The Hero Was Handsome (Triple Threat Book 3)

by Kristen Casey

  Assuming they got him alive, that was. Tate sort of hoped they didn’t—that the bastard fought the inevitable and had to be put down where he stood, like the rabid animal he was.

  Lyla poked her head out of her bedroom, startling Tate from that gruesome daydream. “You may as well get your laundry together, too,” she said. “I’ve got a ton to do, and you can throw yours in with mine.”

  Tate ambled over to find Lyla standing with her hands on her hips, contemplating a towering mound of silky clothes on her bed.

  He hooked a finger through a skimpy blue thong and dangled it in front of her with a grin. “So that’s what’s going on with Mount Mischief, here.”

  “Of course. What else would it be?”

  “I don’t know, Slick. Maybe where you come from, girls pile all their best lingerie on their beds to entice innocent men into naughty deeds. Like sea sirens.”

  Tate nearly choked on the word innocent, but somehow managed to keep a straight face.

  As he’d expected, Lyla almost choked, too. But, after sputtering for a minute or so, she came back at him with, “If you think that’s my best lingerie, you are woefully misinformed.”

  He chuckled. “Nice job. You’re getting really good at the whole sexy banter thing.”

  “Thank you,” Lyla said primly. “Now go grab your stuff. The laundry room is dead at this time of night, but this pile is going to look a lot more daunting once you see how small the machines are.”

  Tate went and rifled through his bag, then came back with an armload of t-shirts, gym shorts, and boxer briefs to toss into the mix. “If you know of a drycleaner close by, I should drop my dress shirts off tomorrow. And I might do a separate load of whites in the morning, too, if that’s okay.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Tate eyed her as Lyla loaded half the pile into a large plastic hamper she pulled from her closet. “I’ll say this,” he told her, “You sure know how to seduce a guy.”

  Lyla ignored him, naturally, and Tate didn’t even know why he’d tried—it was virtually impossible to flirt with a woman when she was trying to do chores.

  He couldn’t seem to help himself around her, though.

  “You carry the basket.” Lyla instructed. “I’ll grab the detergent and the quarters. The laundry room is down at the end of the hall, opposite the elevators.”

  Tate hefted the load and jerked his chin at her. “Lead the way.” The whole situation was ridiculously domestic, and he had to admit—he kind of loved it.

  Only one machine was in use, so Tate walked to the washer at the end of the row and tipped the basket over the well, so Lyla could scoop their clothes in. She hadn’t been kidding about the size of these things—barely a quarter of their stuff fit. They had to repeat the process three more times before they had their laundry all divvied up, and this was only half of what needed to get washed.

  While Lyla messed with the quarters and the soap, Tate set down the hamper and pulled tomorrow’s list from his back pocket again. He added drop off dry cleaning, and then, for good measure, included get rolls of quarters.

  Lyla was a good sport to put him up—but there was no need for her to have to foot the bill for everything, on top of it.

  When Tate was done, he tucked the paper away and saw that Lyla was watching him with a little smile. “So…” she drawled, “you think I’m seducing you, huh? How do you figure?”

  So, she had heard. “Oh, you know,” Tate smirked back. “Your sexy little scraps of lace taking a hot soapy swim with all my boys. Who knows what could happen in there?” Tate lounged back against one of the dryers and winked at her.

  Lyla pushed up her glasses and blinked rapidly. “Tate, they’re clothes. Dirty clothes.”

  He waggled his eyebrows. “Real dirty. And about to get dirtier.”

  She gave up trying to make sense of it and just laughed, “You truly are incorrigible.”

  “Flatterer.”

  “Come on, frat boy,” Lyla groaned, shaking her head. “These won’t be done for at least forty minutes. Let’s go eat popcorn and watch TV while we wait.”

  “Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Tate asked, trailing after her with the empty basket. “Last I heard it was Netflix and chill.”

  “Does it matter? Besides, it wasn’t meant to be a euphemism. I really do want to put my feet up and veg out. We can do other stuff later. Once the clothes are out of the dryer.”

  “You’re the boss,” Tate told her, and the boss had a schedule.

  He didn’t have the heart to break it to her that they could manage all kinds of other stuff during the rinse cycle alone.

  THEY DIDN’T EVEN get through one goddamn movie or the whole bag of popcorn before real life intruded again. Lyla’s phone started ringing pretty much the second their asses hit that sofa, and it didn’t let up.

  “Who is it?” Tate asked for the tenth time, when Lyla came back from the kitchen with the receiver and a deep scowl.

  “I don’t know. The caller ID still just says Unknown Number.”

  “Don’t answer it.”

  “But what if—”

  “Just turn off the ringer,” Tate told her. He’d been begging her to for an hour now, at least.

  Lyla hesitated, and it was obvious she was thinking the same thing he was. She cradled that phone in her hands like it was a live grenade. “Tate…”

  “I know,” he said. “But it might not even be him. Maybe it’s only a telemarketer or something.”

  The sound stopped, then started up again a second later. Fed up, Tate took the phone from Lyla and turned off the ringer. “We don’t have to worry about it tonight,” he said. “Anyone important can reach you on your cell.” He walked into the kitchen and replaced the handset in its charging station.

  Lyla sagged into the couch cushions, her previous good mood seeping away like rain into a sewer.

  “Come on, Slick. We can fold the laundry in the morning. Let’s just hit the hay.”

  Lyla straggled after him and slumped down on her bed, her eyes vacant and glazed over while Tate moved around the room and the bathroom—triple-checking windows, drawers, closets, and what-not, one last time for the night.

  When he finally came and sat beside her, she didn’t even react. “Lyla?”

  “Hm?

  “How you holding up, sweetheart?”

  When she raised her eyes to his, they were bleak and threatening to spill over. Tate’s heart clenched a little to see her so distraught.

  “What’s going on?” he asked softly.

  “Why?” Lyla wondered. “Why…me?”

  He tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear, studying her face. “You really have no idea, do you? No clue whatsoever how you come off to other people?”

  Lyla shook her head. Hell, maybe it was just Tate who felt this way about her. He doubted it, though.

  “You know, I actually believe that. But, God—Lyla, I don’t even know if I can explain it in a way you’ll get.”

  “Try.” Her voice was wooden, and Tate wondered how much she’d even be able to listen.

  “Sure, I can try,” he said. “But you know that out of the two of us, you’re the one who’s good with words.”

  Lyla snorted in derision. “I think you do all right, Fast Talker dot com.”

  Tate hiked one knee up on the bed so he could face her. If he simply blurted out the truth, he had to think that his true feelings for her were going to be more than a little obvious. Lyla would have to be a fool not to understand, and that couldn’t lead anywhere good.

  Still, the defeated look on her face made him blunder ahead anyway. “The thing is,” he said, “You’re gorgeous, and so sexy. That’s really the first thing that hits people when they lay eyes on you. But the problem is, when people see a woman like you, they kind of assume she’s going to act a certain way, you know? They figure you know you’re amazing, and you’re going to try to manipulate them with it.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” L
yla huffed.

  Tate motioned for her to wait. “So then, when you open your mouth and you’re not that way at all—not stuck up, but warm and friendly and kind—it throws folks for a loop. I mean, you’re totally oblivious that you’re enchanting them, and then, the more you talk, the clearer it becomes how smart and funny and charming and sweet you are. Any average-Joe faced with that kind of sensory onslaught is bound to fall just a little crazy in love with you, in only the time it takes for you to sign his book.”

  “Tate—” she sighed.

  “But if you get some nutbar who obsesses over things like the subliminal messages in fast food commercials, and you throw—” Tate tried to gesture at her, but ended up bracketing Lyla in his arms, instead, “—all this at him…Lord. He won’t have a prayer of resisting you.”

  Lyla shook her head. This close, he could still smell the cinnamon tea she’d been drinking in front of the TV. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Of course, I am.”

  She contemplated that. “How am I supposed to do anything about it, then? I am who I am. If I tried to be different, I’d just seem fake—and trust me when I say, readers can spot a phony from a mile away.”

  “Lyla, you’re wonderful and you should stay that way. I’m here now, and I’m not going to let anything happen to you. If you believe anything at all, believe in that.”

  “Okay,” she whispered.

  Tate leaned forward and kissed her, but what was intended to be an encouraging peck rapidly grew wings and took flight. Lyla ended up in his lap, with Tate’s hands groping the goods.

  “Sorry,” he muttered sheepishly. Christ, the poor woman was upset. The last thing she needed was to be mauled on top of it.

  Lyla smiled, however. “Don’t be.”

  Her busy little paws snuck around him and quickly encountered the gun he’d stuck in the back of his waistband a minute ago, intending to stash it in here so he could have it close by during the night. Lyla froze, hazel eyes wide behind her glasses.

  Tate smirked, set the gun within easy reach on the nightstand, and then shucked off his button-down and tossed it on the chair.

  Lyla rolled her shoulders and tried again, this time running her palms up his sides while he kissed her. In seconds, though, she ran into Tate’s shoulder holster, and was clearing her throat and raising her eyebrows in mock annoyance again.

  With an apologetic grin, he shrugged out of the holster and placed it beside the pistol on the nightstand. Tate got rid of his undershirt for good measure, too, but Lyla still eyed him carefully, hands hovering over his chest and not making contact.

  “It does add a certain element to things when you have to disarm the other party before you jump them,” she said.

  “It’s so arousing, right?” Tate teased. “Next time, I’ll strap on some knives for you. Maybe hide some throwing stars where you least expect them.”

  Lyla groaned, “Oh, come on.” She flushed and tried to wriggle off him.

  Tate locked his arms around her like a vise. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Wouldn’t want to attack you when you’re so full of yourself. You might go and sprain something.” She rolled her pretty eyes, and Tate decided it was one of his favorite expressions.

  “Like my ego?” he suggested, poking Lyla in the ribs.

  “That is a good example.”

  “Don’t worry, I can take it. Besides, I understood this to be something of a mutual attack. You ride me. I wrestle you. That kind of deal.”

  “You do know how to sweet talk a girl, don’t you?”

  “I mean—yeah,” Tate said. “I’ve got a decade-old rep I need to protect now that I’m back on home soil. All these dudes are coming up, trying to dent my swagger. I gotta stay sharp.”

  Lyla sighed and shook her head forlornly. “And they say romance is dead.”

  “Who says that? Cause if it’s Piper, I’ll know the world’s over once and for all.”

  “No, definitely not her,” Lyla laughed.

  “Thank God,” Tate smiled back and dropped one very chaste kiss on the tip of her nose.

  The shadows were still there, lurking behind her eyes. Those calls tonight had scared Lyla. And, as much as he’d like to lay her out on this bed and rock her world till dawn, he couldn’t make himself do it if Lyla wasn’t in it for the same reasons as he was.

  He wanted her to adore him the same way he adored her—and not just use him for stress relief when she’d had a bad day.

  Right now, it seemed as if Lyla wanted to use sex with him to forget all the things bothering her, and not to connect to Tate on a deeper emotional level.

  It felt wrong—and that was a first for him. Tate held Lyla at bay as best as he could, and desperately tried to decide what the hell to do about it.

  TWENTY-SIX

  LYLA PERCHED ON Tate’s lap and waited for a spark to finally ignite in him. She was straddling him, for crying out loud, trying to make it clear with each kiss she planted on his lips where she wanted this to go.

  Tate’s hands stayed resolutely parked on her hips, however, and wouldn’t migrate an inch.

  His kisses remained light and teasing and didn’t get the slightest bit deeper or more intense.

  Hell, Tate’s tongue hadn’t even breached her lips yet, and that wasn’t his usual speed at all.

  After several minutes of futile encouragement, Lyla realized she wasn’t getting anywhere. She was so frustrated she wanted to scream, but given how much Tate enjoyed tormenting her, she refused to give him the satisfaction.

  Instead, Lyla swallowed her disappointment, called a halt to all the going-nowhere kissy-facing, and tried to climb off him.

  Damn, Tate’s arms were strong—they caged her in with barely a flex to show for it. Evilly, Lyla wondered if biting him might do the trick, might surprise Tate enough that he’d let down his guard and allow her to get away.

  “Again, with the retreating?” Tate wondered. “Where to now, sweetheart?”

  Lyla felt her face get hot. Could he be any more confusing? “Well, since it’s obvious you’re not interested in much more than sharing air with me, I figured I’d retreat with my dignity intact.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Don’t play dumb. You obviously don’t want me tonight, and I’m done trying to convince you. So let me go, already.”

  That gave him pause, but Tate still didn’t relax his grip. “Oh, I want you, Lyla,” he drawled softly. “I want you with every bone in my body. But,” he swallowed nervously, “you and I both know those phone calls scared the daylights out of you tonight. And…I’m a hell of a lot bigger than you are. I don’t want to overpower you and end up scaring you worse.”

  Lyla stared at him. “But I’m not scared of you.”

  “You might feel differently once I’ve got you pinned beneath me,” Tate retorted.

  “Even then, you won’t scare me. I want this, Tate. I want you.”

  He looked oddly wan, however. “I don’t want to frighten you,” he said again, like he was reminding himself instead of her.

  Lyla thought about how dangerous he’d seemed when she first met him, how that threatening edge had clung to him, despite all of his wisecracking.

  And yet, Lyla had known right from the start that Tate would never unleash it on her, even on that horrible night when he’d woken from his nightmare.

  “You don’t. I feel safe with you,” she told him, “Always.” She ran her hands over his big biceps. “I like your strength.”

  To emphasize that point, Lyla wrapped her arms around Tate’s neck and arched against him one more time, then brushed her lips over the side of his neck.

  “I want to make you feel so good,” she murmured. She felt him shiver.

  “Trust me, sweetheart. You do.”

  Suddenly, Tate was there with her again—not as some remote bodyguard keeping his distance, but as Tate, her Tate, once more.

  One big hand palmed her ass and pressed her against his now-o
bvious arousal. The other gripped the back of Lyla’s head to hold her in place while Tate’s tongue invaded her mouth and took immediate possession.

  “Why are you doing this?” he murmured against her lips. “Tell me.”

  Lyla told him the truth. “Because I can’t be here with you and not do this. I need you, Tate. I need you like I need to breathe.”

  In moments, he yanked her shirt up, tossing it aside so he could dive lower to nip and suck at the tops of her breasts. Lyla pushed off her shorts and shimmied out of them, hoping that would encourage him some more.

  And then Tate was scooting back, holding Lyla tight against him as he braced his back against the headboard of her bed. He teased her nipples through her bra until they were tight, hard peaks against the damp lace, and Lyla was moaning for more.

  Tate pulled back suddenly, gasping for air and spreading Lyla’s legs wider so he could pull her even closer against him.

  He looked down and hooked a finger under the string of her panties at the side of her hip. “These are nice,” he commented.

  “Thank you.”

  He pulled the string tighter and gave a sudden, sharp yank, snapping it handily before doing the same thing to the other side. In seconds, he’d tossed the useless scrap on the floor and sat smiling at her smugly.

  “Okay,” Lyla laughed breathlessly. “That’s going to throw off the laundry schedule.”

  “You’re resourceful,” he commented. “I’m sure you can figure something out.”

  Tate dipped her way back on his thighs and ran the tip of his tongue lightly along the crease of Lyla’s leg. A faint red line was just visible there, from the elastic of her panties pressing into her skin.

  She yelped and dug her fingers into his arms, bracing against the tickling sensation.

  Tate laughed and pulled her up again, urging Lyla into a grinding rhythm against his cock while he kissed her deeply.

  “Like this?” she gasped, when she came up for air.

  “Love it, sweetheart. Just like that.”

  Lyla worked her hand between them so she could undo Tate’s pants. She wanted to feel him against her without all the layers of material between them. But once she had him free of his khakis and briefs, he took her hand and wrapped it around himself, stroking up and down a few times.