HER BODYGUARD: Chapter Three
Matt had turned off the lights
in the suite's parlor except for one lamp. He sat on the love seat--coat
tossed aside, shirt sleeves rolled up over his forearms, tie loosened--and
hunched over a coffee table scattered with paper, filling out reports he
hadn't had time to finish earlier.
Hollywood never showed the
unglamorous side of being a bodyguard, or the paperwork and long hours
of mind-numbing boredom.
Rolling his shoulders to
ease a slight, tired ache, Matt looked over his notes. He'd be up half
the night doing risk analyses, routing reports, and gathering advance information
on all the restaurants, museums, schools, and shindigs Lili would attend
throughout the week. A class at the Art Institute, lunch at Spiaggia, dinner
at the swanky Savarin, and a meeting with somebody named Pippa at the Redhead
Piano Bar. He'd also found a scrawled note that said: Go see Sue.
He'd have to ask what that meant.
On Thursday, she had a second
lecture at the Chicago Historical Society--another auditorium, hundreds
of people, and plenty of opportunities for the situation to go south real
fast. On Saturday night, the day before he'd take her to the airport, she
was attending a private fund-raiser, also at the historical society. Private
was good, and easier for him to control.
But it would be a long week,
and it couldn't pass fast enough. Grimacing, he stood and stretched, then
glanced toward the room divider and the bed he could just glimpse. Silence,
and no lights. She was sleeping, finally.
Hopefully she didn't sleep
in the nude--though he wouldn't be surprised, seeing as how the woman had
a tongue tattooed on her breast.
With that unsettling thought
came the memory of the stunt she'd pulled at the pool, surging through
him on a heated rush: how her damp hair had smelled of chlorine, and how
her wet, half-naked body had felt pressed against him. Luckily, his suit
jacket had hidden his reaction. God knows what he'd have done had she grabbed
his hard-on.
His exasperation had lasted
only until he'd realized she was crying as she was swimming, and doing
her best to hide it. He'd had a crazy urge to take her face in his hands,
look into her eyes, and tell her everything would be okay. He'd sensed
Lili Kavanaugh was proud, that any show of weakness would humiliate her,
and because pride like that was something he could understand, he hadn't
said a word, feeling alarmingly helpless.
Helpless. Christ!
With a low curse, Matt scrubbed
a hand over his face. A client had never rattled him before, not like this.
He wanted to blame his impaired
focus on the fact that she was his last detail, and he was already thinking
like an ex-bodyguard, letting unprofessional thoughts and responses slip
more easily past his defenses. But he knew better. He was trained to identify
and isolate the source of danger, and this particular danger wore tight
dresses and high heels, and looked sexier fully dressed than many woman
did showing as much bare skin as legally possible.
She might not be the sort
of pretty most guys went for; not pretty in a sweet, cute, or model-perfect
way. She had a strong, striking face that reminded him of a young Katharine
Hepburn, and her body was nicely rounded, not too thin or overtoned. His
kind of female body.
Matt briefly closed his eyes
in frustration.
No, not his kind--she was
his
client, and despite the tattoo and the attitude, this woman
was classy, rich, and smart. Way out of his league.
He walked around the room,
working out the kinks in his shoulders, and tried blocking out thoughts
of the woman sleeping just behind him. He stopped at the window, leaning
against it as he looked out through the darkness at the cars on the streets
below, and the dense blackness of the lake beyond.
As he turned away, still
lost in thought, a sparkle caught his eye, and he glanced at the open,
beat-up shoebox Lili had clutched to her during the attack.
Maybe he shouldn't be so
quick to dismiss this as the cause for the attack. It seemed far-fetched--nobody
in their right mind would go to such extremes for a pair of old shoes--but
his years of working security had taught him people could be counted on
to do the unexpected, if not the downright stupid.
Curious, he picked up one
of the shoes, and turned it carefully in his hand. Except for the toe area,
most of it was embroidered with black and silver crystal beads. A fringe
of beads, in a curving line from one side of the ankle to the other, spilled
low over the toe. Matt could almost imagine this fringe shimmying and swaying
with its wearer's every Charleston, cha-cha, and kick.
Rhinestones outlined the
gracefully flared heel, their facets sparkling. Large circular ornaments,
reminding him of the brooches his grandmother used to wear, were fixed
to the shoe at either side of the ankle. Each ornament was made up of concentric
circles of small rhinestones surrounding a single large rhinestone in the
middle.
He weighed the shoe in his
hands, surprised by its heaviness. The leather was slightly scuffed, and
the soles showed wear marks. Here and there, a bead was missing, and a
few rhinestones jiggled loosely in their fittings, but other than that,
it was in pretty good shape. Eye-catching, flashy...very much a part of
the era that had produced it.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
Startled, Matt turned to
see Lili standing by the divider, wearing a thick, white terry robe and
her long, black hair loose over her shoulders.
Not happy at being caught
off-guard by his own client, Matt looked down at the shoe to hide his frown.
"It's nice."
"Rose had lousy taste in
men, but she had great taste in shoes." She walked to him, and as she took
the shoe from his hand, he caught a wisp of a spicy scent that reminded
him of incense. "Joey Mancuso had these specially made for Rose in 1929.
Her initials are on the inside of the heel...right here. That's how I verified
their authenticity."
She ran a finger through
the fringe, and the tiny beads made a whispery, clicking sound.
Matt moved back to a safer
distance. "Having trouble sleeping?"
"A little." She also moved
away, walking toward the love seat and coffee table strewn with his work
papers. She picked up a sheet, and looked back at him, eyes wide with a
sudden alarm. "This is a list of hospitals and ambulance response times."
"Routine paperwork," he said
quickly, to head off any brewing panic. "I don't anticipate trouble, but
I need to be prepared for the possibility. Half the work of being a bodyguard
is being prepared."
"You make it sound like being
a Boy Scout." She sent him a quick look from beneath her lashes, her gaze
touching on his mouth before shifting to his shoulder holster and gun.
She returned the shoe to its box, gave it a fond pat, then replaced the
lid. "Aren't you tired?"
"I don't need much sleep."
He started to sit down, expecting her to do the same, but when she began
pacing, he straightened again, not sure what to do.
The silence stretched on,
the air in the room practically vibrating with her nervous tension. Finally,
she stopped at the window and looked outside, her back to him, spine straight,
shoulders squared.
"I'm sorry for how I behaved
earlier."
"It's okay," Matt said, careful
of her pride. "You've had a rough day."
She bowed her head, hair
spilling forward, and tightened her fingers on the windowsill. "That's
still no excuse. I shouldn't have tried to make you angry, or touched you
like I did."
"Don't worry about it." He
returned to the love seat, sat down, and picked up his pen. "People respond
in different ways to danger. I've been in this business a long time, and
there isn't much I haven't seen."
"Thanks. That's very gallant
of you." She still hadn't turned, but the line of her back relaxed. "My
two older sisters are the ultimate in practical and proper, but I've been
charging off without thinking ever since I was a little kid. My parents
still wonder where they went wrong with me."
Matt stared down at his pen,
rolling it between his fingers. "There's nothing wrong with you."
She turned from the window
and leaned against it, smiling faintly. "In my family, you act with decorum
and grow up to be a doctor, lawyer, professor, or MBA. Or, at the very
least, you marry one. My sisters went right from high school to Harvard
and Cornell, but I wandered around Europe for a year, living in hostels,
doing the starving artist thing, and suffering for my art."
Matt held back a smile as
he glanced around the suite. The Drake had hosted presidents, even visiting
royalty. "Doesn't look like you're suffering too much now."
"Suffering is highly overrated."
She pushed away from the window and began pacing again. "Jared said you
didn't want to take this job. Why?"
Surprised by the question,
Matt leaned back. "It's personal."
"I see." Her mouth flattened
slightly. "So my father must've made you an offer you couldn't refuse."
He returned her challenging
gaze. Against his better judgment, he said, "Just because I'm being paid
to protect you doesn't mean I see you as a walking dollar sign."
Lili studied him for a moment,
as if trying to read his sincerity, then said, "I wish I understood why
that man attacked me."
Another abrupt change of
subject, and he quickly adapted to the thread of worry in her voice. "The
police are doing everything possible to find him."
"I know they are." She passed
by him on a wisp of smoky, exotic scent. "Do you have any ideas about the
attack? Who it might be, or what he wants?"
Matt looked down at his pen.
"I'm not paid to investigate or solve crimes."
"Then take a wild guess."
At her arch tone, he looked
up again, and rubbed the back of his neck. "From what you told me earlier,
I can't see much of a motive, so I'm treating it like a stalking detail
for now."
"That's what I was afraid
of." She briefly closed her eyes. "But why me? I'm not famous or
rich, and it's not like I have my face plastered in Harper's Bazaar
or
Vogue every month."
"You have a presence." Her
pacing put him on edge, and he wanted to take her by the shoulders and
sit her down in a chair. Instead, he leaned forward, hands clasped together.
"Lots of energy. Colorful. You're noticeable."
She stopped and turned, eyes
widening in surprise. "What you're saying, in your polite and professional
way, is that I'm a showboat."
Matt smiled. "Yes, ma'am."
She laughed, and resumed
her pacing. "According to my mother, I was born with a flair for the dramatic."
"Lili, maybe you should sit
down and try to relax."
"Oh." Again, she stopped.
"Sorry. I'm distracting you from your work, aren't I?"
"Don't worry about it."
"You say that a lot."
"It comes with the job."
"You say that a lot, too.
I need a drink." She veered toward the tall, narrow slatted door that hid
the mini bar. "You want something?"
Another abrupt change in
subject, and he briefly wondered if she was still nervous or trying to
keep him off balance on purpose. "No, thanks."
Lili bent to look through
the fridge, and again he watched the fall of her hair, mesmerized by the
slow, rippling tumble of silky blackness. After pulling out a small bottle
of wine, she shut the door with a smooth swing of her hip.
She walked toward him and,
suddenly aware that he was watching her hips, Matt looked back down at
his notes and paperwork. "Who's Pippa?"
"A friend. She owns a gallery
downtown...specializes in fiber sculpture and wearable art." She stopped
at the coffee table, and leaned over to examine his still incomplete advance
form. Her hair swung downward, wafting a citrusy scent toward him. "You're
not going to hassle Pippa, are you?"
"No, but I need to keep informed
about who you're meeting with."
Matt looked up, and nearly
swore. Her breasts were eye-level, inches away--and her robe gaped enough
for him to glimpse her tattoo.
The sound of Lili clearing
her throat snapped his attention back up to her face. Amusement glinted
in her eyes. "Noticed my tattoo, huh?"
The heat of embarrassment
spread through him. Great. What the hell was he supposed to say to that?
"Professionally, I'm not supposed to notice."
"Nice save." Lili grinned,
not appearing at all offended, then peered down at her chest and sighed.
"It was one of those charge-ahead-without-thinking moments. I was twenty-two,
and doing the Paris cafe scene with some Dutch girls I'd met. Too much
wine, I guess."
"It often happens that way.
I was dead drunk when I got mine."
"You have a tattoo?" Her
gaze held his for a moment longer than was comfortable. "Where?"
Matt tapped his left biceps.
"I want to see." As he opened
his mouth to flatly refuse, she said, "Oh, come on. Why not? You've seen
mine. I want to see yours."
Christ, was she coming on
to him? Their eyes met, stirring a familiar heat of arousal. He couldn't
seem to move.
"I'm not asking you to strip,
Hawkins. Just roll up your sleeve." She arched a brow. "And I'm not making
a pass at you, so don't get all excited."
He rubbed the back of his
neck, her poise and cool amusement making him feel foolish and clumsy,
and said, "All right."
While she watched, he rolled
his sleeve up his forearm and over his biceps until he'd bared his eagle-and-flag
tattoo.
"Impressive," she said, and
the next thing he knew, she'd touched his arm with a long, ruby red nail,
rubbing the pad of her finger over his skin.
"It's a standard tattoo,
no big deal."
"I was talking about the
muscles," Lili said, smiling, and as he went still in surprise, she added,
"You were in the army."
"Yeah." He swallowed. "I
was an MP."
The words came out sounding
forced, and her eyes turned wary. "I shouldn't be touching you, should
I?"
"Probably not a good idea."
Matt held her gaze a moment
longer, then she dropped her hand to her side. He looked away and focused
on rolling down his sleeve.
"Right," she said, taking
a step back. "I was going to play solitaire. I won't bother you, will I?"
Hell, yes.
Matt shook his head, and
picked up where he'd left off on his paperwork while she retrieved her
little bottle of wine and sat to his left. He listened to the soft fr-r-r-i-i-i-p
of the deck as she shuffled, and finally he stopped to watch her slender
fingers and long red nails expertly fan the cards.
A woman of many talents,
his client.
"You're still okay with my
staying in your suite?" he asked.
She looked up, and nodded.
"Like I said, choosing between privacy and staying alive isn't difficult.
Are you okay with it?"
"It doesn't matter what I
think. You're paying me. I do as you ask, providing it doesn't compromise
your safety or break any laws."
Her brows shot up. "You have
clients ask you for things that are illegal?"
Matt shrugged. "I won't procure
drugs or prostitutes. Most of my regular clients respect that."
"Well, don't worry. I haven't
any urge to hire a gigolo, or shoot up."
"Good. I can sleep easy tonight."
Lili didn't respond to his
wry comment, and Matt directed his attention back to his paperwork. He
worked in silence through the preliminary reports, and when he'd finished
with that he pulled out his notes. "Who's Sue, and where are you meeting
her?"
Lili glanced up from her
half-dealt game of solitaire. A smile crossed her face, crinkling her eyes
in a way that made him want to smile in return. "Don't you read the hometown
papers, Matt? Sue's a Tyrannosaurus rex."
Surprised yet again, he stared
at her. "You want to go look at dinosaurs?"
She looked faintly amused.
"If it isn't too much trouble."
"It won't be a problem."
At least not one he and his team couldn't handle.
Silence blanketed the room,
except for the sound of his pen on the paper, the shuffle of her cards,
or a soft muttering when a deal didn't go her way.
Looking up at a quiet "Damn,"
Matt watched as Lili took a swig of wine, mesmerized by the smooth, sliding
movement of her throat as she swallowed. Slowly, he lowered his gaze, stirred
beyond good sense by her nearness--and that way she had about her, that
confusing mix of cues and signals that made him want to handle her as if
she were fragile as glass, and at the same time, fuck her mindless.
She sat with her legs crossed,
ladylike and proper, but with a length of smooth thigh bared. She held
the bottle between her fingers, and as she stared down at her cards, absently
stroked her thumb along the neck up to the ridge of the lip, her finger
leaving a path in the wetness caused by condensation.
He shifted on the seat cushion,
his mouth tightening as he forced himself to ignore the need pulling at
him. Animal instinct was all this was, and he knew all about controlling
the animal inside.
"So what's up for tomorrow?"
Her question cut across his
randy thoughts, and he glanced at the clock--a lot safer than looking at
her--and noted it was after midnight. "I start out with a team briefing
every morning. Looks like your schedule is light. You're meeting most of
the day with Sayers, with dinner here at the hotel before he heads to the
airport." He shuffled through a few papers. "On Monday you go to the Art
Institute for a nine o'clock class, followed by two meetings at the institute,
then a late lunch meeting at Spiaggia. After that, you're clear for the
rest of the day."
When he looked back up, she
was staring at him.
"Have I made a mistake?"
"No. Not at all." She shook
her head, idly twirling a jack of hearts between her fingers. "You are
good."
"I'd better be," he said
quietly, holding her gaze. "Your safety and your life are my responsibility.
And they're not responsibilities I take lightly."
Her face paled, and she flinched,
dropping the jack. After a moment, she asked, "Are you almost done with
your paperwork?"
"For now. Why? Do you need
something? I can send my driver out if -"
"No, it's not that. I thought
I'd ask you to play a game of cards with me."
What he'd like was for her
to either go back to bed, or get dressed. The shapely length of her exposed
leg begged to be touched, and he thought what it'd be like to run his hand
upward along her smooth, warm skin.
Ah, hell. It'd make no difference
if she was dressed or not; this woman would look sexy in a flannel nightgown
that covered her from neck to toes.
Matt shrugged. "Sure. I can
play a game or two."
"No poker, though." She scooted
her wing chair closer. "I'm not playing a bluffing game with a guy who
learned to read people in bodyguard school."
He'd mostly learned it on
the streets and in the dump he'd grown up in, but all he said was, "What
do you want to play?"
"How about war? Easy rules,
and it's boring enough that it might make me sleepy." She shuffled and
dealt out the deck. "Not to mean you're dull company. Spending the
night playing cards with an armed stranger isn't something I do on a regular
basis."
Matt scooped up his cards,
watching her. Her tone was light, almost flip, but he knew the bravado
was for his benefit.
"Being a bodyguard must be
an exciting job."
"Most of the time it's boring,
just standing around and waiting. But boring means we're doing our job,
so that's okay."
"Has it ever been not boring?"
Keeping his gaze focused
on his cards, he said, "A few times."
"You're not a very talkative
guy, are you?" But before he could answer she added, "Never mind, it doesn't
matter. I'll talk enough for the both of us."
Matt smiled, fairly certain
she was also trying to charm him and make up for her earlier bad mood.
He almost wished she was still angry and confrontational; she'd be easier
to resist.
They played cards, Lili making
small talk about the weather, the hotel, and Chicago, while her gaze strayed
repeatedly to his shoulder holster and the grip of the Glock 23 jutting
outward.
"The gun bothers you," he
said, and put down his cards to unbuckle the holster. "I'll take it off."
She didn't argue, but watched
his every movement. He removed the holster, and when he bent to put it
aside, out of sight by the love seat but still close at hand, she said,
"Can I see it?"
Matt hesitated, then pulled
the gun from the holster, removed the clip, checked the safety, and handed
it to her grip first. "There's still a round in the chamber, so be careful."
He paused, then added, "And it would be best if you didn't mention to anyone
that I'm armed."
"Why?"
He met her gaze squarely,
thinking she asked too damn many questions. "Because guns make people nervous.
It's best if nobody knows."
Especially since it was illegal
for him to carry concealed, but her father was paying a hefty under-the-table
incentive to make sure his little girl was protected--completely
protected.
Matt's willingness to take
risks was the reason Dan Armistead had called him in on the detail; he
and Dan had an understanding about jobs like this.
"It's heavier than I expected."
She examined the gun, holding it with the tips of her fingers, as if it
might bite, then handed it back, her gaze solemn. "Are the others armed?"
When he gave a noncommittal
shrug, she added, "Your driver, Farrell... he's married?"
Matt returned the Glock to
the holster and put it aside, wondering what Dal's marital status had to
do with anything. "He married a few months ago."
"And his wife doesn't mind
what he does for a living?" she asked, picking up her cards again.
"Not that I know of, but
I've never asked, either." Matt also retrieved his cards, aware that the
tension in the room had returned.
"Are you married?"
As she took his jack of spades
with her king of diamonds, Matt looked up, suddenly uneasy. "No." He paused.
"I'm uninvolved at the moment."
Like that mattered to her.
Jesus, what was he thinking?
"I know it's none of my business.
I'm just curious if your kind of job makes it difficult to have a steady
relationship."
"Sometimes," Matt said, surprised
by a sudden twinge of disappointment over her obvious disapproval of his
work.
But most people didn't understand.
And why should he care, anyway? He made good money, traveled often, stayed
in the best hotels, and ate in the finest restaurants. His clients appreciated
his work, and he was good at it.
"I think it would take a
special woman to put up with a man in your line of work." Lili didn't look
away from him, and the pupils of her blue eyes were wide and dark--and
sharply observant. "But I know I could never do it."