High-heeled Wonder (A Killer Style Novel) (Entangled Ignite) (4 page)

She shrugged. “Five or ten a week. People can be very passionate about fashion. Usually they’re from fans who feel I’ve attacked their favorite actor when I point out his outfit is a mess. That sort of thing. Occasionally, I get a passive aggressive note from a publicist. Then, there are the weirdos who want to date me and sometimes plead their case with photos that I do not
need
or
want
to see.”

The number of cock shots a female blogger could get in a week would keep
Playgirl
busy for years. Something about the anonymity of the Internet along with the perceived intimacy of a blog really brought out the loony in some people.

“Why don’t you go by your real name? Most people would want to play up those kinds of insider connections.”

“Anton and Henry have already done so much for my sister and me. They got us out of foster care, raised us as their own, and would give us the world if we asked. But, as I said, fashion is insular. I knew I’d be ruffling feathers and I didn’t want my fathers to take flack for that. Plus, I don’t want to trade on their name. Building the site, getting it to half a million unique visitors a day, that’s something I wanted to do on my own.”

Tony drummed his fingers on the granite counter. “We should get some information from your hard drive, but until I can get my computer guy to take a look, can you think of anyone you’ve ticked off recently?”

Damn it, she was beginning to wonder who she
hadn’t
pissed off.

“There’s Daniel, for obvious reasons, but I can’t imagine why he’d be sending me nasty e-mails
before
I found him giving a waiter head. Then we’d have to look at Anders Bloom.”

“Who?”

“He’s the latest incarnation of Alexander McQueen—or at least he thinks he is. The truth is he just pushes buttons for the sake of gaining attention. I wrote about his pre-fall collection being a hot mess, and just found out today that somehow he knows my real identity.”

She needed to warn her fathers. God knew what stories Anders was spreading about their involvement in her blog.

“Anyone else?”

Reaching into the fridge, she bought time by grabbing a soda and downing half the can. Sure, she’d ticked off a few people with the blog, but enough to make them run her down in the middle of a crowded street? It was all too bizarre.

She touched a drop of condensation on the can. “I have a couple of regular readers who are less than stable, a former blogger friend, Ivy Rhodes, who’s refused to answer my e-mails for about four months, and I just broke the story of the decade about Pippa Worthington.”

“The editor of
Chantal
?” He leaned back against the counter.

Damn, the man looked good in a kitchen.

“Two points for the detective. Yes, she’s
Chantal
’s editor-in-chief, but only for the next few months if she can’t boost subscriptions and ad revenues. Her assistant hates her with a passion unknown to mortal man and, in a case of righteous vengeance, is going out with a glorious bang by leaking me all sorts of juicy information.”

“I feel all warm and fuzzy,” he drawled.

She toasted him before downing the rest of her drink. “Welcome to the wonderful world of fashion.”

Chapter Five

“I base most of my fashion taste on what doesn’t itch.”

—Gilda Radner

The one-bedroom apartment’s walls threatened to close in on Tony. While not a disaster zone, there was stuff everywhere—shoes, scarves, and candles with names like Peapod Pleasure and Devine Deviant. He took a deep whiff of the last one. Cherries.
Of course
. Weaving around the fashion magazines forming chin-high towers, he came face to snout with a weird bronze fox that made up a lamp base.

Most disconcerting of all, he couldn’t escape Sylvie’s lavender scent. It clung to her deep purple curtains and the caramel-colored leather couch, following him everywhere as he prowled the open space for the past few hours.

Acidic energy ate its way through his bones, burning through his patience and tolerance for being inside the same four walls for any length of time. He hated spinning his wheels. But it was too late in the day to bust in on Anders Bloom or Sylvie’s estranged blogger friend Ivy Rhodes without looking desperate and setting off alarm bells. On a case like this, sticking to the plan often meant the difference between success and failure.

His pacing took him into the kitchen. A glass jar filled with spaghetti caught his eye and offered the possibility of tomato-flavored salvation. Some good gravy would cover up her teasing scent. Without the lavender distraction, he could focus on beefing up the suspect dossiers. Immediately, he set to work scrounging for ingredients.

Tony’s mom would have a heart attack if she ever opened one of Sylvie’s cupboards. Not that they were bare, but they weren’t filled to overflowing with cans of tomato paste, jars of spices, and gallons of olive oil. He dug past a mound of energy bars into the darkest recesses to pull out two cans of diced tomatoes and some dried basil. Right on cue, his stomach growled.

“Do you have any garlic?” he called.

Sylvie glanced up from her laptop and leveled her slightly bleary green eyes on him. She’d been sitting there in her own world, trying to get the rest of the week’s posts uploaded before she had to give up her laptop to his computer guy, Carlos. For the past two hours she’d been typing away and muttering that gray being the new black was the stupidest thing she’d ever heard. He’d always figured black was the only black, so he’d stayed quiet.

“Garlic?” Her breathy voice twisted something inside him.

“Yeah, you know, it’s a white bulb thing. You use it for cooking.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m laughing so hard here you’re making my sides hurt.” She tilted her head back and rolled her shoulders before arching her back in a long stretch that lengthened specific parts of Tony’s anatomy.

Peeling his gaze away, he forced his gaze back to the can of tomatoes in his white-knuckled grip. But his ears, attuned to her every move, caught the scrape of her chair on the tile floor, the soft patter of her feet, and the creak of the refrigerator opening. The mental image of her ass bending over in those second-skin-like yoga pants as she searched the fridge was almost worse than seeing it in real life.

A soft giggle brought him out of his fantasy. That sliver of difference between his imagination and the even-better reality hit him smack in the jaw.

She stood with one hip cocked and a smirk on her face. “Careful there, Iron Man, or you’ll dent the can.” She tossed the garlic bulb to him like a pop fly.

He stifled a groan and caught the garlic before it hit him between the eyes. “Thanks.”

She hopped up onto the island and swung her legs over the edge. “You’re cooking?” She swept up her thick hair into one hand and then looped it around until it formed a complicated knot, which she locked into place with a pencil.

His fingers itched to pluck it out and watch the honey strands fall past her shoulders. The lip of the tomato can bit into his palm. “Making gravy.”

“Turkey or meatloaf?”

“Pasta.”

“You mean pasta sauce?”

“Yeah. Gravy.”

She jumped down from the island and tugged a yellow apron from a drawer, pulling it over her head. “I just uploaded my last post. What can I do to help?”

The apron strings circled her waist, drawing his attention to her curves. He had to get the woman out of the room or he was going to go all Hulk o
n the defenseless tomato can. “I got it.”

“No doubt about that, but I need something to do that doesn’t involve stalkers, murderous drivers, or the trend of empire waists in the latest collections.” She yanked a stockpot from a cupboard. “Come on, throw a girl a bone.”

So
tempting. If she only knew…

“You can start tearing up two slices of bread for the meatballs.”

“Aye, aye, captain.” She fetched a loaf of bread from the pantry, hit the MP3 player’s
on
button, and turned her back to him while she tore the bread into little bits.

A dance beat filled the kitchen. Definitely not his music of choice, but he developed a new appreciation for the quick beat while watching Sylvie twitch her hips in time with the bass thumps. Tearing his gaze away, he grabbed the stockpot off the island and went to work making the gravy.

The kitchen wasn’t his normal domain, but he could make a few things pretty well, thanks to Nonni. His grandmother had one unbreakable rule: If you wanted to eat in the dining room as a kid, you helped in the kitchen. He’d started stirring the sauce when he was tall enough to see over the top of the pot without a stool, and had moved on to meatballs when his younger sister hit a growth spurt and took over with the wooden spoon. Sylvie’s kitchen didn’t have all the ingredients he needed for Nonni’s recipe, but there was enough there for a simple sauce.

They worked together in silence while it simmered on the stove, the oregano scent thankfully drowning out the lavender. However, his hypothesis tanked because he still couldn’t snuff out his extrasensory awareness of her. His body stood as primed as a fourteen-year-old boy’s during his first slow dance with the hottest girl in school.

She grooved around the kitchen chopping parsley and gathering ingredients. “I wouldn’t have pictured you as someone who liked to cook.”

He shrugged. “Since I like to eat, it seemed smart to learn the basics.”

She wiped her hands on the apron. “Great minds think alike.”

Steam rose from the bowl of pasta, filling the air around Sylvie with the mouth-watering aroma of oregano and tomatoes. They’d finished cooking and settled on opposite sides of her tiny table to enjoy the fruits of their shared labor. She sneaked a peek at Tony twirling the long strands of spaghetti around his fork. Ignoring her earlier advice, her girls sat up and took ardent notice of the way he sucked the thin noodles into his mouth.

The sunset’s last soft amber rays filtered in through the west-facing window that overlooked Harbor City’s crowded skyline. How often had she gazed out at that scene from the other side of the harbor, resigned to the fact that people only wanted to adopt the youngest or the cutest? Too often. More depressing still, her existence had severely limited any interest potential parents had in her baby sister, Anya.

The first time Henry and Anton had shown up at the adoption day event, they’d spent an hour chatting with Anya. Sylvie had stayed off to the side, not wanting to kill her sister’s opportunity for a family. The need for a chance of her own had squeezed her lungs tight, but she’d loved her sister too much to ruin her chances yet again. The hotdogs and corn on the cob had barely been served when the two men had sought out the adoption counselor.

She’d known the instant the counselor had told them Anya had a sister. Even worse, she’d imagined the counselor saying, it was an older sister who had a learning disability and a temper. The whole world had stopped turning and the bite of hotdog in her mouth lost all flavor. Sylvie had wanted to scream and break things to avoid hearing the rejection again, and having to see the tears in Anya’s eyes. Instead, the strangest thing had happened. Henry had smiled right at her and gave her a little wave from across the picnic grounds. The small, sweet-natured gesture had shattered the boulders chained to her shoulders, and for the first time in a life full of aching disappointment, she’d felt something different.

Hope.

“I promise I didn’t poison the gravy.” Tony’s deep rumble popped her bittersweet memory balloon.

She took a deep breath, regaining her footing in the here and now. “I hope not. That would make you a complete failure as a bodyguard.”

He flinched, a grimace twisting his lips for a second before the expression slid away, replaced by a mask so studiously neutral she wondered what could possibly be lurking behind it.

Her cheeks burned. “Sorry, bad joke.”

He gave her a curt nod and went back to eating.

Searching for something to say and failing miserably, she took a bite of spaghetti dripping in sauce. The oregano, garlic, and tomato mixed together on her tongue like a present from above. “Oh my God, this is so good.”

“You should try my Nonni’s gravy. Puts this to shame.”

She swirled her finger through a red dollop on the plate’s edge and sucked it clean, closing her eyes to fully appreciate the savory goodness. “If it’s better than this, your Nonni should open a restaurant.”

“She says it’s only good when you make it for someone you care about.”

She opened her eyes and sighed. “Ah, a romantic.”

“Something like that.” He laughed and relaxed back into his seat. “Poppi says that when she’s mad at him, she won’t let him have any gravy.”

Sylvie giggled and raised her glass of red wine. “To Nonni.”

“Yes, to Nonni.” Tony clanked his glass against hers.

During dinner they talked about their favorite restaurants, his vintage motorcycle collection, and the bronze fox lamp in the living room she’d found at a flea market in Connecticut. Conversation flew as they devoured crunchy garlic bread and spaghetti. By the time they finished the pasta and a bottle of Malbec, a supercharged relaxation had seeped into her bones, leaving her as contented as an old dog sleeping in the late afternoon sun.

The tension had evaporated from Tony’s body, too. The deep worry lines in his forehead were gone and his full lips had lost their grim line, instead curling up at the corners. He’d pushed up the sleeves of his gray henley, showing off his sinewy forearms dusted with dark hair as he made broad gestures to emphasize his stories. In her world, almost every man she knew had a personal waxer, so the sight of something so undeniably testosterone-driven set off a flare of interest that had her twisting in her seat.

“You know all about my family. Tell me about yours,” she prompted.

He shrugged. “Not much to tell. I grew up in Waterberg with my entire family living within five miles of my Nonni’s front door.”

For the first part of Sylvie’s life it had just been her and Anya. They’d never known their father. She had gossamer-like recollections of their mother. Mostly her soft laugh, punctuated by the memory of their final, terrible night together and the bottomless despair in her mother’s green eyes when she’d shut her daughters in the closet. The gunshot that followed had changed everything.

Sylvie washed the ever-present heartache down with a gulp of red wine. “Brothers? Sisters?”

“Two of each.”

“And they still live here?”

“Yep.”

“What do they do?”

“They’re all cops, like my dad and my uncles—except for one sister.”

“Aren’t you the black sheep,” she mused. “Why not go into the family business?”

His face darkened and his back stiffened against the straight-back chair. “I did. It didn’t work out.”

Okay… She reached across the table and covered his much larger hand with hers. “Well then, I am a very lucky woman, because where would I be now without you?”

The tense muscles in his fingers relaxed beneath hers. Something thickened the oregano-tinged air around them, thickening the moment and sending her heart on a roller-coaster ride. Seemingly of their own accord, her fingers slid between his, wrapping around his strong digits. Sucking on her bottom lip, she looked up to his face.

His brown eyes darkened to deep umber under his heavily fringed lashes, and his broad shoulders slanted forward. His gaze, as tactile as a touch, slid across her skin, leaving a blaze of hunger in its wake that no amount of divine pasta could satisfy.

Her nipples pebbled against her lace bra, so much tighter than it had been a moment ago. The material scratched against her sensitive flesh. Lips parted, hungry for the taste of him, she leaned forward until she was so close that his soft breath caressed her cheek. Only a few inches of charged air separated them and she desperately wanted to breach that chasm. The unyielding table edge pushed against her hips as she stretched forward and her eyelids drooped.

Tony’s chair screeched against the tile floor and his hand jerked away from hers. Her eyes snapped open. He stood next to the table, evidence of his arousal clear from the impressive bulge straining against his zipper. Slowly, her mind processed the deadly grip with which he held his empty plate and the stubborn set to his jaw.

“It’s late. I’ll take care of the dishes.” He pivoted on his heel and beelined it to the sink.

With the effectiveness of double-layered shapewear, mortification squeezed the air out of her lungs. “Look, I’m not sure exactly what happened here.”

“I shouldn’t have moved in like I was going to kiss you earlier. It made you assume that this”—he waved his hand in the air— “could happen. But your life’s on the line, Sylvie, and I can’t afford to lose sight of that.” He shoved a plate into the dishwasher.

Chaos reigned in her thoughts as she regarded him. “The timing sucks, but I don’t understand—”

“You wouldn’t understand.” He whipped around, anger burning in his expression. “Not someone with your charmed existence. But I lost focus once and it cost my partner his life. He died because I didn’t bring my A-game to the job. I can’t let that happen again. I
won’t
. Boundaries are necessary so I can concentrate on catching this creep.”