Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
LILY
T hree pictures spill out of the envelope into Winston’s hand.
‘That’s why Pammie and I split up,’ he says bitterly.
As soon as Tate had left the room with Tierney’s team escort, I’d cornered Winston. There was something I had to ask him.
‘Can you tell me what went on with you and Pammie?’
During the meeting, my subconscious had been ticking furiously, and I had a ton of questions. When he tells me that out of the blue she demanded a divorce after receiving incriminating photographs, things start clicking into place.
I take the pictures over to the window and examine the images in the light. They’re fairly conclusive. Winston, hand in hand with a gorgeous brunette. Winston kissing said brunette. Winston leading the brunette into a hotel foyer towards the lift.
‘And they’re fake,’ I state, because though they look real, they’re too obvious, too convenient. They’re the best fakes I’ve ever seen.
He nods, his face grim. ‘She refused to believe me. I even had them checked out by an expert to prove it. But he said that if they were fake, he couldn’t tell.’ He shakes his head. ‘What I don’t understand is how she could possibly believe that I would be unfaithful. I’ve never so much as looked at another woman.’ His jaw tightens. ‘I loved her.’ I can tell he’s keeping a tight rein on his emotions as he grinds out, ‘But the next minute, she’s moved in with her freaking tennis coach. I should have known, the way he’s been sniffing around.’
‘How long has he been her tennis coach?’
‘A couple of weeks. Now they’re shacked up together.’
‘When did she bring the photos to you– before or after the Conference Championships?’ I ask. They’re the equivalent of the semi-finals of the Superbowl.
‘The day after.’
‘Do you mind if I show these pictures to one of our experts?’
‘Sure, although what difference is it going to make now?’ The Winston I’m used to seeing reasserts himself. ‘The damage is done. All I care about now is the team, and them playing the game of their lives. Win or lose, we made it to the Superbowl final. No one can ever take that away from us.’
I think of Tate, and even though I’m still furious with him, my heart aches for him. Will winning ever be enough?
* * *
Back in the hotel suite, the plan I have in my head is almost derailed at the sight of a pair of his sneakers abandoned by the coffee table. It brings back memories of him, in jeans and with bare feet, at the cabin. I’m unable to stop the images of him flooding into my head, and for a moment I give in. God was it only this morning. My body tingles.
I force myself to concentrate on the task in hand. I speak to Pennington and arrange delivery of the photos to a local FBI contact, and I also send over the picture of Sven, taken with the cheap phone. I make arrangements to get new phones for both me and Tate, too. I’m not being kind or helpful to him, it’s a basic safety precaution– or at least that’s what I’m telling myself.
Then I try to track Pammie down. I need to talk to her. She’s involved in all of this, all the way up to her pretty neck, but now I’m sure there’s more going on than a plot to stop Tate playing in the game. We’ve lost sight of that with the murder attempts. No one this afternoon even suggested that he be pulled from the team. It was never considered. And it never would have been.
Which leads me back to the original threats and the half-hearted initial attempts and the fact that the last one at the bayou was so different. None of it makes sense.
* * *
After a fruitless few hours trying to find Pammie, who has apparently checked out of the hotel, I send a report over to Pennington with my thoughts. The FBI contact has sent through the detail of one tiny mistake that shows that one of the pictures is a fake. It’s a shadow in the wrong place. I wonder why Winston’s expert didn’t spot it, but it’s possibly not enough to convince Pammie of the deception– even if I could find her.
She and Sven seemed to have vanished without a trace. The hotel CCTV has no record of them leaving, although their room is empty. If they’ve booked into another hotel or an Airbnb, they’ve used an alias. With thousands of people descending on the city for the game, it’s impossible to check every new reservation or check-in. But their disappearance confirms my theory that they are involved somehow.
I message Pennington and ask his digital geeks to try harder with the picture of Sven. I’ve trawled Pammie’s social media, and it’s painfully obvious that Sven has been doing his best to stay out of sight. In the few photos of him online, he’s turning away from the camera or his cap is pulled low down over his face. There’s no doubt he’s a pro, and that is ringing all sorts of alarm bells. The Superbowl is possibly the biggest televised event in the States. Last year’s viewing figures topped over 123 million. It’s a live event. My gut instinct is on super-high alert. If you wanted to make a statement, making it during the world’s biggest football game would be the time to do it.
What if that was the target all along? What if the threats against Tate were a diversion? But why then get serious in the last attempt?
None of this adds up, although I’m convinced Tate’s in as much danger as ever.
I’m still studying my laptop screen when I hear the click of the suite door opening and Tate appears in the doorway.
We stare at each other, both frozen in position. He fills the doorway with the breadth of his shoulders outlined in the sharp suit. The dress shirt is moulded to his chest, and all I can think of is the tanned skin beneath the pristine, white cotton. Every bit of moisture evaporates from my mouth, so I’m not sure I could speak if I tried.
My fingers could map every last millimetre of that gorgeous body. The feel of his skin is branded on my fingertips. My hand curls, fighting the longing to touch him again.
Tate breaks first and closes the door behind him.
‘I’m sorry, Lily. I shouldn’t have run out on you like that.’
‘No, you shouldn’t,’ I acknowledge, and return to my laptop. My stupid pulse is leaping about like a live electric cable in a rain puddle.
‘I made a mistake.’
‘Yes, you did,’ I say, without so much as glancing up. Inside, I’m fighting a battle, but the head is trouncing the heart.
‘And you’re not giving me an inch here, are you?’
‘No. You’re my client and that’s it.’
‘You don’t mean that.’ His smile is teasing, and it makes my resolve waver.
‘I do mean that.’ I can’t afford to fall under his spell again. I’m here to do a job. His life is on the line. ‘We had sex, it was long overdue. We got it out of our system. We can move on.’
‘Fuck, Lily. That’s cold.’
I can see I’ve made a direct hit with my callous words.
‘It’s the truth,’ I insist.
‘No, it isn’t, and you know it.’
His words hit home but I don’t so much as flinch.
‘It is now.’ I deliver the line like I mean it, even though inside I’m dying with regret. It has to be this way.
He pinches his lips. ‘I take it you’re coming to the dinner tonight.’
‘I am. Like I said you’re the client, you’re the job. We’re leaving at seven. There’s a car picking us up from the foyer.’
I stand up and grab my laptop. ‘I’ll see you then.’
‘Lily, wait.’
I shake my head. ‘No, Tate. We’re done.’
I walk out of the room into my bedroom, closing the door behind me and wondering how I’m going to get through the next few days when I’m so stupidly in love with him.
But if I’m going to keep Tate safe, I have to keep my distance.