Crapping out on Lyla once had been plenty—and as exhausted as he was right now, Tate did not want to head out on an empty stomach and risk a reenactment.
While he waited for their food to be delivered and for Lyla to finish up in the bathroom, he wondered whether he’d have to prop his eyelids open with toothpicks later today. Insomnia sucked, and starting his day tired wasn’t particularly helpful when he had to stay alert more than ever now.
Tate pulled his list in front of him once more. In the margin at the top, he added FIND COFFEE, then used his phone to search for the best place in town.
TATE AND LYLA were on the road and nearly to Elmira when they got word from Red’s assistant that the morning’s signing had been canceled, along with a few others scheduled for the next two weeks.
Tate had only gotten one cryptic text from Red that said, On it, though. While he was grateful his message had clearly been received and acted on, Tate wished he’d been able to confer with his friend in person.
Unfortunately, he and Lyla also hadn’t heard a peep from Scarletti—they’d both left messages on the detective’s voicemail, but he hadn’t seen fit to return their calls, as yet.
Tate fervently hoped that was because Scarletti was too busy springing his hoarder lady and dealing with the Erie cops—and not because he was being a sore loser.
Tate had placed one other call that morning, however, while Lyla used the ladies’ room at the coffee shop in Erie. That was the one eating at him the worst right now. Since he had other legitimate reasons to keep checking his phone, he didn’t feel any need to mention it to Lyla.
But for crying out loud—how long were those Med Board fuckers going to make him wait before they deigned to share the results from his second evaluation? Amidst all the other crap going on with this stalker shithead, Tate was sick of privately climbing the walls, hoping for word.
It wasn’t like he could just up and leave Lyla now—not when the danger to her appeared to be getting more serious, and more imminent. But it sure would be nice to at least have a date scheduled for his return to active duty, so Tate could prepare for it.
He peeked at Lyla over on the passenger side. She was alternating between frowning absently at the passing scenery and scribbling in her notebook, as she often did on the road.
If all went well, he might only have a few more weeks left with her, and the thought left an uncomfortable tightness in his chest. Tate took a hand off the wheel and scrubbed at it.
He was probably just hungry.
“Hey, you ready for some lunch?” he asked Lyla. “There’s a rest stop coming up here in a few more miles.”
“Sure, I could eat,” she murmured, not bothering to look at him.
Hoping for some company, he said, “I wish one of those people would call us back.”
Lyla gave him a distracted, “Hmm,” wrote some more, and then looked back up like she was just returning to the world in front of her. “At least Trident got us the morning off, though, right?”
“Right.”
Lyla still had a book club she’d arranged to meet with later on, but that had been done privately, outside the scope of the Trident tour.
Because of that, they’d decided she would keep that appointment, but Tate intended to stick to her side through the whole thing. He couldn’t care less if it raised awkward questions, either.
AFTER TATE DOWNED a few cheeseburgers and Lyla demolished a salad the size of her head, she ducked into the rest stop women’s room and he seized the opportunity to make one more personal call.
Tate grabbed a table a few steps from the ladies’ room entrance, pulled a chair around so he could watch for Lyla, and crossed his fingers that she would take her usual sweet time in there.
Then he dialed his buddy Luca and hoped he’d catch him at a good time.
As world-reknown physicians went, Luca was chill. He was zen, in that laid-back life-is-short way that Italians had a lock on. Tate was banking on him knowing what Tate should do about all of this simmering frustration crawling around under his skin, and he suspected Luca would be quicker about it than the therapist Tate was supposed to check in with periodically.
After only two rings, the good doctor answered with a delighted, “Tate! Ciao!”
“Hey, dude,” Tate said. “You got a minute?” He’d need at least that long to complain about Red’s disappearing act today.
Once Tate was finished whining, Luca explained, “I think he took Piper away for the weekend. That’s probably why. What’s going on?”
He updated him on the stalker and the book tour from hell, which, unfortunately, took quite a bit longer than his Red issue. Hopefully, Luca wouldn’t wax poetic now, though, since Tate really needed to leave time for the Q and A session at the end.
In response, his friend only sighed and said, “Love makes a man do crazy things.”
“That isn’t love, cazzo—it’s obsession. Lyla’s really scared of this guy.”
“What about you?” Luca asked.
For the sake of brevity, Tate was honest with him. “Dude, I’m freaking worried.”
“Because you don’t know who it is?”
“Not that so much, even though it would be nice to know. I’m more concerned that I won’t be able to keep Lyla safe when the shit hits the fan. And it’s going to, believe me.”
Luca grunted. “I have always thought that was a disgusting phrase.”
“Worse than porca puttana?”
Luca cleared his throat. “Anyway, do you really think it’s going to come to that?”
Tate thought about it. “As of yesterday, the NYPD was convinced Lyla’s stalker was some lady who collects too many books. But I think this thing has asshole-man written all over it. You, too, right?”
“Absolutely. Scorned women use scalpels—very sharp and patient scalpels. Scorned men, however, wield hammers.”
“That’s the truth,” Tate said. “Which means I have a heavy hammer headed right for me, and I have no idea how I’m supposed to prepare for it.”
“But you love her,” Luca retorted. “You’ll think of something.”
“Christ, Luca—what is it with Italians and love? I only met Lyla a few weeks ago.”
“So what? With love, sometimes it only takes seconds. For example, Daisy and I think that Lyla fell half in love with you before she even met you.”
“That’s…” Tate’s breath lodged in his lungs. “What?”
“We were all out at this bar and we were talking about how you should’ve been there. Daisy drew the funniest cartoon about you. And Lyla kept it, you know. She was, uh…incantare.”
Tate hastily typed the unfamiliar word into his phone’s translation app and stared down at the answer he got. Bewitched. No way.
“How in the hell…” he began, then refocused. “You know what, never mind. You’re nuts. You’re so drunk on Daisy, you don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I do so,” Luca retorted. “You forget I diagnose people for a living, mio fratello.”
“Why do I continue to call you? Why?” Tate wondered morosely.
“Because I myself am lovable, in addition to handsome and intelligent. You obviously admire me and want to learn all you can from me.”
“Invariably, I hang up more agitated than when the call began,” Tate muttered to himself.
“Tate, that’s only because you’re at the falling-in-love stage where you’re still fighting the inevitable. But don’t worry. We all go through it.”
“Luca, I already told you—Lyla is my job, not my love interest.”
“You’ll feel so much better once you accept your fate,” Luca countered.
“Will you knock it off?” Tate cried. “You sound like a fucking Jedi!”
His friend simply intoned, “Heed me. The doctor has spoken.”
Tate groaned and seriously considered hanging up before Lyla could overhear even a word of this nonsense.
“Wait,” Luca said suddenly. “
Daisy says I did it wrong. I was supposed to say, Spoken, the doctor has.”
The combination of Luca’s suave Italian accent and the worst Yoda impression Tate had ever heard released something that had been coiled tight in his chest all day. He let it go and laughed along.
“Dude, you’ve totally lost it.”
“Strangely, I still feel fantastic.”
Tate noticed Lyla making her way back out of the ladies’ room, and told his friend, “Hey, I gotta run. I’ll call soon, okay?”
“I look forward to it. Let’s find a day when you and Lyla get back to town to all have dinner. Daisy is working her way through my family’s cookbook and needs new taste-testers.”
Tate stood up and returned Lyla’s smile. “I’ll let you know,” he told Luca and hung up.
Lyla didn’t look like she was bewitched by him. She looked exactly the same as she always did—gorgeous and completely out of reach for a guy who spent the majority of his time thousands of miles away from home.
It was a good sign the world had gone sideways, when the Army made more sense than civilian life did. Tate couldn’t allow the idea of Lyla digging on him to gnaw at his focus, though, and that went double for the notion that Tate could love her eventually.
But even if it couldn’t happen now…might it happen someday?
“I think I’m going to get some more tea before we head out,” Lyla announced. “You want coffee?”
Tate peered at her face again. Still normal. “Yeah. Sure.”
LYLA’S READING FOR the group of local book clubs was done in a wine bar late that afternoon. She stayed on for about an hour afterward, signing books, taking pictures, and socializing with the attendees.
Tate tried to stay close but out of her way, eventually stationing himself at the end of the bar, where he could keep an eye on Lyla, as well as the exits and bathrooms.
It was hard not to pick up on some of the conversational topics being bandied around, however. There were the usual inquiries about inspiration and real-life crimes, but there was also a long, disconcerting discussion with some of the folks about the intimate scenes in Lyla’s books.
Tate hadn’t known mysteries had sex scenes, but abruptly remembered Red telling him that was why Lyla was so perfect for Trident and its new Red Devil imprint—her books straddled a line between romance and mystery that made her the ideal crossover talent.
Tate was rabidly curious to hear more, of course, but couldn’t risk coming off as too eager—so he ended up missing the bulk of Lyla’s response when they asked if her real-life experiences had ever made it into any of her books.
He supposed he didn’t need to know that, anyway. Tate could go on with his life, happily pretending like Lyla had never kissed another man but him, and that would be just fine, thankyouverymuch.
Sadly, now Tate never could read any of her books, either, because he’d probably spend every page wondering which ex of hers was about to get screwed by the heroine, then ambushed by the butler.
Regardless, by the time the event wrapped up, it was well past dinnertime, Tate was a horny mess, and Lyla wasn’t the only one looking a little flushed from the merlot.
She was the only one he had to be concerned with, luckily.
Tate watched the way Lyla held herself as they walked to the car, that tell-tale combination of loose-limbed swagger and odd reticence acting like a neon sign that Lyla was a little tipsy but didn’t want to show it.
Two or three glasses of wine on an empty stomach would do it to her, for sure. Even though she never swayed or stumbled, he knew Lyla would be mortified if Tate thought she couldn’t hold her liquor—even if she couldn’t, and he did.
Tate immediately snapped into solution mode—wracking his brain for the location of the restaurants and drive-throughs they’d passed on the way there. He had to be careful not to let on what he was doing, though.
“I’m getting hungry,” he told her. “Feel like some burritos?”
“Hmm. I don’t think so. Why don’t we just see what they have at the hotel?”
More room service, which likely meant the usual sad selection of burgers, sandwiches, and salads. Tate figured if he never saw a chicken Caesar wrap again in his life, it would be too soon.
“We can. Or we can grab some take-out on the way,” he tried again.
Lyla smiled sweetly at him, and it shot straight to his groin. “Whatever you want,” she said. “You’re the boss.”
AND SO, BACK at the hotel, Tate let Lyla carry in the Thai food they’d ended up with, while he kept one hand on her back and the other free to grab for his weapon if he needed it. He guided her swiftly through the lobby and directly into an open elevator.
A conference looked to be underway in the ballrooms of the hotel and a horde of nerdy types followed them into the elevator car, laughing and chatting with each other about biometrics or some shit. It was crowded and stuffy, and the ride up to their suite felt eternally long.
Tate moved in front of Lyla and tried to hold some space open for her in the corner of the elevator. The crowd and the confined space were making him antsy, so when Lyla’s perfect little body melted seductively against his back, he nearly jumped out of his skin.
Good thing he wasn’t facing her, though. Tate only had so much control—and at this point, he was just unhinged enough that having a tipsy Lyla in a corner of an elevator made him liable to take her up against the wall, right there in front of everyone.
He glanced down at her over his shoulder, checking to make sure she was still okay—and was further undone by the mischievous, conspiratorial little smile she was shooting up at him.
Jesus.
Out in the hallway, Lyla snagged her heel on the carpet halfway to their room. She fumbled the food, Tate snatched her up, and a hop, skip, and a jump later—there he was, carrying her over the threshold like it was their freaking wedding night.
She was giggling. He was trying mightily not to kiss her senseless. But Tate had a job to do and a future she wouldn’t be a part of, so he set his charge on her feet with a firm, “Stay here,” and began sweeping the room.
TWENTY
THE THRILL LYLA felt when Tate’s eyes fell on her, during that racy discussion Lyla had with the book club ladies, was something she wouldn’t have thought she was capable of, given what was going on with her superfan. But his gaze had been possessive and hot as the sun, and seared her from the inside out.
Combined with the slight buzz she was still sporting from all the wine, Lyla was eager to get Tate alone—and that was before she even got to the sexy little episode they’d had in the elevator.
Okay, so maybe her effort to settle her nerves had worked a little too well. Lyla wasn’t going to lament where it might lead tonight—even if Tate was as sober as a judge.
As it turned out, however, watching him sift through the suite, serious and focused on his task, was even hotter than when he’d been mentally undressing her from his barstool.
Tate looked big and tough and ready to obliterate anything that tried to come between him and Lyla. Huge turn on.
And, while she knew she was supposed to hang out near the door so he could do his job, she couldn’t help wandering closer so she could cop a feel of those arms.
“What are you up to, you little minx?” Tate muttered, slipping away to peer inside the closet.
“I’m trying to take your mind off the crappy day we’ve had,” she said. “If you’d only stand still long enough.”
“Hang tight, sweetheart. I’m almost done.” He bent to search under the bed.
“That’s what they all say.”
Tate chuckled, gave the bedroom one last, searching look, then pulled her closer. “I’m surprised you’re not exhausted. The last day or two have kind of sucked.”
“I know. Are you tired?”
“A bit. I didn’t exactly sleep through the night.” Tate kissed the top of her head, then ran a hand down her back and smoothed it over the curve of her ass. “Mmmm, I
like that,” he growled.
Lyla let her hands do some exploring of their own.
“Well, this is very interesting. What do we have here?” she purred, palming him through his dress pants. “Hello, big boy.”
Tate went still. “I hope you don’t mind. I brought a friend along.”
“Bit like bringing a cannon to a gunfight, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, well—he’s a male, Lyla, and you know how guys are,” he gasped when she stroked him. “You give them one compliment and they’re puffing out their chests and standing up straight, begging for more.”
“I’m just a little surprised he’s so tall, if you’re as tired as you say.”
“Have you ever even looked in a mirror?” he laughed breathlessly.
“Once or twice,” Lyla grinned. “I don’t suppose you brought anything for him to wear.”
Tate extracted his wallet from his back pocket one-handed, flipped it open, and pulled out two condoms. He threw them on the bed with a huffy, “Always prepared, Slick.”
She smirked at him and raised a finger. “I have a question.”
“What a shocking turn of events.”
“Were those condoms meant for me all along or had you been hoping for some different off-duty extracurriculars when we hired you?”
Tate rolled his eyes. “Lyla, I don’t know how it couldn’t be obvious by now—since I met you, there’s been no room for anyone else.”
“Because I’m your job.”
“Because you’re you.”
But that wouldn’t be the case for long, would it? Sometime soon, Tate would go back to his real life, and Lyla would be nothing more than a distant memory to him.
She shook off that disconcerting thought and said, “Second question.”
“Have mercy. My nerves can’t take all of these plot twists.”
The thing Lyla really wanted to know was what came next for them, but she couldn’t make herself ask it. Instead, she wondered, “Why are we still wearing pants again?”
“Lyla, you’re kind of a dirty girl when you’re drunk,” Tate laughed. “You realize that?”
The Hero Was Handsome (Triple Threat Book 3) Page 18