawer, then jabbed it into the cork of a wine bottle.

      Her wine, she realized, recognizing the label. Her heart was still stampeding, but fright was giving way rapidly to rage. How dared he simply walk in like this? “Wh-what d’you think you’re doing here?”

      The cork popped softly. He poured the bardolino into two glasses.

      “Well?” she demanded, throwing her sweater on the couch and stalking toward him. The creep had kept a key to her apartment—that much was obvious!

      He lifted the glasses, began to walk toward her—and stopped, his eyes dropping to her legs.

      Which were bare below her nylon gym shorts. As were her arms, since she wore a sleeveless T-shirt. She swerved toward the sweater she’d abandoned too hastily, then stopped herself. Show no fear. With the thought, a twinge of alarm skated along her nerve endings. He was very large and already he’d proven he didn’t respect normal boundaries.

      “I thought your first day at Woodwind was a little... rough and you deserved a drink.” Trace handed her a glass.

      “Of my own wine?” If she dashed her drink in his eyes, would that slow him down enough? The distance to her door was twelve steps at least, and then she’d have to throw the dead bolt. Remembering the speed with which he’d crossed the office that morning, she abandoned the notion as soon as it formed.

      “I’ll do better next time,” he assured her.

      There won’t be a next time, buddy! Was he that vain that he thought he could simply barge into a woman’s apartment and be welcome? That with one smoldering look she’d fall into bed with him? Granted, no woman could deny his appeal, but still...

      And what about Lara? God, she’d forgotten Lara! Trace wasn’t just a sexy lout; he was Lara’s lout. Too angry to speak, she took a gulp of the wine. And rattled as she was, she tipped the glass too far.

      A drop dribbled past her bottom lip and fell. “Damn!” On the slope of her breast, a blood-red spot stained the white cotton.

      She looked up to find his eyes aimed at her heart, his pupils gone wide and black as gun bores. His eyes lifted to hers, then slowly one of his dark eyebrows rose in a question. Well?

      As she imagined his lips on her breast, his hands clamped on her waist, the pressure of his mouth bending her backward, a wave of raw heat washed through her. A tingling awareness spread from the back of her shaky knees and climbed. It didn’t matter that he was a vain and faithless brute—in his mind he was kissing her breast and in her mind she was responding helplessly. She turned away—felt his eyes caressing her hips and spun back again. “Get out!”

      She stalked past him to the sink. Found a dishcloth and dabbed furiously at the spot. A useless effort, of course.

      He came to lean on the counter beside her, so close she could feel the heat of his big body. Stood sipping wine and watching. “Seltzer?” he suggested huskily at last. “That’s what my sisters always use.”

      Sisters, seltzer and spot removal. The sheer domesticity of the images banished fear. And there were rules at play here, even if she didn’t understand them. Trace wanted her, that was clear enough, but he wouldn’t use his size to take what he wanted—he’d have done so by now.

      He expects me to give of my own free will? Oh, he was unspeakably vain! She threw down the dishcloth and wheeled. “I said, get out.”

      He tipped his dark head in mocking acquiescence, then said,