High-Heeler Wonder (Killer Style 1)

The officer paused halfway out the door and turned. “Beef up your security and we’ll both sleep easier tonight.”

Goose bumps popped to attention on her arms at his pronouncement. Great. She had a better chance of becoming fluent in Chinese in one easy lesson than getting any shut-eye tonight.

“She won’t be sleeping here,” Tony said. “She’s coming with me.”

Sylvie whipped around. “This is my home.”

He arched an eyebrow at her, looking unimpressed. “Exactly my point.”

“Well then, I leave it to you two to work out.” The officer ambled down the hall, bypassing the stairs for the elevator.

Giving herself a few moments to gather her mental armor, Sylvie shut the door and methodically flipped the dead bolts. The idea of offering her stalker even one victory by running scared made her twitch. If growing up in foster care had taught her anything, it was that even a single sign of weakness was one too many. By the time she turned eight she’d known better than to let her real feelings show, let alone vulnerability. Not surprisingly, her Tums addiction had been well established by the time Henry and Anton adopted her at twelve.

She turned and kept her back pressed against the wood door. The smart move was obvious: Find new digs until she and Tony got to the bottom of this mess. The simplicity of it didn’t make it any easier to swallow. Giving in twisted her insides like a clown with a balloon. If Anya were here, she’d be rolling her eyes at Sylvie’s stubborn attitude. Anton would be apoplectic. Her ex, Daniel, would be ranting.

Whatever.

She glanced at Tony. Tension tightened the line of his shoulders. The snap of popping knuckles broke the silence as he fidgeted with his hands. But in his heavily fringed eyes, she saw only understanding.

God. She must be easier to read than a Dr. Seuss book.

Or…did he just get her?

Chapter Eight

“Style is a simple way of saying complicated things.”

—Jean Cocteau

Pulling into his driveway on the leafy suburban street where he’d grown up, Tony glanced around for the relatives who always seemed to show up the moment he put his car in park. For once the coast was clear.

“Are you sure about this?”

“You bet. Nowhere safer in the world.” Tony got out of the Charger.

A screen door slammed open and a three-foot-high blur burst out of the single-story ranch house. Before Tony could warn Sylvie of the coming onslaught, or even close his car door, a face sticky with peanut butter pressed hard into his leg and a chubby five-year-old’s arms locked around his knees.

“Kermit is coming.” Wild brown eyes stared up at him. “Save me, Uncle Tony!”

Tony hooked his hands under his nephew Joey’s armpits and swung him high onto his shoulders. The boy’s hands clapped across his eyes, temporarily blinding him. Of course, he didn’t need sight to identify his next attacker. The cold, wet nose buried in his crotch announced Kermit’s arrival as effectively as a business card, though the huge shaggy paw crushing Tony’s right foot was doing a fine job of that.

“Ryder, call off your beast,” Tony hollered, knowing full well that his sister would be near. She was the only other human being Kermit loved more than Joey.

A sharp whistle split the air. The pressure disappeared from Tony’s foot and he wiggled his toes experimentally, making sure none were broken. They hurt, but at least they moved.

Joey removed his hands from his face, leaving a sticky trail behind, and proceeded to suck the leftover peanut butter from his fingers.

“I warned Joey to stop sneaking peanut butter. It’s Kermit’s crack.” Ryder stood on the porch with her hands on her hips and a smirk curling one side of her mouth. The one-hundred-and-fifty-pound Newfoundland sat by her side, his fat tongue lolling out of his mouth as he gazed adoringly up at her.

“Alessandra must have been desperate to leave you in charge. What happened?”

“Very funny.” She made a face at him. “Parent-teacher conference for the Tasmanian Devil, here.” Suddenly, she caught sight of Sylvie. “Is that who I think it is?”

Tony turned to Sylvie. Her eyes had gone wide and she was plucking at her purse strap. “Sylvie Bissette, meet my sister, Allegra Falcon.”

“Really, do you still have to do that?” His sister strode over and punched him in the shoulder. Hard. “Call me Ryder, everyone does.”

“Except mom,” he said.