High-Heeler Wonder

by Avery Flynn

  She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Isn’t that the truth.”

  The setting sun outlined her curves, putting a soft glow in her tawny hair, but that wasn’t what got to him. It was the unshed tears watering her green eyes that socked him in the gut.

  She swiped the back of her hand across her cheek and looked up at him through her thick lashes. “Sorry. Here I am rambling like an idiot. I promise I’m not a total whacko who spills her guts to every hot guy she meets.” Her eyes widened and her cheeks turned pink, too. “Okay, obviously I’ve lost my internal censor. Ignore that last bit.”

  He grinned. “Are you kidding? My ego is going to feed off of that for years. I wouldn’t forget it even if you paid me a million dollars.”

  “That’s not much of a starting point for negotiation.” The sparkle returned to her jewel-colored eyes.

  “If I remember my Negotiations 101 correctly, you’re supposed to make a counteroffer.”

  Her glossy lips parted and her breath hitched.

  Damn, that was exactly the offer he’d spent every day for two weeks fantasizing about, despite his best attempts to think of her only as a client. His primary job at the wedding was to protect her, keep her safe, but seeing the awareness flood her expression, all thoughts of his mission fled. He almost fell into those tempting green eyes of hers and swam in their depths. In a heartbeat his lips could be on hers. Her delicious mouth would be sweet at first, followed by a burst of tart excitement. He lowered his head. Hers tilted up. Inches turned into millimeters as his pulse pounded in his ears and places lower. So wrong and so fucking right.

  The click of the French door opening took a few seconds to filter through the lust fogging his brain and running roughshod over his body.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” The woman’s snide, slightly British tone was as effective as a cold shower, and they jumped apart.

  Standing with one hip cocked, the woman tossed her stark-white hair over a shoulder blade so sharp it could be used to cut steak. “Daniel’s been looking for you, Sylvie. I’ll be sure to let him know you’re out here.” She strutted back inside, leaving an awkward silence in her wake.

  “I have to go.” Sylvie ran to the door, looking back only once, then disappeared into the crowded ballroom.

  Tony turned to gaze out over Harbor City’s skyline, ablaze in the setting sun. Traffic blared forty stories below on streets jammed with commuters heading home. In a city of eight million people, he’d never felt more alone than when Sylvie Bissette had slipped away through that door.

  Suck it up, Falcon.

  The cell phone in his pocket buzzed. As he strode toward the French door, he glanced at an e-mail forwarded by his team and almost tripped over a topiary bush. The stalker had contacted Sylvie again. This time, instead of only a few crude words, the creep had upped his game and sent a photo. Tony clenched his teeth and opened the attachment. The picture showed a wharf rat with a spiked heel driven through its abdomen. Judging by the blurring around the animal’s paws, it had been alive when the photo was taken.

  “Sick fuck.”

  He cleared his screen. He’d worked stalker cases before, and this one made his toes itch, a sure sign it would get a shitload worse before it got any better. Whether Sylvie liked it or not, they were about to spend a whole lot of time together. He refused to let someone under his protection die—not even the daughter of the men he suspected of murder.

  Chapter Two

  “I wear heels. It’s not for a fashion statement, it’s…ammunition.”

  —Nikki Haley

  Whoever thought to put florescent lights in public bathrooms should be shot on sight.

  The blinky little bulbs in the Coffee Grounds’s restroom did nothing but highlight the dark shadows under Sylvie’s eyes. Red lines obliterated the whites of her eyes like cracks in thin ice. No amount of serum could save her hair, which looked like an atomic frizz bomb had detonated on her pillow while she slept. Not that she got very much shut-eye lately. In the week since Anya’s wedding, Sylvie had slept about four hours a night. It seemed Cloroxing a person’s brain clean of an ex-boyfriend worked best at three in the morning.

  Not even the kickass pair of red-and-tan-striped Vivienne Westwood heels adding four inches to her height could boost her mood, which was as black as her skinny jeans. Her fathers had obviously caught her at a moment of weakness since she’d agreed to leave her cozy apartment and go out to Coffee Grounds looking like this. They, more than anyone, knew clothes and appearance acted as a woman’s armor, and she needed chainmail to deal with meeting some security expert her fathers wanted her to hire. In a moment of extreme self-pity, she’d shared the latest e-mailed nastygram from the High-Heeled Wonder’s biggest fan. It consisted only of a photo of a tortured rat. Disturbing, yes, but having some sicko who probably lived in Iowa hating on her Web site wasn’t going to change her life.

  She wouldn’t let it.

  There was no way she’d agree to having a bodyguard, but if a ten-minute chat in her favorite coffee shop would appease her fathers, so be it.

  A half hour max, and she’d be out the door and back in the comfort of her apartment. There was always research to do for the next day’s blog post. And chocolate to wallow in.

  The rubber band gave a satisfying snap as she secured it around her ponytail. After splashing some cool water on her face, she marched out of the restroom as ready as she could be to face the world.

  Anton and Henry cuddled on a loveseat near the window that looked into the bakery kitchen, giving them a front-row seat as the pastry chef rolled the dough for Coffee Grounds’s signature chocolate-cherry swirl cookies. No sign of a beefy bodyguard type. Yet.

  Sylvie sat down on the Burberry-plaid divan across from her fathers and snagged a plate of chocolate-cherry heaven from the coffee table between them. Her spirits rose when the first bite of tart cherry crossed her taste buds. By the third bite she was ready to sink into blissful oblivion.

  “Our friend should be here soon, but before he arrives, let’s raise our lattes in honor of Sylvie, our own High-Heeled Wonder.” Anton held his mug aloft. “For having the scoop of the decade that no one can stop talking about.”

  Henry lifted his green tea. “And for it not being about you, my darling daughter.”

  Sardonic as always, he made an excellent point. Even so, his words put a warm flush of embarrassment in her cheeks.

  “Henry!” Always the softer-edged of the two, Anton probably thought the same thing, but he never would have said it out loud.

  “Oh, she knows what I mean.” Henry shrugged his wide shoulders, nonplussed at his better half’s outburst. “With everyone talking about Pippa Worthington, they won’t be gossiping about Daniel, and our girl will finally leave the house without us having to bribe her with cookies.”

  “But I like cookies.” Sylvie swiped another from the plate, glad neither father commented on her blush.

  “I swear, you two are always like this.” Anton sipped from his mug, his gaze never leaving her face. “So, what didn’t you put in your blog about Pippa? Even if Henry won’t admit it, we’re both dying to know the whole delightfully sordid story.”

  As was everyone else, from photographers to fashion designers to behind-the-scenes powerhouses. Chantal was the must-read magazine for the fashion industry. In Chantal’s editor-in-chief Pippa Worthington’s mind that made her god—and she’d been quoted several times saying so.

  “Everything I can confirm is on the blog. Webster Holdings has issued an order: Either Pippa increases ad dollars and subscribers by twenty percent by the end of the year, or she’s out.”

  “She’s been Chantal’s editor-in-chief for twenty years. I can’t even imagine the magazine without her,” Anton said.

  “The woman is a cold-hearted, power-hungry snob who’s ruled over the fashion press and blackballed designers she hated—like us, Anton—for more than long enough. I can’t wait to see her thrown out on her ass—and I know I’m not the o
nly one. I’ve already ordered a case of champagne in hopes it happens sooner rather than later.”

  Ever since her fathers had ignored Pippa’s advice a decade ago about changing their resort collection—they were quoted in Fashion Times Daily as saying magazine editors needed to stay out of the design room—the arrogant editor had washed Chantal’s pages clean of them. Oh, they were nice to each other in public, all air kisses and fake good intentions, but the three couldn’t stand each other.

  A tall shadow fell on the cookies. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic was snarled up on West Fifty-Seventh.”

  Sylvie’s heart stuttered against her rib cage. That warm, caramel voice. The sudden static of awareness in the air. An inexplicable heat warming her skin.

  Please God, don’t let the potential bodyguard be the man she’d ranted and raved to—and then almost kissed—at the wedding.

  She held her breath and turned to see the man the voice belonged to. Sure enough, Tony Falcon stood next to her in jeans and a smirk, both of which made her wish she’d bothered to put on lipstick and eyeliner.

  His thick, black hair, combed only by his fingers no doubt, touched the collar of his vintage motorcycle jacket. It didn’t just look old; it was old. The black leather had faded creases on the inside of the elbows and the sunburned outline of a badge that probably hadn’t been attached to the jacket for decades. Underneath he wore a gray, ribbed henley pulled taut across his muscular chest and tucked into a pair of worn jeans, soft from wear. A few days’ growth highlighted his square jaw and shadowed the chin dimple that Sylvie had first noticed in the Grand Hibiscus Hotel garden.

  Her pulse kicked up a notch or three gazillion. She didn’t know what she’d been thinking opening up to him, but standing next to him, staring at the way his tuxedo fit as though it had been made for his broad shoulders, and seeing the warmth in his brown eyes, she’d needed to feel wanted. To remember, at least for a few moments, what it was like to be the center of someone’s world. To be desired as a woman. An embarrassed flush crept up her throat, remembering that moment of emotional vulnerability. Thank God Pippa Worthington, of all people, had broken the spell before Sylvie had made an even bigger fool of herself.

  Still, when she hadn’t been on her knees with an old toothbrush and grout cleaner scrubbing away her frustrations in the bathroom this week, she’d been dreaming about Tony Falcon’s lips—especially the full lower lip that had been made to be nibbled. And in her midnight fantasies she’d done a lot more to this man than just suck on his bottom lip.

  Oh. Crap.

  For a second she wondered if having a bodyguard wouldn’t really be that bad, but quickly pushed the idea aside. She would not return to acting like that scared little girl in foster care who read two levels below her grade and raised her fists at every hint of a threat.

  “Crazy traffic today, isn’t it?” Anton looked at her with a dangerous sparkle in his eyes. “Why don’t you take a seat next to our darling—and single—Sylvie. She’s a successful fashion blogger, graduated at the top of her class at Brown, and has a brilliant sense of humor.”

  Just when she thought she’d die of embarrassment, her father took a deep breath and continued the introduction. “Sylvie, darling, this handsome man is Tony Falcon. He is a former police detective who now owns Maltese Security. Obviously, he has a sense of humor, considering that pun. He spent last summer restoring a nineteen sixty-nine Harley Davidson motorcycle—which I hereby order you never to come within an inch of—and makes the best lasagna I’ve ever had the pleasure of eating.”

  Anton beamed at them, his hands folded in his lap, as Tony sat down beside her. Henry shook his head and sipped more green tea, unfazed as usual by his partner’s actions.

  Awkward didn’t begin to cover the moment. Of course, after the past few weeks, she should be totally used to that. Still, there was nothing quite like her father trying to match her up with a guy who’d witnessed her emotional meltdown, and at whom she’d pathetically thrown herself. Thank God for Pippa Worthington. She chuckled to herself. Whoever would have thought?

  “Nice to see you again.” Tony’s voice alone curled her toes.

  Henry perked up. “You know each other?”

  Sylvie kept her gaze firmly locked on the plate of cookies as her cheeks burned. “We met at Anya’s wedding.”

  “Really.” Henry’s voice had gone so cold his tea could have frozen. “I thought we’d made it perfectly clear Sylvie wasn’t to know you were acting as her bodyguard at the wedding.”

  “She didn’t.” Tony cleared his throat. “Until about two seconds ago.”

  A thrum started behind her eyes, vibrating her brain against her skull. “What do you mean, guarding me?”

  Anton made a mewling sound. “Darling, I know you don’t think it’s a big deal but—”

  “You went behind my back and hired security, knowing full well that I don’t want or need it?” Drawing on years of fending off her father’s overprotective instincts, she fought to remain calm. She’d accepted a long time ago that her fathers would never change. She’d learned to maneuver around them. It saved her from going to jail for patricide. Orange was so not her color.

  Anton flapped his hands in the air and his lips moved, but nothing came out.

  Henry squeezed his partner’s thigh. “Yes, that’s exactly what we did.”

  “How long?”

  “Almost a month.”

  Sylvie pinched the bridge of her nose and practiced her yoga breathing. “And why let it out of the bag now?”

  “The threats are escalating. Getting nastier. Tony was at the wedding because of the last threat that mentioned Anya’s big day,” Henry said.

  And there went any calmness brought on by the yoga breathing. Sylvie turned to face the bodyguard she didn’t need. “So you hacked my e-mail. Have you been spying on me in person, too?”

  Tony nodded but kept his mouth shut. A point in his favor. Hot and smart. More’s the pity after today she’d never see him again.

  “So you went against my wishes to hire him.” She set the plate of cookies down on the coffee table with a clank. “You hacked into my e-mail and violated my privacy. All for my own good, I’m sure.” Grabbing her purse off the couch, she swallowed the lump of frustration in her throat. “Do you know what Daniel said to me while he was pounding on the hotel room door? That he knew I loved him, and he hadn’t wanted to break my heart. In his own twisted way, he had been looking out for me, too.”

  “Sylvie, I’m sorry.” Anton’s voice cracked. “We should have told you sooner.”

  “No, you should have abided by my wishes.” Sylvie stood up, her chest tight. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time, Tony. All this troll is doing is being an asshole, and unfortunately there’s no law against that.”

  He shrugged, but there was an obstinate glint in his dark brown eyes. “At least take my card.”

  The glossy black card was embossed with a falcon’s profile. The phone number and e-mail were printed in white. She made sure not to touch his fingers as she slid the card free of his grasp and pocketed it.

  “Thank you.”

  She turned to her fathers. No matter how annoyed she was, she knew it wouldn’t last. They had always been overprotective. She couldn’t expect them to change now, and, to be honest, part of her would miss it if they did. “As for you two, no more hacking or paying someone else to hack into my e-mail, or anything else. Trust me, if this guy goes off the rails, I’ll call Tony and hire him myself. Scout’s honor.”

  Anton opened his mouth, but she narrowed her eyes at him and he shut it.

  “You’re always my little stubborn bulldog, aren’t you, Sylvie?” Henry shook his head. “Accepting help doesn’t make you weak.”

  A lesson he’d taught her when she and Anya had moved into the brownstone. She’d waited for two months after the adoption papers were signed before she’d unpacked her suitcase. After years of shuffling in and out of foster homes, she’d been too scared to trust th
eir good luck.

  “Don’t worry so much, or your blood pressure will go out of whack again.” She kissed her fathers on the cheeks and made her way out of the coffee shop, forcing herself not to take one last look at the hotness that was Tony Falcon. A girl had to have her pride, after all, and the guy had hacked her e-mail. Even so, she put a little extra umph in her strut.

  The morning sun nearly blinded her as she walked out onto Orchard Street. She squinted against the light and turned south for the short walk to her apartment. Double-checking the walk signal, she stepped off the curb, and—

  An engine gunned. A streak of silver flashed across her peripheral vision. Tires squealed. She whipped her head around to see a dark shadow behind the wheel of the speeding car.

  Just as it came straight for her.

  Chapter Three

  “Over the years I have learned that what is important in a dress is the woman who is wearing it.”

  —Yves Saint Laurent

  Tony watched in horror as Sylvie froze in the middle of stepping off the curb. “No!” he wanted to shout as the clueless crowd entered the crosswalk behind her, too busy yapping on their phones to realize what was about to unfold.

  Tony had left the coffee shop, following her and her deliciously tight pants down the block, her stride sure and steady despite her sexy, mile-high shoes. She may have thought their conversation over, but he and the lady had unfinished business.

  He hadn’t even had a chance to catch up with her before being proved right.

  The constant revving of a silver Mercedes’s engine had spooked him, taking him back a year to another busy intersection—raising the hair on the back of his neck and launching him into a dead run. His right knee had screamed in protest as he sprinted, but he’d ignored the ice pick chipping away at the joint that had been rehabbed for half a year and still felt like shit most days.

  All that mattered was getting it right this time.