She was still catching her breath when he delivered the ultimatum. The kind of ultimatum that required working brain cells, but in fact Teague and his magic kisses had ruined every cognitive function.
She stared at him and tried to think, but her reaction was more instinct than intellect.
It didn't matter that Teague looked as if he would fit in her life. That was an illusion.
It didn't matter that she suffered an infatuation so acute it felt like love.
He was dangerous.
She knew it in her bones, just as she knew he wanted her. She'd seen it in his face. She knew, too, that if she gave in, landed in his bed, found ecstasy in his touch, she would be the one hurt when he walked away.
And he would walk away. He was the kind of man who left every woman, every time.
Without moving, he watched Kate. He saw the moment she decided against him, and he said, "You're probably right. I was unprofessional. We should never have touched. Catching your stalker is a job, and I don't screw my clients. But we would be so good together." His voice dropped to a heated whisper. "So good together."
All too aware of the cameras and the eyes that were fixed on her from every angle, Kate walked down the corridor. Her face was hot, her fingers trembled, but she managed to maintain her dignity right up to the time she entered the ladies' restroom.
Thank God it was empty, for her knees buckled, and she used the sink for support.
The woman she saw in the mirror had swollen lips, rosy cheeks, a febrile sparkle in the eyes. This woman looked as if she perched on the edge of orgasm. And perhaps she did.
It had been only a kiss. Or two.
From Teague Ramos.
She moaned softly.
Her reltionships had been with middle-class and upper-class white guys because those were the guys she knew, the guys with whom she had stuff in common. Backgrounds, schooling, religion. She didn't have a single thing in common with Teague Ramos.
She looked at herself again, wet a pad of paper towels, and blotted her face.
His expensive clothes fit him perfectly, and he wore them as if he'd been born to them. His voice was deep, cool, and smooth, like blended whiskey over ice, and he used words with precision. His hands . . . his hands were a seduction: broad-palmed, long-fingered, nails smoothed and clean. The kind of hands a woman imagined giving ecstasy with each intimate touch.
The water did nothing to cool her thoughts. In fact, she was surprised steam hadn't fogged the mirror. She wished it had. She wished she didn't have to look at herself and know . . . know she would have jumped his bones right there in the surveillance closet without any attention to comfort, birth control, or safety.
She had obviously lost her mind.
Teague hadn't been born to the wealth or the privilege or the accent or the cleanliness. When he wished, he looked like a thug, and he did such a good enough job of it that he had fooled her.
Because at one point in his life, that was who he had been.
And that was the problem, wasn't it? None of the men Kate had slept with—none of the men Kate had ever known—knew how to be bad. None of them gave off waves of sexuality so intoxicating a woman wanted to breathe it in and forget everything she'd ever known, because what he would show her would be better, more . . . fulfilling. If she slept with Teague, she would never find satisfaction with another man.
Suddenly, violently, she threw the paper towels into the garbage.
Sure, she was being stalked. But tonight she was going to Senator Oberlin's anniversary party. Everyone in Austin would know she reported the news. They would feed her information or try to keep her from the truth. She had to be at her sharpest. She didn't need the kind of conflict she felt with Teague. She needed to carry on confidently, to show the world, all its skeptics, and, most important, Teague Ramos, that she was a reporter on the brink of success.
And success would not come by hyperventilating about Teague, no matter how attractive and irresistible he might be.
Action must be taken.
Pulling out her cell phone, she punched in her mother's number, and when her mom answered, Kate said, "I need a date for tonight. Do you think Dean Sanders is busy?"
NINE
Kate dabbed Jo Malone amber and lavender eau de cologne in each of her pulse spots, and lightly misted her hair. She clipped her bangs back with a gold spangled barrette and applied her cosmetics with great care and a mind to the drama of evening. She donned a strapless bra and matching panties she had purchased only that day. Made of thin rose silk, the bra contained her breasts and gave them a smooth line, while the panties were a thong so brief it was ludicrous to wear it. . . .
But she would. She would.
Tonight was, after all, Senator Oberlin's party and the first time Teague would be seeing her dressed in anything except workout clothes and the basic reporter's outfit—a shirt that looked good on film, and anything at all on the bottom.
That was what got her in trouble today. Teague had seemed to appreciate her frilly pink skirt a little more than she had expected.
Sure, she knew she looked good in it, and maybe she had worn it to provoke him, but in her wildest dreams she couldn't have imagined those kisses in the surveillance closet.
At the memory, she found herself standing in the middle of her bedroom, eyes closed, hand pressed to her heart, trying to contain her breathing.
Teague had been ruthless in giving her pleasure and she'd been insatiable in seeking it, and nothing like that had ever before happened in her life. She hadn't imagined she could respond with such desire, without embarrassment, without a thought to the consequences.
But she had done the right thing. She had dodged the bullet. She was going to this party with a date, putting Teague firmly in his place as her bodyguard.
With quick, nervous motions she put her diamond studs in her ears. Of course, she hadn't told Teague yet. . . .
The fact that she was considering doing as he instructed, and leaving her thong off . . . well, that showed how severely he'd influenced her. And not for the better, either. All the way through college she'd been known as the girl who exuded common sense and responsibility. She'd been the one to whom her friends came to sing their sad songs about the guy who'd done them wrong. Now some weird combination of hormones and abstinence had produced a personality she scarcely recognized as her own. As she slithered into her simple ankle-length red shantung silk sheath, she hung on to sanity by a thread.
She would not go out there with nothing beneath her gown.
She slipped on her short-heeled gold strappy sandals, picked up her Mary Francis purse, and looked in the mirror.
The silk skimmed her figure, clinging at her breasts and hips. Slit on both sides up to the knee, when she walked it drifted away from her calves to tease a man's interest. With its all-over coverage yet its hint of mystery, this was the kind of gown of which her mother approved. Kate looked good—even wearing her panties.
With a satisfied smile at her reflection, she walked out of her room and down the stairs—then stopped short.
If she looked good, Teague looked fabulous. He stood there in a European-cut black suit that fit his narrow body and broad shoulders so well it could only have been designer made and expertly tailored. His starched white shirt gleamed, his red tie spoke of power and assurance. He was easily the most handsome man she'd ever met, and in that garb, he raised her internal temperature to that of a blast furnace.
When he saw her, his face went still. His golden eyes widened, then narrowed. He looked as if he wanted to spring on her.
She could have sworn he stopped breathing—God knows she did.
She didn't know what she would have said, what blunder she would have made, if not for the ringing of the doorbell.
She jumped.
Teague looked at the door, and as if he knew what she'd done, he asked, "Who do you suppose that is?"
"My date." She winced at the bright, nervous tone of her voice.
&nbs
p; "Ah." Teague considered her, and he saw right through the sophisticated veneer down to the woman grappling with her own sexuality—and her unwelcome attraction to him. "Then I'd better let him in, hadn't I?"
"I'll do it." She started for the foyer, then stopped. "I guess you should do that."
"It would be better."
She watched him walk away and wished she'd thought this out a little more thoroughly. Teague was answering the door like a father. Not a disapproving father; his face revealed no expression. But he was not who Dean Sanders expected to see.
Dean Sanders was tall, blond, blue-eyed, and looked, in some indefinable way, like a lawyer. "Hello?" He ducked back and looked at the name over the doorbell. "I thought . . . that is . . . I was looking for Kate Montgomery?"
Kate went forward to rescue poor Dean. "I'm here."
Teague moved aside to make room for her in the doorway.
"This is Teague Ramos, my bodyguard." She placed her hand on Teague's arm as if that would prove he was harmless.
He didn't move. Didn't flinch. Might as well have been the wall for all the reaction he showed.
"Your . . . bodyguard?" Dean blinked as if his contact lenses were too tight.
"I see your mother didn't fill you in on the details," Kate said. Teague might have been the sun—she didn't dare stare directly at him for fear he'd burn her with his glare. "Come in and we'll tell you all about it."
"We?" Dean looked from one to the other again.
What a slip of the tongue. Freud would be proud! "I thought you'd be interested in how a bodyguard does his job. Most guys are fascinated. Come on in while I get my wrap."
"Yeah." With open enthusiasm, Dean stuck out his hand to Teague. "Dean Sanders—glad to meet you. What are you guarding Kate against?"
Kate went to collect her purse while Teague filled Dean in on her stalker and the measures they were taking to thwart him. Teague sounded neutral, a professional doing his job.
That was good. She wanted him to be disinterested. Or rather—she wanted to be uninterested in him. She loitered by her closet, listening as Teague said, "I know I can trust you to keep quiet about the stalking. We're trying to lure the stalker in, and that won't happen if a spotlight suddenly shines on the case."
"Heavens, yes, I understand completely! Thank you for taking me into your confidence. I assure you, I won't betray it, or her." Dean sounded wrenchingly sincere.
A pang of guilt clutched at Kate. She was using Dean as a screen between Teague and her. She didn't have one iota of interest in him, but apparently he was already interested in her.
This was a disaster.
"I drive Kate when she goes out at night," Teague said. "I know it puts a real crimp on your date, but those are the rules."
The rules? Since when?
"Do you want to ride along with us?" Teague continued his impassive bodyguard act.
"Oh." Dean chewed his lip. "That would be awkward."
"She's got a small Beemer," Teague informed him.
"And uncomfortable. This one time, why don't I follow you?" Dean sounded like a good soldier.
She returned, pretending that she hadn't overheard a word.
"Kate, I know I'm being gauche, but I'm almost glad this happened to you. I've been admiring you on the news, bothering Mother to fix me up with you, and I'll bet the only reason you consented to this evening was because you were going crazy being confined under tight security!" Dean said winningly.
Kate stared at him. Realized that he was a decent-looking man. Realized he was probably a nice guy. Knew for sure the two of them had a lot in common. And she wished he were anywhere but here. "I'm flattered," she said. "But Teague has made my situation quite bearable."
"I can see that." Dean beamed at him. "You're right, he's a remarkable guy. I don't normally expect a chaperon on my dates, but I sure understand this time."
"Yeah." For the first time, she gathered the nerve to look at Teague.
He stood straight, shoulders back. His black hair had been tied back from his face. His golden eyes never blinked as they watched her, and she fell into his gaze, helpless to stem the tide of desire and insight that united them. The atmosphere grew heated and smoky. He spoke not a word, but she had never seen anyone say nothing with such eloquence.
Dean seemed to notice nothing out of the ordinary. He straightened his tie and asked, "Ready?"
"Just a minute." Her voice did not sound normal; rather, it sounded as if she were speaking into a fog. "I forgot something."
Going back up to her bedroom, she removed her thong.
George checked his watch. Where was she? All the other guests had arrived, but not the guest for whom he had given this party.
Kate Montgomery still hadn't put in an appearance.
He and Evelyn stood in their elegant foyer in their sleek, modern home and ignored the other room in which sixty-five very influential people sipped champagne and chatted. A five-piece ensemble played light jazz, the kind that sounded hip but was still recognizable as a melody. George had spent a great deal on a new focal point over the fireplace—an original oil painting by Gilford Blumfield—because Kate was a wellbrought-up young lady who appreciated fine art. Everything was as he'd planned. Everything was perfect.
She had to come. Kate had said she would come.
Evelyn tugged at the sleeve of his tuxedo. "Shouldn't we go in?"
George had forgotten she was there. He jumped, and he almost swore at her, almost let loose the string of profanity his daddy had used when he put his fist through the wall and cursed his poverty.
Yet Senator George Oberlin did not swear. Swearing was bad for his image as a righteous, law-abiding, churchgoing man. And more than anything, the memory of those profane words told George he needed to gain control.
Kate Montgomery didn't want a man who cussed like a stupid truck driver.
"We'll go in in a minute." George's heart soared with hope as their very proper British butler opened the door. "This might be . . . ahh. There she is."
Kate Montgomery had arrived, with a face like her mother's, but younger, firmer, not quite so kind and not at all trusting. She wore red silk. She moved like a living seduction and—he frowned—it looked as if she wore nothing beneath her gown.
That was not appropriate. When she was his, she'd have to change.
Beside him, he heard Evelyn gasp.
"Kate." He started forward, his hand outstretched to grasp the woman whom fate had returned to him.
And Teague Ramos stepped to her side.
George froze. He couldn't believe his eyes. His head pounded. Teague Ramos. Here, in his house, with Kate Montgomery. It wasn't possible.
"Senator Oberlin." Kate smiled up at him without a hint of personal awareness. "Thank you for inviting me to your anniversary party. May I introduce Teague Ramos?"
George stared at the man who towered over him by three inches, who was twenty years younger and had a well-deserved reputation for heartlessness. Ramos slept with beautiful women and never cared when they fell in love with him. He kept his own secrets and everyone else's. When he gave his word, he never went back on it. And he was almost, almost, as dangerous as George himself.
Then another man walked up. Blond, tall, with an easy smile and a confident stride that shouted he'd attended the best schools and had the finest background. George recognized him. Dean Sanders, a lawyer with a good firm, a man with political ambitions that would no doubt be fulfilled. "Good to see you, Senator Oberlin." His handshake was firm and confident. "I hope you don't mind me dropping in, especially since I'm escorting the most beautiful woman here."
Ramos stepped back.
"Yes, of course!" George didn't have to feign confusion when he asked, "So Miss Montgomery has two escorts tonight?"
"Teague is the man I'm currently doing a story on." Kate's hand wasn't on Ramos's arm. She didn't smile at him as if they were lovers.
But . . . currently doing a story on? Maybe, but sexual tension steamed b
etween them. Any fool could sense it, and George was no fool.
Or maybe he was, for standing here greeting the ghost of his lost love and discovering that history had repeated itself.
But right now, no matter how much he wished to, he couldn't have Ramos taken out and beat up. His stylish home in Austin's most prestigious district was full of guests—elegant, influential, wealthy guests. Dressed in tuxedos and designer dresses, they mingled and gossiped, and they did not need to gossip about him . . . and Kate. So with a little too much heartiness, he shook Ramos's hand. "I'm constantly surprised at what a small world this is." To Kate, he said, "I'm the one who recommended Ramos's firm for the job at the great Texas Capitol."
"Really?" His eyes inscrutable, Ramos returned the handshake. "I had no idea." Actually George's point had been: He's a minority and a veteran. It'll look good to the public.
"Welcome to my home. All . . . three . . . of you. I'm so glad you're settling in here in Austin, Kate." George half turned his back on Ramos and looked between Kate and Dean. "How long have you two been dating?"
"This is our first date," Kate said.
"But hopefully not our last," Dean added.
She smiled at him. "I'm sure our mothers can arrange something."
Dean laughed and hugged her shoulders. "I've got your number now."
George didn't give a crap if that white-bread lawyer escorted Kate anywhere. Sanders was the kind of guy women married—upright, honorable, and boring. No threat to George at all. Ramos was the man who could sucker a woman into a hot affair, the kind that branded her for life and left her longing for the wild side.
But reading Ramos's narrow-eyed stare, George would say the Mexican didn't like the camaraderie between Sanders and Kate one bit.
Good. George could build on that. "So, Dean, Kate, your mothers know each other. You two have a lot in common.
"It's amazing we never met before." Dean didn't seem to notice when Kate slipped out from under his embrace. "I've only lived in Austin, but she has family here. My sister attended Vanderbilt, too, and they were members of the same sorority. And we're members of the same health club!"
Close to You Page 10
