His Bodyguard. Muriel Jensen
Читать онлайн книгу.
a little giddy with success.
Then she reminded herself that she had yet to meet her client, Amos Pike. As far as the Boradino plan was concerned, Pike’s opinion was the only one that mattered.
A sudden attack of nervousness threatened to overtake Meg, and she headed for the shade of a spreading oak tree. She was immediately distracted by the sight of a beautiful quilt attached with clothespins to the tree’s lower limbs.
A raffle table with tickets had been set up under the tree, and a banner proclaimed Converse County Hospital—35 Years of Sharing and Caring. Behind the table, a redhead with a bright smile looked up at Meg.
“Here to take a chance on a quilt or a bachelor?” she asked.
Meg handed her a ten-dollar bill. “Both. The quilt is gorgeous. I suppose the men are, too.”
The woman handed her ten tickets. “You mean you haven’t seen them yet?”
“No.” Meg slipped the tickets into her purse.
“Well, here. Somebody left a catalog.” A glossy folder was slipped under Meg’s nose. On the cover was a picture of the ranch and bold letters that read Bachelor Auction. “You’d better hurry if you’re going to pick one out. They’ll be starting in a few minutes.”
Meg straightened and looked at the photos and accompanying bios, pretending a casual perusal. At last she found Amos Pike. And gasped.
“Aha!” The woman laughed. “You found one. I’m Twyla McCabe, by the way.”
Meg tore her eyes from the brochure and shook Twyla’s hand. “Meg Loria,” she said.
Twyla shooed her toward the deeper shade. “You’re looking a little flushed. You know we redheads can’t tolerate too much sun.”
Meg smiled and glanced once again at the photo of Amos Pike. She felt the same emotional punch to the gut she’d experienced a moment ago when she’d seen it for the first time.
She knew this man!
Oh, no one had ever introduced them, but he had Kevin Costner eyes and a George Strait smile, and she’d dreamed about him since she was twelve and the boy next door had called her a scrawny geek and told her she was too puny to grow boobs.
She’d have loved to find him to prove to him that he’d been wrong. But he hadn’t been that wrong, so she’d never made the effort.
“Lord,” she whispered to herself. “Look at him.”
He’d been photographed in a tux, dark hair side-parted and neat, eyebrows dark slashes on a broad brow, nose nicely shaped. His jaw was strong, but his smile softened it.
Her pulse began to accelerate. She had to appeal to this man, who probably had every heiress in the country and several international ones clamoring for his attention. She couldn’t do it. She simply couldn’t do it. She would have to find her father and explain that this just wasn’t...
“Favorite Song,” the bio read, “‘All for Love,’ by Bryan Adams. Best Come-on—‘May I have this dance?’ Biggest Achievement—‘The smiles on children’s faces.’”
Okay, maybe she could do it. If this bio was true, they were made for each other. He sounded like everything she’d ever wanted—and maybe a few things she hadn’t thought of.
Twyla came to put a hand on her arm. “Are you all right?” she asked in concern. “Is the heat getting to you?” She looked at the page Meg was studying, then up into her eyes. “Or is it the man?”
Meg noticed that people, women particularly, were streaming toward an arena a small distance away. A stage had been set up and a long line of men was climbing onto it.
Twyla patted Meg on the back and offered her half a cup of lemonade. “Here. It’s getting a little warm, but the sugar might help. There you go. You don’t have to bid on him, you know, then you won’t have to deal with him.”
Meg didn’t bother to explain that she wanted to deal with him. She just didn’t know what to do if he didn’t want to deal with her. And she wasn’t talking about the Boradino plan.
She downed all the lemonade and felt the sugar kick in almost immediately. Get it together, Loria, she told herself as she handed back the cup. Amos Pike was a job, and she had to be in top form to carry it out. He might be her dream lover, but she could damn well bet she wasn’t his. She would just have to get over it.
After slipping the catalog into her purse, she smiled at Twyla. “Thank you,” she said. “I think you just saved me from heat prostration.”
Twyla squeezed her arm. “Good luck in the raffle—and with your bachelor.”
Meg strode toward the arena, putting on the persona of a rich and privileged woman out for a lark. This part she knew she could do. She’d been donning personalities to see how they fit since that day when she was twelve and would have given anything to be small and blonde with a budding bosom.
Women crowded the rows of bleachers that had been set up in front of the stage. Meg pushed her way to the front and found a spot between a leggy blonde in a leopard sheath and a middle-aged woman in shorts and high heels.
Not all of the bachelors were on the stage, but she immediately picked out Amos Pike. In the flesh he was even handsomer than in his photograph. He was wearing the tux in which he’d been photographed, except that the heat had forced him to remove the jacket. It was tucked beneath one arm, and in the other he held the eighteen-inch-long plush polar bear, also in a tux, that was the trademark of his toy company.
Pike had undone the tie and the top button of the shirt, and he looked ready for action.
* * *
AMOS WAS A LITTLE surprised to find himself getting into this. Not that it was any less grisly than he’d imagined. The rowdy mob of women was cheering, whistling and hooting with easily as much enthusiasm as he’d have expected from their male counterparts if the roles had been reversed.
Except the roles never would be reversed in quite this way, he realized with a private smile. If men ever lined up a group of women on a dais and bid on them for a weekend’s services of any kind, there would be a hue and cry among feminists from Boston to Los Angeles, and the men would be up on charges.
Relax, he told himself as he watched Rob Carter, now a doctor, be auctioned off for a considerable amount of money. Don’t lose your sense of humor. This is all in fun. And all for the ranch.
It seemed only a matter of minutes before Amos took his place near the auctioneer. He turned in the direction of a few screams from the audience and smiled. The screams swelled to one loud, high-pitched, suggestive wail, and the front row of women leaned closer to the stage.
The auctioneer introduced Amos and explained that he was a toy manufacturer, repeating most of the information already in the auction catalog.
“All right, ladies,” he began. “What am I bid for a man who obviously knows how to play?”
Another raucous cheer rose from the women, and Amos tossed the Pike’s Pickled Pepper Toy Company bear into their midst. Grasping arms flailed the air for it, and the hapless bear disappeared within a flurry of tanned limbs, colorful coiffures and bright cotton prints.
Bidding began.
Please, God, he prayed silently as he smiled at the crowd. Let me bring in at least as much as the bake-sale booth.
Numbers were shouted quickly from one side of the crowd to the other.
No, Amos thought. He must be hearing things.
“Five thousand dollars!”
The bid came loud and clear—and in a disturbingly familiar voice. He turned in the direction from which it had come and picked Jillian Chambers out of the crowd.
She waved at him and blew him a kiss.
He