CLOSE TO YOU: Enhanced (Lost Hearts) (10 page)

             
He waited to see what she would do, and he was both amused and surprised when she slid her cup across the table.

             
"Try it."

             
"On one condition." He pushed the scone toward her.

             
It was an impasse, two people involved in an ultra-civilized food fight. He didn't want to taste her frappuccino. She didn't want to taste his scone.

             
Fascinated, Kate watched as he lifted the cup and took a sip, his dark eyes daring her, challenging her.

             
She shifted in her seat. He made her uncomfortable.

             
But she could challenge him in return. She was a woman who had seen the world. She knew a few tricks herself.

             
Breaking a piece off the scone, she transported it to her lips in slow increments, sliding it into her mouth. "Do you like it?" she asked in a husky tone.

             
"Like it?" He never took his gaze off her lips.

             
"The frappuccino."

             
"I do." He pushed the cup back at her. "Have another drink—and ask me what you need to ask me. Or should I say—ask me what you dare to ask me."

             
She knew why he was so good at his job. He saw too much. He observed too acutely. She didn't want to ask him about his personal life. It brought a level of intimacy to their relationship when she wanted to remain professional . . . but if she was going to be professional, she had to stop responding to his challenges. "You were in the military. When did you join? What branch? How long were you in?"

             
"I joined when I was eighteen. I wanted to go to college eventually, but I lost my mother while I was in high school and goofed off too much to get scholarships. So I thought four years in the Marines, then college, then a job wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase." He laughed as if amused at his younger self. "I stayed in eight years. They put me in the Special Ops, trained me to be tough, and I found out I had a knack for leadership and organization. When I got out, I didn't want a briefcase. Five years ago, I opened the bodyguard business. Two years ago, I got the contract for security at the state capitol. And here we are."

             
"Right." His loquaciousness surprised her. She'd interviewed a lot of people, and while most were flattered and pleased at the chance to talk about themselves, Teague struck her as the type to be tight-lipped about his background. Of course he could be lying—she examined his face—but if he was, he was very good at it. "Where did you grow up?"

             
"In a little town on the border, on the wrong side of the tracks. My dad took off when I was little, never to be seen again, and we barely scraped by."

             
He seemed very easy with his misfortune. "Do you have family left?" she asked.

             
"No one."

             
"No one at all? Who do you eat Thanksgiving dinner with?"

             
"The people at the truck stop." His smile blazed forth. "They're lovely people."

             
"Yes." She chewed her lip. "I'm sure they are." If they weren't, he didn't want to talk about it, he made that very clear. "The bodyguard business is an unusual career choice. What sent you in that direction?"

             
"There was talk in the service about guys who did it and how well they got paid and how well they got treated for standing around and looking dangerous.

After being in the Spe
cial Ops, I was ready for some easy money. But the job got damned boring damned quick, and I realized that a little organization could launch a big firm. There's never been as big a need for security as now, and the opportunities are there for a man who's willing to take chances."

             
"Does the paperwork take up all your time now, or do you still get into the field?"               "I'm the boss. I take only the jobs I want." He smiled another of those slow, heated smiles.

             
Of course. For a brief moment, she had felt normal, safe, unstalked. Because he was guarding her.

             
Reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket, he pulled out a vibrating cell phone. He glanced at the caller ID, said "Excuse me," to Kate, flipped open the phone, and in tones of great affection, said, "How are you,
querida
?"

             
He listened, and as Kate watched, his face changed from smiling to severe. He flicked a glance at her, and for all the interest he showed, she might be a stranger. All the intense consideration he had shown her he now fixed on his caller, and he said, "Of course I'll come at once." He listened again. "Don't be silly, you know there's nothing more important to me than you."

             
To whom was he speaking? Not a lover, surely. Not in that tone of firm cajolery. A family member? He claimed he had no one. Another case? Another stalker? Another female in jeopardy whom he could flatter and protect?

             
"Just let me get things wrapped up here, and I'll be right over." He hung up and stood, indicating the door.

             
She followed him, watched him as his gaze flicked out the windows toward the street. He might be distracted, but he still watched out for her safety.

             
"Kate, I'll take you back to the capitol and turn you over to my people." He led the way onto the street and toward the capitol. "I'll ask that you stay there until one of us can escort you home."

             
A sharp ache caught her. She looked around, seeing a threat in the laughing Senate pages who waited for a bus at the corner, in the tourist group that strolled the capitol grounds. Teague was leaving her, and she no longer felt safe in the city she knew and loved. "But I'm supposed to stay with you," she argued. "Report your life."

             
"It's a personal matter." He sounded perfectly polite, perfectly professional, and perfectly distant, keeping all his attention on the pedestrians and the cars that passed them.

             
"A
personal
matter?" She couldn't stop herself from asking. "This from the man who claims he eats Thanksgiving dinner at a truck stop?"

             
His lips twitched. His eyes warmed. "I lied. I eat Thanksgiving dinner with friends."

             
"Whew." She pretended to wipe her brow. "I was worried you were seriously maladjusted."

             
His brief amusement dissipated once more, and his voice had a bite and a bitterness she'd not heard from him. "Everything about my life is so normal I'm an advertisement for the American way." Using his headset, he spoke to his people and turned care of her over to them.

             
When he was done, she said persuasively, "Reporting on your personal matters would bring a dimension to you that the viewers would love."

             
"They can love me or not. It doesn't matter." He ushered her inside the great doors of the capitol. "You're under surveillance now. Run along and see if you can scare up some stories about the legislators. I'm sure they're fighting about something. Just don't go on TV, and don't leave the building alone. I'll try to be back before you want to go home."

             
She watched him walk out and wished fiercely for her life to go back to normal. She wanted to answer the phone and not worry about silence on the other end or worse, a voice saying,
Leave, bitch
. She wanted to walk down the street and not agonize that a car would swerve toward her.

             
She knew she would never feel secure again . . . except perhaps when Teague Ramos stood by her side.

             
And that troubled her almost more than the anxiety about her stalker.

             
Using his key, Teague Ramos entered a small apartment near the center of Austin, and shut the door behind him. He walked into the bedroom and up to the bed, leaned over, and kissed the woman reclining there. With all the love he was capable of expressing, he smiled into her brown eyes and said, "
Querida
, your call was the best thing that has happened to me all week."

SIX

             
Troubled, Kate sat in her car in her parking space and stared through the windshield at the downtown lofts where she made her home. They were less than five years old, a remodeled five-story warehouse with large windows and a creaky freight elevator that should have been replaced but gave the place atmosphere. A Dumpster stood off to the side of parking area. Strips of green grass provided relief from the unrelenting concrete. Tall lights lit the parking lot, and security cameras pointed outward.

             
The area was still in transition from downtown slum to trendy apartments, but she'd liked it—before. It was fun, it was modern, it was in the old warehouse district—and she sat waiting, doors locked, while Teague parked his car in the guest slot and made his way to her side.

             
That was what he had instructed her to do. She gripped the blue leather steering wheel, the whorled pattern pressing into her palms.

             
Her worry came from the fact that she was more concerned about Teague's reaction if she disobeyed him than a possible stalker lurking in the shadows. In fact,

she
was more worried about the night ahead than she had ever been about anything in her life, and her stomach twisted in a knot of trepidation. How
stupid
to think about Teague instead of her safety.

             
Yet during the day, she had tailed him through his duties, taken notes on his activities, and listened to his deep voice as he explained procedure; his presence seemed to rub against her skin until she was chafed by the knowledge he would go home with her that night.

             
Then, worse, he had left her alone for four hours— four lousy hours!—and despite the knowledge that her safety was in capable hands, she'd been unable to concentrate on the job she loved. She had been waiting to hear his voice, wanting the security of his presence.

             
What a damned horrible situation to find herself in, disturbed by the man who was supposed to keep her safe.

             
When Teague rapped on the window beside her, she jumped. Jumped hard enough to shake the car, and when she turned to him, he smiled through the window, a slow, smooth, sexy smile.

             
He gestured for her to unlock the car. He opened her door and slid his hand under her arm. "Which floor are you on?"

             
"Five." She eased her legs out, taking care not to flash him—her southern-raised mother had ensured that she knew how to get out of a low-slung car properly—but a quick glance into his eyes proved that no measure she took would be good enough to subdue his hunting instincts.

             
"How did you find this place?" He walked beside her, adjusting his gait to hers, a duffel bag in his hand. His gaze shifted between her and their surroundings.

             
"My mother's best friend's kid is the contractor, and when one of the owners got evicted, I got a deal on the place."

             
"Evicted. Why?" They entered the foyer, and Teague gazed around. The concrete floors and high ceilings were evidence of the building's warehouse beginnings, but the decorator had painted the walls in warm swirling oranges and lit the foyer with sconces of amber glass and bronze.

             
"Couldn't afford it. He was overextended." For the next few days Teague was going to live with her. Unfortunately, he appealed to her. There was nothing she could do about it, but she didn't have to scratch that itch.

             
"Do you now his name?"

             
"No, but I suppose I could find out." Kate was an adult. Not a virgin. A woman with a strong mind and solid instincts.

             
"I'll find out."

             
Teague's tone jerked her to attention. The way he looked around, the way he walked one step behind her . . . she had forgotten, again, why he was here.

             
He had not. Flipping open his cell phone, he dialed a number and said, "Big Bob, find out who used to live at this address and see if we can talk to him. He sounds like a guy we could be interested in."

             
When Teague shut the phone, Kate asked, "Do you think he's the stalker?"