His lips devoured hers hungrily. Why did it feel like Tate was cherishing her? That was definitely an illusion—another talent in his varied bag of tricks—since a man like him would obviously never do such a thing.
The other women he knew probably ate it up, too. Lyla couldn’t be the only one who was such a sucker for his charms.
It wasn’t like she could take exception, though, since she’d started this whole shindig to begin with. What was she supposed to say? Stop acting like you care so much—it’s throwing me off my sexy-times game?
As Tate’s lips and hands progressed down her body, Lyla decided he was way, way too good at this. She was losing sight of what they were doing here, and beginning to have some inconvenient worries about what was going to happen to her heart once Tate left for good.
She had to remember that he was being paid to be here and that he’d made it very clear he couldn’t wait to leave. Lyla could not tell him that with every day and every kiss, she was falling harder for him, because the instant they caught whoever was bothering her—or the minute Tate got cleared to return to active duty—he’d leave.
He’d go back to doing what he’d been trained for, and what he loved. Tate would resume his regular life, fighting in places Lyla never wanted to visit. He would continue saving the world every day, and he’d probably act like it was no big deal.
And then, when he wasn’t busy being a hero, Tate would no doubt manage a succession of flings with a bevy of beautiful women—and in all likelihood, he would kiss them like he was kissing Lyla. Stupidly, they would most likely fall for him, too.
Lyla couldn’t have any illusions that she’d see Tate again, once his job as her bodyguard was over. He might have friends in New York, but his family was in Ohio. If Tate ever got leave, he would go see them, not come to visit her.
Pining away waiting for him would be foolish and completely useless.
Lyla had to be prepared to return to her regular, everyday self—solitary, hardworking, and bookish. She’d probably have to adopt a cat or two, just to keep the theme going.
Abruptly, Tate’s careful touches felt like sandpaper against her nerves. She needed something harder from him—something forceful enough to wipe her pointless anxieties from her brain.
She didn’t count on the aces Tate had stashed up his sleeve, though—or in his fingers, as it were. A stray nudge here, a focused caress there, and soon he was laying down cards that had Lyla invoking deities and forgetting all about future heartaches.
There’d be time enough for worry later, Lyla conceded. For now, this man was here, and he was hers.
When she floated back to earth, Tate hauled her body close and nuzzled into her hair. “I want to love you all night long,” he murmured. “I never want to stop holding you tight and breathing you in.”
Foolishly, Lyla blurted out, “You do know when you say things like that, women can’t help falling for you. Right?”
Tate froze, holding still for an excruciatingly long moment while Lyla’s heart leapfrogged around behind her ribs. “How about we agree that if you’re the one doing the falling,” he finally said, “I’ll do the catching?”
He had to know he was different. Had to know he was special to her.
Lyla laughed, suddenly and awkwardly, and wondered if it even mattered. “Is that some veiled reference to me being clumsy?” she bluffed.
That squashed whatever moment they’d been having pretty expediently. Tate nipped her on the tender part of her shoulder and barked out an unsteady laugh, too. “No need to be coy. Everyone already knows you’re a klutz.”
“Good thing you’re here to remind me.”
“Agreed. Just to be safe, though, you’d better let me do all the work on this next part. You know, so you don’t hurt yourself.”
Lyla feared it was already far too late for that.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Tate stood at her bathroom sink like he’d been doing it for years, a towel wrapped snugly around his waist while he finished shaving. His skin was still warm and damp from his shower, and Lyla thought she’d never seen a sexier sight.
She wrapped her arms around him from behind and laid her cheek against Tate’s back, wishing she could hold on to him in other ways as easily. His muscles rippled under the surface as he rinsed off his razor and laid it down.
A moment later, Lyla heard the unmistakable sound of pills rattling out of a bottle. She peeked around Tate’s shoulder, wondering if he had another headache—but that wasn’t garden-variety ibuprofen he was holding. It was a prescription bottle.
Tate met her eyes in the mirror a little guiltily, and Lyla looked quickly away. Curiosity was all fine and well, but it wasn’t her business what medications he was taking. She should leave and give him some privacy.
But Tate tapped Lyla’s hand, still resting against his stomach, to get her attention. When their gazes connected again, he showed her the bottle.
“Anti-convulsant,” he said. “To prevent seizures.” Then he fished around in his kit, held up a second prescription, and added, “And this one is an anti-depressant, since I was a little unhinged at first, when I managed to squeak through and so many other people didn’t.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Hopefully, I’ll be off both of them really soon. That’s what they’ve told me, anyway. I’d really love to have a freaking beer one of these days, and not have to worry about what’s interacting with what.”
And here Lyla had been assuming he never drank around her because of the job. “I appreciate you telling me,” she said, “But you really didn’t have to. You don’t owe me an explanation just because I’m nosy.”
“Yes, I do,” he told her. “I don’t want you to worry about me. I am okay, I swear. I won’t crap out on you.”
“I’m not concerned about that in the least.”
“Good.” Tate paused, then said, “But Lyla, listen—I’m still not…a good long-term bet. You should know—”
Lyla turned him around and laid her fingers against his lips. “Please don’t.”
Tate kissed her hand. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t wave me off before anything’s decided. Okay? Can’t we just enjoy what we have together now, and worry about the rest later?” It was a risk, she knew, but Lyla longed for him to agree.
Tate looked troubled. “I want to. But maybe that’s not the best idea. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
She noticed he didn’t seem worried about himself in the least. “Whatever happens,” Lyla told him, more confidently than she felt, “I know you will never be hurtful intentionally.” She’d be devastated enough by the unintentional part.
Tate didn’t respond. He only bent to rest his forehead against hers.
He smelled like toothpaste and shaving cream, and Lyla would’ve given anything right then to have him smiling and cracking jokes again.
“I’m not going to beg you,” she said. She wanted to, though—God, she really wanted to.
Stay with me. Don’t leave.
Tate pulled back and framed her face in his hands, then kissed her softly. His eyes searched hers, wide and uneasy.
“We’ll figure something out,” he conceded at last. “But please promise me you won’t make me into something I’m not. Don’t put the cart before the horse, here.”
Lyla smiled. “Now you’re a horse?”
Finally, finally, Tate’s shoulders relaxed, and he cracked a wide, cocky grin. “It’s stallion, sweetheart. The word you want is stallion.”
As he sauntered away, Tate whipped off his towel, spun it around, and snapped Lyla in the ass with it—like they were a couple of dudes in a locker room, instead of a man and a woman having a serious discussion, sort of, about their future.
“Ow!” Lyla complained.
Tate bestowed his most devilish wink on her, then turned to his duffel bag to get dressed.
Had they decided anything just now? Lyla didn’t have the faintest idea.
TWENTY-SEVEN
THE PHONE WAS ringing again.
It had been for a while, Tate thought. Ringing, falling silent, then kicking back on again at least two or three times now. At first, Tate had assumed he was dreaming it.
He scrubbed at his eyes. It must be a wakeup call that Lyla had scheduled without telling him.
Once he cracked his lids, it would undoubtedly be morning, and yeah, who was surprised that he didn’t feel rested in the least?
However, even with his eyeballs peeled wide, the room stayed just as dark as before. The bathroom door was still cracked, emitting its quarter-inch sliver of light, but beyond the windows, the sky was inky black. A quick glance at the bedside clock confused Tate even more—it was only 3 a.m, not six or seven.
They’d been asleep for four hours, at most. And, Tate remembered abruptly, he and Lyla were back at her apartment, now, not in a hotel.
Ergo, this was not a wakeup call. It had to be her fucking stalker again, ruining their sleep for the second night in a row. But when had Lyla turned the ringer back on?
She hadn’t even budged next to him, courtesy of the industrial-grade earplugs she’d started wearing once they’d returned to town. So, Tate rolled over and did the honors himself, grabbing the receiver and trying to calm the instinctual uptick in his heartrate.
Middle of the night calls were never good news. Literally everyone on the planet knew that. Frankly, it’d be better if this was the stalker—then, at least it wouldn’t be someone they knew, calling to say they were in the hospital or something.
“Hello?” Tate’s voice came out gravelly, and not a little breathless.
He hoped to hell the caller wasn’t one of Lyla’s parents—or Red, for that matter. There’d be a shit ton of explaining to do, if so, because even Tate had to admit he sounded like he was mid-fuck.
If only.
The line was silent for a long moment, but then a reedy kind of chuckle filtered over it. “Well, look at that,” the voice cackled. “I’m right again.”
The stalker. It was the first time Tate had talked to the asshole himself, and his brain was spinning, trying to gather any and every detail he could from the sound of the guy’s voice.
It was definitely the same person from the recording he’d heard. Definitely a man.
It was also hard not to lay into the freak—to chew him out for tormenting Lyla the way he’d been doing. But Tate reined in his inner caveman and merely inquired, “Right about what?”
He had no idea if Scarletti had a tracer on Lyla’s landline, but it sure would come in handy right about now.
“I guess Lyla’s not the only one who’s always getting things wrong,” her stalker said. “You’re wrong, too, if you think you’ll ever get to keep her.”
Indeterminate age. No noticeable accent, but maybe he was altering his voice to hide it?
“Why’s that?” Tate wanted to keep him talking, but he saw no need to point out all the reasons why the prick was probably right.
“Because…” Another chuckle, some rustling, but no other sounds that could be used as clues, like you saw in the movies—not a train whistle, foghorn, or car alarm to be had. “Delilah’s going to have to pay for her mistakes, now. It’s time.”
Tate frowned. No one but Lyla’s mom called her Delilah. Most people didn’t even know it was her real name. She’d said so herself.
“What mistakes?” Tate asked. He needed the dude to say more, to give him something to go on here, to make a mistake. Something. Anything.
There was a small click and line went dead.
“Shit,” he muttered. What was he supposed to do with that?
As gently as he could, he set the phone in its cradle and felt around for his cell. He had to enter the time and details in the log they’d been keeping, before he forgot anything.
When Tate was finished, he laid back down, but he knew he wouldn’t fall asleep again. His nerves were jumping under his skin like live wires, itching for the chance to pummel something.
There was a soft touch on his arm, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.
“Jesus,” he gasped, pulse galloping even faster, now.
Lyla’s voice was small in the dark. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s just—”
“Was that him?”
Tate really wanted to punch something, now. “Yeah, Slick. It was.”
She cuddled closer. “What did he say?”
“Bunch of crap. Barely made any sense, the psycho fuck.”
Lyla sighed, “You can tell me, Tate. I’ve heard it all before. What was it this time? More stuff about being wrong?”
“Yeah.” He blew out a frustrated breath. “He’s a one-trick pony, all right.”
“Could you tell anything else?”
No, he could not, and the fact was making him crazy. Tate shook his head, running through every word her stalker had uttered.
Hold on.
“Does he always call you Delilah?” he asked.
“Yes, and it’s so creepy. How did he even find that out?”
“Could be a lucky guess,” Tate mused, “but you know how the internet is. People can find all kinds of crap out there.”
“I suppose.”
He rolled to his side and stroked her arm. “I’m sorry it woke you up. I was hoping you wouldn’t hear anything.”
“I didn’t hear the phone—I felt you move. I always feel it when you get up.”
“Damn, Lyla. I get up a lot. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m still sleeping better than I did before you arrived.”
Not Tate. He was sleeping worse, knowing there was a second body to protect besides his own—and one that was a heck of a lot more important in the general scheme of things.
Lyla didn’t have to know that, however.
“I’m glad,” he told her. “And listen—now that he’s gotten some attention, I bet he won’t call back tonight. Let’s try to catch a few more Zs while we can.”
Good little soldier that she was, Lyla agreed readily, even though she probably knew, as Tate did, that sleeping was going to be impossible.
And they were right. That asshole kept up his campaign of harassment for the next hour—calling and letting it ring once or twice, then hanging up again. He waited longer and longer between calls, letting them think he was done before starting all over, once more.
Turning off the ringer did nothing, now that they were both awake. The way the handset lit up with each call was like having a strobe light on the ceiling.
When he couldn’t stand it anymore, Tate finally ripped the cord from the wall and threw Lyla’s stupid phone in the tub. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder in her tiny bathroom, watching it for a long time—like they both expected the device to come to life, even without any juice.
Eventually, Lyla turned on every light in the place and made some tea. Then she sat on her couch until dawn, watching cartoons and clutching her arms around herself like she could keep from disintegrating that way.
Tate kept her company, but his thoughts were going in circles.
There was something nagging at him—some small detail that his subconscious had picked up on in the last couple of days—that related to that fucker’s call. It was out there, teasing at the edges of his brain, but kept eluding him.
He didn’t think he’d ever felt so helpless.
AFTER THEY’D DOWNED enough caffeine between them to power a nuclear reactor, Tate shooed Lyla into the shower and went into her kitchen to fix them some breakfast.
When Lyla wandered out of her bedroom a while later, she had a towel wrapped around her hair and her eyes were bleary. Tate pecked her cheek and handed her a plate, then pointed to the sheet of paper he’d noticed on her refrigerator.
“Hey, Lyla? I keep seeing this thing on your fridge. What is it?”
“Daisy drew that,” she smiled. “It’s supposed to be you, Red, and Luca. See?” She pointed each of them out, and Tate smiled at how well his buddy’s fiancée had captured their
likenesses with just a handful of lines.
“We’re in a bar?”
“Yeah. Piper told the joke and Daisy drew it as she talked. You know, like—a CEO, a doctor, and a soldier walk into a bar?”
“Go on,” he chuckled, enjoying the visual.
“See, the CEO ordered a whiskey. The doctor ordered wine—”
“—and got kissed by someone, apparently.” Luca’s image had small lip prints drawn all over his cheek and collar.
“As I said, Daisy was doing the drawing.”
Tate was happy his buddy had found someone so totally devoted to him. “Looks like I got a…bomb. Not a drink?”
“Because you like to ‘end the week with a bang.’ That was my contribution.” Lyla bit her lip like she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or flee. “Look—there are your hordes of admirers, off to the side. Get it? Because ‘bang’ can mean two things, and…”
“Yeah, I got that,” Tate told her, amused but also not. “That’s how my friends still see me, huh?”
“We were just screwing around, Tate. Being silly.”
“I see how it is. Pick on the guy who’s not there to defend himself.” He tried like hell to keep his voice light, but apparently, it didn’t work.
Lyla asked, “Are you offended? Most men wouldn’t care if their buddies thought they were players.” She set her plate down and put her arms around him.
“Except, why does it feel like they’ve been allowed to grow up and move on, and I haven’t?” Tate hadn’t intended to blurt that out, but now that he had, it felt so true.
“I’m sure no one meant it like that.”
Tate shrugged, unconvinced. “When did you guys do this, anyway?”
“Maybe…four or five months ago?”
“We hadn’t met yet.”
“No.”
“But you kept the cartoon. Why?”
“Ummm…I don’t know.” Lyla’s face turned red. “Maybe out of curiosity? Or maybe for good luck. It’s hard to say. They talked about you sometimes when we all got together, and I always sort of wondered what you were like. But this happened the night your mom called Luca to tell him you’d been injured. It was all so horrifying, but Daisy told me to keep it until it was funny again.”
The Hero Was Handsome (Triple Threat Book 3) Page 25
