The Hero Was Handsome (Triple Threat Book 3)

by Kristen Casey

  The cop nodded. “Fine, you can take those. Don’t go far, though, in case we need to see you again tonight.”

  Tate explained, “Ms. Lawson has scheduled events that she can’t miss in Elmira tomorrow. But we can stay in town until then.”

  The hotel manager bowed slightly. “If I may, we’d be honored to offer you another, upgraded room at no charge—”

  Tate’s scowl was immediate and ferocious. “With all due respect, sir, you currently have a master key in the wind. We won’t be staying anywhere under your roof tonight.”

  The man shrank back. “Of course. I understand.”

  Tate bustled over to the desk and began gathering Lyla’s computer and notebooks into her briefcase, then jammed her cell phone and charger into her purse. He offered her his hand. “You ready, Slick?”

  Lyla shrugged. She still had no idea what the hell was happening here, and wasn’t entirely sure that leaving the protection of all these cops was the best course of action.

  She trusted Tate more than any of them, though, so she said, “I guess.”

  “Alright, then let’s roll.”

  Lyla stood up and was completely confused when her knees buckled.

  “Shit,” Tate muttered darkly. “Are you going into shock?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been in it before.”

  “Okay. Well…first let’s get you out of here, and then we can get you all fixed up once we find a new place to crash. Sound good?”

  Lyla nodded, so he slipped an arm around her waist, glared at the hotel security guards, and hustled her out the door.

  IN THE ELEVATOR, Tate handed Lyla her purse and laptop so he could keep one hand wrapped around her arm once they reached the lobby, and the other—the one she abruptly realized was holding a gun—free to shoot.

  He dragged her across the dark parking lot, scanning back and forth like someone in an action movie, while Lyla stumbled and tried to keep up with his longer strides. In seconds, Tate had her buckled in the truck and was peeling away like a bat out of hell.

  They drove rapidly through neighborhoods and side streets for an hour or more, taking turn after turn while Tate watched his mirrors in dogged silence.

  Lyla held out her hands and watched fine tremors quiver through her fingers. She couldn’t seem to stop swallowing nervously, and her breathing sounded all wrong. She was freezing, too, despite the balmy weather.

  Tate, on the other hand, was pissed as hell but otherwise looked fine—not a quiver or a whimper to be seen, of course. This little soiree, whatever it was, was probably small potatoes compared to what he normally did for a living.

  Which only made Lyla more embarrassed that she couldn’t control her own body’s responses to the situation.

  Considering all the dark books she’d written in her career, it seemed strange that this felt so much scarier. Maybe that was because Lyla was only used to bad things happening to made-up people, instead of to her.

  Or perhaps her fear came from not knowing what all the characters were thinking, or how the story was going to end.

  Lyla had been in that position before, however. Fortunately for her, writer’s block never lasted long—at some point, all the pieces in play resolved themselves in her brain and became very clear. It was that knowledge, for whatever reason, that settled her now.

  Soon they’d figure out who was targeting her, and why. And before long, the story’s ending would reveal itself. Until then, she had Tate.

  By the time he pulled into the quiet lot of another hotel across town, and turned to ask her if she was doing okay, Lyla was ready for him.

  “Yep,” she answered. “Though I wish they’d let us take our stuff. I could use a long-ass shower and my PJs.”

  Tate didn’t look like he believed her, but he still answered, “Same here. But we can use the hotel toiletries tonight, and since none of our luggage was, uh…near what happened…I bet the cops will let us pick up our bags tomorrow morning.”

  “I hope they do. I have another signing to get to.”

  Tate’s mouth was a hard, straight line. “Only if it’s safe, Lyla.”

  She studied him for a moment, then asked, “Are you planning on telling me what happened back there?”

  Tate looked away, staring into the dark clutch of trees crowding against the side of the lot. Eventually, he blew out a long breath and said, “I don’t want to. But let’s get you inside, and then we’ll see if you can convince me it’s a good idea.”

  HE BOOKED THE room under Mr. and Mrs. T. Assateague. Lyla tried not to react outwardly, but she couldn’t deny the little thrill that small detail gave her, even under these circumstances.

  Being the wife of a man like Tate would be something all right. If and when he was ever ready to cast that role, however, Lyla would be well out of the picture.

  Tate had said himself he wasn’t the type to keep up a long-distance relationship, and she knew he’d never give up his beloved career for a woman he’d only known for a matter of weeks.

  Once Tate got cleared to return to duty and the cops caught the dumbass who kept bothering her, she’d probably never see him again.

  It was just as well, Lyla supposed. It would kind of suck to have to rub shoulders with him all the time and know there was no chance for more. This way, they could both go on with their lives like their brief relationship was no big whoop.

  And it wasn’t—not really. Lyla and Tate were just a woman and her bodyguard, enjoying some sexy, but temporary, side benefits.

  She tried to keep those benefits front and center in her mind while Tate secured the room, triple-checked it to make sure it was safe, and then accepted her offer to use the shower first.

  He didn’t act the least bit self-conscious when he emerged from the bathroom with only a small, threadbare towel wrapped around his waist. And Lyla wasn’t terribly ashamed to be caught staring, either.

  Still, she supposed they had some business to take care of first, so she put her sinful thoughts about GI Joe aside and went to soak her head under the scalding shower spray.

  When Lyla got out, Tate was dressed in a pair of gym shorts he must’ve had stashed in his go-bag. He offered her a clean t-shirt he pulled from it, too—but he didn’t make a single joke about them sharing clothes or Lyla’s lack of pants.

  Distracted as she was by all the tantalizing chest on display, it took her a little while to realize Tate was still fuming.

  If there was any human being more reliably cheerful than Tate Monroe, then she hadn’t met them yet. But Lyla hadn’t realized how much she’d been counting on his indefatigable affability until it was gone.

  “Dare I ask how many times you’ve masqueraded as—what was it? Mr. Assateague?” she asked, hoping to lighten his mood.

  “Never had to before now. Let’s just hope no one knows it’s me.”

  “Why on earth would they ever connect it to you?”

  Tate stared at her. “Because it’s my middle name, Lyla. It was stupid of me to use it, but I choked and couldn’t think of anything else.”

  “Really?” She sat down and cocked her head, examing him. “That is a very…interesting name.”

  He groaned and paced around. “Maybe a little too interesting. It’ll stand out if someone takes a look at the guest list.”

  “Tate, no one knows we’re here. And we’ll be gone again before they could possibly check the lists of every hotel in town.”

  “That’s the idea—but we also don’t know who we’re dealing with. They might have resources we aren’t aware of.”

  The air was fresh with the clean fragrance of the hotel soap, but it seemed very sparse and hard to breathe with Tate prowling around in it. Tension crackled off his body and Lyla began to wonder…was he angry with her, for some reason? Did he think this was all her fault?

  Lyla stood and moved to the bed against the wall, then pulled the covers over her legs. She felt like hiding, but forced herself to face him.

  “Tate. Come on. T
ell me what’s going on.”

  “Christ. You’re not really going to make me do this, are you?”

  She couldn’t take her eyes off all the coiled energy jumping under his skin. Only something big would have had this kind of effect on him.

  “Do what? Make you talk to me?”

  “Yeah. For starters.”

  “But this whole thing is about me. Don’t you think I have a right to know what’s going on?”

  “Actually, no. Not this time, I don’t.”

  Lyla stared at him. “You think this is all my fault, don’t you? You think I did something to bring this on myself.”

  Tate whirled on her. “Jesus, Lyla, no. Of course not. I’m just so…goddamned…” He paced back and forth, then threw his hands wide. “…furious.” At last, he stopped moving and sank down on the mattress opposite her.

  “Well that’s obvious,” she whispered, despising how small her voice sounded.

  His eyes were glued to her face. “I’m angry and I’m upset, it’s true. I just can’t figure out how that bastard got past me, and it’s making me crazy.”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  Tate blinked at that. “I’m really sorry,” he started. “I don’t know how your stalker got in there, but he was gone again by the time we came back. You know that, right?”

  Lyla shook her head. “No, I didn’t know that, because you haven’t told me anything. And I’m afraid to ask more because it seems like you’re mad at me.”

  Tate set his elbows on his knees and propped his head in his hands. He looked like the statue of an ancient warrior come to life.

  “God, I’m terrible at this shit.” He raised his head to look at her. “Sweetheart, I’m mad at myself and I’m mad at that freaking sociopath, but I am not mad at you. I swear.”

  “Tate, what happened?” Lyla pleaded. “You have to tell me, or my mind is going to concoct all kinds of crazy stuff.”

  “To be honest, I really don’t want to upset you more. Maybe it’s better for you not to know.”

  “I disagree. It feels worse not knowing, trust me.”

  Tate gazed at her, obstinately mute.

  “You do realize I make up stories like this for a living, right? In all likelihood, I’ve come up with far worse things than whatever happened tonight.” It was the truth, but Lyla wondered if she really knew what she was talking about.

  “He left a message for you,” Tate capitulated. “Let’s put it that way. It was weird and frightening, and all over the wall and the bed. I know the cops are probably going to tell you everything at some point, but…”

  “How do we know it was even meant for me?” Lyla interjected. “Maybe—”

  Tate waved her off. “Because your picture was everywhere, okay? Can we leave it at that? He had copies of your face spread all over his little art installation, and a nice succinct message to go along with it. Is that enough for you, or do you need more?”

  “I think that’s enough,” Lyla admitted softly. And even as amped-up as Tate looked, she still longed to cross the small divide between the beds and crawl into his lap so he could comfort her.

  The way his super-human body was put together, she was awfully glad he was the one standing between her and whoever was out there.

  She needed to let him off the hook, now. Lyla said, “So…Assateague, huh?”

  Tate sighed and slumped back. “My mom loves horses, and my dad took her there one time when she was pregnant with me. Naturally, Tom’s always enjoyed emphasizing the Ass part.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Not in front of Mom, though. She would’ve killed him.”

  “What’s his middle name? Just for reference?” Lyla smiled.

  Tate’s face softened. “Tahoe.” When Lyla frowned, he added, “We suspect that’s where he was conceived, but I really don’t want to think too much about it, obviously.”

  “Geez, all I got was Katherine. It seems really boring, all of a sudden.”

  Tate smiled at her, but for some reason, Lyla began shivering again. She was suddenly ice cold, despite the humidity pervading the air from their back-to-back showers, and then, inexplicably, she had to squeeze her eyes shut just to keep them from overflowing.

  In an instant, Tate was next to her, wrapping Lyla in his arms and enveloping her in the comfort of his warmth.

  “Hey,” he murmured, “I’m not gonna let anything happen to you, sweetheart. I promise.” His big hands stroked up and down her back.

  A week ago, when Lyla kissed Tate for the first time, she’d wanted to chastise herself for her lapse. She was a professional, after all, not some lonely heart with dubious morals. But the heady combination of Tate’s strength and sweetness were making her realize she was up against more than the usual kind of man.

  Tate Monroe was a force of nature, and he checked every box she had.

  Lyla tried to laugh at herself, but it came out watery and unsteady. “I’m sorry. I’m being a big baby,” she told him.

  She hadn’t seen what Tate had seen—so instead of trying to get him to lighten up, she ought to be giving him credit for trying his best to protect her from something that worried even him.

  “Give yourself a break,” he murmured. “This whole thing is really stressful. Both of us are bound to feel it.”

  “I don’t want to be scared anymore.”

  “I know.”

  “How did he find us, Tate? We changed out the truck and everything,” Lyla sniffed.

  “Christ, you’re shaking like a leaf.” Tate pulled back to study her face, then said, “Come here, Slick. Lay down with me.”

  “Okay.” When Tate stretched out beside her and opened his arms, she snuggled in tight.

  “I’m going to fix this, Lyla. I promise you.”

  Lyla held on and prayed he was right.

  NINETEEN

  TATE LAID AWAKE for most of the night, stroking Lyla’s hair whenever she stirred and trying to parse the problem. They had an information leak, obviously, and they had to plug it immediately.

  It was difficult to imagine that Red hadn’t personally vetted his employees as soon this issue had arisen, particularly since Tate’s buddy had been concerned enough to take the step of hiring a bodyguard for Lyla.

  Furthermore, Lyla considered the people at Trident her friends—she couldn’t have known most of them for long, but he wasn’t prepared to doubt her instincts about people just yet.

  He had a hunch that the leak wasn’t coming from her publisher, anyway.

  He simply couldn’t unravel how Lyla’s stalker kept finding them, over and over, wherever they were. It was maddening. More than that, though, it was worrying.

  Soon enough, Lyla was going to read that latest police report and learn what Tate already knew—her stalker had moved past merely gloating about the error of Lyla’s ways.

  The guy was truly incensed now, and it seemed likely it was because Tate had come on board and was standing in his way.

  Not likely, he corrected himself—certain. Tate didn’t think he’d ever be able to scrub the image of the stalker’s last set-up from his brain, and that wing of the old memory banks was already chock-full of ghastliness.

  Countless photos had been strewn around that hotel bed and stuck to the wall behind it, splattered with blood-red paint. Most of them had been some old promotional shot of Lyla, but they’d all been stabbed and gouged right between the eyes.

  That was disturbing, to say the least.

  However, some of the pictures had been of Tate. The photo looked like the one his parents’ local paper had run, back when they’d written an article about him coming home wounded after his stay at Landstuhl.

  Those copies weren’t just stabbed—they’d been shredded into jagged, angry pieces, and Tate would have been lying if he said that didn’t piss him off.

  Lyla wouldn’t have been infuriated by the sheer malice involved, though—she’d have been scared, and Tate didn’t know which part of the scene would’ve upset her th
e most. She was just as likely to be disconcerted about the threat to him, as she’d be about the one to her.

  The worst thing of all, however, had been the note finger-painted on the wall, in that same red paint. Only the ignorant would keep ignoring me. Soon you’ll suffer for your wrongs. Soon.

  BY THE TIME dawn sent pink streaks across the horizon, Tate had managed to formulate his next steps.

  First, he had to call Red and get his friend up to speed. The guy needed to look through his organization one more time, to make absolutely sure the private details of Lyla’s tour weren’t getting out that way.

  Tate also wanted to see about postponing—or even canceling altogether—the events that were left, to give Lyla some added protection.

  Next up was getting back their stuff. He’d had a brief call from one of the Erie PD officers late last night, letting him know they could pick up their luggage from the station later this morning. Tate added that errand to his list and starred it. Lyla would want some fresh clothes as soon as possible.

  As much as he’d enjoyed it, he could hardly expect her to go waltzing around in one of his t-shirts all day—not in public, anyway.

  After that, Tate supposed he had to give Detective Scarletti a heads-up that the officers in Erie would be calling him. Scarletti would not be thrilled to discover that he had the wrong perp in custody, and knowing him, he’d probably try to blame Tate for it, somehow.

  That was what happened when you rushed to judgment and didn’t examine all the facts, however. Tate wasn’t the least bit sorry the dude was about to get burned. If Scarletti had taken the threat to Lyla more seriously from the get-go, they might not be where they were now.

  Lyla was beginning to shift restlessly in her sleep beside him. Tate kissed her awake then shooed her cutely groggy butt into the shower, in case Red couldn’t do anything about moving her signing in a few hours.

  Reluctantly, he also put aside the predictable desire to join Lyla under the hot spray, in favor of ordering them some breakfast from room service.