Lethally Blonde. Nancy Bartholomew

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      Dave’s thick chest seems to puff out even further and I see a flush of red begin to creep up the back of his neck.

      “I don’t know about that,” he says.

      “Well, you two were the ones who chased that man off at the airport, weren’t you?” I ask. “You saved the day! And to think, I was almost too afraid to come out here. People told me it was dangerous.”

      “Who told you that?” Scott demands, straightening and looking me in the eye for the first time. He sounds like a drill instructor and for a moment I feel intimidated.

      “I…I don’t remember who exactly….” I widen my eyes and try to look clueless. “Is it safe? I mean, has he gotten onto the estate?”

      “Someone started a fire in Jeremy’s downstairs office last week,” Dave volunteers, but stops as Scott gives him a warning look.

      “A fire? Oh, my God! And the person who set it got away?”

      “It was nothing, really. Someone forgot to put out their cigarette and the smoldering butt caught some trash on fire. It was not,” Scott says, glaring at Dave, “a stalker.”

      I cock my head sideways and meet Scott’s eyes. “You’ve had a lot of experience guarding celebrities, haven’t you?” I ask. “I mean, I’ve known a lot of security people and I can tell the ones who’ve been around and know the business, the good ones.”

      Scott’s eyes narrow warily, but he answers. “About ten years, since I left the military. I guess I know my way around.”

      I nod, like he’s confirming what I thought. “What branch of the military?”

      “Army. Special Forces.”

      “I thought so!” I cry. “I can always tell.”

      The tiniest beginnings of a smile touch the corners of Scott’s lips and I know I’ve won him.

      “So, I guess you’ve got your ideas about this business with Jeremy,” I say, hoping he’ll go along with me.

      “Scott thinks…” Dave begins, then stops as Scott silences him with another look.

      “These things happen all the time to movie people,” he begins. “It’s no big deal.”

      I raise an eyebrow. “You know, I heard Jeremy was doing it himself, as a publicity stunt, then someone else started up for real.”

      Dave gives it away. “Damn,” he breathes. “How did you…”

      “We’d better get going,” Scott says. “We’ve got to get back. Don’t worry, ma’am. I can assure you that you’ll be perfectly safe. Enjoy your stay.”

      With that, the two men hustle out the door and leave me to stare after them. Marlena stirs and lifts her head, sees the cage and begins clicking in my ear, missing her hammock and ready to leave her perch on my shoulders.

      “All right, baby,” I murmur. “Go play. Mommy has to go talk to the nice people about guns and fire.”

      Marlena scampers out of my arms and into her cage, sniffing and exploring happily as I leave her to walk out by the pool. I wish my life were as simple as Marlena’s. She wasn’t worried in the least about rescuing Jeremy Reins from a deranged stalker, or whoever it was that was causing the trouble. Marlena never had to worry about whether or not she was capable of saving someone’s life. She certainly never had to worry about choosing bad men or leaving a mark on the universe. No, she wasn’t the one paying a therapist to tell her that she pursues unavailable men because her biological father abandoned her and her step-father is too busy to become a real father to her.

      As I reach the edge of the poolside deck, I see Andrea break off from her conversation with Mark and turn to smile at me warmly, raising a hand to beckon me over.

      “You’re just in time,” she says as I draw closer. “Maybe you can settle this argument I’ve been having with him.”

      “Argument?” I echo.

      Before she can speak, Sam the cowboy interrupts. He’s behind the bar, still wearing his hat and the scowl that I assume is permanently frozen on his face, but when I look up and our eyes unavoidably lock, I feel an electric current race through my body and settle somewhere deep inside me where it hums like a homing signal.

      “What can I get you?” he asks.

      “What?” For a moment I am thrown off and can’t seem to remember the English language. What is the matter with me? Why isn’t it enough to know he’s one of them, the psychological poison my therapist calls “emotionally unavailable”? Why can’t I just know and walk away? But there I stand, stammering like a complete idiot and staring at the man like he’s just walked out of an alien spaceship. I’m hopeless.

      “Would you like a drink?” he asks, saying each word slowly, like he realizes I’ve lost the ability to understand him.

      “A drink?” Oh, my God, snap out of it! “Yes, yes I would. Thank you!”

      When he is still staring at me, I blink and wonder what’s wrong now.

      Jeremy has somehow come into the picture and waves a hand in front of my eyes and says, “I think the man is asking what you want to drink, lovey. You know, like a margarita or a Diet Coke. You know, liquid beverage.”

      That snaps me to. I give him a sharp look and turn to Sam. “I’m sorry, I was just thinking. I believe I’ll have a mar…Diet Coke, please.”

      I desperately want alcohol but realize that undercover bodyguards most probably don’t drink on duty, and undercover bodyguards with no discernible skills should absolutely not drink on duty.

      Sam’s eyes slowly wander the length of my body and back up to settle on my face. “Diet?” he asks. “Looks like you’d want to put a little meat back on your bones, not deprive yourself. You’re too scrawny.”

      God, he was insufferable!

      “Well, Little Joe, where I come from we don’t need to carry around a layer of fat for the wintertime. We’ve got electricity and running water.”

      I expect him to explode, but instead he laughs. It is a warm chuckle that rumbles up from deep inside his chest and makes him seem suddenly human. I grin back before I can stop myself.

      “So, Porsche, help me out here,” Andrea says, and I must look blank because she adds, “With my argument, I mean. Do you think Mark’s right? He says there can never be too much publicity, even bad publicity, while I say too much publicity sours the public. Look at Paris Hilton, I mean, hasn’t she become passé?”

      “Well, I don’t know…” I begin, but stop as Sam hands me a glass of soda, then lose my train of thought and say, “I’m sorry, would you repeat the question?” Even though I haven’t forgotten at all, I just can’t seem to think straight whenever I look at the cowboy. It’s just so stupid!

      “I СКАЧАТЬ