The Bodyguard's Promise. Carla CassidyЧитать онлайн книгу.
By the time Gracie was two, Libby had committed herself to seeing that Gracie had all the opportunities, all the avenues to reach her dreams that Libby hadn’t had.
Yes, the handsome cowboy might be easy on the eyes, but there was something about him that set her on edge. She hoped that once he read the letters Gracie had received, he’d come to the same conclusion that she had; that there was no clear danger and Charlie had overreacted.
If that happened, then Clay West would go home and leave Libby alone, as she’d been for most of her life and planned to remain.
Clay glanced at his watch as he headed back down the stairs in search of the sunroom. Five-fifteen. His stomach rumbled and he wondered when he’d get an opportunity to eat something. It had been a long time since he’d had breakfast and there had been no time for lunch.
She’d said the sunroom was off the living room, but before going there he wandered around to get a feel for the lay of the house. As he walked the lower floor, once again he was surprised by the opulence, the luxury of the place.
Little Gracie Bryant must be doing quite well. He wondered how many people she was supporting at the tender age of eight. He’d heard the horror stories of these poor kids who supported family and staff at an age when their only worry should be that rain might keep their play indoors instead of outside.
Not my business, he reminded himself. He was here to do a job, not to make judgments about the lifestyle of the rich and famous.
He stepped into a glass-enclosed room with white rattan furniture and a plethora of plants. Surely this was the sunroom. He sat on one of the chairs at a glass-topped table and glanced at his watch once again. It had taken him six minutes to get to this room. She should be here at any minute.
Leaning back in the chair, he cast his gaze outside onto the lush lawn and gardens. This would be a peaceful place to sit and ponder. As he waited, what he found himself pondering was Libby Bryant.
The woman was hot to look at, but he’d sensed a cold core inside her. She was probably going to be a bitch to work with, but he’d survive the ordeal.
Clay was accustomed to dysfunctional people. In his line of work as a bodyguard he’d pretty much seen it all. He’d seen the best and worst that the human race had to offer. Nothing Libby Bryant could do would surprise him.
He glanced at his watch again and frowned. It had been twelve minutes since they’d agreed to meet in ten. At that moment, he heard footsteps approaching. But it wasn’t Libby, rather it was a uniformed maid.
She smiled, a cool, professional gesture. “Ms. Libby wondered if you’d like something cold to drink while you wait for her.”
“A glass of iced tea would be nice,” he replied, wondering how long Ms. Libby intended to keep him waiting.
The maid nodded and disappeared, only to return a moment later with a tall glass of tea and several wedges of lemon. “Would you care for anything else, Mr. West?” she asked.
Yes, I’d like you to tell Ms. Libby to get her ass down here. “No thanks, I’m fine,” he replied.
The maid left him alone and he took a sip of the tea, frowning once again. There was nothing Clay hated more than to be kept waiting. He believed in punctuality and thought tardiness to be the height of rudeness.
In Libby Bryant’s case, he had a feeling it might be a control issue. By being late she was subtly maintaining control of him and the situation. Definitely a ball-buster, he thought.
Ten minutes later she entered the sunroom. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” she said, although no apology rang in her tone. “I had to chase down Maddie Walker, Gracie’s secretary, to get the letters from her.”
She’d changed clothes. Gone was the bathing suit and cover-up, replaced by navy slacks and a navy- and royal-blue blouse that intensified the color of her eyes. Her hair was loose, falling below her shoulders in shiny waves. Instead of smelling like chlorine and coconuts, the fragrance that wafted from her smelled expensive.
She sat in the chair opposite him and stared down at the bundle of letters she clutched in her hands. “These are copies of the letters. I gave the originals to the private investigator I hired. I’m hoping you’ll read these and realize that Gracie’s agent has overreacted and there is no danger.” When she looked up at him there was absolutely no emotion shining from her eyes.
She pushed the letters across the table toward him, then leaned back and stared out the window over his shoulder. “How many people handled the originals?” he asked.
Her gaze shot to him and a little frown marred the flawless skin of her brow. “I don’t know. The mail carrier, Gracie’s secretary, her agent, me…” Her voice trailed off.
With all those people handling the letters, it was doubtful that the investigator could lift any usable prints. He reached for the first envelope and noted the post date: May 15th. Almost two months ago.
He pulled out the letter and quickly scanned it.
Dear Gracie,
I think you should get out of show business. You think you’re cute, but you’re not. You think you’re a little princess, but you’re nothing. You might fool some people but you don’t fool me. You’re a talentless piece of nothing.
It was signed, “Not A Fan.”
There’d been a total of eight letters sent over the course of the past two months. What concerned Clay was that each seemed to be an escalation of emotion, culminating in the last letter.
Dear Gracie,
Why don’t you just die, you little bitch?
It wasn’t just the words, a growing anger showed in the handwriting itself. The first letter was neatly written in block letters. The last letter was still in block letters but sloppy and the pen pressed so hard in places it appeared from the copy as if the paper had ripped.
Rage.
He looked at Libby. “I don’t think Gracie’s agent overreacted. If Gracie were my daughter, I’d be more than a little concerned about these letters.”
She held his gaze for a long moment and in the depth of her eyes he saw a flicker of emotion for the first time. An edge of fear. A whisper of vulnerability. So, the woman had an Achilles’ heel, and it was her daughter, apparently.
She swept a hand through her hair, causing it to ripple across her shoulder. “So what do we do now?” she asked, then cleared her throat as if swallowing a lump.
“We keep your daughter safe,” he replied. For the first time since he’d arrived he felt as if he had her full, undivided attention. “What I’ll need from you is Gracie’s daily schedule.”
“Done.”
“I also need you to make a list of all the people who surround her.”
She frowned again. “That’s going to be quite a list. Gracie is in the middle of filming a movie. Her schedule is hectic and there’s no way I can list everyone who works on the movie set.”
“Do the best you can,” he replied. “I want teachers, staff, along with everyone she interacts with outside the house. From now until we decide the threat has passed, she won’t go anywhere without me.”
Libby’s frown deepened and she tapped perfectly manicured fingernails on top of the glass table. “This is going to get complicated. We’re in negotiations for her next movie role. It’s important that the press doesn’t get hold of this, that nobody knows we’re worried about Gracie’s safety.”
“Unfortunately there’s no way I can be inconspicuous,” he said. God forbid they screw up Gracie’s next movie deal,