Page 66 of Trap ’N’ Trace

Chapter Eighteen

“You need to keep me informed about every aspect of your schedule.” Dayne turned left on Park Avenue, holding back the curse on the tip of his tongue as a taxi cut him off.

Kat sighed. “I’ll do my best.”

Yeah, right. It wouldn’t have surprised him one bit if there’d been no scheduled meetings until last night. While they hadn’t talked about it back at the castle, something had happened at his parents’. One minute they’d been having a good time, and the next… She closed down and shut him out.

Now she was doing everything in her power to put emotional distance between them. Since it made that part of his job easier, he should be happy about it. He gripped the wheel tighter. It had the opposite effect. He was grouchy as hell and had no one else to blame but himself.

Getting involved with her—on any personal level—was the dumbest thing he could have done. He never should have taken her to his parents’. Seeing how she was with them, how well she fit in, only made everything worse.

She was right to keep things impersonal. I’m a goddamn federal agent, for shit’s sake.

“In the spirit of advance notification,” she said, breaking the silence, “I’m attending a charity event this Saturday.”

He slipped into an illegal spot in front of a forty-story building—Kat’s building. She really did own the damn thing. “Exactly how many buildings do you own?”

“In New York? The United States? Or the world?” Her countenance was deadpan serious, Jesus. She was serious. “Assuming you’ll be accompanying me, you’ll need a tuxedo.”

“Not a chance.” His stomach lurched at the thought of wearing a monkey suit. “I don’t wear tuxedos. I don’t even own one.”

“I’m sorry, but if you want to come with me, then you’ll wear one. It’s black tie.”

He flipped open the center console and pulled out Remy’s leash. “I don’t care if it’s tie-dye, I’m not wearing one.”

“Then you’re not going.”

“Fine.” Although he didn’t think the FBI would foot the bill for a tux.

“Consider it my gift to you.”

“What?” He threw a police placard onto the dashboard. “A tuxedo?”

“I’m forcing you to wear one, so it’s only fair that I pay for it. Since you’re my bodyguard, I’ll consider it an investment in my physical well-being.”

“I can afford to buy my own clothes,” he growled.

She faced him. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?” Her mouth opened then closed. She swallowed and looked away for a moment, and he could see the gears turning in her head. “Out with it, or you’ll be late for your meetings.” He really was grouchy this morning. Her silence did that to him.

“Not all tuxedos are created equally. Yours has to be of the highest quality and custom tailored to your body.”

“Ahh.” He nodded. “You mean, it has to be expensive, and you don’t think I have the fashion sense or good taste to purchase one that will meet your exacting, upscale standards.”

Amethyst eyes blazed at him, so hot there might as well have been flames shooting at his face. “I’ll arrange for a tailor to come to the house.” She gathered her purse and briefcase.

“Kat, wait!” Before he could stop her, she was out the door. For Christ’s sake! Why didn’t she have this kind of kick-ass attitude toward those bitchy friends of hers the other night? Why did she have to dump all that feminine fury on his head?

He bolted out then leashed Remy in record time and sprinted to catch up. Not even three-inch heels or a purple skirt—one so snug he wondered how she could walk in it—slowed her pace. By the time he caught up with her she was already at the entrance where four-foot-high gold lettering announced to the world: VANDENBURG ENTERPRISES.

“Do you have a death wish? I thought we already established that you don’t get out of the vehicle until I tell you it’s safe.” Her cavalier attitude toward her own safety was driving him up the frigging wall.

Ignoring him, she strode to the revolving door and stepped in, effectively cutting him off.

He yanked open the adjacent door and led Remy inside.

“Good morning, Miss Vandenburg,” a woman said from the front desk.