CLOSE TO YOU: Enhanced (Lost Hearts) (11 page)

             
"It's possible. He could be angry that you're occupying his home."

             
The idea gave her the creeps, to think some guy might know her place better than she did. It also put a whole new complexion on Teague's presence here. She could almost imagine Teague struggling with an intruder, subduing him, tying him up, then turning to her, his chest heaving, sweat trickling down his brow, intent on claiming his prize. . . .

             
"Is that the only entrance to the building?" he asked.

             
"Huh?" Kate had to get a grip on her imagination. "No, there's a back entrance."               "Are there surveillance cameras there, too?"

             
"Yes." She foresaw the next question. "They all work. The homeowners' association pays Cleopatra's Security to keep an eye on the area."

             
Teague grunted, not happy, not unhappy. "They're dependable enough. I'll talk to them about getting the tapes." He grinned as he pushed the button for the elevator. "Your mom's best friend's kid, huh? Is he handsome?"

             
"
She's
very beautiful. Also good with a hammer." The broad warehouse-sized doors opened, and Kate stepped in the elevator. "Want me to introduce you?"

             
"No, I have enough on my hands right now." He followed close on her heels.

             
Kate almost retorted that she wasn't on his hands, but she caught herself. That was the kind of repartee that created more trouble than she could handle. Yet a tiny sliver of temptation slipped into her mind . . . if she succumbed to Teague's allure and slept with him, what harm would come of it? It wasn't as if she would fall in love.

             
She shot a sideways glance at Teague. He looked so good to her. She took a long breath. In the confined space of the elevator, he smelled good, too, like warm, clean skin and sandalwood.

             
The doors opened onto the hallway, also decorated in orange, amber, and bronze. If she hadn't been watching, his behavior would have gone unnoticed, so smoothly did he move. He stepped out, and his quick glance roamed each corner, noting the security cameras and the three closed doors that faced them. When he had ascertained the corridor was safe, he held the elevator for her, keeping it open so she could step out. He looked absolutely relaxed. But he wasn't. He was protecting her. At all times, he was protecting her.

             
Walking to her door, she inserted the key, stood aside—and swallowed as she watched him look the place over. Could there be a more attractive idea than to know he would defend her with his life?

             
The voice of good sense rang cold and clear in her head.
Because it's his job, Kate. Because almost all that machismo is invested in the successful pursuit of his work, and the little bit left over is satisfied with a quick tumble and an even quicker farewell
.

             
She hated that stupid voice in her head.

             
Teague prowled through the lower floor. The living room rose two stories. A huge rug covered the tile floor with splashes of color in an asymmetrical pattern. Decorated in the pure white and clear blue of the Grecian islands, the kitchen and dining room opened off the living room. Her copper pans hung from a rack on the ceiling, and a charm from Indonesia dangled from a chain.

             
He looked back at her. "See anything out of place?"

             
"No." From the door, everything looked blessedly normal and mostly tidy, thanks to her cleaning lady, who'd been in Friday.

             
A stairway curved up the wall and ended in the open loft. "What's up there?" he asked.

             
"My bedroom."

             
"Come on in. I'll look around. You can start dinner."

             
His assumptions scraped at her sensibilities. "What do you want on your pizza?"               His eyebrows shot up. "You don't look like a pizza kind of a girl."

             
"I'm a reporter. I live on pizza." She ate it a lot more than she wanted to, especially on the job.

             
"This isn't a typical reporter's place." He gestured toward the cream and brown leather furniture, the collection of African fertility gods.

             
"It is when there's a trust fund involved." She braced herself, waiting for sarcasm such as she'd heard in the newsroom, or perhaps more questions that insinuated she was stalked for her money, and that, of course, would be her fault.

             
Instead he said, "Everything."

             
"What?"

             
"I like everything on my pizza." He started up the stairs.

             
She watched him disappear into her bedroom. Somehow he'd gotten the last word.

             
She read the numbers for Papa Jerry's off the refrigerator magnet and ordered their large combination. Tensely she stared at the stairs and wondered what he thought of her bedroom, decorated sparsely in warm shades of amber, with matted and framed silk paintings from India on her wall.

             
Then she wondered why she cared.

             
Unfortunately, she knew why, and she knew she had to stop thinking about being with Teague, sleeping with Teague. When had she become one of those women who liked men who were destined to hurt them? Kate knew better than to yearn after a handsome jerk, yet here she was justifying to herself a night—or more— with Teague.

             
But what was she going to do with him? He was here for however long it took to find her stalker. She had a spare bedroom off the dining room, but there were still hours until bedtime, and here he was invading her personal space. She put place mats on the marble-topped kitchen table, then took them off again and carried them into the living room. Her coffee table was the same green marble, the couch was deeply cushioned and comfortable, and most important, her television covered the facing wall. Usually she kept it tuned to KTTV, but she had the biggest cable package with every sports channel imaginable. That would keep Teague entertained, and they'd never have to say a single word to each other.

             
Thoughtfully she considered the seating arrangements. They could both face the television if they sat on the couch, but bumping shoulders would lead to a full-frontal naked encounter on the couch—there went her imagination again!—and if she was going to remain upright, she needed to strategize.

             
She put one place mat in front of the chair at a ninety-degree angle to the couch.

             
She'd sit there.

             
She placed forks and napkins, then hesitated over the bottles in her refrigerator, wondering if he'd want a Bud rather than one of her designer beers.

             
With a mental shrug, she decided he'd take what he got, popped the tops on two Blue Moose ales, and headed for the living room.

             
"Nice place," he said as he came down the stairs.

             
She handed him the bottle. "The previous owner had it like this, and I like it."

             
"So you didn't change a thing?"

             
"The furniture. I painted the wall behind the TV cream. The rug is mine. I thought we'd eat in here." She gestured him toward the couch. "Watch some football." She flipped through the channels until she found a matchup between the Texans and the Cowboys. She turned the sound way down, then placed the remote on her place mat.

             
"Sounds good." But he headed for her bookshelves. "What do you read?"

             
The question was as innocuous as conversation from a curious date. She knew it. She knew she was overreacting. Yet . . . why did he want to know? She didn't need him poking his nose in what she read, how she decorated, who she was. "Mystery. Romance. Science fiction. Fantasy."

             
"Romance?" Of course he picked up on
that
. "Why would you read romance?"               "Because the only alternative is guys like you," she answered crisply.

             
Throwing back his head, he laughed. "Romance is for sissies. For people who are afraid to face up to real life."

             
He was teasing. She didn't have a doubt about that. But she couldn't resist rising to the bait. "I'm a reporter. I face real life every day. I know what real life is . . . did you like the latest James Bond movie?"

             
"You don't know anything about real life." Teague spoke quickly, lightly. He grinned as if he were joking, yet he sounded all too serious to Kate.

             
"So tell me, Mr. Worldly, what's real life all about?" The doorbell rang, and she headed over to grab the pizza.

             
He caught her wrist as she reached for the doorknob. "Real life does
not
include answering the door without looking first."

             
"I know that." She pulled her wrist away, and he let her go . . . after a good long moment.

             
She retreated to the coffee table and fussed with placing the forks perfectly on the center of the napkins.

             
He looked through the peephole. Apparently satisfied, he opened the door, collected the pizza, paid the guy, and brought it to the coffee table. He smiled at the place mats, the napkins, the forks. "Nice."

             
What was it about Teague that sent her into a tizzy? In less than twelve hours, he had managed to make her more sexually aware than any other man, and he'd done it just by existing. It was almost frightening, the way her body responded to him.

             
"First down," she said. "The Texans will lose this one for sure."

             
"No, they're looking good today. I'll bet they win."

             
"Bet?" The Texans hadn't done anything this season. Of course, neither had the Cowboys, but they were ahead by twenty-one points in the third. "To win?"

             
Teague nodded.

             
"How much?"

             
"Ten?"

             
He reached across the table to shake.

             
She took his hand. He had a good handshake, firm but not aggressive. "So how'd you learn so much about football?" he asked.

             
"My dad was a sports fiend." She smiled in fond memory. "He held me on his knee when I was a year old and explained the difference between a balk and a bunt. Before I was three, I could recite the names of all the quarterbacks in the NFC. When I was eleven, I broke my shin playing soccer and ended a really promising career as a goalie. Dad was crushed. Mom was relieved."

             
"So you're really going to hate it when you lose this bet?" he asked.

             
Her competitive spirit took a leap. "I'm not going to lose."

             
"Yeah?" He indicated the screen.

             
The Texans made a field goal.

             
"That's a long way from winning," she informed him. She took a bite of pizza, and the flavors burst on her tongue. Pepperoni, tomatoes, tangy cheeses, mushroom, onions, peppers, and underlying it all the masterful flavor of garlic. This pizza wasn't made for romance, and maybe that was why she'd ordered it. Because if she didn't take measures to counter her attraction to Teague, she'd fall in bed with him because he—she froze—because he was a man she could love.

             
She stared blindly, the pizza forgotten, the game forgotten. If she weren't careful, if she didn't take evasive action, this man would be the one who could break her heart.

             
My God. Twelve hours. In twelve hours, she'd come to
this
?

             
"Were you suddenly stricken by the horrified realization you were eating with your hands?" Teague's teasing voice broke through her reverie.

             
She realized she sat with a slice of pizza halfway to her open mouth. She put the pizza on her plate. She looked at him, his eyebrow raised quizzically, his dark, handsome face an allure she couldn't resist. "Do you believe in fate?"

             
Teague's other eyebrow winged upward. "Of course. I'm Hispanic. I'm Aztec. Fate writes her name on my soul."

             
"You're not all Hispanic and Aztec."