Trading Places. Ruth Dale Jean

that Linden Wilbert is in need of a bit of insurance.”

      “If you say so, sir.” She obviously didn’t believe him.

      Mere moments later, Sam’s husky voice exploded in his ear. “Linden, as I live and breathe. Long time, no hear, sweetheart.”

      “Too long.” He found himself smiling. He could picture the elegant Samantha, dressed in ankle-strap heels and tight little forties suits worn with pearls. “Tell me, how’s Mr. Samantha Spade?”

      Her throaty laughter sounded indulgent. “That’s Mr. Wil Archer to you, buster—and he’s fine. So are the daughter and son-in-law and grandson.”

      “Delighted to hear it.”

      “Yeah, but it’s not the reason for this call.”

      “True. I’m in need of your professional services.”

      “Looking for a little insurance, are you?”

      Insurance: her euphemism for bodyguard. Sam carried discretion to new heights.

      “Not me,” Linden said. “A friend of mine. Perhaps you’ve heard of her? Sharlayne Kenyon?”

      Sam gave a bark of laughter. “Yeah, I’ve heard of her. Who hasn’t? So what’s the story?”

      “She needs someone to run interference for her,” he said. “Someone to keep the press at bay, to hold back the throngs—that sort of thing.”

      “Sounds like she needs a press secretary, not one of my highly trained operatives.”

      “She wants someone she can count on in an emergency,” he improvised. “Not that she expects an emergency, but you know how it is with a woman as famous as this one.”

      “Yeah,” Sam said dryly, “I know how it is. When do you need this glorified errand boy?”

      “Now, Sam, don’t talk that way. Sharlayne is a highly strung, artistic individual. She’s exhausted and needs peace and quiet, which is what she’s hoping your guy will help her get. Can you do anything for me?”

      A long silence followed. Then she said, “Of course, sweetheart. Just tell me when and where and I’ll have your man standing by.”

      THE QUESTION WAS, which man?

      Samantha Spade sat at her desk, staring at two folders before her. The agency was overextended already. Business was booming and she didn’t have a whole lot of choice here.

      Two operatives were available. One had just returned from a harrowing assignment that required him to spend several days piloting a desperate senior citizen through Florida swamps in an ultimately successful attempt to avoid his vengeful heirs, eager to collect sooner rather than later.

      The other was brand-new, bright eyed and bushy tailed; he had just signed on and trained and was waiting for his first assignment.

      She flipped open his folder. Jed Kelby, thirty-three. Heir to a winery in California’s Napa Valley. Six years an officer in the U.S. Marine Corps. Might have made a military career if his father hadn’t died, requiring his presence at home. When his younger brother had stepped forward to take over Kelby-Linus Wines, Jed had looked around for something to do that might offer a little adventure.

      Samantha, who’d known the senior Kelby in the wild days of her youth, had been taken aback when Jed knocked on her door one day and asked for a job. Not that she’d found anything wrong with his credentials; far from it. The tall—six foot two—Jed, with his straight, short dark hair and piercing eyes, was a true poster Marine. He was eager for the opportunity and ready to work hard to deserve it.

      Still, she’d had reservations that she couldn’t quite pinpoint. Maybe it was that he seemed too good to be true, too much a straight arrow. People in Sam’s business sometimes had to stretch a point or two, without being told officially that they should. If she had one real concern about Jed, it was that he might be too much by the book and not innovative enough to protect his life and that of his charge.

      Would it be fair to make his first charge a man-eater like Sharlayne Kenyon?

      “YOU’VE BEEN ASKING for it, sweetheart, and you’re about to get it—a chance to prove yourself.”

      Jed’s pulse picked up, but he held himself at ease. “What’s the job?” he asked casually, as if it didn’t matter.

      “Guarding a beautiful woman.”

      “Anyone I know?”

      “Someone everybody knows. You have heard of Sharlayne Kenyon?”

      “Jeez.” He sucked in his breath. “What is it? Kidnapping threat? Blackmail? Stalker?”

      Samantha laughed, but he didn’t think she looked entirely comfortable. “None of the above. She’s tired. She wants someone to fend off the press and public so she can get some rest.”

      “She wants—” He stared at his boss, in the grip of bitter disappointment. “You’ve been saving me for this?”

      “You might be the only man in America who’d object to being cooped up with Sharlayne Kenyon for a few weeks. Just don’t get too cocksure, okay?”

      “Cocksure about what?”

      “About your ability to treat her like just another client. Of course, that’d be a stretch for you, since she’ll be your first client.”

      “If that’s your subtle way of telling me to keep my hands off, save your breath. I’m a professional.” He grimaced. “Okay, a new professional, but everybody starts somewhere.”

      Sam nodded as if satisfied…or resigned. “Just remember the rules according to me. Thou shalt not get involved with thy client. It can get thee both killed.”

      He gave her a thumbs-up. “I got it, Boss. Don’t give it another thought.” He grinned, determined to make the best of the task. “From what I hear, she’s too old for me anyway.”

      Samantha’s great guffaw rocked the room. “Oh, you fool!” But she said it affectionately. “You don’t know women like this one. She’ll chew you up and spit you out if you’re not careful.”

      “Naw,” he scoffed, “not me. I’m not a skirt chaser.”

      “No,” she agreed, “what you are is an idiot if you try to match hormones with an adventuress like Sharlayne Kenyon. But what the hell. Boys have to grow up someday.”

      She opened the file, all business again. “Now, here’s the deal…”

      CHAPTER TWO

      Sharlayne update:

      Sharlayne Kenyon’s gone into hiding at her glamorous new digs in Beverly Hills, where, according to the smart money, she’s working on her autobiography. Half the rich and/or handsome men in California are expected to head for the hills, should this prove to be true….

      Gina Godfrey, U.S. Eye

      JED CALLED HOME Thursday before leaving for Los Angeles. He’d be driving down from the agency headquarters in San Francisco in his old Ford pickup, only a six-or seven-hour trek. Before he left, he figured he should tell his family where they could reach him.

      His brother, Steve, answered. After the usual chitchat—they needed rain, Mom was still flitting around Europe with Aunt Margaret, their sister Dana was expecting her second kid in the fall—Jed finally got around to the reason for his call.

      “Hey, great, man,” Steve said enthusiastically.

      “I know you’ve just been waiting for that first assignment. Who and what?”

      “I’ll be guarding Sharlayne Kenyon.”

      “Say that again?”

      “Sharlayne—”