“She helped us out on an op in St. Isidore.” He glanced down and mumbled, “The one I mentioned earlier.”
She scrambled to think back to their conversation in the parking lot. Before the kiss. He had mentioned something about killing a man on a Caribbean island to protect his teammates. “Oh.” She knew so little about his life. Yes, he’d been a Marine sniper, he worked at Steele, he’d killed his dad…
He’d watched her for weeks. He knew everything important about her.
All she had on him were the broad strokes. When it came to the day-to-day stuff—what kind of food he liked, where he lived, what he did for fun, who his friends were, his hobbies—she had no idea.
Across the table, he grimaced and went still except for the muscle in his jaw.
“You okay?”
“Not sure,” he said, holding out his left hand, palm up.
It was covered in blood.
Chapter Thirteen
Somewhere over Texas
Tuesday, 7:15 p.m.
Scott stared at his hand. The sight of blood on his left thigh stirred a strong sense of déjà vu. And, suddenly, pain.
“Let me see,” Valerie said, launching out of her chair, brow furrowed, voice steady. “Were you shot?” Okay, maybe not steady, but strong.
He gritted his teeth and focused on breathing as he reapplied pressure to the wound. Something hard dug into his hand. It felt too large for a bullet. “I don’t think so.”
Frowning, she scanned the walls and then dashed to the back of the plane, returning a second later with a red plastic first-aid kit about the size of a small briefcase. She set it on the floor and kneeled in the aisle next to him.
“Turn your chair.”
He swiveled to his right. “I can do this. I had self-aid and buddy care training in the Marines.” And Lord knew he’d “cleaned up” his mom enough times.
“But I’m here, so you don’t have to.” Valerie snagged a pair of blunt-tipped scissors from the kit. “Where’s the wound?”
“Outer side.”
“Probably best to cut your shorts than try to remove them.”
Cut his shorts.
To expose his leg.
This wasn’t how he’d imagined revealing his scars. If she stripped naked first, he could at least pretend they were having fun. Like last night. Maybe he should have dropped trou then. Would seeing the ugly remains of his injury have stopped her from going down on him?
With a gentle tug to separate the blood-soaked fabric from his skin, she brought him back to reality as she began snipping through the thick cotton at the outside of his knee, her beautiful face set in concentration. As distractions went, she was top notch.
Working carefully but quickly, she made cuts from knee to hip that flanked his hand. The cloth fell away on each side, revealing streaks of blood and—
Valerie gasped and flinched, sitting back on her heels. “Is this…?” Her gaze snagged on the tangle of damaged skin.
Like starbursts, the thick, shiny lines radiated out from his groin, arcing across the left side of his pelvis almost to his waist, and snaking down the front and inside of his thigh. As if some kid had gone to town with the modeling clay, alternately forming and smashing until he got bored and left behind an unrecognizable mess. The scars had faded to a pale pink over the last two years, but they were still ugly as hell.
“That’s old,” he said, his voice flat.
She swallowed hard and nodded, visibly shaking herself to get back on track. Gesturing to his hand, she asked, “You ready?”
With a nod, he peeled the fabric back to reveal the rest of his leg and the network of old wreckage that framed a half-inch-thick spike of wood lodged in his upper quadriceps.
“Jesus.”
The blood had slowed to a trickle, but if she removed the splinter from hell, that could change. Still, it wasn’t like he could go to a hospital. Not with his face plastered all over the news. And he was several hours of flight time from any of Steele’s other security contractors, all of whom were former Air Force pararescuemen, aka PJs—badass paramedics who rescued injured service members from behind enemy lines.
Valerie’s face lost its color.
“You want me to do it?” he asked.
She shook her head decisively. “No.” Busying herself with the first-aid supplies, she said, “I wish I had something to help with the pain. I find it helps to focus on a soothing or happy image.”
He scoffed. Thanks to his dad, he was an expert at working through the pain, but where had she learned? “I can handle it.”
She bit her lower lip and said, “Alcohol,” as she swabbed the wound with stinging liquid.
He clenched his teeth and focused on her face, on images of her kneeling before him for a completely different reason, on the remembered feel of her in his embrace just hours before, her soft lips on his, eager tongues caressing and exploring—
White-hot fire seared his thigh and he hissed, jerking back in his seat.
“Sorry,” Valerie said, holding up a bloody chunk of wood with tweezers in one hand as she pressed gauze onto the inflamed injury with the other. “Looks like a piece of fence.”
Better than a bullet, but Jesus Christ. The wooden missile wasn’t that big, and it still hurt like a son of a bitch coming out. He released a long breath as the pain returned to a manageable throb.
Valerie cleaned the wound again and removed several smaller splinters. She packed the area with antibiotic ointment and gauze, holding it all in place with medical tape circling his leg.
“You should probably keep pressure on that for a while,” she said. “And maybe lie down to elevate your leg.”
Maybe she could join him. “Thank you,” he said, when she finally met his gaze. “You did good.”
Her smile was weak. “So did you.” She offered him a large wet wipe. “Do you want me to clean you up?”
He grabbed the cloth. “I’ll do it.” As much as he craved her touch, he wasn’t ready for her to fully explore his scars.
She watched for a moment, and then moved to restore the first-aid kit, busying herself as he lifted the torn material above his wound to clean near his groin.
Ten minutes later, he was spread out on the short love seat across the aisle with a wool cargo blanket tucked under his left butt cheek and thigh, and another blanket covering him from shoulder to toes. His right foot rested on the floor, and his left foot dangled over the armrest. A chemical ice pack balanced on his bandages.
Valerie had strapped into her seat at the table after retrieving two water bottles from a cooler in the back. “Do you need anything else?” she asked over the rumble of the engines, drawing her dark brows together over a slight frown.
You. Not that he was in any position to get busy now, even if she could look past his scars. He shook his head.
After several minutes of silence, she cleared her throat and asked, “How did you get injured?”
“Shrapnel from an IED blast. An improvised explosive device,” he clarified. “In Afghanistan two years ago. The guy walking ahead of me lost both legs, his family jewels, and half an arm. Thanks to him, I didn’t lose anything.” His voice had turned rough and he pressed a little harder on the ice pack.
Her lips gathered in sorrow. Or maybe pity. “I’m sorry. For both of you.”
Scott nodded and stared at strip of overhead lighting. Poor, fucking Donaldson had gone home to his new wife as half a man with a lot of pain and hardship ahead, and Scott—who had no wife, no girlfriend—had gotten off easy. Well, maybe not easy, but with nothing a year of surgeries, drugs, and physical therapy couldn’t mostly fix. In return, he’d renewed his bond with his mother when she dropped everything to care for him, and he’d found the start of a new brotherhood in Steele Security after he was back in fighting shape.
For the first time in his life, until this week, he’d begun to think his luck had changed.
Their flight was twenty minutes out from a private landing strip in Loud
on County, Virginia when Scott sat up from the love seat with a wince, muttered “Mother fucker,” and rubbed the sleep from his face. He kept his right leg outstretched, blocking the aisle, and leaned back against the cushions.
Only after downing half of his water bottle and a couple of ibuprofen did he look Valerie’s way, his ocean-blue eyes bloodshot, but alert. “Hey.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.” His chin rose a notch as if daring her to contradict him. “Did you get any sleep?”
“A few hours. The pilot said we’re going to land soon.”
“Good.” He glanced at his watch. “Oh one hundred. Jesus, I’m not even sure I know what day it is anymore.”
“No kidding. And it’s two a.m.”
“Right. I forgot about the time change.” After fiddling with the oversized dial on his wrist, he scowled at his ruined shorts for a minute and then stood. “I need to get into clean pants before we land.”
Using the rear seats for support, he retrieved a pair of charcoal hiking pants that had zippers around the knees to convert to shorts and tossed them onto the small sofa. Now that they were back in Virginia, he’d need the long pants.
And they’d both need jackets. She shivered just thinking about the cold rain outside.
He slid onto the love seat and wiped sweat from his forehead.
“You alright?”
“I think we should split up,” he said, his voice strained, eyes on his hands.
Her jaw dropped. “Why?”
Without meeting her wide-eyed gaze, he leaned across the aisle and took the scissors from the first aid kit she’d brought back to the empty seat. “When I wasn’t injured, I added some value to this partnership.” He lifted the hem of his black Cage the Elephant shirt to get an angle on the waistband of his shorts and dazzled her with the view of his sculpted abs. “Now, I’ll just hold you back.”
“You said you wouldn’t leave me,” she said, unable to keep the hurt out of her voice. Just hours ago when he’d kissed her, he’d made a promise. She flushed with desire at the memory and anger at his change of heart. “I believe your exact words were, ‘I’m not going anywhere.’”
He finally looked at her, color high on his cheeks. “Before this happened”—he gestured to his bandaged leg—“I could protect you. Now, I can barely walk. I won’t just hold you back, I could put you in danger.”
Men. Good God. “So, if I were injured instead, you’d want to split up so I wouldn’t slow you down?”
Scott’s lips twisted, and he gave a sharp sigh. “Of course not.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s just… If you hurt your leg, you could still do your computer magic. And if we had to run, I could, I don’t know, carry you or something.”
She stood and held out her hand for the scissors. He turned them over with a puzzled look.
“I can’t carry you, and you can’t do ‘computer magic,’ so I should leave you behind,” she said, snipping through the right leg of his pants with just enough care to avoid stabbing him. “Did you get hit on the head too? God, you must think I’m a complete bitch if you believe I’d walk away now.”
“Valerie.” His tone was part apology, part warning as the scissor blades approached his stomach. “No. I—”
She let him off the hook as she clipped through the thick waistband and stood. “Look, I get that you were trying to be noble and self-sacrificing or some shit like that, but we’re in this together. You wouldn’t leave a Marine behind, right?”
He shook his head and rolled in his lips as if trying to hold back ill-advised words.
“Well, I won’t leave you behind either.” She stowed the scissors in the first aid kit and unzipped the legs from his clean pants to make them easier to put on. “I’m not asking for forever. Just until we clear our names.”
Or die trying.
“Give me your shorts.” She made a “come here” gesture with her hand, the fire draining out of her. How could he believe she’d only want his help—him—if he could protect her? Did he really think that was all he was worth to her?
He studied her for several beats with the strangest look on his face, and then raised his hips and pulled the damaged shorts covered in dried blood out from under his butt, letting them drop to the floor.
For a moment, she could do nothing but stare. His abs were still partially exposed and he was mouthwateringly gorgeous from his ripped biceps to his sculpted calves. The only thing detracting from the view was his boxers.
And then, against her will, she giggled.
Scott frowned. “What?”
“Nothing,” she said, laughing harder at the bright yellow underwear covered in a tiny print. “I just wasn’t expecting…frogs.” Green ones.
He affected a hurt look. “You don’t like my cheap skivvies? Or is it that they’re not covered in rifles? Or desert camo.” He raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Maybe an Abrams tank with the big-ass main gun right down the front?”
She laughed again and covered her mouth with one hand.
He tugged her hand away from her face, sliding his palm against her skin until their fingers curled together. “Don’t hide that gorgeous smile. I haven’t seen enough of it.”
Her stomach did a slow flip, and she swallowed hard, her smile fading at the hot look in his eyes.
The plane slowed and dropped altitude.
Scott sighed and released her, reaching for his pants. “Let’s get this done before we land.”
“No more talk of splitting up?”
He shook his head and looked her in the eye. “I’ll stick with you as long as you want me.”
As long as you want me? Jesus, Kramer. Unfiltered thoughts popped out of his mouth around Valerie at an alarming rate. Maybe working with Todd Brennan—a damn good operator who lacked all tact and couldn’t tell a white lie to save his life—was having an effect on him.
Definitely Valerie was.
Scott resisted the urge to walk his words back. Either way she interpreted them, they were true. Especially now that he was certain she hadn’t been manipulating him into staying to protect her. If all she wanted was a bodyguard, she would have jumped at the chance to part ways now that he was injured.
Instead, she’d blindsided him with her loyalty. And the realization that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
His mouth went dry.
Despite his plan to avoid emotional entanglement with a woman, he’d moved far beyond lust and duty with her. He didn’t just desire her, he cared about her. He wanted to see her safe and happy. That didn’t mean they were destined for wedding bells—he still didn’t believe in long-term relationships, and, hell, they’d be lucky to survive the next few days—but he could quit fighting his attraction and enjoy their time together.
As much as one could enjoy losing everything and being on the run.
Pulling himself back to the reality of their plane landing, he let Valerie help him don the hiking shorts, and then zipped the legs on. While she buckled in, he gathered up his bloody shorts and stuffed them into the outer pocket of his backpack along with the dirty wet wipes and gauze. He didn’t want to leave a mess for Caitlyn—by some miracle, he’d managed not to get blood on the seats or carpet—and it was best if there was no evidence he was injured.
They touched down a few minutes later, the landing as soft and smooth as the ones he remembered from flying with her in the Caribbean, despite the rain and wind.
“Wow,” Valerie said, her eyes widening slightly. “I expected at least a few bumps.”
“Impressive, right?”
Rain pattered overhead, a reminder of the cold, wet conditions they’d face outside. He hoped like hell Kurt had been able to set up transportation and a safe place to stay. At least for what little remained of the night. Scott knew he was asking a lot, but he and Valerie needed something to go their way.
Once the plane had taxied to a stop, Caitlyn left her seat. “We’re at an abandoned airfield just outside of Leesbur
g. I believe you have friends waiting for you in a black Ford Explorer about two hundred yards down the street at a strip club.” She pointed toward the starboard wing. “Go that way until you hit the road. Then turn left.”
Two hundred yards? Fuck me. The way Scott’s leg throbbed, that was bound to be a long, slow walk. Not her fault, though. He rose and took her outstretched hand. “Thanks for this. I owe you one.”
“Sure thing.” Her green eyes sparkled in the dim cabin lighting. “But it’s Kurt who owes me, not you.”
He smirked. “I’ll pass that along.” Something was up between those two, but Scott didn’t have a clue. As far as he knew, his boss and Caitlyn hadn’t spoken in person for at least ten years, back when they were in the Air Force together, before Kurt was a PJ. Before he’d lost his legs in Afghanistan. Did she know about that?
“I can’t thank you enough,” Valerie said, also giving the pilot a handshake.
Caitlyn nodded. “Okay, time to get moving,” she said, all business again as she strode to the back of the plane and opened the hatch, letting in the rain and frigid air. “I landed without permission, and I have no idea who’ll come to check it out.”
“Sure thing, ma’am.” Scott slung his backpack over his shoulders and limped toward the door, gritting his teeth so he wouldn’t wince with every step.
“Shit,” the pilot said. “What happened to you?”
“Just a scratch. I’ll be fine.”
“A scratch,” she muttered. “My ass.”
He chuckled and scanned the area outside the plane for threats. Beyond the concrete strip was an open field, low hills behind it nearly invisible in the rain, despite the city lights reflecting off the clouds. No obvious threats.
He took the stairs like a toddler, placing both feet on a step before moving to the next one. As long as he didn’t bend his knee, he was fine. It was the only way to ensure he didn’t go ass over teakettle onto the pavement. Icy rain pelted his head and soaked his shirt before he reached the ground.
Valerie joined him, staying close as he hobbled behind the plane and onto the short, slippery grass alongside the runway. “Can I help?” she asked over the noise of the idling engines, her teeth chattering.
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