Close to You Read online

While she took notes, Big Bob sidled up beside him. "Boss, Juanita called in sick." "Did she?" Teague felt the familiar worry start grinding within him. "Did she say why?"

  "She said it's just one of those difficult days. She has 'em, you know. Guess she's entitled."

  "Yeah." Teague dialed Juanita's number, and when she didn't answer, he frowned. He left the message, "Call! You know me. I worry." And he did. Hell, he didn't know how to stop worrying about Juanita.

  But right now he had to concentrate on the task of guarding Kate. He would care for her. He couldn't live with himself if someone under his protection was hurt . . . again.

  Teague stepped forward. "I'll take Kate for a personal tour. You can keep an eye on her through the monitors. That will be your duty when she's here. Remember that."

  "It'll be a pleasure to observe Miss Montgomery," Chun declared with far too much enthusiasm.

  With heightened color, Kate busied herself with placing the pad and pen in her big black bag.

  Teague picked up his earbud, slipped his transmitter into his inside jacket pocket, and organized the wires so they were mostly out of sight. When he wore this, it looked as if he was talking on a cell phone.

  He opened the door for Kate.

  She waved and smiled as she exited. "Thank you all! I look forward to working with you." As Teague shut the heavy door, she said, "I recognize Gemma and Rolf. I've seen them around the complex, although I thought they must work for a senator or something."

  "You have a good eye." She did. She impressed Teague with how much she absorbed. "If you ever decide to leave reporting, I'd hire you."

  "Thank you." As they passed the south exit onto Congress, she turned and headed toward the door.

  "Where are we going?" he asked, taken by surprise.

  "Starbucks. It's time for my double whipped frappuccino.

  "Starbucks," Teague said in disgust. "There's coffee in my office.

  "I want my frappuccino."

  He supposed it wouldn't hurt to go outside. She was supposed to behave normally. Still he injected his tone with scorn. "A girly drink."

  She grinned back at him. "I am a girl."

  She certainly was.

  A girl not so different from other girls, yet something about her drew him irresistibly. It wasn't just the way she looked. When he got close to her, she smelled . . . rich and wholesome. Most people would say there wasn't a smell that defined wholesome, but he knew better. Wholesome was the exact opposite of every smell in his boyhood. Nothing about the border town where he'd been raised had been wholesome. Nothing about the alleys and the rotting garbage and the humidity and the heat had been wholesome. So, he supposed, that made him the exact opposite of Kate Montgomery. She was wholesome, he was . . . not.

  She came from money.

  She'd probably gone to a finishing school.

  She'd probably belonged to a sorority in college.

  She probably had never done anything she needed to feel guilty about or heard a shrill voice from the past shrieking, Hey, you little bastard . . .

  He needed to remember Kate was a client. Forgetting wouldn't bridge the huge damned distance between them, wouldn't give him anything more than temporary relief from a past that haunted him still.

  Would haunt him . . . forever.

  Autumn's first cold front was edging through Austin, sweeping away the stale humidity and replacing it with the first crisp hint of winter. Kate threw her arms out and took a long breath. "Isn't it gorgeous? I love winter in Texas."

  "You've seen winters a few other places." He was making conversation, trying to draw her out and discover a clue about who might be after her. A former lover? An old friend? He was interested. Far too interested . . . far too enthralled with the glow of autumn's golden sunlight on her piquant features.

  He automatically watched the people on the street, kept an eye out for the flash of sunlight on the metal of a firearm, and kept track of Kate.

  "A lot of other places, most recently in Nashville." She made conversation easily. "We were there for the worst snow in years. No one knew how to drive in it. Everyone put their car in the ditch."

  "We?" She was talking about that former lover he suspected.

  "My mother and I." Kate mocked him with a smile. "Who else?"

  "Your mother. Of course. Where's your mother now?"

  "She lives here in Austin."

  "So you're close." Way too close.

  The world slipped into shades of gray, and in his head he heard that shrill voice. His mother's. Teague, you little bastard, don't be so goddamned stupid. You're a stupid half-breed gringo, and if you get knifed, no one will care. I sure as hell won't.

  "We got that way after my dad's death." Kate smiled tightly.

  "What? Oh, yeah." He needed to remember the circumstances that united Kate and her mom . . . they loved each other. Most mothers and their kids did love each other. "If we're going to catch your stalker, I'm going to need a list of where you go. The grocery store, the gym, parties, dates with your newest lover . . ."

  "I don't date."

  He didn't believe her. "Why not?"

  "I haven't met anybody. I don't have any friends." She chuckled, a low, sexy purr of amusement. "How pathetic did that sound? I mean, the work keeps me busy, and I haven't had time to make friends here. In Austin. Yet."

  "Tell me where you go on a typical day."

  "The grocery store, the gym," she echoed Teague's speculation. "I'll give you a list. I go to my mom's." She brightened. "I've been invited to a party next Thursday night."

  "Great!" That sounded promising. "Where?"

  "Senator Oberlin invited me to his anniversary party."

  "Senator . . . Oberlin?" Teague couldn't believe his own ugly luck, and he wanted to laugh. "Oh, that'll be a hell of a good time."

  "What were you expecting?" A tinge of irritation colored Kate's voice. "Drugs and wild dancing?"

  "We definitely won't get it there. George Oberlin's known for his high-class parties with all the right people saying all the right things." He entered Starbucks on Kate's heels.

  "So you've never been to one before?" she asked in a snide tone.

  "Only as a bodyguard."

  "Oh." She didn't want to talk about it anymore.

  Too bad.

  The girl behind the counter called, "Hi, Kate. Want the usual?"

  "Please," Kate said.

  "I'll take a scone." Teague stood unsmiling. "And a coffee, black."

  While the college-age kids got the order ready, he leaned against the case and fixed Kate with a cold gaze. "The right people have hellacious big diamonds they want guarded, and sometimes the females like to have a dangerous-looking guy following them around like some kind of Doberman on a chain. So yeah, I've been to quite a few society parties."

  "You've certainly made me look forward to it!" Kate said brightly.

  "I'll bet." He paid a fortune for the coffees, then headed for the table against the wall. He held the chair as Kate seated herself, then sat where he could see through the windows, observe whoever came in, identify any threat.

  Kate took a sip of her silly, frivolous drink with the fervent dedication of someone who needed the caffeine. Pulling out her pad and pencil, she got down to business. "Tell me, Teague, how many employees do you have?"

  "Eight full-time employees." He ate half the scone in two bites. "But I have another twenty-five employees under contract who I can call when I need them. Most of what I do is surveillance, so I can use anyone with a sharp eye and a keen sense of what constitutes trouble."

  "Do you train them?" She took another sip.

  "People who watch people are naturals. I test them. If they pick up on the right signals, I hire them, give them some pointers, and put them on the job. They love being paid for what they do spontaneously. The bodyguards are different. Ex-military, usually, with experience with weapons and hand to hand. I have the best." He made a proud testimonial and a bald statement of fact.

  "H
ow did you find them?"

  "I was in the military with most of them." He saw her pen pause over her tablet. The silence stretched out long and thick. Most women—every woman he knew— would seize on the information to ask him personal questions.

  Kate, who had every reason to ask, hesitated. Kate, whose task it was to probe his background, couldn't seem to get up the nerve to do her job.

  And why? Oh, he knew. She had felt the same tug he did. She had refused it, but as she delved into his personal life, as she got to know him, she ran the risk of, not physical intimacy, but mental and emotional intimacy.

  She was a woman. Women—his women, anyway— thrived on sex, but they fell in love with intimacy.

  Kate would just as soon never have to see him again anyway.

  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 Special 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 happen
ed 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?"