HER BODYGUARD Read online

  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 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, str
uggling 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 begin 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 of 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 sai
d with a calmness she didn't feel at all, "I want to go swimming."

  Two

  The professor was going to be trouble. Matt knew it the minute he'd walked through the door and got his first look at the hot number in the red dress.

  It looked like she wouldn't disappoint him. "Lili," said the sister's sometimes squeeze. "There's no pool at the Drake. And it's too cold for the beach."

  "This is Chicago," she said with a shrug, and the glint in her eyes told Matt none of that mattered to her. "I'm sure we can find a YMCA."

  Now that was something his usual CEO clientele didn't bother with. The occasional hooker, yes, but never the YMCA.

  "Isn't that right, Mr. Hawkins?" She turned on him a look that was a dicey mix of challenge, anger, and shrewdness.

  Matt shifted on his feet, suddenly wary. His client dressed with a classy sexiness and wore her hair in a pseudo-secretary bun intended to look demure, but a don't-jerk-me-around intelligence sparked in her sharp blue eyes.

  "Assuming you're a YMCA member, then yes, we can find a facility," he said in a carefully neutral tone.

  She didn't look like the YMCA type, and something of his skepticism must've shown on his face, because she arched one dark brow and said, "I hate snobs, and I always preferred the Y to those pricey fitness joints. Besides, the Y offers belly dancing classes."

  Turning, she headed toward the bedroom area of the suite, hips swinging, the high heels rounding and defining the muscles of her calves.

  "I don't think going for a swim in a public pool is a good idea, all things considered," Sayers called after her in annoyance, bringing Matt's gaze back up from his client's legs. "I'm sure Mr. Hawkins will agree."

  But Matt said, "If she wants to go swimming, she can go swimming."

  Sayers stared. "Are you sure? What about—"

  "I'd prefer she stay in the suite for now, but if she doesn't let off a little nervous steam, she's going to make herself sick. I've seen it before. You people are paying me to keep her safe, so you might as well get your money's worth."