“Lyla, the boy has so little to keep him occupied. I didn’t see what the harm was. And honestly, given Brett’s lifelong devotion to you, I’m appalled that you don’t feel just a little bad about the way you talk about him.”
“That boy is thirty-four years old, Mom. And it’s not devotion—it’s fixation.”
“Lyla—”
“Mom! For the love of God!” Lyla cried, before Tate put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed.
“Ma’am, I know you said they go to all of Lyla’s appearances, but you only meant the local ones, right?” he confirmed. “They wouldn’t have driven as far as, say, Cleveland, would they have? Or Erie?”
Lyla’s mother blinked rapidly, trying to keep up with the change in direction. “Oh, that’s not so far away. I’m sure they would’ve.”
Her dad cleared his throat. “Well…”
“You don’t think so?” she wondered.
“Maybe not with Bill’s foot, these days,” he said.
Her mother gasped and nodded. “Oh, of course. You’re right.” To Tate, she explained, “Bill had surgery on his foot a few weeks ago. Poor man’s been hobbling around in a walking boot over there ever since.”
“So, he’s not driving,” Tate said.
“No, not for another couple of weeks, I’d say.”
Lyla stared desperately at Tate. “Now what?”
Tate asked her father, “Does Brett drive, do you know?”
A guilty look passed between her parents, and Lyla demanded, “Guys? What?”
Her dad explained, “He’s not supposed to.”
Tate pinched the bridge of his nose to keep his cool. “But he does?”
“Only once in a while,” Peg rushed to explain. “Midge doesn’t like to drive at night, and with Bill’s foot the way it is…well, sometimes I think they’re in a bind. But they only let Brett do it when they’re with him, so I’m sure it’s okay.”
Lyla couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Mom, are you serious?”
“You don’t have children, honey. You can’t imagine what it’s like for Bill and Midge. They try to help Brett feel like he’s as capable as he always was, but it’s hard sometimes.”
Lyla threw up her hands and stared up at the ceiling. “I don’t even know what to say you guys right now.”
Her father murmured, “Lyla, it’s not our call to make. He’s their kid.”
She gaped at him. “Would you do something like that?”
“Of course not,” he told her.
“Who can say what we’d do?” her mother speculated. “If it were you.”
“Mother.”
Tate said gently, “Lyla. Lyla, stop and think.”
She rounded on him furiously. “Tate, I swear—this is not the time.”
“Lyla, she doesn’t know,” he retorted, calm and quiet as a spring breeze.
Her dad frowned at them. “Know what?”
Tate held Lyla’s gaze and enunciated each syllable clearly and distinctly. “They. Don’t. Know.”
Now her mother was the one throwing up her hands in exasperation. “I’m so confused. Lyla, what is he talking about? What is Tate saying?”
Lyla belted out, “Nothing.”
At the same time Tate turned to them and explained, “Mr. and Mrs. Lawson, the truth is, Lyla has had a stalker for many months now. That’s why her publisher hired me—to keep her safe on her book tour. The NYPD is involved, and they thought they’d arrested the right woman, but unfortunately, the threats to Lyla haven’t stopped.”
“So, what are you doing about it?” her father wanted to know.
“Everything I can. And, to be perfectly honest, Lyla and I think that Brett Jones might be involved. We’re going to head back to the city right now and hand over some evidence to the detective in charge of her case.”
“Evidence? What evidence?” her mom squawked.
“Brett wrote something in my old yearbook that sounds a lot like things the stalker says to me,” Lyla told her. “And we’re hoping my boss’s private investigator can tie him to some other…” She paused.
Too many details would only scare her mom, and she didn’t want anything to get back to the wrong ears.
Tate picked up the mantle, though. “…other things,” he said vaguely. “I’m sorry. I know this can’t be good news to hear.”
Lyla’s dad had flipped smoothly into crisis-control mode, though, which was a welcome relief given the storm brewing in her mother’s expression.
He said only, “What can we do?”
“Jim!” her mom cried. “They’re obviously wrong! Brett isn’t capable of something like that—tell them.”
“Peg, we’ll talk about it later. Tell me what we can do to help you, Monroe.”
“I would very much appreciate it if you would not share any details whatsoever about Lyla with other people, but particularly not any member of the Jones family. We need a little time to figure this out before one of them catches wind of what we suspect.”
“We can do that.”
“We can not do that!” Lyla’s mother protested. “Those people are our friends!”
Jim spun on his wife so fast, they all took a step or two back. “And Lyla is our daughter, Peg! If she’s in danger, she comes first. Think about what you’re saying for one goddamn minute, would you please?”
Lyla’s mom blinked like an owl, then sat slowly and carefully down on the sofa. “Oh my God. Oh my God.” She looked shocked and horrified.
“What else?” her father asked Tate.
“I could really use a recent photo of the Jones family,” he replied. “Brett in particular. Could you text one to Lyla?”
“Sure thing,” her father told him. “You guys go do what you have to do. I’ll take care of Mom, here.”
Lyla darted forward to peck him on the cheek. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Call me if you need me.”
Tate said, “We will, Mr. Lawson. Thanks.”
“Hey. You—you keep my girl safe, you hear me?”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
“You’d better.”
ON THE DRIVE back to Manhattan, Lyla dropped her head in her hands and moaned, “Oh God, Tate. What the hell is happening right now?”
“Sweetheart, we can do this. Take a deep breath and let’s talk this thing through. We agree that Brett Jones could be your stalker, yes?”
“Yes!” she wailed. “And he just heard us talking about him. What was he even doing out there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, how do we know he isn’t following us right now?”
“Because I’m watching for that,” Tate told her. Lyla realized it was true—his eyes had been flicking between the road and the rearview mirrors with more than a little laser-like focus.
“Are we…is he…”
Tate shook his head. “So far, no one on the road but us and a thousand other anonymous New Yorkers,” he smiled.
“Okay.”
“Here’s what I think we need to do. We have to get your yearbook to Detective Scarletti and see if the NYPD can link Brett’s handwriting to any of the other evidence.”
Lyla nodded. “Maybe this will convince Scarletti to stop bothering you.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Which is why I think we should also get in touch with Red’s investigator. We need to see if we can place Brett in any of the cities on your tour where stuff happened. See if we can find his parents’ car on traffic cameras or something. Show his picture around at the hotels.”
“Are we even allowed to do that?”
“Let’s leave that up to the PI.”
“But, Tate—” Lyla gnawed on her lip, thinking about it. “How long is that all going to take? Brett just heard us talking about him now. He’s upset, now. What’s to say he won’t try something before we have a chance to link him to everything?”
Tate made a low sound, deep in his throat. “If that fucker wants to get to you, he’s welcome to try,” he growled
. “But he’s gonna have to get past me first.”
“Uh, that’s kind of hot,” she told him with a shaky laugh.
Tate shook his head. “You’re insane.” He reached over to squeeze her thigh but got right back to business again. “We have a few more minutes before we get you home. Why don’t you try Detective Scarletti now? You can fill him in, since I seem to be rubbing him the wrong way this week.”
“Okay.” Lyla found the officer’s contact in her phone but hesitated, her finger hovering over the icon uncertainly.
Tate noticed, and rushed to explain, “You don’t have to. I only thought, since we had the time—”
“It’s not that. I just…” She winced. “Damn it.”
He glanced between her and the road. “What?”
“Well…are we really one-thousand-percent sure about this? Because once we call the cops, it becomes real—not just you and me with an idea, you know? We’ll be making suspects out of my parents’ best friends.”
“I doubt the parents are involved, Slick. At worst, Bill and Midge are only aiding and abetting their son.”
“Fine, then we’re making a suspect out of their son. How is that any better?”
“It’s not,” Tate agreed. “But a minute ago you were terrified of this character. Why the cold feet now?”
“I don’t like Brett, but that doesn’t mean I’m in a rush to ruin his life. If anything, it means I need to be more careful, to make sure my emotions aren’t coloring my judgment.”
“That’s very kind of you,” he said gently. “But what about the part where your life is being ruined? Where you’re frightened and on edge and worried that your stalker’s messages are getting more threatening by the day? Those things factor in too, Lyla.”
She nodded. “I know.”
“If it makes you feel any better,” Tate said, “I don’t believe the cops will pursue this guy without cause. They won’t go after Brett if the evidence doesn’t support our theory.”
“Said the innocent guy who got called in to the station just the other day.”
“As much as it pisses me off to say this, I think Scarletti was only being thorough.” When Lyla snorted, he conceded, “Fine, territorial, as well. But he’s not the kind of guy who’s going to railroad someone just because it’s convenient.”
“So, you think I can trust him to do this right?”
“I do.”
Lyla made the call. When she got a message at his office, she tried Scarletti’s cell, but had to leave a message there, as well.
“Hey, Detective,” she said. “This is Lyla Lawson. I found something today that makes me think I might know who’s been bothering me. I’d love to show it to you and get your opinion. Would you give me a call when you get a chance? Thanks.”
“Well, that’s that,” she sighed.
Tate looked so confident and strong behind the wheel, making his way across town to her apartment. More than anything, she trusted him.
After a couple of minutes, he pulled into the public garage near her apartment and circled the levels, looking for a free spot.
“I have a hunch about this, Lyla,” he said. “I really think that yearbook might be the clue we’ve been hoping for.”
He locked up the truck and they walked to her building. Tate’s hand was tight around hers as his head swiveled back and forth, watchful and wary.
Lyla shivered. “I hope Detective Scarletti calls back soon.”
“If he doesn’t call tonight, we’ll drop by the station in the morning. Maybe they can get someone to keep an eye on your apartment until everything is settled.”
They crossed her lobby and headed for the elevator at the back. Once the doors closed them in, Lyla stepped close to Tate and ran her hands up his broad, hard chest. “And you can keep an eye on me,” she murmured.
“I can,” he agreed, his voice low and dark. “And I intend to do a very, very good job.”
THIRTY-ONE
“WELL DAMN, CAPTAIN,” Lyla breathed up at him. “Look who gets all sexy when he’s being tough.”
Tate’s heart ticked into a higher gear, the stress of the day abruptly mutating into something hungrier—needier—like it always did when Lyla was near.
He put his arms around her as the elevator chugged upward. “Is that right?”
“Yes,” she whispered, leaning in for a kiss. They’d reached her floor, though, and the doors cranked open. He wished he could bring her somewhere more secure—some safe little hidey-hole that no one knew about, instead of the apartment she’d lived in for years.
Lyla had insisted, however, and she was effectively his boss.
Tate glanced up and down the hall, then hustled her to her door. While she dug around for her keys, he asked her, “Lyla…are you feeling okay? You haven’t lost your marbles from the stress or anything, have you?”
Because he really shouldn’t get ahead of himself here. No less than half an hour ago, she’d been completely terrified that her strange, scary “superfan” wasn’t a fan at all, but someone she knew well.
Now she was coming on to him?
It was as crazy-making a situation as any writer could cook up, including Lyla—so her emotions were bound to be all over the place.
She might not be in a seductive mood at all. She could just be in shock.
Which was exactly why Tate ought to pump the brakes here, instead of letting his below-the-belt wingman do the deciding.
The last thing Lyla needed tonight was for Tate to come in hot and hard for a landing, while her ground crew was frantically trying to wave him off at the last minute.
She got her door open and stumbled over the threshold, letting out a slightly manic giggle on the way.
“You know, maybe I have,” she said. “How could I not have seen this coming? I should have seen this coming. It’s so ridiculously obvious. I can’t believe no one figured it out before.”
Tate raked a hand back through his hair. “Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. No one had all the information. That’s always how things slip through the cracks.”
Lyla wasn’t listening to him any longer. She was staring morosely at the top of his head. “Is the Army going to make you cut your hair when you go back?” she asked.
The non sequitur threw him off. “I…will probably do it either way,” Tate said.
It had gotten a little shaggy, he supposed, but he’d had other things on his mind. He could add a haircut to his list, though. Maybe next week, if he remembered.
Lyla advanced on him, reaching up to thread her fingers into his hair and tugging gently. “It’s so soft,” she murmured. “I’ll hate to see it go.”
“Thanks.” But Lyla wouldn’t have to, would she? Now that her case was on the verge of being closed, she’d have no more need of him, and Tate was going to be sent packing.
Soon. Too soon. By the time he was getting his hair cut and shipping out, he’d have been jettisoned from her orbit and then some.
Tate stared down into her beautiful face, and Lyla stared right back—like she could hear his sorry thoughts loud and clear.
She launched herself at him with sudden desperation, gasping, “Kiss me,” a split second before her mouth hit his.
“Now?” Tate pulled away. Everything was spinning so fast. He needed to make some sense of it. “Wait.”
“Please, Tate,” she begged, pressing her lush, curvy body against his.
It was impossible to think when everything he wanted was right there in his grasp. At some point, this thing with Lyla had zipped way past desire and hurtled straight into bigger, more treacherous things.
Things that spelled out picket fences and forever.
“What happened to you being scared?” he asked, trying to buy time.
It was okay to care about her, it was the decent thing to care about her—but this wasn’t caring. This felt unnervingly like…
No. Shit, Tate could not go there. He had no business going there.
“I don’t re
ally know,” Lyla admitted, her hands busily tugging on his shirt buttons. “I’m out on a ledge somewhere, and it feels like you’re the only thing left to hang on to.”
And just like that, she snuck under all Tate’s armor and made a home in his chest. This woman destroyed him.
“Then do it, sweetheart,” Tate told her. “Hold on tight to me.”
“If you don’t want to—”
“Let’s get one thing straight. There will never come a time when I don’t want to. Not with you.”
This time, when Lyla’s lips met his, he didn’t fight her. Tate’s tongue tangled with hers in a kiss that consumed him, body and soul.
He wondered what she’d do if he handed her his heart right now. If he handed her a ring.
In fits and starts, she tried to give him another out. “We don’t have to…” Lyla gasped, “We can just…”
“Fuck that.” Tate lifted her up and wrapped her legs around his waist. “Come here and love me, sweetheart,” he demanded, then immediately wanted to cringe at his word choice.
Lyla didn’t notice his slip, though, so he took the three steps over to the breakfast bar leading into her kitchen and set her ass on one of the stools there. Tate worked her soft skirt up over her hips, then let her shimmy out of her panties while he went for his wallet, and the condom stuck inside.
Lyla didn’t want to relinquish his lips. “Tate, please. I’m on the pill, and I’m clean. Could we just…do you want to…you know?”
Jesus—she was going to be the death of him. He laughed unsteadily, and told her, “I’m clean, too. I promise.”
The thought of having Lyla skin-to-skin would’ve deranged him if he’d ever allowed himself to think about it—and now, with the prospect at hand, it had Tate’s fingers shaking so badly, he could barely get his pants undone.
Finally, he freed his cock from his briefs, and Lyla batted his hands away so she could take over. She looked down at her prize and her eyebrows arched higher, even as she stroked him and palmed his balls.
“Really?” she wondered. “What’s gotten into him?”
The Hero Was Handsome (Triple Threat Book 3) Page 28
