Page 76 of Tate
News that Tate hadn’t quite announced before he simply took her in his arms and kissed her. Breaking his promise to her mother—stupid, frustrating promise that it was—and trampling every smidgen of honor that still remained.
Yeah, a real hero.
What had he told RJ? And Glo? Clearly, the truth.
He might not be a hero or even particularly honorable, but he certainly was going to keep Glo safe.
Tate trembled, the adrenaline buzzing through his body as he crept out into the shadows of the pool house. He wished he had his gun, but he couldn’t take that on the plane, and he hadn’t exactly stopped by the security building on his way in to check out a weapon.
Fine. He could handle this joker with his bare hands.
He stayed down, heading toward the shrubbery behind the pool and came across the place where the intruder had hidden.
Yep. He knew his instincts were firing correctly when he’d seen the flash of light—moonlight on a weapon? Or something else, he didn’t know. But when it was followed by the sound of branches breaking he called himself an idiot for letting his guard down.
Again.
So. Easily. Distracted.
He ground his teeth as he crouched in the warm spot, the branches to the shrubbery broken and snapped. How long had the assailant sat there, watching as he’d kissed Glo?
Really, finally, kissed Glo. Two weeks of patience and pent-up agony as he watched Slick hold her hand. Kiss her. Touch her hair.
Yeah, well, he’d been watching—Glo didn’t come alive in Sloan’s arms like she did in his, thank you.
And maybe that was testosterone talking, but Glo was his girl. He knew it in his core.
He’d give about anything for NVGs right now. But the full moon illuminated the open fields surrounding the house, and he scanned the horizon.
Spied, in the far distance, a figure running toward the horse pasture.
He didn’t have time to get keys, sort out vehicles—he took off at a full sprint.
As he ran by the bunkhouse, he gave a shout, and from the back, Rags and Swamp emerged.
“Intruder!” He kept going.
The man had disappeared behind a hill, but there was a quarter mile of pastureland between him and the road. And Tate was fast.
He kept his eyes on the place where the man had vanished, glimpsed a form, also running hard, and his chest began to hurt.
A motor thundered up behind him and he turned.
Rags held his arm out and Tate hooked it, leaped, and landed behind him on one of the estate’s motorcycles.
He gripped the back of the seat, leaning with Rags as they ate up the earth.
He pointed toward the sight of their quarry, growing larger, and Rags gunned it, kicking up soil and grass.
Behind them, Tate heard another bike—probably Swamp, but he didn’t turn to look.
The man grew larger. Lean, tall, but young and fit for the way he was keeping pace.
If he’d come in by car, he might have parked closer.
He came into clear view—the man wore a black shirt, and a camera bounced hard against his back as he ran. He glanced over his shoulder at them, his eyes wide.
“Stop!”
