Chapter 6

Chapter Six

LILY

I turn my back on Tate and cross the window that overlooks the city below, just for a second wondering what the hell I’m doing here. I should have walked out when I realised Tate Donaghue was the detail on my assignment. It was never going to work. Tate’s always going to want to be in charge and play the one-upmanship game. He’s never forgiven me for calling quits first all those years ago. Even though he clearly saw our relationship had an expiration date. I’m pretty sure taking him down in front of everyone, while proving a point, was neither politic nor endearing. No wonder he made me pay for it afterwards. For a second back there, I thought he was going to kiss my hand, which would have been even more patronising.

The temptation to play him at his own game and kiss him on the mouth idles in my brain for a few seconds more than it should. Don’t go there, Lily, I tell myself. Even though it’s too late. My brain is whirring with the memory of our first kiss…

* * *

Tate pursued me after our first meeting, even going as far as leaving a tube of arnica in a bag on my dorm door to heal my bruises which was cute, but I’d heard all about his reputation and I had no plans to become another notch on a bedpost that was clearly in danger of collapse.

I was at a party when I spotted him and immediately did a reverse turn and headed into another room, which was a mistake. I’d read enough paranormal romances to know that you never run from an Alpha male, werewolf or otherwise. Because of course, Tate took that as a challenge and hunted me down. Every time I moved rooms, he was there. I didn’t like running, it wasn’t my style, so of course, I approached him.

‘I know I’m irresistible. But I’m not interested,’ I told him, annoyed at myself for enjoying the game.

‘I’ve worked you out,’ the cocky bastard replied, grinning at me with those beautiful sparkling blue eyes.

‘I doubt that very much,’ I said at my haughtiest, which I might say is pretty up there given it’s backed up with several generations of aristocratic blood.

‘You’re scared.’

‘Scared?’ I scoffed. ‘I’m not scared of you.’

‘Prove it. Go on a date with me.’

‘I don’t need to go on a date with you to prove anything.’

‘Chicken.’

Determined not to respond, I sat down on one of the kitchen stools and sipped at my beer, looking around the room at everyone but him, although I was very aware of him when he sat down next to me. I tried not to smile.

He pulled out his phone and fiddled with it for a moment and then music started to play. He’d only gone and linked his phone to the portable speaker on the side.

The lyrics, ‘ you’re beautiful ’, bounce around the kitchen and Tate has turned his chair to face mine and is singing along to the chorus… about seeing my face, about never being with me.

Around us everyone turned to see what was going on.

It was so cringy, I turned crimson pink, but at the same time I wanted to giggle because he was so ridiculous and over the top.

‘Stop it,’ I hissed.

‘Make me. Go on a date with me.’

‘I hate you,’ I told him, even though I knew I didn’t. Even then.

‘No, you don’t. You’re just scared of me.’

I’d been brought up by my dad to be afraid of no one. To be self-reliant and not make the mistake of ‘feeling’ too much for anyone. It was protection for when they couldn’t or wouldn’t stick around.

Who did this jerk think he was? I wasn’t afraid of him. To prove it, I stepped right into his personal space, put a hand around his neck and pulled him towards me and kissed him like I meant business.

I had every intention of walking away after kissing him.

Unfortunately, the minute his lips touched mine, the kiss went from zero to scorching in seconds flat. Tate knew what he was doing, and my willpower where he was concerned proved non-existent.

‘One date,’ I told him, finally pulling back, horrified by how breathless I was. That was some kiss. ‘You’ll get bored when you’ve got what you want. You jock boys always do.’

‘Maybe I will, maybe I won’t,’ he responded lightly, but there was something in his eyes that told me I was more than a challenge now.

* * *

Back in the present, I take a few breaths. That was then. This is now. Keep things professional. Whether he likes it or not he’s stuck with me. And he needs me, I’m sure of it. There’s something about these threats I don’t like– a nasty, malicious streak to them which worries me. Like a child revelling in being naughty. They may well be coming from a crackpot but that doesn’t mean they aren’t genuine.

Right now, Tate has no choice but to have me alongside him. Given our history I’m not sure how I build a relationship with him. One thing’s for sure, I can’t trust him. My dad taught me that lesson when he abandoned me and sent me off to boarding school. He wasn’t being cruel, he was trying to insulate me from pain in the future because in his career he’d seen the absolute worst of humanity and knew what humans could do to each other. He also knew that people, like my mum, could die. He was trying to protect me. Once I was old enough, he drummed into me that trusting people was dangerous, they invariably let you down. They’d tell you what you want to hear to get what they want. Tate’s a very good actor. I once believed he loved me as much as I loved him. It hurt so much when he proved my dad right. Tate had told me what I wanted to hear to talk me into bed because I’d been so adamant I wouldn’t fall for him. He just had to prove that he could make me.

‘What are you plotting?’ he asks, jolting me out of my thoughts.

I turn round, reluctantly impressed by his ability to still read me so well.

‘Not so much plotting as strategising. Trying to work out a suitable compromise.’

He sits down and leans back in his chair, folding his arms and studying me. I swallow and lift my chin, not enjoying the scrutiny. Once upon a time, those lips would have curved with a tender smile while his eyes would have roamed across my face, like he was reading a book and enjoying the words. Now his expression is stony, as if he no longer sees anything worth his interest.

‘Whether you like it or not,’ I tell him, ‘we have to try and make this work.’

‘What’s my incentive to make it work?’

‘You get to stay alive.’

He takes a long, slow breath. ‘Look, I think the boss and senior management team are overreacting, and I don’t like being lied to or blindsided.’ I narrow my eyes but then he holds his hands up in surrender. ‘But they’re worried, and there’s a lot going on, so for the time being, I’ll play ball. It doesn’t mean I have to like it. What do I have to do?’

‘Follow my instructions. Listen to me. Keep me and Tierney in the loop of all events, advise us of any changes. Your schedule looks busy.’

‘It is. The next couple of weeks are all about football, training and sponsor events.’ He stands up and helps himself to a fresh cup of coffee from the coffee press on the side. ‘Want one?’

‘Thanks.’ I nod as he pours me a cup, but then he picks up a cream jug.

‘I take it black,’ I interject.

He puts it down slowly. ‘Of course you do. Is it part of the new hard-woman image? Or were you always like this and I just didn’t notice?’

There’s a strained moment between us, as if we are both acknowledging all the things we no longer know about each other. It’s a weird feeling– losing all that we had before.

His eyes narrow and he stares at me, as if he’s trying to see into my head.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘Nothing,’ he says and folds his arms, his body language making it obvious he’s creating a barrier between us.

I try to focus on the notes I’m making on my iPad, rather than his movements or the rolled back sleeves exposing slightly tanned forearms as he lifts a mug to his mouth. I’m certainly not noticing the lift of his T-shirt over the planes of muscles in his back.

I suck in a breath and force myself back to my notes. ‘You’ve got a solid weekly routine. Pretty much a creature of habit. Usually lots of dates, but nothing that lasts– or is worth noting at least.’

He lifts a brow.

‘You make me sound boring and predictable. You never used to think so.’

I tense my jaw, refusing to take the bait and wait him out.

His mouth quirks, dangerous and cocky. ‘I can be very spontaneous when I want to be. I like to make the most of opportunities that arise.’ He lifts an insolent brow. ‘Women like ball players.’

‘I’m sure they do,’ I say, deadpan.

‘But I don’t have time. So you don’t need to worry about us spending quality time with a girlfriend.’

‘I wasn’t worried,’ I say in a snippy tone. Why would I care if he has a girlfriend? He’s a job that’s all. Admittedly, a very attractive job, which is making parts of me sit and beg for attention that they are not getting. The pile of unfinished business between us has quadrupled.

‘And I wasn’t saying you were boring, I simply noted that you have set patterns of behaviour. A regular grocery day. Visits to the gym on the same days and times each week. A weekly meet-up with friends. Favourite bars and restaurants. They’re all potential targets.’

He sits down and hooks an ankle across his other knee, leaning back looking totally relaxed, whereas I’m wound up so tight, I can feel the familiar painful knot in my right shoulder, near my neck. I raise my hand to rub at it and roll my shoulder trying to loosen it. It’s a tell when it comes to my stress levels, unfortunately one that Tate knows well. He used to massage that knot before I would compete.

‘You look like you could do with a shoulder rub,’ he says.

‘I’m good, thanks,’ I say. ‘You can help by being cooperative.’

‘Where’s the fun in that?’

I huff out my exasperation. ‘Look, whether you believe how serious the threat is or not, I have a job to do.’

‘And so do I.’

For a moment we glare at each other across the table, and then he twists his mouth.

‘I can’t vary my routine. At the moment, my main focus is on football. It doesn’t matter if I’m in New York or Texas, I have apartments in both, I run every morning. Do weights for an hour every day in the gym, and mix it up with half an hour of stretching or flexibility exercises. I’m a pro-footballer. This is my life. The other stuff I can forgo– like going to a bar sometimes with the guys, a few of them live in the neighbourhood.’

During this brief bout of cooperation, I gradually tease the minutiae of his life out of him, trying to establish whether he has any more set routines or patterns that someone could identify, then hide out in waiting to take a strike at him.

After half an hour of asking questions and probing into his movements, I’ve enough information to come up with a plan.

‘I’ll accompany you in public at all times and when you’re at home.’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘You’re going to move in with me.’

‘You have another suggestion?’ I ask, trying to curb my sarcasm.

‘My apartment has top-notch security. Unless someone decides to blow the place up or set fire to it,’ he says, ‘but that seems a bit extreme. A flamethrower to light a candle.’

‘My team has assessed it, there are a couple of weak spots but we’re in the process of plugging them. We’re not taking risks.’

‘How long have you been doing this job?’ asks Tate suddenly.

‘A while,’ I reply, wondering what triggered the question. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

‘Yeah, I’m well aware of that. How did you get into it?’

‘It was after I left college. You know my dad had a heart attack. After that, I went to work for the security company he founded with my godfather.’ This is an entirely acceptable white lie because it was my cover when I was initially recruited by MI6. Even though I’ve left the service, I’m much more than a bodyguard and usually any protection details are considerably more high-risk than this one. Looking after Tate Donaghue is way below my paygrade and I smirk to myself. What would he say if I said that out loud? How much would it damage his ego?

‘Now that I’ve satisfied your curiosity, can we discuss tomorrow?’

‘What?’ he says. ‘Our happy trip to Tiffany’s?’

‘Just think of it as taking one for the team,’ I say with a smile chockful of syrup and insincerity.

We agree a plan for the following day. I’ll go to his New York apartment, and we’ll travel by cab to Fifth Avenue for 11am. Then he has a sponsors lunch event, for which the press department will need to wangle an invite for his ‘fiancée’.

‘How did you get here?’ I ask.

‘I got a lift with Blake.’

‘In that case, I can drive you back? I can do my own sweep of your apartment.’

‘Is that a rhetorical question?’

‘You can say no.’ I shrug.

‘No, it’s fine,’ he says wearily, surprising me with his sudden acquiescence until I realise he must be exhausted after yesterday’s episode. His whole body went into shock and being pumped full of epinephrine can’t have been much of a picnic.

‘If you want to play chauffeur, I won’t stop you. It looks like I’m stuck with you for the time being. But don’t get used to it.’ He raises those eyebrows again and for a second the fight is back.

‘Trust me, I won’t,’ I say, my voice as dry as the Sahara, determined to believe it. That was the mistake I’d made before he sneaked under my defences.

* * *

As I drive the BMW SUV up to the glass-fronted lobby, Tate is standing outside, one shoulder propped against the glass, a takeaway coffee in one hand, his phone in the other. He looks as if he doesn’t have a care in the world, too damn cute for his own good. I take a moment to study him as he’s bent over his phone– from a purely objective point of view, of course. It’s January, but he’s in a white Henley shirt that sculpts all the honed lines of his body, and I swallow at the thought of what’s under the soft white cotton. Smooth skin, taut muscle. I remember the joy of touching him, taming all that masculine strength while he moaned under my hands.

He comes towards the car, not even looking around him as he keeps half an eye on his phone. Does he have any idea how vulnerable he might be?

I’m desperately trying to be professional and fight my unreasonable anger because, if I’m honest, I’m scared for him. I know how easily a life can be lost and I don’t think he’s taking this threat seriously.

He gets into the car and I glare at him.

‘Sorry, should I have got you a coffee?’ he says.

I purse my lips, but manage to take a deep breath before I calmly reply.

‘While there’s a very active threat in place, it might be good to take a few precautions, such as waiting inside until your protection detail is on hand and not wandering off to buy coffee.’

‘Look, I know you’re taking all this very seriously. But what if we’re dealing with someone who hasn’t spoken to another living soul for ten years– apart from the life-size cardboard cut-out Storm Trooper in their front room– who lives with fifteen cats and has kept every issue of National Enquirer since time immemorial?’

I feel stupid. Tate is reassuring me. I need to be objective about this.

‘If it is,’ I say, ‘I’ll be delighted. But until we know what we’re dealing with, I’ll do my job.’

I give him my best I-mean-business look, but fail to stop a yawn escaping. I’m done arguing with him for today. Jetlag is catching up with me. ‘Can you direct me to your place, or put your zip code into my phone?’

‘I can direct. I do know this route quite well.’ There’s an edge of sarcasm to Tate’s voice, which I ignore. Silence settles in the car as we wend our way out of the underground car park below the apartment complex.

I focus on the job and not how small the car feels with him in it, scanning our surroundings for potential dangers. I don’t like the hemmed-in sensation of the single-lane road in the bowels of the buildings, it’s like something out of a sci-fi film. There’s nowhere to move out of trouble.

Tate starts fiddling with the seat configuration, pushing himself back to accommodate those long, muscular legs. I try not to look at them or the denim constraining his taut quadriceps. As scholarship athletes, we both knew a lot about anatomy. I might not be able to remember the names of every muscle, but I can’t shake the knowledge of their shape and texture from memory. The feel of them on top of me, beside me, below me. I swallow. Tate fills the space next to me. Those broad shoulders almost brushing mine. His clean, spicy aftershave with its hint of cedar teases my nostrils, but can’t disguise the essential scent of him. He’s so close I can see the bristles peppering his cheeks like iron filings. His hands rest loosely on his big thighs and a hot flash of heat rushes through me at the thought of those hands on me. He’s all man, and then some.

Eyes on the road, I remind myself and scan my mirrors, on the lookout for any cars tailing us. But there’s no movement in the car park behind us.

As we pull out onto the main road, I notice a car on the side of the road, the driver immediately signalling and joining the slip road behind us. I take note and keep an eye on it. Another car gets between us and I relax a little. When we turn right, the car’s behind us again but hanging back. I slow down, trying to catch the number plate. Tate has his head down, scrolling on his phone, but looks up every now and then.

‘You need to take the next right,’ he says. ‘And after that the first left.’

‘Okay.’

I take the right and so does the car behind us. I indicate left and slow for the traffic lights, sliding into the left filter lane ready to cut across the oncoming traffic. The other car indicates left, too.

The person in the car behind us has dark glasses and a baseball cap. It’s impossible to see their face, and I don’t like the anonymity.

‘Hold on tight,’ I warn Tate.

‘Wh—?’

There’s no time to warn him further. The lights change and I ram my foot on the gas. We lurch forward just squeezing into the gap on our right. How we miss it I don’t know. Tate slams back into his seat, his knuckles white as he grabs the armrest at his side. Horns blare. The engine revs in protest as I accelerate out into the main flow of traffic. The car behind us is left with nowhere to go but filter, as planned. I watch in the rear-view mirror with satisfaction as the driver’s forced to turn left and I put my foot down, weaving with precision in and out of the traffic.

‘Fuck,’ says Tate and I turn to glance at his face, which is dripping with coffee– a brown stain covering his sweatshirt and jeans. He’s about to say something, but when he sees the grim expression on my face, he closes his mouth.

I look at the spilled coffee.

‘Sorry about that, but we had a tail.’ I hand him my phone. ‘Open up the maps app and put in the Four Seasons.’

‘I thought we were going to my place.’

‘Change of plan. My hotel is closer. I’ve just lost whoever might have been tailing us but if we head to yours, we might meet up again. No one knows where I’m staying.’