Close to You

by Christina Dodd

  "Yes, sir. It won't happen again, sir." No explanation existed that Brad would accept. Certainly not that Kate was being stalked—again—by a prominent senator. She knew the skepticism that would greet that announcement.

  And Brad wouldn't care even if it was true. Kate was a reporter. Even in a hurricane, she was supposed to wade into the Gulf. Even if she faced death or, at the very least, PMS, she was supposed to get the story. If she had to look George Oberlin in the eye and pretend she knew nothing about his past and his crimes and his weird obsession, she would do it. "I'll be on top of things today."

  "You'd better be." Brad pulled his belt up over his belly as he glared at her. "Or I'll damned well know the reason why."

  "Look at him." Teague pointed to the monitor in the security center in the capitol and spoke to nobody in particular. "Every time he sees Kate, he preens like a bird."

  Big Bob leaned over the monitor. "A tough, burly, old hawk."

  "He keeps luring her in with stories." That son of a bitch Oberlin was doing some sort of weird political courtship dance designed to lure his chosen mate to his nest, and Teague could barely stand it. He knew Kate was in trouble at the station for missing the big news yesterday, but did she have to be so driven? As a reporter, Kate was doing okay; why couldn't she be satisfied with that?

  "Boss, I can hear your teeth grinding," Rolf said.

  "She has to know Oberlin is lying in wait for her. She understands what a psychopath he is. But for the love of her job, she keeps stepping right into danger's way."

  "I wouldn't say it was exactly dangerous," Gemma pointed out. "She's not leaving the capitol complex, and he's not going to do anything to her here."

  Teague whipped around and glared at her, then turned back to his surveillance.

  Kate had dressed for the part. Today she wore a tight black skirt, a black leather jacket, a red silk shirt, and such tall spike heels she stood absolutely upright and walked with this jiggle . . . no man in the capitol would be able to resist giving her an interview if she wanted one.

  Hell, Teague would give her another interview if she wanted.

  But today she didn't want to talk to him. She wanted to talk to Oberlin and the other important newsmakers, and that bit the big one.

  In a soothing tone, Gemma said, "Teague, it's time for Kate's coffee fix. She's alone right now. No Oberlin for miles. Why don't you take her to Starbucks?"

  "I can't. I need to stay here until I figure out what Oberlin's been up to all these years." Teague indicated the computer he would be using for research—if Kate would cooperate and behave and stop distracting him.

  "I can investigate Oberlin." Rolf cracked his knuckles as if he couldn't wait to get into the game. "I'll find out what he's been hiding."

  Teague considered Rolf. Rolf was a genius at computers, and he was right—he could dig deep enough to find out what Oberlin was hiding. "All right." Teague stood. "I'll go down on the floor. But if I run into Oberlin—"

  "You're going to nod politely and not tip your hand," Big Bob said sternly.

  "Yeah." Teague picked up an earbud with microphone attached, stuck the battery pack in his pocket, and headed for the door. "But I'm not going to like it."

  He headed off to intercept Kate and found her walking toward him down the corridor in the South Wing of the capitol.

  For the first time since they'd started sleeping together, she did not look pleased to see Teague.

  Well, too damned bad.

  "So." He stopped in her path. He stood with arms crossed over his chest. "Do you want to go for a frappuccino?"

  "No. It's a little chilly for a frappuccino. But I would like a latte. Thank you for asking." She had a snarky expression on her face, as if he'd issued a challenge.

  He hadn't. He had simply asked her for a coffee. Teague didn't understand women. He never would. "All right. Come on."

  They walked out of the capitol and toward Starbucks.

  "I saw you interview a lot of people. So you had a good day?" Teague realized he sounded as if he was sniping at her.

  "Not good. No. Since I'm on everyone's shit list for abandoning them yesterday, I've had the privilege today of chasing follow-up stories." Kate's clipped voice grated on his nerves.

  "It is hardly my fault that I asked you to avoid trouble."

  "I didn't say it was."

  To any onlooker, it was clear that they were at odds. She kept her briefcase, stuffed with papers, close to her chest, her arms folded over it. He strode with his hands free—when he was outside, he always walked this way, so he would be ready for attack—yet everything about his gait felt foreign, as if he weren't comfortable in his own skin. They walked stiffly, with a designated distance between them.

  "You can't blame me for being concerned when he looks at you as if you were his last chance at salvation," Teague burst out.

  "His last chance at salvation?" She rubbed her forehead as if it hurt, and she sounded fretful like a child faced with something she couldn't comprehend. "That is exactly right. He is so . . . he's so normal when other people are around, but when we're alone, he seems to think I understand him. I offered my condolences on the death of his wife—"

  "For God's sake, why did you do that?" Teague asked.

  "Because that's what you do when you see someone after the death of their spouse." She spoke in that irritated, logical tone a woman used when she thought a man was being unreasonable. "I was trying to act normally"

  "All right. Don't get fussed about nothing." Teague took a breath. "What did he say when you offered your condolences?"

  "He said I was his Jackie Kennedy. What does that mean?"

  "It means he's already picked out his second wife, and you're it." The Starbucks was still a block ahead. The outside of the capitol complex was quiet; a cold front had settled in, and the breeze nipped at Teague's nose.

  Three guys in suits waited between them and the hot latte.

  Three really big guys.

  "And he plans to run for president."

  "That's grim." Even from a distance, Teague could see these were not regular suit-wearing guys. They were muscle. They loitered on the curb as if they were waiting for someone.

  Teague's menace meter hit the red zone.

  Kate? Did they have instructions to kidnap Kate? That would indicate a level of weirdness he hadn't previously considered from Oberlin, but with his wife's death, his sanity seemed to be slipping.

  Or was it Kate's appearance in his life that had sent him over the edge?

  Kate came for coffee at the same time every day, so it would be easy to schedule a pickup. . . . In a low voice, Teague instructed, "Go back to the capitol."

  "Why?" She spun to face him on the sidewalk. "Because you don't want to discuss this situation with me? You know, I'm not only a reporter, I'm personally involved, and I need to know what you know about Oberlin."

  "I know you're a reporter." The three muscle guys were still standing there, trying to look as if they were waiting for a cab. Teague's tension escalated. "You hang your job over my head all the time. I'm trying to protect you, but you insist on being out in public talking to crazies when it would be a lot easier to protect you if you'd just stay home." Damn! He had said too much.

  "Stay . . . home?"

  For the first time ever, Teague saw Kate almost incoherent.

  Unfortunately, it didn't last.

  "What home would that be? Mine? Yours? Should I wear pearls and dust while I'm cooking your dinner and waiting for you to arrive?" She dropped her briefcase, and it hit the ground with a good, solid thud. "C'mon, Teague, get a grip. We're not married. I've got a job, you've got a job—is yours more important than mine?"

  "Yes." The guys abandoned their casual stance and headed toward Teague and Kate. "Right now it is." Turning away, he spoke softly into the microphone. "We have a situation out here, Congress Avenue, half a block from Starbucks." He turned back to her. "Now would you go back to the capitol, please?"

  "Y
es. Oh, yes. I most certainly will go back to the capitol." Her eyes shot blue sparks. "Where I will work. Where I will do interviews with senators and assorted other crazies." She poked her finger in his chest. "And you had better learn to deal with that." Picking up her briefcase, she strode away.

  Thank God. He had thought she'd never leave.

  Turning, Teague fixed his gaze on the guy in the lead and moved to intercept. With a nod but no smile, he asked, "How's it going?"

  As they swerved to close in on him, he realized he had made a fatal mistake.

  Kate wasn't their target.

  He was.

  Kate strode up Congress toward the main entrance to the capitol.

  What a dreadful man. How could she ever have imagined herself in love with him? He complained about her job. He complained about the way she behaved. He invited her to Starbucks, then sent her back without an explanation. . . .

  We have a situation out here, Congress Avenue, half a block from Starbucks.

  She stopped. A situation? What did he mean by a situation? Why . . . ? Enlightenment burst into her mind. Those men . . . Teague . . . he was in trouble!

  Wheeling around, she ran back up the street.

  But she couldn't see Teague. He had disappeared. And she couldn't run. She could barely walk in these preposterous Jimmy Choo stilettos. Stopping, she took

  them off. She dropped one on the sidewalk, kept the other one in her hand. She remembered what Teague had said: A heel is a great weapon. She sprinted down the street.

  Where was he? Where . . . ? Her head swiveled as she searched. Her nylons shredded on the concrete. She took her cell phone out of her jacket to call the police.

  How far could they have taken him? Had they shoved him into a van, taken him away to be murdered? She'd never see him again except for . . . except for photos of his mutilated body. . . .

  "Come on, come on, come on, come on," she muttered as she ran. Her heart hit her rib cage. She felt sick with anxiety. "Where are you?"

  In an alley beside a Dumpster, some garbage cans, and a pile of trash, she saw a flash of movement. She raced toward it, saw a coil of bodies.

  Four guys. It was them. Foolish to be relieved, but she was. She had found Teague.

  She called 911. Gasped, "A mugging in the alley at Congress and Tenth." Stuck the cell back in her jacket.

  She heard the smack of flesh against flesh. One man flew out, propelled by a well-aimed kick. He hit the trash pile in an explosion of junk.

  Kate leaped over the top of him, screaming at the top of her lungs.

  Two men crouched over some poor sucker on the ground. Teague. They were beating the crap out of Teague.

  Lifting her shoe, she smacked one thug in the back of the neck. Blood spurted.

  He swung around.

  With both hands on her briefcase, she swung and hit him in the face.

  He tumbled sideways.

  The briefcase went flying. She screamed again, long and loud. Somebody would hear. Somebody would come to help.

  The other guy, the one crouched over Teague, sprang at her—and in seconds, Teague changed from prone to a charging bull.

  Teague tackled him. They went tumbling across the alley. And the first mugger, the guy in the trash, came at them. Ignored her, and came after Teague.

  Grabbing a full, heavy garbage can, she slung it at him. She couldn't get the weight far off the ground, but when it hit him in the shins, the collision knocked his feet out from under him. He flew over the top. Landed flat on his face.

  The impact twisted the handle from her fingers, taking skin, taking flesh, twisting her shoulder half out of its socket.

  She swung around, seeking trouble, seeking Teague. . . .

  And realized more people were running at her, yelling. For one moment, she tried desperately to think how she would defend Teague.

  Then she realized these were Teague's people. Gemma, Rolf, Chun, all looking reassuringly competent—and furious. They went into action and within seconds the muggers were subdued.

  Kate heard sirens. Saw flashing red and blue lights and police cars.

  Teague staggered to his feet.

  Teague was safe.

  They were safe.

  Her feet hurt. Her hands hurt. Her chest heaved with exertion and residual panic. The papers from her briefcase were scattered across the alley. Her shoe was . . . she didn't know where her shoe was.

  Police in uniforms swarmed the yard.

  Kate looked through the pack to Teague.

  Teague stood, hands open and hanging at his sides, looking back at her. Blood oozed from his swollen lips. He had a bruise rapidly closing one eye, and she could hear him wheezing from across the yard.

  She had never seen anything as beautiful in her life.

  He started toward her.

  She started toward him.

  They met in the middle.

  And Teague said, "Why didn't you run away? Why did you come back? You're no self-defense expert. Are you crazy, too?"

  She stared, open-mouthed, and hated him as much as she loved him. "You're welcome, asshole."

  Turning on her bare foot, she walked toward one of the police officers to give her report.

  NINETEEN

  That evening, in the light and warmth of Teague's kitchen, Kate pulled an orange Popsicle from the freezer and handed it to him. "Here. This'll bring down the swelling."

  With the care of a man in pain, he stuck it in his mouth. The expression on his face wavered between agony and relief. "That's good. That's better." He sat perfectly upright at the table, his cracked ribs wrapped to relieve the torture of breathing. "Who taught you that?"

  "My mom." Kate paced between the freezer with its multiple, reusable ice bags, the blender with its milk shakes and smoothies, and the sink where she peeled fruit. The acid stung the cuts in her hands—a nurse at the hospital had cleaned the rust out of Kate's palms while Kate waited for Teague to get X-rayed and stitched.

  "And how did your mom know?"

  "Because she's a mom." What an insensitive thing to say. Savagely Kate stuck the waste down the disposal. He'd had a mom, too, only his mom hadn't cared enough to give him Popsicles when he hurt himself. So Kate supposed she was sorry. She certainly knew she should be.

  But he'd lied to her about his background. He'd lied, and now she doubted his truths. "Dad and I used to play catch, and in the beginning I usually caught with my face. I got better."

  "I can see that. Your face looks great." Teague tried to smile, tried to be conciliatory. Blood oozed from his battered lips.

  Yeah, well, the soles of Kate's feet were raw from running on concrete, gravel, and garbage, and her left big toe had a slice deep enough to require hydrogen peroxide, a butterfly bandage, and a tetanus shot.

  Her aches did not improve her mood. "Don't smile," she told him callously. "Smiling doesn't make you look better."

  "What's wrong?" He put down his Popsicle. He caught her hand, kissed the scraped skin. "You're upset."

  "Who wouldn't be upset when her boyfriend gets beaten up?" She freed her hand. "Your eye looks like hell." It did. He had stitches just below his eyebrow, and the doctor said he'd been lucky the socket hadn't been broken. "Let me get you another ice bag."

  "I can do it." He stood, but he didn't get in her way. "You're upset with me."

  She hesitated. But what difference did it make? She didn't want him touching her. She might as well tell him. "I'm not upset with you. I'm mad at you."

  He knew she was mad. She could see by the expression on his face. Well. The man would have to be stupid not to know he'd screwed up, and Teague Ramos was anything but stupid.

  She mashed the blue ice bag until the insides were pliable, wrapped it in a dish towel, and handed it to him.

  "Look, I'm sorry about your shoes," he said. "I'll buy you some new ones.

  She was wrong. He was stupid. "I paid four hundred dollars for them in New York."

  Before he had looked battered. Now
he looked ill. "I've never understood how women can justify paying that much for a silly pair of—"

  She had to stop him before she made his other eye swell. "What? I can't quite hear you. You're muttering."

  "I said I'm sorry I spouted off about your career." Sinking down in the chair again, he carefully applied the ice to his eye. "I don't know where that came from. Out of the fifties, I guess. I didn't really mean it."

  "Yes, you did. I don't know any man who wouldn't prefer to be the center of the universe. You're used to being the hottest stuff around. When you tell people about your job, you're the center of attention, and you don't like it when I am." She could see he hated hearing the truth. Good. "But I can deal with that. The trouble is, your complaining about my ambition is the tip of the iceberg. When we were walking to Starbucks, why didn't you tell me you suspected those guys were thugs?"

  He lowered the ice bag to look at her with his one good eye and the almost-swollen-shut bad eye. "Because I thought they might be working on instructions to kidnap you."

  Kidnap. The word sent chills down her spine.

  Her father had been kidnapped. He'd been tortured. He'd been murdered. She didn't want to end up like that.

  But that wasn't the point here, and she wouldn't let Teague distract her. "So you ordered me inside the capitol, no explanation, when if you'd said, 'Kate, those are bad guys, go away,' I would have run."

  "No, you wouldn't have." He snorted in disbelief. "I know you. You would have done just what you did and jumped into the middle of a fight."

  "If you were going to insist on facing them, then yes, I would have hung around with my high heels until the cavalry came."

  "You're not trained to fight."

  "I'd say I did a pretty good job. In fact"—she surveyed him critically—"I look a lot better than you."

  He reared back in the chair and snapped, "They overwhelmed me."

  She could see she'd wounded his macho vanity, and that gave her a great deal of pleasure. "You needed help, and you got it—from me." However, it was obvious she could wait until hell froze over before he thanked her. "If you had told me the truth, at least I would have known what was going on. I would have been prepared instead of caught by surprise. I wouldn't have felt like"—oh, no, her voice wavered—"like some worthless bimbo on your arm." Like every other useless woman he'd ever dated. Like one of the crowd.