Probably she'd just made him mad.
"Why not come in for a swim?" she asked. "You must be getting hot."
It was more a challenge than an actual suggestion, of course, and Lili could tell by the look in his eyes that he didn't take it seriously. He didn't even bother to answer – but she was an old hand at dealing with people who ignored her or didn't take her seriously.
Knowing she at least had his attention, Lili slowly surveyed his body, from his fascinating dimpled chin and powerful shoulders right down to his fine Italian shoes, the leather slightly darkened with water.
"Oh, I know," she murmured, looking back up. "You can't go swimming because there'd be no place to hide your gun."
He frowned, his gaze sharpening, and there – barely visible; she'd almost missed it – a small twitch of his jaw muscle.
Brazenly, she dropped her gaze to his groin. "Of course, you could just put it where everybody expects to find a big bulge. And all that extra firepower would really, really impress the girls."
He caught her gaze and held it. After a moment, he said, "Don't."
Although unnerved – she didn't doubt for a minute he'd shoot a man without blinking – Lili didn't back down.
"What does it take to get a rise out of you, Mr. Hawkins?"
"I don't think you want me to answer that, ma'am."
"Don't be so sure of that."
Stepping closer, Lili pressed her body against him, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders as she stared directly into his gray eyes, so close she could see the rim of black around his iris. His heat radiated toward her, the texture of his suit rough against her skin, and the woodsy scent of his cologne chased away the heavy smell of chlorine.
He wasn't as cool as he acted. He eased back, his lids lowered, and tiny beads of perspiration dotted his upper lip and forehead. Again, he glanced at the tattoo on her breast, and when his muscles beneath her hands went taut, she knew she had him.
Ah, sweet success. She wasn't a faceless, generic "protectee" to him now. She was a human being. A bothersome, pain-in-the-ass human being he'd be forced to deal with on a personal, face-to-face level.
"I keep thinking I can find something that will liven you up," she said, with an exaggerated tone of thoughtfulness. "Like maybe an 'on' switch."
She slid a hand downward from his chest – and within a split second, anticipating her intent, he'd grabbed her wrist before she'd reached her target.
A bluff, really. She'd have never reached for that if she hadn't been damn sure he'd stop her.
Again, their gazes locked. Anger flared in his eyes, and Lili smiled. "Gotcha, G-man."
Satisfied that she'd made her point, Lili moved to pull away, but he didn't let go of her wrist. He tightened his fingers – ever so slightly, but enough to warn her.
"If you wanted my attention, you got it. And now that I have yours, I'm going to repeat that I have boundaries you will not be allowed to cross."
Her little rush of triumph rapidly faded. His grip wasn't gentle, but she'd rather have her circulation cut off than ask him to let her go.
"You're scared and feeling out of control, and you don't like it. I understand that." Hawkins released her. He hesitated, then gripped her shoulders with the tip of his fingers, as if he couldn't bear to touch her, and moved her away from him. "You came here to prove you're still calling the shots. I understand why you want that, too, and because I judged the risk to be low, I allowed it. I may work for you, but you have to let me do my job and follow my rules. I won't be responsible for your safety otherwise. If this is too much trouble, you can hire yourself another bodyguard, Ms. Kavanaugh."
Hot with humiliation, Lili stared at the damp stain she'd left on the front of his Armani suit. "Why won't you call me Lili?"
"Familiarity with a client is not proper protocol," he answered, his expression closed.
"I've never been much for protocol."
Lili backed away, her gaze touching on dozens of bemused and fascinated stares. Only Mendoza wasn't watching her and Hawkins, instead staring stonily in the opposite direction.
Great. She'd provoked Hawkins, but made a spectacle of herself in the process. Lili sighed. One of these days, she'd learn to look before leaping. Really.
Without giving Hawkins a chance to further chastise her, Lili turned, angled over the side of the pool, and dived again. The cool water muffled sound and distorted her view of everything above her. Hawkins was now only a wavering, gray smear.
The chlorine stung her eyes, and when she surfaced, she wiped away the mingled water and tears. Not the place she'd have picked to have a good, purging cry, but at least she could pretend it was the chemicals making her eyes red and teary.
She swam hard, often kicking deeper below the water, so no one could tell something was wrong. Between the physical exertion and the release of her pent-up tears, her fears faded, replaced by anger and frustration over this unknown, faceless threat. Hawkins was right. She needed his help, and had no choice but to abdicate control over her life and accept that for the rest of this week, she was, first and foremost, a "client" and a "victim."
Gee, just what she'd always wanted to be – a victim.
Lili surfaced, and through the blur of water watched as Hawkins hunkered down beside her. His face was emotionless, but there was something in his manner that didn't seem as cold, or detached. "You ready to go back?"
But he was really asking: Will you behave?
When she nodded, he extended his hand – tanned, strong, and large. She stared at it for a long moment before he said quietly, "Lili, please. Let me help."
Maybe it was only a lingering film of tears, or her sudden weariness, but she thought she glimpsed a hint of sympathy in his eyes that, oddly enough, left her feeling safe and on solid ground for the first time since the attack.
It was all she'd wanted, to know that he cared in some small but personal way.
Lili took his hand, and let him pull her from the pool. They stood close for a moment, an awkward silence between them, before she pulled away and walked, with as much dignity as she could muster, to the locker room to change.
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 kn
ows 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 shoe-box 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 widow 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 c
lasped 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 café scene with some Dutch girls I'd met. Too much wine, I guess."
HER BODYGUARD Page 4
