“If that’s true, what’re you doing working security?”
“I’m Ms. Lawson’s bodyguard, not some random mall cop. And, if you must know, I’m on leave right now.”
“For what reason?”
Lyla could tell Scarletti was pushing his little impromptu interrogation too hard, but Tate only muttered, “Medical,” and left it at that.
Then the two men simply stood there, facing off and oozing suffocating clouds of testosterone into the atmosphere of her apartment.
Lyla was about to intervene before things got even further out of hand, when Tate suddenly blurted out, “Listen, I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but shouldn’t you be more worried about that letter in your hands, than you are about me?”
“I don’t know, Captain. You tell me. How do I know you’re not the one behind all this crap? It seems awfully convenient that you showed up here, right on the same day Ms. Lawson received another note. Maybe you get off on this kind of thing—maybe you enjoy seeing women upset by your little art projects.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Tate objected. “If this is how you investigate, no wonder you’re not getting very far.”
“Is that right. You wanna get mouthy with me? Go ahead and keep it up. See how well it works out for you.”
“Jesus,” Lyla muttered.
Scarletti was all puffed up with righteous fury, but for the life of her, she had no idea why he’d taken such an instant dislike to Tate.
Louder, she pointed out, “Detective Scarletti, Captain Monroe is a very old friend of my boss’s. I do not consider him a suspect, and neither should you—he was deployed overseas when most of the letters were sent.”
“So? He could still have mailed them. Or had someone else deliver them.”
“Yeah, now we’re cooking with gas,” Tate sneered.
“Not helping,” Lyla hissed at him. To the officer, she argued hotly, “No, he could not have done those things because A, he had no idea I even existed back then, and B, he’s been in the hospital for months, recovering from a combat injury. Tate wasn’t even mailing letters to his own mother.”
She’d gone out on a limb with that last part, but Lyla really, really hoped Tate wouldn’t deny what she’d said. He looked like he wanted to.
Instead, he only spun around and stomped off, going to stare sullenly out of her living room window without another word.
Scarletti frowned after him.
“Detective,” Lyla continued, hoping to move this party along, “When do you think Forensics might get here? It’s been a long day, and I haven’t had a chance to eat dinner yet.”
“Join the club,” he sighed. “For what it’s worth, I did call this in, but the Forensics guys said they can’t make it out this time. Bigger fish to fry at the moment.”
Across the room, Tate snorted.
The officer pressed his lips together and closed his eyes, and somehow managed to restrain himself. “Anyway, I’ll send this little love letter of yours out to the lab when I get back to the station. I’ll be honest, though—I’m not expecting much. The lab’s as backed up as the rest of us, and if this paper is like all the others, they won’t find anything once they get to it.”
That caught Tate’s attention. “You didn’t pull any prints off the others, either?”
“Not a one,” Scarletti said. “And even if we had, the chances of them popping up in IAFIS are slim. Besides, if we were dealing with a repeat offender, we’d know it.”
Tate rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Huh. Interesting.”
“You get any bright ideas, Captain, feel free to share them. God knows I’m fresh out.” With that, the detective packed up the rest of his things and took his leave.
Tate stared at Lyla’s door for a full minute after Scarletti’s departure, deep in thought. Soon, though, he was swinging toward her with a sardonic grin on his face, apparently recovered.
“I think that went very well. Don’t you?”
“No, I do not,” Lyla disagreed. “It never goes well.”
“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure somewhere in there you mentioned dinner, so there’s that,” Tate said. “What do you feel like?”
Now he wanted to go out to dinner? “I feel like crawling into bed with a bowl of cereal, if you must know.”
“We can do way better than cereal, sweetheart. Let’s bug out of here and see what we can find.”
Lyla took a deep breath and evaluated the situation. She categorically did not want to be alone in this place right now, and she had no idea if Tate would simply ditch her if she shot down his dinner idea. They hadn’t even had a chance to hash out the details of their arrangement yet.
There really wasn’t any question about what she had to do. With a huff of frustration, she told him, “Fine, you win. There’s a diner down the street we can go to. If I’m remembering correctly, they serve boozy milkshakes after 4 p.m.”
“All right, Slick. Lead the way. I’ll hang back and look studly while I bring up the rear.”
There were so many things wrong with that statement, Lyla barely knew where to begin. However, since kicking things off with Tate’s wink-wink tone of voice when he said rear was probably akin to waving a red scarf in front of a bull’s face, she decided to tackle the more overt offense.
“I am many things, Tate—but I am not your sweetheart,” she declared, once they got in the elevator.
“True enough,” he chuckled. “For starters, I don’t believe I’ve ever been sweet on someone so damn contrary.”
“Then, for the love of God, don’t call me that!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Hell. Tate had managed to make that sound even more cheeky.
Lyla blew out a long breath and said, “Tate, tell the truth. You’re just going to find some other nickname for me, aren’t you?”
He shrugged, and everything from his smirk to the way he jammed his hands in the pockets of his dress pants told her she was right.
“And, it’s probably going to be something even more inappropriate,” she muttered to herself.
“Can’t say that for sure,” Tate mused. “With nicknames, you really have to bide your time until the perfect one presents itself.”
He eyed her in amusement while he extracted a stick of gum from his jacket pocket—and of course, it was that green spearmint stuff she despised.
Lyla was a cinnamon aficionado, herself. “How many nicknames would you say you’ve handed out in your day?”
“Quite a few,” Tate acknowledged, holding the elevator door open so she could exit at the lobby.
“You probably have a snarky name for every person you know,” she sighed.
His grin got wider, and he shrugged once more, saying, “Lyla, I’m from the Midwest. When someone there calls you an endearment, like ‘hon,’ it’s meant to be friendly, not disrespectful.”
Lyla was no dummy. It was looking like she might have to cede this small battle if she wanted to win the overall war.
“Okay,” she groaned. “Sweetheart is fine. But I swear to God—if you let anyone else hear you call me that, I’m going to kill you.”
Tate crossed his heart and told her, “You got it, Slick.”
Crap. She’d forgotten about that one.
Lyla spun on her heel and marched down the sidewalk, determined to concentrate on eating, and not on the hulking, sassy piece of man-candy who’d be following her around for the next few weeks.
What the hell had she gotten herself into? And why on earth did Tate have to be so darn cute while he pushed her buttons?
AFTER DINNER, TATE convinced Lyla to stay out a little longer, so she strolled down the block with him, eventually stopping at a funky little bookstore that she liked to visit sometimes.
Since the shop specialized in secondhand literary fiction, Lyla was almost never recognized there by any but the most hardcore mystery fans, and she could enjoy a cup of tea at the café in the back without being interrupted.
Ta
te settled into an open booth in the far corner and eyed her quizzically.
“So…” he said after a while. “Lyla. That’s an unusual name.”
“Is it?” she asked idly.
She was trying to decide whether she wanted to have some tea now, or just wait and drink a cup at home later, before bed.
She couldn’t remember whether she’d finished off that box of decaf Earl Grey that’d been in her pantry, though—and the thought of running out alone to get more after Tate left was not appealing.
“Yeah, it is,” Tate prodded. “Is it short for something?”
“My full name is Delilah, but no one except my mother ever calls me that,” she explained. “Besides, ‘Lyla’ looks good on book covers, so why mess with it, right?”
Tate cleared his throat and opened his mouth, and Lyla instantly knew what was coming next. She held up a hand to stop him before he could sing a note.
“No, no,” she instructed, “Don’t do that.”
“What? How do you know what I was going to do?”
“You were about to sing Tom Jones,” Lyla accused him.
Tate flushed an adorable shade of pale pink, and would no doubt be appalled if she pointed it out. “I…no I wasn’t,” he stuttered.
“My, my, my Delilah,” she sang. “Yes, you were. Do you have any idea how many people have sung that song to me in my life?”
“Not too many, I’d have to think. That song must’ve come out fifty years ago.”
Lyla thought about it and grudgingly admitted, “Okay, you might be right. It was really only my Uncle Gene. But he did it a lot.”
“Huh,” Tate said.
“He also can’t carry a tune to save his life,” Lyla elaborated. “And he’s super loud.”
“I don’t have either of those problems.”
“Still. One can never be too careful.”
Tate sat back and toyed with his mug in amusement. “Have it your way.”
It was clearly time to change the subject. After the waiter took their orders, Lyla nibbled on her lip and fished around for a good conversational topic. She didn’t have much to go on, though.
She finally settled on the obvious. “So…the Army. Do you like it? Is it your avocation as well as your vocation?”
“Yeah,” Tate said, smoothly shifting gears. “I guess I was like a lot of little boys, playing with Army guys and screwing around with war games outside with my buddies. And in college,” he added, “I liked all the military history and current events classes. It was decent preparation. I guess.”
“So, you always planned to make it your career?”
Lyla knew she was shamelessly digging, but if it meant she didn’t have to go back to her dark apartment yet, she didn’t much care.
“Actually, no. Back in school, I thought I’d just do my tour and then be done.”
“Let me guess. You fell in love with it, right?”
Tate rubbed his jaw and looked away. “No, I was just really freaking good at it.”
“So, you stayed.”
“Yeah. I stayed.”
“And now?” Lyla prodded.
Tate sighed and shifted in his seat. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, and she wished she could take all her prying questions back.
“And now I’m not much good for anything else,” he told her.
Every cell in Lyla’s body wanted to deny the impossibility of those words She barely knew the guy, and it was already clear he was the type that was good at everything.
She said, “That can’t be true. There’s a ton of stuff you’d probably be successful at. And you could settle down one day. Start a family, or whatever.”
Tate scoffed outright at that. “Nice try, but I’m not exactly the settling down type.”
“Oh. Why? You don’t like kids?”
He reared back with a frown. “I…no. That’s…not why.”
“Oh.”
He didn’t elaborate, and Lyla was forced to retreat or die of embarrassment. “Sorry. I guess it’s none of my business.”
“No, it’s just—I’m not good at relationships and stuff,” Tate explained. “Never have been. It’s probably better that you know, anyway, in case…”
Lyla gaped at him. He couldn’t be serious.
“In case what? I can’t help falling into bed with you?”
“Something like that,” Tate laughed.
“I think I can control myself,” Lyla drawled, rolling her eyes.
Look at her, acting all confident.
“I am curious, though. Did you decide all on your own that you were bad at relationships, or did you have help?”
Tate squinted at her over his coffee mug. “You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?”
“Correct. Care to answer?”
“Do I have a choice?”
He looked so wary, Lyla figured she might have better luck focusing on the narrower topic at hand, instead of the broader picture.
“What I’m wondering is if—perhaps—someone else told you that you were bad at relationships, and you believed them.”
Tate was clearly taken aback by that idea. “I guess…when you hear something often enough, it has a tendency to come true?” he tried.
“Oh, please,” Lyla scoffed at him. “Who was the doofus who told you that, Tate? Because based on what I’ve heard from Red about your family, I can’t believe it was one of them. Although—if it was my damn boss who said it, I’d like the chance to strangle him with my bare hands.”
“And they say I’m bloodthirsty,” Tate smiled. “No, it wasn’t Red.”
“Do you remember who it was?”
“Yeah, I do,” he admitted. “It was my girlfriend in sophomore year of college. Happy now?”
Lyla could’ve predicted that. “And she dropped this science on you when you broke up with her, presumably.”
“Naturally.”
“You must have been…what? All of nineteen?”
Tate raised his eyebrows and nodded.
“So how come you still feel like the opinion of a kid with hurt feelings, from ten years ago, fits you now?”
Tate gestured lazily. “Like I said, there’s been plenty of subsequent reinforcement.”
“How delightful for you.”
“I’ve made my peace with it.”
Tate didn’t look like he’d made his peace with it. He looked unhappy as hell, but perhaps that was because he was sitting through an inquisition when they were just supposed to be having coffee.
Lyla winced. Once again, her rampant curiosity had gotten away from her.
“I’m sorry,” she told him. “I’m really nosy about why people do the things they do. Sometimes I get carried away and offend them with my questions.”
“No, it’s cool.” Tate waved her off, as if a virtual stranger prying into his inner thoughts was no big deal. “That’s probably what makes you a good writer, though. Cataloging all that motivation, right?”
“Sure. Let’s go with that.”
Tate’s grin was charming and handsome, and completely irresistible. But now, Lyla was the one feeling uncomfortable. How was she supposed to work with this kind of specimen underfoot all day?
“Well, what do you think?” Tate inquired. “You about ready to head home?”
“Yes, I think I’d better,” Lyla said. Much more of this, and she’d be staying out all night with him, trying to learn more.
On the short walk back to her place, Tate was agreeable, making small talk and sticking close beside her, but careful to avoid any awkward brushing of hands or anything.
Not that Lyla was thinking about holding hands with him—she just didn’t want him to think that she was thinking it.
Even without that possibility, however, it was already feeling like the best non-date date she’d been on in ages.
Back at home, Tate combed methodically through every inch of her place, looking under and behind any possible thing that might hide a human being, then checking to be sure all her wi
ndows were locked tight before he made a move to go.
“That should do it,” he told her, lingering on the threshold. “Lock your door behind me and call if you need anything.”
“I will. And I’ll email you my schedule for the next few days later, okay?”
“Sounds good. Good night, Lyla.”
Yes, it was.
FIVE
INSOMNIA WAS A bitch. Seriously. To fill the time until he could either fall back asleep or start the following day, Tate knocked out a couple hundred sit-ups and the same number of push-ups, then took his second shower in twenty-four hours.
Finally, he settled in with his laptop to see what Lyla’s schedule looked like in the coming days.
Reading it over, Tate saw that her book tour kicked off with a few small events in town this week, before they were due in Newark next Monday. In addition, Lyla had noted the blocks of time when she’d be working at home, some meetings at Trident and PKM headquarters, plus a few vague references to “errands.”
Tate supposed he’d find out what those entailed soon enough. In the meantime, he probably ought to determine what the hell a bodyguard was expected to wear out in the real world. Somehow, he suspected it wasn’t BDUs or workout gear.
After some debate, he decided that the safest course of action would be to simply follow Lyla’s lead. With a couple of taps on his keyboard, Tate did a search on her name and pulled up a bunch of images right away. Lyla at readings and signings, Lyla at conferences—even publicity shots of Lyla at an award event of some kind, looking sexy as sin in a long red dress that showed off every one of her curves.
He could dwell on that little number later. For now, all Tate needed to know was that Lyla favored a sharp, business-casual look most of the time. Luckily, that was simple enough to match.
The downside of spending the majority of his adulthood in the military, however, was that the bulk of his dress clothes were comprised of the green uniform variety.
If Tate didn’t want to wear the same jacket, pants, and dress shirt every day for the next month, he was going to have to drop some cash on new clothes—and fast.
Even if he bought stuff online tonight and picked it up in the store tomorrow, he still probably wouldn’t have time to get it tailored, though. That pained him, but at least he wasn’t Red’s height and had a prayer of fitting into some off-the-rack things. He also wouldn’t have to worry about any surprise inspections from superiors, so he had some leeway.
The Hero Was Handsome (Triple Threat Book 3) Page 4