Protect Me, Love
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Experct
Dear Reader
Title Page
Dedication
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Prologue
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
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Copyright
Delia’s first urge was to make a run for it…
…through the restaurant and out the door before Nick Avery arrived. There were lots of exits from Rockefeller Plaza—whoever was following her couldn’t be at all of them, unless he wasn’t alone. Still, she’d be playing Russian roulette with escape routes.
She tried to think what would be the best, the safest alternative, but her mind refused to cooperate. All she could think about was how Nick’s voice on the phone had thrilled through her like a sudden shattering of glass.
She reminded herself that she was in trouble…she needed help…she needed protection…
But did she need Nick Avery?
Dear Reader,
Sometime, somewhere, any woman might need protection. And who could be more sexy—or dangerous—than her bodyguard? You’re about to meet another bodyguard employed by the fictional agency Protection Enterprises Incorporated.
This month Alice Orr brings you Protect Me, Love, the third and final book in the MY BODYGUARD subseries. This is Alice’s seventh Intrigue novel It is set in New York City where Alice lives and toward which she feels both affection and trepidation. Both are apparent in this story of passion and danger in the extreme.
In addition to her writing life, Alice is a literary agent, wife and mother. She also lectures nationally on writing and publishing. You can write her at Alice Orr Agency, Inc., 305 Madison Avenue, Suite 1166, New York, NY 10165. You may also E-mail Alice at
At Harlequin Intrigue, we know you’ll enjoy Protect Me, Love, and hope you’ll read the past titles in the MY BODYGUARD subseries: #391 Guarded Moments by Cassie Miles and #394 Shadow Lover by Carly Bishop. Don’t miss the MY BODYGUARD series!
Sincerely,
Debra Matteucci
Senior Editor and Editorial Coordinator
Harlequin Books
300 East 42nd Street
New York, New York 10017
Protect Me, Love
Alice Orr
To my husband, Jonathan, always my romantic hero.
To Ed Vesneske, my beloved son.
To my precious confidant, Kathleen Zea, also my dear daughter.
To my editor, Julianne Moore, a true jewel.
To my agent, Rob Cohen, a savvy voice in a wacky world.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Rebecca Lester—A young woman with a past, but no present.
Delia Marie Barry—A woman with a present, but no past and, possibly, no uture.
Nick Avery—The bodyguard.
Mortimer Lancer—The corpse that started it all.
Lily Tubman—Delia’s right-hand woman, when she dares have one.
Joseph Singleton—Delia’s reputed boss.
Clyde Benno—Delia’s reputed psycho boyfriend.
Betty Benno—Clyde’s also reputed, also psycho wife.
Jaycee—A very unlikely visionary.
Tobias and Penelope Wren—A suspect couple from Rebecca’s past.
Samuel Lester—Rebecca’s crazy brother.
Mindy—A smitten Soho desk clerk.
The man with the insane eyes—Identity to be discovered.
Prologue
Becky Lester of Denver, Colorado, woke up with Nick Avery on her mind. For the first time in four years, she felt almost completely happy. Because of that, she didn’t let herself return to consciousness right off. She kept the feeling of Nick in her heart, as if she were still dreaming of him, the way he’d looked that day in the study of the main house of the Lester estate. She’d seen him many times before, of course, when he’d first started working as a bodyguard for her father. She simply hadn’t noticed Nick as a man—as a highly desirable man—until that particular moment, maybe because she needed to notice him, because now she needed a fantasy.
She’d been rushing past the study, late as usual to some hot evening that wouldn’t turn out to be so hot after all. Nick was talking to Mortimer Lancer, the Lester family lawyer and chief trustee of the estate. Becky had passed the open doorway before she registered what she’d seen. She backtracked then, and Nick must have heard her because he turned around. That was the moment the dream of him began. He was built exactly the way she liked a man to be—tall and rangy with long-muscled thighs, tight in the hips, wide and hard at the shoulders. He also obviously didn’t mind letting that show. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have had on close-fitting jeans and a blue chambray shirt that stretched taut across his ample chest. And that was only his body. His face was just right for fantasy, too—dark brows over eyes arrogant enough to be a challenge; a mouth that all but said out loud, “I want to kiss you right this minute,” and thick, somewhat overlong, dark hair that was meant to be tousled on a woman’s pillow.
Becky took all of this in, that particular day, along with the way her knees were threatening to forget their function of holding her upright. In response she locked those knees tight. She did her best most of the time to make people think she was all fluff between the ears, but she drew the line at actually feeling that way herself. Yet, at that moment, she’d have sworn she had cotton candy for brains. All of a sudden, Nick Avery had made her feel like that, and she wasn’t sure whether this was good or bad.
Meanwhile, he’d been giving her the once-over, too. She was decked out in one of her deliberately bimboid outfits—too tight, too short and too black for a sensible woman to wear. He slid his gaze over her. She all but shivered, and not because she had too few clothes on in the still chilly Colorado springtime. Of course, he probably thought she was on the skinny side. Most men told her so, but she couldn’t help that. It had been well over three years since she was able to get a full meal down and keep it there. She hoped Nick might think she was pretty anyway. Or, maybe it was enough for her to look at how gorgeous he was and daydream about it, obsess over it, hang on to it.
Over the several weeks since, she’d played that fantasy out like a Colorado River fishing line. It gave her something to think about besides the way, three-plus years ago, her beloved father had died, her stepmother along with him. There was nobody left now, except maybe Morty Lancer, the housekeeper Penelope Wren and her caretaker husband Tobias, to care whether Becky had a dream in her head or not. She had a brother, Samuel, but he was tucked away in a mental institution. She wasn’t allowed to see him much because of how upset he got when she was around, and she could barely remember the time before he was put away. He resented her so intensely that she couldn’t include him in the very short list of people who gave a damn about her anyway. The last time she saw him, he’d scowled like he wanted to kill her, then chucked a vase at her head. Luckily, he’d missed, but she hadn’t missed the hatred in his eyes. She’d decided right then that she didn’t have a brother, not really, and she wrote him out of any corner he might have claimed in her heart.
All of which made Becky feel even more alone and ripe for an imaginary infat
uation with the heartthrob bodyguard. She’d flirted with Nick in the weeks since that day in the study, but even her most vampy smiles and teasing comments got her nowhere. He was too much of a standup guy to get involved with the boss’s daughter, even when the boss wasn’t around any longer. Still, just thinking about him made her stretch long and lazy like a cat as she gradually awoke to another Colorado morning. She was corning out of that stretch when her arm hit something hard beneath the sheet on the other side of the bed. For a delicious instant she wondered if her fantasy had come to life and Nick was beside her. She rolled toward that impossible dream with her lips parted to receive a kiss as her eyes drifted open.
What Becky saw froze her to stone. She sat up fast, too shocked to scream. A man’s arm protruded from under the sheet and dangled off the opposite side of the bed. She could tell just from looking at the angle of the arm that he was dead. She could also tell by the flabbiness of the skin that he wasn’t Nick Avery. She reached over and grabbed the sheet, flipping the fabric aside to reveal what lay underneath. It was a man’s body all right, and he was nude. His skin was so white it would have been pallid even while he was alive, with rolls of extra flesh under his arms and around his waist where Nick was lean and hard. This man’s back was to her. Still, with the first lucid thought she was able to piece together in her paralyzed mind, she realized that she knew him.
She would have rolled him over so she could see his face, but she couldn’t stand to touch what she sensed would be a cold corpse. She could get up and walk around to his side of the bed, but she was too frightened to move that far just yet. Instead, she eased herself up onto her knees, clutching her side of the sheet to her chest, suddenly modest in the presence of this poor, lifeless man. She leaned over far enough away not to touch any part of him but sufficiently close to see his face. She clamped her hand over her mouth. The sheet slipped from her body as a muffled scream made a strangled sound behind her fingers. As she’d thought, the dead man next to her was Morty Lancer. His eyes were open and staring at the opposite wall. His mouth was open, too, as if in surprise, and there was a bloody gash in his chest.
Becky doubled over with her head between her knees and gulped mouthfuls of air to fight the spasms in her stomach. Those spasms wrenched through her for a long, tortuous moment, until her stunned psyche began to comprehend the significance of Morty being dead and naked in her bed. Gradually, she straightened into a kneeling posture. Her hand moved from her mouth and drifted out in front of her as if on marionette strings. That was when her brain finally unscrambled what might have been the scariest message of all. Her hand and forearm were spotted with blood. She allowed herself the fleeting, desperate conclusion that she had touched the bloody body just now and that would explain the stains on herself, but of course that didn’t make sense. She hadn’t allowed herself to touch him.
Becky rolled slowly off her knees to a sitting position on the bed. She stared at her hand till her stomach started to retch again and she had to look away. That was when she saw the knife. It was lying on the pale peach rug at her side of the bed, the thick rug she liked so well on winter mornings when this huge stone house could be chilly as a tomb. The pale rug fibers bore the same stains that marked her hand and arm.
Becky leaned over to see the knife more clearly. The blade was long, and the wooden handle showed a distinct palm print in crimson. She stared at that palm print for a moment, then down at her own hand while thoughts formed themselves in her head, like titles on a movie screen. The words were stark black on a white background as her mind snapped with a jarring jolt from its shocked state into sudden alertness. She realized then, with undeniable certainty, that the print on that knife was hers.
“My God,” she blurted out loud. “I killed him.”
The sound of her voice lurched her to an even sharper level of alertness, and she knew at once that what she’d said wasn’t true. She’d gone to sleep alone last night, and she hadn’t awakened till a moment ago when her idyllic dream of infatuation ended and this horrible nightmare began. Her next thought was even clearer. If she hadn’t killed Morty, then she was being set up to make it look as if she did. The pieces fell together into what might have been a paranoid conspiracy theory if she hadn’t suddenly been so sure it was true.
She’d had an argument with Morty just the other day about letting her borrow on her trust fund because she’d overspent her allowance. They’d had that same argument at least a hundred times before. This time, however, they happened to be outside the pool house with several people listening in. Becky had even said Morty made her so exasperated that sometimes she wanted to kill him. That, along with the generally reckless way she lived her life these days, added up to pegging Becky as number one suspect.
She sighed what was nearly a sob and nodded her head. Somebody was setting her up, all right. She even knew what their motive would be. Her full inheritance was coming to her in a few months when she turned twenty-five. With Morty no longer around to protect her legal interests and with her out of the way in prison or on death row, a lot of people were destined to make out like bandits. Especially one person, who was crazy enough to think up a deal like this one and maybe smart enough to carry it out, too. But there was no time to think about her brother Samuel now. She had to get herself out of this mess.
Becky swung her feet over the side of the bed and stood up slowly. She was dizzy, and her legs quivered under her. She was also standing very near the knife blade. She suppressed the urge to leap away in disgust. She had to steady herself all over. If she didn’t think straight now, she could spend the rest of her life, however short a duration that might be, paying for it. She had to depend on herself now, not even her fantasy Nick could help her. He was an ex-cop, after all. He’d look at this room and her and come to one conclusion, that she was guilty as sin. He’d think she’d lured Morty to her bed then murdered him. Becky was definitely on her own with no more time for daydreams.
She needed a plan, a plan for her escape. From that morning on, Rebecca Radley Lester and the life she’d known would have to be history. As she walked shakily across the carpet to her bathroom to wash the blood from her hands, Becky could already feel the emptiness of loss widening inside her—the loss of her home, her friends, her identity, and of Nick Avery, too.
Chapter One
Five years later
Delia Marie Barry enjoyed Christmas in Manhattan. Everybody was always in a hurry here, but at this time of year there was a happy, expectant quality to their haste. When she let herself be swept along by the crowd on Fifth Avenue, the lightness of her feet lifted the weight from the part of her that had been heavyhearted for the past five years. She could almost believe she was a normal person again, with a family to buy gifts for and a full life awaiting her at home. The images that haunted her dreams were replaced for the moment by the red, green, and gold of the season. She opened up her usually carefully guarded self and let in the bright storefronts and the glitter of moving display windows populated by bustling elves and sky-treading reindeer. She let herself believe she was a child again and Santa would be coming very soon.
In Delia’s five years as a New Yorker, she hadn’t seen many white Christmases, though the cold was certainly sharp here in winter. This was one of those frigid days. She was glad she’d worn her long, heavy coat, the one that made her look like a version of King Wenceslas. She held the hem closed to shield her ankles against the wind, knifing down Fifth Avenue as a reminder that December was in full tilt and Christmas only days away. Still, this wasn’t the winter she’d once known, roaring off the Rocky Mountains onto the Colorado plateau, burying the world in deep white as pure as the holiday promise of a new beginning each year.
Delia ducked her head and told herself the sudden stinging in her eyes was from the wind. That was the trouble with the holidays. They made her remember, and memory was not her friend. She was an Easterner now, with her previous history submerged beneath an avalanche of necessity. She kept that moun
tain of subterfuge intact every day. Her safety, her very life, depended on maintaining her new persona. She even felt like she actually was that creation now, a native of this revved-up, fast paced, snapped-to-attention city she’d adopted as protective camouflage.
Even so, something of the tourist remained beneath her carefully constructed urbanite facade, along with the yearning to be as ordinary as all of these bustling people with their over-full shopping bags and long lists of places to go and things to do. It was those not quite submerged remnants of her former self that pushed Delia through the revolving door into Saks Fifth Avenue on the tide of the lunch hour rush. The first floor of Saks at holiday time was a sight to behold, with the most beautiful treasures of all civilization—silks and scents, jewels and twinkling crystal, luxuriant lotions and perfumes from Paris—in glorious array as if before a queen. Suddenly, if only for a single reckless instant, she was Becky Lester again with a bank account that could circle the globe and her own long list of people to find gifts for.
At the first jewelry counter, she pushed herself out of the streaming aisle of shoppers, drawn by the sparkle of precious gems like a chilled wanderer to fire. She’d accumulated high-ticket baubles like these herself in that other life, filled a safe full of velvet-lined trays with them. Then, they’d been a form of security, the diamond-hard proof that she had some value in the world. They’d turned out to be another kind of security, even salvation, when that world came crashing down on her one terrifying morning five years ago. She’d fled with what she could carry, a change of clothes and the contents of those velvet-lined trays dumped into a gym bag.