Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

LILY

I might have been outvoted on this recreational trip, but I’m vetoing the convertible sports car, even though I’m very tempted. Tate has persuaded Winston’s team that he’ll be perfectly safe going out of the city with his bodyguard. As they’re paying my wages, I have no choice but to agree.

‘It’ll be fun,’ he says, his eyes twinkling.

‘If I had my way, you’d be doing lengths in the pool,’ I retort.

‘I hate swimming, and I did four hours’ training this morning. I deserve a break.’

Although I’m still feeling put out that I was overruled, I am equally relieved that I don’t have to be holed up in the hotel room with Tate and his pheromones, which are pumping out at full blast. Last night, I got myself off within two minutes of getting into bed, but it wasn’t enough. And I’m clearly not the only one feeling like this. The sexual tension is getting to Tate, too; it’s making us both as skittish as colts saddled for the first time.

‘Wait,’ says the rental car sales guy, Darryl– who I swear is no more than twelve years old– his hands faltering with excitement when Tate hands over his driving licence. ‘You’re The Don! Tate Donaghue. Wow man. Wow. Just wow.’ The tips of his ears poking through his sandy hair turn bright red.

Tate gives him what I now recognise as his modest, ‘aw-shucks-I’m just a regular Joe’ smile.

‘Hi, Darryl.’ He puts out a hand and shakes the guy’s hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘Doncha want anything fancier? I mean… you got the…’ He falters to a stop.

Tate shakes his head and leans forward to say in a conspiratorial tone. ‘My fiancée doesn’t want us drawing attention to ourselves. She wants me all to herself.’ He winks at the young man, whose eyes widen as he nods in collusion.

‘Sure, man.’ Darryl’s head is still nodding. ‘I understand.’

I highly doubt it– he has that wide-eyed innocence that suggests he’s never got past first base.

‘Now, how about you recommend a place we could drive to, where we can get ourselves a decent lunch?’ asks Tate, and young Darryl is only too delighted to be of service. His face lights up at the prospect of helping ‘The Don’.

I wander off, leaving them to their conversation, glad to escape the little glow of gooey warmth I get when I see Tate being so damn sweet to his fans. I don’t want him to be nice. It’s bad enough that my body is betraying me, I don’t want him to have any redeeming features. It’s getting harder and harder to see him as the hard-hearted, goal-orientated football player who chose the game over me.

Ten minutes later, Tate is behind the wheel and driving us out of the city. There are times you have to pick your battles, and letting him drive seemed an easy compromise after I’d put the kibosh on his convertible wet dream. He’s a good driver, confident and relaxed, not shouting at the other drivers or pushing the gas and then braking constantly, which means I can relax and enjoy the scenery. Principally, my view of him, because we’re still downtown. I can’t help it, my eyes are constantly drawn to his handsome profile. Maybe we should have gone for the open-top, after all. In this confined space, I’m hyper aware of him. The dark hairs on his arm resting nonchalantly on the centre console so close to mine. In a long-sleeved white Henley, which emphasises his tan, and the jeans moulded to those strong, muscular thighs, he looks good enough to strip.

Tate has plugged something into the satnav. Jean Lafitte.

‘Who or what is that?’ I ask.

‘It’s a small town, named after a notorious pirate who made good when he did his bit for the army during the Revolution– that would be the one where we kicked you guys out.’ Tate turns sideways and gives me a cocky grin.

‘It was a long time ago,’ I quip. ‘I’d have thought you’d have got over it by now.’

‘This guy was a bad guy and operated in the Barataria Bay area, and that’s where we’re headed. Easy drive and, according to Darryl, we can’t get lost.’

‘Promises, promises,’ I say.

‘Of course, I forgot you’re an ace navigator, too.’

‘My dad taught me how to read a map and use a compass at a pretty early age. It was around the first time he dumped me on the moor and told me to find my way home.’

‘Jeez. Why didn’t you talk more about your nuts upbringing before?’ Tate asks.

‘Because it didn’t occur to me at that age that it was nuts. Anyway, you can hardly talk.’

‘Me? What do you mean?’ Tate raises an eyebrow in genuine bemusement.

I stare at him. Really, he’s not aware?

‘Well, your upbringing after your mom left was hardly normal.’

‘You’re kidding me, right.’

‘No, Tate. I’m not.’ I think about elaborating, but it doesn’t seem like he’s ready to hear it. Not just now. It was obvious from what I overheard at the stadium at the training session, that Tate’s dad is still very much in the picture.

‘So why Jean Lafitte?’ I ask, to change the subject. To be honest I’m looking forward to a day out and the sun is shining. After the winter temperatures of New York, New Orleans is positively balmy. I could almost be on holiday, although it’s been a while since I’ve had one of those. I’d forgotten what it’s like to have nothing to do, no place to be. Normally, my life is run on a tight schedule with strict parameters.

‘According to our Darryl, they have some great seafood restaurants. Proper Cajun food. I thought we could stop for lunch,’ Tate says.

‘Now you’re talking my language. I’ve always wanted to know what gumbo is.’

‘It’s good, like a stew, but there’s also Jambalaya, which you should try. Or some Cajun prawns.’

My mouth is watering already.

Once we get out of the city, the roads quieten, although there’s plenty of traffic on the highway. I check the mirrors periodically.

Because of all the water in the marshland area there are few main roads, so navigation, as Darryl promised, is pretty straightforward. We arrive in Jean Lafitte in just over half an hour.

We park up and Tate glances over at me, and his expression is that of a kid just let out of school for the summer. I guess he’s under quite a lot of pressure at the moment, what with the upcoming game and the recent threats, and I am determined to be as laid-back as I can be today, realising that this is a rare taste of freedom for him.

‘Now what?’ I ask because we haven’t exactly planned this trip. Spontaneity doesn’t feature much in my life. ‘Your call.’

He lifts his shoulders. ‘An adventure. We’re in pirate country.’ His eyes twinkle with irrepressible fun.

‘An adventure?’ I tease, because I’m amused by this boyish side of him. Even when we were together there weren’t that many times when we kicked back like this. There was always training, classes and study to fit in. Today feels positively decadent.

‘Obviously, it’s not that much of an adventure for you because you’re probably used to hiking through the jungle with a knife in your mouth and whip in one hand,’ Tate teases. ‘Ducking poison arrows.’

I laugh. ‘I think you’re muddling me up with Indiana Jones.’

‘Nah, please let me have my Lara Croft fantasy.’

‘As long as you don’t expect me to wrestle an alligator or anything,’ I say.

We smile at each other and suddenly it all seems so easy and natural. We’re having a day out.

‘Visitor Centre?’ suggests Tate.

‘Good plan.’ We follow the signpost towards the sprawling one-storey wooden building, with a white picketed veranda, walking side by side like a real couple. I have to admit to feeling that little frisson of excitement, with a new place to explore and with someone else, for a change. I haven’t felt it since I went to Europe the year after I graduated from university, visiting cities like Paris, Berlin, Prague and Budapest– as well as the amazing beaches in Croatia and the lakes of Slovenia. I travel a lot, but I never get to see much. It strikes me Tate is probably the same.

‘When was the last time you took a holiday?’ I ask. ‘And where did you go?’

‘What, now you’re my hairdresser?’ teases Tate.

‘No. Just making conversation. Pretend you believe I’m interested.’

He rolls his eyes. ‘I’m always travelling. When I’m not, I like to stay home, either in Austin or New York.’

‘So, which is your real home?’

‘They both are. Mainly Austin during the season. New York when I’m here. And it’s convenient for travelling. I can do a layover if I’m travelling long-distance.’

‘You must have a hell of a lot of air miles,’ I observe, ‘if you can keep an apartment in New York.’

‘I earn a hell of a lot of money.’

I look down at the huge ring on my finger. ‘So you do. Apparently, I’m marrying you for your money and you’re marrying me for my title.’

‘Your dad still a duke?’

‘Yeah, until he dies,’ I reply. My aristocratic background works well in some ways and not so in others. I play up the socialite Lady Lily, so that people don’t see past the facade. Very useful in close-protection work, like now.

‘Hang on. I’m marrying you for a title.’

‘Yes, a genius brain at one of the tabloids has worked out that if we had a baby boy, a male Donaghue, he would be the fifteenth Duke of Landsfforde. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen the composite pic in the Daily Planet of a baby-you wearing a crown?’

‘Pretty sure the Daily Planet was in Superman .’

I nudge him in the ribs. ‘Okay smarty pants. I don’t know what it was called but I saw the piece in a paper at a news kiosk at the airport.’

‘I never read those things. Most of it they make up. If I read half the stuff that’s printed about me, I’d spend my life chasing my tail or trying to find the two dicks I supposedly have.’

‘Enough said.’

The visitor centre is busy with a long line of other tourists either waiting to or talking to the desk clerks. Both Tate and I are quite content to wander around scanning the brochures and maps.

‘Fancy the Wetland Trace?’ asks Tate, picking up a leaflet and waving it at me. ‘It’s a boardwalk through the swamp. There are a couple of different routes we can take.’

‘Lead on,’ I say, giving the information a cursory glance. It sounds exactly what we both need. Some physical activity to burn off some of this restrained, jumpy energy.

It doesn’t take us long to find the boardwalk, which is almost deserted, and we amble along the wooden boards a metre above the water. The hushed silence is made less oppressive by the birdsong filtering through the gloomy swamp cypresses with their tattered-rag foliage. A dart of colour catches both our attention, and we see a bright purple-blue bird with a bright red beak land on one of the logs nearby. We watch it for a little while before it takes flight again. As we keep walking, we see spindly white egrets flying with elegance and blue herons while the more solid pelicans fly past with a great rush and wash of wings.

‘Alligator,’ says Tate pointing. He’s right. There, sprawled along a log just above the water line, is a long scaly body with what looks to me like a very smug smile. Although to be honest, it seems unbothered by us and reminds me of an old man sitting, whiling his time away in the sun. Next to him, a huge turtle is balanced on the same log. They both seem indifferent to each other. It all seems very laid-back.

‘Glad we came?’ asks Tate as we saunter along and he checks over his shoulder at the deserted boardwalk. ‘No bad guys.’

‘No bad guys,’ I agree.

‘Must be hard work being on your guard all the time.’

‘No harder than always having to train and watch your food intake and think about your next game.’

‘Not hard if you love what you do,’ he says. ‘It’s everything I always wanted.’

‘Yeah, don’t I know it,’ I mutter under my breath, bitterness seeping around the edges of my words.

Thankfully, Tate’s attention is caught by the sudden movement of the alligator slithering into the water and I’m not sure if he didn’t hear me or has no response.

* * *

Grease drips down my chin, but I don’t care. Because these are the best damn shrimps I’ve ever had in my life.

The crowded restaurant is on the edge of the bayou, and we were lucky to get a seat. In fact, if the server hadn’t recognised Tate we might well have been turned away.

He has the usual effect on the wait staff, who bob up and down every five minutes making sure he’s got everything. But as usual, he’s completely charming and natural with all of them, even the elderly waitress who insists on prodding his biceps and making sure they’re real.

Tate leans over and swipes at the side of my mouth, but the quick move appears to be in the friend zone as far as he’s concerned, for which I’m truly grateful. This morning in the hotel room, I was worried that I was going to spontaneously combust if I so much as brushed past him, but thankfully being out in the open air has given me a bit of breathing space. I’m still conscious of him, but I’ve been able to relax a little. It’s like I’m with Tate the person and not Tate the footballer. Although that brings its own challenge. Far too many flashbacks of the time we spent together on campus, in that sultry honeymoon period where he first told me he loved me. The memories make me mad at myself. How did I get it so wrong? He’d been so convincing. We’d talked about the future– laughable, I realise now, because he never had any intention of us staying together.

‘You still with me?’ asks Tate suddenly with a frown.

‘Er… Yes. Sorry, enjoying the food. It’s so good.’

‘Certainly is.’ Like me he has his napkin tucked in the collar of his T-shirt.

‘I need to give Darryl a good tip when we return to the car. This was a great suggestion.’

I nod in agreement.

‘What time do we have to return it?’

‘By eight this evening. The rest of the team fly in the day after tomorrow, and after that we’ll travel as a team and have police escorts taking us to and from the stadium– and all the other places we have to be.’

We spend the rest of the meal talking about all the events that are coming up in the next week to celebrate the game. Music events. Press previews. Gala dinners. Plus, training and strategic planning.

By the time we leave the restaurant it’s after three, so we decide to continue south to the next town and visit the harbour there before meandering slowly back to the city.

I hope it is slow, because suddenly I really don’t want this day to end.