Chapter 4

Chapter Four

LILY

A s we enter the packed ballroom, a shiver of foreboding comes over me. If this guy really is in danger from a crazed fan, this is not a great venue. There are too many exits and too many people. It’s a crush.

Tierney catches my eye. ‘Everyone is scanned when they come in from the elevator. No weapons.’

‘Unless they’re already staying in the hotel and have access to the service stairs,’ I point out, and open my clutch to show him the glint of gunmetal sitting pretty next to my lipstick and perfume. ‘I visited earlier. Hid it in one of the plant holders.’

His eyes widen and he glances around actually looking worried.

‘But it’s quite a public place,’ I say reassuringly. ‘And invited guests only.’

This is utter bollocks. If anyone is determined enough, they’ll find a way in, which Tierney should know as well as I do if he’s any good at his job, which I’m beginning to doubt.

As if we’re a royal entourage, the crowds part as we head to the front of the room and I realise that Winston Radstock III is someone , and a well-liked someone, judging by the waves and smiles he receives as we pass through.

We come to the table in the middle at the front. There are place cards at each setting… and I don’t believe it– Tate is standing on the other side of the table. He looks up at me and his face goes blank. Great, just what I don’t need. Please don’t let him be sitting on this table.

‘You’re over there,’ says Shane Dooley and points to the chair right next to where Tate is standing. He ushers me round towards the seat. ‘Just here.’ I stand behind my chair and eye the name cards on either side of me. Fenwick Easton and Tate Donaghue.

I glance at Shane and wrinkle my brow in confusion. Luckily, Shane gets the message and smoothly takes charge. ‘Lily, can I introduce you to Tate Donaghue. Winston calls him Don.’

My heart takes a nosedive in my chest.

‘Tate.’ I smile mechanically, or is that manically. Bollocking bloody bollocking hell.

‘Tate, this is Lily Heath,’ says Shane. ‘She’s sitting next to you.’

Tate doesn’t say a word. A small flame, a pilot light of anger, fires up inside me. How dare he try and make me look inconsequential? I might not have meant anything to him, eight years ago, but surely he can at least extend some good manners right now.

‘At this table,’ says Shane, a little desperately. ‘Right here.’ He indicates my empty chair. There’s a growing silence around the table as people are tuning into the awkward atmosphere, their bodies leaning in as if to hear better.

Tate just glares at me from beneath dark, narrowed eyebrows. He’s really perfected the whole brooding-hero thing since I last saw him.

‘Mr Donaghue,’ I say politely, and hold out my hand.

He raises an eyebrow and although he takes my hand, he doesn’t say anything. I’m conscious of the warmth of his palm encased around my fingers, before he drops my hand like I’m contagious.

Are we really going to pretend we don’t know each other?

‘Nice to meet you,’ I say, summoning up my professionalism. I need to get him on side, not antagonise him.

Shane gives me an uncertain smile and backs away to his place on the table next door. There’s a stodgy silence that’s only broken by the scrape and rustle of chairs at the other tables. At table ten, we all follow suit and sit down. Tate proceeds to completely ignore me, turning to the guest on his other side, and around the table, conversation picks up with low murmurs.

On my left, Fenwick, one of the Armadillos’ sponsors, chats away to me with friendly ease, for which I’m very grateful as I’m hyper-aware of the tense mountain of pissed-off man on my right. It’s like all my senses are tuned into a Tate Donaghue frequency, and my whole body is quivering with pent-up energy. I focus my attention on Fenwick, who is thankfully a big Anglophile and asks me lots of questions about London and Oxford, after I told him I hailed from Oxfordshire.

Eventually, however, etiquette dictates that Fenwick turns to talk to the woman on his other side, leaving me with little choice.

‘Could you pass me the water?’ I ask Tate.

He picks up the jug, and for a moment I wonder if he’s going to dump the contents into my lap, but to my surprise he pours me a tumblerful, the ice clinking against the glass.

‘Thank you,’ I say.

‘So, you said you were working. Who for?’

‘Mr Radstock,’ I say. It’s going to come out at some point.

‘Winston?’ Tate wrinkles his nose, a familiar dimple appearing in one cheek. I stare at his smooth-shaven skin, my heart skipping merrily over two beats as I recall the same, much cuter, puzzled expression on his face years ago when I used an English phrase Tate didn’t understand. When he’d teased me, his blue eyes had crinkled as he called me his Sexy Brit.

‘What are you doing for him?’ he asks, oblivious to my inner trip down memory lane. His fingers toy with the tines of the fork in front of him, reminding me that Tate never could sit still.

I take a breath. This is when I should leap in and explain, but we’re interrupted by a waitress bringing out the starters.

‘Starter for you, Mr Donaghue,’ says the very young, pretty and slightly breathless teenage waitress, her cheeks already pink with hero worship. Her hands are shaking as she places the plate in front of him.

‘Thank you, Serena,’ he says looking at her name badge and then lowering his voice. ‘All a bit fancy, isn’t it? When I was your age, I waited tables and I was always terrified I was going to drop the soup in someone’s lap.’

She turns even pinker, but her smile is pure gratitude. ‘I’m real grateful they’re not serving soup tonight, sir.’

As she walks away, I can’t help myself.

‘That was nice of you,’ I say.

‘I am nice,’ he replies. His blue eyes give me a piercing stare and his mouth twists slightly, those lips almost close enough to kiss. Despite his disdainful expression, he’s still gorgeous, and an immediate invisible connection fizzes through me. My heart actually flutters, full-on beating wings, trapped butterfly in my rib cage, the works. Like I’m nineteen again, he’s the football heartthrob everyone has warned me about, and I’m trying to be indifferent, except it’s not that easy. Tate Donaghue was, then, and still is, gorgeousness and sexiness personified in one glorious package. I honestly thought that distance and dislike would have immunised me to him. Instead, I have a craving to taste his lips one more time. My body wants to know the feel of him again. The heavy weight of his breadth against mine. My mouth has dried with pure longing.

I smile back, a little regretfully.

His smile immediately vanishes and is replaced by a tight, curt expression. A timely reminder, I’m nothing to him.

Thankfully, the delicate plate of smoked salmon and green salad in front of me gives me a new focus for my attention. I’m embarrassed by my body’s stupid reaction, and snatch up my knife and fork. I’ve taken just a couple of hasty mouthfuls before I catch Tate’s quick look of disappointment.

‘Just once at one of these dos, I wish they’d serve a burger,’ he mutters.

Although the comment isn’t directed to anyone, I feel I ought to acknowledge it.

‘They didn’t get the protein memo, I guess,’ I say.

He shoots me a glare. Not only does he not want protection, he’s even less likely to want it when he realises it’s me. And as for the undercover girlfriend– I almost laugh out loud at that one. How am I going to convince anyone that he’s into me, when he looks as if he’d rather kill me and chop me up for shark bait? Sexual chemistry, that’s all it is, I tell myself. We always had it in spades. I have no emotional feelings for Tate. They’re buried six-feet under with fifty floors of skyscraper on top of them– never to be exhumed.

Tate’s mouth purses and I’m drawn again to those lush lips, which still look eminently kissable even when he’s scowling at me.

‘Did you want red or white wine?’ he asks.

‘Just water, thanks,’ I say. I’m officially on duty, even though I could murder a white wine. I continue to tuck into my starter to deter further conversation, and luckily, the girl next to Tate does her best to monopolise his attention, which amuses the hell out of me, because I can tell he can’t decide which of us is the lesser of two evils.

I turn to talk to Fenwick again. In contrast to Tate, he’s charming and totally devoted to his wife and twin boys, which fills plenty of the conversation for the next fifteen minutes. When the next course arrives– chicken, dauphinoise potatoes and wilted spinach– I notice Tate tuck in with enthusiasm. He makes short work of the meal, and his plate is clean before I’m even halfway through mine, but then making polite conversation with a neighbour does slow you down.

Maybe it’s because my body has some muscle memory where Tate is concerned, but something makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Tate has become very still, which is uncharacteristic. He’s always been one of those people in constant motion. A hand tapping, a foot jiggling, fiddling with a pen, the label on a beer bottle. I can’t quite put my finger on what is wrong, but it’s as if he’s suddenly being careful with his body. Not making any sudden moves. It’s then that I hear his outward breath wheeze just a little. I listen carefully. His breath rasps out of his chest.

‘Tate? Are you okay?’ I ask in a low voice, my body sliding into on-duty mode. Alert, aware and ready for trouble.

‘Yeah,’ he says but he deliberately evades my gaze. I watch his Adam’s apple dip.

He doesn’t look right. There’s a very slight sheen to his brow. And am I imagining it, or do his lips have a blue tinge to them?

I listen harder. He coughs and I know I’m not imagining things, he sounds a little breathless. ‘Tate?’ I ask again in a firm voice.

He turns and his mouth is fused in a grim line. He pats his chest and says through gritted teeth, ‘Don’t make a fuss. I’m just going outside a minute.’

He pushes back his chair, and I catch Winston’s eye, shaking my head slightly, already on my feet. I want Winston to understand he can rely on me, and I’m not about to let Tate Donaghue out of my sight.

I follow Tate into the lobby area and it’s very noticeable that he doesn’t protest at my presence when he sits down, patting his inside pocket.

Shit, his lips are swelling before my eyes.

‘I don’t feel right.’ His blue eyes hold mine, candid and direct.

He pulls open his jacket and delves into the inside pocket. His face creases and I see the first stirring of unease in his expression as he checks his outside pockets.

‘What are you looking for?’ I ask, holding my own breath. I’ve seen Tate have an allergic reaction once before, not quite like this. Someone had thrown a peanut in the college bar one night and he’d caught it before it hit him in the face. That time the response was swift and mild, but instantaneous– leaving him with a nasty rash on the palm of his hand. That was how I found out he had a severe peanut allergy.

It was also the night he first told me he loved me. After he’d explained about the rash on his hand, I flounced off and he chased after me.

‘Lily, what’s wrong with you?’ He’d tried to hold me, but I wriggled free.

‘What’s wrong with me?’ I demanded. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘I’m fine,’ he said, holding up his hand, which was absolutely not fine at all. It was a mass of ugly, red hives distorting its shape. ‘It’ll go down.’

I couldn’t speak for a second, pure rage boiled through my veins.

‘Shouldn’t you have an EpiPen or something? And shouldn’t you have told me that you have a severe allergy?’

‘I have got an EpiPen. I just haven’t got it with me.’

‘What do you mean you haven’t got it with you,’ I’d replied, even more furious at his admission.

‘I forgot it. It’s not a big deal, Lily.’ He’d looked a little sullen, as if he knew damn well it was but didn’t want to admit being in the wrong.

I wasn’t letting him off the hook.

‘Not a big fucking deal,’ I yelled at him. ‘You could have died!’

And then I’d burst into tears, which was so not like me, but I couldn’t bear the thought of him not looking after himself properly.

My tears shocked him, and he pulled me into his arms and kissed their salty tracks. ‘Hey, Lily. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…’

I looked up at him. ‘You scared me. What if you’d eaten it? And you didn’t have the pen and I didn’t know.’

‘Hey,’ he tried to soothe me, but I shook him off.

‘No, Tate. I’m mad at you.’

‘Mad at me because I didn’t die.’ The corner of his mouth lifted.

‘Don’t joke about this.’ I pointed at him. ‘It’s not funny.’

He took me in his arms, genuine remorse in his beautiful blue eyes. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not funny and I should take it more seriously but… I hate people thinking I’m weak.’

‘You’re an idiot.’ I told him, although my heart was pounding with the realisation that if anything happened to him, I’m not sure I’d have survived.

‘That, too.’

‘The thought of anything happening to you frightens me,’ I whispered to him. ‘Promise me you’ll carry it in future.’

I’d always been so careful with my emotions, ever since I was ten years old and came down one morning to find, without any warning, that my dad had gone and I was being driven to boarding school and handed over to the principal by his driver. I learned later that he’d been called away on the first of many secret assignments, and after that he was an unreliable quantity in my life. It pretty effectively prepared me for the fact that loving someone makes you vulnerable. Dad wanted me to be tough and self-sufficient.

Tate had taken both my hands in his and clasped them over his heart. With the other, he cupped my face, meeting my eyes. ‘I promise, Lily,’ he’d whispered. ‘And I’m sorry for frightening you. You know I wouldn’t do that for the world. Not when I love you so much.’

‘EpiPen?’ I ask now as Tate searches his suit jacket again, as if he might have missed something the first time.

His breathing is sharp and hoarse now. Panic darkens his eyes. My heart clenches and I feel real fear. He could die. This isn’t something I have control over. Suddenly, this isn’t a job. This is Tate.

‘It’s not here,’ he rasps in a hoarse whisper. ‘It’s always there. I always carry it.’

‘Do you have a spare nearby?’ I ask, horrified by the tears that have suddenly appeared from nowhere.

‘Not here. Home.’

‘Stay calm,’ I say and give him a reassuring smile, even though I want to take his face in my hand and place a kiss on his forehead. ‘You’re going to be fine.’

This is where my advanced first-aid training kicks in.

‘Lie down.’ I push him down onto the couch, prop cushions up behind him and raise his legs. ‘Don’t move. I’m going to call an ambulance.’

‘No,’ protests Tate, shaking his head, a mutinous line to his mouth. He grabs my hand urgently. ‘I’m not going to the ER. Team doctor. Get the team doctor. He’s here.’

I pull out my phone and call Winston.

‘Where are you?’

‘Winston, there’s been an incident. Tate has had an allergic reaction. You need to get the team doctor out to the lobby with an EpiPen. Right now.’

‘Is he okay? What happened? Where is he? What?—’

I cut his questions short. ‘Doctor, now. Lobby area. And make sure someone keeps his plate of food and whatever he was drinking. Put them in a sealed bag. Tierney will know the drill.’

Seconds later, a young man appears at a sprint run, carrying a black rucksack. Before he reaches us, he’s already rummaging in his bag and produces an orange EpiPen.

‘Tate?’ he asks, assessing Tate’s face and prodding his lips. ‘How you doing?’

‘Been better.’

The doctor hands over the EpiPen. ‘This will help.’

‘Thanks, Doc,’ says Tate and holds the pen to his upper thigh, pressing the lid down hard with his thumb.

There’s dead silence as the doctor and I stare at Tate.

‘I’m not dying,’ he says, glaring at us. ‘You can both stand down.’

A few minutes later, Tate’s breathing is already starting to ease, and his colour is returning– not to exactly normal, but much less near-deathly than it was. He still looks wiped out and I can tell that he hates it because he’s scrunched up his eyes and tilted his head back as if he doesn’t want to acknowledge either of us. The team doctor, who was watching him carefully, is now on the phone to Winston.

Reluctantly, Tate’s gaze moves to me.

‘What did you say you do, Lily?’ he asks. ‘Like, what exactly are you doing here?’

I take a breath. I might as well tell him.

‘I’m your new bodyguard,’ I say.

‘Fuck.’ He closes his eyes and shakes his head. ‘No way. Over my dead body.’

‘Well, it almost was,’ I tell him, grimly. I hadn’t expected the threats to turn to reality, or at least not so soon.

But it seems someone has just tried to kill Tate Donaghue.