"No. Instruct the chauffeur to take me to the police station, and hurry. My wife"—George managed to pretend to choke up as he loudly leaked the information he wanted the whole city to know—"has been arrested for violent behavior, alcohol and drug possession. I'm going to have to do something about her again, and I'll tell you, Freddy"—he put his hand heavily on the butler's shoulder—"this just breaks my heart."
"Yes, Senator, I can see how it would." Freddy stood stiffly beneath George's touch.
George risked a glance around. The servants crowded the porch. The caterers were standing beside their vans with their mouths open.
He seated himself in the car. Freddy shut the door. As the chauffeur drove away, George smiled a secret smile.
"I'm here at Ramos Security, where Teague Ramos, the man who keeps the Texas Capitol safe, directs his operation." Less than twenty-four hours later, Kate looked at the camera, then turned to Teague. "Mr. Ramos, with the experience of a Marine veteran and the expertise of a former Special Ops, does this assignment meet the challenges you've set yourself in your life?"
Teague met her eyes, but she saw no emotion there. No interest, no regret. It was as if they had never kissed, never lusted for each other. "Guarding the Texas Capitol is the kind of job security men dream of."
Kate signaled Cathy to turn off the camera, and the station tape took over. With the help of the editor at KTTV, Kate had put Teague's piece together. She put together a longer piece for the Sunday-morning show. For all intents and purposes, when this interview was over, she would be done with Teague.
While they waited for the film to finish, Teague joked with Cathy and talked with his secretary, Brenda, who watched the proceedings with awe.
This two-minute piece seemed to last forever as Kate stood beside Teague and pretended she didn't mind that she had explicitly offered herself to him—and that he had managed to resist her.
Humiliation burned in her, and she was afraid it showed in the heat of her cheeks. But she still had those stitches on her chin, so between those and the carefully applied foundation, most of the viewers wouldn't notice anything was amiss with her state of mind.
Yet she could eventually deal with humiliation. She wasn't sure if she could bear the knowledge that she would never know the ecstasy of being one with Teague. Watching him walk away would have been hell; never having him was worse.
She got the signal to start filming again. Looking into the camera, she finished the piece. "Teague Ramos is one of a rare breed, the man who stands between us, the common citizens of the United States, and anarchy. So next time you tour the Texas Capitol, smile and wave at the security cameras. The people behind them protect us every day."
The red light on the camera blinked off.
Kate unhooked her microphone from her jacket. She turned to Teague to help him, but he removed his microphone and handed it over before she could touch him.
"Thank you, Kate, for putting together such a great report." Teague offered his hand. "I'm sure this will make me a celebrity."
"A position to which I know you've always aspired."
They didn't shake. They looked at their joined hands.
Then Kate broke away.
Kate left Teague's office . . . for the last time.
THIRTEEN
With one ear, Kate listened to the anchorman on the ten o'clock news while at the same time she considered how pitiful her social life must be that she was cleaning her apartment on a Friday night. God knew she could have had a date. Dean Sanders had called repeatedly.
But she didn't want him. She wanted Teague, that rat. She hadn't seen him in three weeks, not since the five o'clock news where she had wrapped his story and he'd broken her heart.
She'd spotted his people at the capitol. They smiled at her, waved at her, spoke to her.
But he had used his stupid monitors to avoid her, as if that would make her stop craving him.
Or maybe—she brightened—maybe he avoided her because if he saw her, he wouldn't be able to resist sweeping her away and taking her to some isolated desert island with waving palms. He'd take her in his arms and do all the things she'd imagined rather than backing off just because he'd been interrupted by someone wanting to kill her. . . .
Poor Mrs. Oberlin. She'd been sent to a place where she could recover from her "nervous breakdown." Senator Oberlin had stopped Kate in the corridors of the capitol and apologized for the ordeal his wife had put her through. He had made excuses for Evelyn, the kind of excuses that made Kate's heart bleed. To all appearances, he adored his wife, yet she'd seen the tension between them at the party.
And why had there been no mention in the press about the incident at the dumpster?
When Kate had asked Brad that question, he'd shrugged and said senators' wives were always having problems. When she'd told him problems were different when they involved possible attempted murder, Brad had informed her she didn't understand and, as punishment, made her cover the social beat for a week.
She didn't ask Senator Oberlin. She knew that he wouldn't want to publicize his wife's sad, scandalous behavior.
But more than that, it didn't matter that she'd seen Mrs. Oberlin vomiting in the grass, that she'd witnessed the little sack of pills and smelled the booze. The things Evelyn had said strengthened Kate's sense that Oberlin was not to be trusted.
Kate fought her skittish agitation every day as George Oberlin sought her out. He gave her hints about what was happening in the Senate and about the bills, so many that she took the lead in the competition to break the most stories at KTTV and made Linda Nguyen hate her again.
Kate should have been ecstatic to achieve her goal so swiftly, and she would have . . . if it weren't for the lingering agony of Teague's rejection.
Now, recognizing the name spoken by the anchorman, Kate's head jerked around.
". . . found Mrs. Oberlin at the bottom of the stairs. Medical examiners declared her dead of a broken neck. They'll investigate to see if alcohol or drugs are involved. Mrs. Oberlin had just returned from her fourth visit to an exclusive rehab center." With that damning phrase, the anchorman turned to the meteorologist. "So, Marissa. What's this rumor I hear about strong thundershowers this evening?"
Kate stood in front of the television, hands loose, eyes wide.
Mrs. Oberlin was dead? Dead from falling down the stairs? The police were investigating possible alcohol abuse?
"Dear Lord." Picking up her jacket, Kate walked out of her house into the rain, and headed for Teague's place.
Teague heard the doorbell ring. Without looking out, he knew who it was. He'd seen the news report. He knew why she was here.
But before he left his study, he checked the front porch camera. There she stood, Kate Montgomery, scowling up at the lens.
So with the switch at the top of the stairs, he cleared the lock.
She opened the door and walked into his home. She looked up at him.
He looked down at her.
Outside, lightning flashed, and, after a pause, thunder rumbled.
"It's coming closer," she said.
She meant the storm.
Or did she?
He hadn't seen her for three whole weeks. But even dressed in worn jeans, a white T-shirt, and a silly pink pair of flip-flops, she was beautiful. Raindrops sparkled in her dark hair like diamonds in the night sky. Her face . . . he'd seen her face in his dreams, but his dreams hadn't conjured up the sweet curve of her cheek, the stubborn angle of her chin, the way she looked so alive, so vital. . . .
Without saying a word, she slipped off her water-stained jacket and hung it on the newel post. She shook her head. Raindrops flew, and her hair bounced to unruly life. Placing her hand on the banister, she started up the stairs.
There was an inevitability about this meeting. He'd spent three weeks avoiding her, yet it had never occurred to him their time together was over. She had asked him if he believed in fate. Well, he did, and as he watched her walk toward him, he reco
gnized that this was confirmation.
"I take it you saw the news," he said.
"Did he kill her?" Kate's sensual mouth trembled, and her blue eyes were large and grieved.
"I don't know." He could scarcely suppress his disgust with himself. He had listened to Mrs. Oberlin's alcohol and drug-induced babbling, and because he was angry, because she had made a fool of him, because she had threatened Kate, he had assumed she was delusional. He had investigated her accusations against her husband, but Oberlin was guilty of no more than a parking ticket—and he'd paid it. Teague had looked through the Austin social register for the Blackthorns, found the family, and contacted them to ask questions about a family member who had fallen down the stairs. They had acted as if he was crazy. Worse, the cops had no record of any such accident.
So Teague had decided nothing Mrs. Oberlin said was true. He wasn't usually so careless. But then, he wasn't usually so . . . emotional. Entrapped and fighting entrapment. "But I'm willing to bet she didn't fall by accident. She either killed herself, or he killed her."
Kate reached the top of the stairs, stood beside him, extended her hand. He took it, and he experienced a sense of relief, as if she'd just placed a bandage over his wounded heart.
Just as they had moments before they parted, they looked at their entwined fingers. There was a symbolism here, a sense of coming full circle.
And now they were going to take another step into an abyss that he could not comprehend.
"Come on back. My living quarters are up here." With her hand still in his—now that he had touched her, he couldn't release her—he led her toward his study.
The stairway was painted white, decorated with framed black-and-white photos of women dressed in Edwardian splendor and men posed stiffly with their collars starched high. The way to his private quarters was different: soft, warm golds and reds.
She followed him inside his study and looked around, and he knew what she thought.
This wasn't the place she would have envisioned for him.
He used the kitchen downstairs, but for the most part, he lived on the second floor, away from his paperwork and his office. He'd torn down the wall between the two biggest bedrooms, remodeled the attached bathroom, and lined the study with bookshelves. He had decorated with a big overstuffed chair and an ottoman, a long comfortable couch, and a huge pillow chair in front of the entertainment center. He'd had the hardwood floors refinished with a rich burgundy stain and covered them with a couple of Oriental rugs that glowed with jewel tones. He enjoyed his collection of knickknacks from foreign countries—a camel saddle and a collection of silk paintings from India.
He'd noticed she had a similar collection in her bedroom. He wondered if she would notice, and knew that she would.
The heavy gold drapes kept out the night. The place was a cave where he could read, where he could watch television, and where he could brood—something he'd done quite a bit lately.
"Make yourself at home." He gestured toward the couch and headed toward the bathroom.
Shutting the door behind him, he leaned his hands against the counter and stared at himself in the mirror. Dark, desperate eyes gazed back at him. He recognized this Teague. This was the Teague he'd been as a teenager, frustrated, angry that life was not fair, determined to grab all he could regardless of the cost.
He had hoped never to see those eyes again.
Yet she had come.
Outside, the lightning flashed, and the thunder grumbled.
He'd had everything under control. He'd thought he'd never see Kate again, and if he did, so what? He'd have another model on his arm. He'd have a dozen women in his bed. He would smile at Kate without interest, view her as a momentary aberration caused by too much refinement forced on a ghetto boy. Never mind that it had been three weeks since he'd seen her and during that time he hadn't gone on a single date. Never mind that he found himself remembering her in the dark hours of the night where before only demons of his former life had visited. He had just needed a little time, although time for what he dared not asked himself.
Now she was here. She'd recognized her danger, and she'd come running to him. Come into his lair, come seeking his help, as if she knew no other man could care for her as he did.
She was right. God help him, she was right.
Stiffly, he stood upright. With the slow motions of a man who bowed to fate when it wrapped him in its coils, he did the things a guy does to make himself ready—for anything.
Kate scanned the bookshelf, and what she saw there surprised her not at all. Teague read paperback thrillers and war stories, manly books that manly men read— except in Teague's case, he understood what he was reading. He wasn't some armchair quarterback; he'd played the position and coached, too. She touched the ruined spines. He read them hard, and, from the looks of his favorites, he read them repeatedly.
She glanced at the muted television. Jay Leno shook hands with his excited audience and settled into his monologue.
She still couldn't comprehend the news she'd heard tonight. Mrs. Oberlin had fallen down the stairs.
Had she overreacted by coming here?
How was it remotely possible that Senator Oberlin had killed his wife . . . and other people, too?
And if it was true . . . why had she come running to Teague? Why did he make her feel so safe?
Teague's voice in the doorway made her jump. "If you find my sanity on those shelves, let me know."
She tried not to smile with pleasure at seeing his tall figure, his broad shoulders, his golden eyes. His dark hair was damp and tousled. He wore dark blue jeans and a blue T-shirt that stretched across his pectorals and over his biceps. He might have known she was coming, for he had dressed in a manner guaranteed to make her knees go weak. His feet were bare . . . she was a pushover for a man with bare feet.
Why did he make her feel so safe?
Because she knew, without a doubt, that he could keep her safe.
"Have you lost your sanity?" she asked.
Inside, behind the protection of his drapes, she could barely see the flash of the lightning.
But the thunder rumbled and growled.
No measure they took could completely keep out the approaching storm. "Possibly. At least I'm feeling a little off balance— aren't you?"
Kate's brief flurry of euphoria faded. "That poor woman.
"Yes, and I'd like to keep people from saying that about you." He went to the small refrigerator built into the bookshelves. "Would you like a drink?"
"Yes. Chardonnay if you have it."
"Not chardonnay." He pulled a bottle of champagne out of the refrigerator.
Special occasion? But she swallowed the question. She didn't dare ask what he was thinking. She was here, in his quarters, bound to him by danger again. The atmosphere between them was thick with sexual frustration. At least . . . she suffered sexual frustration. None of her needs had faded in the three weeks of thinking of him. Now, just being with him heated her with excitement.
He popped the cork and poured two tall flutes full of golden bubbling liquid. He paced across the room toward her, and pressed the glass into her hand.
The flute was cool.
His gaze was hot.
"How is it?"
While he watched, she lifted the glass to her lips and took a sip. "It's . . . wonderful."
"Yes." He clinked his glass to hers, watched her take another sip, took a sip himself. "Wonderful."
She smiled into the slowly rising bubbles. He made the act of serving champagne seem like foreplay.
"Why is Senator Oberlin interested in you?" He shot the question at her.
She recognized the tactics. Relax the victim, then knock the truth out of her. She'd done it herself, so she refused to let him shake her. "The usual, I guess."
"Sex?"
"Yes." She remembered the flat tire. She had thought it was the stalker—but maybe not. Maybe Senator Oberlin had arranged a convenient chance to rescue her. "Yes. Defini
tely."
"Mrs. Oberlin said he'd killed you before."
"I know." Kate smiled painfully. "That's why I thought . . . that's why I didn't look into any of that stuff she said."
"That was my job. I failed."
"I'm a reporter. I failed." Kate looked him in the eyes, her mouth straight and grim, and insisted on taking the blame.
Regardless of danger, she sought out her stories. The truth of the matter was, if she had to, she'd step back into the raging Gulf of Mexico during a hurricane. It was her job, and now she would pay for not following up as she should have. Evelyn Oberlin had paid, too. "Mrs. Oberlin was so crazy that night. I thought she was always crazy."
"Certainly a little crazy. Just maybe not as crazy as we thought." Teague's regret was palpable. He indicated the easy chair.
She sat down.
Jay Leno was flashing headlines on the television, mugging for the camera, faking sincerity.
Pulling up the ottoman, Teague sat beside her. As if he couldn't resist touching her, he stroked the skin on the back of her hand with his little finger. "Are you close to your family?"
"Yes." She sneaked a glance at him.
"Do you have any unsolved murders in your family?" He watched the screen without amusement, without seeming to see it. "Any skeletons lurking in the familial closet?"
"Not that I know of." She took a hasty swallow of her champagne, then a longer swallow, savoring the bubbles and the bite.
"Do you resemble your long-lost aunt Gertrude Blackstone?"
"Who? Oh, you mean Blackthorn. Mrs. Oberlin called her Mrs. Blackthorn. The other person whom Senator Oberlin . . . pushed down the stairs." Kate seldom felt awkward about her background, but she did now. "I may resemble someone. I don't know. I'm adopted."
"Really?" Teague seemed remarkably unimpressed.
Poker face, she thought. He couldn't fool her. He was interested. Very interested. "What do you know of your blood relatives?" he asked.
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