Bad move. Slava rolled too, now on top of him, and grabbed his shirt. Tate put a hand on his wrist, but Slava’s fist found his face, and a white-hot flash of pain exploded as his nose broke. The room turned woozy, the pain cascading over him.
Blood gushed, but the smell of it galvanized Tate, and he roared through the haze and kneed Slava. Clipped him in the soft parts.
Slava cursed, and Tate battered his fist into his face enough to dislodge the Russian.
Tate rolled over onto his knees, scrambling away.
He just had to get his head clear. He’d fought Slava before—a few times, although never with his life—and Glo’s—at stake.
He knew exactly who had tracked Raquel down that night, who had made her suffer, who had left her broken body for Tate to find when he returned home.
Slava took his job very seriously.
The Russian grunted, and Tate glanced at him just in time to see the man sling a vase at him. It slammed against Tate’s hard head, shattered, and Tate went down, the room spinning.
Get up. Get…up.
And oddly, it wasn’t Glo or even Knox or even some key figure from his past in his head—his deceased father or Major Jaster, his Ranger instructor—but the random, misplaced voice of a twelve-year-old.
What was Jammas doing, rising from the dead now?
Get up!
For a second, Tate was back in Afghanistan, sand in his eyes, choking on smoke, Jammas’s hands tugging on his body armor.
Get up!
He staggered to his feet just as a lamp crashed down in his shadow. But Slava was off-balance, and Tate kicked him, sent the man spinning.
He might not win this. The thought cycled through Tate even as he lunged for his gun. The chair toppled over, and the holster went spinning across the floor. Tate went after it, but Slava grabbed his shirt and hauled him up, shoving him against the bar.
Slava’s bearish two-handed grip clamped around Tate’s neck, a hint of vodka on his breath as he leaned close to Tate. “In the end, she cursed your name.”
Yeah, well, he did too…too often.
Tate ducked his chin and grabbed Slava’s elbows, bearing down to dislodge the grip, his air trickling down to a sip. He hammered his fist into the big man’s ribs, but Slava was a bull, unmoving.
Tate’s vision turned gray, splotchy.
Sweet Glo’s voice found his ears, the vision of her onstage flashing behind his eyes. Dressed in black, her dress short to show off those amazing legs, her eyes closed, the lights turning her hair a white-gold. So breathtaking, his heart had nearly stopped in his chest.
Her voice had lifted, mournful and sweet, so much heart spilling out into the song, he’d nearly teared up.
* * *
She met him on a night like any other
Dressed in white, the cape of a soldier
He said you’re pretty, but I can’t stay
She said I know, but I could love you anyway
* * *
He could have, would have loved her.
And finally, maybe, become the hero of the story.
He hit Slava again, one more useless punch as his world began to blacken.
Oh, this was really going to hurt.
Glo closed the bathroom door behind her and stared into the wide, gold-framed mirror. The Bellagio spared no expense in these top floor suites. It rivaled any exquisite New York or even DC hotel with its white leather sofas, plush bedding, and spa tubs.
And some thirty-six floors below, the night was lit up with the florescence of the strip, buzzing with life.
Not unlike every cell in her body. Her face was flushed, and she could nearly see the pulse in her neck.
Thumping away as her rebellious, foolish heart ran away from her.
Outside the posh suite, across the patterned black-and-white carpet, past the massive king bed with the padded gold-fabric headboard, and through the towering mahogany doors, the man she shouldn’t give her heart away to waited with pizza and the stated intention to take her on a walk down to the courtyard.
Maybe catch a romantic view of the Bellagio’s majestic fountains.
And under the cascading kaleidoscope waters, she’d find herself repeating all her deadly mistakes.
She couldn’t fall for a man who would die. Not again.
Glo shucked off the bathrobe she’d pulled on after her bath, a late-night luxury following the Yankee Belles’ first official gig for NBR-X—a professional bull riding tour to rival the PBR. The female trio had toured, submitted tapes, auditioned, and nearly been killed trying to land the six-month weekly gig. Frankly, the band should be together celebrating tonight.
Instead, Dixie, their fiddle player, had disappeared with Elijah Blue, their drummer, to check out some famous chocolate fountain, which might be code for finally declaring their love for each other. And their lead singer, Kelsey, would right now be watching the fountains arc through the night sky in the arms of Knox Marshall, the man who had found and stopped a killer from her past striking again.
Kelsey’s real-life hero. The man she deserved.
Which had left Glo alone in the penthouse suite with the only other person in the after-gig entourage—their bodyguard, Tate Marshall.
Younger brother to the hero of the hour.
And the man she was currently hiding from. Sorta hiding, really, because a big part of her wanted to rush back out there and continue what they’d started.
Namely a very long-overdue kiss.
She pressed her fingers to her lips, felt Tate’s touch still buzzing them, like the neon lights of the strip, alive and full of promise.
Oh, what was she getting herself into?
She wore a T-shirt and a pair of yoga pants under the bathrobe and ran her fingers through her hair, combing it after the towel dry earlier. Maybe she should brush her teeth.
There she went, getting ahead of herself.
It was just a walk.
And he was probably eating all the pepperoni pizza he’d ordered from room service. They’d knocked on the door just as she went into her room.
She checked her bandage—the gunshot wound was healing. She’d never forget the look on Tate’s face when he’d found her, shot, at his ranch.
Neither of them had realized that she was the target of an attacker who wanted to intimidate her politician mother from running for president.
No, all she’d cared about right then was the broken look on Tate’s face and the fact she had practically felt her heart leave her body.
Flinging itself into Tate’s arms.
Oh, no, no—
Her phone pinged from where she’d left it on the counter, and she noticed the screen listed a dozen or more tweets she’d been tagged in. She tapped one and it opened.
A picture lit up the screen of her onstage, dressed in tonight’s short, black tiered dress with flouncy long sleeves, her hands around the mic, the lights turning her hair to gold.
Glo brought down the house tonight. #YankeeBelles #CountryMusic #LoveSong
She scrolled down and looked closer—yes, this shot caught Tate in the wings, those blue eyes pinned to her, his arms folded across his chest as if on watch for danger.
But he looked stripped, something raw and vulnerable on his handsome face.
Oh, it could wreck her all over again, seeing this powerful, brave man undone.
She blamed it on the song. The stupid, sappy, tear-her-heart-out song that Kelsey made her sing tonight. A chart-topper that Glo had written after the man she loved had died in the sands of Afghanistan.
One she hadn’t been able to sing until tonight as she’d glanced at the wings, at Tate, and realized that maybe her heart had healed, just a little.
Tate had done that with his frustrating, charming smile. Those devastating blue eyes, the way he laughed at her jokes and didn’t let her rile him.
The way he was both dangerous and safe and exactly the man she’d waited for.
Yes, this could really hurt.
> And it was all Kelsey’s fault.
Glo pushed her speed dial and wandered out to the bedroom as Kelsey’s phone rang. She heard a strange thump emitting from the next room and imagined it might be the room service cart bumping the door.
“Are you okay?” Kelsey came on the line without a preamble. She sounded a little breathless. And now Glo felt like a jerk.
But, “No.”
A pause, and Glo realized— “Sorry, yes. There are no domestic terrorists on my doorstep ready to kidnap me.”
A forced chuckle on the other end, and maybe it wasn’t a funny joke because, well, they’d all survived a domestic bombing a few weeks ago and… “It’s not that. I…” Her voice dropped, turned to a whisper. “I kissed Tate.”
Now a real chuckle emerged through the line, and she heard her admission whispered to someone else, probably Knox. She could imagine her friend, hand in hand with the tall Montana rancher, her dark hair caught in the night air, her eyes finally free of the fear that had held her hostage for the past twelve years.
Glo should probably hang up. Nearly did, but Kelsey came back on the line. “Okay, so, it’s about time—”
“He works for us!” Glo stepped up to the window. The fountains had begun their hourly dance, pulsing to “Singin’ in the Rain.” The water rose and fell in time, cascading from one end of the massive trough to the other.
The music filtered through the phone. Beyond the fountains and across the street, a miniature Eiffel Tower glittered, its lights blinking against the night.
“So fire him,” Kelsey said.
“That’s a little harsh, Kels. This is his job. Besides, we need him.”
“Glo.” Kelsey must have cupped her hand over the phone because the music muted. “There comes a time in every girl’s life when she has to take a chance on love. To stop living in fear that it’s all going to crumble, and start over. To trust a little in love. C’mon. We both know his working for us isn’t why you’re—where are you?”
“I’m in my room. Hiding.”
“Stop hiding. Stop running.”
Glo wanted to raise an eyebrow because, really? This from the woman who had turned running into a full-time career?
But maybe that’s what love did. Made you brave and strong and willing to start over.
“Tate is crazy about you.”
“Tate could get killed. Whoever bombed the venue in San Antonio was trying to discourage my mother from continuing her run for presidency. They were after me, and they haven’t been caught. Which means that every minute Tate hangs around me, he’s in danger.”
“He’s a bodyguard. He signed up for this.”
“Besides,” came a male voice through the phone, and clearly Knox was listening in, “Tate knows how to handle himself.”
Another bump came from the other room, this time with a shout.
She frowned. “I know that. But…I just can’t…” She sighed. “I can’t watch a man I could…care about…die. I can’t go through that again.”
“You won’t.” Kelsey again. “Don’t let your fears keep you from loving a man who loves you back.”
Right. Yes. Because David had been a soldier, running into trouble.
Tate’s job was to keep them away from it. He was careful, prepared, and anticipated trouble.
He wasn’t looking for a fight.
A crash sounded. She startled, paused. Maybe he’d dropped a glass.
She headed toward the door. “Okay. Yes. You’re right…I’m just freaking out. Overthinking this—”
She opened the door.
The sofa lay askew, the green counter chairs were toppled to their sides, and glass from the round coffee table in the middle of the room glinted under the overhead lights.
One of the tall flower vases had hit the floor, also shattering, water and lilies scattering.
And Tate…what—?
Tate was backed up against the wet bar, one hand gripped on the arm of a huge, balding man dressed in a suitcoat, trying to pry the man’s beefy hands from his throat.
The other was balled and hammering away at the man’s ribs.
Glo couldn’t breathe. Or maybe she was simply taking a breath to let out the mother of all screams—
“Glo—?”
Her scream ricocheted off the thick panes of the picture windows, through the glass chandelier, and across the expanse of the room enough to jerk the fighters apart.
She dropped the phone.
“Glo! Get out of here!” Tate’s words emerged choked, on a wisp of breath, and he glanced at her long enough for her to see the damage done to his handsome face. He bled from the nose, his mouth, and from a cut over his eye, which turned him into some nightmarish, blood-crazed ninja. Especially when he turned back to Bald and Beefy and slammed his fist into his jaw.
The man staggered back, loosening one hand, and Tate cuffed off his grip from his neck.
Tate ducked away, breathing hard. Glanced again at her, his eyes just a little crazy. “Run!”
But— “Behind you!”
He turned just in time to step away from a bone-crushing fist to the face. He caught the man’s arm and held it there while he delivered a backhand to his face, his gut. Then, in a move that had her hands to her mouth, he flipped the big man right there onto the floor.
The man let out an epithet that sounded Russian. Or maybe Polish. Whatever it was, she got it.
Run!
She started for Tate, probably galvanized by the same thought because he held out his hand, as if to take hers. But Igor the Russian reached out and tripped him. Tate went flying.
In a second, the big man was on him, a knee in his back. He grabbed Tate’s arm, twisted it behind him, and Tate howled.
Glo just reacted. She picked up a green lamp on a nearby table and crashed it over Igor’s head.
It dazed the brute enough for her to kick him—the power of it stunning even her when he lost his grip on Tate.
Tate rolled, landed a fist in the man’s throat, and scrambled to his feet. “Glo, get out of here!”
He kicked the man in the jaw, but Igor had rebounded—probably rage—and resembled a bull, crazed with blood. Unstoppable.
Deadly.
He came at Tate, his nose bleeding, his eyes red. Even Tate’s fist to his face didn’t faze him. He pushed Tate back, hard.
Tate slipped on the waterfall of glass and went down.
Igor landed on his chest, his knees on Tate’s arms. Igor’s big, bloody hands found Tate’s throat, both thumbs pressing into the well of his neck. Tate was writhing, slamming his knees against the big man’s back, but he couldn’t dislodge him.
“Get off him!” Glo found a vase and threw it at Igor, but it bounced off him, like it might be a Nerf ball.
Tate was choking, fighting for his life.
Glo leaped on the man, her arms around his neck. “Help!” She hit him in the ears, wrapped her arms under his jaw, tried to pull him away.
It worked.
At least long enough for Igor to slam his fist straight back, right into her face.
The world flashed gray, then black, the pain exploding through her. She fell back, off the beast.
Maybe Tate had gotten a slip of air, because she heard his voice, one last time— “Glo—”
Then Igor wrapped his deadly hands again around Tate’s throat and squeezed.
She was screaming now, her hands over her head, frantic. Her face throbbed and the room spun. Get up. Save Tate.
He was kicking the floor, his movements jerky.
Fading.
No—please. Help! She rolled over to her hands and knees, about to leap again on Igor when she spotted the man. Tall, wide shoulders, and built for hard work, running cattle, and once upon a time, riding bulls.
Knox.
He roared and leaped at Igor, tackling him off Tate. Landed square on the Russian.
Big brother. Furious, protective, and fresh in the fight, Knox sent his fist into Igor’s face once,
twice, and Glo turned away from the violence, crawling over to Tate.
He wheezed, rolled over, trying to catch his breath.
Not dead—oh, thank You, God.
Then footsteps, voices, and hotel security flooded the room. White-shirted Bellagio rescuers leaped on Knox, pulling him off his victim.
“It’s not him!” Glo shouted, but Kelsey was already informing them who was the good guy. And who was the assailant.
Glo gripped Tate’s shirt, pulling him over to herself. She shook as she wrapped her arms around his chest, clamping tight.
He leaned his forehead on her shoulder, still gasping for breath.
“Are you okay?” she managed, tears washboarding her voice.
Tate’s shoulders shook, his breathing raspy, but he raised his head.
Blood smeared his battered face. He found her eyes. “Are you okay?
She could barely look at him. The rising purple on his cheek, the split lip, his nose, clearly broken, and the open cut over his eye, as if he’d been hit by one of those lamps.
And she could bet he had internal bleeding, if not a slew of wicked bruises on his body, given the size of Igor’s fists. Never mind the damage to his windpipe, or… “Is your shoulder dislocated?” His arm hung loose and grotesque.
He drew in a breath. “Maybe.” He touched her face, ever so gently. “He hit you.”
She nodded, her eyes filling.
One of the white shirts was hauling him out past them. Tate tensed, glancing up at him. “You’re going to pay for that.”
Slava’s spittle landed on the floor next to Tate. “You come to town again, and I won’t just hit her. Or you.”
Tate’s jaw tightened and Glo froze. This was because Tate had come with them to Vegas? Because he was trying to protect them?
Knox knelt next to them. “Who is he, Tate?” The man had lost his Stetson but hadn’t a scratch, otherwise, on him. Except maybe for bruised knuckles.
Oh, the Marshall men were tough and handsome, with those square jaws, eyes that seemed to look right into a woman’s soul. While Knox’s dark brown hair was threaded with the finest shades of red in the sunlight, Tate’s dark brown hair was laced with glints of gold, his beard hazed with a richness when he let it grow, his blue eyes holding a mystery that she very much wanted to solve.
Tate Page 2
