All over the room, heads were nodding. Even Sandra, soft, gentle Sandra, had a determined expression on her face.
His intensity and honesty amazed Kate. In less than ten minutes, he'd changed a bunch of suburban housewives and career women into warriors. With a simple, powerful description of his experiences, he'd made them aware as they had never been aware before.
He returned to a brisk, instructional tone. "Stay away from the bony parts of the face like the cheeks and the chin. Now." He turned to Kate again. "About kicking. Kate, where are you going to kick someone?"
She gave him a significant look. "In the groin."
The room exploded with laughter and a release of tension.
He waited until the hilarity had faded. "Where else?"
She studied him, looked him over thoroughly. "Your knees."
"Right." He turned back to the class. "Any joint is vulnerable, and I like the knee for a couple of reasons. You can bring a strong man down with a well-placed blow that knocks his knee sideways or backward. Your attacker's hands aren't in the vicinity, so he can't grab your foot."
"Want me to practice on you?" Kate offered.
The women were laughing now, and she played to the crowd.
"You're too kind," he mocked. "Now let's talk about your kicking technique—which is none too good. Aim your knee at your target," he said.
"You mean the foot," she answered.
"No, the knee," he corrected. "The knee determines where the foot is going to go and where the kick is going to land."
That made sense, and she nodded.
"Then you turn your hip and snap the foot in one smooth motion." He demonstrated, then indicated Kate should try, also. He moved with her as she kicked, adjusting her forward, giving her more power. As she kicked, he told the class, "If you're wearing flat shoes, and I hope you will be, use the ball of your foot. You'll devastate him. If you're wearing high heels"—he grinned—"put the heel through his foot. A heel is a great weapon." He let go of Kate easily. "But that's a different technique altogether."
Kate aimed her gaze at the mirror and repeated the move until she had it perfect. She was surprised at how much more in control it made her feel to know how to defend herself. She hadn't really felt that way since her dad's death. For that peace of mind, she was grateful to Teague.
Teague. He stood with his hands on his hips and watched Bobbie Jo kick. She had her jaw locked and her eyes narrowed, and she didn't let him go until he pronounced her lethal.
Bobbie Jo asked, "Teague, could you come and talk to my knitting group? We have a wife whose husband beat her up. Twice. We could use someone who'll tell us how to protect ourselves."
Teague chuckled, a long, low laugh that raised goose bumps on Kate's skin. With a kindness she never suspected of him, he said, "Yeah. I'd be glad to do it. Tell me the night and the time. By the way, did you know you can do a lot of damage with those knitting needles?"
As Kate watched him, she thought that perhaps he did have a soul somewhere inside that glorious shell. Perhaps it was only wrapped in layers of indifference cultivated by seeing too much pain and hearing too many cries.
It was an intriguing proposition: Could a woman bring life back to a man who was determined never to allow emotion to touch him?
EIGHT
"She's walking. She's walking. . . ."
"C'mon, baby, turn around, let me see a little of that ass.
"Whoaaa. There she goes."
Teague paused just inside the security center. The guys were gathered around one of the monitors, ignoring their duty and making the kinds of sounds a construction crew would make when a fine-looking woman walked by.
Teague didn't really care. It happened occasionally—guys would be guys, and surveillance was a tedious job that involved watching innocent people and trying to decide if they could be guilty. He required only that his men refrain when the women he employed were around, and that they made damned good and sure someone was keeping an eye on security while they ogled the goods.
"That is one fine piece of—"
Teague lazily shut the door with a click. "Is this something that requires my attention?"
The comments and the laughter died, leaving his men looking abashed enough to rouse Teague's curiosity. He pushed his way into the crowd—and saw her.
There, on the monitor, Kate walked.
She wore a skirt, a clingy pink skirt with a ruffled hem that flirted with her knees and drew a man's gaze up toward her fine and rounded rear . . . which she had apparently encased in one of the smallest thongs on the face of the earth.
At least he hoped she wore a thong. He sure didn't see any sign of one. But a girl like her never went without underwear.
Did she?
For all intents and purposes, she was bare-assed beneath that skirt. That set his imagination on fire.
"Look, Boss." Big Bob pointed to the screen. "Juanita's stopping her."
"Hell." Teague watched as Juanita introduced herself.
Juanita had never let that wheelchair slow her down. With her short brown hair and her comfortable wardrobe, she patrolled the corridors of the capitol, listening to conversations, looking innocent, batting her big brown eyes at the compassionate who helped her and bugging the people who tried to ignore her.
"Juanita must have heard rumors about you and Miss Montgomery," Big Bob said. "That Juanita—she's the best on the floor. Nothing escapes her attention."
"Yeah." Teague loosened his tie. "I know." Right now he wished there were things that did escape her.
Kate took Juanita's hand, smiled, and made conversation.
Why couldn't life be easy? Why did everything have to get jumbled up in love and guilt and sex and . . . well, sex was okay. Sex was great. But the rest of those lousy emotions left a man stumbling around in the dark trying to figure out what to do to make his women happy, and wondering why seeing Juanita and Kate together made him feel this weird combination of horror and delight.
"They're going in opposite directions!"
"Good." Because now Teague could concentrate on Kate and that skirt and those panties or lack thereof.
Okay, she'd been wearing that outfit this morning when they'd left her loft, but it was raining, the first cool rain of a Texas autumn, and she'd donned a raincoat. When they got to the capitol, she'd gone off to find a cameraman—whenever she found one taking a break, she had been filming bits for the piece about him.
God. He tugged at his tie. What was wrong with him? He couldn't take his gaze off her or her austere tan shirt, which looked like a reporter's on-camera garb, or the tall crisscrossed sandals that added inches to her long, sleek legs.
Senator Oberlin noticed. Teague watched as he lingered at the corner of the corridor, waiting to intercept Kate, then faked surprise and pleasure at running into her. Too bad it made Teague murderously angry to see the senator slide his arm around her shoulders and hug her like a paternal uncle when in fact he took the occasion to try for a peek down her blouse. Teague was pleased when Kate had the good sense to slide out from under Oberlin's arm, make her excuses, and continue on her way.
Oberlin stood and watched her go.
"I've got to give it to him—the old guy has good taste." Chun sat glued to the monitor, his nose only inches away from the screen. "That is one fine pair of legs, and they are connected to one fine—"
Teague had him by the collar and up against the wall before Chun could gasp for air. "What were you saying?"
"Shit. Sir. I forgot you were here." Chun's eyes bulged. "I didn't mean to be disrespectful, sir. I would never stare at your woman."
Teague smacked him against the wall again. "She's not my woman, but she is a client." He looked around at the other men who stood sheepish and embarrassed. "While you're enjoying her various body parts, gentlemen, I hope you're also watching for suspicious behavior."
"Yes, sir, we are!" Big Bob saluted as if Teague were his commanding officer. "No suspects close, sir! You don't need to
worry about us keeping an eye on her, sir! We're doing our damnedest, sir!"
Teague loosened his grip on Chun's shirt. "All right, fine, get back to work. Miss Montgomery's not the only job we have here."
"Yeah, but she's the most fun to watch." Big Bob smiled slyly. "Course, we can't blame you for wanting to do the watching yourself. If she were mine, I'd beat up guys who looked at her, too."
"She's not mine, and I'm not beating anyone up over her," Teague said testily. Chun made a choking sound and rubbed his throat.
"I didn't hurt you!" As eyebrows rose throughout the room, Teague's ire shot up. "I don't pay you guys to hang around in here. Go find the bad guys."
"Yes, sir."
"Yes , Teague."
He heard murmurs and saw smirks as everyone sidled past him, and when he turned to glare at Big Bob, Big Bob pointed to the monitor and said, "I have to watch her for the next hour. That is my job."
"Right." Teague shut the door on the closet and headed down toward the East Wing, ground floor. He had business with Miss No Underpants.
He and Kate had settled into an odd sort of truce. He lived in her house, took his turn ordering takeout, did his own laundry, argued about who should have control of the TV remote. The first two days, she'd looked at him warily a lot, as if expecting him to give her the look and send her fleeing again. But he'd been careful to keep it light and normal—even though, for him, it was not normal to spend time in a woman's apartment and not in her bed.
But he didn't tell her that. He didn't kiss her, he touched her only casually—although he made sure he did touch her frequently—and he got his reward. She had relaxed back into letting him take care of her, and he had concentrated on keeping it spontaneous and breezy so he could keep her safe from a stalker. He seemed to have succeeded, and, weirdly enough, he sort of liked living with her . . . even without sex.
Not that he wanted his guys to know that.
He glowered for a moment, thinking of when she blew off his nuts by winning an argument about the education bills in the Senate. He never had been a good loser, although he wasn't stupid enough to think he won that one. But a moment later a crooked little smile curled the edge of his mouth. Maybe for Kate he could become a good loser. She could argue him right into the sheets.
After hearing his qualifications in security, Kate's gym had let him take over the kickboxing class. Every morning he worked with the ladies on their self-defense skills—and he liked them. He'd never really dealt with American women in their natural habitat. He'd seen them on the streets in Brownsville. He'd guarded them when they were wearing their best diamonds. He'd dated them when they wanted to walk on the wild side. But he'd never hung around long enough to hear them brag about their kids, complain about their husbands and their jobs, tell each other how good they looked with that extra ten pounds. They were really nice people, and Kate fit right in.
In fact, Kate fit right in everywhere. She had the gift of adapting, making herself welcome wherever she went, empathizing in a way that made everyone like her. Even Linda Nguyen seemed to tolerate her, and Linda had a personality like an Uzi.
He turned the corner and caught sight of Kate.
So while he'd been playing house with her, apparently he'd convinced her he was as harmless as a fixed old tomcat because here she was, prancing around the corridors of the Texas Capitol with no panties. "Kate!"
She turned at the sound of his voice and smiled. Smiled as if she were pleased to see him.
He was damned pleased to see her, too. Too damned pleased, and still way too relieved that she didn't sidle away. "Come with me."
She hurried to his side' and followed him to the smallest surveillance closet. In a low voice, she questioned, "Did you see something?"
"I sure did."
"About the stalker? So this is over?"
He stopped before the door and looked at her in exasperation.
She stood with her hand on her chest as if she were relieved. Glad their time together was over.
"Hardly that." With his key card, he opened the lock.
His men would see them go in. They'd know what he was doing. They'd laugh and nudge each other.
Teague didn't care. Someday he would, but right now he needed to know what Kate wore under her skirt. Everything about Kate called to him, and he needed to see, to taste, to know. . . .
In a fury at his own lack of control, and in a frenzy of desire, he gestured her inside.
There, monitors gazed out on hallways and computers hummed, and she walked from one to another, her hand flexing on her briefcase.
He shut the door behind him, the definite thunk of a reinforced door against a metal frame.
She turned to watch him, her head tilted as if sensing something of his turbulence. Yet her eyes were puzzled. She didn't understand the cause of his mood.
He stood, back against the door, his chest rising and falling as he stared at her . . . and lusted.
Three nights ago she had seen the killer in him.
Today she obviously saw a different sort of beast, for she flushed. Her gaze dropped. He saw her and realized that this was the moment that proved whether he had frightened her beyond all possibility of desire. This was the ultimate proof—would she let him touch her intimately? Would she trust him not to hurt her?
A hesitant smile trembled on her lips. When she lifted her gaze once more, her eyes were heavy, slumberous. "Is it news you have for me? Or something . . . else?"
She wasn't afraid. She wanted him, too.
He advanced so quickly she didn't have time to retreat. Didn't have a place to retreat. He pushed her against the bare wall, pressed her there with his body against hers. Taking her face in his hands, he kissed her. Penetrated her mouth at once, without taking the time to soften her with gentle touches of his lips and murmured words of admiration.
He didn't understand himself. With her, he lost all finesse, becoming a primitive, overcome with lust and half mad with need.
Maybe that was what the guys had seen in him.
But Kate answered him as if she felt the same madness. Her mouth opened beneath his. She grasped his head, sliding her hands into his hair and holding him
still as he held her. And they kissed. God, how they kissed! His tongue ravaged her mouth, and she sucked on it so passionately he thought she must want to be taken as fiercely as he wanted to take.
Like a narcotic, the taste of her filled his senses, making him want more. She smelled of soap and amber and lavender, clean, warm, and expensive. He nibbled on her lower lip, slid his tongue along the smooth ridges of her teeth. With his eyes closed, he sampled the skin on her cheeks and her eyelids, and as he smoothed his lips over her brow, his hands glided down to her shoulders and settled on her breasts.
He loved boobs, all shapes, all sizes, on any woman and every woman.
But Kate's boobs . . . as he cupped them, weighed them, those two lovely round globes, he found them more magnificent than any he'd ever held. She wore a bra . . . why the hell did she wear a bra when she wore tiny panties, or none at all?
But he didn't pretend to understand women, and certainly not this woman with her intelligence and her wit.
She leaned her head against the wall, distracting him with the sleek length of her throat.
He nuzzled the softest place, sinking his teeth in the skin over her vein.
Her intake of breath vibrated through him, and he pressed his hips against her, trying to relieve the pressure in his loins.
Nothing could do that except to have her.
She moaned as if he'd brought her to ecstasy. Her lips were softly open. Her eyes were closed. She looked like a woman in the throes of climax.
The sound, the scent, the view drove him to satisfy the curiosity that had brought him in here.
Gently, so gently, he cupped her buttocks. The material slipped smoothly beneath his grasp. So soft. So feminine. "Am I hurting you?" His voice was a husky rasp.
"No." Her eyes opened. S
he pierced him with glorious blue desire. "No, you're not hurting me at all."
He could be gentle. He could be . . . hers.
Once again he kissed her.
Or tasted her, she wasn't sure which. It was an investigation, a questioning, as if he wanted to know . . . all kinds of things. Like whether she wanted to kiss him back, and how their bodies meshed together, and if the two of them could remain vertical when the biggest magnet in the world was trying to knock them off their feet and into bed.
The answers were yes, nicely, and God she hoped so.
Because as their bodies melded together, and adjusted, and melded again, and as their lips touched, and turned, and touched again, she wanted nothing so much as to push him onto the floor, rip off his clothes, and screw him silly. The offer he'd silently made the first time she'd seen him—to pull her into a maelstrom of sex and show her pleasure until she reeled from delight—sprang to life in a blaze so hot she felt singed, wicked, glorious.
My God. As if she didn't have enough complications in her life, this one had to come up now.
Vaguely she was aware of the pun, for what had come up was pressed tightly to her belly, and when she rolled her hips against it, Teague pulled her up onto her toes. His fingers explored her. They found the waistband of her thong.
And he gave a husky laugh. It sounded as if he were speaking to himself when he said, "Wouldn't you know it?"
"Know what?" Languorously, she watched him from beneath lids that felt too heavy to lift.
"That you would always be a lady." He caught her chin in his hands. His voice was a husky murmur. "When you want me, when you're ready to submit to me, all you have to do is leave your panties off. And tell me, darling, let me know what you've done. When you tell me, I'll be yours for as long as you want me."
He had always been a handsome man, but now, with his lips damp and his smile flashing, he wore the face of a lover.
Yet he was ruthless.
Close to You Page 9
