Glass Slipper Bride

The system was hamstrung by minutiae and overburdened by the sheer volume of similar cases. The average policeman’s hands were literally tied by what seemed to Zach to be nonsensical laws and the unscrupulousness of the criminal population. Law enforcement was an honorable profession, one embraced wholeheartedly by his family, but Serena’s loss had convinced him that he could do more by working the system from the outside than the inside, and he had done a lot of good since then. He admitted that without vanity or ego. It was the balm that made old pains bearable.

So why did he recoil from this case? Jillian Waltham wasn’t even the target. He probably wouldn’t even see her again. Even if he found cause for concern and took the case, he would be protecting Camille Waltham, not her sister—and for pay. Talking news heads tended to make good money, even if they were only local. So it was settled, not that it had been in question, really. He would stop by Camille Waltham’s neighborhood and see what she had to say about this broken window and her former boyfriend. If he did take the case, he’d be dealing with Camille. It should be simple enough to stay clear of Jillian’s path.

It occurred to him that the whole thing might be blown out of proportion by a nervous sister; Jillian had said that Camille considered the broken window an accident. He’d reserve judgment until he’d heard the whole story. Then, even if Camille did need and want his services, he could see no reason for Jillian to be overly involved.

He felt slightly foolish now. Talk about overreacting! He pictured Jillian Waltham’s pixie face behind those big, clunky glasses and laughed at himself. What was he thinking? She was nothing like Serena, really, and she wasn’t the target, so he wouldn’t have to see her even if he did take the case.

He began to unpack the lunch sack, his stomach growling in anticipation of the treat to come. With Jillian Waltham and her arresting eyes tucked firmly out of mind, he leaned back, propped his feet and dug in.

When she opened the door and smiled at him, his stomach dropped. The baggy khaki shorts and oversized red camp shirt were not much improvement over that awful deli uniform, and yet she had definitely improved somehow.

“Jillian. I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, trying not to study her too closely.

“No? Didn’t I tell you that I live here?”

He shook his head. “I thought your sister lived here.”

“She does. It’s her house. She took me in after my parents died.”

Great, he thought. Now how do I keep you out of this? He lifted a hand to the back of his neck. She stepped back and pushed the door open wider.

“Come on in and have a seat.”

He could think of no way to refuse and gingerly stepped past her into a cool gold-and-white entry hall with a twelve-foot ceiling and an impressive glass-and-brass light fixture that looked as though it belonged in an ultramodern office building. He followed Jillian down the hall and through a wide doorway on the right. The formal living room was done in shades of white, cream and pale green. It had an unused air about it. She waved him down onto a pristine sofa covered in cream-colored linen and decorated with pale-green fringe before opening a cabinet in one corner, revealing a small bar.

“What can I get you to drink?”

“Nothing, thanks. I’m not much for alcohol.”

“Me, neither,” she said, opening the door of a tiny refrigerator to reveal rows of canned colas. “But I do like a jolt of cold caffeine on a hot evening.”

“In that case, I’ll have what you’re having.”

She removed two cold cans and popped the tops. “Want a glass?”

“Nope.”

She carried the colas over to the couch and sat down, offering one to him. He took it carefully, avoiding contact with her fingers.

“Thanks.”

“No problem,” she said. “You’re easy. I don’t even have to wash a glass.”

“Stays colder in the can,” he said, taking a sip.

She nodded and pushed her glasses up on her nose. “Camille’s not here right now, but she’ll be along in just a minute. The TV station’s got her going out to some charity gala tonight, so she had to get a dress.”

He filed that away for future reference and turned the conversation to a subject that had been bothering him since she’d mentioned it. “You said that she took you in after your parents died.”

Jillian nodded. “That’s right. My mom and dad were killed in a boating accident when I was eleven. Camille was only seventeen, but she insisted her mother take me in.”

“I thought Camille was your sister.”

“She is. My half sister, anyway. We had the same father but different mothers.”

“I see.”

Jillian nodded and curled one long leg up beneath the other. Her feet were bare, and he couldn’t help noticing that they were long and slender with high arches, her second toe longer than the first, the nails oval and neatly trimmed. He wondered irrationally if she would appreciate a good foot rub as much as Serena had after a long photo shoot. To block that train of thought, he searched for something else to say and came up with, “It must seem like you’re full sisters if Camille’s mother raised you from the age of eleven.”

“She didn’t,” Jillian said, then she seemed surprised that she’d said it. “I mean, Camille was more a second mother to me than Gerry—that is, Geraldine.” She grimaced and went on. “Don’t misunderstand me. Gerry’s been great. It’s just that my father left her for my mother, who was his secretary at the time, so naturally she doesn’t look on me as another daughter, just her daughter’s half sister.”

Zach lifted a brow at that. “Must’ve been awkward, living with your father’s ex-wife.”

She shrugged. “We’ve gotten used to it over the years.”

“You mean you all still live together?”

“That’s right. Only it’s Camille’s house now. After Gerry’s last husband died she moved in with us.” Jillian leaned forward then and confessed, “There have been three—husbands, I mean—including my father, who was number one.” She sat back. “Anyway, it’s a big house.”

Her background sure made his look pedestrian. His own parents had been married thirty-six years and currently divided their time between Montana in the summer and Texas in the winter. With one older and one younger brother, both married and settled, both cops like their father, he was the closest thing to a black sheep in the Keller family. Even among all the aunts, uncles and cousins there had been few divorces and fewer deaths. He sipped more cola and thought of another question to keep the conversation going.

“Don’t you have any other family?”

Jillian shrugged. “I have an aunt by marriage and a couple of cousins in Wisconsin. My uncle was still living when my father died, but he was disabled, so my aunt really couldn’t take on anything else. My mother was an only child born late and unexpectedly in her parents’ lives. I don’t even remember them. If not for Camille, I’d have been fostered somewhere or sent to an orphanage.”

“So she’s really all you have,” he commented softly.

Jillian nodded. “And I can’t let anything happen to her.”

Just then a door slammed somewhere in the back of the house. Voices and footsteps could be faintly heard, then a shout. “Jilly!”

Jillian got up and went into the hall. “We’re in the living room, Camille.”

“We?”

“Zachary Keller and I.”

A long silence followed and then someone shouted, “Bring him into the bedroom.”

The bedroom? Jillian glanced at Zach and shrugged apologetically. “She’s awfully busy, and she does have this public evening out.”

He got up. “Maybe I should come back another time.”

“Oh, no!” She rushed toward him. “Please at least talk to her.”

He wanted to say no, but he couldn’t quite look into those huge, worried eyes and manage it. He nodded. “If you’re sure she has the time.” He took a long drink of the cola and handed it to her. She carried the half-filled can to the bar and left it on the marble countertop.

“Follow me.”

She hurried out of the room on her slender, bare feet. He took a deep breath and trailed her across the hall and through a formal dining room, glimpsing a kind of den on the way, and out the other hall into a smallish but well-appointed kitchen, which opened onto yet another hall, where she turned right. She went down the hallway to the end and led him through an open door—into utter chaos.

He got a fleeting impression of lavender and pale green, formal draperies, graceful furnishings and plush white carpet, before the frenetic motion of several bodies moving at once enveloped him. A tall, rawboned woman with ink-black hair scraped into a sophisticated roll on the back of her head swept past him toward the bed, trailing a garment on a hanger. A small man with a gray ponytail trotted by carrying a large white leather case, a rat-tail comb stuck into the clump of hair at his nape. A petite, middle-aged blonde with beauty-shop hair and skin that looked as though it had been stretched too tautly against her skull swayed past in an expensive pink suit, barking orders to the room at large.

“Be careful with those silk stockings,” she was saying. “Someone get the beaded handbag and the blue satin shoes. I’ll get the sapphires myself.”

“Did anyone order flowers?” a man wanted to know. “I was told it was taken care of.”

Zach turned his head to find a man in a tuxedo sitting in an armchair beside the bed, calmly thumbing through a magazine.

“I have the flowers,” a female said, coming into the room behind Zach, “and the makeup base.”

“Thank God!” the man with the ponytail exclaimed, practically bowling over Zach in his hurry to take the small bottle of cosmetics from the blue-jeaned newcomer who brushed past them both. The tuxedo didn’t even bother to look up from his magazine.

“Shall I return the rest or keep them on consignment?” the tall woman wanted to know.

“Consignment,” said the middle-aged blonde, carrying a pair of shoes in one hand and a sapphire necklace draped over the other.

“I wish we had time to wash this mess,” the ponytail complained, yanking free the comb.

“Anyone know when the limo arrives?” asked the tuxedo disinterestedly.

Jillian cupped her hands around her mouth. “Camille?”

The pink blonde turned on her. “Do you have to shout, Jilly? Can’t you see your sister’s busy?”

Jillian ignored her. “Camille?”

“I’m not a miracle worker, you know,” the ponytail said, furiously back-combing someone’s hair.

“I could use a cold drink.” said the tuxedo.

“I’ll get it,” said blue jeans, “as soon as I find the evening bag.”

“Camille,?” Jillian said once more above the general hubbub.

They all ignored her, even the pink blonde, who was busy laying out the sapphire necklace and a pair of matching earrings on the bed. Zachary had had enough. He put two fingers into his mouth and let loose a long, shrill whistle that brought the whole room to an instant stop.

He looked from face to face and failed to find what he was looking for. “I have an appointment with Camille Waltham,” he announced in a tone that commanded not only attention but obedience. “Where is she?”

Bodies shifted and drifted, clearing a path through the center of the room. There in front of the massive, multipaned windows stood a small French-provincial dressing table and before it on a tufted stool sat a dainty, fragile woman with the features of a porcelain figurine and vivid blue eyes. Even ratted wildly, her long golden-blond hair made a gleaming halo around her angelic face. She was smaller than he’d imagined and appeared surprisingly vulnerable in a royal-blue silk robe that seemed much too large for her. She looked him over, head to toe, with her calm, vibrant eyes, and then she smiled welcomingly.

His stomach turned over. He glanced almost guiltily at Jillian, who had pushed her glasses up on top of her head, and the very same smile as that aimed at him from across the room curved her mouth.

Double trouble, he thought with ominous confidence—and wondered if it was too late to run.

Chapter Two

Camille Waltham rose regally From the velvet tuft, her dainty feet encased in ridiculously elegant silk slippers with bows on the toes. She smoothed down her wild hair with both hands, then planted her hands at her slender hips and lifted her chin, blue eyes glittering as they held his. Something hovered about her cupid’s bow mouth, held at bay by sheer determination. Then she abruptly switched her gaze to his left, targeting Jillian, suddenly imperious.

“You said he was good. You didn’t say he was good looking.”

The unctuous tone of her voice soured in the pit of Zach’s stomach, raising distaste and instant dislike. Good-looking? Was he supposed to be flattered? Even knowing that somehow he would have been, had the comment come from anyone else, didn’t make him like the woman any better. Jillian, at least, seemed to realize that her sister’s behavior was tasteless. She attempted to normalize the situation by rushing into introductions.

“Zachary Keller, I’d like you to meet my sister, Camille Waltham. Camille, this is Mr. Keller.”

Camille at first appeared piqued; then abruptly she floated across the room and offered a small, perfect hand, her gaze measuring him with the efficiency of a laser beam. He wondered if she meant for him to kiss it. Instead, he gave it a brief squeeze and dropped it like a hot potato. Something indecipherable flashed across her face and was quickly replaced by hauteur. She addressed herself to Jillian once again.

“I suppose he would be an acceptable bodyguard.” She turned away and floated back toward the dressing table. Casting a coy look over one shoulder, she added, “He’d have to pose as a suitor, of course, a love interest, a boyfriend.”

Jillian glanced an apology in his direction and opened her mouth, but he beat her to the reply.

“No way. Out of the question.”

Camille Waltham turned back to him almost petulantly. “Oh? And why is that?”

“Because I have a few ironclad rules concerning my business,” he told her, folding his hands and widening his stance, “and number one is that I don’t get involved—or pretend to be involved—romantically with my clients. Period.”

She lifted her chin. “I don’t see why—”

“It tends to aggravate the problem, especially in partner abuse cases. Otherwise, it’s just bad policy.”

She inclined her head. “Surely you can make exceptions for high-profile—”

“No exceptions,” he interrupted flatly. “The bottom line is this. If I’m going to help you, you’re going to have to do things my way.”

“And if I don’t?” she challenged mildly.

He shrugged. “I’m the professional here, so I give the orders. If that doesn’t work for you, find somebody else to take care of your stalker.”

Camille shot a glance at Jillian, then suddenly dropped onto the tuft in front of her dressing table. “Who says I’m being stalked?”

Jillian stepped forward once more, worriedly glancing in Zach’s direction. “Camille, you have to take this seriously. You know how Janzen is. He won’t just go away, because that’s exactly what you want him to do.”

“And whose fault is that?” the blonde in pink snapped.

Camille turned a resentful glare on the woman, then seemed to subside, leaning an elbow on the edge of the table. “What do you recommend?” she asked reluctantly.

Zach assumed the question was meant for him.

“For starters,” he said, “I recommend you send the flunkies out for coffee and give me a few minutes of your undivided attention. Now.”

For a moment he thought, hoped, she would refuse, but then she jerked one hand and the majority of the room’s occupants tried to beat one another to the door. Only two remained, Jillian and the blonde in pink. He turned a pointed glare on the blonde, who drew herself up sternly then ruined the effect by sniping pettily at Jillian, “If she can stay, so can L”

“They both stay,” said Camille. sounding bored. “Jillian, as you know, is my sister, and this is my mother, Gerry.” She waved a hand at the pink suit.

“That’s ‘Geraldine,’” the blonde in pink said, “Geraldine Hunsell Baker.”

“Actually, that’s Geraldine Porter Waltham Hunsell Baker,” Camille said slyly.

Zach made no acknowledgment of the litany of names, not even the two socially prominent ones. Instead, he removed a small notebook and an ink pen from his jacket pocket and prepared to take notes. “All right,” he said. “Let’s have the whole story.”

Camille shrugged and began applying makeup with tiny sponges as she talked, explaining how she had met, dated and eventually become engaged to a once successful but now-unemployed advertising executive named Janzen Eibersen, whom she had allowed to move in with her. According to her, Eibersen had at first seemed to actually enjoy the “public socializing” that, again according to her, was part of her career. Gradually, however, it became obvious that Janzen had a drinking problem, and he began embarrassing her. They argued, and he drank more. Absenteeism became a problem on his job, and he was eventually fired. When she broke up with him and threw him out the house, he blamed her with all his problems and vowed that “she wouldn’t get away with it.”

His “punishment” of her began with repeated phone calls and letters that were returned or destroyed unopened. He had even called her boss to complain that she was trying to control and ruin his life. His latest effort was an act of vandalism that had resulted in a broken window, a sure sign of growing desperation, even though Camille sniggered that it had to have been an accident because Janzen would never risk injuring himself to make a point She had no idea where to locate Eibersen and had met only a few of his friends. She believed that he would grow tired of the game when he saw that he was not affecting her noticeably and just go away, but for Jillian’s sake, she was willing to take the situation more seriously. Jillian, for her part, stood mutely with her arms wrapped around her middle as if holding in something that she desperately wanted to say.

Zach was uncertain what to think, really. Was Janzen dangerous or merely irritating? Had Jillian overreacted, or was Camille downplaying the seriousness of the situation? He knew only one thing for certain: it made no sense to take chances. If Camille was right, she’d have spent some money—which she obviously could afford—for no definite reason. If she was wrong, spending that money on her own security would be the best investment she ever made.

“I’ll want to see that window before I go,” he said, “but right now I have a few questions.”

She waved a hand as if granting him permission to ask what he would while she applied lipstick with a brush.

He tamped down his irritation and focused. “Has this Eibersen ever hit you?”

She considered her reflection in the mirror for a moment, smacked her lips and said, “Not intentionally.”

Jillian made a slight movement that he caught with the corner of his eye. Turning his head, he lifted a brow, inviting her to speak. She did so as if explaining for her sister was something she did every day. “Janzen was drunk. He took a swing at Plato, missed and clipped Camille on the chin.”

“She could hardly speak for a week,” Geraldine said, as though it were somehow Jillian’s fault.

“And never missed a newscast,” Camille said, batting her eyelashes as she brushed mascara into them.

Zach asked, “Who’s Plato?”

“Camille’s hairdresser,” Jillian answered.

“The gray ponytail? What’d Eibersen have against him?”

Camille capped the mascara and tossed it away. “Jan liked my full attention,” she said, giving her full attention to her reflection in the small lit mirror standing atop the dressing table.

Zach could just see a drunken Janzen trying to talk lucidly with a preoccupied Camille while the hairdresser fluttered around her ratting her hair until it filled the room. He could almost feel sorry for the guy, but that didn’t mean he could overlook the fact that Eibersen had thrown that punch. He sighed. “Any other episodes of violence?”

Camille picked up a hairbrush and began dragging it through her shoulder-length hair, smoothing and caressing. Jillian said, “He used to throw things, stomp around yelling and screaming.”

“He threw a bowl of caviar on the kitchen floor,” Geraldine said, no doubt considering it proof of insanity. “A crystal bowl.”

“He drove his car up onto the sidewalk, knocked over some potted trees and crashed right into the barrier in front of the TV station,” Jillian said quietly. “I was at the reception desk. I thought he was going to come right through the glass into the building.”

No doubt about it, the guy definitely had a screw loose. Zach finished scribbling in his notebook, flipped it closed and dropped it into his pocket. “Okay. Here’s the deal. I’ve heard enough to believe he can be dangerous, and you’re a public personality, Ms. Waltham, which makes you even easier to get at than the average individual. So I propose we bring in a couple of subcontractors to keep an eye on you.”

She turned away from the mirror then. “I can’t have a couple of goons trailing me everywhere I go. What would people think?”

Zach just barely curbed the urge to roll his eyes. “I don’t use ‘goons,’ as you put it. These men are professionals. They can keep a discreet distance. It won’t be enough to completely protect you, so you’ll have to be on your guard.”

Camille turned back to the mirror, her reflection laughing at him. “For Pete’s sake. Keller, all I want you to do is stop the man from bothering me. He’s not trying to kill anybody.”

“Not yet,” Zach said. “But who can say he won’t cross that line if he gets frustrated enough.”

She had coaxed her hair into a sleek flip. She smoothed it now with her hands, turning her head this way and that “Jan was born frustrated,” she said in a bored tone, “but he’s not stupid. He won’t do anything in front of witnesses, and since I’m never without an escort in public, I don’t see what the problem is.”

Zach felt an instant of relief. He could just turn around and walk out now. He’d given her his take on the problem, and she’d rejected it. Nothing was keeping him here now—except a pair of big, sky-soft eyes clouded with worry. It occurred to him that if he washed his hands of Camille Waltham right here and now he could ask her sister out on a proper date, and just the thought of that kind of freedom scared him right back into Camille Waltham’s corner.

“Is that tuxedo in there an example of the kind of escort you take out in public with you?” he demanded.

It was Geraldine who came to the man’s defense. “And just what’s wrong with my ex-stepson?” she asked in a mystified tone.

Zach smirked. “I’m sure he’s from the very best of families, ma’am, but I doubt he could disarm a cranky toddler with a sucker, let alone a drunk with a grudge and a gun.”

The color bled right out of her face. “We don’t know that Jan has a gun,” she said weakly.

“We don’t know that he doesn’t.”

He gave that a few seconds to sink in before he went on, addressing himself to Camille this time. “Maybe we can compromise with protection in public only, provided you follow my instructions.”

“Listen to him, Camille,” Jillian pleaded softly. “Please.”

Camille rolled her eyes. “Oh, all right, if you’re that scared of the harmless loser, I’ll let the big, bad expert handle it.”

Jillian seemed relieved, but Zach frowned. He didn’t like being put down by a stuck-up little broad with more hair than sense, but he really didn’t like watching her put down the sister who was so obviously concerned for her. Still, their interpersonal relationships were no business of his. His business was protecting the little witch, and he got down to it without further ado.

“Starting tomorrow,” he said, “I’ll want a list of your public appearances so I can have someone on hand to protect you. I’ll need a photo of Eibersen to show them.”