The Hero Was Handsome (Triple Threat Book 3)

by Kristen Casey

  “Okay, fine. You win,” she relented. “But I want it on the record that I think boys are weird.”

  “We’ll add you to the master list. Now—what do you say we get some food to go and head out of here? It’s a nice night, and I know where we can see some stars before we head to Erie.”

  Lyla arched her perfect eyebrows at him, the epitome of feminine scorn. “I do not want to know how many women you’ve used that line on.”

  “No, you do not,” Tate laughed, “But I am serious. Follow me to freedom. It’s so quiet where we’re going, you could even do your interview there.”

  NOT MUCH LATER, Tate found the turnoff he remembered and pulled his brother’s old truck to the side of a dirt road that cut between two wide-open fields. He turned off the engine and looked around fondly.

  In the summer, people brought picnic dinners here to watch the town set off fireworks. Other times, kids came here to play capture the flag, and teenaged couples came to find some privacy.

  While Lyla called the reporter to do her interview over the phone, Tate got out and sat on the tailgate, remembering when he’d been something other than a blunt instrument of war.

  He couldn’t think about this kind of thing too much when he was overseas—it made him too homesick. But here, now…it was simply a joy to be home.

  Muscle memory was strong, too. Once Lyla was done with her call, it took Tate all of five minutes to unroll his brother’s sleeping bag in the truck bed and coax her into hopping up with him. True, he had to convince Lyla that he wasn’t an ax murderer first, but that was a mystery writer for you—always suspicious.

  They ate in companionable silence, sharing fries and trading bites of food like an old married couple, and Tate had to remember not to get ahead of himself. It wasn’t his place to want more from her. He could only enjoy the here and now.

  Once Lyla was done, she laid back, oohing and aahing at the inky expanse of sky dotted with glittering diamond stars. Tate stretched out beside her and marveled at how freaking beautiful she was, how smart and how…saucy she could be. She was, without a doubt, the perfect woman.

  Teenage Tate’s knees would’ve been knocking to be confronted with a female like her, but knowing him, he still would’ve gone for it, anyway. He chuckled, trying to picture how it might’ve gone.

  “Why do I suspect you did this kind of thing a lot when you were eighteen?” Lyla murmured, turning to smile at him. It was like she could read his mind.

  Tate laughed, “Whatever are you implying, Ms. Lawson?”

  “Tell the truth.” She poked him in the ribs. “This was totally your make-out spot, wasn’t it?”

  Well, she had him there. Tate cracked up. “Are you kidding? Of course, it was. I don’t think I got laid in an actual bed until I was like twenty years old.”

  Lyla snorted. “Oh my God. Where did you go, then? Besides here, obviously.”

  Tate folded his arms behind his head and grinned up at the stars. “You name it. Parks, barns, cars, couches…the dorm stairwell a couple of times.”

  Her laugh was low and breathy, and for once he didn’t mind getting called out for being a hound back in the day.

  “And meanwhile,” Lyla said, “I didn’t sleep with anyone at all until I was 22.”

  “You serious?” That was interesting. Tate rolled to his side so he could see her better. “Why so late?”

  “Is that late?”

  Tate shrugged. To him, maybe—but to a woman like Lyla perhaps it was exactly right.

  “There wasn’t some big reason,” she murmured. “Just super picky, I guess.”

  Tate turned back to the blanket of night arched over their heads, liking knowing that little detail about her. He had not been picky at all, but at least he’d been with some very nice girls over the years, and he had some fun memories of them, hazy as they were.

  None were like Lyla, however. Not even close. And while it was entirely possible that this book tour was all he’d ever get the chance to have with her, he didn’t think he would ever forget a single second of it. Didn’t that just figure.

  AX MURDERER CONCERNS aside, Lyla was not immune to the romance of a summer night in the country. She and Tate spent a couple of heated hours out there enjoying each other before he finally conceded that they ought to get moving again.

  They took a roundabout route to Erie and were in the process of checking in to the hotel when Lyla got a phone call from her parents.

  “Hi guys,” she said, juggling her purse and the handle of her rolling suitcase. “We just got to the hotel in Erie. Can I call you back in a couple of minutes?”

  She waited until Tate cleared their suite, then kicked off her shoes and dialed them back. In moments it turned testy, and Lyla was hanging up angry again.

  She didn’t seem like the type to have such a rocky relationship with her folks, and it had Tate wondering.

  Once they’d showered and put on pajamas, he asked her, “What was the deal with that call, anyway?”

  “It’s nothing,” she sighed. “My parents are good friends with their neighbors, but the couple is really annoying, that’s all. I love my folks, but I just get tired of hearing about every little thing their buddies say and do. And I kid you not—their last name is even Jones. My mom and dad are literally keeping up with the Joneses.”

  “Hello, suburbia,” Tate smiled.

  “And, since I can’t tell my parents that I’ve acquired a lunatic superfan,” she complained, “those people are, like, all we have to talk about.”

  “First, you have a stalker, not a superfan. And second, why can’t you tell them about your stalker?”

  Lyla rolled her eyes. “Tate, much as you’d like the world to believe it, I know you did not simply spring from the earth one day in all your fabulous glory. You have parents. What would they say if you told them some weird freak had started sending you scary letters and might possibly be staking you out?”

  “Okay, we clearly need to get a few things straight here. Yes, I did so spring from a very manly patch of ground, fully-formed and immediately magnificent. However, shortly after that I was taken in and raised by a kindly couple who taught me not to brag about it.”

  “Oh, my God. It never ends with you, does it?”

  Tate barreled on, “Second, they are deeply aware of the fact that I chose a career in which people regularly want to shoot at me, and do. So…there’s that.”

  “So, what you’re saying is, your war games trump my superfan.”

  “He’s a stalker, Lyla. A stalker.” Her refusal to call the asshole by the correct noun was going to drive him insane. “And no, what I’m telling you is that—much like the lovely folks who fed and housed me until adulthood—your parents are grown-ups and can probably handle the truth from you.”

  “You haven’t met them,” she muttered.

  “True. But I’ve met you, and I’ve got a sneaking suspicion you didn’t turn out this way in a vacuum.”

  Lyla glared at him from behind her cute glasses, wrinkling up her nose and looking not the least bit mean. “What way is that?”

  Tate smirked at her and tugged on a lock of her silky hair. “Oh, completely terrifying, of course.”

  She threw up her hands and stomped as far away as she could get—which, given the dimensions of the hotel suite’s sitting area, wasn’t more than about eight feet.

  “What did I do to deserve you? Piss off some god out there in the ether, or what?”

  “You act like I’m a punishment.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “You wound me.” Tate moved closer and snaked an arm loosely around her waist. “And here I thought I was your reward for good behavior.” Lyla sniffed but she didn’t pull away, so he pulled her in next to him.

  “What makes you think I’ve been good?” she asked, a sexy, teasing tone creeping into her voice.

  Tate’s whole body warmed up real quick when he heard that. “Oh, I’m dead certain you’ve been good,” he told her. “And I
hope you’ll be even better somewhere in my immediate vicinity. Any minute now.”

  Lyla closed her eyes in exasperation, but God love her, she couldn’t resist him. She burst out laughing and finally hugged him back. “How in the world did your poor mother survive you? How does anyone?”

  “I don’t know what you mean. I get thank you notes for being awesome all the time. Every day, almost.”

  “Please shut up,” Lyla said, and then planted a hearty incentive right on his puss.

  When they came up for air again, Tate wondered, “No joke, though. Your folks have got to read your books. It’s not like the concept of high-profile people with stalkers will be alien to them.”

  “I will grant that they probably know about stalkers. However, they do not read my books. They think they’re too scary.”

  While Tate had also not read any of her books, he found that difficult to believe. “Well, what do they read, then?”

  “Mom likes women’s fiction with no sexy times. Dad just reads the paper and does crosswords.”

  “Hell, Lyla—the newspaper’s way scarier than some crime thriller,” Tate protested.

  “Don’t I know it. I get some of my best ideas from the news.”

  “I still think you should tell them,” he urged her.

  “Tate, you have your arms around a willing woman and you’re two feet from a bed. Do you really want to keep talking about my parents with me?”

  “You make an excellent point.”

  “I have others. Come here and let me tell them to you.”

  EIGHTEEN

  RATHER THAN LEAVE Erie right after Lyla’s signing the following morning, as most people would expect them to do, Tate suggested to Lyla that they change things up and stay on at their current hotel.

  And so, instead of checking out, they booked another night and left their things in the suite while they went to the bookstore hosting her event. Afterward, they lingered over lunch and decided to leave for her signing in Elmira the next day.

  With the rush hour traffic to consider, it left them less time to get there than Lyla was generally comfortable with, but again—they were trying to behave unpredictably.

  It wasn’t that Lyla disagreed with Tate’s plan, she thought, pushing the last few shreds of lettuce around her bowl—she just hoped that ditching Trident’s publicized tour schedule worked, and that there wouldn’t be another peep from her superfan for the next few weeks.

  Once they got back to New York, Lyla would probably need to come up with a new plan, since Tate was going to be returning to his unit soon. She’d cross that unhappy bridge when she came to it, though, and hopefully, he’d help her figure something out before he left.

  For now, all she needed to do was try to relax and get some words down on the new book. So they paid the check and drove back to their hotel, Tate alert for any hint of something amiss the whole time.

  Lyla hadn’t been herself the last couple of days, but simply hanging out in the room with him helped dispel enough of Lyla’s anxiety that she was sure she could get in a solid evening of work.

  It felt companionable, being near him. Parked at the hotel desk with her laptop, Lyla barely had to turn her head to see Tate sprawled on the tacky brocade sofa nearby. He had headphones on and was watching a movie on his tablet, but winked devilishly whenever he busted her looking.

  Tate had plans for later, that much was clear.

  Lyla watched him periodically as she wrote, and gradually his traits began to seep into her story. She didn’t see the harm, since Tate rarely read fiction. He’d never even know that she’d co-opted parts of him for her character.

  Eventually, Lyla’s fingers slowed on the keys and she had to admit that she was doing more staring and yawning than actual writing. She caught Tate’s eye.

  “I’m hitting the wall,” she told him. “Will it bother you if I turn in?”

  The politeness came out automatically, but Lyla could tell it exasperated him.

  “No, Lyla, it will not bother me if you’re sleeping in the next room. Just like it hasn’t bothered me any of the other times you’ve done it.”

  A pink flush was creeping up from his collar, though, so Lyla wondered, “You sure about that?”

  He shrugged and smiled sheepishly. “Maybe we need to define bothered.”

  It’d bothered her, too. Having Tate sleeping mere feet away night after night had driven her slightly nuts—she’d tossed and turned for hours, picturing Tate spread across stark white hotel sheets, those thick biceps on display.

  Now, she knew firsthand what he looked like with nothing on but a smile. Tate’s tousled, sandy blond hair got even messier. His skin grew warm. His stomach was flat and taut, his thighs thick with muscles, his…

  She snapped her laptop shut and jumped up. “Okay! Well, good night. Feel free to join me when your movie is over.”

  “Movie? What movie?” And then Tate commanded, “Hang on,” stopping Lyla before she took more than two steps. “Let me check the other room one more time before you go in.”

  “Tate, we’ve been here all afternoon. I’m sure it’s fine. We would have heard something if it wasn’t.”

  “Even so. After what happened in Cleveland, I’d rather take another look. Stay here.”

  Lyla rolled her eyes and flopped back down, and Tate slipped into the attached bedroom.

  “You know you just want to paw at my underwear in peace,” she called.

  “It’s more fun when it’s actually on you.” He clicked on the light, then roared, “God damn it!”

  Lyla shot out of her chair. “What?”

  “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Tate growled, stomping around next door.

  “Tate?” She took a couple of steps toward the doorway, only to be met by his bristling body blocking the opening.

  “You stay right there. Don’t come a step closer, you hear me?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m not fucking around, Lyla. I don’t want you to see this.”

  “There’s something in there? How is there something in there!”

  “I don’t know, but I’m not fucking happy about it. Now sit down right there where I can see you and don’t move.”

  “Tate,” Lyla pleaded, hating how her voice shook. “You’re scaring me.”

  He took a deep breath and shook his head, clearly trying to calm down. “I know. I’m sorry. Just…just try to stay put for a minute while I take some pictures and make a couple of calls. Do not come in here, no matter what, okay?”

  “Can I do anything to help?”

  “When, uh…when the cops get here, you can let them in. But make sure they show you their IDs first. Don’t let them in if they won’t.”

  Lyla sank to her knees on the carpet and watched his big frame move back and forth across the doorway, while Tate phoned the police, and then the hotel staff. He took photos with his phone from every possible angle, but she still couldn’t see what had him so upset.

  Maybe that was a good thing, though. Tate wasn’t exactly prone to overreaction, and he hadn’t even been this shaken when her fan had slipped those photos under the door in Cleveland.

  Soon, Lyla heard sirens approaching outside, and a few minutes after that someone in the hall was shouting and pounding on the door. She got up and went to look out of the peephole.

  However, Tate had apparently rethought the job he’d given her, because he cut her off and pointed her toward the couch, instead. “Stay there,” he barked, with one hand on the knob. And then, more gently, “Please.”

  Any desire to argue flew right out of her when she saw the look on Tate’s face. He was pale and grim, with two flags of color high on his cheekbones, and the tendons in his neck stretched tight as bows.

  Lyla did as she was told and once she was in place, Tate let in the two uniformed officers, speaking rapidly as he led them to the other room.

  While she watched and waited, they were joined by the hotel manager and staff security guards, and
then by a second set of plainclothes police officers carrying a bunch of forensic equipment.

  Apparently, the Erie PD had better staffing—or more time on their hands—than their counterparts in Manhattan. Or maybe it was just a slow night.

  Lyla’s breath was coming short and shallow in her chest. Her ears picked out Tate’s voice from the crowd next door, seizing on the deep authority in it like a life raft amidst the turmoil swirling in the suite.

  Two of the cops came over to squat next to her, wanting to know if she’d seen or heard anything unusual since she and Tate had returned to the room earlier.

  “I was working,” Lyla said. “And it was just the two of us in here. I didn’t hear anything else.”

  “And did you…”

  They trailed off when Tate walked over and stood next to the sofa, arms crossed across his chest as he stared down at them. Her bodyguard’s face was stony. The only signs of life were the vein pulsing at his temple and the way his chest rose and fell like a bellows.

  “Are we in danger right now?” she asked him.

  Tate told the officers, “I hope you understand, but Ms. Lawson’s safety is my top priority. I’d like to get her out of here as soon as possible. What can we take with us and how soon can we leave?”

  “We have a few more questions for both of you before you can take off. If we need to follow up later, we’ll call you,” the cops replied, then got to their feet. “As for what you can take, we’re looking at the whole suite as a crime scene—especially until we can determine how the perp got in here. So…”

  The hotel manager walked up, waving his cell phone. “I can help there. One of my housekeepers has just reported that her master key is missing.”

  The officer nodded. “Okay, we’ll need to talk to her as soon as possible.” He turned back to Tate and Lyla. “You two can head out now, but give us your cell numbers before you go. Until we can process the scene, your luggage needs to stay here.”

  Tate clearly didn’t like the sound of that. He immediately countered, “Ms. Lawson’s purse, laptop, and briefcase were never out of our sight or possession all day today. Same for my tablet and go-bag over there.”