CLOSE TO YOU: Enhanced (Lost Hearts) (12 page)

             
"No. My father was as Anglo as apple pie." Teague smiled, an easy smile. "But I don't remember him. Do you believe in fate?"

             
"Gosh, no." The action on the screen caught her attention, and she frowned at the instant replay. The Texans had scored. A touchdown, and they'd made the extra point. "My parents are Methodists."

             
"That would, of course, preclude any other belief system."

             
"Now who's being sarcastic?"

             
"Another score!" he said.

             
For a moment, she felt pleased that he'd acknowledged her wit. Then she realized he referred to the game. "What do you mean? The Texans just made a touchdown."

             
"The Cowboys turned over the ball on the first play, and the Texans took it on home. Again." The Texans were suddenly down by only four points, and they had a full quarter to play.

             
"I've never seen evidence of fate." Although when it came to this game, she was starting to wonder.

             
"Have you seen evidence of God?"

             
"Yes," she said truculently.

             
"Evidence you could prove without a doubt?" He laughed at her expression.               "You're cynical. You don't believe in God or fate. Why not?"

             
He took a pull of beer. "Every turning point in my life has come because I
chose
change. I made the decision to join the Marines. I made the decision to become a bodyguard. I've never had fate stick out her foot and trip me up."

             
"Me, either." She hoped that was true, although when Teague sat across from her wafting pheromones her way, she wasn't so sure.

             
An image flashed across the screen, an image she recognized. She frowned and came to an abrupt and nasty realization. "This game is a rerun!"

             
"Yeah, last year's preseason matchup between the Cowboys and the Texans." He grinned as he watched her realize that he'd conned her. "Want me to tell you how it turns out?"

             
"Like I couldn't figure that out." The phone rang, and Kate rose to answer while glaring at the television. She should have known, but she'd been so distracted by Teague she hadn't even noticed this was a rerun. Now she was out ten bucks. Man, she hated to lose.

             
She hit the speaker on the phone, said, "Hello!" in a surly tone.

             
"Dear, what's wrong?"

             
"Mom! How are you?" Kate picked up the receiver and spoke quickly, breathlessly.
Guilty!
She might as well have shouted it to her mother.
I'm guilty! I couldn't prove the existence of God, I didn't notice I was watching last year's football game, and I'm considering sleeping with a guy for no good reason except that he makes me smoke, and I don't mean with a cigarette.

             
"I'm fine, but are you? You sound frightened, Kate." Her mom's voice lowered to a whisper. "Is someone there with you? Is it the stalker? Should I call the police?"

             
"No! I mean, don't call the police!" Of all the things Kate didn't want, that was number one on the list. "The bodyguard is here with me. I'm safe."

             
Kate could almost hear her mother's mind processing the information. "The bodyguard? He's staying with you? Is
he
cute?"

             
Don't go there, Mom!
"What do you mean?"

             
"I mean every time I ask if someone's cute, you tell me he's fat or he's old or he smells." Mom sounded sharp and impatient. "Is this guy fat or old or smelly?"

             
Kate looked across the large room at Teague, tough, muscular, young, and . . . Kate lowered her voice to a mere whisper. "He does smell."

             
Her mother huffed in disgust. "Sort of exotic and masculine. Animal. I think it might be pure distilled sex."

             
Teague lifted his head, and for a moment Kate feared he'd somehow heard her.

             
But no, he looked down again.

             
She breathed a sigh of relief.

             
"This sounds promising," Mom said. "So is he cute?"

             
"Cute is the last word I would use to describe him."

             
Her mother knew Kate too well. "Handsome? Virile? Irresistible?"

             
"All those things, and absolutely unavailable."

             
"You mean he's married?" Mom sounded horrified.

             
"No. He's most definitely not that."

             
"So he's gay." Mom sounded satisfied with her deduction.

             
Kate burst into startled laughter. "N-no," she sputtered. "Absolutely not." Nothing could be more ludicrous.

             
Teague got up from the couch, collected the plates, put them in the dishwasher. Was he trying to convince Kate he was domesticated? Because it wasn't going to work.

             
Kate lowered her voice. "I mean he doesn't want to get involved."

             
"Show me a man who does," Mom said.

             
"Does what?" Kate asked absently. Teague looked really
good
being domestic.

             
"Want to get involved. If he's not married, he's available, he's catchable." Her mother spoke with the absolute confidence of a woman who knew her wiles. "You can have him dangling after you in no time."

             
"No."
Bad idea. Don't tempt me!
"I can't."

             
"Why not? You're pretty and smart."

             
Kate turned her back on Teague and talked toward the wall, her voice dipping ever lower. "Some men don't like smart."

             
"Dear, the trick is not to let them know." Mom sounded as confident as any southern lady when faced with a recalcitrant man.

             
"It's a little late. Besides, I don't want a man like that. I want a man who appreciates me as I am."

             
"Dear, if you don't want this man, just say so. It's not as if I would urge you to grab the first man who doesn't stink." She sounded exasperated.

             
"It's not that, it's . ." A masculine hand appeared from behind her, offering a snifter with brandy. She stared at the fingers, at the broad palm and the dark hair that sprinkled the knuckles and the back of the hand. His wrists were thick with muscle.

             
"Dear?"

             
"I gotta go, Mom." Kate took the drink, trying too hard not to touch his fingers. "He's serving me a drink."

             
"Good. You could use a night life."

             
"I'm stuck at home with a bodyguard."

             
"Who doesn't stink," Mom said cheerfully. "I don't know whether to hope he catches the stalker right away or hope you have to spend some time together. Bye, now!"

             
Kate stared at the telephone and listened to the buzz of the dial tone, then reluctantly turned to Teague, sure she'd have to explain something she had no desire to explain.

             
Instead he said, "You're supposed to be following my routine. Observing my week. I work out every day. Do you have a problem with gyms?" He raised a mocking brow. "Do they not smell right?"

             
She pretended she didn't know what he meant. "I have a gym, too, right around the corner. Does that work for you?"

             
"Sounds good." He wasn't the sort of man who caviled at the necessity of working to remain physically fit. It was his job, and he would run or ride a bike or beat a bag without complaint.

             
The trouble was, when she thought of his doing those things, she noticed a marked increase in the temperature in the room. She considered the brandy. "I think I might need a bottle of water."

             
"Great." His cell phone sang a tinny rendition of
Carmen
. "Get me one, too."

             
All right. He'd cleaned the kitchen. He'd fixed her a brandy. She could get him a bottle of water without any loss of womanhood.

             
She fetched two plastic bottles from the refrigerator and brought one back to him.

             
He took it with an absent nod. "That was fast," he said into the phone, then he went to the window and looked out. "Doesn't like to have people check up on him, huh?"

             
"Who?" she asked.

             
He hung up and strode to the door. "The guy who just walked in the front door of the building, the former owner of your home, one Winston Porter. When Big Bob called him a little while ago, Winston threw one hell of a tantrum. Threatened you. Said he'd come by to teach you a lesson for sticking your nose into his business.

             
"My God. Then he's the stalker?"

             
"Maybe."

             
Someone pounded at the door, and her heart jolted.

             
The bruises she'd been dismissing suddenly ached with renewed fervor, and she had a flash of that car bearing down on her.

             
She must have looked sick because Teague said soothingly, "I'd feel better if you got out of the way. Go' into the bedroom or the bathroom."

             
"Shouldn't we call the police?"

             
"That would be great. Go and call them." Taking her arm, he escorted her toward the downstairs bedroom. "And stay in there until I call you."

             
She stared at the door he shut in her face, then dove for the phone. What if this guy had a gun?

             
Her hand trembled as she dialed 911, and while she reported an intruder she listened for action in the other room.

             
She could hear the murmur of men's voices in the living room. They sounded civil. They sounded unruffled.

             
The operator promised to send a squad car.

             
Kate's initial alarm dwindled. She began to feel foolish and cowardly for hiding in the bedroom.

             
The minutes ticked by, and she convinced herself she should take a peek. Taking a breath, she opened the door a crack.

             
The two men stood in the entry facing each other. At once she realized their low tones were a camouflage for at least one flaring temper.

             
Winston was tall, probably six feet six, young—and livid. He wore a tailored Armani suit and a starched white shirt with the collar open. He had a five-o'clock shadow on his square jaw. His big fists opened and closed as he spoke, and he towered over Teague like a man who was used to winning fights. "Who do you think you are? You've no right to harass me. So I've a few problems. Who doesn't drink too much and do the occasional line?" His British accent strengthened, and his voice rose with every word.

             
In stark contrast, Teague sounded cool and decisive. "We just called you and asked a few questions."

             
"Do you know how many people are calling me? I'm sick of it. Sick of all the vultures swarming around as if I were a carcass to be picked clean."

             
Kate realized Winston was drunk or high.

             
She wanted to call 911 again, to urge them to hurry. Her finger twitched on the numbers. "I'll pay you when I get the money," Winston shouted. "I told you that before."               "We haven't talked before." Teague stood absolutely still, his gaze fixed on Winston's hand.

             
"This is my house. My place." Winston threw his arm out and knocked a vase off Kate's side table. It shattered on the hardwood floor.

             
The sound, the violence in her private sanctuary, made her flinch.

             
Something altered in Teague's stance.

             
He was no longer waiting. He was anticipating. Prepared to finish the scene.