Kate Fortune’s Journal Entry

It’s so difficult to stand by and watch my loved ones get hurt. Poor Allie. Her beauty has always brought her so much attention. And now an obsessed fan is after her. It breaks my heart. Luckily, I can count on bodyguard Rafe Stone to take good care of my granddaughter.

Allie’s not used to men loving her for herself. And Rafe’s own scars prevent him from believing in love. Now I hope the music box I left her will help them both realize the power of inner beauty. Though the box is chipped and marred on the outside, it still plays magical music.

In the meantime, I’m continuing to investigate who is after my family. Because I suspect this crazed stalker is after more than just my granddaughter….

A LETTER FROM THE AUTHOR

Dear Reader,

I hope you enjoy reading Beauty and the Bodyguard as much as I enjoyed writing it. I got so caught up in the continuing saga of the Fortune family—aren’t they a fascinating, dynamic group? They certainly put the Carringtons and the Ewings in the shade!

I particularly liked writing Allie and Rafe’s story. She’s so strong, yet so vulnerable. She has to be in her profession. For all its glitz and glamour, modeling is one tough business. As I learned during my preparation work for this book, being a professional model takes discipline, patience, an ability to absorb endless criticism and, above all, a sense of humor. Allie certainly possesses these qualities, plus a few distinctive ones all her own. Rafe is just my kind of guy, too. A man who’s sure he’s seen it all—until he goes head-to-head with a certain determined female and discovers there are still a few surprises left in store for him.

Happy reading!

Beauty and the Bodyguard
Merline Lovelace

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Marcy and Mike…thanks for making our return to New Mexico such a wonderful adventure of fun and friendship.

MERLINE LOVELACE,

as a career air force officer, served tours of duty in Vietnam, at the Pentagon and at bases all over the world. During her years in uniform, she met and married her own handsome hero and stored up enough exciting tales to keep her fingers flying over the keyboard for years to come. When not glued to the computer, she goes antiquing with her husband, Al, or chases little white balls around the golf courses of Oklahoma.

Merline loves to read and write sizzling contemporary stories and sweeping historical sagas. She enjoys hearing from readers and can be reached via her Web site at www.merlinelovelace.com.

Meet the Fortunes—three generations of a family with a legacy of wealth, influence and power. As they unite to face an unknown enemy, shocking family secrets are revealed…and passionate new romances are ignited.

ALLIE FORTUNE: This cover girl had learned that most men were after two things: her money and her body. Rafe Stone seemed different, but the sexy bodyguard was getting paid well to protect her. Could she truly trust him?

RAFE STONE: The ex-mercenary had been hired to keep Allie out of trouble, not in it! But trouble was what she’d find if she kept tantalizing him with her potent combination of beauty and brains!

KATE FORTUNE: The Fortune clan still thinks their beloved matriarch is gone, but Kate is secretly close by…watching over them. Not even her own “demise” can keep her from sharing the moments of her family’s lives.

MICHAEL FORTUNE: “Better dead than wed” had always been this high-powered executive’s motto. Could Kate’s bequest of a ruby ring persuade him to see what—and who!—is right under his nose?

LIZ JONES — CELEBRITY GOSSIP

Are the Fortunes doomed?

As if they haven’t had enough disasters befall them, now glamorous Allie Fortune, the new Fortune Cosmetics spokesmodel, has a crazed fan stalking her. Lucky for her she’s got that hunky bodyguard to protect her assets!

Kate’s recent death has brought about a massive reorganization within the Fortune empire, causing the stock values to plummet. And another mysterious break-in at the lab has caused further setbacks in the creation of some secret formula. Word has it, if this formula doesn’t get developed, the company will go bankrupt.

Just between you and me, I personally wouldn’t invest a dime in that sinking ship!

So, is this a professional or a highly personal vendetta against the Fortunes? Only time will tell. But if you’re like me, you’ll want to stick around for this ongoing saga.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

One

S he noticed his tie first.

Having spent ten of her twenty-five years as a model, Allie Fortune had seen every extreme of fashion. During her career, she’d glided down runways wearing items from collections the most generous critic could only describe as eclectic.

This particular piece of neckwear went well beyond eclectic, however, and got lost somewhere on the other side of atrocious. Red and orange fish-eyes splashed against a purple background made a fashion statement Allie couldn’t begin to interpret.

Wondering what kind of man would combine such an outrageous tie with conservative black slacks, a pale blue cotton shirt and a cream-colored linen sport coat that stretched at the seams of his impressive shoulders, Allie raised her eyes to his face.

She’d never met him before. She would have remembered him if she had. He stood out, even among the diverse crowd of advertising executives, art directors, photographers, chemists and production engineers gathered at the party her older sister had thrown for the people involved in launching Fortune Cosmetics’s new line. Under his neatly trimmed midnight hair, his face was lean and tanned and striking, despite the scars on his chin and neck…or perhaps because of them. Certainly she would have remembered his eyes. Silvery blue and framed by black lashes a good number of her friends would have committed serious mayhem for, they riveted hers across the crowded room.

For several long seconds, those cool blue eyes held her pinned. To Allie’s considerable surprise, his scrutiny sent a spine-tingling tension arcing through her. The tiny hairs at her nape lifted, as though stirred by an unseen breeze. A sort of prickly awareness drifted across her shoulders and down her back, left bare by the plunge of her dress. For a moment, the excited buzz of conversation about Fortune Cosmetics’s new product line seemed to lose its sharp-edged focus.

Being watched wasn’t a particularly unique experience for a woman who’d spent most of her adult life under the harsh, unforgiving eyes of makeup artists and stylists and photographers. Yet an inexplicable little shiver shimmied along Allie’s nerves as the awareness intensified. With the ease of long practice, she maintained an unruffled poise as she returned his stare.

Then, slowly, deliberately, his gaze traveled from the top of her upswept hair, down the soft lines of her lemon-colored chiffon tank dress to the tips of her open-toed sandals. When his gaze snared hers again, she felt a small jolt of surprise.

Allison Fortune had learned to expect a wide range of reactions in men’s eyes when they looked at her. Cool dismissal wasn’t usually one of them. Her interest piqued, she took a small sip from the crystal champagne flute she held in one hand.

“Would you like another glass?”

The deep, slightly slurred voice at her side pulled her attention from the dark-haired stranger across the room. “No, thank you, Dean. I’m fine.”

Dean Hansen’s blond brows slanted into a frown. “You’ve been nursing that glass for over an hour. It’s probably flat by now.”

“I’ve got to watch my calories,” she returned lightly. “I’m leaving for a shoot tomorrow, remember?”

Her escort’s scowl deepened, marring the lines of his handsome, classically Scandinavian features. “I remember. God, Allie, you just flew in from New York this morning. When are you going to spend a little time in Minneapolis? More to the point, when the hell are you going to spend some time with me?”

His voice rose querulously, carrying over the hum of conversation and the jazzy beat of the trio at the far end of the high-ceilinged living room. Several heads turned, and Allie caught sight of her older sister’s face, sharp-set with worry. As chief of marketing for the vast array of products produced by Fortune Cosmetics, Caroline Fortune Valkov shouldered a heavy responsibility. Since their grandmother’s death in a plane crash six months ago, those responsibilities had become almost unbearable burdens.

Although their father, Jake, had stepped in and taken over full control of the corporation at Kate Fortune’s death, he’d had to reorganize and streamline several subsidiary companies to keep the huge conglomerate afloat while the lawyers sorted through Kate’s financial affairs. As a result, stock values had nosedived. To make matters worse, a series of break-ins and a fire at their main chemical lab had caused several severe setbacks in the development of the new line of products Allie would help launch.

They’d staked so much on this new line, her father and Caroline and every other member of the Fortune family. Even without the secret “youth” formula her grandmother had been working on when she died, this collection of new beauty products would buy them time to pull the corporation out of its financial slump. Thousands of people worldwide depended on Fortune Cosmetics for their livelihoods. There hadn’t been a layoff in Kate’s lifetime. Jake was grimly determined that he wouldn’t be the first Fortune to send their workers to the unemployment lines.

Which was why Allie had put her budding acting career on hold and agreed to be the “face” for the new line. Why she hadn’t told anyone but her twin the precise details about the frightening phone calls she’d received. And why, with those sharp lines in Caroline’s forehead, she didn’t need Dean Hansen causing a scene at her sister’s party.

Allie studied the man she’d been dating off and on for several months. Dean’s flushed face told her this would be the last function she’d attend with him. The brimming tumbler of Scotch in his hand also told her he wouldn’t take his marching orders well. Deciding it was only fair to him to settle things between them before she left for New Mexico tomorrow, she set her champagne flute on a sofa table.

“Why don’t we go out on the terrace?” she suggested, nodding toward the bank of French doors lining one wall. With any luck, the breeze from the lake would counter the effects of his Scotch.

Dean’s frown disappeared. Amber liquid sloshed as he set his drink down beside her. “Lead the way, beautiful.”

Allie wound through the noisy crowd and stepped through the open doors. Crossing the wide terrace, she leaned both hands on the low stone balustrade and dragged in a deep, welcome breath of the August night. After two weeks of meetings and consultations with advertising executives in New York City’s sweltering mugginess, the Minnesota air felt unbelievably clean against her skin.

Dean’s uneven tread echoed on the flagstones behind her, almost lost in the rise and fall of laughter and music from inside. His big hand curled around her arm.

“Let’s get away from the noise. Walk down to the lake with me.”

Nodding, Allie slipped off her sandals and left them on the terrace. When she stepped off the stone stairs, her toes curled into the dewy grass. She’d run barefoot through these lush lawns with her twin sister so many times during the summers they stayed with their grandmother. She and Rocky had chased fireflies and giggled and shared their girlish dreams with Kate. Now Kate was dead, and Allie had put her dreams on hold.

With Dean beside her, she made her way down to the lake. The long, sloping lawn muted the sounds of the party. Gradually the noise died to a faint murmur. For a few moments, she heard only the lapping of indigo water against grassy banks and the cheerful chirp of cicadas. Then Dean’s hoarse voice disturbed the harmony of the night.

“God, Allie, you’re so beautiful.” Sliding a hand behind her neck, he turned her to face him.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” she replied, “but…”

His thumb pressed her lips. “No buts. Not tonight. Not when you’re leaving in the morning.”

When he tried to pull her forward, Allie placed her palms against his chest. “We need to talk, Dean.”

“We’ll talk later.”

To her surprise, he dug his fingers into the back of her neck and dragged her forward. Frowning, she stiffened her arms.

“Dean, please!”

“Dammit, Allie, don’t do that! Don’t freeze up on me again.”

“You’ve had too much to drink,” she said evenly. “Let me go.”

“Not this time,” he growled, his breath hot and smoky with Scotch. “I’ve been dancing to your tune for months now. Every time I try to get close, you poker up or turn away. What’s with you, Allie? What kind of game are you playing with me?”

“I don’t play games, with you or anyone else.”

“The hell you don’t. What else would you call it when you put on that beautiful come-hither face, then pull back every time I try to touch you?”

Wedging her arms against his chest, Allie fought to keep her voice steady. Although she’d inherited a fair share of her grandmother’s fire, along with her hair, she’d long ago learned to hide her own emotions behind the smiling facade the public wanted to see.

“I’ve told you repeatedly. I like you…as a friend. I enjoy your company…as an escort. But I’m not going to go to bed with you.”

“Why not?”

He sounded so aggrieved, so much like a sulky teen denied the use of the family car, that she had to smile. “Because I don’t want to, Dean.”

As soon as the words were out, Allie recognized their truth. Her smile slipped a little.

The sad fact was, she hadn’t wanted to in a long time. Too long. With Dean or anyone else. Not since she’d discovered that men in general, and her former fiancé in particular, were far more taken with Allison Fortune’s face and money than with Allison Fortune herself. That rather humbling experience hadn’t totally turned her off either sex or men. She just hadn’t yet found a man who could see past her glamorous public image to the private woman within.

Dean Hansen was a case in point. Instead of accepting her blunt admission that she wasn’t looking for an affair when they first met, he’d taken it as a personal challenge. Every time she flew home to visit her family and agreed to dinner or a movie with him, he’d tried to tease and flatter her into having sex with him. Now, apparently, he’d run out of flattery.

His mouth twisting, he used his hold on her neck to drag her face a few inches from his own. “You don’t want to, huh? Maybe I should make you want to.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t. Let me go, Dean.”

“I don’t think so. Not this time.”

“Yes.” She ground out the word. “This time!”

He wasn’t expecting the sharp elbow jab to his stomach. His breath whooshed out, and his hold slackened enough for Allie to wrench free. She stepped back a few paces, holding on to her temper by a thread.

“Get out of here,” she told him coldly. “Don’t come back to the party. You’re no longer welcome.”

She turned to head back to the house. When his hand wrapped around her upper arm again, Allie’s temper slipped its tight reins. Whirling, she planted both palms against his chest and shoved.

Taken by surprise, Hansen stumbled backward, his arms windmilling wildly. Too late, Allie saw that the combination of Scotch and his own momentum was going to take him into the lake. In his inebriated condition, the fool would probably drown.

“Oh, for—!” She jumped forward, grabbing for his jacket lapels. “Dean, watch out!”

Frantically he snatched at her. His hand snagged one of the thin straps holding up her tank dress. The strap dug into her shoulder, then snapped. With a comical look of surprise on his face and a swatch of lemon chiffon clutched in one fist, Dean splashed into the lake.

His uncoordinated entry sent a wave of cold water splashing over Allie. Moments later, his clumsy, cursing exit added considerably to her drenched state. By the time she’d helped him clamber back onto the grassy bank, her irritation had given way to the sense of the ridiculous that helped her through long, exhausting shoots, when everything that could possibly go wrong did. Biting her lower lip to contain her smile, she held her soggy dress up with one hand while Dean tried to swipe thick, oozing mud off his face and hands.

Her escort didn’t appear to share her humor at the situation. Cursing, he shook his hands to fling off the mud, then advanced on her, his blond hair straggling down his forehead. In the pale moonlight, his eyes glittered with fury.

“You little…”

“I’d suggest you take a hike before you end up in the lake again. This time permanently.”

The deep, drawling voice spun both Dean and Allie around. Peering through the darkness, she spotted a shadowy figure lounging against a tall, silver-barked river oak.

Shoving his wet hair out of his eyes, Dean glared at the shadowy figure. “Who the hell—?”

“You’ve got about ten seconds to get out of here, pal.”

“Look, pal…”

“Yes?”

The combination of polite inquiry and deadly menace in the single syllable made Allie blink and Dean’s cheeks puff up like a blowfish. Indignant but more wary now, he tried to bluster it out.

“This is a private conversation.”

Levering his shoulders away from the trunk, the intruder strolled into the wash of moonlight. Allie drew in a quick breath as she identified the gaudy collage of red and orange and purple.

“According to the lady, the conversation’s over,” the stranger offered casually. “I make it about five seconds now.”

“Who is this character, Allie?”

Since she had no idea, she ignored the question. “I think you should leave, Dean. Now.”

His jaw worked for a few seconds. Then the stranger sauntered forward, with a coiled, controlled economy of movement that sent the bigger man back a pace.

“Fine,” Dean snarled. “I’m leaving. It’s time I found a real woman to spend my time with instead of a plastic-faced doll, anyway.”

Neither Allie nor the man beside her said a word as Hansen stalked off, his shoes squishing lake water at each step. With his departure, the summer night settled around them like a cloak. Only this time, Allie wasn’t conscious of the wavelets lapping against the banks or the chirping cicadas. This time, the man before her absorbed her entire attention.

His eyes a pale silver in the moonlight, he surveyed her with the same dispassionate objectivity he’d displayed earlier. Once more, he measured her from head to toe, only this time his gaze lingered on parts in between.

Belatedly Allie realized that her gauzy tank dress was plastered to her like a second skin. Since Dean had taken a good chunk of its bodice into the lake with him, she could only hope that her bikini panties and scrap of a bra concealed more than they revealed. She was sure the cool breeze had puckered her nipples, along with the rest of her flesh, into giant goose bumps.

At the thought of this enigmatic stranger’s eyes on her breasts, Allie’s fingers scrunched on the torn chiffon. For the second time that night, an unfamiliar sensation rippled through her. Not quite attraction. Not exactly curiosity. More an awareness that crept through her at some subconscious level and left her feeling off balance.

With some effort, she controlled an instinctive feminine impulse to cross her arms over her breasts. She hadn’t felt this self-conscious about her body since she’d posed for the college classmate who’d begged her for some test shots to add to his portfolio. Those shots had launched both Dominic’s career and her own, and Allie had shed her prudish modesty under the unforgiving eye of the camera. Or so she’d thought.

When his gaze finally made it back to her face, his eyes held a predatory male gleam that Allie recognized instantly. A slow, liquid disappointment spilled through her.

Earlier, this man’s cool detachment had intrigued her almost as much as his tie. For a few moments, she’d imagined he was different. That he didn’t care about appearances. She’d actually let herself believe he was trying to see past the image she projected to the person within when he pinned her with that cool look.

He wasn’t detached now, if that brief flare of masculine interest was any indication. Telling herself she was crazy to be disappointed because a man appreciated the exterior packaging she worked so hard to perfect, Allie lifted her chin.

“I don’t think we’ve met before.”

“No, we haven’t.”

When he didn’t appear inclined to elaborate, she extended her free hand. “I’m—”

“I know who you are, Miss Fortune.”

Her hand dropped slowly. The fact that this stranger knew her name didn’t particularly surprise her. Mass marketing and the explosion of media interest in the lives of top models had made them into the superstars of the nineties. As a result, Allie’s face usually garnered instant recognition whenever she walked into a room.

Lately, it had garnered something else, as well. Something dark and frightening.

An echo of the call that had dragged Allie from sleep only last night whispered through her mind. She bit her lip as her inexplicable preoccupation with the man standing before her slipped, like a car skidding on a patch of ice, then skidded into unease. Silently she stared up at him.

Etched by moonlight, his face showed no softness, only sharp, uncompromising angles. A square chin, darkened by late-night shadow. A nose that had collided with some solid object once or twice in its past. Lean cheeks. And those scars on the left side of his chin and neck…

Swallowing to clear a suddenly dry throat, Allie broke the little silence. “Well, you may know me, but I don’t know you. Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

“My name’s Rafe Stone. I’m your bodyguard, Miss Fortune.”

Stunned, Allie stared up at him. “My what?”

“Your prospective bodyguard,” he corrected. “I’ve been asked to take on the job of guarding your person.”

“By…by whom?”

“By your father.”

For several long moments, Allie could only gape at him. Then anger washed through her. Swift, hot anger that she refused to let this stranger see.

Jake Fortune couldn’t stop trying to control her, any more than he could his other children or his wife or his thousands of employees. On the heels of that bitter thought came the cynical realization that her father was just trying to protect the “face” that he’d staked his company’s future on.

“When did my father hire you?”

“We haven’t closed the deal, but the understanding was I’d start tonight, if I decided to accept the job.”

“Tonight?” She lifted a scornful brow. “Then why didn’t you intercede a little earlier, Mr. Stone? You must have seen me struggling with Hansen.”

“I haven’t negotiated the terms of my contract with your father yet. Besides,” he added, his gaze drifting to the wet fabric bunched in her hand, “for a while there, I wasn’t any surer than your over-muscled Viking friend just what kind of game you were playing.”

Allie stiffened. “Then I’d say you’re not very perceptive, for a man who makes his living watching people.”

One dark brow lifted sardonically. “Perceptive enough to see who invited whom for a stroll in the dark.”

“You know, Mr. Stone,” Allie replied, spacing each word carefully, “I don’t think I particularly want you guarding my person.”

“Maybe you should talk to your father about it.”

“I will.”

She tried for a dignified exit, which wasn’t easy, with her French twist scraggling down her neck and her dress clinging to her thighs with every step. The walk up to the house seemed to take several lifetimes longer than the walk down to the lake.

Rafe followed at a more leisurely pace, his eyes on the slender figure ahead of him. He wondered if she had any idea of the way that wet handkerchief of a dress clung to her body, or what it did to his lungs. Rafe grimaced at the thought. Of course she did. Women like Allison Fortune were probably born knowing their impact on men.

All right, so her wide-spaced eyes, full mouth and endless limbs were the stuff of late-night fantasies. So he’d felt an immediate, gut-level urge to stroke his thumb across those impossible cheekbones when he first spotted her across the noisy room. Rafe possessed what he assumed was a normal testosterone level. Any man’s hands would itch to touch her skin, just to see if it was smooth and creamy as it looked.

Unfortunately, his initial reaction to Allison Fortune had been mild compared to the one Rafe experienced now. Watching her stride up the sloping lawn with an easy, long-legged grace detonated small implosions of heat, one right after another, just below his belt line. For all her almost boyish slenderness, the woman had a figure that would stop traffic on any street, in any city, on any continent.

Good thing she didn’t want him guarding that body, Rafe thought cynically, any more than he wanted the job. He didn’t need the staggering sum Jake Fortune had offered, nor did he need the kind of complications his involuntary reaction to Allison Fortune could cause. The reputation he’d earned in certain circles for his ability to penetrate seemingly impossible locations and extract hostages brought him more business than he could handle. He’d succeeded in that dark and dangerous world because of his ruthless ability to focus on his target. If he let himself get involved with the person behind that target, he’d lose the razor edge of concentration his work demanded.

Besides, Rafe had survived one disastrous experience with a beautiful woman, and he was a man who learned from his mistakes. His ex-wife wasn’t anywhere near Allie Fortune’s class in looks, of course, but her breathless baby-doll beauty had turned more than a few heads.

Phyllis had left him three years ago, when it became clear that no amount of surgery would erase the scars left by the bomb that had almost killed him and his client. Rafe had made it a point to steer clear of any entanglements ever since…which made him all the more wary of his instant animal attraction to the woman in front of him. With each step, his resolve to tell Jake Fortune to find another man hardened.

Among other things.

She reached the stairs that led to the terrace, and Rafe wondered idly if she intended to march into the brightly lit living room with her every curve on display. Probably. According to the dossier he’d had compiled on Allison Fortune, there weren’t many parts of her that hadn’t been captured in explicit detail on film and displayed to the eager public. Despite her huffy little speech to Eric the Blonde a few moments ago, this woman had made a career of playing games. When she draped herself across a rock on some mistswept shore, as she had in a full-page ad that had made Rafe break out in a cold sweat, she was trying for an effect. The ad might make the female half of the population want to run out and buy the tiny scrap of fabric the manufacturers called a bathing suit. The male half, Rafe among them, fantasized about sliding the straps down her arms and…

She halted abruptly, with one foot on the first stone step. Worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, she glanced up at the open French doors, then turned to Rafe.

“Would you go inside and find my father? Ask him to meet me in the library in fifteen minutes.”

Rafe had never been real good at taking orders, even during his years with Special Forces. In this instance, though, he was as anxious as Allie Fortune to terminate their association before it officially began.

“Yes, ma’am,” he drawled with exaggerated politeness.

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you this sarcastic with all your prospective clients?”

Silently acknowledging that he wanted to be a whole lot more than sarcastic with this particular prospective client, Rafe shook his head. How the hell could a simple collection of flesh and bone stir such atavistic male urges in him? He hadn’t felt this powerful an attraction for any woman since Phyllis. Hell, he hadn’t felt it for Phyllis.

“No, Miss Fortune. I’m not.”

Before she could respond to that one, he started up the broad stairs. His footsteps rang on the flagstones as he headed into the house, determined to tell Jake Fortune he wasn’t interested in the job.

Two

R afe soon discovered that Jake Fortune didn’t take no for an answer. For all his aristocratic airs, the man had the instincts of a street fighter. Tall, silver-haired, and impeccable in a gray Armani suit, he leaned his hips against the leather-topped desk that dominated the library, crossed his arms and cut right to the bottom line.

“I’ll double your retainer fee.”

Rafe regarded his would-be employer thoughtfully. He knew the value of his services, and felt no compunction about charging his clients according to their ability to pay. That Jake Fortune would double his initial offer without a qualm told Rafe there was more to this particular job than the client had admitted.

There always was, he thought cynically. He had the scars to prove it. Still, he didn’t need the money, and he sure as hell didn’t need to fan the small, hot flames Allie Fortune lit in him.

“It isn’t a matter of money,” he told her father. “My specialty is extraction under hostile conditions, not baby-sitting.”

Both men turned at the sound of a small laugh. A willowy blonde stood framed in a side door.

“It’s usually a matter of money where my husband is concerned, Mr. Stone.”

Annoyance flickered across Jake Fortune’s face before he wiped it clean of all expression. “In this instance, at least, you’re right. Come in, Erica. Perhaps you’ll be more successful than I’ve been in convincing Mr. Stone to provide Allie protection.”

When Erica Fortune walked into the oak-paneled room, Rafe detected traces of the daughter in the mother’s elegant carriage and cool, controlled grace. But the older woman’s stunning beauty seemed fragile, almost brittle.

The dossier on Allison Fortune included several pages about her parents, as well. A former beauty queen and the first model for Fortune Cosmetics, Erica Fortune had enjoyed what the media painted as a fairy-tale marriage to the founder’s son. Judging by the tension she brought into the library with her, Rafe wouldn’t have put a lot of credence in the happily-ever-after part. Whatever was causing the obvious stress between Erica Fortune and her husband, however, she put it aside in her daughter’s interest. Her green eyes softened as she pleaded with Rafe.

“Please reconsider, Mr. Stone. I don’t know how much my husband told you about these calls my daughter has received, but they worry us.”

“He mentioned that a fan got hold of her unlisted number and made some highly erotic remarks.”

“Erotic?” Erica sniffed. “They’re obscene. The man’s a pervert.”

“Until the police track him down, I agree it’s wise to provide your daughter with security, Mrs. Fortune. I just don’t think I’m the right man for the job.”

“Why not?”

Rafe tugged at his tie. He couldn’t exactly tell this woman that he didn’t want to spend two weeks with her daughter because she generated a few highly erotic thoughts in him, too.

“Look, Mrs. Fortune…”

“Erica, please.”

“Erica. I…”

A sharp rap on the massive double doors that led to the main hallway cut off Rafe’s reply. When Allison Fortune swept in a moment later, she cut off his air supply, as well. Irritated anew by her impact on him, Rafe stopped fiddling with his tie and shoved his hands in his pockets.

She was punctual, he had to give her that. True to her word, she’d taken less than fifteen minutes to change into a silky-looking pair of turquoise pajamas with one of those little Chinese collars and fancy embroidery. If her makeup had been disturbed by her dousing from the Nordic type she’d been stringing along down by the lake, she’d repaired it quickly enough. She looked untouched, and eminently untouchable.

Her glance flicked over Rafe, then settled on the older woman. A small frown marred the smooth perfection of her forehead. “I thought this bodyguard business was Jake’s idea. Did you know about it, too, Mother?”

Interesting, Rafe thought. She referred to her father by name, but not her mother.

“He told me about it when Mr. Stone showed up at the party tonight,” Erica replied.

“Oh? Well, he neglected to tell me.”

As his daughter turned to face him, Jake Fortune’s patrician features took on a hard edge. “You’re always so adamant about preserving your privacy, Allie. I knew you might object to having someone with you twenty-four hours a day. I thought it best not to discuss the matter with you until I ascertained Mr. Stone’s availability and finalized our arrangements.”

“You were right. I do object to Mr. Stone’s presence twenty-four hours a day. So you can unfinalize your arrangements.”

Rafe thought about setting them both straight. He hadn’t agreed to any arrangements, final or otherwise. But neither Fortune seemed particularly interested in his input at that moment.

“I’d like you to think about this. You know how important you are to—”

“Yes, I know. To Fortune Cosmetics.”

Jake’s mouth thinned. “I was going to say, how important you are to the entire family. I don’t like the idea of some obsessed fan worrying you and disrupting your life.”

“Or the shoot,” she added softly. Her tobacco-brown eyes held her father’s for a long moment.

His jaw tight, Jake Fortune turned to his wife. “You talk to her. Evidently I can’t anymore.”

Brushing past her husband, Erica moved to her daughter’s side. “Please be sensible, darling. This campaign is so important, not only to Fortune Cosmetics, but to your career.”

“I’m starting a new career after this campaign, remember?”

“I know, I know. And you’re wise to think about acting as a full-time career. Modeling is a brutal business, where a woman’s worth is measured only by her looks.” Erica’s musical voice took on a bitter edge. “Unfortunately, that’s true in more than just modeling.”

She didn’t turn her head, didn’t so much as glance at her husband, but Jake Fortune stiffened. If his wife noticed his reaction, she ignored it.

“But you’re just reaching your peak, Allie. You’ve got years ahead of you yet.”

“Mother…”

“You’re more photogenic than I ever was, and you’ve agreed to launch the new line. If it’s as successful as we hope, you’ll reach the highest plateau in your career. I just wish we had decided on a studio shoot for this campaign, instead of a natural setting,” Erica continued, her voice sharp with worry. “I don’t like the idea of you all alone for two weeks, out in the middle of nowhere.”

The corners of Allie’s full mouth edged upward. “Come on, Mother,” she teased gently. “A five-star resort a few miles outside Santa Fe is hardly the middle of nowhere. And you know as well as I the size of the team necessary for this shoot. I’ll hardly be alone.”

Later, Rafe would tell himself that he would have walked out of the library as planned, if it hadn’t been for the hint of laughter in her voice. And for that damned almost-smile. It softened the lines of her face. Added a gleam to her eyes. Hit him somewhere in the vicinity of his left kidney.

The half smile hooked him, but a different emotion altogether reeled him in a few moments later.

Erica’s huge square-cut emerald flashed as she reached for her daughter’s hand. “But that disgusting person said he’d find a way to come to you, and prove how much he loved you.”

He’d said a lot more than that, Rafe guessed instantly, or Allie wouldn’t look away to hide the flicker of emotion that darkened her eyes. Rafe had been in the business long enough to recognize fear, no matter how well or how quickly hidden.

Dammit, he thought in disgust, why couldn’t she have remained just a beautiful face? Why did he have to catch a glimpse of a vulnerable, frightened woman behind that sophisticated facade? Allison Fortune he would have walked away from without a qualm. The woman who refused to let her family see her fear tugged at his professional instincts. He couldn’t help wondering what else she was hiding behind that glamorous front.

Okay, he rationalized, he could do this. He’d trained himself not to become emotionally involved with his clients. He could spend two weeks with Allison Fortune, shield her from this kook who got off by whispering obscenities over the phone, and pocket the outrageous fee her father offered. Assuming, of course, the lady agreed to protection…and to playing this particular game by his rules.

“Please, darling,” Erica pleaded, her voice breaking a little. “It’s bad enough we didn’t even know about this disgusting pervert until the police called here, asking to speak to you. Don’t make it worse by refusing our protection until they track him down.”

With a small sigh, Allie patted her mother’s hand. “I’m sorry. I should have told you about the calls. I just didn’t want to worry you. Or the rest of the family,” she added after a slight pause. “You’ve all had enough problems since Kate died.”

“Then you’ll agree to additional security?” Jake asked.

She slanted her father a cool glance, then turned those incredible eyes on Rafe. Strange, he’d never realized how changeable a color brown was before. In the space of a heartbeat, it could vary from deep, rich mocha to a flat, uninviting mud.

“I agree,” she said after a moment. “But with certain conditions.”

“I don’t operate with restrictions.”

“And I can’t operate without a certain regimen,” she returned. “I run every morning, and during a shoot I have to get at least eight hours of sleep a night. All I’m asking is that you structure your security procedures around my schedule, if possible.”

Rafe hadn’t seen the inside of a gym in years, and he’d never been much for jogging, but he figured he could keep his client covered during her morning jaunts. As for those eight hours a night in bed…

With some effort, he banished the combustible image of Allie Fortune all doe-eyed and sleep-soft. Telling himself he was ten kinds of a fool, Rafe agreed. Reluctantly.

“I think we can accommodate your schedule.”

She hesitated, obviously as unenthusiastic as he was about the next two weeks. “Then I’ll leave you to negotiate the terms of your contract with my father. If you decide to accept the job, I’ll meet you at the airport. We have a ten-o’clock flight to Santa Fe.”

“Well, I’m glad that’s settled,” Erica said with a sigh of relief as her daughter brushed a kiss across her cheek and started for the door.

“Not quite,” Rafe drawled.

Allie paused with one hand on the doorknob.

“If I’m going to be responsible for your safety, Miss Fortune, I have a couple of conditions of my own.”

“Such as?”

“Such as no more strolls down to the lake—or anywhere else—unless I go along as a chaperon.”

After so many years in front of the camera, hiding her thoughts had become almost second nature to Allie. Her job was to project the emotions the photographer and art director wanted, not her own feelings. So she kept her expression carefully neutral while she debated whether to tell Rafe Stone to take a flying leap in the lake—or anywhere else.

As much as she wanted to put this man in his place, however, Allie had to admit the idea of a bodyguard had some merit. Although she routinely exercised basic security precautions against the weirdos who regularly fell in love with faces in magazines, these late-night calls had become too personal, too disturbing. She didn’t want this crazy to continue disrupting her life. Even more to the point, she didn’t want him to disrupt this shoot. Her older sister, her parents, her entire family, had staked everything on this campaign. Their tightly planned schedule allowed for minimal slippage.

Despite his brusque manner, or perhaps because of it, this Rafe Stone had routed Dean Hansen easily enough. He certainly looked as though he could take care of one obnoxious, if obsessive, fan. Besides, she’d only need his protection for two weeks. Three at most. Just while they were on location. The police had assured her the security at her New York condo was adequate. She could dispense with his services when they returned to the city for the final studio work.

Two weeks. She could put up with Rafe Stone’s constant presence for two weeks and still maintain the inner equilibrium.

Maybe.

“What’s your second condition?” she asked.

“If I perceive a threat to your safety, you follow my orders. All of them. Immediately. Without question.”

Allie wasn’t stupid. Nor was she foolhardy. In the event of a real threat, she’d be more than happy to let this man handle it.

“Agreed.”

Her acquiescence didn’t appear to afford him a great deal of pleasure. “I’ll pick you up at nine and take you to the airport,” he said brusquely.

“No further negotiations with my father, Mr. Stone?”

“No. And the name’s Rafe.”

She hesitated, then extended her hand. “I go by Allie.”

Her touch was warm and smooth and altogether too electric. Rafe curled his fingers around hers for the required few seconds. When she slid her hand out of his, her heat tingled against his palm, and he felt the damnedest urge to make a fist and trap it.

Two weeks, he told himself grimly. He’d spent almost that long on his belly in the dust, staking out a supposed terrorist hideout in southern Spain. If he could handle that band of inept would-be revolutionaries, he could handle himself around Allie Fortune.

Maybe.

By eight-thirty the next morning, Allie was having second, third and fourth thoughts. She’d spent a restless night, trying without notable success to adjust to the idea of Rafe Stone’s disturbing presence in her life. Her sleeplessness hadn’t been helped by her sister’s acid observation that she’d let Jake do it to her—again.

“Why didn’t you stand up to him?” Rocky asked, picking up the refrain she’d left off last night only when Allie threatened to tie a pillowcase over her head. Perched comfortably on a window seat in the bedroom the girls had shared since childhood, Rocky went after her twin with the piranha-like ruthlessness of a loving sister.

“You should have told Jake to stuff it when he pressed you to do this campaign. You know how burnt out you are. You’ve been trying to stuff acting lessons in between your runway shows and advertising shoots. You only have time for an occasional date with jerks like Hansen. And now you’ve got this creep calling you in the middle of the night. What you need, sister mine, is a hot and fast and furious affair.”

“Right.”

“I’m serious. You need someone to make you kick back and enjoy life again. Preferably a man who doesn’t worship at the altar of your beauty.”

“What I need is for you to get off my back,” Allie retorted, tossing a nightshirt into her weekender.

“Me, or Jake?”

“Both of you.”

“So tell him!”

“I’m not you, Rocky. I don’t make an art form out of challenging people.”

“Bull-loney! Don’t pull that innocent act on me. You never hesitated to challenge anyone when we were younger. You just did it so sweetly, no one but Kate ever saw through your angelic facade. It’s just since her death that you’ve let Jake and Caroline and the whole family take over your life.”

Allie gripped her zippered makeup bag in both hands as a now familiar pain lanced through her. Involuntarily her gaze drifted to the battered tin carousel sitting on the dresser.

Kate had seen her granddaughters’ wide-eyed fascination when she’d first acquired the carousel. Laughing, she’d given the German-made toy to the girls to play with, even though it was an expensive antique. As Kate was so fond of saying, there was nothing more precious in the world than a child’s joy. The tomboyish Rocky had soon tired of the little merry-go-round, but Allie had delighted in its filigreed canopy and prancing horses throughout her childhood. Now dented and dinged from years of use, the tin carousel was Allie’s most cherished reminder of her grandmother. Kate had left it to her in her will as a personal keepsake.

Dropping the makeup bag, Allie walked over to the dresser. Unerringly, her fingers wound the key just the right number of times. Too many, and the melody tripped and hurried, like a twittering sparrow chasing another bird away from its nest. Too few, and it slowed to a sluggish crawl.

She released the key, and a Chopin polonaise tinkled through the air. One after another, the miniature horses dipped and rose, pawing the air in time to the music.

As the music wound down, Rocky sighed. “God, I miss her.”

Allie swallowed to ease her aching throat. “Me too.”

Pulling her nightshirt out of the suitcase, she wrapped it carefully around the little carousel, then tucked the bundle in amid her underwear.

“That’s why I didn’t tell Jake to stuff it,” Allie told her sister slowly. “And why I’m going to New Mexico. Kate spent her life building Fortune Cosmetics. If I can help keep it from falling apart, I will.”

“All right,” Rocky conceded, rising. “Have it your way. But I wish you’d let me fly you to Santa Fe. I’d feel better about the whole situation if I had a chance to shake out this goon Jake’s hired and see what he’s made of.”

Allie shuddered. “The idea of you shaking us out is exactly why I don’t want you to fly us to New Mexico. The last time you took me up in one of Kate’s planes, I lost the contents of my purse, my camera bag and my stomach. At least a commercial charter doesn’t do wheelies.”

A pained expression crossed Rocky’s face. “Bicycles do wheelies, Allison. Skateboards do wheelies. Twin-engine Piper Comanches do three-point reverse spins, of which that was a perfect example.”

“Whatever it was, I’m not anxious to repeat the experience.” Allie zipped her weekender shut, then glanced at the bedside clock. “If you want to check Rafe out, you can come downstairs. He’s picking me up in ten minutes.”

“Rafe?”

“The goon,” Allie replied dryly.

A speculative gleam entered Rocky’s eyes. “Hmm… Maybe this bodyguard business isn’t such a bad idea after all. Two weeks. Just you and him.”

“And a crew of forty or so.”

Rocky dismissed the crew with a wave of one hand. “Whatever. I definitely have to check the guy out.”

“Come on, then. He should be here any moment, and I don’t want to keep him waiting.”

Her twin sketched her a salute. “Yes, ma’am! Right away, ma’am!”

Thirty minutes later, Allie’s leather sole was tapping the polished vestibule floor. Rocky had temporarily deserted her, gone to the kitchen in search of a cup of coffee. She had only her growing irritation for company while she waited for her bodyguard.

Pushing back the sleeve of her pink gabardine tunic, Allie flicked another glance at her watch. Normally, she handled delays with more patience. They were inevitable in her profession. Photographers always seemed to need a different lens. Props mysteriously disappeared just when they were needed. But Rafe’s tardiness only added to her burgeoning doubts about their tentative arrangement. So much for his promises to accommodate himself to her schedule.

When the chimes sounded a few moments later, she opened the door, wincing a bit as splashes of fire-hydrant red, carroty orange and violent purple filled her vision. Last night, Rafe’s tie had intrigued her. In the bright light of day, it assaulted her senses.

“Good morning,” she offered in a clipped tone, reaching for her bag. “We’d better hurry. We’re late. The others will be waiting.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. After three years, he should be used to the reaction his appearance caused. But Allie’s involuntary flinch and curt greeting came on top of a near-sleepless night and several long hours on the phone this morning, nailing down the status of the investigation into her calls. Rafe didn’t like being late, any more than he liked the information he’d finally pulled out of the New York Police Department. Consequently, his greeting was as terse as hers.

“They’ll have to wait a little longer. You need to change. You’re too conspicuous.”

Surprised, she glanced down at her outfit.

Rafe didn’t have any problem with her black slacks, but the hot-pink tunic with the black braid looped under one arm and the military trim in glittering jet would catch any man’s eye, especially with Allie wearing it.

“I’ll share one of the tips of the trade with you,” he told her. “Unless you’re baiting a trap, you do your best to disguise the prey.”

Rafe could see that she didn’t particularly like hearing herself described as prey. But after listening to the transcription she’d given the police of her late-night calls, he couldn’t describe her as anything else.

“For the next few weeks, at least,” he continued, “you need to remain as inconspicuous as possible.”

Thick, shining hair brushed her shoulder as she tilted her head, studying his face. Rafe braced himself as her gaze drifted to his neck.

“It might be easier for me to remain inconspicuous if my bodyguard didn’t wear red and orange fish-eyes,” she suggested.

Rafe fingered his tie, wondering for a moment if he’d misread Allie’s reaction when she opened the door. He’d barely restrained a wince himself when he first saw the item in question. But it had been a gift from the five-year-old he’d rescued from an enclave of vicious, heavily armed white supremacists. The girl had been kidnapped by her father, who didn’t believe that the courts or his ex-wife held any authority over him. Jody had picked out the tie herself, she’d told Rafe solemnly. He’d worn it then to please her, but the thing had since become a sort of personal talisman. In this instance, at least, it served a useful purpose.

“I’d rather people’s eyes were drawn to me than to you,” he told his client. “The tie helps, almost as much as the scars.”

Her eyes widened slightly at his reference to his disfigurement. Rafe had learned that most people preferred to tiptoe around the subject, if they mentioned it at all. He’d never learned to tiptoe.

“You can do your part by dressing a little less like a…” He raked her with a quick glance. “Like a supermodel.”

Rafe half expected a pout or a protest. In his admittedly limited experience, the last thing a beautiful woman wanted was to downplay her attractions. To his surprise, she curbed her obvious impatience at the delay and motioned him inside.

“I didn’t bring much with me from New York, but I can borrow some jeans or something from Rocky.”

Rafe turned the name over in his mind as he stepped inside. Rocky. Rachel Fortune. Allison’s twin sister.

“Do you want a cup of coffee or something while I change?”

“No thanks.”

“I’ll just be a moment.”

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Rafe leaned a shoulder against the wall and made a leisurely inspection of the entry hall and the huge living room beyond. Last night, the house had overflowed with noise and people. Rafe had noted its elegance, but absorbed little of its character.

This morning, sunlight streamed through the fan-shaped window above the door and warmed the oak flooring to a golden glow. Fresh flowers added bright spots of color to the greens and blues of the high-backed chairs and overstuffed sofas grouped around the living room. For all its vastness, the Fortune mansion gave the impression of a home.

Rafe certainly couldn’t have said the same for the apartment he’d moved into in Miami after his divorce. Although it was furnished with all the basics, it lacked some indefinable homelike quality. Maybe that was due to the fact that he spent only a few days a month there, if that. For a moment, Rafe toyed with the idea of coming home to a place imbued with beauty and quiet elegance…and to a woman with the same qualities. A woman like Allie.

He shook his head at the errant thought. He’d been down that road once. He wasn’t about to travel it again. The sound of footsteps echoing against the oak floor banished his unpleasant memories, and Rafe straightened as Allie walked into view.

His first thought was that he’d done some stupid things in his life. Having his client exchange her loose slacks for well-washed denims that hugged her hips and showed off the tight curve of her bottom ranked right up there among the dumbest. Every male past puberty would trip over his tongue when she walked by.

His second was that she’d changed more than her clothes. At first, Rafe couldn’t pinpoint exactly what. Her sorrel hair swept her shoulders in the same thick wave. Sooty lashes framed the same chocolate-brown eyes. Her full mouth looked as tempting as it had when she opened the door to him a few moments ago. But something about the way she held herself triggered an instinctive, gut-level question in Rafe’s mind.

It took a few seconds before he realized that the woman returning his stare wasn’t Allie.

Christ! The dossier had indicated that she and her sister were identical twins, but that brief annotation didn’t begin to describe their astounding similarity. If Rafe hadn’t spent half the night imprinting his client’s features and mannerisms on his mind, he might never have known this wasn’t her.

Their differences, he decided objectively, were more a matter of style than of appearance. Unlike Allison’s classic sophistication, Rachel opted for a more rugged look. She wore a brown leather aviator jacket with the sleeves pushed up, a white knit top, boots, and the jeans that had made Rafe’s heart skip a few beats. He could only hope they wouldn’t hug Allie’s slender figure as faithfully as they did her sister’s.

“You must be Rocky,” he said slowly.

Grinning, she nodded. “Right. And you, I sincerely hope, are the hired gun.”

Before he could respond to that, Allie walked back into the vestibule. Rafe saw instantly that his hopes had been in vain. In glove-soft jeans, a cream-colored turtleneck and a misty blue tweed jacket, Allison Fortune looked like every man’s dream of a very bright, very sexy campus coed.

The only way he could make her inconspicuous, Rafe decided grimly, was to wrap her in a blanket from head to toe.

He dug a small, specially designed beeper out of his pocket. “Here, clip this on, and make sure you keep it within reach at all times.”

Frowning, she turned the little black box over in her hand. “What is it?”

“It’s a tracking device and emergency signal.”

“How does it work? I don’t see any button to push.”

“There isn’t any button. If you need me, just grip the unit in your hand and squeeze. The pressure and heat from your palm will set off a pulsing signal on my unit.”

She fumbled with the tight clip.

“The rest of the time, the device emits a continuous signal keyed to a special frequency that only my unit can pick up.”

Her hands stilling, she glanced up. “Continuous?”

“So I can track you anytime, night or day.”

“I’ve heard these devices were available,” Rocky put in. “The military developed them initially. Now people buy them to keep track of their dogs,” she added, grinning at her sister.

A look of distaste crossed Allie’s face. “I’m not sure I like the idea of being on a leash, like someone’s toy poodle.”

“It’s part of the security package.”

Rafe’s brusque tone said clearly that she could take the entire package or leave it. Allie didn’t miss the unspoken message. Her mouth tightening, she lifted the clip and jammed the unit onto the inner pocket.

“Let’s go,” she said shortly. “We’re late.”

Twenty minutes later, Rafe pulled off the airport access road and drove up to the private hangar Allie indicated. She’d told him some of the site crew would be traveling with them on the small chartered jet. She hadn’t bothered to mention that half the population of Minneapolis would be turning out to see her off.

He stepped out of the rental car, tensing as a figure darted out of the milling crowd and dashed toward them. Rafe relaxed only marginally when he saw that it was a teenage girl.

“Hi, Allie! We heard you were leaving this morning. Will you sign my T-shirt?”

Before Rafe could put himself between his client and the girl, the passenger door slammed and Allie walked forward. “Sure. Got a pen?”

“I got some new test shots for my portfolio,” another long-legged, coltish girl said shyly as she joined them. “Would you look at them?”

Within moments, Allie was surrounded by a clutch of tall, gangly young women. Wannabes, Rafe presumed, all pressing her for tips or advice or autographs. The rest of the crowd appeared to consist primarily of men in coveralls with logos from various airlines on their pockets. They watched the proceedings with avid interest. Occasionally one would nudge another in the ribs and share a comment that resulted in a lewd grin.

Rafe’s jaw tightened at their expressions, but Allie seemed impervious to the reactions she caused among her male admirers. Smiling and answering the girls’ peppered questions, she made her way toward the hangar. The men fell back to let her pass. As she reached the side door, Rafe turned to scan the crowd for the representative of the rental agency he’d arranged to pick up his car.

At that moment, Allie gave a little squeak.

Rafe spun back around just as an arm looped around her neck and dragged her through the door.

Three

R afe crashed through the hangar door and launched himself at Allie’s attacker.

Seconds later, she was pushing herself up off the floor, gasping. Her assailant lay facedown on the concrete, with one arm twisted up between his shoulder blades and Rafe’s knee planted squarely in his back. When he sputtered an obscenity and tried to dislodge the crushing weight that held him pinned, Rafe shoved his arm up higher.

“Ow!” His shout bounced off the high hangar ceilings.

“Break his other arm, if you like, but not that one. He can’t shoot left-handed.”

The low, husky voice penetrated Rafe’s pounding, adrenaline-charged consciousness at the same instant as Allie’s breathless protest.

“Rafe! That’s…Dominic. The photographer!”

The man’s nose scraped concrete as he turned his head toward the sound of her voice. Only then did Rafe notice his hair. Or the lack of it. The left side of his scalp was buzz-shaved to a glistening white. The right sported long, flowing black locks. The effect was every bit as startling this morning as it had been when Rafe first saw the man, last night at the party. He loosened his grip on the man’s wrist, but took his time unplanting his knee.

“Get him…off me!”

“Rafe, please! This is Dominic Avendez. He’s my photographer.”

When the man finally regained his feet, he rubbed his wrist and glared at his attacker. Rafe knew the exact instant the photographer noted the scars. His gaze snagged at chin level, and he swallowed visibly. Turning to Allie, he demanded an explanation.

“Who is this character?”

“He’s…”

“The name’s Stone,” Rafe replied deliberately. “Rafe Stone. I’m Miss Fortune’s bodyguard.”

“Bodyguard? Since when does she need a bodyguard?”

Flashing Rafe a silent warning, Allie stepped forward. “It was Jake’s idea, Dom. With so much riding on this ad campaign, he wanted a little extra insurance.”

“Insurance? Hell, the whole shoot almost went down the tubes because of him.”

“Are you okay?”

“No.” Scowling, he rotated his aching shoulder.

Allie moved to his side. “Come on, let’s get you to the plane.”

In what Rafe now guessed was a habitual gesture, the man started to loop his good arm around Allie’s neck. He caught himself just in time and threw her bodyguard a wary glance. His scowl deepened at the expression on Rafe’s face, but he tucked his arm through Allie’s, instead of wrapping it around her neck.

Rafe stood still for a moment, watching the unlikely pair walk toward the small, sleek jet parked just outside the open bay doors at the far end of the hangar. Allie towered over the stocky photographer by half a head, and her luxuriant reddish brown mane formed a stark contrast to his long/short, black/white hair style. But it was obvious they were good friends. Very good friends. Her face held genuine sympathy and an unmistakable affection as she soothed the man’s ruffled feathers.

So why hadn’t she told Avendez about the calls? Rafe wondered. Why didn’t she want her…friend…to know the real reason behind the sudden appearance of a bodyguard in her life, any more than she’d wanted her parents to see her fear last night?

Not for the first time, it occurred to Rafe that Allie Fortune hid a good part of herself behind the face she showed to the public. Wondering at the woman behind the mask, Rafe bent to pick up the duffel bag he’d dropped when he launched himself through the air.

A throaty chuckle brought his head around. A short, stocky woman with cropped brown hair grinned up at him.

“The last time Dom’s face scraped the ground, he had a camera angled up Allie’s skirt. That shot did more for the panty hose industry than any ad campaign in its history. I’m Xola, by the way. Dom’s stylist. I do the drops and props.”

Rafe took the hand she held out, not surprised at its firm grip. She might stand a good ten inches shorter than his own six foot one, but she exuded a down-to-earth, no-nonsense air that contrasted with the startling sensuality of her voice.

“Welcome to the team, Rafe.”

“Thanks.” He flicked a glance at the semiscalped photographer climbing into the plane. “I think.”

Xola’s laughter flowed over him like melted chocolate, rich and dark and deep. “Don’t worry about Dominic. Allie will coax him out of his sulks eventually. She always does. Come on, we’d better load up, or we’ll get left behind. If you haven’t already noticed, Allie’s a stickler about keeping on schedule.”

“I’ve noticed,” he drawled. “Tell them I’ll be right there. I just have to find the rep from the rental-car agency.”

Rafe strode toward the hangar door, making a mental note to have background checks run on the entire crew, particularly one Dominic Avendez.

By the time they arrived at Rancho Tremayo, the sprawling old hacienda a few miles north of Santa Fe where the rest of the crew had already assembled, Rafe had discovered that his client was a stickler about a number of things in addition to punctuality.

Her diet figured right up there near the top of the list. Throughout the long flight, she politely had refused the snacks the others offered. Since Rafe hadn’t had either the time or the foresight to lay in supplies for the trip, he’d gratefully dug into Xola’s cache of Snickers, unsalted cashews and grapefruit juice. By late afternoon, his stomach had been rumbling with increasing frequency and resonance.

As he and Allie followed the resort manager through the walled adobe compound to the guest houses, the tantalizing scent of beef cooking in a spicy sauce that filled the air added to his growing discomfort. The hacienda had been converted into a world-class resort, he’d discovered, and its main restaurant had won a coveted Excellent rating from Gourmand magazine. Rafe was all set to settle Allie in her quarters and explore the validity of the culinary rating when he ran smack up against another one of his client’s sticking points—her tendency to modify the rules of the game to suit her own preferences.

Her luxurious, beam-ceilinged casita enchanted her. Smiling, she complimented the effusive manager on the striking Navajo blanket hanging above the fireplace and the combination of pale pink adobe walls and mauve floor tiles shot with turquoise.

The manager stuttered something about soothing desert jewel tones and ushered her through an arched doorway to the bedroom. Rafe guessed he still hadn’t quite recovered from the combined effect of Allie’s stunning long-legged beauty, Dominic’s half head of hair and Xola’s spine-shivering, rippling laughter.

While the too-tanned, too-attentive manager and Allie chatted, Rafe did a quick security sweep of the three rooms. The bedroom’s windows were set high in the walls, he noted with satisfaction, and fixed with sturdy locks. The only other entrance to the casita was through a side door in the kitchenette, which could be bolted from within. That left the main door opening onto the sitting room. It had a peephole and locks any ten-year-old with a plastic library card could get through in a few seconds flat.

“I want a locksmith out here within an hour to install a dead bolt,” he told the manager. “We’ll need two keys for it. I’ll keep one, and Miss Fortune the other.”

The man brushed a hand over his styled hair. “But… But the housekeeping staff will need to get in. And Maintenance…”

“Miss Fortune will call when she’s ready for housekeeping. You can contact me if Maintenance needs access.”

The manager looked to Allie for confirmation. She hesitated, then endorsed Rafe’s orders with a nod. “You’d better have the locksmith make three keys, though. Dominic will need one.”

Rafe refused to acknowledge the feeling that spiked through him. It wasn’t any of his business who his client chose to spend her time with, as long as she did so under certain controlled conditions. He didn’t consider Avendez much of an improvement over the Viking, but he didn’t think Allie would appreciate his opinion on the matter.

“Two keys,” he countered. “I won’t be responsible for your safety if I can’t control access.”

Her mouth thinned. “I don’t think you understand. Dom and I will be working late most nights, reviewing the day’s production and the next day’s schedule.”

“Fine. You can let him in, or I will. You agreed to play this by my rules, remember?”

For a moment, Rafe thought she would argue. The smooth skin of one cheek twitched, and a spark of anger or resentment darkened her eyes. It was gone before he could decide which it was. When she turned to face the manager, the cool facade she showed to the public was back in place.

“Two keys,” she said stiffly.

“My casita is right next to yours,” Rafe told her. “Number eight. I’m going to dump my gear, then go to the office to go over the guest lists. After that, I need to check the physical layout of the resort.” And scarf down some food. “I’ll be back for you in an hour. Use the beeper if you need me before that.”

With a supreme exercise of will, Allie refrained from slamming the door behind the two men.

Damn Stone! With his beepers and his keys and his controlled access, he was making her feel caged. Or like a dog in obedience training. Tossing her purse onto the bed, Allie yanked at the zipper on her case.

By the time she’d put away her clothes, she’d calmed enough to realize how counterproductive her anger was. She hadn’t even begun the stressful part of her job, and already she was wound tighter than a steel spring. If she was going to make it through the next few weeks, she’d have to shrug off Rafe’s abrupt manner, just as she did Dom’s mood swings and Xola’s exacting demands.

She could do this. She was a professional. So was Rafe. He was just doing his job, as she had to do hers. She just needed to call on the reservoir of patience she’d stored up all these years in front of the camera. Pretend he wasn’t there, as she did the crew that hovered around her during a shoot.

Not four hours later, Allie had reached the bitter conclusion that she couldn’t share the same planet with Rafe, let alone the same general vicinity, and maintain the inner tranquillity needed for her work.

She didn’t understand how one man could invade her space and her consciousness so completely. It wasn’t that he put himself forward or was the least bit intrusive. On the contrary, when he escorted Allie to dinner at the resort’s restaurant, he chose a table for himself at the periphery of the noisy crew, who welcomed her into their midst. But she’d noticed the startled glances he drew, and Xola’s friendly smile when she joined him for coffee. Allie had been conscious of him all through dinner, and now, when she should be concentrating on her work, she felt his presence in every pore.

He sprawled with loose-limbed grace on the sofa, one foot propped on the edge of the rough-planked coffee table as he skimmed with astonishing speed through a paperback. Slanting him a sideways glance, Allie studied him with a model’s keen insight for line and form. He’d shed his awful tie, opened the neck of his dark blue cotton shirt and rolled up his sleeves to reveal strong, muscular forearms. The gleaming high-lights in his dark hair made a startling contrast to the rugged, tanned planes of his face and…

“Are you interested in this new production-scheduling technique or not?”

Allie slewed her attention back to the man seated in the chair beside hers. “Of course I am.”

Dom stabbed at the keyboard of the notebook computer he’d set on the table between them. Within seconds, a colorful flowchart was painted across the screen.

“Pay attention,” he ordered irritably. “I get big bucks to teach this at RIT, you know.”

“I know,” Allie said soothingly.

In his more generous moments, she knew, Dom would acknowledge her own contribution to his spectacular career. His earlier shots of Allie had helped him break into the tough, competitive world of fashion photography. Their later work together had solidified his international reputation and led to an appointment as a guest lecturer at the Rochester Institute of Technology, a center of excellence for photographic arts and sciences since George Eastman had rented a factory loft there in 1880.

In his crankier moods, though, Dom tended to forget their long association, as well as his manners and his maturity. Unfortunately, he’d remained cranky since Rafe had slammed him into the concrete earlier this morning. Despite Allie’s best efforts to coax him into a better mood, he’d been terse and uncommunicative all day. When he showed up at her casita after dinner for their usual preview of the next day’s schedule, she’d hoped his enthusiasm for his work would restore his good humor. It hadn’t.

A moment later, she winced as Dom slammed down the lid on his computer.

“I can’t concentrate,” he announced, tucking the notebook under his arm. “I’m going to drive into town and check out the sites we’ll be using for the shoots.”

Halfway to the door, he stopped and issued an ungracious invitation. “Want to come? With your watchdog’s permission, of course.”

“No, thanks,” she replied easily, too used to Dom’s sarcasm to let it bother her. “If you want to start shooting by seven, I’ll have to be in makeup by six. Which means…”

“I know, I know. You have to be up at five for your run. So go to bed and get some sleep, or even I won’t be able to disguise the lines in you face. You’re not getting any younger, you know,” he added with a touch of malice.

Laughing, Allie crossed the tile floor and planted a kiss on the bald half of his head. “Between your camera and your computer and your creative imaging techniques, you can disguise anything. You’re a genius, Dom. A thoroughly obnoxious genius, but I love you.”

The photographer shot Rafe a fierce look, then deliberately hooked an arm around her neck. “Yeah, well, I can tolerate you. On occasion.”

Allie accepted his kiss, then closed the door behind him and twisted the key in the shiny new dead bolt. She turned to find Rafe’s dark eyes fixed on her. The relief she’d felt at her friend’s brief spurt of good humor vanished instantly.

For the life of her, Allie couldn’t understand why this man should affect her so. She’d spent the past ten years enduring the intense scrutiny of a host of men and women who ruthlessly dissected the most minute details of her face and figure. Since she’d catapulted to the top of her profession, she’d learned to deflect the curious, sometimes avid, stares of her fans. Yet, from the first moment she found Rafe watching her at the party, Allie hadn’t been able to shake the sensations he generated in her.

What did he see when he looked at her through those steel-blue eyes? she wondered.

Just what everyone else saw, the practical corner of her mind said mockingly. A face. Two arms. A body that would have been considered bony and unattractive in the pre-Twiggy days, though a good number of men today seemed to find it sexy. Including, Allie remembered, the late-night caller who’d brought Rafe into her life in the first place. Despite her best efforts to control it, a little shiver rippled down her arms.

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