rawboned woman with ink-black hair scraped into a sophisticated roll on the back of her head swept past him toward the bed, trailing a garment on a hanger. A small man with a gray ponytail trotted by carrying a large white leather case, a rat-tail comb stuck into the clump of hair at his nape. A petite, middle-aged blonde with beauty-shop hair and skin that looked as though it had been stretched too tautly against her skull swayed past in an expensive pink suit, barking orders to the room at large.
“Be careful with those silk stockings,” she was saying. “Someone get the beaded handbag and the blue satin shoes. I’ll get the sapphires myself.”
“Did anyone order flowers?” a man wanted to know. “I was told it was taken care of.”
Zach turned his head to find a man in a tuxedo sitting in an armchair beside the bed, calmly thumbing through a magazine.
“I have the flowers,” a female said, coming into the room behind Zach, “and the makeup base.”
“Thank God!” the man with the ponytail exclaimed, practically bowling over Zach in his hurry to take the small bottle of cosmetics from the blue-jeaned newcomer who brushed past them both. The tuxedo didn’t even bother to look up from his magazine.
“Shall I return the rest or keep them on consignment?” the tall woman wanted to know.
“Consignment,” said the middle-aged blonde, carrying a pair of shoes in one hand and a sapphire necklace draped over the other.
“I wish we had time to wash this mess,” the ponytail complained, yanking free the comb.
“Anyone know when the limo arrives?” asked the tuxedo disinterestedly.
Jillian cupped her hands around her mouth. “Camille?”
The pink blonde turned on her. “Do you have to shout, Jilly? Can’t you see your sister’s busy?”
Jillian ignored her. “Camille?”
“I’m not a miracle worker, you know,” the ponytail said, furiously back-combing someone’s hair.
“I could use a cold drink.” said the tuxedo.
“I’ll get it,” said blue jeans, “as soon as I find the evening bag.”
“Camille,?” Jillian said once more above the general hubbub.
They all ignored her, even the pink blonde, who was busy laying out the sapphire necklace and a pair of matching earrings on the bed. Zachary had had enough. He put two fingers into his mouth and let loose a long, shrill whistle that brought the whole room to an instant stop.
He looked from face to face and failed to find what he was looking for. “I have an appointment with Camille Waltham,” he announced in a tone that commanded not only attention but obedience. “Where is she?”
Bodies shifted and drifted, clearing a path through the center of the room. There in front of the massive, multipaned windows stood a small French-provincial dressing table and before it on a tufted stool sat a dainty, fragile woman with the features of a porcelain figurine and vivid blue eyes. Even ratted wildly, her long golden-blond hair made a gleaming halo around her angelic face. She was smaller than he’d imagined and appeared surprisingly vulnerable in a royal-blue silk robe that seemed much too large for her. She looked him over, head to toe, with her calm, vibrant eyes, and then she smiled welcomingly.
His stomach turned over. He glanced almost guiltily at Jillian, who had pushed her glasses up on top of her head, and the very same smile as that aimed at him from across the room curved her mouth.
Double trouble, he thought with ominous confidence—and wondered if it was too late to run.
Chapter Two
Camille Waltham rose regally From the velvet tuft, her dainty feet encased in ridiculously elegant silk slippers with bows on the toes. She smoothed down her wild hair with both hands, then planted her hands at her slender hips and lifted her chin, blue eyes glittering as they held his. Something hovered about her cupid’s bow mouth, held at bay by sheer determination. Then she abruptly switched her gaze to his left, targeting Jillian, suddenly imperious.
“You said he was good. You didn’t say he was good looking.”
The unctuous tone of her voice soured in the pit of Zach’s stomach, raising distaste and instant dislike. Good-looking? Was he supposed to be flattered? Even knowing that somehow he would have been, had the comment come from anyone else, didn’t make him like the woman any better. Jillian, at least, seemed to realize that her sister’s behavior was tasteless. She attempted to normalize the situation by rushing into introductions.
“Zachary Keller, I’d like you to meet my sister, Camille Waltham. Camille, this is Mr. Keller.”
Camille at first appeared piqued; then abruptly she floated across the room and offered a small, perfect hand, her gaze measuring him with the efficiency of a laser beam. He wondered if she meant for him to kiss it. Instead, he gave it a brief squeeze and dropped it like a hot potato. Something indecipherable flashed across her face and was quickly replaced by hauteur. She addressed herself to Jillian once again.
“I suppose he would be an acceptable bodyguard.” She turned away and floated back toward the dressing table. Casting a coy look over one shoulder, she added, “He’d have to pose as a suitor, of course, a love interest, a boyfriend.”
Jillian glanced an apology in his direction and opened her mouth, but he beat her to the reply.
“No way. Out of the question.”
Camille Waltham turned back to him almost petulantly. “Oh? And why is that?”
“Because I have a few ironclad rules concerning my business,” he told her, folding his hands and widening his stance, “and number one is that I don’t get involved—or pretend to be involved—romantically with my clients. Period.”
She lifted her chin. “I don’t see why—”
“It tends to aggravate the problem, especially in partner abuse cases. Otherwise, it’s just bad policy.”
She inclined her head. “Surely you can make exceptions for high-profile—”
“No exceptions,” he interrupted flatly. “The bottom line is this. If I’m going to help you, you’re going to have to do things my way.”
“And if I don’t?” she challenged mildly.
He shrugged. “I’m the professional here, so I give the orders. If that doesn’t work for you, find somebody else to take care of your stalker.”
Camille shot a glance at Jillian, then suddenly dropped onto the tuft in front of her dressing table. “Who says I’m being stalked?”
Jillian stepped forward once more, worriedly glancing in Zach’s direction. “Camille, you have to take this seriously. You know how Janzen is. He won’t just go away, because that’s exactly what you want him to do.”
“And whose fault is that?” the blonde in pink snapped.
Camille turned a resentful
