THE PERFECT TEN (Boxed Set)

complaints there. He’d also hired an amazing array of people to protect her. Fred Carstairs was just the most obvious fixture in the team.
    A man, dressed like a derelict and reeking of cheap wine, took up position nightly just outside the door of the ageing, nondescript building that housed the clinic. From atop the tenement house across the street, a marksman kept watch with night vision goggles, or so she was told. She’d never caught sight of him. And when they pulled away from the clinic’s shabby address, a pair of headlights always fell into position behind their perfectly ordinary-looking SUV, to guard their rear.
    Except there was nothing perfectly ordinary about the vehicle they traveled in. According to Fred, the windows were fashioned from ballistic glass, the body covered with an opaque armor comprised of ballistic nylon and steel. Who knew?
    No, she didn’t feel abandoned. Not at all.
    Okay, maybe a little bit. But she wasn’t afraid.
    They made the fifteen-minute trip back home — yes, after the chaos of the past weeks, she’d actually started thinking of Delano’s high-rise penthouse as home — without incident. As was his habit, Fred accompanied her into the building. And as was also his habit, he insisted on accompanying her all the way up to the 29th floor. She’d tried to persuade him that she could navigate the elevator ride herself, given there were two separate levels of security before she even reached the penthouse door, but apparently he was an old-fashioned kind of guy. He refused to leave her until he’d either handed her off personally to Delano or until he’d assured himself the penthouse was empty and the security unbreached.
    Tonight, Delano was still not back, so she had to wait for Fred to do his check.
    “All clear, Ms. Crawford.”
    “Thank you, Fred,” she said, meaning it. Every time she was tempted to think these elaborate precautions were overkill, she remembered the mortar attack in St. Cloud. “I know I bust your chops sometimes, but I really do appreciate everything you do for me.”
    “Just doing my job, ma’am.”
    His words were delivered in the same flat monotone he always used, but she swore he blushed. She was still smiling when she closed the door behind him and re-armed the alarm. She turned and leaned against the door. Alone at last.
    Except she didn’t really want to be alone. She’d had too much of that since Eli left.
    Okay, strictly speaking, she hadn’t been alone more than a few waking hours, but the company of bodyguards who were paid to be there just wasn’t the same. Nor did the strangers who presented their arms to her, trading their blood for a liquid supper, fill the void.
    She was lonely, dammit.
    She sighed and headed for the kitchen, which Eli had stocked magnificently with chocolate. Specifically, a stash of Hershey’s milk chocolate bars. Clearly he’d had his people size up the contents of her pantry when they’d sized up her wardrobe. The chocolate might have been a lucky guess, but the Australian Shiraz that appeared in the wine rack and the smoked Gouda in the refrigerator tipped his hand. She could get used to that kind of consideration, if it weren’t a little scary vis-à-vis the invasion of privacy. For heaven’s sake, the man knew her bra size and her food addictions. At least he hadn’t furnished a replacement for her vibrator. That would have been too humiliating.
    Of course, if he had furnished it, then at least she’d have it. The dreams she had almost nightly left her frustrated and aching. She slipped one of the chocolate bars out of its sleeve, peeled the foil back and bit into it. Mmmmmm.
    Maybe she’d coerce Fred into stopping at one of the sex shops that abounded on what seemed like every street corner. She grinned, imagining Fred’s reaction.
    It had been hard enough persuading him to stop three nights ago so she could use a payphone. He’d refused initially, citing security concerns and pointing out there were plenty of phones back at the penthouse. He’d only relented when she told him she’d just hire a taxi and go out and find a public phone booth after he dropped her off. Fuming, he’d offered her five minutes. She’d argued for twenty. They split the difference.
    The twelve minutes hadn’t been nearly long enough, and it had been tricky as hell explaining to Lucy that her time was limited without alarming the other woman. Breezily, she told her friend she’d been lured away from the