Trading Places. Ruth Dale Jean

stomach clenched into a knot of terror. “Sharlayne, I don’t know—”

      “The hell you don’t! Put on those shoes!” Sharlayne pointed with a stiff finger. “Then put on that ruby tennis bracelet and the diamond earrings I laid out for you.” The roar of an automobile engine interrupted and she frowned. “What the…?”

      Alice, closer to the second-story windows, walked over to peer out. “It’s an old pickup truck,” she reported.

      “Probably a delivery,” Sharlayne grumbled, coming to check for herself. “Tabitha must have authorized it.”

      The driver’s door opened and a man stepped out. And what a man: slim hips and shoulders to die for. When he looked up unexpectedly, both women leaped back as if caught doing something they should be ashamed of.

      They faced each other, wide-eyed.

      Sharlayne said, “The bodyguard. Got to be.”

      “Do you think so?” Alice whispered, wondering how she got so lucky.

      “I’m sure of it.” Sharlayne grinned. “Maybe I should hang around and send you off to finish my book.”

      “Maybe you should,” Alice agreed, wondering if what she felt beneath her feet was really quicksand.

      “Go on, Alice,” Sharlayne scoffed. “I mean, Sharlayne. That guy’s a real hunk and his only interest in the next several weeks will be guarding your body. Let him earn his money. Remember, you’re me, so don’t pull any of that fainting-virgin stuff. I’m not suggesting you do anything you really don’t want to, but in public ask yourself, ‘What would Sharlayne do?”’ She turned toward the door with a wink. “Then don’t do anything I wouldn’t, okay?”

      Alice groaned. That certainly left a lot of leeway.

      A FIFTYISH WOMAN with the charm of a goatherd let Jed into the old villa. He automatically catalogued what he’d seen so far: a tall brick fence, an enormous and elaborate wrought-iron gate at the street entrance to the property, a long curving drive leading up to the white-walled, red-tile-roofed mansion nestled among palms and flowering shrubbery.

      All very substantial and prosperous. A nice place to visit, but he wouldn’t want to live here.

      The woman, a stereotypical old-maid school-teacher if he’d ever seen one, offered her hand. “I am Tabitha Thomas,” she said in a chilly tone. “I am Ms. Kenyon’s personal assistant.”

      “Jed Kelby.” He took her hand in a firm but brief grip. “S. J. Spade Insurance Agency.”

      “The bodyguard.”

      He grimaced. The agency preferred insurance agent or security expert or even personal security consultant. Nevertheless, he said, “Yes, ma’am.” He glanced around the majestic entryway, noting the antique tile, the Moorish shapes of windows and doors. “Is Ms. Kenyon available?”

      “She’s—”

      “Right here.”

      The low timbre of the new voice sent shudders of anticipation down Jed’s spine. He was watching Tabitha and therefore caught the look of shock that touched her face before it was quickly gone. For a moment he couldn’t be sure of the identity of the newcomer, but then he turned, bracing for this first encounter with his employer.

      He had no idea why until he saw her standing there—posing there, actually—in the arched doorway. Pictures of Sharlayne Kenyon didn’t do her justice, had not prepared him for the reality. Blond and beautiful and sleek and sexy would do for starters. She simply took his breath away, which annoyed the hell out of him.

      This was business, damn it. He wouldn’t let her distract him from his duty.

      He stepped forward, thrusting out his hand in a businesslike manner. “Ms. Kenyon? I’m Jed Kelby. The agency sent me.”

      She batted those clear blue eyes. “Ms. Kenyon?” She duplicated his questioning tone. “Are you suggesting you’re not sure?”

      Tabitha Thomas stirred. “Not to worry, Mr. Kelby,” she said with perfectly flat inflection. “She often has this effect on strangers.”

      “Yeah, well…” Jed almost felt left out of the conversation, for some reason. “I’ve only seen pictures.”

      A fast smile tilted Sharlayne’s lips. “I shouldn’t tease you,” she said. “I’m really quite relieved you’re here. Please, come into the living room, where we can talk.” She half turned. “Tabitha, could you send Juan to make drinks. It is almost cocktail hour.” She tossed Jed a mischievous glance.

      “Not for me,” he said quickly. “I don’t drink on the job.”

      “But you’re not on the job yet.” She gave him a pretty pout. “You don’t officially start until tomorrow.”

      He simply shook his head: no.

      “Wine, then.” Those soft lips set in a stubborn line. “Surely you can have a glass of wine. We—I’ve just put in a case of fabulous Kelby-Linus chardonnay—” She stopped short, her beautiful eyes widening. “But—are you connected to those Kelbys?”

      This wasn’t going the way he expected. He didn’t want any personal relationship with this woman. Neither did he want to lie to her, so he simply said, “Yes.”

      “Then that’s what we’ll have,” she said happily, clasping her hands with pleasure. A bejeweled bracelet encircled her wrist, and her nails were long and gracefully shaped. “If you please, Tabby?”

      Tabitha’s mouth turned down at the corners, but she nodded and walked briskly away. There was nothing for Jed to do but follow Sharlayne wherever she might lead.

      ALICE THOUGHT she might faint, she was so anxious about this first test of her false identity. Tabitha hadn’t helped, either. The woman had made no secret of her dislike for Alice, but to snipe in front of the bodyguard was completely uncalled for.

      Then there was that bodyguard himself. If she’d sat down to outline her ideal man, she’d probably have come up with Jed Kelby.

      In the first place, he was tall. She liked tall. Tall, dark and handsome, just like the stereotype. Great, athletic body; easy way of moving, erect posture that hinted of a military background.

      If all that wasn’t enough, he had close-clipped black hair and clear hazel eyes that showed a changing pattern of green and gold. The guy was, quite simply, a knockout. And that body…

      She picked up two glasses of wine and offered one to him. “Cheers,” she said, sipping.

      “Cheers.” He barely sipped the wine before setting the glass on the huge carved wooden coffee table. Apparently, he really didn’t intend to drink on duty.

      To hell with that. Alice needed all the courage she could get, however false. She took another swallow. “Did you have a nice drive?” she asked.

      He nodded brusquely. “Why do you need a personal security specialist, Ms. Kenyon?”

      She blinked in surprise. “Why…I don’t know. It just seemed like a good idea at the time.”

      He frowned. “Are you in any kind of danger?”

      “Not at all.” She got hold of herself then, and switched back to the official line. “That is, unless you call the press a danger. To be perfectly frank, I’ve become such a media target that sometimes I feel I’m in danger just appearing in public.” That much was true; she had no idea how Sharlayne stood the constant scrutiny and interference.

      He shrugged, broad shoulders moving beneath navy-blue knit. “Guess it goes with the territory,” he said without so much as a trace of sympathy. “I understand you’ve only recently moved into this house.”

      “That’s right. A few days ago, as a matter of fact.”

      “Then