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“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.”
