The 9-Month Bodyguard. Cindy Dees

you are, Silver!” a female voice called out with a hint of irritation from down the hall. “Your father wants to give you his birthday present. You’d better hurry before he changes his mind.”

      Silver spied her perfectly groomed stepmother, only four years her senior, coming her way in a pair of high heels that mere mortals wouldn’t dare attempt. But Rebecca, in true trophy-wife fashion, was a former model and wore the four-inch stilettos like they were an extension of her magnificent legs.

      Okay, so sue her. She was jealous of her glamorous stepmother’s height. It sucked being five foot two in a town full of six-foot-tall show girls. She looked like a twelve-year-old compared to them.

      “I’m coming, Rebecca,” Silver called.

      A spark of curiosity grew within her. What had her father cooked up for her birthday? He’d been so mysterious about it. Usually, she could coax any secret out of him. But this time, despite her very best cajolery, he hadn’t given so much as a hint of what her birthday present was…other than the fact that it was going to blow her mind.

      It took a lot to blow her mind. Like right now. She was pretty blown away by the idea of a baby of her own. She loved kids. Always had. Born into another life, she’d have been a schoolteacher in a heartbeat.

      As it was, her life had gone in a radically different direction. She’d always been a good singer, and with Daddy’s money and the resources of a show town like Vegas behind her, she’d been trained into a polished performer. A few Rothchild connections in the music biz, and voilà, she’d become a recording artist and pop star. Whether or not she’d deserved it was open to debate. At twenty-two, she hadn’t cared if she’d stolen the dream of someone more talented and less connected. But now…now she wondered about it sometimes.

      Given a do-over of her life, it might be interesting to see if she could’ve made it in the music business without any help at all from her father. Of course that was easy to say with a wall full of gold records and the fame and fortune to go with them.

      Not having to fake a smile this time, she joined her party once more.

      “There’s our birthday girl!” her father boomed.

      She made her way to him through the crowd of well-wishers. She hugged several of her longtime partners-in-crime who’d managed to survive their youths and grow up to one degree or another. There was no sign of Mark, for which she was abjectly grateful. Had he actually been her boyfriend, she’d have been furious that he’d vanished to who-knew-where with who-knew-whom. But now that she was pregnant, it was a good thing she’d taken the precaution of setting up their arrangement.

      Her father gave her a hand up onto the raised dais along the back side of the room. Wait till he found out he was going to be a grandpa. Once he got over the initial shock and got done lecturing her about not being married, he’d be tickled to death. At least, that was the plan. Harold was fiercely loyal to his family, but could be…mercurial. Which was to say, he could be a died-in-the-wool son of a bitch. It made him a great casino mogul, but at times, it made him a difficult father to deal with.

      Silver acted appropriately amused as a giant, black-frosted cake was wheeled in. The Rothchild Grand’s pastry chef had outdone himself, decorating the beastly thing with miniature fondant coffins, plastic wheelchairs, and tiny blue marzipan bottles of Geritol. It really was ghoulish. As if she needed the reminder that she was no longer twentysomething and in the bloom of her youth.

      Then the toasts began. Oh, they were meant in good fun—the references to slowing down, growing up, and getting old. But the underlying message of it all was much, much worse. She’d become safe. Bland. Boring. To her, that was a thousand times worse than turning thirty. Where had the adventurous Silver gone? The one who dared to take the music business by storm? The one who didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought? Who chased all her dreams, no matter how far-fetched?

      The only thing that kept her from waxing suicidal at the black balloons, funeral dirge in lieu of “Happy Birthday,” and nonstop old age jokes was her delirious secret. They could say whatever they wanted. She was finally going to have a baby.

      When the birthday roast was finally over, her father raised his champagne glass. “A toast to my lovely daughter. May her next ten years be as successful as her last ten, and a lot less hard on this old man’s heart.”

      The crowd laughed, and on cue, she looked appropriately abashed. For all his ranting and raving over the years to get her act together and grow up, he could really get over her twenties any day now. She had. She hadn’t done anything to frighten or embarrass him in nearly seven years, but he still took every opportunity to remind her what a screwup she was.

      That was Harold personified. Never missed a chance to sink a barb into someone if he could. Some people said it was impossible to love and hate a person at the same time. Obviously, they’d never had him for a stepfather.

      Of course, now that she was turning thirty, she probably could get away with distancing herself from him and his overbearing ways. Maybe she should consider moving out of Las Vegas. Out of Nevada, even. Heck, out of the country! It was a shocking thought. Daring. But it took root in her head as surely as a baby had taken root in her womb. A new start. No ties to her past. No Rothchilds. No Harold.

      Her father was speaking again. “…better thirtieth birthday present than to give my beautiful and talented daughter a special engagement at the Grand Casino…”

       Whoa. Rewind.

      Engagement? At the Grand? Her…perform again?

      Silver’s mind went blank. She wanted to resurrect her career almost as bad as she wanted this baby. And he was going to give her a shot? In total shock, she looked up at her father.

      She whispered, “Are you serious?”

      He laughed heartily. “As a heart attack, kiddo.”

      “My own show?”

      “Yup. Seven nights. On the big stage. Orchestra, backup dancers, pyrotechnics, the works.”

      She flung herself into his arms and did something she hadn’t done since she’d been a little girl. She burst into tears. Even he was startled by that.

      “Hey now, what’s this, kiddo? You’re not unhappy, are you? I can cancel it—”

      Oh, Lord. Was pregnancy weepiness kicking in already? Or maybe she was just overwhelmed by being broadsided with two such enormous pieces of news in quick succession. “No! I’m overjoyed, Daddy. It’s incredible. I’ve dreamed of restarting my career for years…I don’t know how to thank you…you’re the best…”

      Who’d have guessed he was capable of such a thoughtful and generous gesture? Maybe Candace’s death had affected him more than she realized. Her stepsister’s recent murder had hit everyone in the family hard.

      Damn. Just when she’d resolved to cut the apron strings for good, he went and did something amazing. Something that would keep her firmly in Las Vegas for some months to come, preparing and rehearsing for her show. The guy’s timing was uncanny, as always. Just let the thought of leaving cross her mind, and boom, he roped her back in.

      He patted her back awkwardly. “No more tears.”

      She sniffed and smiled up at him damply. Regardless of his motives, it really was an incredibly generous gift.

      Quietly, so the audience wouldn’t hear, he said, “One condition, though. You stay out of trouble. Out of the bars and nightclubs. No wild partying, no more stunts, no more of your pop-star shenanigans. And stay out of the freaking tabloids.” A hard edge entered his voice. “You go back to your old ways, and I’ll yank this rug out from under you so fast your head spins. Understood? Keep it clean, and I’ll give you another shot at singing. Screw this up, and I’ll see to it nobody ever hires you again.”

      Ahh. That was more like the Harold she knew and loathed.

      Careful to keep her voice even, she