"Good. You could use a night life."
"I'm stuck at home with a bodyguard."
"Who doesn't stink," Mom said cheerfully. "I don't know whether to hope he catches the stalker right away or hope you have to spend some time together. Bye, now!"
Kate stared at the telephone and listened to the buzz of the dial tone, then reluctantly turned to Teague, sure she'd have to explain something she had no desire to explain.
Instead he said, "You're supposed to be following my routine. Observing my week. I work out every day. Do you have a problem with gyms?" He raised a mocking brow. "Do they not smell right?"
She pretended she didn't know what he meant. "I have a gym, too, right around the corner. Does that work for you?"
"Sounds good." He wasn't the sort of man who caviled at the necessity of working to remain physically fit. It was his job, and he would run or ride a bike or beat a bag without complaint.
The trouble was, when she thought of his doing those things, she noticed a marked increase in the temperature in the room. She considered the brandy. "I think I might need a bottle of water."
"Great." His cell phone sang a tinny rendition of Carmen. "Get me one, too."
All right. He'd cleaned the kitchen. He'd fixed her a brandy. She could get him a bottle of water without any loss of womanhood.
She fetched two plastic bottles from the refrigerator and brought one back to him.
He took it with an absent nod. "That was fast," he said into the phone, then he went to the window and looked out. "Doesn't like to have people check up on him, huh?"
"Who?" she asked.
He hung up and strode to the door. "The guy who just walked in the front door of the building, the former owner of your home, one Winston Porter. When Big Bob called him a little while ago, Winston threw one hell of a tantrum. Threatened you. Said he'd come by to teach you a lesson for sticking your nose into his business.
"My God. Then he's the stalker?"
"Maybe."
Someone pounded at the door, and her heart jolted.
The bruises she'd been dismissing suddenly ached with renewed fervor, and she had a flash of that car bearing down on her.
She must have looked sick because Teague said soothingly, "I'd feel better if you got out of the way. Go' into the bedroom or the bathroom."
"Shouldn't we call the police?"
"That would be great. Go and call them." Taking her arm, he escorted her toward the downstairs bedroom. "And stay in there until I call you."
She stared at the door he shut in her face, then dove for the phone. What if this guy had a gun?
Her hand trembled as she dialed 911, and while she reported an intruder she listened for action in the other room.
She could hear the murmur of men's voices in the living room. They sounded civil. They sounded unruffled.
The operator promised to send a squad car.
Kate's initial alarm dwindled. She began to feel foolish and cowardly for hiding in the bedroom.
The minutes ticked by, and she convinced herself she should take a peek. Taking a breath, she opened the door a crack.
The two men stood in the entry facing each other. At once she realized their low tones were a camouflage for at least one flaring temper.
Winston was tall, probably six feet six, young—and livid. He wore a tailored Armani suit and a starched white shirt with the collar open. He had a five-o'clock shadow on his square jaw. His big fists opened and closed as he spoke, and he towered over Teague like a man who was used to winning fights. "Who do you think you are? You've no right to harass me. So I've a few problems. Who doesn't drink too much and do the occasional line?" His British accent strengthened, and his voice rose with every word.
In stark contrast, Teague sounded cool and decisive. "We just called you and asked a few questions."
"Do you know how many people are calling me? I'm sick of it. Sick of all the vultures swarming around as if I were a carcass to be picked clean."
Kate realized Winston was drunk or high.
She wanted to call 911 again, to urge them to hurry. Her finger twitched on the numbers. "I'll pay you when I get the money," Winston shouted. "I told you that before." "We haven't talked before." Teague stood absolutely still, his gaze fixed on Winston's hand.
"This is my house. My place." Winston threw his arm out and knocked a vase off Kate's side table. It shattered on the hardwood floor.
The sound, the violence in her private sanctuary, made her flinch.
Something altered in Teague's stance.
He was no longer waiting. He was anticipating. Prepared to finish the scene.
"She's changed it," Winston raged on. "That bitch has changed it."
"It's her place now." Sounding cocky and smug, Teague thrust his face into Winston's. "You're a loser. Now everybody knows it."
Winston sprang at Teague like a runaway dump truck.
Teague stepped aside and grasped Winston's wrist. In a smooth, swift motion, he sent the younger man crashing to the floor, then, planting his foot on Winston's spine, he twisted the man's wrist up and behind his back.
Kate gasped, the first noise she'd made, then covered her mouth to catch back the sound.
Teague's gaze flashed to the door where she stood, and for a moment she stared into the stark, soulless eyes of a predator.
SEVEN
Teague pulled on his weight-lifting gloves and flexed his fingers.
As far across the gym from him as she could be, Kate worked out in her kickboxing class. He could see her through the glass that separated the two rooms. She lifted her leg and her foot smacked the bag again and again. She wore a sleeveless blue T-shirt and matching blue bicycle shorts, and she scowled with effort. Right now, she didn't remember he was alive.
Or rather, she didn't want to remember.
Last night, with one damned, unguarded look, he'd frightened her into wariness.
And for what? That Winston guy might be strung out on drugs, but he had a great alibi—he had been in jail for the last week for DUI and possession, and he'd posted bail only two days before. So he was no longer a suspect.
Teague adjusted the weight on the tricep machine and began a slow, steady lift.
Teague had frightened people before with his rage. The first time he'd done it, he had been fifteen. His mother had been drunk. From the time he was a kid, he'd carried the marks of her belt on his back. In the past, she had slapped him hard enough to cut his face with her cheap rings. This time, she'd come at him, fingernails bared, and she'd opened his cheek with her claws.
This time, as the blood trickled off his chin, he'd had it.
He'd grabbed her hands: that's all, just grabbed them, and looked at her.
And she'd gone from a shrieking witch to a blubbering mass of nerves.
She'd never physically attacked him again.
He hadn't understood what had happened that day, but slowly it had dawned on him that he had power in his gaze. Every once in a while in the service, when he lost his temper, people drew away from him, and when he was fighting . . . well, when the violence swept him, he'd more than once seen a soldier on the other side flee in terror.
Rolf had called him a berserker, a Viking invincible in the rage of battle.
Teague had laughed and pointed out that not a drop of Viking blood flowed through his veins. But . . . who knew? He sure as hell didn't.
Only Juanita had never been afraid of him. Only Juanita had ever loved him.
And look what he'd done to her.
The muscles at the back of Teague's arms screamed, and he winced as he lowered the weights. He'd better pay attention to what he was doing—he couldn't afford a torn tendon now He had to care for Kate.
Well, not care for her, but make sure she was safe.
He moved to the next machine and set up for the bicep curl.
Last night, Kate had been polite to the police when they'd shown up to arrest Winston. She had given them a precise report on the
whole scene and signed an autograph for one cop's daughter. She'd shown Teague his bedroom, offered him towels, extra blankets, and any toiletries he might have forgotten, and with a civilized smile paid him his ten-dollar winnings.
But the sexual tension that had hovered in the air between them had vanished, and when he'd touched her elbow she'd shied away from him as if he were a demon. Not that he minded her being a little in awe of him, but if danger threatened, he needed her to run toward him, not away from him.
And, in all reality, his ego was smarting. What had she told her mother on the phone last night? That he smelled like pure distilled sex.
His gaze flashed toward the window where Kate punched at the air.
Now . . . now she couldn't bear for him to touch her. He had to lull her fears and talk to her, touch her, without having her flinch as if he were the damned devil.
Yet why was he surprised at her reaction? He knew who he was. What he'd done.
The gray shadows of the past enveloped him, and he heard his mother's voice, shrill and contemptuous: Goddamn it, Teague, you little bastard, you can't take that kid to a gang fight. Don't be so goddamned stupid. You're a stupid half-breed gringo and if you get knifed, no one will care. I sure as hell won't. But that kid—
Teague cut off the voice. He didn't have to listen to her anymore. She was dead. His mother was dead. The past was set. No matter how hard he wished or fought, he couldn't change a thing.
He was waiting outside the door when the kickboxing class let out. He could see Kate inside, milling around in the midst of the other women, waiting to get through. She smiled and chatted, stripped off her gloves, gulped from her bottle of water, used her towel to wipe at her forehead.
The first women out the door stopped short at the sight of him, then kept going, and each in turn gave him an intimate smile.
He smiled back. Every one of those women confirmed that his black sleeveless workout shirt and shorts worked wonders on the female libido, and that fit his plans exactly. He would demonstrate what a teddy bear he was, make Kate a little jealous, and get back in contact with her.
The hitch in the lineup caused women to bump and push. When he directed a smile at Kate, elbows jabbed her from every direction. The jostling made her roll her eyes, then crisply say, "Teague, I've got to shower and get ready. If you want to work out for a little longer . . ."
"No." He stepped in front of her, and she stopped so fast everybody behind her plowed into her and knocked her right into his chest.
She pushed away so fast the contact was as quick as a brand.
"Actually, I'm going to take you back in there"—he nodded at the workout room—"and give you some pointers on punching."
"What?" Kate cocked her head as if she'd developed difficulty with her hearing.
"You punch like a sissy. You need to put your body behind it. Let me show you." He started to take her arm to lead her back.
She slithered away through the crowd. "What's wrong with punching like a sissy?"
He gave her a look, one that plainly told her what he thought of her inanity.
One of the other women, an older gal who'd made her appreciation of his assets quite clear, asked, "Can you really teach us how to punch? That idiot Steve used to lead the class, and he never taught us how to do the moves right."
This was perfect. A large crowd would give Teague the chance to get back in touch with Kate without her feeling threatened. Yet in that brief moment of contact, the scent of Kate—sweaty, pungent, womanly—made him want her again. None of the other women here, and there were more attractive women, interested him at all.
Life was a bitch.
"What happened to Steve?" Teague herded them all back into the workout room.
"He flaked out about a month ago. Now one of us always leads the class." The woman pursed her lips. "Badly."
"Bobbie Jo, I think I do a nice job of leading this class!" one of the women objected.
"Nice and sissy," Bobbie Jo retorted. "C'mon, girls, let's learn how to kick the crap out of a mugger." She moved closer to Teague. "That is what you're going to teach us, isn't it?"
"Yes, ma'am. I'm Teague Ramos, and I specialize in kicking the crap out of muggers." Teague took his place in front of the milling women. "All right, fall in!"
They laughed, but they assembled in rough lines and looked at him expectantly. Amazing how those military commands worked on civilians.
Kate hung back in the middle of the group, eyeing him cautiously. Of course. She had seen the beast, she was still scared, and Kate Montgomery didn't scare easily.
Sometimes during the rare and long nights he spent alone, the question haunted him: Was he a beast? With a look, he panicked toughened warriors. He'd killed men—men who needed killing—and never dreamed of their corpses. The only thing that had ever haunted him was his memory of the streets, the odors, the high-pitched laughter . . the helplessness. Especially the helplessness. He hated the memory of being little, of bigger people, teachers, guidance counselors, his madre, shoving him around, laughing at his aspirations, stripping him of dignity.
He hated the memory of what had happened to him, and he hated to think of it happening to Kate. To any of these ladies with their gold chains, their perfect workout clothes and their well-applied cosmetics. He was going to enjoy teaching them.
"First of all," he said, "you women don't have the muscle mass to carry off a punch or a kick unless you put your weight behind it. So don't punch with your arms, punch with your shoulder. See?" He demonstrated a punch that propelled his shoulder forward. "That gives you more momentum. Give that a try." He walked among them, adjusting their stances, grasping their wrists and showing them how to lead with their body.
Kate followed his instructions exactly, watched herself in the mirror, and practiced with a concentration that boded ill for any potential attacker.
That figured. She was soft, privileged, but he hadn't a doubt that something drove her to be the best, always. And he knew, for he saw it in her eyes, how very much she disliked having to look at everyone as a potential stalker.
He didn't like it, either. He didn't like having to casually question all the trainers at her gym, and feeling murderous when one of them made an admiring comment about Kate. He didn't like noticing little details like how short she trimmed her fingernails and her fascination with the local news—all of the local news— and how many hours she could watch it.
When this job was done, he could screw her, of course, and not give her a thought when he was done, but somehow . . . her allure felt different. Less trivial. More intense. A man with his background had no future with a woman like Kate. Didn't want one . . . but damn, he hated that he had no chance.
He was already committed, bound to a past that could never be corrected.
He strolled back to the front of the class. "Where should you hit someone with this kind of blow?"
"In a dark alley?" Bobbie Jo asked.
"Very funny." He flashed her a grin.
Kate marveled at how well he handled the class— and how cleverly he had maneuvered her. He wanted to teach her the basics of self-defense, so he inveigled his way into her group. Every one of the ladies was anxious to please him, worked hard for him—but none of them had ever looked into his eyes and seen the darkness that lurked there. That single glimpse into the bleakness of his soul terrified her. This man's outward appearance seemed so . . . normal.
Who was she kidding? He was definitely not normal. He was extraordinary. Every talent, every charm, every confidence seemed to reside within him. Yet within him no emotion seemed to flourish: no love, no hate, no empathy, no desperation, no happiness, no . . . nothing. If there was a hell, he personified it.
"Kate." His voice jerked her from her reverie. "Come up here and help demonstrate. Don't be shy."
Kate, who hadn't been shy since she was two and a half, glared venomously at him.
Then Bobbie Jo planted a hand in the middle of her back and gave her a shove.
Kate stumbled forward and kept going. What was the use of resisting? This time, he was going to win the battle. He simply wasn't going to win them all.
When she stood before him, she waited tensely. It didn't matter that yesterday he'd comforted her with his mere presence. Last night she'd looked into his eyes, and today when he touched her, she would feel the chill of his emptiness.
But he confounded her by being businesslike and efficient, and when he took her hand, his touch was impersonal and almost . . . well . . . normal.
He spread her fingers and showed them to the group. "Here's the problem with bones, especially delicate bones like this. They break. You've got to make a good fist, thumb here"—he manipulated the thumb across the outside of her fingers—"use the weight of your shoulder. The two best places to punch are the nose— noses break even more easily than fingers—and in the throat. The lips are okay, but splitting a lip isn't going to bring a grown man down. The eye—I'd stick those fingers out and gouge."
"Ohh." One of the ladies, a soft, gentle woman, put her hand to her stomach.
"No." He focused all his attention on her. "Don't get sick. Get mad. What's your name?"
"I'm Sandra." She squirmed, obviously embarrassed.
"Look at me." He gestured at himself, gestured at Kate. "I outweigh Kate by seventy-five pounds, and you might not have noticed, but I'm a guy."
The women chuckled.
"Guys like to watch boxing. They like to watch football. They like to fight, and some of them like to kill. I grew up in a rough neighborhood. I've seen fights between gangs for no more reason than someone wanted to prove his machismo. I've seen kids, little girls, crippled by stray gunshots, heard the wail of the ambulance, smelled blood." He wasn't pulling any punches now His face was set and gray; his eyes were empty and cold.
He made Kate shiver.
"A soft-looking woman wears a target on her back." He paced before the class with a tread as soft as any predator's. "I can't promise that this stuff I teach you will save your life—if some guy is determined enough, he's going to take you down—but I can promise you'll make any son of a bitch who attacks you run and yell. Don't be afraid to hurt a man who hurts you. Maybe you'll make him run away and leave you to live another day with your husband or your kids or whomever you love."
Close to You Page 8