HER BODYGUARD Page 6

  The opaque pantyhose disguised her scraped knees, but weren't much help for the ugly bruise under her jaw. She frowned. Not even makeup could disguise it, and she hunted through another suitcase, pulled out a black-and-gold leopard print scarf, and tied it around her neck.

  Another quick look in the mirror convinced her she'd pass muster, and she went to find shoes – always the most difficult part of getting dressed. She narrowed her choice down to three pairs, and finally settled on matte black pumps with gold metallic heels. A little something to catch attention.

  When she walked out into the parlor, silence fell over the room. All the men turned, and their appreciative gazes – and one in particular – made her go hot with a fluttery, unfamiliar awkwardness.

  "Good morning," Manny said, in his quiet, sexy Latino lilt. She smiled a greeting in return.

  "Are you ready to go?" Matt asked, putting down his coffee cup.

  "Once I make sure everything I need is in my briefcase," she answered.

  Matt turned to Dal. "Get the car."

  Dal nodded, and as he walked past her, he smiled shyly. He was so fresh-faced and cute that Lili wanted to chuck him under the chin. Except that if she did so, he'd probably flip her over his shoulder or throw her against the wall.

  Cuddly, but deadly.

  Lili retrieved her briefcase and clicked it open, checking for her slide carousel and notes. She glanced up, and couldn't help smiling at the sight of Matt and Manny standing like the Wall of Jericho in front of her, arms folded across their chests. Manny was wearing a dark brown suit, with a black shirt and a skinny gold tie. Very trendy – and a good choice for his black hair, chocolate-brown eyes, and olive-tinted skin.

  "Nice suit," she said. "Ungaro? Ferragamo?"

  Manny grinned. "Ferragamo."

  "You guys make pretty good money at this job."

  "When I was a cop, I couldn't afford Ferragamo," Manny admitted.

  "We dress according to the detail," Matt said.

  He was all businesslike again this morning, as he'd been all day Sunday. Lili missed the warmth she'd glimpsed the night they'd sat across from each other, comparing tattoos and playing war.

  "When we work the Drake," he added, "we wear our expensive suits."

  "Ah. I see." Everything she needed was already in her briefcase – surprise, surprise – and she clicked it shut. "So if I were staying at the Sheraton, what would you wear?"

  "Good department store suits," Matt said, and a hint of amusement glinted in his eyes at last. "Lord and Taylor. Bloomingdale's."

  "And if I were staying at the Motel 6?"

  "If you were staying at the Motel 6, you couldn't afford me," Matt said.

  "And I probably wouldn't need you in the first place."

  "Good point." He slid his hands into his trouser pockets, and rocked back on the balls of his feet. "All set?"

  "Except for the shoes." At Matt's blank look, she explained, "I'm bringing four pairs of shoes from my bridal line to the class, and afterward I'm donating them to the school. Can you grab that big bag over there, by the window? I'll be right back."

  Lili gathered four white boxes – the cardboard printed in a pale brocade design – and returned to the parlor, where Matt waited with the large canvas bag. She placed the boxes in the bag.

  "Okay. Now I'm ready."

  Her words set in motion a now-familiar routine. Manny left the suite first, then she and Matt followed. They greeted the hotel security guard sitting by the elevator, and waited a few moments as Matt talked with Dal briefly on the two-way radio. The elevator doors opened with a ping, and Manny entered first. She followed, Matt close behind her.

  It was a small elevator, but elegant, and graced with a tapestry-upholstered bench against the back. Two middle-aged couples were already in the elevator, forcing everybody to stand close together. Lili pressed back against Matt's body, and his chest rose as he took a long, slow breath. Enveloped in his warmth and the scent of his cologne, she felt pleasantly safe and secure.

  No doubt about it. Go with the flow, that's what she'd do.

  *

  Shortly before nine A.M., Matt found himself slouched in a chair at the back of a classroom. In a way he couldn't identify, the place even smelled like a school – a smell that always brought back painful memories.

  You're stupid …just a dumb-ass punk kid! Go on and quit, it don't matter to me. You're flunkin' anyway and it ain't like you're ever gonna be somebody…

  Just words, in the usual drunken bellow, and words he'd heard often enough. But on that day, his sixteenth birthday, and for whatever reason, those words had hurt like never before, and were burned into his memory. It had taken him a couple more years to figure out his best revenge was to be everything his father wasn't, rather than be just like him, only meaner. Too bad the bastard was dead now, and couldn't see what his dumb-ass punk kid had made of himself.

  Matt took a deep breath, then glanced around the classroom packed full with some forty students, most of them women. Bright-eyed, fresh-faced, and so young. Beside them, he felt old and jaded. He'd never been as innocent or eager as this – or as lucky – and he bet most of these students took their good fortune completely for granted.

  Pushing that thought aside, he focused on Lili, who stood at the front of the classroom fiddling with a slide carousel while the room buzzed with voices full of anticipation. The instructor, an older woman in a dark pantsuit, spoke to Lili, and then signaled for silence.

  A hush fell over the room, and the woman said, "Today we have with us a very special guest. Lili Kavanaugh is an instructor at New York's Fashion Institute of Technology, and the owner and designer of LiliPads, an exclusive line of bridal footwear. Professor Kavanaugh is here to talk about her experiences in designing specialty footwear, so let's all give her a warm welcome."

  Applause sounded in the room, and as Lili flashed her wide, friendly smile, Matt glanced at the four pairs of wedding shoes she'd arranged on a separate display table.

  One pair was made of a white brocade, very Victorian-looking, and sported a pouf of netting at the toe held in place by a rhinestone buckle. The pair next to it looked plain, made of satiny ivory fabric with a flat ribbon bow, but he bet it boasted a price tag in the triple digits. The third pair was made of a heavy-looking ivory lace dotted with beads, so delicate and airy that it didn't seem possible to walk in them. The last pair was more showy: white and pale pink sequins in a tiger stripe pattern, and decorated with some sort of white feather plume thing – just the ticket for the well-dressed jungle bride.

  Lili's shoes were like Lili herself: pretty, feminine, and impractical. A touch of humor and fun. Nice to look at, but soft and frivolous didn't have much of a place in his life.

  He looked up again as the instructor added, "As you also know, Professor Kavanaugh was the victim of an attempted assault on Saturday. Because of this, she has with her several security agents, one of whom is sitting at the back of the room, and the other is outside by the stairs. We ask that you do not distract either of these men. Thank you. My class is all yours, Lili."

  Despite their instructor's warning, several girls continued to sneak peeks at him, their gazes a mix of curiosity and frank sexual interest. One in particular, a small-boned, pretty Asian woman with short, dark hair and purple lipstick, caught his gaze and winked.

  Kids. Matt glanced away, holding back a grin.

  "All right," said Lili, "it's time to get started. You girls in the back stop ogling my bodyguard. The show's up front."

  The sound of shifting bodies, creaking chairs, and whispers followed. With one last cheeky grin, the young woman turned away from Matt. He looked to the front of the classroom where Lili perched on the edge of the table, looking sexy as hell in her form-fitting black suit. She'd slipped on rectangular half-glasses with thick black frames that made her look both bookish and elegant – and pure New York style.

  "Earlier this semester you studied shoe construction, covered the basics of shoe de
sign and history, and learned how shoes evolved from mere protection against the elements to symbols of status and wealth."

  As Lili launched into her lecture, Matt settled back in the chair, folding his arms over his chest. The students in front of him were nodding their heads.

  "So what I'm discussing over the next hour is the more ephemeral – and emotional – elements of our culture's enduring passion for shoes."

  She pushed herself away from the table and surveyed the class, a small smile on her face, hands on her hips – a stance that pulled her jacket tight over her breasts.

  "It's my philosophy as a designer that shoes are female in spirit, and little else in our culture speaks to a woman like the luscious line of an arch and the sensual curve of a heel." Lili moved her hands sinuously through the air in an hourglass shape, her voice low and throaty. "Or the flirtatious allure of bows and baubles, buckles and beads. Shoes evoke fantasies, embody romance and desire. They can symbolize a cherished memory, and allow us to change personalities and moods in an instant."

  Lili's smile widened a fraction and her gaze locked on his, as if she were speaking only to him.

  "When a woman slips on a shoe, she's sending a signal, not just about who she is, but who she wants to be. Whether it's a pair of professional flats, or sinfully decadent heels, it's all about making a statement. About expectations. About sex."

  An expectant silence filled the classroom, and the word lingered in the air, rich in its complexities and possibilities.

  Sex…

  Short, sweet. Certain to grab attention – and this woman, in her tight suit and high heels, looked as if she knew plenty about it.

  At the inconvenient tightness in his groin, Matt shifted on his chair, trying to head off any further thoughts of sex and his client.

  "No matter what our personal views on sexuality, we understand the basic biological drive behind it. How we present ourselves is part of the eternal mating courtship – a desire to be noticed, adored. To feel attractive." She pulled a chair toward her, positioned it next to the table, then looked at Matt. "Mr. Hawkins, can you come up here, please?"

  As heads swiveled around to stare at him, a flush crept upward to his face. Ignoring it, he stood and made his way to her side.

  She was grinning, enjoying herself, knowing he was uncomfortable. What the hell was she up to?

  "I want to stand on the table, and my skirt's tight. Can you lift me up to the chair? From there, I can make it the rest of the way to the table without too much trouble."

  Several students laughed. Others exchanged startled looks, obviously not sure what to make of professors who stood on tables any more than he did.

  Matt took her by the waist and hoisted her up onto the table, bypassing the chair completely. She gave a yelp of surprise, bending her knees to clear the table, scrambled to secure her footing, and then stared down at him.

  "Going straight to the table works, too." She smiled. "Thanks."

  He returned to the back of the room to the sound of more low laughter and leaned back against the wall, arms folded over his chest, trying not to smile. Christ, she was something else.

  "I know you're wondering what I'm doing, and I'll get to that in a minute. But now that I have your attention, I want to make one point very clear. Your creations are a reflection of your personality and how you view the world around you. This quality is unique to you and will define your work, so don't be afraid to use it. And never, ever let it go."

  She paused a moment to let her words sink in. "I have a romantic streak a mile wide, and I enjoy all aspects of being a woman. This is why I design very romantic and sexy shoes, and so it's no surprise my designs are often described as 'sweet confections' and 'dreamy fantasies.' You may have a philosophy completely different from mine, but I'm sure you get my point. We must remain true to our uniqueness, our vision."

  Matt didn't know about points or visions, but she sure had his attention, and the vibrant emotion in her voice, her passionate conviction, touched a familiar chord deep within him.

  "Sexuality pervades every aspect of our culture, especially in the fashion world. Over the decades, fashions have evolved to reveal more of the body, but I believe there's nothing sexier than a woman's bare foot or, better yet, a partially revealed foot. Never underestimate the power of imagination."

  Slowly, Matt ran an appreciative gaze over her. She knew exactly what to reveal, what to hide, what to hint at – and she'd used it on him with the skill of a master. No wonder he couldn't think straight around her.

  "Quite often, our instincts acknowledge that something is feminine or sexually tantalizing, but we don't know exactly why," she said, bringing his attention back to her face. "To help you get a better feel for what I'm talking about, let's discuss high-heeled shoes. Many women like how stiletto heels make them feel and look. Men seem to fixate on them. But why?"

  She walked the length of the table, and every gaze in the room – including Matt's – locked on to her gold heels, the arch of her feet in the black shoes, the rounded muscles of her calves, and long, long line of her legs.

  "Does anybody want to take a guess?"

  Hands shot into the air, and Matt listened to a series of answers: heels made women taller. Made them feel more powerful, more dominant. Kept the leg muscles toned. Made a good weapon.

  Laughter followed the last suggestion.

  Grinning, Lili nodded. "Good points. That's all part of it, except maybe the weapon bit, but what's really behind the allure of high heels is a sexual signal. You've all heard stiletto heels referred to as 'fuck me shoes,' right?"

  Another round of nods. Fascinated – and surprised by her casual use of "fuck" – Matt stared at her, aware that he was finding all this talk of shoes uncomfortably arousing.

  No doubt exactly what she intended.

  "Now, there's a reason for this besides crudeness. Sex researcher Alfred Kinsey points out that when a woman wears high heels, her foot arches and stretches into the same vertical position that signals sexual arousal, or to be more specific, the moment of climax."

  "Cool," said a young male student in front. "I didn't know that."

  Looking down at the floor, Matt took in a long, slow breath as an image of Lili, naked in a bed, flashed to mind. He imagined himself on top of her, inside her, and her feet in the air, arching and stretching as she cried out—

  Whoa. Brakes on, buddy. Full reverse.

  "Look at the posture of a woman wearing high heels."

  Matt looked up – and immediately regretted it.

  "A woman stands straight, lower back arched, chest thrust outward." As she spoke, Lili turned sideways to the class. "What does this posture do, if not proclaim a woman's femininity? It's a signal to a male that she's feeling self-assured about herself and her sexuality. Somebody once called high heels the shoes of goddesses, and I think that's dead on."

  The energy in the room was near palpable. Every gaze was locked on Lili, every student sat with spine straight, leaning slightly forward.

  Man, she was good. Really good.

  Lili turned to face her class again, her movements graceful, her expression serious, as if standing on a table was an everyday occurrence – and for all he knew, she taught all her classes from tabletops. "This is what you can't forget when you sit down to design your first pair of high-heeled shoes. Sure, you can tone down those shoes by making them virginal white and adding a girlish bow on the vamp. And as we'll see in a few minutes when we look at the slides, you can make your shoes elegant and sophisticated, playful or clever – but the essence of the design is still sexual, and always will be."

  Trying to gather his composure, Matt glanced at his watch – and almost swore. He was late for check-in. He leaned over, and spoke quietly into his hidden radio piece, "Status report."

  Manny's voice sounded in his earpiece, "All secure. Nothing much happening with me, over."

  Matt wished he could say the same. "Farrell?"

  "In position."
<
br />   "Roger. Next check-in at oh-nine-thirty."

  "Mr. Hawkins?" At Lili's call, he looked up. "Can I bother you to come sweep me off my feet and back onto the floor?"

  Every inner warning told him not to touch her. Especially now, when his awareness of her as a woman pulsed dangerously strong and undeniable.

  But refusing wasn't an option, so he walked to the front of the room, reached up, and grasped her waist. He brought her down to the floor, holding her against him, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders, and he had an instant impression of soft warmth, narrow waist, and full, firm breasts.

  Her eyes met his, and she asked, "Enjoying the lecture?"

  "You could say that."

  A low titter of laughter spread through the room, and then a student asked, "But isn't everything you said sexist, Professor Kavanaugh? And objectifying women?"

  Matt released Lili, but as he stepped back to make his escape, she snagged his jacket sleeve.

  Now what?

  "There are some who'll say it is, but dressing up to look nice is biologically instinctive. Men and women want to feel good about themselves, as well as look attractive to the opposite sex. And all fashion objectifies gender to some extent. For instance, let's look at Mr. Hawkins here."

  No, let's not look at Mr. Hawkins.

  Hot with discomfort, Matt faced forty-odd pairs of eyes – and the possibility Lili might start discussing his biological urges in front of a room full of kids.

  At the moment, his biological urges didn't need any further urging.

  "The suit he's wearing plays up male sexual attractiveness in much the same way high-heeled shoes do for a woman," Lili said, resting her hand on his shoulder. "The ideal male beauty is broad shoulders and narrow hips. The cut of this suit accentuates broad shoulders and chest, and its lines narrow down toward the hips, in an inverted triangle shape."

  As she talked, her fingers quickly, lightly, traced a triangle, starting at his left shoulder and moving to his right, then down his belly and back up to his shoulder. When her fingers touched his belly – a little too low for comfort – he flinched.