"I prayed for your help." Her voice was sweet, and unintentionally sultry. A slow, honey-coated southern drawl. "Thank you, Mr. Dundee. I appreciate your coming in person."
Against his better judgment, Sam looked at her then. She smiled—a closed-mouth, half-formed smile. Jeannie was not classically beautiful. Her features were too large—her big eyes a gentle, faded brown, her full lips a pale pink, her round cheeks flushed with emotion. Despite the frailty of her appearance, she felt sturdy and solid in his arms. And at that moment, Sam knew without a doubt that her fragile facade was an illusion, that behind her delicate feminine softness existed an incredibly strong woman. Jeannie Alverson was a survivor. And yet she possessed a quality so totally feminine, so genuinely genteel, that Sam wanted nothing more than to protect her, to keep her safe from all hurt and harm.
He forced his gaze away from her face.
The chauffeur held open the limousine's door. Sam slipped inside, depositing Jeannie on the seat.
"Where's Julian?" she asked, tugging her billowing skirt over her legs.
"I'm sure he's fine. The reporters aren't interested in him. Only in you," Sam said, then turned to the driver. "Take the route I mapped out for you. That should take care of some of our followers."
"Where are we going?" Jeannie took a long, hard look at her rescuer, and her breath caught in her throat. This big, strong man, who had carried her through the crowd as if she weighed nothing, was the man she had found dying on the beach at Le Bijou Bleu six years ago. She had saved his life then; now he was here to protect her and repay the debt he thought he owed.
"I'm taking you home." Sam sat back in the seat, his gaze focused out the side window. He was not going to be suckered by this woman, despite her aura of sweet innocence. She was a job, and nothing more. Liar! His conscience screamed at him. He should have sent Blackwood or Roarke. But this was Jeannie Alverson. He had no choice but to handle the job personally.
He owed her his life. If she hadn't found him six years ago, he would have died. And nothing she asked of him would be too great a price to repay her for his life.
Jeannie didn't mean to stare at Sam, but she couldn't stop herself. She had dated several men over the years, but hadn't allowed herself to become close to any of them. She knew she never could give herself to a man without first being honest with him about her past, about who and what she was. And she had been able to control her sexuality all her life. So why couldn't she handle the attraction she felt for Sam Dundee?
She wanted to reach out and touch his hard, lean face. She wanted to say or do something that would make him smile. He looked as if he seldom smiled. His face had set into a sensually beautiful aloofness, every feature blatantly, irresistibly male.
His thick, wavy blond hair was styled short in the back and sides, with more length left on the top. His heavy brown eyebrows hooded a set of intense blue-gray eyes.
Sitting at his side, Jeannie could feel the power and strength of the man. She felt safe and protected, and at the same time she was vividly aware of the danger Sam Dundee posed to her.
In six years, she had not been able to forget him. He had remained a vivid image in her mind, a smoldering passion in her heart.
They sat alone in the back of the limousine, neither of them speaking. Sam continued gazing out the window. Jeannie closed her eyes in silent meditation, praying for the strength to live through this ordeal, to be able to resume her normal life and find a way to bring peace to Sam Dundee's tortured soul.
When they arrived at Julian's home, the limousine slowed to a snail's pace as the chauffeur turned into the driveway. Crowds of people—reporters, curiosity seekers, true believers and accusers—lined the driveway, filled the front yard and spilled over into the street.
"Damn!" Sam cursed under his breath.
"What's wrong?" Jeannie peered out the tinted side window. "Oh, dear Lord!" There were more people surrounding her home than had overrun the Howell School.
"Don't worry. I'll try to get things under control before I take you inside." Sam glared at her, his look a warning in itself. "Stay here. I'll come back for you in just a minute."
Jeannie nodded her head. She clutched her hands together in a prayerlike gesture, trying not to think about anything—not the past, not the present, not the future. Summoning all her willpower, she forced herself not to look out the window, not to check on what was happening. If she and Julian were going to survive this ordeal, they would have to allow Sam Dundee to do his job. After all, he was a trained professional who was ready to lay his life on the line to protect her.
She heard voices outside, a mixture of questions, shouts and pleas. Closing her eyes, she tried to concentrate on emptying her mind, on blocking out everything except the serenity within her own soul. Someone threw a brick at the limousine, shattering a side window. The loud crash jarred her from the moment of peace she sought.
The door flew open. Sam Dundee reached inside, dragged Jeannie across the seat and lifted her into his arms. "We're going in the side entrance. The housekeeper will open the door the minute we approach."
"What about all these people?" Jeannie asked, holding on to Sam's neck as he carried her up the sidewalk, the crowd closing in around them. "Why won't they leave me alone?"
Sam knew that he couldn't hold back so many people for long without using his 9 mm Ruger. He had to get Jeannie inside as quickly as possible.
"Just hang on tight." Sam broke into a slow run, carrying Jeannie directly to the side porch.
The housekeeper flung open the door the moment Sam's feet hit the porch. When they were safely inside, he didn't turn, but continued down the narrow hallway. Ollie Tyner shut and locked the side door.
"Bring her on in here to the back parlor." Ollie, a short, plump, gray-haired woman, darted in front of Sam, sliding back the panel doors. "She can't walk without her cane, so don't put her on her feet."
Sam looked directly into Jeannie's faded brown eyes and wished he hadn't. He couldn't shake the feeling that his very life depended on protecting this woman, this gentle, helpless woman. No, not helpless. Even if she couldn't walk without her cane, she would never be helpless. Her eyes told him that she was strong, that she would endure whatever came her way. And her eyes told him that she knew he would help her.
Sam eased Jeannie down onto a red velvet settee in front of an empty fireplace. She slipped her arms from around his neck slowly, never taking her eyes off his face.
"Thank you, Mr. Dundee."
"You're welcome, Ms. Alverson. I was just doing my job."
"Won't you sit down?" Without waiting for his reply, she turned to Ollie. "I would very much like some tea. Mr. Dundee, would you care for anything?"
He shook his head, indicating that he didn't. Ollie exited the room quickly.
"I'm worried about Julian," Jeannie said. "He has a heart condition, and all this excitement isn't good for him."
"I'm sure Dr. Howell is fine. He probably left right after we did. I don't think he was in any danger. You were the reporters' target. They aren't interested in anyone except you at this point."
Sam glanced around the room, looking up at the high ceilings and the elaborate moldings, then down at the antique furniture. "Where's the telephone?"
"On the desk. There." Jeannie pointed to the gold-and-white mock-antique telephone perched atop the small cherry desk.
"The police need to clear out this crowd around the house," Sam said. "We've got a near-riot situation on our hands."
"The emergency numbers are listed there by the phone." Jeannie rubbed her forehead with her fingertips, massaging the ache in her temples. "Thank you, Mr. Dundee. I appreciate your arriving when you did. I don't know how I would have gotten away from the school without your help."