Operation Mountain Recovery

by Justine Davis

  He went still. “You didn’t—and don’t—owe me anything, Ash.”

  “And that you say that and mean it is why I knew, even then, that there was a reason to hang on.”

  His arm tightened around her. For a moment he didn’t speak, as if he couldn’t. And when he finally did, his voice was light, teasing. “And here I thought it was because you fell in love with me on the spot.”

  “That, too,” she said, only she said it with utter seriousness.

  “I’m sorry you had to go through this.”

  She sighed sadly. “Once I’d had my say, once I saw in her face it was all true, I wanted to walk away. I took no pleasure in seeing her crushed when the formal charges were filed.”

  “Even though she tried to destroy your life and you yourself?”

  “I thought I would enjoy it more.”

  Again his arm tightened. “You needed it, Ash. But that doesn’t mean you wanted it. You’re not anything, not an iota like her. And you proved that. And how strong you really are. I am so damn proud of you.”

  She looked up at him then, his words filling her with a joy she’d never felt in her life. “Thank you. That means more to me than anything she ever did or said. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

  It was a long silent moment before he asked, “Have you decided what you want to do with her house? You know it’ll be yours in the end, as damages, if nothing else.”

  She grimaced. “Is burn it to the ground on the option list?”

  Again he gave her that one-armed hug. “I can make that happen if you really want it.”

  She sighed. “No. That would be a waste. But I will not live there.”

  “Maybe you could put it to another use.”

  She leaned back to look at him more directly. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Maybe a halfway house for people really going through what she made you think you were.”

  Her eyes widened. And then, with a dawning smile, she held his gaze and said, “I love you, Brady Crenshaw.”

  He blinked, as if he didn’t realize what had made her say it. But that was Brady—he just went about the business of helping people and thought it was nothing special. “I love you, too,” he said after a moment.

  They sat there until the wind kicked up and with it the chill. They got back in his car—his personal vehicle he’d picked up at some point, a smaller SUV—and he started the engine and turned on the heat. But before putting it in gear, he turned in the driver’s seat to look at her.

  “If you’re not going to live in that house,” he began.

  “I know. I’ll have to find someplace else.” She looked out the window, back toward the lookout. “But I don’t want to leave the mountains. I won’t let her take that away from me.”

  He said, sounding a bit hesitant, “I know a place up the road from Alex’s.” Her breath caught. His words came back to her instantly...my place up the road. Was he saying what she thought he was? “It’s not as grand, but it’s solid and comfortable. With a big fireplace like you loved there. Kitchen probably needs a few newer amenities, but—”

  “Does it have the most important one?” she interrupted.

  He blinked. Asked with a slight frown, “What’s that?”

  “You.”

  His expression cleared. And his slow smile was as brilliant as any sunrise she’d ever seen or ever would see in the future. “Yes.”

  She smiled back at him, letting everything she was feeling show. “I’d better pack, then.”

  And then he was leaning over and kissing her, fiercely, possessively, and she reveled in it, kissing him back just as fiercely.

  “So,” she said when he finally put the car in gear, “is there room for a dog at your place?”

  He flashed a grin at her then. “Our place. And yeah, I’d say there is.”

  “Good,” Ashley said.

  Although she seriously doubted there was another dog in the world like Cutter Foxworth.

  * * *

  Catch up with everyone at the

  Foxworth Foundation with previous books

  in Justine Davis’s

  Cutter’s Code miniseries:

  Operation Second Chance

  Operation Hero’s Watch

  Operation Notorious

  Operation Alpha

  Available now from

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  Escape with the Navy SEAL

  by Regan Black

  Chapter 1

  Alone in the central room of the art gallery, Charlotte Hanover turned a slow circle, surrounded by her canvases. A year’s worth of work about to go on display for anyone with eyes and an opinion to critique. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply through her nose. If she ignored the murmur of voices from the side rooms, it was almost like being in the peaceful, muted light of her studio at home.

  In minutes, the gallery doors would open to the VIP guests for her first solo showing. Approximately an hour after that, any interested art lover in Virginia Beach would be welcome to wander in and take a closer look, as well.

  She pressed a hand to her belly to smother another wave of jitters and felt the rich silk of her dress under her palm.

  Almost like home. Almost like home.

  She almost believed it. In her studio, she’d be in a soft T-shirt and her favorite jeans that were held together with more paint than denim after all these years. She imagined the light pouring through the skylight and windows of her cabin at the edge of an inlet north of town while her heart rate settled.

  There. She could hold that feeling close and let that sweet security buoy her through the night ahead. Although the next few hours would be a challenge, her agent promised it would absolutely be worth the energy drain. She opened her eyes.

  “Oh, aren’t you a vision!” Charlotte’s agent, Marisol Collins, swept into the space and the air vibrated in a happy response. She was a petite powerhouse in an expertly tailored black suit and glossy black heels. Her dark hair was swept up and back in a perfect twist and her porcelain skin glowed. She wore onyx drops at her ears and an intricate onyx ring on her right hand. The overall effect was pure feminine elegance.

  Marisol had never met an objection she couldn’t overcome or a situation she couldn’t fix to her client’s advantage. As opposite as they were in both appearance and personality, Charlotte was perpetually grateful to have signed with her.

  Marisol fluttered her hands, urging Charlotte to turn, despite the fact that she’d already danced at least one circle around Charlotte. “Lovely.” She gave a decisive nod. “I knew this was the right look for tonight.”

  Charlotte’s dress was deceptively simple, a soft sheath falling from a network of thin straps that crossed in the back. The silky fabric rippled with color and movement from the neckline to the hem in shades of pale seafoam to deep aqua. Marisol slipped her arm around Charlotte and took her on another tour of the gallery, chattering about each of the bar and food stations. The effort should have put her at ease; instead, those jitters climbed to new heights.

  “We’re ready, sweet girl,” Marisol said, giving her a squeeze. “On my signal, they’ll open the doors to the VIPs and you’re on.”

  That’s what she was afraid of. Being on required grace and charm and enduring the same questions over and over with only mild variations thrown in. Tonight she must keep up the full-watt smile until her cheeks ached and then some, pretending she knew how to excel at soci
al events.

  She understood people wanted to feel a connection to the person behind the art that moved them. Was it so much to ask to connect from a respectable distance? A continent between her and this gathering felt about right.

  “Any changes to the VIP list?” Charlotte asked, quickly doing a mental rundown of the coaching Marisol had provided about each of the elite guests who were eager to meet her and, with luck, be inspired to purchase the paintings on display tonight.

  Normally, she didn’t mind selling her work. Part of the joy of her art was sharing it with others. Turning a profit was the practical side of the miracle of making a career from her view of the world. The private sales seemed more personal than a gallery show, as if she was sending her work to a good home. A nonsensical feeling really, since she had no idea how, where or if her paintings were displayed when they reached the buyer.

  More than one pragmatic art instructor through the years encouraged her to find the balance between creative joy and creating marketable work. “Da Vinci never starved and neither should you!” Marisol had preached a similar motto from their first introduction. “How can you create to your true potential when you’re worried about bills, overhead or even groceries?”

  Truly, Charlotte had never worried about food, having been raised by practical parents with a strong work ethic. They’d led by example, teaching her to budget, save and invest wisely in the present to secure a future. Still, believing Marisol’s predictions about the evening meant Charlotte’s bank accounts were about to get a serious infusion of cash.

  “And miraculously, all before I’m dead,” she muttered under her breath. Like so many creatives before them, she and her fellow students had often joked that artists and poets made for rich soil, having little value until they were six feet under and could no longer create.

  “Here now, you’re still nervous.” Marisol drew her attention back to the present and pressed a filled champagne flute into her hand. Taking one for herself, she raised her glass for a toast. “To your first solo show.” She tapped Charlotte’s glass, the crystal ringing with a merry chime. “You just slay them with that smile.” She arranged a loose wave of Charlotte’s hair over her shoulder. “I’ll take care of the sales.”

  Taking a sip of champagne, she braced herself as the gallery doors opened to the VIPs.

  It wasn’t all strangers who surged in with smiles ranging from reserved to enthusiastic. Her parents and older brother were here to lend their support. Several close friends had also been invited to help ease the pressure. Many of her friends who lived within driving distance were happy to come out for her, as well. Marisol’s office had handled the official invitations and responses so Charlotte wouldn’t stress over the numbers.

  The friendly faces muted a bit of the immediate overwhelming feeling she encountered with the press of people swirling around, each seeking a moment to ask a question or offer congratulations. Hopefully that steadying sensation would hold her when the doors opened for the next wave of curious gallery patrons.

  Already she was counting down the minutes until she could duck out for a break and a breath of fresh air. She checked her wrist and remembered too late her watch had been ruled out by Marisol.

  “People want to believe you have all the time in the world for them. It’s just one night,” she’d added when Charlotte had argued. “Only a few hours of one night. I promise you’ll have the breaks you need.”

  Charlotte dutifully kept up the smile, the answers that had her feeling like a broken record and the litany of thanks. All the while, her quiet-loving soul clamored for an expansive view of a sunrise over the Atlantic Ocean.

  “Congratulations,” a mellow baritone voice said from just behind her.

  She turned, baffled enough that her smile faltered as the man attached to the voice exchanged her empty champagne flute for a full one. “Mark?”

  What on earth had brought Mark Riley here tonight?

  Adult Charlotte was sure she was hallucinating, while the love-struck teenager she’d once been now danced in happy pirouettes to see his handsome face. His perfectly tailored dark blue suit emphasized his breathtaking physique from his broad shoulders to his trim hips. The ivory shirt was open at the collar, giving her a tantalizing view of his tanned skin. Surely he should be doing something dangerously heroic on the other side of the world. Navy SEALs were too tough and far too busy to visit old friends at art galleries, weren’t they?

  He smiled and her knees turned weak at the mischievous sparkle in his light brown eyes and the single dimple winking in his cheek. “You’ve come a long way, Lottie.” He used her childhood nickname as he raised his champagne glass, saluting her. “It looks good on you.”

  She had no idea if her reply was even remotely coherent or if the smile she attempted resulted in a pleasant expression or an off-putting grimace. She lifted her glass in response and he politely moved on before she melted into a puddle of longing and wishful thinking at his feet.

  * * *

  Having done his self-appointed duty of refreshing Charlotte’s champagne glass, Mark wandered through the gallery, studying the paintings on display. The range and variety of her work surprised him, from wild to wistful, vivid landscapes and subtle skylines, works large and small. From the time she could hold a crayon, she’d been drawing, filling notebooks and sketch pads with her take on the world around her. Sometimes as accurate as a photograph, other times otherworldly. He’d never given a thought to what she might do with her talent and creative energy. Art and Charlotte simply went hand in hand.

  From the far side of the room, he looked back, studying the artist. Her strawberry blond hair was styled in loose waves, lending an untamed, carefree vibe to the colorful curve-hugging dress that reminded him of the Caribbean Sea. The presentation probably fooled the people who weren’t as observant, but he recognized the flash of nerves in her big blue eyes when he’d said hello. She’d been shy with strangers as a kid, quieter than any of the Riley siblings, but she was holding up under the pressure tonight.

  He turned away to admire a haunting painting of a valley blurred by fog. The Blue Ridge Mountains in the fall, if he had to guess at the location she’d used for inspiration. It was impressive how well she’d grown into herself, her career. The last time he’d seen her in person she’d been in college, bright and happy and discovering where her art would take her. And the pictures of her college graduation, the family Christmas cards in the years that followed hadn’t done justice to the woman she’d become.

  When his mother had invited him to join the family for Lottie’s first solo showing, he’d prayed for a diversion. He would have welcomed the chance to grab a high-value target and help end violence in one corner of the world. A pirate takeover of a cargo vessel in international waters would have sufficed. He would have eagerly accepted the chance to observe a training exercise on the West Coast. Better than all of those options would have been the news that investigators needed his help taking down the man who’d been pestering his family with one manufactured attack after another.

  In short, he’d thought anything would’ve been more entertaining than spending hours staring at art, even art created by a dear family friend. How wrong he’d been.

  The paintings, as well as the beautiful woman behind them, were actually a fascinating diversion. Good entertainment had been sorely lacking from his life while he was stuck working on administrative tasks due to an ongoing vendetta against his father, which left the entire Riley family on edge.

  For several months, a man dubbed the Riley Hunter had been hiring mercenaries to put Mark’s older siblings, Matt and Grace Ann, in dreadful, life-threatening situations. He’d caused all kinds of havoc for Matt until Matt survived a death trap. Then he’d abruptly shifted his focus to Grace Ann. She too had survived a series of events designed to break her mentally and physically. Since the hunter seemed to be attacking in birth order, all of the pre
cautions were now cast over Mark, temporarily removing him from his team for the safety of the group.

  All of the Riley children remained under a protective watch. Although investigators were working overtime, they’d only learned his name, John Eaton. They had yet to pin down his location and were only beginning to understand how he hired and paid the men who carried out his orders. Whenever they got close, a lead dried up or died—often literally.

  Everything indicated that Eaton was bent on revenge and torment more than outright murder, seeking to inflict as much suffering as possible on their father, Ben. While the men had been serving in the army overseas, General Riley had been forced to bust Eaton for a criminal act during an operation. Eaton blamed the general, rather than accept responsibility for attacking civilians. He’d lost his career and his family in the fallout. Apparently the man’s wife divorced him and took his daughter away, changing their names in an attempt to find peace and a normal life.

  Eaton’s tendency to shift focus didn’t make him or his mercenaries any less of a threat. The whole situation made Mark’s shoulders itch. As a Navy SEAL, he preferred to meet danger head-on and would do anything to flush out Eaton once and for all.

  Setting his unfinished champagne on a tray, Mark shoved the Riley Hunter out of his mind, refusing to allow the specter of the vengeful madman to undermine a happy occasion.

  Finished cruising through the gallery rooms on the main level, Mark wandered up the stairs, a clever, curving design that perfectly showcased the displays in the central gallery, as well as the artist of the evening. Watching Charlotte, Mark struggled to reconcile his memories of the introverted little girl with the woman deftly managing the crowd gathered to celebrate her work.

  He remembered meeting Charlotte when she was a baby. Her mother and his were best friends, having met through their army-officer husbands. Back then the Hanovers lived just down the block. As a five-year-old, he’d been unimpressed by the strange squirmy face peeking out from a cocoon of blankets. He didn’t see much benefit in having a baby around, until the Riley boys and her older brother realized she was an effective distraction, giving them all more leeway in their never-ending quest for trouble.