by Laura Taylor
She eased her hand free and tucked it into her lap, but the warmth of his touch lingered to remind her of all that she’d forsaken ten years earlier. "I’m not being defensive. I just don’t like to dwell on the past. I’ve watched that kind of behavior turn my mother into an emotional cripple."
"Jessica…" he began.
"What’s going on with you?" she asked, determined to redirect their conversation. "Monica mentioned something about convalescent leave and the media."
Dev became very still. All the animation in his face disappeared, as did the laughter lighting up his dark eyes. "Let’s not go there. Not right now."
"You’re either being obtuse, or you’re baiting me. Which is it?"
He exhaled softly. "You’re in a charming mood all of a sudden."
She refused to be put off by his sarcasm. "How long have you been here?" Jessica asked. "More to the point, why are you really here?"
He studied her, his eyes narrowing speculatively. "You weren’t kidding the other day when you said you knew how to push people."
"I’m waiting, Dev."
"Bottom line time, huh?"
She nodded. "I deserve an explanation. You know I do."
He lapsed into silence. His posture grew more and more rigid as he focused a narrow–eyed gaze on her. Jessica had the fleeting impression of a man being subjected to an inquisition. Worry started to mount inside her, worry over Dev’s well–being. She shifted uneasily in her chair.
"I’ve been here for almost two weeks," he finally said.
"Why?" Sudden insight told her that something very painful had happened to Devlin Mackenzie. Something painful enough to radically alter his personal style, something painful enough to wound his fierce pride in himself as a man and as a Marine Corps pilot. She couldn’t begin to imagine what, though.
"My reasons are private."
"You were never secretive, Dev. What happened to change you?"
He flinched. "A whole hell of a lot happened. And, Jessica, we’ve both changed."
"Monica said the same thing. I didn’t believe her then, but I think I do now."
"Then do me the courtesy of backing the hell off!"
Jessica softened her voice. "My instincts tell me that would be the worst thing I could do for you right now. Dev, you’re pulling into yourself, and you’re denying your feelings. I’ve done the same thing when I’ve been hurt or when I’ve seriously questioned my own judgment, so I recognize your behavior for what it is."
"Your instincts," he remarked coldly, "leave a lot to be desired at times."
"We’re talking about now, not the past," she reminded him with quiet dignity as she got to her feet and gathered up their empty plates. "I’ll get our coffee and brandy." Jessica paused in the doorway that separated the dining room from the kitchen. "I can’t change the past and neither can you, so let’s move beyond it. What’s important is the here and now."
Dev looked away as she walked into the kitchen. Closing his eyes, he massaged his temples with his fingers until the pounding in his skull started to ease.
He knew in his heart that she meant well, but he couldn’t ignore the images in his mind or the guilt that gnawed at him day and night. He also didn’t want to burden her with talk about the pitfalls of military aviation. He recalled how difficult it had always been for her to discuss a way of life that had robbed her of her father. And, as much as he needed Jessica right now, he didn’t want to hurt her.
Torn between his own distress and her understandable sensitivity to discussions of shoot–downs and bailouts in an air combat environment, he abruptly got to his feet and followed her into the kitchen. "Jessie?"
She turned away from the sink, where she was in the process of filling the coffeepot with water. Dev saw the surprise and concern in her expression. Shoving aside the impulse that urged him to take her into his arms and to lose himself in her innate passion and warmth, he jammed his hands into his trouser pockets.
"I’d better be on my way. Thanks for the meal. It’s the best I’ve had since…" He paused. "… since I don’t know when."
"Were you in an aircraft accident? Monica hinted at it."
He was stunned that she would ask the question or even want to hear his reply. "I thought the whole world knew what happened. Once the story broke earlier this month, the media pounced on the incident like starving jackals."
"I’ve been out of touch, Dev," she reminded him. "When I take a vacation, I don’t do TV news, the computer, or newspapers. I deliberately check out of the real world." She paused. "Don’t force me to go on–line and read someone else’s version of what happened to you. I’ve managed to resist that impulse for the last three days, because I’d rather hear your truth… from you."
"I’m not ready to talk about it."
"You keep saying that, yet everyone apparently knows what happened to you. Dev, I’m the one who doesn’t have a clue." She lowered her voice. "We were friends once. Can’t you trust me now?"
"We were more than friends, Jessie. Christ, we were so much more."
She broke in before he could say another word about what they’d once meant to each other. Damn it, she already knew, and she still mourned the loss of their relationship. "I will listen whenever you’re ready to talk."
"What I need from you isn’t conversation, but you already know that." Dev crossed the kitchen and retrieved his jacket. Shrugging into it, he opened the back door. He hesitated when he felt Jessica’s hand on his shoulder.
"I’m sorry for whatever’s wrong," she whispered. "And I’m… I’m really worried about you."
He closed his eyes, the tenderness of her touch and the gentle sound of her voice nearly driving him to his knees. His hand tightened on the doorknob. Swallowing the need that sparked his nerves and consumed his body, he nodded. He didn’t turn to look at her, fearful that he would find pity in her eyes and not the love he longed to see.
"Night, Jessica."
He heard her soft exhalation, and then he felt her hand slide off his shoulder. Exerting all of the self–control over himself that he possessed, Dev managed not to turn around and jerk her into his arms. He felt every muscle in his body tremor with restraint.
"The Weather Service says there’s another storm front moving our way," she cautioned. "Since there’s no telling when it’ll arrive, you’ll want to secure the shutters at your cottage before you go to bed tonight."
He nodded and walked out of the kitchen, slamming the door hard. He strode back to his cottage, his head bent against the chill wind. He could remember only one other time in his life when he’d felt so isolated.
3
Dev glanced at the clock on the nightstand beside his bed. Midnight, he noted in disgust.
He muttered a profanity, punched his pillow for the twentieth time in the space of two hours, flopped onto his back, and tucked his hands beneath his head. He tried to relax, but his thoughts remained centered on Jessica. Every cell in his mind and body still pulsed with emotional hunger and physical desire, hunger and desire he knew wouldn’t ever be satisfied by anyone other than Jessica Cleary.
Dev exhaled, the ragged sound an echo of the regret he felt over the way in which their time together had ended. She’d reached out to him in the spirit of friendship, but he needed more than friendship from her. Much more. He craved the comfort and release he knew he would find in her arms as he buried himself deep inside her body. He also wanted her unconditional acceptance and her tenderness, not just her ability to listen once he found the strength to reveal his troubled emotions about the events that had taken place in the Middle East.
Dev longed to bridge the ten–year gap in their relationship, but he couldn’t fault her shock at his unexpected reappearance in her life. And he realized it would take her time to come to terms with him and the man he’d become. Neither did he want to use her, but he needed her in a way that he’d never needed anyone in his entire life.
Instinct, not rationality or reason, had brought him to Jess
ica. She represented a haven, a source of reassurance and validation that no one else could provide.
Pondering the changes in her, Dev smiled. Strong, focused, self–confident, and independent, she’d blossomed into a capable woman, a woman of her times. But she was wary, too, and he didn’t blame her for her caution or her desire to guard her emotions.
She was even more beautiful now. Fate hadn’t been kind to her and life had wounded her at a tender age, but she’d weathered all of those storms, emerging with an inner strength and a maturity of character that suited her personality and enhanced her natural elegance.
Dev felt an enormous amount of pride in her courage and resiliency. At the moment, he also envied her the stability of her world and the sense of purpose she possessed.
Despite his desire to remain focused on Jessica, his thoughts shifted to his nagging worry about the fate of his Weapons Systems Officer, David Winslow. He stared into the darkness. Without wanting to, he recalled the last reconnaissance mission he and David had flown almost three months earlier as part of an international peacekeeping force in the Middle East. What should have been a routine recon mission had turned into a fucking disaster.
David, officially listed as Missing in Action, was either dead or locked up in some rat hole of a prison in a country that shunned diplomatic relations with the United States. However irrational—God knew that the shrinks and his C.O. had tried to pound it into his head that he wasn’t being rational—Dev still blamed himself for David’s fate.
No one—not the helicopter rescue team that found and rescued him, not the squadron debriefing team that had reviewed every facet of the flight with him, not his commanding officer, and not the psychiatrist who had counseled him—had been able to persuade him that his guilt was based on anything but his circumstantial inability to save David from the very people who’d crippled their aircraft with surface–to–air missiles and turned it into a potential firetrap in mid–air.
They’d assured Dev that he was experiencing a classic case of survivor’s guilt. He’d done nothing wrong, they’d repeatedly told him, and everything right. Why then, Dev wondered, did he feel that there was something he hadn’t done? Were they right? Did he feel guilty for having survived an incident that had likely robbed David Winslow of his life? How, he wondered, could the inner turmoil he now experienced be explained away with such ease?
Time slowed as Dev mentally replayed each moment of that last mission. He racked his brain for some flaw in his own actions and judgment. When his intellect told him that no one could have predicted the pocket of resistance that had produced an unexpected wave of surface–to–air missiles, his emotions countered with the observation that his Top Gun training and combat experience should have forewarned him. He clenched his fists, frustration eating at him.
He recalled the sound of rounds penetrating the exterior skin of his aircraft, the sluggish feel of the stick as all of the hydraulic systems failed, the shuddering of the aircraft until he’d feared that it would come apart beneath his hands, and then the pungent smell of leaking jet fuel.
Too far from their base to attempt an emergency landing, he’d known in a split second that one of two things had to happen. The plane would either drop from the heavens like a rock, or it would become a fireball in the sky. Ejection had been their only option for survival. The decision made, Dev had signaled David, who’d acknowledged his understanding and concurrence.
Dev heard once again in his mind, just as he did in his nightmares, the wrenching sound of the canopy tearing free of the body of the aircraft and the wall of cold wind rushing above their helmeted heads. Jettisoned by the jet’s ejection system into the early morning sky within seconds of each other, they’d fallen victim to violent winds that quickly separated them as they’d descended in their parachutes to the desert floor.
Sweat broke out across his face and chest, despite the chill air in the cottage. Flipping back the covers, Dev fled his bed, stepped into a pair of jeans, and wandered barefoot to the window. He couldn’t flee his thoughts, however.
He remembered discarding his helmet, parachute, and several other pieces of flight gear. He remembered the stinging bite of the sand as it peppered his face while he activated the homing device on his radio to alert the Search and Rescue teams to his location. He also remembered crawling across meter upon meter of shifting sand in a desperate search for David, the sound of small arms fire from hostile ground troops in his wake.
And he remembered arguing with the rescue helicopter pilot, who kept cautioning him by radio to stay put because he was surrounded by bad guys. When the pilot finally assured him that David had been located, he’d felt exuberant and relieved. He’d also stopped searching, something he now regretted.
It wasn’t until he’d been hoisted to safety by the rescue crew that he’d discovered the truth. David Winslow had warned the SAR helicopter pilots to remain clear of his location. And seconds later, the enemy troops had converged on him, disarmed him, silenced his radio transmissions and, the Americans later concluded, departed the area with their prisoner in tow.
Staring blankly into the darkness beyond the window, Dev vented his frustration with yet another vile curse. He then whispered a fervent prayer for the survival and repatriation of his long–time friend and fellow aviator. Still, he feared that David Winslow was already dead, a victim of torture or executed by his captors.
Would he someday be forced to watch his friend’s execution when it was broadcast world–wide by some Middle East television network? Just the thought of such an eventuality made his gut churn. Clenching his fists against the tension that always accompanied his thoughts of their forced bailout, Dev peered out into the dark, angry night.
Light posts were arranged at intervals along the shoreline and the boat dock. He saw that several boats positioned on either side of the dock now bobbed drunkenly atop surging, white–capped waves. The gusting fury of the wind and pelting rain made the lights blink on and off like caution signals at an intersection.
Dev started to turn away from the window, but he paused abruptly and narrowed his gaze. He frowned. And then he swore, the hard word exploding in the silence of the cabin. He couldn’t believe his eyes when he spotted a slender figure clad in a white parka. He watched the individual move awkwardly down the center aisle of the pitching boat dock and then drop to a kneeling position on the rain and windswept planking.
Stunned, Dev realized that Jessica had gone out to check on the boats. A tree branch whacked the cottage wall, sending a groan of resistance through the small wood frame building and jarring him from his shock. Hastily dressing, he raced outside. He dodged fallen tree limbs, deep pools of standing water, upended lawn furniture, and flying chunks of debris as headed for the boat dock.
Yanking Jessica to her feet, Dev swung her around to face him. "Are you out of your fucking mind?" he shouted. "You could get killed out here!"
She jerked free of him. "Check the tie–downs on the two boats at the end of the dock," she yelled before dropping to her knees again and wrestling with a soggy length of hemp that was fastened to the prow of a tarpaulin–covered bass boat.
Dev briefly debated the wisdom of simply hauling her back to the safety of the inn, but he guessed what her response would be to that kind of behavior. He abandoned the idea. Instead, he placed his hand on her shoulder. "Be careful, God damn it!"
She grinned up at him and then pointed at the end of the dock. He sprinted to the two boats in question, secured the lines of each craft, and then swiftly jogged back to her side.
"The power’s going to die soon," she shouted above the wind. "Luckily, I have a back–up generator. We’d better get back up to the inn."
The lights on the dock flickered, went out, and then blinked back on, as if to punctuate Jessica’s comments.
Dev nodded, put his arm around her, and guided her off of the pitching boat dock and onto stable ground. Lightning crackled across the night sky. When she edged even closer to him,
he hugged her tightly. "Ready?"
She flashed a thumbs–up signal. Hand in hand, they raced for the inn. The downpour increased as did the force of the wind. Breathless, Jessica and Dev dashed into the kitchen. He peeled off his soaked jacket and stepped out of his boots. She shed her parka, knit cap, rain boots, and gloves.
Rubbing her hands together, Jessica headed for the kitchen fireplace, where she paused and extended her hands to the warmth of the crackling fire. Dev joined her, equally grateful for the heat.
"That was absolutely nuts, Jessica. You could’ve gotten hurt. It’s pure luck that I happened to look outside and see you."
She stepped away from him, the pleasant expression on her face disappearing. "This is my home, Dev. It’s also my responsibility. The idea of having to chase after my rental boats once this storm passes is not an appealing one. Trust me. I’ve already had to do it several times over the years, and I have no intention of doing it again."
"Sorry. I didn’t mean to lecture you, but you could’ve asked me for help."
"Guests are exempt from chores, and my handyman’s on vacation."
Her brisk tone set his teeth on edge, reminding him yet again that he had no place in her life. "Are you so unaccustomed to asking for help, or was it me you didn’t want to ask?"
"The weather has nothing to do with you, Dev. Besides, it was just wet and windy when I first went outside. I’m not crazy enough to go out during lightning storms."
"I take it this is normal winter weather around here." He settled into a ladder–back chair in front of the fireplace, extended his long legs, and parked his cold feet on the hearth.
"Unfortunately." She smiled as she pushed her damp hair back from her face. "There’s an old saying in the Ozarks. If you don’t like the weather, just wait a few minutes and it’ll change. It’s true." Turning, she walked to the stove. "How about something to drink? Better yet, how about some of last night’s dessert?"