HER BODYGUARD: Prologue
Big Moccasin Lake Lodge, Wisconsin
August 22, 1933
"Why can't I come with you, Joey?"
Joey Mancuso raised his head
from Rose's perspiration-moistened neck, and kissed her breast as he breathed
in her warm fragrance--attar of roses, mingled with the musky scent of
sex. As he traced the curve of her breast with the tip of his tongue, she
shifted restlessly.
"Don't," she whispered. "Answer
my question. You know how I hate it when we can't be together."
He raised himself on his
elbows, and looked down into the face of the woman he loved more than life
itself, the only person on this lousy earth he'd ever trusted. She was
so pretty, his million-dollar-baby--her short red hair worn in marcelled
waves, and wide brown eyes topped by pencil-thin brows like Myrna Loy,
her favorite picture show star--but tonight, the sadness in Rose's eyes
nearly tore him apart.
"They'll be looking for us
back in Chicago, so I want you to lay low at your cousin's place in Racine.
When I'm not so hot no more, I'll come for you and we'll go to Canada,
like we planned." For her sake, he smiled. "And maybe I can finally make
an honest woman outta you."
Rose sighed, and ran her
foot along the back of his thigh. "This trouble is about that last job
you pulled, isn't it?"
He kissed her lips as he
eased out from her, catching her soft gasp, then kissed the tip of her
nose, her forehead. "You know the rules, baby. Don't ask me no questions,
then I don't gotta tell you no lies."
"Joey, I hope you're not
thinking of going to Kansas City. You know the laws there are still looking
for you over those killings at the train station."
Mood plunging to black, he
swung out of bed. "I didn't have nothing to do with killing them cops."
"You used to muscle for Johnny
Lazia, and that's all Mr. Hoover's boys care about," she said in a warning
tone. "The laws want you real bad, sugar, and they'll do whatever they
can to take you down."
Joey rubbed his thumb over
her warm, soft cheek, then reached for his undershirt and began dressing.
"Just remember what I told you--and keep your dancing shoes close by, because
when I see you again, baby, I'm taking you out on the town in high style.
Promise me that when I come for you, you'll be wearing a big smile for
your fella, and your favorite dancing shoes."
Her gaze met his, but he
shook his head in a warning before she even asked the question he saw brimming
in her eyes. Not telling her the truth was the only way to protect her
from the laws.
Turning slightly away from
her, because sometimes Rose was too smart for her own good, he rubbed away
a spot of dried mud from his trousers that he'd somehow missed earlier.
"I promise, on both accounts."
Rose smiled brightly--too brightly--and swung out of bed, small breasts
bouncing in the lamplight. She picked up her flowered blue dress from the
floor, where he'd thrown it a half hour ago. "And maybe I'll buy me a new
dress, too. A red one. Would you like that?"
"I sure would." He pulled
a roll of bills from his trouser pocket and pressed half of it into her
hand. Nobody could say he didn't know how to take care of what was his.
"I figure this'll keep you in style until I see you again."
Rose sat on the bed, putting
aside the money, and began rolling her silk chiffon stockings up her legs.
He never tired of looking at her pretty legs.
"I don't understand how anybody
knew where to find you," she grumbled, clipping her stockings to her garter
belt. "We're way out in the wilderness. Hell, I don't even know where we
are."
"Willis ratted on me, that's
how," Joey said tightly. With angry, jerking motions, he strapped on his
shoulder holster over his shirt and vest, then pulled on his suit coat.
And his buddy Willis Conroy,
partner and onetime cellmate, knew all the truths that his girl didn't.
Trusting Willis had been
a mistake.
"Willis would never rat on
you, sugar," Rose said, frowning. She slipped on her dress, and began buttoning
it. "He's your friend."
"People like me don't have
friends."
Outside, the pine tree branches
scratched across the window and the wooden siding of the lodge, like something
trying to claw its way inside.
Rose looked at him, her red
mouth a pretty pout. "What about me?"
"No, baby, you ain't no friend,
either--you're my life."
She smiled, love shining
in her eyes. Nobody but Rose had ever looked at him like that. She'd always
made him feel like he was worth a damn, even on the bad days when his past
rolled over him like a drowning wave. To keep that light shining in her
eyes, he'd do anything for her.
"Besides," Joey added, "Willis
would spill his guts to the laws if it meant getting out of the chair."
Earlier, he'd received a
cryptic call warning him that his partner had been arrested in Minneapolis
the day before, and was singing away. By now, the laws in Chicago would
know where to find him and Rose. Life being what it was, any number of
those cops were sure to be tight with Mike Riley, the meanest Irish gangster
in Chicago's North Side, and ol' Mike would be keen to get to Joey before
the laws or the G-men.
No doubt about it, Joey the
Joker was a popular fella lately.
He had pals who could hide
him, even hot as he was, but he had to get Rose away. If the laws or bureau
agents found her, it would go hard on her. They'd slap her around, call
her whore, and play games with her mind. So long as they got their man,
they didn't care how they did it. And all those lawmen, alone with a girl
they considered a floozy, wouldn't think twice about using her in other
ways. He couldn't let that happen.
He pulled out a leather bag
and shoved his clothing inside. Rose was already packed and ready to ride.
They should've left hours ago, but he'd had to repair the car engine, and
then Rose had start kissing him and fiddling with his shirt buttons, and
one thing had pretty much led to another.
Joey fastened his coat to
hide his gun from their hosts, but he didn't think the old man and his
wife were awake. He suspected they'd guessed the identity of their only
guests, but they'd treated Rose right so far, and he had no cause to be
suspicious. Leastwise, no more than usual. He'd be sure to leave enough
money behind to pay for the nights they'd stayed.
Nobody would ever say Joey
the Joker would stiff an old man. He wasn't as heartless or without morals
as the newspapers claimed.
"I'm taking the bag down
to the sedan. You sit tight. I'll be back for you."
Rose nodded, suddenly going
long-faced and moist-eyed.
"Aw, Rosie, baby, don't,"
he muttered, tensing. "I hate it when you cry."
She sniffed. "I'm feeling
blue just thinking about not seeing you. I get so lonesome when you're
gone. And I'm worried. This one don't feel right, Joey."
A chill shot through him
at her words.
Rose was still watching him,
and the light wasn't kind to her tonight. She wore more lines than a 22-year-old
woman should, and her eyes were weary. The same weariness touched him now,
the same bleakness that forced to him to admit he'd never live to see twenty-six.
Rose knew it, too, but they never talked about his dying. It only made
her cry.
"I don't know where all the
good times went," Joey whispered. "It started out as a game...I never wanted
it to be like this."
For a long moment, she said
nothing--all the memories of their five years together hanging thick between
them--then smiled. "You better quit jawin', boy, and pack those bags. I
want us out of here before the laws jump you."
Or Mike Riley's triggermen.
Mike wasn't about to forgive Joey for doublecrossing him. All this, because
Riley's slut had bad-mouthed Rose. Jesus, skirts could be death on a fella.
He almost smiled. Even at
times like these, he could still find a joke.
Grabbing the bag, he headed
to the door. Nobody was in the lodge's common room. He didn't turn on the
lights, suspicion second nature. He slipped out back and headed to the
black Ford V8 sedan. He'd stolen it outside of Chicago, but had switched
license plates. Times were hard lately, and few folks had the money to
travel much. Out-of-state plates would tip off the local laws right quick.
And Henry Ford's big V8s
were roomy enough for living in, for sleeping--even for lovemaking. Those
big backseats of the cars he'd stolen had sure seen a lot of action. The
best times of his life.
Joey looked away from the
backseat, his gaze falling on the back floor where blankets hid boxes of
shells, his two Browning automatic rifles, a Thompson submachine gun--his
best chopper--and a half-dozen other rifles and handguns.
All at once, that ball of
dread in his belly burst, overwhelming him with a powerful sense of helplessness.
Two years of gun battles, police chases, roadblocks, and living on the
lam...it was no kind of life, with nothing to look forward to but being
shot down one day like a dog on the highway.
He'd been born to nothing,
and if he died tonight, what would he have?
Nothing.
Except for Rose, and for
a while, it had seemed he might make something of himself.
Joey sagged against the sedan
and lowered his forehead against the cool, black metal roof and breathed
in deeply, smelling the tang of pine needles and the nearby lake, the loamy
scent of ground dampened by a recent rain.
He swallowed back the tears.
Crying was weak, and he'd always known it would end like this...he'd just
hoped to string his days out a little longer.
A sudden sound cut across
the silence of the heavily wooded northern wilderness and Joey looked up,
listening, his heart pounding.
Tires on gravel--and too
late at night to be anything but trouble.
"Fuck," he snarled, and grabbed
the chopper. He was silently slipping toward the front of the lodge when
lights snapped on in the common room.
Rose...
She must think it was him,
bringing the Ford out front.
"Rose, shut off the lights!
Shut them off…get down, get down!"
His frantic warning was lost
in an explosion of gunfire and shattering glass. A short scream cut across
the thundering noise--an animal sound that raised the hair on his arms
and the back of his neck.
"No!"
As the guns fell silent,
Joey's bellow of rage echoed through the darkness, long and drawn out like
the howl of a wolf. Heedless, knowing it was too late, he ran toward the
front porch, chopper blazing whitely as he sprayed a wide arc of bullets.
From the darkness, the flash of returning fire erupted from the trees,
the rat-ta-tat-tat of machine guns.
The first bullet slammed
into his chest. He staggered back as another two bullets hit his shoulder
and arm, and by the time the last bullets took him, he'd fallen to the
soft, spongy ground, still clutching his smoking chopper in his hand.
"Rose," he gasped over the
white-hot pain, each breath a struggle to pull more air into his lungs.
Sorry, baby...so sorry...
As blackness washed over
him, he heard the sound of running footsteps, and a voice, muffled as if
coming through a thick blanket, "He's dead! Goddammit, I told you I needed
him alive!"
"He was shootin' to beat
the band, Lou. It's not like we had a choice."
"I needed that bag, you idiots.
Where's the shoes? Get me the shoes!"
"Lou!" A new voice shouting,
so tinny and far away. "Lou, the laws are coming...three cars, down the
road. They must've been right behind us."
"Aw, Christ! Get to the cars.
We'll have to shoot our way outta here."
"What about the money, Lou?"
"We got no choice but to
come back for that later..."
As blackness swallowed Joey
Mancuso, his last thought was of Rose, laughing and twirling in a shiny
red dress, kicking up her heels in her dancing shoes.
Chicago
Some 70 years later...
"Damn good thing I wore my
best silk undies today, because if I had to go and faint in front of three
hundred people, at least I did it with style." Lili Kavanaugh stopped her
barefoot pacing on the carpet of her posh suite at the Drake Hotel and
briefly closed her eyes. "Three hundred people...my God, I could just die
of embarrassment."
"You nearly died for real,"
said a male voice from behind her, the tone sharp. "Embarrassment is the
least of your worries right now, Lil. Are you sure you didn't hit your
head when that cop knocked you down?"
Resuming her restless pacing,
Lili glanced over her shoulder at her business manager, who was also her
sister's boyfriend. Jared Sayers reclined on the pastel striped love seat:
brown-haired, lean, and wholesomely handsome, but the lines of stress etching
his face betrayed his casual sprawl.
Of course he was right, but
he'd missed the point. Embarrassment she could handle and deal with; what
she couldn't handle was that only a few hours ago a man had rammed a gun
against her neck and almost dragged her out of the Morton Auditorium at
the Art Institute of Chicago, where she'd been lecturing.
"Well, it's my guilty secret
that I'm totally spineless." She smoothed the skirt of her red shantung
silk dress. Damn, her hands were shaking again. "Fainting certainly doesn't
do much for my suave and sophisticated image, does it?"
Jared didn't answer, and
with a sigh, she gazed out her window at the grand view of Lake Michigan
and the Oak Street beach. The sky was a cheery turquoise blue, sunlight
streaming down and sparkling off the water. Although it was early October,
the beach still swarmed with sun-worshippers, joggers, children, and people
walking their dogs. She watched with a frustrated longing.
"Jared, do we really have
to do this bodyguard thing?"
"Yes," he said with flat
finality. "In case you've forgotten, somebody tried to kidnap you today."
As if she could forget. Lili
rubbed her arms, wincing as her fingers reached the painful spots where
her assailant had grabbed her with such vicious force. By tomorrow, she'd
have a lovely collection of bruises.
And here she was, without
anything in her suitcases to accessorize purple or yellow.
She continued to stare outside
at all the people and activity, at the bright colors and endless blur of
motion, and the suite she'd found so charming and spacious that morning
closed around her, growing smaller and duller and ever more suffocating.
Lili glanced at the small
knot of suit-clad detectives and uniformed officers talking by her door,
including the off-duty cop who'd been in the auditorium and chased off
her assailant. Outside her suite, hotel security stood guard. She wanted
nothing more than five measly minutes to herself so she could wallow in
a good bawl, but the police insisted on hanging around until this bodyguard
person arrived.
Bodyguard. Images
of a grim-jawed G-man in black popped to mind, and she gave a shiver of
dread.
In all her thirty-one years,
she'd encountered nothing more troublesome than the occasional jerk. Ever
since the attack, she'd asked why anybody would want to harm her. No one
had an answer, but at the moment it didn't appear that it was a onetime,
random event.
A knock on the door cut across
her thoughts, and Lili turned as the serious-faced young man in charge
of hotel security poked his head into her suite. "Professor Kavanaugh?
The gentleman from the security agency is here."
Lili stiffened, her breath
catching, but when the tall, dark-haired "gentleman" walked into the suite,
her apprehension eased into surprise.
The man coming her way with
an easy, self-assured grace had a strong, angular face with the faintest
hint of a cleft in his chin. He wore his hair cut short, and was one of
those men who, no matter how often they shaved, always had a shadow of
a beard. While not particularly handsome, he had pleasant, attractive features.
He was no thick-necked brute,
anyway, and while Lili wasn't sure what a bodyguard should look
like, she hadn't expected someone resembling an executive.
"Matt Hawkins," the man said,
walking forward, hand extended. "You must be Professor Kavanaugh."
"Mr. Hawkins," she said as
he took her hand in a firm, warm grip.
Standing so close, Lili couldn't
help notice the color of his eyes--light gray, almost silver in the strong
afternoon light--and that an incredible pair of broad shoulders filled
out his suit.
The man discreetly cleared
his throat, and Lili realized she still held his hand. She released it
with a rueful smile, and quickly sized up the rest of him. Hawkins wore
an expensive, conservative suit--the steel gray color did wonders to enhance
his silvery eyes, and she had a feeling he was well aware of that. Armani,
most likely, with a Breuer tie and a fine cotton shirt.
Gaze moving lower, she eyed
his shoes. She didn't recognize the designer, but these were definitely
pricey and Italian.
Obviously, guarding bodies
paid rather well. And with an outward package like this, she'd bet the
Kit Kat in her purse that he wore silk boxers, too.
A sudden heat stung her cheeks,
and Lili looked back up, meeting the bodyguard's unwavering gaze.
Wonderful. She'd been threatened
with a gun, manhandled, dragged across a floor, and had keeled over in
front of a packed auditorium--yet she was speculating about the underwear
of a man she'd met fifteen seconds ago.
Well, really...in a day rife
with aberrations, what was one more?
Jared stepped up beside her
and took Hawkins's hand in a quick shake. After introducing himself, he
said, "Thank you for coming. Dan told me you initially declined the assignment,
but I'm pleased you reconsidered. Trust me--you won't regret it."
Jared shot Lili a quick look. "Dan Armistead is part owner of the security
agency, and an old friend of mine. I asked Dan for the best, and that would
be Mr. Hawkins here. He's a certified personal security specialist. Top
of the line."
It sounded as if Jared were
describing a luxury Lamborghini or a state-of-the-art stereo system, not
a man. Frowning, Lili tipped her head as she sized up Mr. Hawkins's shoulders
again. "So...you're the crème de la crème of bodyguards?"
"The best." His eyes locked
onto her, seeming to pin her to the spot where she stood. "And technically,
I'm a personal security specialist, ma'am, not a bodyguard."
The sound of his voice washed
over her: a deep, rich voice, like that of a nighttime deejay on the radio,
the kind you could listen to for miles and miles as you drove that white
line into the darkness. A sexy voice that invited trust--maybe even
a fantasy or two.
But before her fancy could
take that thought and run with it, two other men wearing suits entered
her suite, and Hawkins turned, breaking eye contact.
Immediately, her tense muscles
relaxed.
"My team," Hawkins explained.
"That's Manuel Mendoza standing by the flowers, and to his right is Dallas
Farrell, my driver."
Lili summoned a smile for
both men. Mendoza was a lanky Latino of middling height, sporting a sleek
black goatee. Farrell looked surprisingly young and slender for a bodyguard.
He had reddish-brown hair and brown eyes framed by long, thick lashes,
and Lili's first thought was: Does your mother know what you do for
a living?
With some surprise, she noted
the baby-faced bodyguard wore a wedding band. Before she could check herself,
she glanced quickly at the left hands of the other two men. Neither Mendoza
nor Hawkins wore rings.
"I need to talk with the
police for a moment," Hawkins said, reclaiming her attention. "Then I'll
have questions for you. Sit tight. I'll be right back."
Lili knew an order when she
heard one, no matter how politely stated. She glanced at Jared, who
shrugged and dropped back down on the love seat. She resumed pacing,
casting occasional curious looks at her bodyguard.
Odd, how a man who wasn't
particularly out of the ordinary--and who wore an unobtrusive gray suit,
albeit expensive--stood out among all these other cops. His voice wasn't
overly loud, his movements weren't overly aggressive, and yet he drew her
attention again and again.
In a room where testosterone
all but crackled in the air, that was no small accomplishment. In his own
quiet way, his entire bearing seemed to proclaim: Watch out. The big dog
has arrived.
Within minutes, Hawkins had
gathered his information, and the police and detectives filed out of her
suite. Mendoza and Farrell followed them, which left her alone with Jared
and a complete stranger who was now in charge of every hour of her life
for the rest of the week.
Hawkins headed back her way,
and with a renewed sense of unease, Lili noticed his frown.
"Is something wrong?" Realizing
how ridiculous that sounded, she quickly added, "Beyond the obvious, I
mean."
He regarded her just long
enough for something uncomfortable to flutter in her chest. "Sit down.
Please."
It wasn't a request, and
she sank down onto a wing chair. He took the opposite chair, perched on
the edge of the seat, hands loosely clasped between his knees, looking
dark and ominous against the sherbet hues of her suite.
"I need to ask you a few
questions about what happened."
At his words, the panic she'd
been holding off for the last couple hours came rushing back, filling her
with a cold, dark dread. "You just talked with the police. What more can
I add?"
"I know you'd prefer not
to talk about it," Hawkins said. "But it's important, Professor Kavanaugh."
Professor.
Lili managed a small smile.
"Please. Just Lili."
He didn't smile back. "Tell
me what happened. I need to hear it from you."
"Is this really necessary?"
Jared demanded as he sat forward. "Can't you wait an hour or two? She's
been through a lot this afternoon. Give her time to rest up and –"
"It's okay," Lili interrupted.
Jared, like everyone in her family, tended to be overprotective of her.
Letting out her breath in
a long sigh, she focused on the vase on the end table, filled to bursting
with a lavish arrangement of calla lilies, irises, and asters in hues of
yellow, lavender, and white. "I'm a fashion shoe designer, Mr. Hawkins,
but I'm also an expert on shoe history. I own an extensive collection of
shoes that belonged to famous American women, which is what I was lecturing
about earlier."
"The attack came toward the
end of your talk, correct?" Hawkins asked. He pulled a small notebook
from his inside jacket pocket--and Lili glimpsed a shoulder holster and
the dark gleam of a gun.
Fear gathered in her chest,
tight as a fist. Her heart pounded.
Of course he'd have a gun.
Somebody had threatened her earlier with one, so why wouldn't he? Still,
having an armed man sitting mere inches from her wasn't as comforting as
she'd expected.
"Yes," she answered. "I'd
thanked everybody for coming, took Rose's shoes from where I'd stashed
them in the podium, and made my way to the edge of the stage."
"Rose?" Hawkins repeated,
looking up from his notepad. "Who's Rose?"
"Are you from Chicago, Mr.
Hawkins?"
Hawkins hesitated, then answered,
"I was born in Pittsburgh, but I've lived in Chicago for years."
"Then you should've heard
of Joey and Rose. You know, the star-crossed gangster lovers." At his blank
expression, she added, "She was the moll of Joey 'the Joker' Mancuso, and
was gunned down with him back in the thirties. My collection includes shoes
from bad girls and floozies, too."
Recognition dawned in Hawkins's
eyes, and he nodded once. "Okay. Why did you take the shoes with you?"
"Rose was one of Chicago's
most notorious personalities, so I figured a chance to see the shoes would
bring in more people to my lecture. The more the merrier, that's my motto."
Briefly, Hawkins's gaze slid
over her, taking in her fitted red dress designed to play up her modest
curves and show a generous length of leg--and now her skinned knees, unfortunately.
His gaze moved upward to
her hair, which she deliberately wore in a classic bun--her own little
joke, playing off the stereotype of a professor. This month her hair was
inky black. The last few months it had been red; a deep, unabashedly fake
shade of red.
"Are the shoes worth a lot
of money?" Hawkins asked, his gaze locked onto her face once again.
"It cost me nearly twenty-five
grand to get my hands on them. Gangster paraphernalia commands a high price
these days. A few years back, Clyde Barrow's bloody shirt sold at auction
for eighty-five thousand bucks." Suddenly registering the meaning behind
his question, Lili hastened to add, "But he wasn't after the shoes. I had
the shoebox with me, so if that was what he'd wanted, he could've easily
just yanked them away from me."
"You held on to the box the
entire time your assailant had you?"
Lili shrugged, and glanced
toward the mangled box, its musty-smelling pink cardboard faded with age.
"I guess I was too petrified to let go. Smashed the hell out of it, too,
which makes me mad. That was the original shoebox. Very rare, you know."
Hawkins didn't look impressed.
"Tell me exactly what happened after you walked to the edge of the stage."
Lili took a deep breath,
seeing again in her mind's eye the dark blur rushing toward her. "I'd just
sat down, and I was watching people walk down the aisles toward me. Out
of the corner of my eye, this big dark shape caught my attention, mainly
because it was moving so fast. I looked over and saw it was a man dressed
all in black. For a second or so, I didn't think much of it, because artsy
people often wear a lot of black. But when –"
She broke off, shivering
at the memory, and how terror had hit her with such paralyzing intensity.
Jared came to stand behind her, rubbing her shoulders soothingly. She smiled,
patted his hand, then looked back at Hawkins. The bodyguard watched her
and Jared with interest.
Lili knew what he was thinking,
but didn't feel like correcting his assumption just yet.
"When I saw his face was
covered by a black ski mask, I knew I was in trouble," she continued. "I
tried to run, but he was too fast. He grabbed me and yanked me against
him." Again, she ran her hands over her tender arms, a sense of violation
and revulsion filling her. "Something cold touched my neck, and I knew
it was a gun. That's when I sort of froze."
"Most people do. It's okay,"
Hawkins said--and only then did she realize her tone had been apologetic.
"Go on. What happened next?"
"He told everybody to stay
away or else he'd kill me." Angrily, she blinked away a fresh burn of tears.
"He dragged me toward the emergency exit, the gun still shoved under my
ear. I knew that if he took me through that door I was as good as dead...and
I decided if he was going to kill me, he'd have to do it right there in
front of all those people –"
Once again, she broke off,
struggling to regain her composure as Jared continued to rub her shoulders.
Hawkins waited with quiet patience.
"There was an off-duty cop
in the auditorium...he'd brought his wife down for the lecture and, luckily
for me, decided to stick around. He yelled an order to stop, that he was
the police. I remember trying to turn and break free, but the man jabbed
the gun into my neck really hard."
Hawkins glanced at her, taking
in the angry red mark just under her jaw that would ripen into a nasty
bruise by the next day. Self-conscious, she touched it, then clasped her
hands together in her lap to keep her fists from clenching.
"All I remember next was
feeling this burst of rage, and I started kicking and screaming and biting.
I was not going through that exit, no matter what." She met Hawkins's expressionless
gaze, but couldn't hold it. "At that point, he shoved me away and ran for
the door. All these people were around, screaming and trying to get out
of the way, and Officer Wheeler tackled him, knocking me down in the process.
They fought...for a few seconds, maybe, then he kicked Officer Wheeler
in the face and escaped."
She stopped. Silence filled
the elegant suite, the moment stretching on.
"Then what?" Hawkins prompted.
With another glance at him,
she murmured, "I don't know. I...fainted."
"You fainted?"
"Yes." She narrowed her eyes
and squared her shoulders. "It was an unnerving experience, Mr. Hawkins,
and I --"
He held up his hand in a
calming gesture. "I'm only verifying you weren't knocked unconscious."
A blush heated her cheeks.
"No, I just fainted. And when I came around again, all the excitement was
over."
Until now, anyway. She eyed
his suit coat, detecting the bulge of his holster now that she knew to
look for it.
A sudden vision flashed to
mind: the roar of guns, the stink of gunpowder. Bodies lying on the ground,
leaking blood.
"Have you ever shot anyone?"
If her abrupt question surprised
him, it didn't show. "If I have to discharge my firearm, then I've
failed to do my job. I don't fail."
Not quite a yes or no answer--but
probably the company-approved one. She supposed he thought it a comforting
answer, anyway.
"Did you get a look at your
assailant, Ms. Kavanaugh?"
"Not really. His face was
covered. He even wore black leather gloves."
"Was he white or Latino?
Black?"
"White," she said. "I could
see a little skin around the eyeholes of the mask, and his eyes were blue."
"Size? Age?"
She'd already told all this
to the police, but she reined in her impatience. "About five-nine or five-ten,
maybe. I'm not sure about his age. Obviously not too old, the way he was
hauling me around."
She was five-seven, and one
hundred thirty-five pounds on a good day--not exactly petite or dainty.
"Did you notice an accent?
Speech impediment? Any other means of identification?"
"No accent. Nothing else.
He was just a scary man in black with a gun."
"Did he seem nervous to you?
In control? Angry?"
Lili worried her lip, thinking.
The police hadn't asked her this. "No, he didn't seem nervous, just very...matter-of-fact.
Like dragging off women was something he did every day."
Hawkins nodded, making another
note. "A couple more questions," he said. "Background information, mostly."
Lili stood and resumed her
pacing as she spent the next ten minutes detailing the wildly exciting
life and times of Lilianne Kavanaugh: yes, her father was a surgeon and
her mother an English professor. Yes, they were on good terms with her,
and yes, she was the youngest of three sisters. No, she wasn't worth that
much money, and even if her parents were well off--and could afford his
undoubtedly exorbitant fees--they weren't billionaires. No, she hadn't
any disgruntled employees or students, and as far as she knew, no business
rivals who hated her designs enough to want to snuff her. No, she had no
ex-husbands or disgruntled boyfriends, either.
At that, Hawkins glanced
at Jared, once again sprawled on the love seat.
"Jared's not my squeeze,"
Lili said, smiling. "He's my sister's. Sometimes."
Jared shot her a reproachful
look--whether for the "squeeze" or the "sometimes" crack, she didn't know.
Probably both.
Again, if she'd surprised
Hawkins, he didn't let it show. She wondered what it would take to get
at least one eyebrow to arch, or one side of his mouth to curl. He had
a nicely shaped mouth, and would have a lovely smile.
Hawkins turned to Jared.
"What's your relationship to my client?"
Client. Such a cold, generic
little word--and hearing it made her go hot with a sudden anger. How
dare
he reduce her terror to nothing more than a business transaction?
"I'm a family friend, and
I've known Lili since she was ten," Jared replied in a clipped, professional
tone. "I'm a financial analyst for a Boston firm, and in my spare time
I keep Lil in the black, oversee advertising and sales, payroll employees,
and contract with factories and distributors. I'm here to discuss a catalog
layout for the summer collection, and I'm leaving tomorrow. Lili is staying
in Chicago for the rest of the week."
"How long have you been working
with her?"
Jared glanced at Lili. "About
a year. She's only recently gotten things up and running to the point where
she needs someone like me."
"Does she pay you a salary?"
"Not really," Jared said,
impatiently drumming his fingers on the love seat's arm. "As I just mentioned,
I help her out because she's a friend."
"And to impress upon my sister
that he's a nice guy," Lili added, catching Hawkins's gaze. "And he really
is a nice guy. Jared, better than anybody else, knows I'm not worth killing
or kidnapping."
"That's right," Jared muttered.
"You're a pain in the ass, is what you are."
Hawkins watched the two of
them for a moment longer, plainly assessing. "This shoe collection you
mentioned. Is it worth a lot of money?"
"Yes, but we're talking about
old shoes, Mr. Hawkins," Lili said. "Not jewelry or other assets easily
fenced or liquidated."
"I'll need to know your schedule.
Where, when, contact personnel, and other details so I can began securing
all routes and buildings." Hawkins glanced at Jared. "Do you keep her schedule?"
"Excuse me, but I
keep my own schedule. I may be the victim here, but I'm not helpless."
Lili retrieved her leather briefcase, pulled out a bulging file folder,
and handed it to him. "Everything you need is here. I'm sorry I don't have
a neat itinerary typed out, but that's not how I operate."
After another quick, cursory
glance, he nodded. She'd translated that curt nod to mean: Yes, I can see
you're not the most detail-oriented woman on the planet.
"So what's next?" Lili asked
as Hawkins stood with a self-assured grace she couldn't help but admire.
"I meet with my team. I usually
have more time for advance planning, but this shouldn't take long."
"Do you need anything more
from me, or can I grab a glass of wine and unwind in a long, hot bath?"
"I'm done with questions
for now." Again, he spoke in that cool, polite tone so at odds with his
sharp, ever-watchful eyes, powerful shoulders, and faintly menacing aura.
What an unexpectedly intriguing
man.
Still watching him thoughtfully,
Lili fished her shoes out from under the love seat, where she'd kicked
them earlier. Nothing like a killer pair of shoes to chase away a girl's
blues--and these were hot red pumps, topped with an extravagant white organza
bow. It was one of her own designs, and as she slipped them on, the four-inch
heels raised her nearly eye to eye with Hawkins.
Almost imperceptibly, he
arched a brow.
That she'd finally managed
to get a reaction out him made her feel marginally better, more in control--even
if she didn't have a gun or shoulders thick with muscles that would scare
away would-be attackers. Yet as she passed the window overlooking the beach
and paused to watch all those people--so unrestricted, so trouble free--a
sudden resolve hardened within her.
Lili turned to her bodyguard
and said with a calmness she didn't feel at all, "I want to go swimming."