“Yes, I know. You told me. Except the man who recommended you seems to have disappeared. So…I’m not exactly sure anymore why you’re here, Mr. Sellers.”

“I’m here because I’m being paid to do a job—”

“And did that job involve trying to get me into bed?” she asked softly. “Or was that just some sort of…extra compensation you thought up all on your own?”

“No,” Grey said seriously. “I don’t have any hidden agenda where you’re concerned.…”

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

You wanted MORE MEN OF MYSTERY by Gayle Wilson—now you’ve got ’em! Gayle’s stories about these sexy undercover agents have become one of Harlequin Intrigue’s most popular ongoing series. We are as impressed by her outstanding talent as you, her readers, and are thrilled to feature her special brand of drama again in Her Private Bodyguard (#561). Look for two MORE titles in August and November 2000.

Also available this month, Protecting His Own (#562) by Molly Rice, an emotional story about the sanctity of family and a man’s basic need to claim what’s his.

There’s no more stronger bond than that of blood. And Chance Quarrels is determined to see no harm come to the little daughter he never knew he had as Patricia Rosemoor continues her SONS OF SILVER SPRINGS miniseries with The Lone Wolf’s Child (#563).

Finally, veteran Harlequin Intrigue author Carly Bishop takes you to a cloistered Montana community with a woman and an undercover cop posing as husband and wife. The threat from a killer is real, but so is their simmering passion. Which one is more dangerous…? Find out in No Bride But His (#564), a LOVERS UNDER COVER story.

Pick up all four for variety, for excitement—because you’re ready for a thrill!

Sincerely,

Denise O’Sullivan

Associate Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue

Her Private Bodyguard

Gayle Wilson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gayle Wilson is the award-winning author of twenty novels written for Harlequin. She has lived in Alabama all her life except for the years she followed her army aviator husband—whom she met on a blind date—to a variety of military posts.

Before beginning her writing career, she taught English and world history to gifted high school students in a number of schools around the Birmingham area. Gayle and her husband have one son, who is also a teacher of gifted students. They are blessed with warm and loving Southern families and an ever-growing menagerie of cats and dogs.

You can write to Gayle at P.O. Box 3277, Hueytown, Alabama 35023.

Books by Gayle Wilson

HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

344—ECHOES IN THE DARK

376—ONLY A WHISPER

414—THE REDEMPTION OF DEKE SUMMERS

442—HEART OF THE NIGHT

461—RANSOM MY HEART*

466—WHISPER MY LOVE*

469—REMEMBER MY TOUCH*

490—NEVER LET HER GO

509—THE BRIDE’S PROTECTOR‡

513—THE STRANGER SHE KNEW‡

517—HER BABY, HIS SECRET‡

541—EACH PRECIOUS HOUR†

561—HER PRIVATE BODYGUARD‡

HARLEQUIN HISTORICALS

211—THE HEART’S DESIRE♥

263—THE HEART’S WAGER♥

299—THE GAMBLER’S HEART♥

349—RAVEN’S VOW

393—HIS SECRET DUCHESS

432—HONOR’S BRIDE

483—LADY SARAH’S SON

FOR YOUR EYES ONLY

CIA

AGENT PROFILE

NAME: GREY SELLERS DATE OF BIRTH: November 9, 1961 ASSIGNED TEAM: EXTERNAL SECURITY SPECIAL SKILLS: Adapts to any situation or setting, expert marksman, rated in fixed-and rotary-wing aircraft, fluent in Russian. AGENT EVALUATION: Strong sense of honor, loyalty and commitment to his former team. Despite a tough exterior, he hides a tender heart. STATUS: Identity erased CURRENT ADDRESS: Unknown…

FOR YOUR EYES ONLY

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Valerie Beaufort—Val had never wanted any part of the millions her father’s company generated. Now she was stuck with the money and all that went along with it, including a private bodyguard. And someone who had murder on their mind.

Grey Sellers—The ex-CIA agent had left the agency and the External Security Team because of a mistake that had resulted in a good man’s death. He never again wanted to be in a position where someone else’s life depended on him. But now he was falling in love with the woman he had been charged with protecting.

Billy Clemens—Clemens would become the majority owner of Av-Tech Aeronautics if something happened to Valerie. With the millions involved, wasn’t that a good enough motive for murder?

Porter Johnson—Porter had known Valerie all her life and had treated her like a daughter when she had lost her own father. Could he really be involved in what was going on?

Harper Springfield—Another of her father’s partners, Harp had as much to gain by Valerie’s death as any of the others.

Emory Hunter—Did Emory’s soft Southern accent and courtly manner hide a murderer?

Autry Carmichael—The head of Av-Tech security formed his own theory of what was going on out at Valerie’s ranch as soon as he discovered Grey Sellers was a man without a past.

Constance Beaufort—Connie, Valerie’s stepmother, had been virtually cut out of her late husband’s will. Could she be angry enough to kill?

For all the girls who post in my folder

(and for all you lurkers, too).

You are the best!

This one’s for you!

Contents

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

Epilogue

Prologue

A hell of a way to acquire a few hundred million dollars, Valerie Beaufort thought, looking down on her father’s flower-draped coffin. And she would have given all of it, of course, not to be standing here. They were his millions. Money she had never wanted. And didn’t want any part of now.

“If there’s anything we can do, Valerie, dear,” Porter Johnson said, taking her hand and patting it gently, “you let us know. You know Betsy and I love you like our own daughters.”

Porter’s touch brought Val out of her heartsick reverie and made her realize that the brief graveside service was over. The people who had gathered around the final resting place of Charles Valentine Beaufort were already beginning to stream back to their cars, parked haphazardly along the edges of the vast cemetery.

She supposed she should have listened to whatever the minister had had to say about her father, but she didn’t really need any eulogy to remind her of how he had lived his life. Or of how much she had loved him.

“There wasn’t a better man in this world than Charlie Beaufort,” Johnson said softly. “I never had a better friend.”

Touched by the quiet sincerity in his voice, Valerie leaned forward to press her lips against his cheek. His skin was as soft as old velvet, crepey with age. But then, Porter was even older than her father.

Actually, she remembered, he was the oldest of that small group of men who had founded Av-Tech Aeronautics. They had had no way of knowing then what an industry giant the tiny company they had started on a shoestring after the Korean war would become. Maybe if they had, things would have been different.

“So sorry about your daddy, honey,” Emory Hunter said, as soon as Porter and his wife moved away. Emory patted her cheek, just as he had when she was a little girl. “Charlie was a real good man. Maybe the best I’ve ever known. That should be a consolation to you, just like the size of this crowd should be.”

He indicated the hundreds of people scattered across the sweep of green lawn, centered by the tent they had set up over her father’s grave. They hadn’t lowered the casket yet. Maybe they didn’t do that until everyone was gone. She wasn’t really up on funeral etiquette, which was a good thing, she guessed.

“It is a consolation,” she agreed, finding a smile for another of her father’s partners, men she had literally known all her life. “And it helps to know he had friends like you.”

“You call me in a few days, and we’ll talk some about your old man. I know stories I bet he never told you. Probably didn’t want you to know what a hell-raiser he really was,” Emory said, laughing before his expression sobered. “It’s good to talk about folks after they’re gone. Healthy to remember the good times. It keeps them alive for us a little longer.”

Hunter had never lost his Southern accent, despite the number of years he had lived in Colorado. Since he was now in his late sixties, Val didn’t suppose he ever would.

“I will,” she said, smiling at him. “I’ll call, I promise. And thank you, Emory. Your friendship meant a lot to Dad.”

He moved away, and Valerie turned to the next person waiting for her attention. Soon the faces and the condolences started to run together. She seemed to be repeating the same phrases over and over again, her mind a million miles away, just as it had been during the service.

All she wanted to do was to get this over and go home. Get out of these clothes and into a pair of jeans. Ride out the tension that had grown into an ache between her shoulders. Get the scent of hothouse flowers out of her nostrils and the sound of all these voices and their words of comfort out of her head.

That wasn’t a lack of respect for her father. He would have been the first to agree that riding over the isolated landscape they both loved was a better idea than standing over his grave. Charlie Beaufort had loved the high desert and the mountains with a deep and abiding passion. Just as he had loved the ranch that sat in a small, sheltered valley in the middle of the tract of rugged land he’d bought more than forty years ago. He had built the main house and most of the outbuildings with his own hands.

During the past ten or fifteen years, however, when Av-Tech had really taken off, he hadn’t had time—hadn’t taken time, Val amended—to get away and visit it. When she was a little girl, they had gone out to the ranch almost every weekend. Piled in an old station wagon, her mother, father and Val would spend Friday evening driving out there, arriving long after midnight.

Some of her best memories of her father were associated with the ranch. Those were the memories she wanted to get in touch with. And those were the years she wanted to remember.

“Val, honey, if you’ve got a minute…” Harper Springfield whispered in her ear. “While they’re finishing up here…” Hand firmly on her elbow, Harp, another of Av-Tech’s founders, applied pressure to direct her away from the grave, where people were still waiting in line to speak to her and her stepmother.

Constance Beaufort’s perfectly coifed blond hair and beautiful features were covered by a sheer black veil, her slender figure clothed in a black designer suit, black hose and black kid pumps. There wasn’t a spot of color or a piece of jewelry, except for her gold wedding ring, of course, to spoil the image Connie was aiming for.

The grieving widow, Val thought as she turned away. Who had been grieving in earnest when she’d learned the terms of her late husband’s will. Charlie Beaufort might have been foolish enough, Val thought regretfully, to marry a woman younger than his daughter. But thankfully, his lawyers had been smart enough to make him have her sign a prenuptial agreement.

There would be a generous settlement for Connie, plenty of money to live on, but she would get no shares of Av-Tech. And there, of course, was where Charlie Beaufort’s real wealth lay.

Only when Val managed to pull her eyes away from her stepmother’s artful performance did she realized where Harp was leading her. On a slight rise looking down on the grave site, the co-owners of her father’s company were standing in a semicircle, waiting for Harp to bring her to them.

She had thought the firmness of Springfield’s grip on her arm was an unnecessary and unwanted concern for her bad leg, but now it began to feel like some kind of strong-arm tactic. Although she would much prefer to believe the latter than the former, she couldn’t imagine why her father’s partners would think she needed to be coerced into meeting with them. Most of them had bounced her on their knees when she was a baby.

They were looking decidedly nervous, however, as she and Harp approached. Because she was now the majority owner of the company that had been their bread and butter for so many years? After all, they were of a different generation. They might have concerns about a woman directing an international company, especially one that specialized in cutting-edge missile delivery systems and the latest satellite technology.

The first thing she needed to do, Val decided, was let them know she had no intention of trying to run things. She didn’t have the expertise, even if she had wanted to. And she didn’t want to, of course. She had walked away from her father’s money more than ten years ago. She wasn’t going back to that life now. No matter what his will had said.

“We all thought we needed to talk about what happens next,” Billy Clemens said as she and Harp walked up to the group.

Trust Billy to cut to the chase, Val thought. The most outspoken of the four men who had been her father’s partners for more than forty years, Clemens was also Val’s least favorite, although she could never quite pinpoint the reason. Billy was fond of saying that with him, what you saw was what you got. He was right. Val just didn’t particularly like either.

Maybe her father hadn’t, as well, Val thought, although he had never openly expressed any disparagement of Clemens. However, if her dad had arranged for his shares to be divided among his partners at his death instead of saddling her with them, Billy would now be the majority owner, and all the responsibility that went with the position would be his instead of hers.

“What happens next?” she repeated, although she certainly knew where this was heading.

“There’s a lot of stuff going on with the company right now. A lot of contracts that have to be met, with some pretty substantial penalties involved if we don’t meet them. I’m just wondering what you’re planning to do about those.”

“I’m planning to see those contracts are fulfilled,” Val said. “And that the company doesn’t have to pay any penalties.”

“You’re going to step into your father’s shoes?” Harp Springfield asked bluntly.

“You all know as well as I do that no one can do that. Av-Tech was my father’s life. If I try to step in, I’ll botch it.”

“You’re the majority shareholder, Val,” Porter Johnson reminded her. “Somebody’s got to command the ship.”

“Are you volunteering, Porter?” she asked softly.

There was little doubt what his answer would be. Johnson was suffering from prostate cancer. He wouldn’t want the responsibility of the company. Of course, neither did she. As a matter of fact, Val doubted that any one of them, with the exception of Billy Clemens, would even consider taking over.

“You know better than that, Val,” Porter said. “Your dad was the heart and the soul of this company. The last couple of years…Well, even Charlie wasn’t able to see to everything.”

She was grateful Porter hadn’t made that sound any worse than he had. Her father’s health had been failing for a long time, and she hated to admit she hadn’t even been aware of how much. At least, not until his first stroke two years ago.

“That’s why we’re going to get someone in there who can tell us what we need to do with the company,” she said reassuringly.

“You aren’t talking about selling?” Clemens asked. “You can’t do that.”

“Right now, all I’m talking about is hiring a management consultant,” Val said. “Someone to look us over, examine the books, look at those contracts and make some suggestions. I think that’s what my father should have done when he got sick. If he had been himself, he would have.” There was a small pause, but no one challenged what she’d said, so she continued, thankful they were at least giving her the opportunity to tell them what she’d been thinking. “I’ve already asked our attorneys to locate someone with management expertise specific to our patents.”

She was a little surprised at how easily those phrases came. Our attorneys. Management expertise specific to our patents. For someone who had spent years professing to have no interest in any of this, she talked a good game. Maybe she was more her father’s daughter than she had realized.

“Your daddy didn’t believe in consultants,” Porter said.

“My daddy’s dead, Porter. And up until the last couple of years he knew exactly what he was doing as far as Av-Tech was concerned. I don’t. However, as the majority owner, I have a responsibility to the other shareholders—that’s all of you, by the way—as well as a responsibility to the people who work for us. I’m going to get some help figuring out what’s best for the company. I may not have taken an interest in all this before, but it’s my responsibility now. I am Charlie Beaufort’s daughter,” she reminded them.

“And I’m not going to let the company he loved go down the tubes,” she continued. “I want to get someone who knows what they are doing in place there as soon as possible. I hope you’ll all be willing to cooperate with him.” As her gaze circled their faces, she didn’t see anyone who looked upset by that plan. Not even Billy Clemens.

“I think your dad would have been proud, honey,” Emory said. “That makes a lot of sense to me. And frankly, it’ll be a relief to know that what we started will be in good hands.”

Now that Hunter had broken the ice, there was a polite murmur of what sounded like agreement. At least no one objected openly. It wouldn’t have mattered if they had, of course. She had the shares to do whatever she wanted. Still, it was nice not to have a mutiny on her hands over her first decision.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a long way to travel to get back home. I’d like to make it before nightfall,” she said.

She didn’t give them time to protest. She turned and retraced her steps down the rise. Her knee had begun to ache, and she was overly conscious of her limp. Of course, she always was when she knew someone was watching her.

As she passed by the tent, her stepmother was still holding court. Two of the men from the mortuary were beginning to take the flowers off the casket in preparation for lowering it into the ground. Ashes to ashes, she thought, turning her blurring eyes quickly away and examining the smoothly rolling green lawn with its dotting of trees and crosses instead.

And dust to dust. Goodbye, Daddy, her heart whispered.

Deliberately she wiped the scene from her mind, picturing him instead behind the wheel of that battered old station wagon, driving them out to the ranch for the weekend. Still young and happy, with all of life ahead of him, and her mother at his side. That was the way she wanted to remember him.

Behind her, she could hear the screech of the crank as it turned, lowering his casket into the ground, and her stepmother’s voice, exclaiming to someone about the depths of her grief.

Four days later

“BODYGUARD?” Grey Sellers asked, his deep voice rich with disbelief. “What the hell makes them think somebody would need a bodyguard in this place?”

“That’s what I’m telling you,” Joe Wallace said, easing his bulk down into the chair across the desk. “Piece of cake. I’m gonna hire somebody to make these folks happy, so why shouldn’t it be you? Take their money, pay some bills, enjoy the scenery.”

The pay-some-bills part struck the right note, Grey acknowledged, and he wondered if Wallace could know that. There were more than a few unpaid bills piled on his desk right now. What wasn’t piled there were cases.

Not that he was complaining about that, he admitted. At least, he hadn’t been until the notices of nonpayment had started arriving. The ones that began with “Dear Valued Customer” and ended by threatening legal action.

“I’m not a bodyguard,” Grey said, resisting temptation.

The flat statement wasn’t exactly a lie. He had the skills, and he’d had the training, all of it acquired at government expense. Grey had done a lot of things during the fifteen years he’d spent with the CIA. Not anything he could classify as pure bodyguarding, however. The closest he had come to that…

He blocked that memory, just as he always did. It was the thing that had driven him away from the agency and the team. Away from the only friends he had. Of course, after what he’d done, he doubted he could still consider many of them friends.

“So?” Joe asked, shrugging. “You don’t have to know what you’re doing ’cause she doesn’t really need a bodyguard. This is a paperwork deal. Somebody snatches Valerie Beaufort, and this insurer might get hit for a loss, so they got to cover their butts. Only, you and I both know nothing’s gonna happen. We’ve never had a CEO kidnapping out this way. Not that we got all that many CEOs to begin with,” Wallace added with a grin. “They must have got us mixed up with California. I’m telling you, this is a piece of cake. And somebody’s gonna get the job. Might as well be you. Easiest money you’ll ever make.”

“You know what they say about easy money,” Grey said.

He was surprised to find he was thinking about it, however. He had to admit it was tempting. Hell, anybody looking for this Beaufort woman would probably get lost before they found that ranch. From what Joe had told him, it was at the back of beyond.

He took his booted feet off his desk and put the front legs of his chair down on the floor. Then he stood up and stretched the kinks out of his back and shoulders. Too many hours spent hunched over his desk this morning, trying to figure out how to keep his investigative agency afloat.

Investigative agency, he thought wryly. He supposed that did sound better than hole-in-the-wall-surveillance-of-straying-spouses-and-insurance-fraud-con-men service.

“Not really,” Joe said. “Don’t think I ever heard that one. So whatta they say about easy money?”

Grey walked over to where the air conditioner was sluggishly churning out air that didn’t feel any cooler than that outside. He played with the controls a few seconds, and then turned around, letting the lukewarm current blow on his back. It would evaporate the moisture that was molding the soggy material of his shirt to his skin, and the chill that provided would at least give an impression of coolness.

1 2 3...5 >

На страницу:

Перейти

1 из 5

Полная версия

Her Private Bodyguard

Другие книги автора