Guarding His Body Read online

  Somehow, she had to forget what had happened the night before and resist Yves Nerin, even if it was the hardest thing she had ever done in her life. She had to live up to Ryan’s opinion of her, respect the memory of the man she had thought to share her life with, and forget a burning pair of blue eyes, long hard body and deliciously stimulating cock.

  The first way to achieve that was to not ever be alone with him again, let alone be seduced into something that appeared innocuous, such as another invitation to dinner. The second was to firmly put her emotions somewhere in deep freeze and think of Pete. And the third was to remember how much she was going to earn from this assignment and how much she had to lose if she messed up in any way.

  Helen switched on the water in the shower cubicle and stepped inside, sluicing her body with the cool spray. That was better. She definitely felt more in control now.

  By the time she exited her suite, she thought she had regained control. As she walked along the passage, a member of the Heritage House staff told her that breakfast was being served outside on the lawn. With a smile, Helen continued through the foyer and let herself out through the large French doors.

  It was a beautiful morning. Being October, the bite of summer had not yet begun, but the air was warm and filled with the sounds of passing ferries and the muted buzz of morning commuter traffic from the Pacific Motorway set high above the Brisbane River.

  She felt comfortable in her clothes, a pair of khaki capri pants, short-sleeved, white, tailored cotton shirt and sneakers. She knew the outfit made her look like a college student, but it was good for movement, and it blended in well with Brisbane pedestrians. The gentlemen, she was happy to see, had obviously come to the same conclusion as she had. Guy was already seated at the circular black wrought-iron table and was wearing a peach-coloured polo shirt and brown chinos. Yves—she faltered for a second when she saw him, before stiffening her spine and continuing as if nothing was amiss—was still serving himself from a long table of breakfast items set buffet-style against the house wall. Even when in casual clothes, he was still a handful and a half of man, and Helen tried very hard not to notice the way the blue-striped polo shirt he wore stretched across his chest, outlining the tantalising lines of his pectorals or the way the lighter casual pants hugged his thighs. The man would stand out no matter where he was, whether it was in the middle of a Moroccan marketplace or an Australian shopping plaza. Her eyes moved once more down to his bare left hand. It seemed strange that he was still unattached. Unless, she paused as the thought suddenly hit her, he was one of those ‘modern’ men who didn’t wear a wedding ring. That made it triply important to stay away from him. As if she needed yet another ironclad reason.

  Yves looked up as she approached the table. She flashed him a sunny but otherwise impersonal smile—well aware of her seated employer—and took a plate from the stack at one end of the breakfast spread.

  “Lovely morning, isn’t it?” she asked brightly then looked away, concentrating hard on a dish of scrambled eggs kept warm by a small burner beneath it.

  “It is now,” he replied quietly, moving up close to her, an empty plate in his own hand.

  Helen pretended not to hear. Or notice.

  “Did you sleep well?” he continued. It was an innocent enough question, but she heard the small thread of laughter beneath it and clutched the serving spoon tighter.

  “Very.” She treated the eggs abominably as she slapped a dollop onto her plate and quickly moved on, avoiding the bacon and sausages for the plain reason that he was right next to them.

  Unfortunately, he caught up with her at the toaster, where she had thoughtlessly popped in two slices and was thus forced to wait for their re-emergence.

  “What about you?” she asked sweetly, looking up at him, determined to not give him the entire upper hand.

  That was a mistake. His eyes glinted merrily under the warm sun and she wanted to melt into her sneakers. Even looking at him was a dangerous pastime. She averted her eyes and cursed the bread for taking such a long time.

  “I slept very peacefully,” he said urbanely.

  The toast finally popped, and Helen swept them onto her plate with haste. It was only as she walked away that she heard him add, “Eventually.”

  Her step almost faltered again, but she steadied herself. Pinning another smile on her face, Helen approached the circular table. “Good morning, Mr. Aubrac.”

  Guy smiled but it wasn’t as lethally edged as the one that belonged to Yves. Helen felt herself relax as she sat down.

  “Good morning, Helen.” He pronounced her name the French way, dropping the initial letter. “Did you have a good sleep?”

  What was it with people obsessed with her slumber, she thought.

  “Yes I did, thank you.” She buttered her toast and took a bite. “May I ask what you’re planning for today?”

  “We have arranged our first meeting with Tech-88 for tomorrow morning. But, as preparation, Yves, er, suggested that we should perhaps take a walk around the suburb where they’re situated. We very much believe in getting a feel for our business partners before we begin formal negotiations.”

  “I see. May I ask where the company is located?”

  “New Farm,” Yves interposed smoothly, slipping into the chair next to hers. Unlike her appetite, which had fled the moment she caught sight of him, his plate was piled high with food. “Do you know it?”

  “Know it?” Helen laughed. “It’s one of the oldest suburbs in Brisbane. And a lovely place.”

  “Is it very far from here?”

  She shook her head. “Not at all. We can finish breakfast, let the morning traffic settle down, and be on our way.”

  “I have ordered a taxi for ten thirty,” Yves said. “Will that give us sufficient time to get there?”

  “We can be there, have a walk around, and still have plenty of time for lunch.”

  “D’accord. Then it’s settled.”

  Helen didn’t taste the rest of her breakfast. She couldn’t tell if the eggs were light and fluffy or resembled half-set cement. All she was aware of was Yves’ thigh close to hers, and the woodsy scent of his aftershave that drifted across to her nostrils, teasing her with memories of intimacy. What would it be like to wake up to that fragrance, she wondered. To breathe that in when she first opened her eyes in the morning, knowing exactly who it was lying in bed next to her, an arm perhaps carelessly thrown across her body, their legs entwined.

  Her breakfast turned to ashes in her mouth, and she pushed the plate away, her food only half-eaten. Of course, Yves noticed. Helen knew enough by now to know nothing much missed that razor-sharp gaze. But he only lifted an eyebrow in curiosity and said nothing.

  After a brief discussion on the company they were going to see over their last cups of coffee, Helen grabbed her sling bag, and they headed for New Farm. The taxi passed the street where Helen lived, and she couldn’t resist a quick look down the narrow avenue, although she wasn’t exactly sure what she was expecting. Was it really only two days since she’d met Ryan and been offered the bodyguard assignment?

  “Is something the matter?” Yves asked softly. Guy was sitting in front, leaving her and Yves in the back. Once more, he had managed to outmanoeuvre her.

  “I…live down there,” she finally said. She didn’t want to tell him that information, didn’t want to give him any other insight into her own life, but it would have been rude to ignore him as he was a client of hers.

  To her relief, he nodded but said nothing.

  The taxi swung in a block-long u-turn and continued on its way. Helen watched as the commercial district of Fortitude Valley gave way to the small houses and cheerful gardens of New Farm. As the car continued further into the suburb, the trees along the footpaths grew taller, and wide side-streets provided glimpses of stately houses on high stilts, shaded by fig trees and just-blooming jacaranda trees.

  One of her friends, Sue Thompson, lived in the suburb, running her graphic design busi
ness from her house. Sue had often implored her to move to the greener location, but Helen had always refused. She liked the air of dynamism associated with the revived commercial locality. New Farm, on the other hand, was a lot quieter here than in the lively Valley—a characteristic that Helen felt had no appeal, until now.

  “It’s very nice,” Guy commented from the front.

  “We’ll stop by the park,” Helen said, “and I’ll take you for a walk around. You’ll be able to see where the company has its business, and we can stop for a coffee if you’d like.”

  She should be in the front seat, she knew that much. That would give her the best view of what was happening around the car, and it would get her away from the tempting presence of Yves. She would not allow herself to be manipulated again.

  The taxi driver let them out with a smile, right next to one of the largest parks in the city, and Helen took a deep breath as she looked around.

  “This used to be farming country,” she explained to the men, orienting them. “If you continue walking down there, you’ll get to the river again.”

  “These houses are very pretty,” Guy commented. “The woodwork on some is quite—how do you say it?—ornate.”

  “A lot of the houses here have been renovated. This whole suburb was not a very nice place to live for a couple of decades. There was a lot of crime around. Then people discovered how close it was to the city, and money started pouring in. Families moved here, bought houses and renovated them.”

  They strolled by the edge of the park, watching playgroups shout and scamper over the swings, ladders and other equipment arranged in open circles. Further along, small children played among the trees. In one marked out rectangle, a man who was obviously a coach took a group of young students through the basics of soccer. A few elderly people watched the budding athletes from a shady bench.

  “New Farm has always been home to a variety of cultures,” she continued, “and that hasn’t changed. And the bakeries here are fabulous.” She slanted a mischievous look at Yves from under her lashes. “You might even find bread that reminds you of home.”

  He smiled and the day suddenly appeared brighter. “I shall make it a point to look.”

  “Down here,” she indicated a broad avenue off the main street, “is where Tech-88 is located, from the information you gave me. They operate out of their own low-rise building.”

  “Is that usual?” Guy asked. “For companies in Australia to operate out of residential areas?”

  Helen pursed her lips. “It depends. A lot of small businesses operate out of the owners’ homes.” She thought of Sue and how well the arrangement worked for her. “For larger companies, it’s a little unusual to be situated out of the city centre but not too much. After all, it’s noisy and expensive in the city. Maybe the owners of Tech-88 thought their employees would appreciate a nicer environment.”

  Yves looked around. “Cheaper parking, I presume. Nicer surroundings. Lower rent?” He looked at Helen, who shrugged apologetically. He took that as agreement. “More relaxed atmosphere. Guy,” he launched into a quick string of sentences in French then turned to her. “I was just telling my, er, employer that the owners of the company seem to be good thinkers. I still have some questions regarding their choice of location, but I’m sure that will be answered when we meet with them tomorrow morning.”

  “We can take a walk around then stop for a coffee,” Helen suggested.

  Guy shrugged. “Yes, why not?”

  The three of them continued to skirt the park.

  This would have to be one of the easiest assignments she had been on, Helen thought. Her jobs with Ryan were usually of a higher profile, such as escorting Japanese businessmen to the casinos and making sure they were not spied on by the criminal element. In one memorable assignment, they had even escorted a nervous African head of state to the Gold Coast so he could purchase some beachfront property for one of his mistresses. Helen still smiled when she thought of that one. The man was tall, obviously rich, and good looking—despite his obvious apprehension—but that hadn’t stopped him propositioning Helen himself. She politely and firmly refused. She had often been the target of some light-hearted flirting from her clients, and she had been impervious to their charms. But, somehow, Yves had managed to effortlessly find a way beneath that. That made Helen uneasy.

  They finally stopped at an outdoor cafe across the road, along a strip of small shops. The wonderful fragrance of freshly-baked bread wafted across to them from the bakery next door as they seated themselves at a small table. Helen made sure to take the chair that afforded her the best view of the street and who was walking in and out of the cafe.

  “Is the weather here always so lovely?” Guy asked, as they waited for their coffees.

  “I think so.” She smiled. “But, then again, considering I’m a Queenslander, born and bred, I could be biased.”

  She also wondered what kind of job paid as well as it did, merely so she could sit in the sun and enjoy a latte. She was still a bit surprised by Guy’s request for a bodyguard. Who would dare attack two businessmen attempting to negotiate a software partnership deal? It didn’t make sense. And what would she have done with the money if Pete had still been around? Maybe she would have suggested an expensive holiday for the both of them, to explore whether there was any promise in the tickle of attraction they’d felt towards each other.

  A tickle that had been drowned by a soul-shaking earthquake when she met Yves Nerin. The realisation made her feel guilty…and cheap.

  “I think we should start heading back,” Yves suggested as they drained the last of their drinks. “Mr. Aubrac and I will need to discuss how we approach our first meeting with Tech-88. Just the walk around has given me much to think upon. Thank you for your company, Helen.”

  Hey, it’s my job, she wanted to say, but knew he was just being gracious, maybe even trying to set her mind at ease after the tumult of the night before. She smiled. “I’m happy you found it so helpful.”

  Just as they rose, Helen heard her name being called, and turned in the direction of the bakery, her face lighting with delight when she saw who it was who caught her attention.

  “Gentlemen,” she said, “could you excuse me for a few moments? There’s someone I need to have a brief word with.”

  At their relaxed nods, she rose and walked over to a young woman, dressed in a T-shirt and jogging pants, holding a paper bag. From out of the opening, Helen saw the rounded end of one of the bakery’s famous olive bread concoctions. Sue Thompson was a bright, bubbly and creative graphic artist who lived in the suburb. Her chestnut hair was pulled back in ponytail, and her hazel eyes glinted merrily as she watched Helen approach.

  “Hey you,” she greeted casually. “Where have you been? I’ve been trying to get you on the phone for the past couple of days.”

  Helen angled herself so she could still keep an eye on her two charges. “Sorry, I haven’t been home for a while. Work,” she explained.

  “With those two hunks at the table with you? Some work.” Sue snorted. “Was this a job from Ryan? Guarding some boring nation’s royal jewels or artwork? Or guarding them while they drop millions at the roulette table?” She knew about Helen’s professional relationship with her old instructor and liked to tease her about the kind of bodyguard jobs she occasionally took on.

  Helen grinned. “Something like that.”

  “Some people have all the luck. Meanwhile, I have to sit down and think of a creative ad for a pet shampoo business.”

  Helen listened to her friend with half an ear, her eyes alert as she scanned the slowly milling crowd along the shopping strip. Then she saw it, and her heart dropped.

  It was just her luck that she was only congratulating herself on catching such a lucrative contract a few minutes before, and here was trouble walking, as brazen as brass, towards her.

  Not that either of the young men knew she was in any way associated with either Guy or Yves. They were both tall and lean, dres
sed casually in T-shirts and jeans, and everybody’s eyes would have sidled straight past them. But not Helen’s. They weren’t walking the walk of casual visitors to one of the most popular spots in Brisbane. They were specifically looking for something or someone. And from the way they jerked still for a second when they spotted the Frenchmen, then exchanged hurried whispers before circling away, Helen knew that these two were one of the reasons why she had landed the contract. Strange how she had never thought of computer software before as being such a dangerous business.

  “...Saint Nerin,” Sue was saying excitedly.

  Helen snapped back to the tail-end of her friend’s sentence. “What did you say?”

  She still watched the two men as they loitered by the corner. Helen glanced away from them, further up the mall, sizing up her chances.

  “You never listen to anything I say,” Sue complained good-naturedly. “I said, you lead such an isolated life, I wouldn’t be surprised if you hadn’t recognised the great de Saint Nerin himself.”

  “The great...,” Helen paused, obviously puzzled, and Sue rolled her eyes.

  “You really don’t know, do you? He’s only France’s hottest property, in more ways that one. Money pouring out of his ears. Of Russian parentage, from what I’ve read, hence his name.”

  “Saint Nerin?” Why did Helen feel like she was suddenly floundering in quicksand?

  “No, silly. Yvegeny. His name is Yvegeny de Saint Nerin.”

  A terrible realisation dawned on Helen. Yvegeny? Shortened to—Yves? And Saint Nerin reduced to Nerin? “What about Guy Aubrac?” she asked faintly, still watching the two young men.

  Sue shrugged. “Don’t know that name. But Saint Nerin is the one to watch out for. He has businesses all over Europe, holiday homes all over the place, too. Not married, but he goes through the women like a hot knife through soft butter.”

  I have houses in Paris, Nice, Cannes and Grenoble.

  Helen remembered his words over dinner. He’d tried to cover the slip and make it appear that he only borrowed Guy’s houses from time to time, but Helen now knew it for the lie it was. How stupid of her that she hadn’t realised it earlier. Guy Aubrac wasn’t the wealthy one, it was Yves—sorry, Yvegeny—with his air of authority and crisp intelligence who owned the millions. Yves was the owner, and it was Guy who was his assistant. It was all so clear now.