Trading Places

“SHARLAYNE.” Linden took her hand between both of his, forgetting that she was more than an hour late for breakfast. “You’ve never looked lovelier.”

She smiled and patted his cheek, her touch lingering. “How sweet of you to say so.”

“Hardly sweet.” He drew her toward the table set up in the sunroom—at 11:00 a.m., to the cook’s horror.

Sharlayne settled gracefully into the chair he offered. “Did you sleep well?” she inquired, dropping the linen napkin into her lap.

“Not particularly. I was thinking of your double.”

“Alice kept you awake?” She reached for the silver coffee carafe and poured for both of them, an almost smile tilting those bewitching lips.

He would not be put off. “I’m not sure Alice understands what she may be getting into. I’m not sure you understand what we may all be getting into.”

Sharlayne’s beautiful face remained clear and untroubled. “You worry too much, Linden,” she scolded, simultaneously teasing and enticing. “None of us is getting into anything except a little plot to deceive the media and the busybodies of the world. It’s a little game, that’s all.”

“Be that as it may.” He offered her the basket of fresh croissants, now grown cold. “With your permission, I’ll arrange for the bodyguard right after breakfast. When do you want to leave for your hideaway?”

She considered. “Next Friday,” she finally decided. “That should give me time to remake Alice and get her set up in the new house.”

“All right. I’ll handle the arrangements.”

“No one is to know I’m not really being guarded,” she said quickly. “You understand that? Not the bodyguard, not the agency—just you and me, Alice and Tabitha.”

“I understand.” But he didn’t like it. “I only hope you understand what you’re doing.”

“Trust me, darling.”

When that dazzling smile fell upon him, what else could he do?

SEVERAL HOURS LATER, Linden dialed 1-800-HERO and waited patiently for the voice to announce, “S. J. Slade Insurance Agency,” then asked for Samantha Spade Archer.

“I’m sorry, sir, but Mrs. Archer doesn’t speak to anyone,” the woman said, sounding stunned that anyone would suggest otherwise. “Her daughter might be able to help you.”

“I don’t think so,” Linden said. “Mrs. Archer is a personal friend. Please tell her that Linden Wilbert is in need of a bit of insurance.”

“If you say so, sir.” She obviously didn’t believe him.

Mere moments later, Sam’s husky voice exploded in his ear. “Linden, as I live and breathe. Long time, no hear, sweetheart.”

“Too long.” He found himself smiling. He could picture the elegant Samantha, dressed in ankle-strap heels and tight little forties suits worn with pearls. “Tell me, how’s Mr. Samantha Spade?”

Her throaty laughter sounded indulgent. “That’s Mr. Wil Archer to you, buster—and he’s fine. So are the daughter and son-in-law and grandson.”

“Delighted to hear it.”

“Yeah, but it’s not the reason for this call.”

“True. I’m in need of your professional services.”

“Looking for a little insurance, are you?”

Insurance: her euphemism for bodyguard. Sam carried discretion to new heights.

“Not me,” Linden said. “A friend of mine. Perhaps you’ve heard of her? Sharlayne Kenyon?”

Sam gave a bark of laughter. “Yeah, I’ve heard of her. Who hasn’t? So what’s the story?”

“She needs someone to run interference for her,” he said. “Someone to keep the press at bay, to hold back the throngs—that sort of thing.”

“Sounds like she needs a press secretary, not one of my highly trained operatives.”

“She wants someone she can count on in an emergency,” he improvised. “Not that she expects an emergency, but you know how it is with a woman as famous as this one.”

“Yeah,” Sam said dryly, “I know how it is. When do you need this glorified errand boy?”

“Now, Sam, don’t talk that way. Sharlayne is a highly strung, artistic individual. She’s exhausted and needs peace and quiet, which is what she’s hoping your guy will help her get. Can you do anything for me?”

A long silence followed. Then she said, “Of course, sweetheart. Just tell me when and where and I’ll have your man standing by.”

THE QUESTION WAS, which man?

Samantha Spade sat at her desk, staring at two folders before her. The agency was overextended already. Business was booming and she didn’t have a whole lot of choice here.

Two operatives were available. One had just returned from a harrowing assignment that required him to spend several days piloting a desperate senior citizen through Florida swamps in an ultimately successful attempt to avoid his vengeful heirs, eager to collect sooner rather than later.

The other was brand-new, bright eyed and bushy tailed; he had just signed on and trained and was waiting for his first assignment.

She flipped open his folder. Jed Kelby, thirty-three. Heir to a winery in California’s Napa Valley. Six years an officer in the U.S. Marine Corps. Might have made a military career if his father hadn’t died, requiring his presence at home. When his younger brother had stepped forward to take over Kelby-Linus Wines, Jed had looked around for something to do that might offer a little adventure.

Samantha, who’d known the senior Kelby in the wild days of her youth, had been taken aback when Jed knocked on her door one day and asked for a job. Not that she’d found anything wrong with his credentials; far from it. The tall—six foot two—Jed, with his straight, short dark hair and piercing eyes, was a true poster Marine. He was eager for the opportunity and ready to work hard to deserve it.

Still, she’d had reservations that she couldn’t quite pinpoint. Maybe it was that he seemed too good to be true, too much a straight arrow. People in Sam’s business sometimes had to stretch a point or two, without being told officially that they should. If she had one real concern about Jed, it was that he might be too much by the book and not innovative enough to protect his life and that of his charge.

Would it be fair to make his first charge a man-eater like Sharlayne Kenyon?

“YOU’VE BEEN ASKING for it, sweetheart, and you’re about to get it—a chance to prove yourself.”

Jed’s pulse picked up, but he held himself at ease. “What’s the job?” he asked casually, as if it didn’t matter.

“Guarding a beautiful woman.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Someone everybody knows. You have heard of Sharlayne Kenyon?”

“Jeez.” He sucked in his breath. “What is it? Kidnapping threat? Blackmail? Stalker?”

Samantha laughed, but he didn’t think she looked entirely comfortable. “None of the above. She’s tired. She wants someone to fend off the press and public so she can get some rest.”