CLOSE TO YOU: Enhanced (Lost Hearts) (14 page)

             
"No." He focused all his attention on her. "Don't get sick. Get mad. What's your name?"

             
"I'm Sandra." She squirmed, obviously embarrassed.

             
"Look at me." He gestured at himself, gestured at Kate. "I outweigh Kate by seventy-five pounds, and you might not have noticed, but I'm a guy."

             
The women chuckled.

             
"Guys like to watch boxing. They like to watch football. They like to fight, and some of them like to kill. I grew up in a rough neighborhood. I've seen fights between gangs for no more reason than someone wanted to prove his machismo. I've seen kids, little girls, crippled by stray gunshots, heard the wail of the ambulance, smelled blood." He wasn't pulling any punches now His face was set and gray; his eyes were empty and cold.

             
He made Kate shiver.

             
"A soft-looking woman wears a target on her back." He paced before the class with a tread as soft as any predator's. "I can't promise that this stuff I teach you will save your life—if some guy is determined enough, he's going to take you down—but I can promise you'll make any son of a bitch who attacks you run and yell. Don't be afraid to hurt a man who hurts you. Maybe you'll make him run away and leave you to live another day with your husband or your kids or whomever you love."

             
All over the room, heads were nodding. Even Sandra, soft, gentle Sandra, had a determined expression on her face.

             
His intensity and honesty amazed Kate. In less than ten minutes, he'd changed a bunch of suburban housewives and career women into warriors. With a simple, powerful description of his experiences, he'd made them aware as they had never been aware before.

             
He returned to a brisk, instructional tone. "Stay away from the bony parts of the face like the cheeks and the chin. Now." He turned to Kate again. "About kicking. Kate, where are you going to kick someone?"

             
She gave him a significant look. "In the groin."

             
The room exploded with laughter and a release of tension.

             
He waited until the hilarity had faded. "Where else?"

             
She studied him, looked him over thoroughly. "Your knees."

             
"Right." He turned back to the class. "Any joint is vulnerable, and I like the knee for a couple of reasons. You can bring a strong man down with a well-placed blow that knocks his knee sideways or backward. Your attacker's hands aren't in the vicinity, so he can't grab your foot."

             
"Want me to practice on you?" Kate offered.

             
The women were laughing now, and she played to the crowd.

             
"You're too kind," he mocked. "Now let's talk about your kicking technique—which is none too good. Aim your knee at your target," he said.

             
"You mean the foot," she answered.

             
"No, the knee," he corrected. "The knee determines where the foot is going to go and where the kick is going to land."

             
That made sense, and she nodded.

             
"Then you turn your hip and snap the foot in one smooth motion." He demonstrated, then indicated Kate should try, also. He moved with her as she kicked, adjusting her forward, giving her more power. As she kicked, he told the class, "If you're wearing flat shoes, and I hope you will be, use the ball of your foot. You'll devastate him. If you're wearing high heels"—he grinned—"put the heel through his foot. A heel is a great weapon." He let go of Kate easily. "But that's a different technique altogether."

             
Kate aimed her gaze at the mirror and repeated the move until she had it perfect. She was surprised at how much more in control it made her feel to know how to defend herself. She hadn't really felt that way since her dad's death. For that peace of mind, she was grateful to Teague.

             
Teague. He stood with his hands on his hips and watched Bobbie Jo kick. She had her jaw locked and her eyes narrowed, and she didn't let him go until he pronounced her lethal.

             
Bobbie Jo asked, "Teague, could you come and talk to my knitting group? We have a wife whose husband beat her up. Twice. We could use someone who'll tell us how to protect ourselves."

             
Teague chuckled, a long, low laugh that raised goose bumps on Kate's skin. With a kindness she never suspected of him, he said, "Yeah. I'd be glad to do it. Tell me the night and the time. By the way, did you know you can do a lot of damage with those knitting needles?"

             
As Kate watched him, she thought that perhaps he did have a soul somewhere inside that glorious shell. Perhaps it was only wrapped in layers of indifference cultivated by seeing too much pain and hearing too many cries.

             
It was an intriguing proposition: Could a woman bring life back to a man who was determined never to allow emotion to touch him?

EIGHT

             
"She's walking. She's walking. . . ."

             
"C'mon, baby, turn around, let me see a little of that ass.

             
"Whoaaa. There she goes."

             
Teague paused just inside the security center. The guys were gathered around one of the monitors, ignoring their duty and making the kinds of sounds a construction crew would make when a fine-looking woman walked by.

             
Teague didn't really care. It happened occasionally—guys would be guys, and surveillance was a tedious job that involved watching innocent people and trying to decide if they could be guilty. He required only that his men refrain when the women he employed were around, and that they made damned good and sure someone was keeping an eye on security while they ogled the goods.

             
"That is one fine piece of—"

             
Teague lazily shut the door with a click. "Is this something that requires my attention?"

             
The comments and the laughter died, leaving his men looking abashed enough to rouse Teague's curiosity. He pushed his way into the crowd—and saw
her
.

             
There, on the monitor, Kate walked.

             
She wore a skirt, a clingy pink skirt with a ruffled hem that flirted with her knees and drew a man's gaze up toward her fine and rounded rear . . . which she had apparently encased in one of the smallest thongs on the face of the earth.

             
At least he hoped she wore a thong. He sure didn't see any sign of one. But a girl like her never went without underwear.

             
Did she?

             
For all intents and purposes, she was bare-assed beneath that skirt. That set his imagination on fire.

             
"Look, Boss." Big Bob pointed to the screen. "Juanita's stopping her."

             
"Hell." Teague watched as Juanita introduced herself.

             
Juanita had never let that wheelchair slow her down. With her short brown hair and her comfortable wardrobe, she patrolled the corridors of the capitol, listening to conversations, looking innocent, batting her big brown eyes at the compassionate who helped her and bugging the people who tried to ignore her.

             
"Juanita must have heard rumors about you and Miss Montgomery," Big Bob said. "That Juanita—she's the best on the floor. Nothing escapes her attention."

             
"Yeah." Teague loosened his tie. "I know." Right now he wished there were things that
did
escape her.

             
Kate took Juanita's hand, smiled, and made conversation.

             
Why couldn't life be easy? Why did everything have to get jumbled up in love and guilt and sex and . . . well, sex was okay. Sex was great. But the rest of those lousy emotions left a man stumbling around in the dark trying to figure out what to do to make his women happy, and wondering why seeing Juanita and Kate together made him feel this weird combination of horror and delight.

             
"They're going in opposite directions!"

             
"Good." Because now Teague could concentrate on Kate and that skirt and those panties or lack thereof.

             
Okay, she'd been wearing that outfit this morning when they'd left her loft, but it was raining, the first cool rain of a Texas autumn, and she'd donned a raincoat. When they got to the capitol, she'd gone off to find a cameraman—whenever she found one taking a break, she had been filming bits for the piece about him.

             
God. He tugged at his tie. What was wrong with him? He couldn't take his gaze off her or her austere tan shirt, which looked like a reporter's on-camera garb, or the tall crisscrossed sandals that added inches to her long, sleek legs.

             
Senator Oberlin noticed. Teague watched as he lingered at the corner of the corridor, waiting to intercept Kate, then faked surprise and pleasure at running into her. Too bad it made Teague murderously angry to see the senator slide his arm around her shoulders and hug her like a paternal uncle when in fact he took the occasion to try for a peek down her blouse. Teague was pleased when Kate had the good sense to slide out from under Oberlin's arm, make her excuses, and continue on her way.

             
Oberlin stood and watched her go.

             
"I've got to give it to him—the old guy has good taste." Chun sat glued to the monitor, his nose only inches away from the screen. "That is one fine pair of legs, and they are connected to one fine—"

             
Teague had him by the collar and up against the wall before Chun could gasp for air. "What were you saying?"

             
"Shit. Sir. I forgot you were here." Chun's eyes bulged. "I didn't mean to be disrespectful, sir. I would never stare at your woman."

             
Teague smacked him against the wall again. "She's not my woman, but she is a client." He looked around at the other men who stood sheepish and embarrassed. "While you're enjoying her various body parts, gentlemen, I hope you're also watching for suspicious behavior."

             
"Yes, sir, we are!" Big Bob saluted as if Teague were his commanding officer. "No suspects close, sir! You don't need to worry about us keeping an eye on her, sir! We're doing our damnedest, sir!"

             
Teague loosened his grip on Chun's shirt. "All right, fine, get back to work. Miss Montgomery's not the only job we have here."

             
"Yeah, but she's the most fun to watch." Big Bob smiled slyly. "Course, we can't blame you for wanting to do the watching yourself. If she were mine, I'd beat up guys who looked at her, too."

             
"She's not mine, and I'm not beating anyone up over her," Teague said testily.               Chun made a choking sound and rubbed his throat.

             
"I didn't hurt you!" As eyebrows rose throughout the room, Teague's ire shot up. "I don't pay you guys to hang around in here. Go find the bad guys."

             
"Yes, sir."

             
"Yes , Teague."

             
He heard murmurs and saw smirks as everyone sidled past him, and when he turned to glare at Big Bob, Big Bob pointed to the monitor and said, "I have to watch her for the next hour. That
is
my job."

             
"Right." Teague shut the door on the closet and headed down toward the East Wing, ground floor. He had business with Miss No Underpants.

             
He and Kate had settled into an odd sort of truce. He lived in her house, took his turn ordering takeout, did his own laundry, argued about who should have control of the TV remote. The first two days, she'd looked at him warily a lot, as if expecting him to give her
the look
and send her fleeing again. But he'd been careful to keep it light and normal—even though, for him, it was not normal to spend time in a woman's apartment and not in her bed.

             
But he didn't tell her that. He didn't kiss her, he touched her only casually—although he made sure he did touch her frequently—and he got his reward. She had relaxed back into letting him take care of her, and he had concentrated on keeping it spontaneous and breezy so he could keep her safe from a stalker. He seemed to have succeeded, and, weirdly enough, he sort of liked living with her . . . even without sex.