Just Another Pretty Face (HT 459) (7 page)

"We'd like to look at some dresses," Pierce said, ignoring Nikki's inarticulate sound of protest. He squeezed her hand, preventing her from withdrawing it from his, and glanced down at her long, jeans-clad legs and then back up again, giving her a playfully lascivious wink. "Short dresses," he said, his voice and expression all business as he turned back to the sales-clerk.

"Day or evening?" the young woman inquired in an equally businesslike tone as her fleeting fantasies of romance faded under the reality of Pierce Kingston's obvious fascination with the exotic dark-haired woman by his side. A fat commission check would have to suffice.

"Evening," Pierce said, with another quick glance at Nikki. In her black leather bomber jacket and cowboy boots, with a white T-shirt tucked into a pair of skintight jeans, her daytime look was right in step with current Tinsel Town fashion trends.

"Any preference as to color or style?"

"Nikki?" Pierce said.

She glared at him, stubbornly refusing to answer.

He grinned. "Simple styles," he said to the sales-clerk. "Sleek and narrow and not too fussy. Maybe one of those skinny little dresses that look like a slip. And one of those slinky numbers made with lots of span-dex." He glanced at Nikki's set face, then let his gaze drift down her body. "Yeah, definitely one of those spandex dresses," he said, thoroughly enjoying himself. "And a leather miniskirt like the one on that mannequin over there." He lifted a suggestive eyebrow. "I have a real thing for ladies in leather," he said, his voice low and confiding. He brushed the fingers of his free hand down the arm of Nikki's black leather bomber jacket to emphasize the point. "In a size—" he cast another assessing, caressing glance down Nikki's long, lean body, from the top of her feathery haircut to the toes of her cowboy boots,"—eight?" he guessed.

Nikki stared straight ahead, refusing to answer him. He
would
be able to tell her size just by looking, she fumed silently. He'd undoubtedly had lots and lots of experience in buying clothes for women. And in this store, too, if the avaricious gleam in the salesclerk's eyes was anything to go by. Well, he wasn't buying any clothes for her!

"Colors?" the salesclerk asked.

"Vivid," Pierce said with authority. "Red, black, bright purple, hot pink. Green, if you've got it in a shade to match her eyes. And something with a little flash and sparkle, too. Maybe with sequins, if you have it. We're going to a premiere in a couple of weeks," he explained, glancing at Nikki for her reaction to that bit of information.

She continued to ignore him. The clerk smiled and nodded and went away to find what he'd asked for.

"You're wasting your time," Nikki hissed when the young woman was out of earshot. "I'm not going to wear anything she brings out here. I'm not even going to try it on."

"It's my time to waste," Pierce said pleasantly. "And you are, too, going to try it on. Because I'm going to insist."

"You can insist until doomsday but it isn't going to do you any good. I'm not going to wear any of these overpriced glad rags."

"We discussed this last night after you brought your stuff to the house, didn't we? And again this morning at breakfast," he said, still more amused than impatient with her intractability. "I thought you understood that as my live-in lover you're going to need a larger, more extravagant wardrobe than you have at present."

"And I thought
you
understood that I can't afford a more extravagant wardrobe. Especially one that comes from Rodeo Drive."

"Which is why I'm paying for it."

"No," Nikki said. "You're not. And neither am—"

"Here we are." The salesclerk swooped back into the showroom with at least a dozen dresses on a rolling clothes rack. "These are just my first selections. I have others if none of these are what you had in mind."

"These will do just fine to start with," Pierce assured her. He turned his gaze on Nikki. "Won't they, darling?"

"No, they won't," Nikki snapped back at him under her breath.

Pierce smiled at the salesclerk. "Why don't you take those to a dressing room, Maria?" he suggested graciously, as unconcerned as if stubborn women who turned down expensive new clothes were an everyday occurrence when, in his experience, just the opposite was true. Woman never turned down gifts from him. Especially not expensive gifts. "We'll be there in a moment."

He waited until the salesclerk had retreated. "Look," he said turning back to Nikki with the exaggerated patience of an adult dealing with a fractious, unreasonable child, "just what exactly is your problem with this?"

"My problem," Nikki said, looking at him in a way that was anything but childlike, "is that I'm not some little tootsie who lets men she hardly knows buy her expensive gifts."

"It isn't a gift. Not the way you mean it, anyway." He smiled cajolingly. "If it'll make you feel better, think of it as one of the perks of the job."

"I don't want any special perks, either," she said huffily, affronted by the suggestion that mere semantics would make a difference to her.

"Think of it as a requirement, then," he snapped, his amusement finally giving way to impatience.

Nikki narrowed her eyes and glared at him.

Pierce narrowed his eyes and glared back at her.

A full five seconds passed as they stood there, hands clasped, and tried to frown each other into submission.

"I'll make a scene," Pierce warned.

"You wouldn't."

"Yes, I would," he said with relish. "A huge, noisy scene that'll turn that pretty face of yours bright red with embarrassment." He tapped her nose with his forefinger to emphasize the point and grinned his pirate's grin. "And I think you already know that it wouldn't embarrass me in the least."

Nikki knew. Even on the basis of barely two day's acquaintance, she knew. The man had absolutely no sense of decorum or self-consciousness; too many people had been staring at him for too long for it to bother him.
I shouldn't let it bother me, either,
she told herself.
I'm made of sterner stuff than that.
And if they were someplace else—on a military base or in the middle of a war zone, say, or anyplace where she was indisputably in charge—it
wouldn't
bother her. But in the middle of Beverly Hills, in a ritzy store with snooty salesclerks, with a man she couldn't threaten to throw into the brig if he didn't behave himself... and never mind the unnerving fact that her knees tended to disintegrate to the consistency of overcooked noodles every time he smiled at her.

"You're a snake," she said, in a quiet voice. "An unprincipled, low-down, no-good, conniving, manipulating snake."

Pierce's grin widened. "Does that mean we'll do this my way?"

"Yes, damn it," she hissed, giving in with absolutely no attempt at accepting defeat gracefully. "I'll try them on. But once we're out of here I won't wear them anywhere. Ever."

* * *

"STUPID SHOES," Nikki muttered, frowning down at the black spike heels Pierce Kingston had picked out to go with the "slinky black number" she was wearing. If she hadn't been quick enough to catch herself on the newel post, she'd be sprawled face down on the kitchen floor. As it was, she'd dropped her purse when she reached out to break her fall, sending the contents flying in all directions across the tile.

Lisbeth Greene, sitting at the kitchen table in the same chair she'd occupied yesterday afternoon, glanced up from under her wispy bangs, sniffed and went back to taking notes from the open textbook in front of her.

With a muffled oath, Nikki crouched down and began gathering her scattered possessions. "I'm fine," she said, as if Lisbeth had expressed concern. "No damage done."

Lisbeth still didn't move from her chair at the table. "Do you need any help?" she asked finally, surreptitiously watching Nikki's head bob up and down as she scooted around in search of loose change, old receipts and stray ballpoint pens.

"That's really sweet of you, Lisbeth, but I think I've got everything. Except..." Her voice trailed off. "Ah, there it is," she said, reaching under the table. Her arm wasn't quite long enough. "Could you reach down and get that for me, please, Lisbeth? It's right by your foot."

"Get what?" Lisbeth asked in a bored voice. But she bent down to look. Her eyes rounded in surprise as they met Nikki's under the table. "Is that a
real
gun?" she asked, suddenly sounding much younger than the nineteen years Nikki knew her to be.

"A 9mm Baretta," Nikki said as she backed out from under the table and got to her feet. "So pick it up carefully. By the butt, please."

Lisbeth reached down and picked up the pistol in two fingers. "Do you always carry a gun?" she asked, holding it out toward Nikki.

"When I'm working, yes," Nikki said. "Always."

"Are you a good shot?" Lisbeth asked, watching as Nikki checked the pistol for damage.

"It wouldn't make much sense to carry it if I wasn't, now would it?" Nikki said, making sure the safety was in place before putting the gun back into her purse.

"Wow. I guess you really are a bodyguard."

Nikki lifted an eyebrow. "Did you think I wasn't?"

Lisbeth shrugged and looked away, obviously uncomfortable with the question. "I dunno," she mumbled.

"Well, I can assure you, I am—"

"Ah, Miss Martinelli, there you are," Marjorie Gil-more said as she came into the kitchen with a cut-crystal vase in each hand. "Mr. Kingston was just wondering if you were ready yet."

Nikki grimaced. "As ready as I'll ever be, I guess," she said, and tugged at the hem of her dress.

"You look very nice," Lisbeth said, offering a small, guarded smile. "Doesn't she look nice, Aunt Margie?" she added, looking to her aunt for confirmation.

Marjorie Gilmore glanced up from the sink where she was preparing to wash the vases. "Very nice," she said, her clipped tones making Nikki feel like an under-dressed bimbo.

Or more of a bimbo, anyway, than she had standing in front of the mirror in her room upstairs. She tugged at the hem of the stretchy black dress again, wishing it came a little farther down on her thighs and wondering what was going to happen when she sat in it. Four years in a marine uniform didn't prepare a woman for the rigors of wearing civilian evening clothes, especially a woman who'd grown up as a dress-hating tomboy who'd always preferred to wear exactly what her four older brothers wore because it made her feel more like one of the boys.

But one couldn't really get away with wearing old jeans or motorcycle leathers to a taping of the "Arsenio Hall" show. Unless the jeans were custom shredded by Calvin Klein. And the leathers were jewel-studded Chanel originals. And you were either as outrageous as Cher or as famous as Elizabeth Taylor. Or both.

Not that Nikki was actually going to be
on
"Arsenio Hall." She had absolutely put her foot down on that. But she would be backstage while Pierce went on. And then—
Oh, joy!
she thought with dread—they were going out to dinner afterward. And even she had to admit that her conservative red suit with the slim knee-length skirt and boxy jacket wouldn't cut it on the Hollywood glamour circuit; she didn't have to be hit over the head with a lead pipe to realize that Pierce Kingston and his ilk didn't date women who dressed like somebody's secretary.

So here she was, decked out in a dress that was too short and earrings that were too long and high heels that made her wonder if she was risking a broken ankle for the sake of a job.

"I feel like ten pounds of pork stuffed into a five-pound-sausage casing in this thing," Nikki said.

"Oh, no," Lisbeth assured her, with another small smile. "You look just like a model. You could be Robin Givens's partner on 'Angel Street.'"

"Thanks," Nikki said, surprised that Lisbeth had unbent enough to actually compliment her.

Ten minutes ago, Nikki would have sworn the young woman would have cheered if she'd broken her neck falling down the stairs. Now here she was, acting almost friendly.
Because she believes I'm a real bodyguard now and not competition for the lord of the manor?
Nikki mused, wondering if the whole fan letter thing could be solved as easily as that.

"Was there something you wanted in the kitchen, Miss Martinelli?" the housekeeper asked pointedly when Nikki continued to stand there, staring thoughtfully at her niece.

"Wanted? Oh, yes. Pepto," Nikki remembered. "I came down here to see if you had any Pepto-Bismol. I couldn't find any in the guest bathroom."

"We don't keep it in the kitchen," Mrs. Gilmore said, as if Nikki should have known that. "But I'm sure there's some in the supply closet upstairs. Lisbeth will get it for you."

"No. No, that's all right." Nikki waved Lisbeth back down in her chair, trying to sneak a peek at the girl's notebook without being obvious about it. "I don't want to interrupt your studying," she said, realizing she couldn't tell anything about the handwriting by trying to read it upside down. She gave up the effort and pulled open the double-wide stainless steel door of the refrigerator. "I'll just have some milk instead. That'll settle my stomach just as well as the Pepto."

"Don't you feel good?" Lisbeth asked.

"It's just nerves." Nikki reached for a carton of milk. "I've never been out to dinner with a movie star before."

"Get Miss Martinelli a glass, Lisbeth," Marjorie Gil-more said, as if she thought Nikki were going to drink straight from the carton.

For a second, Nikki contemplated doing exactly that, just to see the expression on the housekeeper's face. But her innate good manners and her mother's training asserted themselves, and she took the glass that Lisbeth held out to her. "Thanks," she said, smiling at the younger woman.

Lisbeth smiled back for the third time in as many minutes. Although it wasn't exactly part of her job description—she'd only been hired to protect Pierce, not find out who'd been writing him mash notes—Nikki decided to do a little probing. "You wouldn't want to go tonight in my place, would you?" she asked as she poured milk into her glass.

"Don't you want to go?"