Bodyguard by Suzanne Brockmann Page A

and had picked up a number of things from her list, including some cheap makeup. She’d put it on immediately and had instantly felt a little bit better. A little bit more in control.
    She shifted back very slightly on the bed, pulling her legs out from beneath her. She moved just a little bit so that the stream of light from the open door fell on her carefully made-up face, on the shining gold of her hair, on the deep V-neck of the pajamas she wore, giving him aflash of skin, a clear shot of her delicately boned ankles, a hint of gracefully shaped legs.
    It was a calculated movement, a subtle invitation to look, meant to distract and befuddle. A nonverbal change of subject.
    And although Harry did look, his gaze lingered insolently on her breasts before he practically scraped his way down her legs. He wasn’t at all distracted. And certainly not befuddled.
    “Did you try this on Michael Trotta?” he murmured, his gaze intimately tracing the curve of her hips and thighs before moving back to meet her eyes.
    Alessandra pulled her knees in to her chest, holding them tightly, instantly embarrassed. This was her fault. She’d done it automatically. All her life she’d used her looks as a bargaining chip. But she should have known not to play with fire. It was all she could do not to burst into tears. “I don’t know what—”
    “Yes,” he said. “You do. You know damn well what you look like. You didn’t want to admit to me that you were thinking about calling Trotta, so you figured you’d change the subject by giving me a hard-on. Well, guess what, Al. Didn’t work.”
    Alessandra felt a flare of anger at the crassness of his words. “You really are—” She stopped herself.
    “What?”
    She turned away. “No. I refuse to be dragged down to your level.”
    “A fucking bastard. That’s what you want to say, isn’t it?”
    Alessandra stood up and began pulling the covers back from the pillow. “You said it, I didn’t.”
    He sat on the end of the bed before she could pull the bedspread all the way off. “I really am curious, though. What was Trotta’s response?”
    She tugged at the spread. “Excuse me. I’m very tired and—”
    “He could buy and sell you.” Harry didn’t move. “In a way, he already has. Think about it. He pays a price—and not even a particularly high price for a guy with as much money as he has—and someone snuffs out your life.”
    She gave up on that bed and moved to the other one.
    “Oh, but wait,” Harry said, feigning a sudden realization. “You don’t think he’s really put out a contract on you. That’s why you were going to call him, right? You think two car bombs in your garage is the result of some kind of clerical error.”
    She stiffly kept her back to him as she turned down the sheets of the second bed.
    “So, tell me, Allie,” he continued. “What were you planning to say to him when you got him on the line?” He did a poor imitation of a female voice. “ ‘Please, Mikey, tell me it’s all been just a big mistake.’ And what do you think he’s gonna say to you when you say that? I’ll give you a few extra seconds to think that one over—I don’t want you to strain yourself.”
    Alessandra turned to face him, letting herself hate him. “I’d like you to get out of here.”
    He moved then, but it was only to sit in another position, his back against the headboard, his legs stretched out comfortably on the bed. “He’s gonna say, ‘Why, of course, Mrs. Lamont.’ ” This time he did a rather chillingly accurate imitation of Trotta’s dulcet tones. “ ‘It is indeed a mistake, Mrs. Lamont. Please come into my office, Mrs. Lamont, and I’ll take care of everything.’ ”
    “Maybe he will say that. I gave back the money.”
    Harry laughed, arranging the pillows more comfortably behind him. “Oh, yeah. He’ll say it. But you know what happens next? You know how he’ll ‘take care ofeverything’? You can go in there and flash him