Love Another Day

  But Cox Software faced an additional threat from RIOT head Archibald Random, who made a play for Tate’s company at least once a year. Random was maniacally genius and his attempts were getting more sophisticated, inventive, and covert. Harder to block.

  “Yes,” the chief said. “RIOT is trying to ruin you and take Cox Software down at the same time.”

  Tate cursed beneath his breath. This was almost as bad as Kayla being in trouble.

  “They’re taking a new approach,” the chief said. “We’ve exploited your reputation as a playboy for our purposes for years.” Emmett sounded as if he was carefully weighing his words. “It now appears RIOT has, too.”

  For the moment, Tate wondered whether yet another woman had stepped forward claiming to be pregnant with his baby. He’d never gotten a woman besides Mal pregnant, but there was a certain type of woman who’d even use her baby to extort money from him. “Don’t tell me there’s a RIOT bitch claiming she’s having my baby?”

  “Worse.”

  “Worse?” What the hell could be worse? Unless his cover was blown. Sophia—

  Emmett cleared his throat. “It looks like our worst fears have been realized. RIOT has double-crossed us using Sophia. We’re still not sure whether she’s a willing accomplice or was duped into it.” There was a pregnant pause.

  Odd as it was, Tate felt a sense of relief. If Sophia was in league with RIOT, he didn’t owe her a thing romantically. He could tell her to go to hell with a clear conscience. Just bring her in and let the Agency deal with her. This latest wrinkle absolved him of any obligation to sleep with her. A year from now she wouldn’t be able to blackmail him with a baby. Small mercies, he thought. Who’d have guessed he’d be relieved not to have to sleep with a beautiful woman?

  Then he thought of Mal and almost smiled. The odds of rekindling a marriage and getting his family back were improving every minute.

  “I’m sending you a news story that’s making the Twitter rounds,” the chief said, interrupting Tate’s thoughts. “It’s already been posted on one of Britain’s major gossip rag’s online site. The hard-copy version has gone to press. It’s too late to stop it, though we tried with MI5’s cooperation. It’ll be on the newsstands by the time you reach Liverpool.

  “I’ve sent you an encrypted message with the full story, complete with pictures.” Emmett paused.

  Tate swore beneath his breath and braced himself—what could RIOT be up to? He switched his phone so he could view the message.

  “Of you in bed with Sophia,” the chief finished with the panache and showmanship of a stage actor.

  The message came up. Tate read the headline. “Eligible International Playboy Tate Cox Beds a Sexy International Terrorist—”

  He clenched his fist and pounded the wall. “What the hell?” His conscience was clear. “I haven’t slept with Sophia.”

  He scrolled down and took a look at the picture, frowning as his heart raced. There he was in bed with a beautiful blonde straddling him. The shot was taken from above. The bastards must have been hiding in the room above.

  The photo could have been lewd. Instead, it was almost artistic the way the lighting fell, highlighting her naked shoulders and slim, shapely legs. The way her blond hair fell over her gorgeous breasts, the fullness of them exposed. The nipples only alluringly alluded to. Her head was tossed back. Her eyes closed. Her lips gently parted. The look on her face was pure ecstasy. It was clear from her expression she was in love with the man she was screwing. Tate grew hard just looking at it. Any red-blooded hetero male would be hard-pressed not to.

  “That’s not a terrorist.” He had a hard time speaking with rage coursing through him. His privacy had been violated. If he ever caught those bastard photographers—

  Then again, the look on her face made life seem right and hopeful. He’d have to order a copy of this picture to frame and hang in his bedroom.

  “That’s Mal.” Tate somehow got the words out.

  “Mal?” It was hard to tell whether the chief was surprised or not. “You’re sure?”

  “I know my own wife.”

  “Ex-wife,” the chief corrected.

  Somehow that stung.

  “You were supposed to be seducing Sophia.” Emmett’s voice was neutral, without its signature hint of amusement.

  “Yeah. But Mal and I—” Mal and he were what?

  Tate cursed and banged the wall again. “What do we do now? Sophia, Mal, and Lash the MI5 agent are sitting together in the coach compartment. Do you think Sophia has any real information to give us?”

  The chief hedged. “Debriefing her could still prove valuable to us.”

  “You still want me to bring Sophia in?”

  “Yes,” the chief said. “What is your take on her involvement?”

  Tate frowned, thinking through the various scenarios. “You heard about Inflatable Annie’s deflation?”

  “Yes. My condolences. She was state-of-the art.”

  “Yeah,” Tate said. “After that Sophia became scared to the point of panic. Thinking it all through, I believe she was under orders to sleep with me so RIOT could get that shot of us in bed together and use it to ruin me personally and professionally, both with Cox Software and the Agency.

  “After that, she was expendable. They tried to take her out. It’s just a matter of time until they realize their mistake.

  “I’ll bring her in. She might be willing to cooperate in exchange for her safety, same as before.”

  There was silence on the chief’s part for a minute. “Are you up to the task?”

  “I’m always up to the task.”

  “The question is—how do we plan this?” the chief said. “It will be almost impossible to keep the news story from Sophia.”

  “Yeah, and when she sees it she’ll know it’s not her.”

  “She doesn’t have much bargaining power now,” Tate said. “Not if she wants to live.”

  The chief was thoughtfully quiet. “You’re right about that. And the Brits will certainly still be onboard. Present her with her options.” The chief paused. “We still have to snuff the brush fire the story caused. We can’t have the head of Cox Software associated with a known terrorist.”

  “Absolutely not.” Tate’s thoughts were rambling. “Is RIOT really going public now by claiming Sophia as one of their terrorists?” Tate asked.

  “No, hell no. And it’s not as if we’d let them if they tried. But they have Sophia dead to rights on being associated with half a dozen known groups. No doubt she did work with them on RIOT’s behalf.

  “Stop evading the issue, Tate. What are we going to do about this photo of you and Mal?”

  “She’s going to be livid. And really embarrassed.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  Tate took a deep breath and made a snap decision. “We tell the truth—that’s me in bed with my ex-wife.”

  “Lenora will be fit to be tied when she hears the news.”

  “I can deal with Mom.”

  “But what about Mal?” the chief said. “Can you deal with her? The gossip press and the entertainment mags will have a field day with this—Tate Cox and his ex reuniting.”

  “I didn’t say anything about reuniting.”

  “You look exceptionally reunited in that picture.”

  Tate rolled his eyes. “Maybe it’s just a one-night stand, a hookup.”

  “Is it?” the chief said.

  Tate almost ran his fingers through his hair. It was a nervous gesture. He stopped himself just in time from ruining his hairdo. Being a woman really was a pain. “Hell, I don’t know, Emmett.”

  “Word will get out that you two were staying in the same hotel room, playing at fake identities and were seen lovey-dovey all over Cheltenham. That won’t look like a hookup. You two can break up later if that’s what you want. But for now, you’re back together. Get Cox’s publicity department on it right away.”

  How was Tate going to tell Mal?

  CH
APTER TWENTY-ONE

  Mal was looking out at the English countryside rolling by when Tate came back from the bathroom. He’d been gone longer than she expected, and frankly, she’d been getting worried. All sorts of scenarios had flashed through her mind. Like RIOT taking him out in the bathroom.

  He flashed her an apologetic, sexy smile. She was just about to tell him to cut it out and act like a lady—wait. Was there a hint of hesitation and apprehension in his manner? That was so out of character for the unflappable Tate that it sent a wave of apprehension through her.

  “Everything okay?” she asked as he hovered in the aisle.

  “Just peachy.” He spoke in the sultry, husky female voice he’d manufactured.

  A man a row over looked up, obviously searching for the source of the sultriness. He found it in Tate and ran his gaze over him.

  While Mal was grateful Tate was staying in character, they didn’t need the scrutiny of horny onlookers. Maybe Tate was right—she should have made him into someone who didn’t draw any attention. The problem with Tate was that she could dress him in sackcloth and toss a paper bag over his head and he’d still ooze sex appeal.

  “Can I have a word, sis?” Tate arched a brow.

  “Sure.”

  “In private.” He took Mal’s arm and pulled her to her feet before she could protest, shooting Lash a look that told him to keep an eye on Sophia.

  Tate pulled Mal into a loo and closed the door behind them.

  For a moment, Mal was keenly aware of the train clacking rhythmically along the rails. The sound was so normal. So reassuring. “What’s this all about?”

  Tate wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into him. The next thing she knew, his lips came down on hers. He kissed her deeply, urgently, insistently, smudging both their lipstick jobs and taking her breath away.

  Before she could protest, his hands were up beneath her T-shirt and he was lifting it over her head. But let’s face it—she wasn’t going to protest. Unless he dropped the shirt onto the floor. He set it by the sink.

  Then his hand was on her jeans, button-front jeans. With one tug he pulled them open and was unzipping the fly on his own. What had brought this on? Hopefully not imminent death. There was nothing like a threat to give Tate a hard-on. They’d had some of their best sex while in dangerous situations.

  She helped him pull his jeans down and was confronted with the impediment of his crotch-reducing garment.

  “Damn, I should have gotten rid of this before getting turned on.”

  She felt for him. Being bent back like that had to hurt, especially when he was erect. She pulled the garment down and he popped out like he was spring-loaded. He sighed with a mixture of relief and lust.

  While she went wet at the sight of that beautiful erect, pulsing member, he pulled down her panties and pulled her to him.

  “What do you call having sex in a train bathroom?” She kissed him lightly and sucked his lower lip, taking the rest of his lipstick right off. Vanilla. Nice. “It’s not the mile-high club.”

  “Call it whatever you like.” He bent at the knees to level their heights and thrust into her. “I like to think of it as riding the rails.”

  She gasped with the force of his entry and the wild euphoric pleasure pulsing through her. She clutched his shoulder and hung on as he pounded deep into her. The animal force of it was intoxicating. The scent of his perfume confusing as it mingled with hers. The way he looked like the sister he didn’t have disconcerting. And the bra and fake boobs comical.

  Making love to her ex-husband the woman in a train bathroom should have been the last thing from sexy. And yet, she was hot and tight for him and the pleasure built with unstoppable force. He was insistent and passionate in a way that spilled over to her.

  There was a knock on the door. Before either of them could answer, it swung open. A middle-aged woman gasped. “I beg your pardon.”

  Tate slammed the door in her face and turned the lock.

  “That was ludicrous,” Mal said.

  “Scarring.” Tate rocked into her again. “She’ll never recover.” He kissed Mal.

  When he released her mouth, she closed her eyes and rocked her hips against him, gasping and moaning with every thrust, trying to hold back the inevitable climax, wanting to hang on to the build and the passion. To the joy of bonding. No man had ever made her feel like Tate was making her feel right then, and always had. She was waiting for him, even while she sensed he was struggling to hold back the release with as much fight as she was.

  The wave of passion grew too large and crashed over her. She moaned his name with each wonderful wave. “Tate, Tate, Tate!”

  He squeezed her tight and came with her.

  The force of their climax was so strong she went weak at the knees. She leaned against Tate and he against her. It took each of them holding the other to prevent them from collapsing onto the toilet just behind Mal.

  When Mal opened her eyes, Tate was staring at her with a look she couldn’t place. And then he smiled as if he’d seen something he’d been looking for for an eternity and finding it exhilarated him.

  They were both breathing hard and glowing with the pleasure, the exertion, and the heat of the confined space.

  “Wow,” Mal mouthed.

  “I love you,” Tate said, which was the most ridiculous thing.

  “You always say that. After.” She studied him, wondering again if he meant it.

  He tipped her chin up. “I mean it. Whatever happens, never forget it. I love you.”

  Tate was behaving oddly. Too sentimentally, especially for him. Maybe playing a woman had gotten to him. It didn’t have to be more than just sex between exes, even though she desperately wanted it to be and it felt like so much more to her.

  She smiled. The situation was too intense. And Tate looked ridiculous with his lipstick smeared, his wig askew, his bra over his rippled abs, and his erect male member still between her legs.

  She adjusted his wig and tucked a lock of his fake hair back. “Think of the scandal. That lady will never be the same.”

  He laughed. “Probably not. But what do we care?”

  “Let’s hope she doesn’t talk. We’re supposed to be sisters.” She leaned up and kissed him again.

  He whispered very softly in her ear. “Marry me again, Mal.”

  “What?” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  She must have looked shocked. She was shocked.

  Tate had amazing staying power. He was still inside her, giving her ideas of another round. She was so stunned, she tried to take a step back, but he held her tight, the two still one.

  “Think about it, at least.” He eyes pleaded with her. He gave a gentle, teasing thrust.

  “You’re using unfair tactics. I can’t think straight with that thing between my legs.”

  He grinned. “You know me better than that—I never play fair.”

  She didn’t know what to say. The first time he’d proposed, she hadn’t hesitated. Tate had planned everything down to the most romantic detail and presented her with the most gorgeous ring she’d ever seen. Now he was proposing in a train loo while dressed like a woman after mind-blowing sex? On the spur of the moment, or so it seemed. With no ring at all. It seemed crazy, crazily romantic. Yet she stalled.

  All the reasons to say no ran through her head. Kayla, most important. They couldn’t keep dragging their child through the ups and downs of a series of marriages and all their ons and offs. “Yes.”

  The answer surprised her as much as it appeared to have surprised Tate.

  “Yes, yes, or yes you’ll think about it?”

  He was giving her an out and yet she didn’t take it. “Yes, yes.”

  He grinned, looking superiorly happy. He kissed her again and thrust deep inside her. “Say it again, Mal.”

  He thrust again and again until she moaned, “Yes, yes, yes!” And climaxed again, almost as powerfully as the first time.

  “That’s what I lik
e to hear,” he whispered in her ear, and pulled out as she caught her breath. “As a side benefit, now we won’t have to lie to the press.”

  She was still breathing hard and stunned as she stared at him. “What press?”

  “The press who published a picture of us in bed together in Cheltenham.” He didn’t even look sheepish as he spoke. “Sold to them by a RIOT photographer. Who also fed them the false intel that you’re Sophia, a known terrorist that I’m sleeping with.” He explained about the RIOT plot to ruin him, both as a spy and a government software supplier and businessman.

  Her mouth fell open. “Have you seen the picture?” Her first thought was, What if Kayla stumbles on it?

  Kayla didn’t even know where babies came from yet. How would Mal ever explain what was going on? Would it scar her for life? Her little eyes certainly didn’t need to see her parents in bed together, ever. A new host of doubts assailed her—what was Tate really up to?

  “Don’t look at me like that, Mal.” Tate’s tone pleaded with her to believe him. “The story may be a precipitating event. But we’re damn good together. These years apart have taught me that we’re horrible apart. I really do love you. Enough to promise I’m going to give up the playboy cover life and turn into a staid old married man. You’re the only woman for me.”

  She swallowed hard, wanting to believe him. “If this is a scam,” she said, “or a convenient lie so you can be the hero of this mission—”

  He put a finger to her lips. “It isn’t. Trust me.” He grinned, which was more like him. “Now put your shirt back on and button up or I’ll never get this damned crotch-control girl-maker back on.”

  She stared at his still erect member. He was right. She grabbed her shirt and pulled it back on as Tate struggled with the garment of torture. When they were both dressed, she fixed his hair and touched up his makeup as well as hers as she processed the situation in silence. She wasn’t an exhibitionist. The thought of pictures of her naked and in the throes of passion going public made her ill.