"I'm glad." Regan slipped her phone into her bag and secured the zipper before heading for the counter and that amazing aroma drifting up from his efforts. "I might not be able to cook, but I'm good with plates and cutlery." She pointed to the row of stainless-steel cupboards attached to the wall behind him. "In there?"
He nodded. "Tea cups are to the left of the sink."
Tea? Yikes.
Beggars weren't supposed to be choosy, right? She'd save that for the information she desperately needed to elicit. Though not just yet.
But she did risk a, "For two? Or will your housemate be joining us?"
"Guest." He noted her arched brow and elaborated, "Evan's a guest. He and his housemate got into it last week, so I offered him a place to crash while he works a few things out. That said—" The captain shot her a decidedly satisfied smile. "He's out for the night."
She'd feared as much.
But his previous comment intrigued her. On several levels.
Could it be that simple?
If the sergeant was Garrison's guest—and not his housemate—that affected LaCroix's legal status in the home. And his rights…and the tantalizing lack thereof. That information was well worth any disappointment over the sergeant's current absence.
Regan made a mental note to text Jelly about obtaining a copy of the lease on the house as she reached into the cupboard to withdraw a pair of cream plates and two small, handle-less Asian mugs from the door beside it. She headed for the table to arrange the plates and mugs on opposite sides, before returning to the kitchen proper to search for cutlery.
"Chopsticks are in the drawer on your left too. Unless you prefer—"
"No, that's good." She opened the drawer only to pause in mid-reach.
There was shallow woven basket near the back of the counter. Inside was a man's brown leather wallet. On top of that—a set of keys.
Garrison's, undoubtedly. But did one of those beckoning keys unlock the door to LaCroix's room, to be used in case of an emergency?
More importantly, how did she get—
"Rachel?"
Regan flinched as a hand engulfed her right shoulder. It fell away as she spun around, every cell in her brain and body instinctively on alert, whether she wanted them to be or not.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."
Shit. What the hell was wrong with her today? But she knew. She was on edge. Just not for the reason the captain assumed, let alone the reason she was willing to admit.
Humiliation singed her cheeks. "No, it's me. I just—"
"Don't really know me. This place. It's okay. I've been known to react instinctively to an unexpected stimulus too. Hell, a lot of soldiers do."
PTSD.
His bald honesty, not to mention the telling shadows threading into the compassion simmering in that stare, increased her humiliation.
She nodded. "Yeah. Well, with me, it's a…childhood thing." Mostly.
It wasn't as though she could admit to the rest. Not with being a freshly commissioned butterbar and all.
To her relief, he didn't push it. Instead, he carefully reached around her and retrieved two pairs of wooden chopsticks. The one's she'd forgotten all about.
"Here you go."
She accepted the slender offerings and escaped to the table, her humiliation skyrocketing as she spotted the pot of tea, bowl of rice and steaming wok he'd managed to lay out while she'd been standing there behind him, transfixed by the temptation in those keys.
She glanced at her watch. Seventy-one minutes left.
Time to get her head in the game. Now.
One good thing had come of her mortifying reaction. While the captain still pulled out the nearest chair for her, he kept his hands to himself for a change as she sat. He took the opposing chair and helped himself to some of the steamed rice, then held out the bowl. "By the way, I want to thank you for today."
"Isn't that my line?" She accepted the rice and spooned some onto her plate. "You are talking about the interview I needed?"
And she had needed it. Just not for the reason he believed.
That distracting fold cut in as he topped his rice with a generous portion of the fragrant stir-fry. "Trust me; you can still thank me." His smiled eased, his humor fading with it. "Seriously, though. The general's going through a rough time. He's taken some serious knocks. And, as you've also no doubt surmised, there's not a lot of sympathy for him on this post. For obvious reasons."
Which begged that rather critical question that still remained unanswered. Why was Ertonç even here?
She added some of the beef and vegetables to her rice. "And you? Do you have sympathy for him?"
"Yeah, I do. It's complicated. He's complicated."
So was the man sitting across from her.
And rapidly becoming more so. At least to her.
The captain was noticeably taking care to keep his hands to himself now, each time he passed something to her. As much as she wanted to resist appreciating the effort—and him—she couldn't.
"Anyway, he likes you. But I'm not supposed to tell you that."
She could only hope it would be the first of many revelations. Still, after the probing questions she'd posed that afternoon, upon which Garrison had definitely been briefed, she was surprised. "I just did my homework after my boss called me into his office. Learned a few things." Abused them.
The guilt still simmered over the latter.
Garrison's hand came up as he leaned forward. Slowly, as though she was a colt he feared might bolt—but, unfortunately, it still came. And he still wrapped those callused fingers around hers to squeeze gently. "It was more than that, and you know it. You connected with him when he needed it. From what he told me, you seemed affected too."
She had been. More than she wanted to admit—to Ertonç, the man sitting across from her, and herself.
Fortunately, the captain released her hand. She breathed easier as he focused on his food and dug in. She took a tentative bite, then a substantial one when the taste lived up to its scent. "This is really good."
He rewarded her honesty with a laugh. "Thanks." He leaned forward to pour the steaming tea for both of them. "So, you got your interview with the big guy. You don't need to grill me anymore. At least about him."
"Oh, I don't know. There's a mystery or two left there."
"Really?"
She nodded. "How you both met, for one."
That damned dimpled fold cut in. She swore he'd intentionally weaponized it against her. "You mean you didn't ask him?"
They both knew she had. But she could play pretend, too. Better than he, in fact. She didn't have that lovely pulse point to rat out her true emotions. The captain really did not want to discuss this. Too bad. "As a matter of fact, I did ask. But it was at the end of our interview and he was in rush." She pushed forth a light shrug as she reached for her tea. "He left it to you to fill in the details."
They both knew it was a lie. Just as they both knew he couldn't afford to risk piquing her "reporter's" curiosity more than it already had been by calling her out on that lie.
He smiled instead—with nary a dimpled crease in sight. "Okay, then." He retrieved his tea, using the cup as she had. As a shield. "We met in Kabul. I was a first lieutenant at the time, dealing with a warlord who'd become a real pain in the Army's ass. I'd heard about a Turkish colonel who was tight with him." He nodded. "Ertonç. He also had a rep as an ass, but I probably did too, so it evens out. Anyway, I paid Ertonç a visit, did something to show due deference to the man, and he was impressed enough to make the intro I needed with the warlord. Even vouched for me." Garrison returned his cup to the table without taking a sip. "That's about it."
The hell it was. That vague little tale created more questions than answers and he knew it. "What exactly did you do for the general?"
Silence greeted that question, followed by an enigmatic shrug.
The shadows were back too. The complicated ones that clouded his stare with an intens
ity she wasn't comfortable with. For his sake.
Time to lighten the mood.
She tapped the rim of her cup and teased, "Tea? Aren't you supposed to woo a woman with fine food and a finer wine?"
Instead of easing, the shadows multiplied…and deepened. What on earth had she said now?
Unfortunately, silence greeted that unspoken question as well. She was contemplating the best way to break it when he offered up another one of those enigmatic shrugs. "I only drink when I'm depressed—very depressed—which I am definitely not at the moment. Besides," he reached for his own tea, toasting her with the cup as he made a visible effort to haul himself out of this latest, inexplicably murky quagmire. "I'm on call while the general's in town."
Of that, she was all too aware. But because of his collateral man Friday duties? Or did Garrison's previously admitted concerns for Sergeant LaCroix—and the things LaCroix needed to work out—play into his vigilance, too?
It was as good an opening as any. "Speaking of the general—" She retrieved her chopsticks and prepared a bite. "I saw something odd this morning."
"What's that?"
"A look. Just before that speech. Between you and your houseguest. It wasn't friendly."
"Ah, that. It was nothing. A work-related issue that's been settled."
Another lie between them. Nor did she need a telltale pulse to know it. It was in the sudden tension in his grip on that cup.
Instinct had her pushing it. Ruthlessly. "That's good, I suppose. It's just— I've been thinking about the guy off and on today. Well, since that speech. I thought that, perhaps…" She trailed off deliberately, left the bait jiggling about for several beats before she shook her head. "I guess not."
Oh, yeah, she'd hooked him.
The captain actually leaned toward her, then stopped, holding himself rigid as he waited. Until, finally, "You thought what?"
"Carys." This time, she simply dropped bait in the water…and waited.
Confusion nibbled first. Then suspicion. And then, the bite. The one she'd been counting on. Full-on jealousy. "Carys? You spent the day thinking about Evan and his fiancée?"
"Yes and no. It was a weird morning. In several ways. When I arrived at the auditorium, I bumped into some sergeant. He mistook me for the woman. Called me by her name, in fact. He seemed stunned that I was wearing an Army uniform—until he realized I wasn't her. I guess… Well, I didn't realize I look so much like her. According to that sergeant, I'm her twin. You didn't tell me that last night." She tinged that last with hurt and more than a bit of accusation.
"Who was it?"
"The soldier?" She shook her head, added a furrowed frown. "I didn't catch his name. He was wearing an SF tab, though. Does that help?"
"Doesn't matter. He was probably with LaCroix in Syria last year. Hence, his surprise over your uniform. Carys was Scottish."
"You do know her then?"
"No. I was in Yemen when Peace Spring went down. I've never even seen a photo of the woman, so I have no idea how much she may, or may not, have resembled you." He reached up, his fingers catching a stray strand of her hair as his remaining jealousy ebbed beneath the clearly welcomed balm she'd offered in the form of her own vulnerability. He tucked the strand behind her ear. "Okay?"
"Okay."
He sat back, staring at her…and, yet, not. He appeared to be looking through her. He nodded to himself, as though something had clicked.
"What is it?"
"Hmm?" His vision cleared. Focused. He seemed surprised she'd read him so easily. "It's nothing."
It was definitely something. Someone. LaCroix.
Unfortunately, she'd pushed it as far as she could. For now.
"Besides, it wouldn't matter if I'd met Carys." He reached for the bamboo spoon in the wok to help himself to seconds.
"Why's that?"
"You're the only woman I've ever cooked for." He glanced at her plate, still burdened with her first serving. "Though I'm not sure you think it tastes as good as it smells."
"I do." She used her chopsticks to prove it. "The only woman, huh? I'm not sure I believe that."
"It's true. Well, except for Beth—"
"See?"
He reached out to tap her nose. "She's my sister; she doesn't count."
"Oh, I'm sure Beth will be happy to hear that." She was curious though. More than she should've been. "Older or younger?"
"Younger. By five years."
The affection in his voice made her envious. She'd always wanted a sibling. Perhaps more kids would've stopped her mom from checking out of the world the way she had. Though probably not. Her mom'd had bigger problems than an awkward, lonely child.
"Rachel?"
She glanced up from her still brimming plate. "Just dealing with my jealousy; I'm an only kid. Let me guess—Beth made up for the torturing she did when you were young by teaching you your mad culinary skills so you could impress women later in life? Not a bad trade-off."
He didn't laugh the way she'd hoped. If anything, her teasing had caused those murky shadows to return, along with an odd, palpable distance.
Her instincts zeroed in. For once, she wished they hadn't. She'd spotted a few of those particular shadows before—in that parking lot, last night. "Your sister's…okay, isn't she?" Carys certainly hadn't been.
If anything, the shadows intensified. But he sighed. "Yeah. She's good—now. For a long time she was lost to me though."
Lost? "As in…drugs?"
He shook his head. "Dead. Along with our mom. Or so I was told. Our folks divorced after Beth was born. I was five. Dad got the farm and me. My mom got her freedom and Beth. I guess my dad got sick of me crying for them because he finally told me they'd been killed in a car crash." His laugh was short and utterly devoid of humor. "He even managed to blame it on her. Said my mom hadn't belted either of them in."
"Jesus." That proprietary hand flashed through her brain. The one that had seated her in his car the previous night, then continued on to latch her belt. For her…or himself?
"Yeah. He was piece of work."
"How did…?" It was well past the bounds of why she was there tonight. But she needed to know. For herself—and him.
"How did I find out my sister was still alive?"
She nodded.
"My dad died. Tractor accident. I wasn't there. I'd joined the Army at seventeen. Had just made sergeant when I got the news. There was no way I was going back to Kansas, except to sell the place. While I was going through his papers, I found a bunch of letters from my mom, begging for information about me. She'd stopped writing when I was nine, but there were enough clues in them to start searching. By the time I found Beth, our mom had been dead for years. Beth was fifteen and living in a dump with a distant cousin I also never knew I had. I filed for custody the same day. The cousin fought it—for the social security benefits, I'm sure. But, as I said, I'd made sergeant, and as my legal dependent, Beth had access to Army schools and healthcare. I won."
"And Beth?"
"It took a while to win her over. But she pulled through, finished high school. Even went to college. Things are good. Beth married a buddy of mine last year. She's expecting their first."
"That's amazing." He was amazing. But he didn't see that. The pride in his face was all for his sister. Her jealousy returned, a hundred-fold. What would it have been like to have had someone like him in her corner?
She'd never know.
Hunger had fled. She reached for her now tepid tea to give her hands something to do. "She's lucky she had you. I can't imagine a parent doing that." And she'd had no prize-winners in that department herself. "How could he just…?"
"Pretend they were dead?"
She nodded. What kind of bastard did that? To his own son, no less. And for all those years? That seat belt flashed in again. It didn't even matter that Garrison had finally learned the truth; the damage had been done. To him and his sister.
"Who the hell knows? Lies just come easy to some people
. It's their second nature." He sounded almost resigned to the thought.
"You haven't forgiven him, have you?"
"Hell, no." Another harsh laugh cut through the kitchen. This one as bereft of humor as the other, perhaps more so. "I haven't forgiven that man for a lot of things. But especially that." His appetite must've fled too, because he pushed his plate away. "Anyway…I have no idea why I just laid all that on you."
Silence thrummed between them. It should've been awkward, but it wasn't. It felt…natural. As did the need to reach out. Her fingers succumbed to the urge before she could stop them, and covered his.
"I'm glad you did."
He turned his hand in hers—and squeezed back. As she looked down at their fingers, his dwarfing hers as they lay on the table between them, now entangled, the panic that should've been there all along finally surged, and she jerked her hand away. The awkwardness set in then. With a vengeance.
They could both feel it.
"Would you like some coffee?"
"God, yes." Almost as much as she needed the physical reprieve from him and that dangerous contentment she'd just felt.
She held her breath as he stood and headed around the island, only letting the air escape when he was safely in the kitchen proper. She turned her attention to her plate. Her dinner was ice cold. Even if it hadn’t been, she couldn't have finished it. Not while desperately trying to digest the dismay and the guilt.
Of all the men to have hit on her in that bar.
But what other choice did she have but to see this through? The stakes were too high to pull out now. She had to find a way to get to LaCroix and figure out what he had planned before the general ended up dead—and worse.
She risked a glance at the kitchen. At Garrison. He kept his massive back to her as he moved along the counter to fill the coffee maker with water and grounds before he set the machine to brew. Even after he finished, he still kept his back to her. As though he knew she needed the space. And with that towering frame, it was the only way he could give it without leaving the room.
Another wave of guilt churned in.
Why couldn't LaCroix have taken the damned bait? She'd have had no problem using the sergeant's attraction to further her case—or lying her ass off to him in the process. The mission was that important.
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