“What are you cooking?” I asked, rolling up on tiptoes to look over his shoulder.
Will extracted a single sneaker, held between the tongs. He touched the sneaker delicately and grinned. “Perfect.”
“You’re baking your shoes?” I gaped.
Will extracted the other sneaker and set both on the counter. “I’m drying my shoes. We had a game in Golden Gate Park today.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “I didn’t know there was a Guardian Intramural League.”
He flashed a grin. “Lucky for you, there is.”
“There is?”
“No. Now, would you hand me my socks, please?”
I picked up his socks between forefinger and thumb. Not that I’m that delicate a flower, I just didn’t have a lot of experience holding men’s underclothes. Even their ... lowest ... underclothes.
“What are you suiting up for?” I asked as Will yanked on a sock and tried to tie his shoelaces with a pair of oven mitts.
“I’m coming with you.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Why?”
“I’m your Guardian, remember?” He slipped on his second shoe and shook out of the oven mitts. “Ready?”
“Yeah, but when did you suddenly get all Guardian-y?”
Will grabbed his keys off the rack and spun them around one finger. “I thought I was pretty Guardian-y not getting you shot in the alley.” He flashed me a grin that was part admonishment, part “I told you so.”
“Yeah,” I harrumphed, “barely.”
“You know, I only work in fallen angels. That’s all I’m contracted to guard you from,” Will murmured, holding the door open for me. He locked the door behind us and we continued down the stairs and out into the frigid night.
I crossed my arms and stopped dead on the sidewalk. “What does that mean?”
“That means, love”—Will sank his keys into his car lock—“that if you wish to take your life into your own hands hunting writers, I don’t necessarily
I narrowed my eyes. “So what are you coming along for?”
“I’m not the kind of guy who lets a girl go to her doom all by herself.”
I offered Will a sarcastic smile. “What a gentleman.”
“And I got nothing better to do.”
I shrugged. “Suit yourself.” I dug a crushed bag of popchips out of my shoulder bag. I saw Will eye the bag with unrestrained horror.
“You want?” I asked tentatively.
Will grabbed the bag, wound the window down, and tossed out my chips.
“Hey!”
“You do not snack in a 1958 vintage Porsche 365.”
“When did the Boring Police make you their huffy English master?” I grumbled.
Will rolled his eyes and gunned it up California Street, his little car huffing as we rounded Nob Hill. “This it?”
I looked up at the hotel, stately in a uniquely San Francisco way. “Yup.”
Will yanked the car toward the curb, and a white-gloved bellman, who kindly opened my door, offered me a hand.
I made a mental note to hire myself a bellman, once I became filthy rich.
The valet came around and opened Will’s door. Will gave him a quick once-over before handing him the keys, holding his eye.
“She’s precious, you know.”
“I assure you we’ll take the best care of”—the valet eyed Will’s rust-colored clunker—“her.”
“What was that about?” I hissed as Will threaded his arm through mine, guiding me into the lobby.
“Have you not been paying attention, love? I’m your Guardian, and people—things, whatever—are after you.”
“And you think the valet was going to get to me through what? The giant rust stains on the side of your car?”
Will whirled to face me. “Nigella is a vintage 19—”
“I know!” I groaned.
“She just needs a little TLC to be restored back to her former grandeur.”
I rolled my eyes. “So how are we going to find Harley?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Will sized up the broad-shouldered woman behind the front desk. She was looming in a navy blue blazer and smart haircut, head bent, chin jutted out as she held a phone receiver between her shoulder and ear. She was barking short, little retorts every few seconds.
A slow, suggestive grin spread across Will’s face. He licked his puckered pink lips, and I ignored the urge to slide a feather of kisses over him. He was my Guardian; and good-looking or not, he was annoying as hell.
Also, he had a car named Nigella.
He raked a hand through his hair, making the spiky, sand-colored strands stand up in a charmingly disheveled way. He jutted his chin toward the cluster of neatly upholstered chairs that were set up to look like a cozy living- room set. “Wait over there.”
I wandered over to the faux living room and scanned the magazines fanned out attractively on the coffee table, while keeping one eye on Will as he sauntered up to the phone lady. His back was toward me, but that sly grin practically shot out like a force field or an English mating call.
Phone lady didn’t seem to be swayed.
Will leaned seductively against the front desk, and the woman hung up her phone. Her pinched face and naked eyes fixed on him. She offered him what looked like a stock, courteous smile and Will leaned a bit more over the front counter, saying something that I supposed was sexy and suggestive. From the look on the lady’s face, Will was either about to get a master suite or slapped with a restraining order.
He slowly turned and grinned over his shoulder at me, giving me a double thumbs-up, while the lady got back on the phone. From the looks of the dark-suited man quickly barreling toward Will, she had summoned security.
I fished around in my purse for an envelope—this was one time it really paid to pack the world in my shoulder bag—and mashed several magazine pages inside. Then I popped up and wedged my way between the hulking guard and Will.
“Hi, um, excuse me. I’m supposed to deliver this to Harley Cavanaugh. The writer?” I wagged the thick envelope just under the security guard’s nose. Close enough for him to think it was chock-full of very important information; fast enough for him not to realize the envelope said YOU MAY HAVE ALREADY WON $1,000,000!
By the time the security guard pushed me aside, Will had slipped away, and the phone lady turned her static smile on me.
“Did you say you have something for Mr. Cavanaugh?”
“Yes.” I waggled the envelope. “Very important documents. Mr. Cavanaugh needs them right away.”
Now that I was close enough, I could see that the phone lady wore a little engraved nametag on her lapel. “Sharona,” I added, eyeing her name tag.
Sharona pursed her lips and gave me a suspicious once-over. “And who did you say you were?”
“I didn’t. What I did say was that Harley Cavanaugh needs these documents right away.”
Sharona held her palm open. “I’ll see that he gets them.”
