Well, the solution to that problem was easy. Keep her at a distance.
But put her on the shortlist, he decided also, and headed up the driveway. Maybe even the top of his shortlist.
LARA HAD GONE UPSTAIRS, Trace found when he returned to the mansion. He took the steps two at a time—she really did have a physiotherapy appointment within the hour. He entered her unlocked bedroom without knocking, then paused. “Lara?”
His pulse jumped a notch when she didn’t answer. His eyes swept the big sunny suite, half bedroom, half sitting room, then the balcony beyond, with its magnificent view of the sea. Nothing out of order. Nothing smashed or overturned. Lucy, the downstairs maid, had told him Lara was up here, but maybe she’d—
He sensed a presence and turned to find her standing in the doorway to her dressing room. Silent and unsmiling, she gazed at him for a moment, then withdrew.
So...he had offended her. She’d been so docile and subdued since her fall, he’d grown used to taking the lead. Surprised when she’d gone her own way during the interview this morning, maybe he’d brought her back into line a little too smartly.
“We need to leave in ten minutes,” he said, coming to stand in her dressing-room doorway, wondering whether to apologize or let it ride. The little room, lined with mirrors and louvered doors that hid her wardrobe of stunning simplicity, was empty. Lara had retreated all the way into her bathroom, a room that by unspoken agreement was off bounds to him. But the door was open and today wasn’t just any day, since they so rarely disagreed.
“Lara?” He stopped in the doorway to her bathroom. She stood brushing her hair before her mirror, a gesture that would have expressed her irritation beautifully four months ago, when those silvery locks had been a foot longer. In her imagination, they probably swirled around her shoulders still.
In reality, short as her hair was now, it stood up in silky tufts, then fell softly as the brush passed. She looked like an outraged downy fledgling. He had to work not to smile. “We’d better go.”
“I wanted that one, Trace,” she said with fierce determination, staring at herself in the beveled glass.
“You know it’s not in the plan.” He desperately needed a second person to spell him. Backup hadn’t been a problem those first two months after her fall, while she’d stayed in the nursing home. He’d brought in three capable private-duty nurses and alerted them to the danger. Whenever he’d left her bedside, he’d known she was in good hands and he could rest easy.
But these past two months back at Woodwind... There was too much ground here. Too many people for one man to cover. Even for a low-profile assignment, this was ridiculous, as he’d tried to tell her from the start.
A typical shift in his business was twelve hours. He was doing twenty-four, day after day after day. His concern wasn’t exhaustion so much as growing stale. No one could live at the pinnacle of alertness without stand-down time.
“So let’s change the plan,” Lara muttered.
Trace breathed in, held for a count of three, breathed out. A centering exercise in karate: achieve serenity first, then take action. “What was wrong with number seven?” he asked finally. “Liz Galloway?”
Galloway wasn’t a member of his own security firm, Brickhouse, Inc., but she’d come with the highest recommendations. To maintain her cover, she’d applied for the job in the same way as all the genuine applicants.
The brush paused midstroke. “She...intimidated me.”
Trace snorted. “Don’t be silly.” Lara was one of the bravest people he’d ever met, man or woman. The pain she’d endured without whimpering, those first few weeks after her fall... He remembered looking down at those big haunted eyes set in that swath of bandages and wishing she would cry out, complain, weep—anything but lie there bleakly accepting, as if pain were only her due.
“I’m not! I felt as if she was measuring my neck for a collar and leash. As if she’d expect me to heel every time we went out for a walk. Well, no, thank you. It’s bad enough having you—” Lara stopped, carefully set the brush aside. Reached for a bottle of lotion and fidgeted with the cap.
“Having me...?” he prompted mildly, though he knew what she’d say. It was the perennial problem between bodyguards and their clients, almost always the reason a bodyguard’s contract was terminated prematurely. Along with protection came loss of freedom. Spontaneity. Privacy. Once the client’s original fear diminished, resentment inevitably followed.
“Having you living on top of me,” Lara mumbled without meeting his eyes. “If I was stuck with Liz, as well, I think I’d go...” She shrugged. “Nuts.”
“I’m sorry. I try to not cramp your style.” Yet the requirements of the detail made it all but impossible. He was here under cover, and only one role allowed him to plausibly stay by her side day and night.
“Oh, Trace, I didn’t mean it that way! You’ve been—” She turned and smiled up at him. “I’m very lucky to have you—I can’t believe how lucky. But if I can’t have my privacy, at least I want to be...comfortable with the people around me. And besides,” she hurried on as he opened his mouth to argue, “we agreed that whoever was hired, she’d have to really function as my personal assistant. Liz Galloway just didn’t have the—the warmth or the tact the job requires. Some of those fan letters are so silly, the people who write them so—so desperately needy... The job takes somebody with sensitivity. A sense of humor.”
“Ouch, poor Liz!” But he could see what Lara meant. The ex-policewoman wouldn’t score high on the warm-and-fuzzy scale. “All right, then. I’ll see if I can find somebody else.” Inwardly he groaned. Female BGs were rare, and therefore in demand, and of the few available not just anyone would do. He’d hire only the best for Lara. And for himself. A partner he couldn’t trust was less than useless, endangered everyone. ,
Laura shook her head. “Don’t bother, Trace. I want her. Gillian.”
“Out of twenty-seven women you’ve interviewed, why her?” The one who worried him most.
Laura shrugged. “I don’t know. She...” She shrugged again. “I liked her.”
“Okay, well, let me tell you why not. For starters, Mahler’s not a bodyguard.” And that was only for starters.
Lara tipped her head in a tiny gesture that meant, “So what?” She reached for his wrist and turned it, making a comic face at the time on his watch, then nudged him ahead of her out the door—as if he were the one who’d been delaying them. “Does it ever occur to you,” she said lightly, following him into the bedroom, “that four months have passed since anyone tried to...hurt me?”
“I haven’t exactly given anyone a chance,” he reminded her. And if she hadn’t snuck out onto Cliff Walk without him that morning in May, no one would have laid a hand on her then. “But aren’t you forgetting your pen pal?” She’d received two letters since her fall, five before, for a total of seven.
Those disturbing letters, with their effusive admiration, their seething frustration, ominously mounting expectations, coy allusions to death and violence, had been sent by a fan who signed herself Sarah XXX, and had persuaded Lara to consult him in the first place.
Lara looked stubborn. “I’m not so sure they’re connected to...Cliff Walk.”
This was an old, old argument between them. “I’m not sure they’re not. And even if we do have two separate problems—two crazies—that only strengthens my point. You need another bodyguard, not a ditzy aerobics instructor.”
“If I’m to stay cooped up indefinitely at Woodwind, I’m more in danger of losing my girlish figure than my life! Gillian would be a big help there.”
“Any