Her Private Bodyguard. Gayle Wilson

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

       Chapter One

       Chapter Two

       Chapter Three

       Chapter Four

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       Chapter Thirteen

       Epilogue

      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