Just Another Pretty Face (HT 459) Read Free Page A

sufficiently serious by her prospective employers.
    "Naw," she said aloud, grimacing at her reflection in the mirror. They'd probably think she'd stopped by on her way over to audition for a part as a commando in the new movie about neo-Nazis being cast over at Universal.
    Besides, even though Claire Kingston had made it clear she wanted to hire some serious muscle, she'd been equally adamant that it be female muscle. Apparently, protecting her brother's reputation as a macho leading man was at least as important as protecting the man himself. Pierce Kingston had a new movie coming out soon—one of those action-adventure epics full of guts and glory, bold heroics and impossible feats of derring-do. It might hurt the box office if people got the idea that the hero of such a movie was incapable of protecting himself. Which meant that having a marine in combat fatigues—female or otherwise—trailing around after him to see that he didn't get himself hurt by a pen-wielding, lovesick fan would no doubt be frowned upon by the entire Kingston clan.
    Suppressing a sigh, Nikki toed off her loafers and wriggled out of her jeans, mentally reviewing the meager contents of her wardrobe. What she needed, she decided, was something that would make her look competent and tough but not butch. Sort of L.A. Law's Grace Van Owen meets Sarah Connor from Terminator 2.
    There was really only one item of clothing that would do all that, she thought, and reached into the closet for the black leather pants she'd just recently spent three months of her clothing budget on.
    * * *
    GEARING DOWN as she approached the driveway to Pierce Kingston's swanky estate, Nikki wondered— again—if riding her Harley Sportster to what was essentially a job interview had been a sound business decision.
    Not that she'd really had any other choice. The ancient VW Bug she'd bought after mustering out of the marines was in the shop again, so the Harley was her only means of transportation unless she wanted to spring for a taxi. Which she didn't. Taxis were an expensive luxury and they often left one stranded at the mercy of others; Nikki didn't believe in wasting time or money. Especially when she had the Harley.
    And, what the hell, she thought, grinning at herself in the side mirror as she leaned into the long curving driveway, it goes with the leather pants.
    Of course, those might have been a mistake, too. One that might not be completely mitigated by the fact that she'd tried to tone down their impact by teaming them with her red blazer rather than wearing the more practical black mctorcycle jacket she usually wore for riding. But whatever their impact, she thought, shrugging, it was way too late to change now.
    Refusing to think anymore about it—or about why she'd suddenly reverted to her old adolescent pattern of worrying about making the right impression—Nikki brought the Harley to a smooth stop behind the rear fender of a low-slung silver Jaguar and shoved the Harley's kickstand into place with her foot.
    Parked next to the Jag was a pale yellow Mercedes station wagon with a top-of-the-line baby seat visible through the back window. Three other vehicles, a flashy red Lamborghini, a gleaming black four-wheel-drive Range Rover and—that requisite for true Hollywood stardom—a Rolls-Royce limousine, were visible in the open bays of the five-car garage.
    With a low whistle of admiration, Nikki tugged off her helmet and looked around.
    A whimsical English topiary garden with fragrant rose bushes and evergreen shrubs sculpted into fanciful shapes surrounded a small neoclassical fountain, which sat directly in front of the house, creating a roundabout driveway for easy in-and-out access. Lush velvet lawns bordered the wide curving driveway, sloping off to the left to the perfectly manicured man-high hedges that protected the tennis courts and cabana and hid the swimming pool from view. Stately evergreen trees, tall pink dogwoods in full bloom and bright beds