Because right now, with those long, gorgeous legs stretched out in front of her on the grass, Lyla presented one hell of a beautiful view.
“What a beautiful view,” she murmured, echoing Tate’s thoughts with such eerie precision, he almost wondered if he’d spoken out loud. “How did you know this was here?”
“Just got lucky. Why don’t you eat while I put the rods together? It won’t take long.”
Lyla pulled her legs in to sit cross-legged, then rummaged through the bag until she found her rabbit food and a plastic fork. She crunched away as she watched him, and Tate tried not to think about how it would feel to lay her out on this riverbank and make love to her with the warm sun on their skin.
He’d had her one damn time, and he was already dreaming about making it a habit.
Bug bites, Tate reminded himself. Bug bites in bad places. Public indecency citations. Sunburned asses. Grassy nuts.
In his mind, he listed any and every awkward and uncomfortable thing that could possibly befall them in this lovely, private, out-of-the-way place, lest his racing pulse got the better of him and he tried to kiss away that thoughtful look on Lyla’s face.
As usual, she was completely oblivious to the furious battle Tate was waging behind the scenes. She sighed dreamily and told him, “You were right. This is exactly what I needed.”
“I’m glad. Getting outside always helps me when I’m getting stressed, too.” He enjoyed other stress relievers as well, which he was not thinking about at all.
“Don’t you want your sandwich?”
“In a minute. I’m almost done.” Tate had attached the reels and strung the lines, but he was trying to keep the hooks on the down-low for the time being. No doubt, Lyla would notice them at some point—her eagle eyes saw everything, it seemed—but he’d like to postpone that part of the fishing experience for later, if he could.
For the fortieth time, she piped up, “I think you’re really going to like what I ordered you. You won’t even miss the meat, I promise.”
Tate smiled, but fuck if he didn’t want to shudder. Between the list of odd vegetables and the promise of something called “soy cheese,” he was not holding out much hope that his Veggie Explosion—or whatever it was—was going to be the least bit satisfying.
Still, it couldn’t be much worse than an MRE, and Tate sure as shit didn’t want to be the asshole tucking into a side of beef in front of a soft-hearted vegetarian, only twenty-four hours after he’d banged her.
“I’m sure it will be great,” he replied, also for the fortieth time.
“Liar.”
“Small lie. Well-intentioned.”
“Just try it.”
Tate set down the rods and crawled over to Lyla, settling beside her and accepting the paper-wrapped concoction she held out.
He offered her a cheerfully sardonic toast of, “Meat is murder!” then took his first bite.
Okay. So, the texture wasn’t the worst, and there appeared to be some kind of tan spread on the roll that would probably work well on chips. The bread was pretty awesome, too, thick and garlicky and clearly homemade.
Lyla was tracking every last chew with avid interest. “Well, what do you think?”
Tate swallowed, then took another bite. Around the food in his mouth, he admitted grudgingly, “I don’t think it will kill me.”
Lyla’s grin was so satisfied, you’d have thought she’d beat him at poker. Tate waited for her to start eating her salad again before he polished off the sandwich and went hunting for the second one he knew she’d gotten him.
It might not be pastrami, but at least it was good enough to distract him from all the female thigh action happening beside him. That was definitely capable of killing him.
The persistent visual of Lyla fake-undressing beside their car, followed by the sight of her skimpy-enough-to-be-illegal shorts mere inches away from his leg…those were deadly weapons that could easily enter through Tate’s eyeballs and render him deceased.
“When we’re done eating, I can teach you how to cast and everything,” he said, by way of conversation.
“Won’t the hooks hurt the fish?”
Yeah, so Tate was obviously not as sly as he’d thought. What else was new?
“I…can’t say I’ve ever considered that aspect.”
Lyla scanned the water of the creek for a minute, then announced, “It’s okay. I’ll just take the hook off mine.”
“But how are you going to—”
“And I can tie a little piece of lettuce to the end!” she announced in triumph. “I bet the fish would like that. Some of them are probably vegetarians, too.”
Tate blinked at her, not sure how to explain everything silly about that idea. “I’m not sure you’ll be able to…you know. Reel one in.” Tate scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “That way.”
Lyla shrugged. “It’s not like we were going to take any with us, anyway.”
“True.”
So, Tate taught the woman how to fish. Without her actually doing any fishing.
They sat there on the bank for a long time, listening to the buzzing insects and the birds in the trees. Every once in a while, Lyla would sigh happily when some geese flew by, or a heron picked its way across the opposite bank.
Fish would tug on Lyla’s line and swim away, and then she’d reel it in so she could tie more greens on the end for them. Tate kept his hook in place, because hello, Man Card—but he made zero effort to catch anything.
He couldn’t remember a sweeter day of fishing. Tate’s brain settled and his earlier agitation drifted away, and after a while, his scattered thoughts began forming into an idea.
EVENTUALLY, LYLA BEGAN checking her watch again. “I guess we’d better get going soon,” she said sadly.
“Maybe.”
“We have to leave enough time to get to Erie, though. And I probably ought to clean up a little before the interview.”
“Lyla, what if…” Tate was taking a risk, here, one that could potentially endanger her. It felt right, however, and he made a practice of never ignoring his gut. That’s why he plowed on with, “What if we ditched the public tour schedule and changed things up a bit?”
“Tate, I can’t cancel these events,” she said. “It would make me and Trident look really bad, and Red—for one—would probably be furious.”
“No, I don’t mean cancel the events themselves, though we might consider moving some of them around a bit. What I actually meant was, what if we change vehicles? Stay in places that no one would expect for the next few towns? We might be able to throw your whack-job off his game.”
Lyla frowned, considering that.
Tate pressed her, “Who planned this tour, anyway?”
“Trident PR did. But I seriously doubt my stalker has anything to do with someone at work,” she argued. “I know those people, Tate. They’re friends of mine.”
“Okay, but the schedule was publicized, right?”
“Yeah, of course. The coordinators at the places like to have a chance to hype things beforehand.”
“So, whoever is tracking you knows exactly where you’ll be and when. And I bet it wouldn’t be too hard to figure out which routes we might take, and even where we might stay in each town.”
If Tate were the one watching, he’d look at the fastest, most direct routes between points, and the nicest, brand-name hotels nearby. And he’d be right.
Lyla simply blinked at him, serious as a heart attack. “I broadcast some of it on my social media, too,” she admitted softly. “Even…even the Cleveland thing. I feel so stupid.”
“Okay, well—we’re not going to do that anymore. And, what if we do the unexpected going forward?” Tate asked her.
“What are you suggesting?”
He checked the browser on his phone reflexively, but he already had a general sense of where they were. “If you were to reschedule your interview this afternoon to later in the evening—and do it over the phone, if you can, instead of in-person
—then we could probably swing by my parents’ house and still get to Erie in time.”
Lyla’s eyes popped wide. “Your parents? Tate, I don’t want to drag them into this. If we put them in danger, I’d never be able to forgive myself.”
“We won’t stay. But we can pick up my little brother’s truck while we’re there. It’s just sitting in the garage while he’s away, and he won’t care if we use it. And this way, maybe we can confuse anyone that’s gotten used to looking for that fancy freaking rig we’ve got back there.”
Tate threw a thumb over this shoulder, calling out the sleek black SUV they’d been tooling around in so far. Very large, very fine—very noticeable.
Lyla was nodding, but got sidetracked by the inconsequential details, as she sometimes did. “Where’s your brother? And shouldn’t we give your parents a heads-up?”
“Tom’s in the Peace Corps in Jamaica, and he won’t be back for ten more months,” Tate informed her. “And my parents are on a cruise for their anniversary. I can text them afterward to let them know what we did.”
“Are you just going to leave the rental truck at their house?”
Tate had considered that but decided it would make things too complicated later. “We can return it in Mentor. It’s not too far from my folks, and we’ll stick close together all the way there.”
Lyla nodded. “You really think this will help?”
“Can’t hurt to try, right?”
“I suppose not. Let me call that reporter and see if switching times is even an option. You find out how late the rental agency in Mentor is open.”
A LITTLE WHILE later, flush with success and the promise of a new plan, they gathered their rods and the trash from lunch, and were just getting ready to head back to the car, when Lyla put a hand on Tate’s arm.
She stood on her tiptoes and planted a faint kiss on his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Tate could feel a blush creeping up his neck. “It’s what I’m here for,” he told her, keeping cool as one of the cucumbers in his no-meat sandwich.
“I don’t mean the car suggestions and all the other stuff,” Lyla told him, “Even though I appreciate those, too. I mean thank you for this.” She swept her arm out to encompass the blue sky and the soft grass, the burbling river and the willow fronds swaying in the breeze. “I haven’t had a day like this in a really long time. I needed it.”
“I could tell. And you’re welcome.” Tate bent down and sealed his lips to hers, holding them there as long as he dared before things were in danger of spiraling out of hand. “I hope it helped.”
“It really did.”
“Good. Then hike up your booty shorts, Natasha. Operation Shuck-and-Jive is now underway.”
Tate turned and quickly made for the wide dirt path, but he knew Lyla would never let that little jibe pass.
Sure enough, she squawked as soon as she marched after him, “Booty shorts? Are you nuts? These are completely normal running shorts, you freaking caveman. I’ve seen way worse things at the gym!”
So had he, but Tate had also spent a long time—quite recently—in a place where female legs were covered from head to toe in one of two things: bulky Army uniforms or the voluminous folds of an abaya. In contrast, Lyla’s bare legs seemed like a revelation.
Frankly, anything beyond his mother’s loose denim Bermuda shorts on Lyla was likely to get a rise out of Tate at this point—literally and figuratively.
“Settle down,” Tate told her, chuckling, “It’s just a joke.”
Lyla huffed behind him, and he could almost feel the steam coming out of her ears. If she’d been a dragon, he had no doubt the skin on the back of his neck would have been singed clean off by now.
“Don’t tell me to settle down, you troglodyte goon. Just because you can’t control yourself doesn’t mean—”
Tate spun and hooked an arm around Lyla’s waist, yanking her in close. He’d been mostly successful in keeping things on the up and up so far today, but an incensed Lyla was just one of those delicacies he could not resist.
Her pupils dilated and she went soft all over in his arms.
Tate dropped his head to get nice and close to her mouth, and demanded, “What, sweetheart? What doesn’t it mean?”
SIXTEEN
TATE’S MOUTH WAS millimeters from hers. Lyla could feel his hot breath wafting over her lips. She could almost taste the sweet lemonade he’d been drinking.
She swallowed, and to her ears, it sounded as loud as a gunshot. “It means…it only means that I have the right to wear whatever I want.”
He smiled. “That you do. And conveniently, then I get to look at your pretty legs every time you exercise that right.”
His hand dropped down and brushed clear up the outside of Lyla’s thigh, coming to a stop at her hip, inches higher than the hem of her problematic shorts.
Lyla’s breath shuddered right out of her lungs. Big hands. Such big hands.
“Promise me you’ll take these off for me later,” he murmured.
Lyla nodded, perhaps a bit too eagerly.
Tate grinned and dropped a quick peck on her mouth, then released her and tromped off once more, looking like an all-grown-up Huck Finn in his rolled-up khakis. The fishing poles and crumpled brown bag only added to the effect.
At that moment, Lyla doubted she would’ve refused him anything.
ON THE WAY to his parents’ house, Tate tried once more to make contact with Detective Scarletti, back in New York. They’d left him a message before they departed the hotel that morning but hadn’t heard back from him all day.
It was just as well. Heaven only knew what either of them might have said when they’d still been so upset. At least now, they had calmed down and were thinking more clearly.
Tate synced his phone with the truck’s dashboard speakerphone, and he and Lyla listened to the call ringing for a bit before the officer finally answered, “Scarletti.”
Tate said, “Detective, this is Captain Tate Monroe. I work security for Lyla Lawson. We met a couple of weeks ago.”
“Sure, I remember. What can I do for you, Captain?”
“Well, first we wanted to make sure you received the package we overnighted you from Newark.”
“I did. I’m sure Forensics hasn’t had a chance to take a stab at it yet, but I appreciate you trying to keep it clean with the baggie and whatnot.”
Scarletti’s tone implied that he appreciated nothing of the sort—he obviously hadn’t forgotten their contentious first encounter.
Lyla spoke up, “This is Lyla. I also emailed you some photos I took of the package before we opened it.”
“I saw that. I’ll be sure to take a good look at them soon.”
Tate rolled his eyes at her, thoroughly unimpressed with how casually Scarletti seemed to view this whole mess.
There was some rustling over the line, and then the detective added, “I see that you also left a message about another phone call?”
“We did,” Tate replied. “That was in Baltimore. Guy didn’t say anything, but he did wait until I’d stepped out before he called Lyla.”
“Yeah. Actually, it’s not a guy we’re dealing with,” the officer informed them. “It’s a woman.”
“Pardon?” Tate asked.
“The stalker. She’s a she—56 years old, has a long history of exactly this kind of thing. We’ve been looking at her for a while but couldn’t find anything to tie her in until today.”
Lyla and Tate shared a long look before she inquired, “She’s threatened other authors, besides me?”
“Not only authors. She’s got a hard-on for professional athletes, too. Friends them on social media, joins their fan clubs—the whole nine yards.”
“And she threatens them?” Tate confirmed.
“Not right away,” Scarletti explained. “It usually takes a few months before they do something to piss her off and she flips her lid. But her super called us yesterday to complain that she might be hoarding, so we went
over this morning and had a look. Either of you wanna guess what she was stockpiling?”
“I’m going to assume it wasn’t canned goods,” Tate said dryly.
“Nope. Paperbacks. Mystery paperbacks, Ms. Lawson’s among them. We brought the lady in and have her talking to someone right now. It seems she hasn’t been checking in with her doctor or refilling her meds on schedule—shouldn’t be long before we can wrap this case up with a nice big bow.”
Lyla held up her hand before Tate could respond. “I guess Forensics is going to have to take a look at my stuff now,” she said.
“They will. We’ll have her connected to you six ways to Sunday. You wait and see.”
“Detective,” Tate interjected, “Can I ask what time you brought the woman in, by any chance?”
“Around nine. Why?”
“Because Lyla got another package from her stalker early this morning, which included photos that were definitely taken yesterday evening. That’s actually why we were trying to reach you.”
“No shit? Well, it certainly could’ve been her. The lady doesn’t usually like to leave her house much, but when she’s worked up, anything’s possible.”
“I guess,” Lyla mused. “But does she…you said she joins fan clubs and stuff?”
The detective said, “Sure does. One time she even started the club herself. Got over a hundred members, too.”
Tate understood what Lyla was getting at even if Scarletti didn’t. “So, she makes herself known to her victims?” he asked.
“Captain, this gal thinks she’s their BFF—you better believe she introduces herself. She also finds ways to accidentally bump into them at the gym, the coffee shop—you name it.”
Lyla frowned and shook her head at Tate. He nodded but took a moment to change lanes, avoiding a semi merging onto the road in front of them.
Finally, he commented, “That doesn’t sound like Lyla’s stalker, though.”
“Probably because we grabbed her up earlier than usual. She didn’t have a chance to really get going yet.”
Lyla said, “Huh.” Nothing about this felt right to her.
The Hero Was Handsome (Triple Threat Book 3) Page 14