Sharon Ashwood - Possessed by a Warrior

Not that she was going to sleep, exhausted or not. Her thoughts were caught on a carnival wheel, reeling up, down and occasionally wrong side up. How did Uncle Jack get mixed up with foreign royalty and diamond thieves? Sure, he was a man of mystery and all that, but this was—well, it was pretty out there. But he’d been murdered, so she had to snap out of the shock and focus on the facts.

Sitting cross-legged on the sea-green counterpane of the guest room’s bed, she switched on her laptop and opened her spiral-bound journal to a fresh page. If Jack was involved, it might help to reconstruct his movements for the last few months of his life. A person didn’t just happen on a royal princess’s wedding gown, especially one coated in jewels. It had crossed his path someplace—and not in this town. Lovely though it was, Wingman County was hardly James Bond territory.

Chloe handled a few of Jack’s private business affairs, so she usually knew when he went out of town. She clicked on her electronic calendar and paged back to March, when the diamonds had apparently gone missing. Nothing of interest. She paged back further.

On February 15, there was a note that Jack asked her to attend a luncheon on his behalf. He had gone to the south of France—an intriguing detail, since it was a short train ride from the Côte d’Azur to Marcari. Okay, but lots of people go to warm places that time of year. What’s to say he wasn’t just enjoying the weather?

When did he come back? She paged forward, landing in April. She’d met him in New York, at a show by the designer Jessica Lark. She was a friend of Jack’s, though Chloe didn’t know how good a friend. Jack definitely kissed, but he’d seldom told.

Jotting down the dates and places, Chloe stared at the designer’s name, remembering her brief meeting with the woman. She’d been about thirty, hauntingly beautiful and a rare talent Chloe had felt privileged to meet. They’d shaken hands, firm and businesslike. No fake little air kisses from Lark.

Recalling that night gave her the shivers. She could hear the clink of glasses, the wash of too many perfumes in the hot room. Chloe remembered the brush of Lark’s silk dress against her bare arm, Jack laughing at something she’d said.

An ache in her throat made her shut down the memory. A month later, Jessica Lark had burned to death in a fire that had destroyed her studio. Nothing—and nobody—had survived.

Of the three people in that scene, Chloe was the only one who hadn’t been murdered. Yet. What’s the connection?

The answer was obvious. Jessica Lark was—

Something thumped against her door. Cold terror snaked up her arms, sending her scurrying off the bed. The journal flopped to the floor, making her jump again. She took a breath to cry out, but it died as a chill lump blocked her throat. Memories of the attack came slamming back, pumping adrenaline through her blood. Her hands trembled.

The door had a lock, but no dead bolt. She glanced around for a weapon. Pickings were slim. This wasn’t one of the guest suites, just a spare bedroom with nice but functional furniture. No suits of armor with convenient battle-axes. No ancient rifles crisscrossed over the fireplace. Just a bed and a dresser.

She knew where Jack had kept his SIG Sauer, but that was on another floor. So why didn’t I bring that with me?

Because she wasn’t used to actually needing a loaded gun. As a rule, this sort of danger didn’t find wedding planners.

Chloe held her frozen position, suffocating with fear, for an entire, eternal minute. She heard nothing but the pounding of her pulse.

Blast! She had to know what she’d heard or she’d stare at the door for the rest of the night, wondering. Guessing. Expecting the worst.

Willing herself to move, she picked up a china shepherdess from the night table and stalked toward the door, moving as quietly as a shadow. She gripped the figure with both hands, the china slick and cold against her palms. As a weapon, it wasn’t as hopeless as it looked. Bo Peep and her lambs might be frilly, but they were plenty heavy.

Chloe pressed her ear to the door, holding her breath to listen. Silence. Tentatively, she reached for the knob, balancing Bo Peep in one hand and gripping the cool brass with the other. In one quick move, she popped the lock and pulled it open. With a quick step backward, she grabbed the statue in both hands and hoisted it into the air, ready to bludgeon an intruder.

Sam sat across the hall, his back to the wall, his long legs stretched out. He’d pulled on a plain white T-shirt. His gun rested beside him, or did in the first fraction of a second that she was opening the door. Then it was in his hand, and he was on his feet.

Her breath stuttered, relief colliding with fresh panic. He wasn’t pointing the weapon, just very clearly on the alert, but no one should be able to move that fast.

She slowly lowered the statue. “It’s you,” she said lamely.

Sam eyed the lump of china. “Is that a sheep?”

“Yeah.” She watched, mesmerized by the play of muscles as he relaxed.

“That gives new meaning to offensive weapon.”

Chloe cradled it in her arms, feeling weirdly sorry for Bo and her lambs. “It was the best I had. I don’t carry a gun.”

“You’ve got me.” He took a step closer.

“Yeah, and you wear a gun more often than you seem to wear a shirt, but the rest of us have to improvise once in a while.” She wasn’t usually this snappish, but the night was catching up with her. Finding anyone, even Sam, lurking outside her door wasn’t doing her nerves any good. Neither was the fact that she wanted to move toward him and retreat backward all at once.

“Like I said, you’ve got me. Until this is all over, I’m your bodyguard.”

She was about to retort something about not needing that, but common sense stopped her. Or maybe it was the memory of his gentle hands barely an hour ago, comforting her. Maybe she did need him or maybe she just liked the idea of having someone there, strong and reliable.

Don’t get spoiled. He might be Super Sam, but he’s only here for a few days.

She stepped back from the doorway, beckoning him into the room. She set the shepherdess back on the nightstand. “I think I’ve figured out why Jack had the dress.”

Sam stopped cold. “You can’t be mixed up in this.”

Chloe folded her arms, staring into his eyes so that she wasn’t gawking at the T-shirt straining over his chest and arms. “Listen to me. We’re talking a wedding here. I’m an expert. And I know Jack. You’re not going to get past square one without my help.”

Chapter 6

“What are you saying?” Sam braced his hands on his waist and glowered down at her.

Okay, maybe she was overstating her case, but she could definitely contribute. Chloe fought the urge to poke him in the stomach just to deflate the arrogant set of his strong body. “I know what I’m talking about.”

His brow furrowed. “Oh?”

The single syllable made her vision go scarlet. The tone of it was polite, but beneath the buttering of good manners was doubt. After all, how could she possibly think of something he hadn’t already discovered? Yeah, right. Here comes the ego. The macho guys always have the ego. Next thing he’ll pat me on the head...or the backside. She’d break his arm if he did that, bodyguard or not.

He’d been nearly as bad when they’d talked earlier that day. Trust fund brat? No way. She wasn’t an idiot. He had lied. He was some kind of detective. He thinks I’m an idiot.

So he’d saved her life. That didn’t mean he got to patronize her. “Listen to me, Ralston.”

He folded his arms. “I’m listening.”

Every angle of his face said he wasn’t, not really, but she charged on anyway. “Last April I met Jack at a design show in New York. It was the launch of a new collection by his friend Jessica Lark.”