"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."
Four
Pine Lake Retirement Park
Colesville, Wisconsin
“Mr. Conroy, how are you today?"
Willis Conroy turned from his half-packed suitcase to see one of the beefy male attendants – Bart? Bill? – standing in his doorway, a short old broad at his side.
"Still breathing," he said. "Betcha you're sorry to hear that."
Silence. Then Bill-or-Bart gave a too-hearty laugh. "Mr. Conroy is quite the joker some days."
Willis wanted to grab his cane and crack it over the fool's head. Dammit, he was old, not stupid, and he could still read fake in a man's eyes.
"Mr. Conroy, this is Mrs. Etta Schulmann. She's just moved in with us, and I'm taking her around to meet all our residents."
Residents, his ass. Prisoners was more like it. And he ought to know.
"Mrs. Schulmann, this is Willis Conroy. He's been with us for four years."
The old dame's eyes popped wide behind her thick glasses. "Oh," she gasped. "He's that ex-con all the girls in the dining room were talking about!"
"That's right, sister," Willis said, his voice a cheerful growl. "I've got myself a rep. You like us fast types? You're lookin' pretty good. Maybe you and me could have a good time. What do you say?"
The dame squawked like a goose and shuffled off. Bill-or-Bart glared. "That wasn't necessary, Mr. Conroy."
"Bite me."
He'd heard the phrase from somebody or other's grandkid, and liked it. Short, sharp. Got the point across.
Bill-or-Bart shot him another glare, then went after the old broad. Willis grunted, and returned to his suitcase. A couple pairs of pants, some shirts, socks, and his favorite red suspenders. He wouldn't need much. He didn't expect to be gone long.
He paused, his gaze falling on the newspaper on the faded polyester bedspread, and the short news story at the bottom of page six: DESIGNER ATTACKED DURING LECTURE.
Unwillingly, his gaze settled on a single name in the story, surprised all over again to find the pain as strong as ever, even after nearly seventy years.
"Ah, Rosie, Rosie," he whispered.
This little designer gal down in Chicago had no idea what kind of trouble she'd let loose. How could she? Few people were still alive who knew the truth. He was one of them. Lou Graziano's boy was another, and Crazy Tony never gave up when he'd set his mind to something.
Now Willis had no choice but to go back to Moccasin Lake where all the trouble had started – or ended, depending how you looked at it – and wait. Sooner or later, someone would come nosing around, and then he'd have to decide what to do about it.
With another grunt, he reached under his narrow mattress and pulled out his Colt .45, wrapped carefully in an old handkerchief, its yellowed linen embroidered with tiny rosebuds and a decorative "R" in one corner. He hid the gun at the bottom of the suitcase.
Better safe than sorry.
A knock sounded at the door, and he looked up to see the smiling face of the little redheaded nurse he liked. Patti, her name was.
"Willis, your niece Susie is here to pick you up for your visit to the resort. Are you ready, or should I ask her to park and come in and wait?"
"I'm ready." He tossed a checkers set, pill bottles, and the newspaper into the suitcase, clicked its fasteners closed, and then grabbed his cane.
"I'll take the suitcase for you," Patti said.
Willis didn't protest, biting back his pride. At ninety-three, he was sound of mind and body, but not so strong anymore, and he didn't move too fast. Once, he'd moved fast. He'd had to; it was all that had kept him alive. Not that keeping himself alive was anything to be proud of – and he sure as hell never thought he'd live long enough to see this day.
"Let's go," he snapped. "It ain't like I got a lot of time to waste."
Patti grinned. "We'll miss you, too, Willis. You old charmer, you."
After a moment, Willis grinned back. He never could resist a pretty smile or a pretty girl – especially a pretty, redheaded girl.
Five
Lili was in the bathroom, clipping her hair back in a barrette, when the phone rang. She reached for the doorknob, but stopped at the sound of Matt's low, even voice from the other room.
"Yes, ma' am, this is the bodyguard."
She smiled at his wooden tone. It must be her mother. Again.
"Would you like me to get her for you? No problem. Hold on."
A firm knock sounded on the door and she swung it open. Matt stood an unnerving few inches away, dressed to kill – literally, she supposed, but hopefully not today – in a charcoal-gray suit with a steel-blue shirt and a gray tie in a chevron pattern. His dark hair was still damp from a recent shower, and he'd shaved, for what little good it did him. He wore a faintly harassed expression, and when he glanced down, his brows drew together in a frown.
Belatedly, Lili remembered she was wearing only a black full slip. Too late to do anything about that – and he'd seen her in far less over the weekend.
"Your mother is on the phone," he said, mouth tight, then spun around and walked away. As her gaze followed him, she noticed Dal Farrell staring at her, a donut halfway to his mouth, a bit of powdered sugar on his black suit coat.
Lili walked quickly to the nightstand by her bed, aiming for a little privacy, and picked up the phone. "Hi, Mom."
"Lili!" Her mother's voice sounded high with worry. "What's going on? Are you all right? I expected you to call us by now!"
"Mom, it's seven-thirty. I just got out of the shower, and the only crisis so far this morning is that I can't find my black stockings."
Silence, then, "What's that bodyguard doing?"
"At the moment, they're all eating donuts and drinking coffee."
"How can they protect you if they're all eating donuts?"
"Because they're no more than ten feet away from me." Lili sighed. "Both hotel security and the men from the agency are doing their jobs. The only way I could be safer is if one of them crawled
into bed with me at night."
An image of Matt Hawkins with his sleeve rolled up around his arm, showing his eagle tattoo and nicely defined muscles, flashed to mind.
Then again, maybe not so safe.
"Don't get flip with me. You may be an adult, but I'm still your mother, and I have a right to be worried. You don't sound very upset about all this."
While she'd never admit it to her mother, she was beginning to consider "all this" something of an adventure. The crazy stalker part still made her light-headed with fear, but being the focal point of a small army of males who radiated power and aggression brought her a little thrill. The feeling wasn't enlightened or modern, true, but if she would be tripping over hunky men all week, why not go with the flow?
"I'm fine. Really. And Mom, the man who answered the phone is the team leader. His name is Matt Hawkins, and he prefers to be called a personal security specialist, not a bodyguard. You might keep that in mind."
"I'll call him whatever he wants, so long as he keeps you safe!"
Lili spent another ten minutes reassuring her mother she wasn't in imminent danger of violent death, then talked with her father, answered a barrage of questions, argued – to no avail – about paying the bodyguard fee herself, and then hung up, repressing an urge to scream.
She adored her parents, but when the hell would they stop trying to micromanage "their baby's" life?
For that matter, when was she going to stop letting them?
Her mind blanked. One too many complications to deal with right now. Her immediate problem was what to wear that would impress a classroom of twenty-somethings with make-me-care stares.
She pondered the clothes in the closet. Definitely something black and sophisticated, with killer heels. No power bitch suits, though, and nothing too severe; she didn't want to look like a vampire, either. Good thing she always overpacked when she traveled.
After a few more minutes, while listening to the sound of low male laughter from the parlor, she selected a black gabardine wool suit with a short skirt and fitted jacket. A more thorough search turned up her black hose, and she dressed.
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