Ridge: The Avenger. Leanne Banks

the demographic group that until recently had eluded Montgomery. Both the press and the camera were at her feet. In other words, Dara was pure gold. And like Fort Knox, she had to be protected.

      College women admired her independent and intelligent image. And her hairstyle, Ridge added wryly, recalling that Dara’s picture had recently appeared on the cover of a national newsmagazine.

      Ridge knew the young studs weren’t admiring her intelligence, however. They were getting lost in her intent blue-eyed gaze and wondering about the curve of her sweet smile. The more daring ones would skip the appeal of her face and concentrate on her body. A body, Ridge suspected, that would look a helluva lot better laid bare on a rumpled bed than wrapped in a classy but demure dress.

      She turned, and beneath the brunette fringe of bangs on her forehead, he spotted the white bandage. That white bandage was the reason he was here. For the briefest moment Ridge wondered, as he always did at the beginning of a job, if protecting this person would cost his own life. In the next moment he dismissed the thought, and considered again the irony. He would protect Dara Seabrook with his life, and she would give him what he needed to make Harrison Montgomery pay.

      

      Regional campaign coordinator Clarence Merriman fussed over Dara as they made their way to the limo. “You had no business coming out here today. You should have stayed in bed and rested. I don’t know why I let you talk me into this. Your face looks like chalk.”

      Dara did feel woozy, but she would die before she admitted it. She deliberately misinterpreted his concern and kept walking, the heels of her black pumps sinking into the campus lawn. “Stop worrying. The picture they took for the paper will probably be in black and white, so no one will notice.”

      “I’m noticing,” Clarence huffed indignantly. He made a tsking sound and put his hand at her elbow for support. “Your face looks like paste.”

      “Paste or chalk?” Dara smiled at the crotchety man she’d dubbed her baby-sitter. “Your declarations of my beauty are going to my head, but my stomach is complaining. Why don’t we get a burger on the way to the hotel? Then you can tuck me into my room, and I can get out of these clothes, and—”

      Dara’s voice trailed off as her gaze collided with a tall stranger studying her as he stood beside the limo. With unusual golden brown eyes, he gave her a once-over that seemed to catalog her height, weight and birthmarks within a matter of seconds.

      His navy suit didn’t conceal the impressive breadth of his shoulders, his dark hair touched the edge of his collar, and she might have been fooled into believing he was just another handsome man if she had missed the determined set of his jaw.

      He gave the impression of masculine power, not the fake-it-till-you-make-it kind she observed in many of the political hopefuls she met every day. This had more to do with a personal power than with the make of a man’s suit or who his daddy was. She admired the rare quality at the same time she felt intimidated by it.

      She was accustomed to being watched, but not with this level of intensity. Uncomfortable, she looked at Clarence. He was fumbling through his notebook.

      “Oh, I almost forgot,” Clarence said as the autumn breeze fluttered the pages. “You must be Mr. Jackson with…with—” Clarence frowned at his notes.

      “Sterling Security,” the man finished in a voice that managed to mix steel and velvet, and turned his gaze back to Dara. “I’m here for Miss Seabrook.”

      Dara’s stomach took a dive.

      He pulled out his ID for Clarence and her to glance at, then opened the limo door. “I understand she has a busy schedule this evening, so I thought we could brief each other on the way to the hotel.”

      Looking everywhere but at Dara, Clarence cleared his throat. “Well, of course.”

      It finally dawned on Dara that she’d just been assigned another baby-sitter, one she was quite sure she didn’t want. “Just one minute.” She glared at Clarence. “I thought we discussed this last night,” she began. “I thought—”

      “It’s out of Mr. Merriman’s hands, Miss Seabrook. Mr. Montgomery arranged for my services.”

      Clarence shot her a look of apology and shrugged helplessly. “I’ll sit in the front while you two fill each other in.”

      “Fill each other in on what?” Dara’s head was beginning to pound. She stared mutinously at the security man and crossed her arms over her chest. If truth were told, all the campaign publicity was beginning to wear on her. She had four more weeks of heavy exposure to the public eye, and it would take all her resources to tamp down her growing impatience with the press’s superficial obsession with her hairstyle, clothing, and manicure. She felt lonely and a little disconnected. A bodyguard at her elbow every minute would likely send her straight over the edge. “Your presence really isn’t necessary,” she said crisply, because she suspected a diplomatic approach wouldn’t work with this man.

      Mr. Jackson lifted an eyebrow. “What about the beer bottle one of Montgomery’s detractors threw at you?”

      Dara resisted the urge to touch the bandage and waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “It was a random incident. A few stitches,” she fudged.

      “It’s my job to make that kind of random incident nonexistent, and I understand it was fifteen stitches.”

      Dara chafed at the invasion to her privacy. Someone at campaign headquarters had probably filled this stranger in on all the details about the “incident.” She shook her head. “This is silly. I’m not in any danger. I don’t need a bodyguard.”

      There wasn’t an ounce of give in his stance, but she thought she saw the faintest sliver of understanding pass through his eyes. “It’s out of your hands.”

      Frustration rolled through her, but she knew she couldn’t cause a scene. She’d learned the press was everywhere. Dara got into the car, dropped her head back against the leather upholstery, and resolved to call her godfather as soon as she got back to her room. Feeling the man sit across from her as the limo pulled forward, she closed her eyes to block out his presence, but it didn’t work. “I didn’t get a good look at that ID you flashed. You’re not connected with the Secret Service, are you, Mr. Jackson?” she finally asked after a few moments’ silence.

      “No. Since you’re technically not a member of Mr. Montgomery’s family, you’re not covered under government protection.” He pressed his ID into her hand. “Call me Ridge.”

      Dara’s eyes popped open. She didn’t want to call him anything. “I’m not going to know you long enough to call you Ridge.”

      The leather holder was warm from the heat of his body, and his gaze said he knew she was trying to ignore him. And not succeeding. She appraised him again. He was big enough to be threatening, but lean enough to be able to move fast. She wouldn’t want to meet him in an alley.

      “We’ll see.” Ridge glanced out the window and narrowed his eyes. “This wasn’t the planned route I discussed with the chauffeur.”

      Dara spotted the familiar sight of golden arches and felt an impertinent dart of joy. “Clarence is trying to appease me with comfort food.” The limo pulled into the take-out lane for the fast-food restaurant. Her sense of humor resurfaced, and she smiled broadly. “What do you want on your hamburger?”

      

      Back at her hotel suite, Dara’s eyes glazed over at the list of rules, directions, and precautions Ridge Jackson delivered during the next hour. Her reactions ranged from mild disinterest, to impatience, to an overwhelming urge to tell the man to chill out. She was just about to give in to that urge when sudden, blissful silence filled the room.

      “You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said.” Ridge tried, but failed to keep the impatience from his voice. It amazed him that such a charming woman could elicit such exasperation.

      Dara shook her head and stood. “Oh, no. I heard