On the monitor, he saw Juanita nod her head. "Yes? Go instruct her she needs to head east, leave the building, and circle around to enter underground. That's right. Thanks, Juanita." Turning back to Big Bob,Teague asked, "Why didn't you ever tell me this before?"
"Didn't matter before," Big Bob said. "You weren't trying to go crossways of him before!"
"So we're going to let him run over Kate Montgomery with a cement truck to save our own asses?" Teague asked.
It was interesting to watch his people struggle with the dilemma—save their jobs or do the right thing? But Teague hadn't hired Big Bob or Chun or Gemma because they did things the easy way. He'd hired them for their integrity, and they didn't disappoint now.
"Sleazy bastard," Chun muttered, his gaze on Oberlin.
"He always gave me the creeps." Gemma shivered.
"Well, hell." Fondly, Big Bob patted his stomach. "I was eating too well anyway."
"I knew I could depend on you all." Standing, Teague started toward the door.
"You taking Kate home at night, boss?" Chun asked in sly amusement.
Teague stopped.
"Sure he is." Gemma chuckled. "He's making sure she's safe night and day."
"What's wrong with that?" Teague snapped.
"Nothing." Big Bob rocked on his heels again. He grinned again. "Nothing at all. But if I were you, boss, I'd be careful, or you could end up driving that sleek little sports car permanently."
Teague snapped the door shut on their hilarity.
He was the quintessential bachelor. He had nothing beyond good sex to give to a woman. Some women— good women, women like Kate—eventually craved things like love and intimacy. Craved a relationship.
When he was a kid, on the occasions when he'd tried to show affection, his mother had used a coarse laugh or a sharp slap to drive home the fact that his hugs and his tender words repulsed her. He couldn't try for a loving bond with Kate—if she laughed at him, whatever bit of soul he had left would wither and he would be nothing but emptiness and anguish.
No, damn it. Big Bob was wrong. There was no way he and Kate could last.
When Kate wanted more than he was willing to give, he would make it clear she needed to respect his space and back off.
Regrettably, she picked that moment to walk around the corner from the Senate Chambers. Worse, she smiled as if she were happy to see him.
The woman knew no shame.
He did not return her smile. "C'mon." Grabbing her hand, he headed for the cars.
She giggled. Giggled!
Had he really thought he had her under control? She was leading him by the nose—or rather, by the dick.
An early norther had blown into Austin, dropping the temperature twenty degrees in less than an hour. The cold cut right through his suit.
Kate crossed her arms over her chest and lowered her head against the stiff breeze as they walked to her car.
But he didn't pull her close.
If what he'd seen of Oberlin on the monitor proved anything, it was that they were dealing with a full-blown obsession. Too bad it had taken Mrs. Oberlin's death to sharpen Teague's perceptions. Mrs. Oberlin's murder.
What a damn mess.
Teague glanced sideways at Kate.
She caught his look and smiled at him.
He couldn't help it. He smiled back as if he hadn't a care in the world.
He hoped no one blabbed to Oberlin that Teague and Kate were leaving together. No telling what the senator would do. Go ballistic, Teague guessed. It would be better if they left separately, but Teague couldn't take a chance that Oberlin would find her.
And Teague needed her now, now. . . .
She offered him her car keys.
Teague opened Kate's door. He started her engine, and when it caught with no problem, he jumped out and stuffed her in. "Drive to my house."
"I thought we were going to my place so I could pack." She looked up at him, her wide eyes fluttering with astonishment. As if she didn't know exactly what he wanted.
"Later." He slammed her door and leaned his palm against the cool metal of her car. He was a turmoil of worry and lust and aggression and love . . . no. He already knew that.
Not love.
He followed her through the streets of Austin. He was the only one following her, he made sure of that, and when they got to his house, he ushered her inside with his hand on her back. It was as if the idyllic weekend of making love and swimming and talking had never happened. He was desperate with need. He had to have her. Had to have her now.
At the sight of Brenda ensconced at her desk, they both stopped short.
"Hello, Teague, Kate, how's it going?" Brenda asked cheerfully.
"Working late?" Kate sounded only mildly interested in the answer.
Teague wanted to snarl at her. He had a boner she could hang her coat on, and she wanted to chat with his secretary
"I planned to catch up on my paperwork"—Brenda caught Teague's killing glance—"tomorrow." Standing, she shuffled pages into neat piles. "So I'll see you tomorrow morning. Or, um, not. Good night!" She grabbed her jacket off the rack and headed out into the windy evening.
Kate leaned against the wall. With a half smile, she watched as Teague set the lock and the alarm.
Then, with a ferocity that took him by surprise, she wrapped herself around him and kissed him. She was reckless with passion, greedy with desire. Her arms held him, one leg wrapped around him, and for a long moment he let her take charge.
Then he remembered—when the time came, when she began to demand intimacy, he planned to give her up. To drive her away.
Picking her up, he carried her into the living room. He lowered her onto the rug and made fast and furious love while the formal nineteenth-century black-andwhite photos looked on.
And Kate stayed with him. She matched his speed, his wildness. Without self-consciousness, she cried her pleasure aloud, and for a moment, one moment, he forgot that he had to dominate her and he just . . . lived. Lived as he had never lived before.
Afterward he lay sprawled on the rug, staring at the cove molding, his chest heaving as he tried to regain his breath. His composure.
Himself.
Rolling over, Kate raised herself on one elbow and looked down at Teague. "It's time we went to visit my mother."
Teague tensed, but he didn't open his eyes. "Why?"
"Because this thing with Senator Oberlin may have something to do with my birth parents, and Mom might know something."
Kate was right about that. But that wasn't all. She had something else on her mind.
"And we're involved," she continued. "She'll want to meet you."
Exactly the reason he didn't want to meet Mrs. Montgomery. He had never made the acquaintance of the mother of any female he was screwing, and he didn't want to do so now "How's she going to find out we're involved?" A logical question.
Kate gave him a logical answer, while at the same time adjusting herself so her boobs rested on his chest. "We're going to tell everyone we're involved to cover our investigation of Senator Oberlin. Remember? Mom's well liked and well connected. If I don't tell her, someone else will." Kate stroked his ribs with her index finger. "I love my mother. I don't want to hurt her."
He grunted and wished Kate's nipples weren't poking into his skin. He could muster better resistance when his mind was not clouded by lust.
"You understand. You had a mother and you loved her. You miss her."
"No," he said without politeness or frills.
Goddamn it, Teague, you little bastard. Don't be so goddamned stupid. You're a goddamned stupid halfbreed gringo and if you get knifed, no one will care. I sure as hell won't. But that kid—
"Teague, why do you look like that?" Kate smoothed her hand over his breastbone, over the place where his heart beat erratically.
Teague, you little bastard, you can't take that kid to a gang fight. If you get knifed, no one will care. I sure as hell won't. But that kid is only fo
urteen. She's your cousin! If something happens to her—
"My poor baby." Kate sounded absolutely sincere. "I knew you said you had lost your father when you were very young, but I thought . . . I thought you and your mother were close. What happened between you?"
If Kate thought sleeping with him gave her the right to pry into his private life, to ask questions and reel in the truth, to pity him, she had another think coming.
But that kid is only fourteen. She's your cousin, for shit's sake.
Teague stared at Kate with narrowed eyes. Kate was a reporter. She'd covered crimes, hurricanes, Senate hearings. But she didn't have a clue how the real world worked. He would bet that, if asked, she'd say that people were basically good, and that made him want to howl with laughter. Or howl with impotent fury. For when he remembered his mother . . . grabbing Kate's hand, he pressed it against his chest. With an adroitness that had, all these years, kept his secrets safe, he said, "All right, I'll go visit your mother, but you have to make it worth my while."
Kate's other hand slid down his hip and caressed the bare, hairless place where his stomach met his hip. Near enough to target zero to make his heart jump, yet far enough away to make him yearn. Her smile glowed as warm and intoxicating as tequila. "Why, Mr. Ramos, what did you have in mind?"
"Mom, you home?" Kate tossed her key on the table in the foyer.
"In here, dear," Mom called back. "In the sewing room.
Teague looked out of place, which surprised Kate, for he had been all that was suave at Senator Oberlin's party, and all that was businesslike at the capitol. Now he shifted uneasily, as if ready to bolt.
Taking his hand, she led him into the bedroom that doubled as her mother's sewing room.
The place was a sea of cream-colored raw silk and tiebacks made of gold cord. The elaborate sewing machine sat under the window, where it would catch the light. In the middle of the chaos sat her mother before the long table, a pair of shears in her hand and two pins in her mouth.
"Yipes," Teague said under his breath. Kate grinned. She was used to her mom's projects, but how she took them from chaos to finished product was still a mystery to Kate.
To Teague, this must seem like the impossible.
"What is it this time?" Kate inquired.
Mom took the pins out of her mouth and stuck them in the pin cushion on her wrist. "I'm making drapes for Aunt Carol's bedroom, and I declare, this silk she picked is possessed of the devil."
"More likely the devil is in the sewing machine." Kate leaned on the doorframe and smiled at her mother. Despite her mother's best efforts to teach her, Kate had never learned to sew. Every time she tried, the thread broke or bunched on the back of the material or mysterious spots of oil appeared along the seam. The whole experience left Kate disgusted with the process—but when she looked at Teague, she burst into laughter.
If she was disgusted, he was panicked. His amber eyes were wide, his jaw clenched.
Kate thought she'd better introduce him before he fled. Putting a steadying hand on his arm, she said, "Mom, this is Teague Ramos, my former bodyguard and new boyfriend. He's not afraid of anything, but I think he's met his match with your sewing room. Can you quit for a while and have tea with us?" Kate asked.
"Why, yes, dear, I'd be delighted to chat with your Mr. Ramos." Mom rose and gently shifted lengths of material to the side until she'd cleared a path. She stepped out of the room, her gaze fixed on Teague.
If anything, Teague looked more panicked, and Kate would have sworn he broke out in a sweat.
This was fun.
Mom stopped right before him, crowding him as surely as he had crowded Kate the first time they met. "Mr. Ramos." She offered her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you at last. I've heard so much about you!"
"From . . . Kate?" He took her mother's hand as if she were fragile, which she most definitely was not.
"No, most of the gossip came from my friends. It was not the kind of gossip to ease a mother's mind." She smiled with a sweet southern-belle smile. "Teague— may I call you Teague?"
"Yes, ma'am, please do." Like a mouse trying to escape the claws of a circling hawk, he stood motionless.
"Let me be absolutely clear. You had better be good to my little girl, or I'll use my biggest carving knife to remove your family jewels."
"Mom!" At Teague's expression of affronted astonishment, Kate laughed. "Mom, Teague's been wonderful to me."
"Exactly as he should be. Now, Teague"—Mom slipped her hand through his arm and led him toward the kitchen—"you look like a man who knows the value of a well-made loaf of bread. Come and tell me what you think of my newest experiment for Christmas."
Kate followed them, grinning so wide she thought her face would split. Of course, she hadn't known that her mother would threaten Teague, but it didn't surprise her. Teague had a reputation as a lady's man, and Mom was a churchgoing Methodist, most definitely not the kind of woman who approved of casual sex, and certainly not if her daughter was the one participating in the act.
"It's a hearty wheat bread swirled with cinnamon, cream cheese, pecans, and dates." Mom sat Teague down on one of her stools at the breakfast bar.
Kate enjoyed seeing them together: her slender, poised mother with her beautiful, kind brown eyes, and her handsome lover with the thin veneer of civilization that barely covered his rough edges.
Mom bustled over to the loaf of bread cooling on the rack. She picked up her wickedly long bread knife.
Teague flinched.
Kate's mother must have been watching. "This isn't my carving knife." She showed him the serrated edge. "You'd have to stand very still for me to use it. This"— she pulled the long, wide, shining blade from its holder on the counter—"is my carving knife. Impressive, hm?"
"Mom." Kate collapsed on one of the kitchen stools at the breakfast bar. "You sound like Daddy!"
"I don't want Teague to think we're a couple of helpless ladies," her mother said.
"I don't think that at all," Teague said drily.
Kate experienced an odd frisson of worry. With the exception of certain social climbers and men who kicked dogs and small children, everybody liked her mother. Yet Teague held himself apart from the cloud of cheerful kindness that permeated her mother's house. It seemed he dared not relax or he would betray himself.
And Kate suspected he blamed her for his discomfort.
Kate didn't understand it, and she didn't like it; as they spoke, she watched the two people she loved—and she struggled to understand them.
Her mother cut two slices, placed each on a paper napkin, and passed them across the counter. "Tell me, when did you two start dating?"
Kate slid her stool over beside Teague's and pressed her knee to his.
He slid a glance sideways, and in his eyes she saw a glimpse of that bleakness in his soul. Yet this time she saw more than emptiness; she saw a flash of pain-driven loneliness.
Then he took a bite of the bread and, just like a man, lost interest in everything but the food. "This is wonderful!" For a minute, just a minute, he seemed to forget whatever bee was in his bonnet and allowed himself to like her mother.
"Thank you," her mother said. "Where are you from, Teague?"
Oops. Of course, Mom would have to interrogate him in a proper motherly manner and ask the questions that Kate, as a reporter, had barely dared.
"I'm from Brownsville, on the Mexican border." He gave up the information grudgingly.
"Who are your parents?" Mom poured him a tall glass of milk and passed it over.
He drank before answering. "My mother is dead. She wasn't married. My father abandoned her before I was born."
Kate took a swift, indrawn breath. She hadn't realized he would lie to her. "But you said your dad took off when you were little."
"I applied a little spin." The harsh set of his face grew grimmer.
Kate didn't understand him tonight. He was abrasive, almost belligerent—and he was hurting her. He had to know he was hur
ting her. "So now you've decided my mother needs to know the truth."
"I'd say he decided you needed to know the truth."
Mom tried to press her hand to his. "I'm sorry. It sounds as if you had a rough childhood."
He withdrew from her touch, rejecting her sympathy. "Someone like me isn't fit to touch your daughter."
"Teague, I'm sitting right here and not liking your attitude," Kate said furiously.
His gaze never left her mother. He didn't even acknowledge Kate's presence.
"I don't think there's any man who's worthy to touch my daughter." Her mother smiled a terrible smile. "Yet I find myself insulted that you consider me such a snob."
"The sins of the father are visited on the son. So I hear." Teague's smile was equally unpleasant. "I am a bastard."
"I'm a religious woman, Teague, and I concentrate on the part of doing unto others. I don't pick on children because of the foolish acts their parents committed." Mom's smile returned to normal. "Do you have any family left?"
"No. No family. No one."
"Which explains why you and Kate have so much in common. She's adopted, you know. Our families have always treated her as their own, but I suspect in her heart she felt the difference." Mom held out her hand to Kate.
Kate took it and held it. Mom's family, and her Daddy's family had been Kate's family, but she couldn't deny that occasionally the desire had stirred in her to meet her own flesh and blood. But she had spoken of it to her mother only during her turbulent teenage years, for it had been a child's desire, made up of fairy tales and melodrama.
"Let me go get the photo album." Mom took Teague's hand, too, before he could move it, and pressed it between her fingers. "You'll want to see Kate's baby pictures."
As her mother bustled out of the kitchen, Kate sighed. "I'm afraid you'll have to look at them and ooh and ahh." She wondered if he would stay for that ordeal.
"I can do that." As if he couldn't help himself, he let his gaze slide over her, heating her from the inside out. "I'll bet you were a beautiful baby."
"Another something we have in common."
"I wouldn't know." He sat up too straight. He spoke too stiffly. "I don't have any baby pictures."
Close to You Page 18
