But when his high school buddies had been drooling over actresses and supermodels, Tate had been nursing crushes on 1940s pin-ups and reading biographies of war heroes.
It had been a relief to find Red and Luca in college, who’d accepted him as he was and never made Tate feel like he was playing a role just to fit in with them.
Lyla was like that too, Tate reflected. She just had a way about her that put other people at ease. Without even thinking about it, Tate had simply acted like himself from the very beginning. It was incredibly relaxing, and kind of…addicting.
Again—not that it mattered.
In a frustrated snit, Tate slapped at the shower lever, turning off the icy spray and snatching a towel off the rack. He was already starting to sweat again. This room was a freaking cauldron and it was making him crazy.
At least he could take comfort in the fact that his career suited him perfectly. When things went according to plan, Tate got to swoop in and right the wrongs. He could wreak vengeance and serve justice on occasion, and rest easy in the knowledge that he and his brethren had made a difference in the world, even if it was a small one.
Tate was eager to get back to that. And someday, if he ever decided to leave the military, he might even give this whole bodyguard gig another try.
That brought him right back to the subject of Lyla, however, and women in general. Women weren’t as easy to figure out as jobs were—no, chicks were going to be a whole other story.
These days, women were too smart, too independent, and too capable to require much saving, and the ones who still made a science of the damsel-in-distress schtick were better to avoid.
Tate was fine with that, though. He didn’t need to be the dude on the white horse, as such—he just wanted to find a woman who actually engaged his heart. Tate wanted to find someone with fortitude and vulnerability, and a brain that could keep up with his.
He wanted her curvy body to fire up his. Tate wanted someone with a good sense of humor and figured, knowing him, she ought to have some patience. A lot of patience—probably all of it.
The fact that both of his best friends had already accomplished this feat had him feeling like a loser of the first order. Why couldn’t he seem to manage it, too?
He flopped on top of the bed covers and tried not to move, so he wouldn’t start sweating again.
Tate’s mother liked to claim there was someone out there waiting for him, but he wasn’t so sure. In the last fifteen years, he’d been all over the world and interacted with all kinds of people, but he’d never met a soul he’d consider marrying. That seemed like a bad sign.
He tried to look on the bright side, though. In all that time, he’d been lucky to date a string of mostly-nice ladies and they’d been kind enough to share their bodies and their beds with him.
If one were inclined to find a silver lining, then Tate supposed it would be that—when and if he ever found the woman of his dreams—he would damn well know what to do with her.
For the time being, he was quite alone, and was too hot and irritable to even consider jacking off to help himself fall asleep.
On that sorry note, Tate turned in for the night, and his dreams were a strange hodgepodge of TV models, Lyla, and his girlfriend from sophomore year of college—bitterly informing him, over and over, that he wouldn’t know how to settle down with one woman if his life depended on it.
TATE WAS TIRED and out of sorts when a frantic knock on his door woke him the next morning. He could barely be bothered to throw on yesterday’s dress slacks before he yanked it open and found Lyla quivering like a leaf out in the hallway.
She stood there in a thin t-shirt and a pair of pajama bottoms. Her eyes were wide, and she looked rumpled—like she’d just been woken up, too.
Tate’s body snapped to attention. “Lyla? What happened? What’s wrong?”
She shuddered and seemed like she was trying not to cry. “I don’t know. There was a knock on my door. I—I thought it was you. I—”
When a door slammed down the hall, she jumped and searched warily over her shoulder. Tate pulled her into his room and locked the door behind her.
“It wasn’t me,” he pointed out. “I was asleep. I didn’t think you wanted to take off until ten today.”
“I want to leave right now,” Lyla said miserably.
Tate’s foggy brain abruptly registered the weird bundle she was holding. He pointed, “What’s that?”
“I don’t know. He shoved it into my hands when he pushed open the door.”
“He…you…you opened your door?”
“I thought it was you,” she repeated.
Tate realized that something was very wrong here. He led Lyla over to his messy bed and sat her down. “Why did you think it was me?” he asked.
“I did check the peephole first, but the guy was turned away. It seemed like it could be you. And then…and then—” she stammered.
Jesus, she was terrified. Tate sank down beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Okay, sweetheart. Take a deep breath. Slow down and start from the beginning.”
Lyla nodded, doing as he said. “I was asleep, too. But someone kept knocking, so I thought maybe I’d overslept. I got up to see who it was.”
“Alright. I’m with you so far.”
“Like I said, I looked out the peephole, but you know how weird they make everything look. I was half asleep. It looked like you.” She halted.
“And then what?” Tate asked.
“Well…he must have been listening for the clicks or watching for movement or something. As soon as I had the door unlocked and started turning the knob, he pushed hard and forced it open.”
“Shit. Really?” That was bad—really fucking bad.
“I wasn’t ready for it,” Lyla explained. “It pushed me back against the doorjamb of the bathroom, and I hit my head.”
“Let me see.” Tate cupped the back of her skull, feeling gently through her silky hair to find the bruise. “Yeah, you’ve got a pretty good knot back there,” he told her.
“It hurts.”
“I’ll bet.”
Lyla was still trembling, so he swallowed back his rage at the situation. Losing his shit here wouldn’t help her, it would only make things worse—and she still hadn’t told him what the hell she was holding.
“So…what’s that?” Tate asked, pointing at the odd, lumpy bundle clutched in her hands.
“I don’t know. The guy shoved it at me before he took off. I guess I took it by reflex.”
“So, once you took it, the person ran. Then what’d you do?”
“I didn’t want to get caught alone in my room with him if he came back. I thought, at least in the hallway, I could yell and maybe someone would hear me, right?”
Tate nodded. “Good thinking.”
“I came over here and just started knocking until you heard me,” she finished. “I’m sorry I woke you up.”
Tate wasn’t worried about that anymore. Lyla had said something else that was far more important.
“Lyla, you keep saying he. What made you think it was a man?”
She swallowed and closed her eyes, trying to think. “Uh, his size, maybe? His build? I’m not sure. He just seemed like a guy. Men hold themselves differently than women. They move differently, too.”
“How big was he?”
“About your size.”
“Did you see anything else?” Tate asked. “Hair, skin, clothes? Anything?”
“He had a hat on. A baseball cap, but it was too faded to see the logo. I saw his neck and cheek, and I’m pretty sure he was white. And, um…his clothes were just clothes. I’m sorry—it all happened too fast for me to notice much.”
“Did he say anything?”
“No, he just made me take this.” Lyla lifted her package grimly.
Tate rubbed a hand across the whiskers on his jaw and leaned over to get a closer look—and tried not to get distracted by Lyla’s light, feminine scent in the process.
Whatever she was holding looked like a long tube of some sort, wrapped all around with a grimy, torn-up necktie. Seeing it, Tate went abruptly cold, and thought immediately of the conversation he and Lyla had had yesterday about his attire at her events.
He jumped up and went over to his bag, pulling out a pair of latex gloves and a large plastic bag like he’d seen Detective Scarletti use at Lyla’s house. He brought them over to where she was sitting.
“You packed rubber gloves?” she squawked.
“Just in case,” Tate said, glad he’d thought of it. “You know what they say—hope for the best and prepare for the worst.”
“Who says that?”
“People.” He snapped on the gloves and reached for the package. “Let me see it.”
Once Lyla handed it over, she scrubbed her hands on Tate’s sheets like she was trying to slough off any freaky residue that might be clinging to her skin.
Then Lyla grabbed his phone off the nightstand and told him, “I’ll take pictures for Detective Scarletti while you open it.”
“Good idea.”
Tate carried the bundle over to the desk, found the knot holding it together, and worked it free. Lyla stood beside him, carefully aiming the camera.
After he’d unwound the tie, Tate found another one, as well as a rolled-up sheaf of papers inside. The top one had a message printed on it, in a nondescript computer font. “A guard dog, Delilah?” it read. “You make me laugh. You’re so wrong if you think your puppy can stop me now, but what else is new? You’re always wrong.”
The rest of the papers, some ten or twenty of them, were all the same: just line after line of the word wrong.
“Wow, you weren’t kidding,” Tate said.
“I told you,” Lyla groaned. “What do you think we should do?”
“We need to call Scarletti, clearly. We can text him the photos you took, and maybe find a place on our way out of town that can overnight this crap to him.” Tate gathered up the pages and the ties and dropped them into the bag, then carefully slid the zipper closed.
“Do you think it was him? The superfan?” Lyla wondered. “I’ve never actually seen him before. He was big.”
“I don’t know, sweetheart. It might’ve been him—or it could’ve just been someone he hired to deliver his message. Hard to say without knowing more about who he is. Or if he’s even a he, I suppose.”
“But…”
Lyla trailed off, looking deeply troubled. Tate couldn’t blame her. If she had even half as many questions as he did about how this had happened here in fucking Newark, then she was probably plenty upset.
“But what?” he asked.
“How did he find me here?” she wondered. “I haven’t done an event in Jersey in a while, and I’ve never stayed at this hotel before. I’ve always just driven out and back again.”
Tate shook his head. “I’d love to know the answer to that, myself.”
Lyla wrapped her arms around her stomach and rocked forward. “Tate, I want to get out of here. This place is giving me the creeps.”
“Of course. Let’s call the detective real quick, and then I can be ready whenever you are.”
“Okay, but…” She bit her lip, looking sheepish. “Can I just hang out over here for a bit? I know he’s probably long gone, but the thought of going back to my room is kind of psyching me out right now.”
“Totally understand,” Tate assured her. “Give me ten minutes to hop in the shower and throw my stuff together. Then we’ll go over together so you can get ready.”
Lyla nodded and pulled herself up to snuggle into his bed, grabbing the TV remote and telling Tate, “Thanks. And take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
The sight of her hunkering down where he’d been sleeping less than an hour before was unnerving and endearing and hot, all at once.
It felt downright domestic, and as Tate stood there staring like an ape for far longer than he should have, he tried to permanently imprint the image on his brain. There was someone out there for everyone, his mom always said. What were the odds of Tate stumbling over his…here?
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Tate had left a message for Scarletti and texted the detective the photos—and was now the person trying to watch morning television while Lyla showered and primped and whatever else chicks did for hours on end in the bathroom.
He had to believe he was far less sanguine about it than she’d been, however.
You could only turn up a TV so loud, after all, before the other hotel guests started complaining, and even then, it wouldn’t drown out the sound of a beautiful woman splashing hot water all over her body, mere feet away.
Tate kept himself under control with one thought, something he’d decided he had to tell Lyla once she emerged. She wasn’t going to like it, but honestly—he was going to be the one who was suffering.
He tried to keep his eyes on the sports highlights, instead of sneaking peeks at Lyla blow-drying her hair and applying her makeup. Tate also attempted not to bury his face in her pillows, so he could inhale that tantalizing, all-female scent they were emitting all around him.
Tate steeled himself in every way he knew how so that once Lyla was finally standing in front of him looking fresh as a daisy, her bags packed and her purse on her shoulder, he could drop his bomb with a clear conscience.
“Hey, Slick,” he said calmly, “I gotta tell you. This separate room thing we have scheduled for the tour is making me really nervous, in light of what happened this morning.”
Lyla didn’t wig out, thank God—she merely blinked at him. “What do you suggest?”
Tate blazed ahead, “At minimum, I think we need to call ahead and arrange for suites or adjoining rooms, or something. I promise I won’t invade your privacy,” much, “But I don’t want that prick to think he can just get to you whenever he feels like it. What’s the point of me being here, otherwise?”
Then Tate held his breath and waited for the explosion.
Lyla only said, “I agree.”
“You do?”
She nodded, eyes worried. “I’ll call Trident from the car and see what they can set up from their end. Everything else, we’ll just have to figure out when we get to each place.”
“Alright, then.” And fuck—her complete lack of objection meant Lyla must be really scared.
Tate had to figure this out for her, and he had to do it fast. Once he got his results back from his last Med Board evaluation, he was going to be headed back to the Middle East to rejoin his unit—and no way could he leave Lyla here to deal with this shit alone.
Why that was so all-fired important suddenly, was a question he’d leave for another day.
EIGHT
FROM THE SMALL desk in her new hotel room, Lyla could just see Tate in his—sprawled on his couch with his knees spread wide, one arm thrown casually across the tops of the cushions.
He had headphones on but, ever vigilant, had left one ear free so he could hear her if she called.
The way his eyes were tracking across the tablet screen in his lap made it look like he might be watching a movie. She wondered what it was.
Lyla rolled her eyes and turned back to her computer, afraid that Tate would catch her staring at him again. His wide shoulders and long, muscular limbs might be ridiculously hard for her to ignore, but he didn’t need to know that—his ego had enough to work with already.
However, when Tate’s cell phone rang beside him, curiosity won out like it usually did. Lyla peeked through her lashes and watched him reach for it.
With one tap, he engaged the speakerphone and a sweet woman’s voice sang out, “Happy Birthday! How are you, Tiger?”
“Hey, Mom,” Tate smiled, slipping off his headphones and setting them aside.
“Grace is here, too,” the woman added. “Say hi, honey.”
“Hey, Tigger!” a young woman chirped excitedly. “I was just bringing your mom and dad some cookies we had leftover, and we got to talking about you. God, it’s been
ages.”
His mother jumped back in quickly. “I can’t believe we caught you, kiddo. I wasn’t sure if you’d be working today or not. Where are you, anyway?”
Tate stabbed at the screen to take it off speakerphone, then told her, “Philly, right now,” before he glanced nervously over at Lyla.
Just in time, she forced her gaze back to her laptop screen and made her fingers type a few words. A few seconds later, she heard the door to his small balcony slide open and shut again.
Through her own door, she could barely see him as he leaned on the railing and looked out at the hotel lot. Tate’s deep voice filtered into her room, becoming nothing more than a muted rumble after passing through the thick glass.
Lyla exhaled, and her screen came slowly into focus. The words she’d typed blinked back at her: It’s his birthday? She felt a little bit ashamed that she hadn’t known, but how could she have? Tate had never said a word.
The girl on the phone had called him Tigger, and Lyla could see how Tate might end up with that nickname. It suited him, she thought. Even lounging on a hotel room couch, Tate was all latent energy, barely suppressed beneath the surface.
Like a tawny tiger lolling in the sun, his relaxation belied the play of muscles under his skin—and the sense Lyla always got that he could leap into a mayhem of violence at a moment’s notice if the need arose.
Much like a real tiger, Tate’s beauty was of a dangerous, ferocious sort, but God help her, if she ever tried to tell him that he’d probably make a joke about it. And while Lyla’s nerves got busy prickling at that thought, a new one bubbled to the surface.
Who was Grace? A sister or neighbor—or someone else? An ex-girlfriend, perhaps? The one who got away?
Tate had told Lyla that relationships weren’t exactly his thing, but that hardly prevented the women he dated from carrying torches for him long after he left.
In fact, it probably ensured it.
Lyla gnawed on her lip. She had to stop wondering about his private life. Tate was here to do a job, not to be ogled by her. The last thing she needed was to be accused of workplace harassment, but Lyla was losing her mind with these connecting rooms.
The Hero Was Handsome (Triple Threat Book 3) Page 7
