A Soldier's Christmas

by Lee, Rachel; Lee, Rachel; Lee, Rachel

  "Red-plaid underwear. Flannel," she declared. Her toes wiggled in her Rudolph socks, a safer place to keep his gaze. "Mystery solved. Nothing near as sexy as a thong."

  He disagreed.

  So much for keeping his eyes on her face. Holiday plaid stretched across her generous breasts, dog tags dangling. The sports-bra style covered much while leaving nothing to the imagination. He didn't need to look further. Her every curve, the dip of her waist, slight flare of her hips stayed imprinted in his photographic memory. His hands remembered well the contrasting feel of her soft breasts and toned muscles.

  And damn it, but he was starting to become aroused. Starting? Hell, he was already there, and no way to hide it.

  Way to be sensitive, dumb ass.

  Wincing, he turned away to stoke the fire, the one in the woodstove, since the one in his boxers was roaring just fine. "Damn, hon, I'm sorry. You're just so—"

  "Josh, please don't go getting all weirded out on me about this." Her feet whispered across the floor, closer, until the heat of her seared his back without their skin even touching. "I'm the same person I was four weeks ago when you walked through our bedroom naked with pretty much the same action going on then as now."

  "Roger. No getting weirded out." He turned, an inch of crackling air between them. "And I'm not. I just don't know how you need me to react."

  "I need you to be honest."

  He wanted to note that honesty from her might have been helpful over the past months, but that didn't seem wise. He stuffed down residual anger at her, himself, and most of all at the bastard who'd hurt her. "We have to talk about what you told me."

  "I know we do, and we will. Soon. I promise. It's just not easy." The confident brace of her bare shoulders faltered. "I've never told anyone before."

  No one? In eight years?

  His momentary flash of victory over being the one she'd told faded as he realized how high walls eight years in the making would be. Unease dripped over him like the water plopping from their clothes onto the cracked wood floor.

  He stared down, no answers scrolled on the planks. But he did discover a distraction to buy time until he could figure out what to do next. "Let me see your feet."

  "Huh?" Confusion puckered her brow even as she grinned. "You're one sick puppy, Rose-Bud."

  "I need to check your feet for frostbite."

  "Oh, how are yours?"

  He lifted his bare feet one at a time. "Doing well. I may have some skin peel off, but I'm not going to lose any toes."

  In front of the woodstove, he unfurled the sleeping bags and unzipped them. He draped one for padding and insulation on the floor. He zipped two together to make a double bed—she would just have to live with that because sharing body heat was practical. Then he draped the final open bag over top, musty but clean.

  And too inviting. He stepped back. "Now, sit."

  "Yes, sir." Shooting him a half salute, she dropped onto the dark green beddings and rolled off her socks.

  He crouched on his haunches in front of her. Sitting with her on their bedroll seemed to be crossing a boundary best left in place until after they talked more. He lifted her left foot, grazing his thumbs along the tender instep to check circulation.

  Goose bumps prickled over her very bare skin.

  His gaze jerked up to hers. She was watching him. Intently. Aware. Her breasts rose faster. Only shrieking wind and groaning metal rivets filled the silence between them.

  He returned his focus to her feet, safer territory. Sort of. He rifled through his survival vest in search of the salve for blisters. He shuffled aside the magnifying glass, two pressure bandages, an eye patch, fishing hooks, until he found Band-Aids and the tube of disinfectant.

  After tending one foot, he lowered it and lifted the other, careful to keep his touch firm this time. "I'm sorry you won't get to call your family on Christmas Eve morning."

  "That's pretty much the least of our worries right now."

  Okay, that caught his attention. Until he realized she meant whoever set up that mini-mining operation and not the fact that he could barely keep his hands off her. "We're okay for the next few hours at least until the storm lets up again. I added an extra wedge in the door while you were bathing. The flare guns are loaded. That's the most we can do for now."

  She forked her fingers through sweaty locks swirled into loose curls around her face. "What a way to spend the holidays. Maybe I should start singing again or something. There were these two people in my sister's squadron who got stuck in the desert for Christmas Eve. They put together a whole survivalist celebration with a scrub-brush tree and cactus-slice cider."

  Her story told him more than perhaps she intended. She wanted easy. Normal. Not weirded out. He could do normal, funny. For her, he would do damned near anything. "Is that a hint for me to hump my butt back outside and start gathering up pinecones to rig decorations?"

  "Hey, we could string them over the stove with snare wire, like a garland."

  He laughed. She didn't. His humor faded. "You are joking, right?"

  She blinked back at him. Already his skin chilled over just the thought of tromping outside again. Had she gone unhinged from the stress? But shit, if she wanted pinecones then he'd get them. He started to push up from the floor.

  A wicked smile split her face. "Gotcha."

  His laugh burst free, tangled with hers. "Yeah, you sure did."

  In more ways than one. Laughter faded.

  He needed distance to make it through the night. He tugged out two packs of dried apples and tossed one to her. "It's about the closest I can come to apple cider."

  "It's great. Thanks."

  Silently they tore open the packets and reconstituted them with melted ice. He ate, trying not to watch her fingers scoop out the sweet fruit and suck the syrup off her fingers.

  Ah, hell.

  What was it about this woman that grabbed hold of him and wouldn't let go? A woman who didn't need a damned thing from him and would only be open about her feelings when pressed to the wall. A woman with pain in her past he didn't have a clue how to heal.

  Failure didn't sit well with him. "What was it you were having trouble with behind the screen?"

  "Oh, um, I wanted to wash my hair." She set aside her empty fruit packet. "Ridiculous vanity, but I still feel gross. Probably silly to risk catching a cold."

  Well, hell. There was something he could do for her after all. He may not be able to address her deeper wounds, but he could damn well wash her hair. And right now he needed action. He needed to feel like a man taking care of his wife.

  A sexist thought? Probably. Especially considering his warrior wife could protect herself. But hey, he'd keep the words to himself. "Why not go for it? There's enough melted ice. It's warm in here. Storm's going to last through the night. You'll be well dry by morning."

  She chewed her bottom lip but didn't say no.

  Two long strides took him to the clothesline. He ducked behind to retrieve the extra metal washtub and place it in front of her. "You can lean over this. I'll pour the water from the other one over your head. No big deal."

  Suddenly, an image of washing her back in that European hot tub splashed across his mind—a mighty damned big deal. But after months of her keeping such a crucial piece of herself away from him, he needed this sign from her. He may not ever have her love again, but he needed her trust.

  * * *

  SHE WAS ONLY TRUSTING HIM TO WASH her hair. No big deal, right? She wasn't giving him her heart again.

  Just lean over that tub and let him pour some water over her head. It wasn't like they had anything else to do while snowbound in a rusted-out Quonset hut. Nope. Nothing else to do—except get naked together or talk.

  Washing her hair sounded like a fine idea.

  Alicia folded her hands in her lap to conceal the fact that they shook more than before her first solo flight in pilot training. "You really want to wash my hair?"

  She watched him heft the water-fille
d tub from the stove, muscles rippling across his back, bulging along his legs. How unfair he had such a great butt that even Scooby-Doo boxers looked macho.

  Josh crouched beside the two washtubs, beside her. "Consider it my Christmas present to you since we're stuck out here. And hey, a little secret between you and me." He winked, his best Josh-charm smile in place. "I really stunk at arts and crafts when I was a kid. I failed Paper Chain Making 101, so it's a fair bet any pinecone garland I string would suck."

  He ripped a sheet mixed with the bedroll into towel-size strips, his flexing chest broad with dog tags nestled between toned pecs, bare, inviting. "I think we're better off if I give you the rustic salon treatment."

  Even through his jokes and keeping things light for her, she could see his need for her trust. He was talking about a lot more than a hair wash right now and they both knew it. As much as she believed she had a right to her secrets, she also should have been honest with him. Or cut him loose.

  She'd married this man while holding herself away. Their marriage might not be salvageable, but she still owed him something in honor of the love they had once shared.

  The shaking in her hands spread to her insides until she feared she rattled as much as the Quonset hut against the roaring winds. But she wasn't a coward. She would start with the hair first, secrets later.

  "Thank you. Since I can't have the pinecone trimmings, I'll graciously accept the hair wash."

  Shifting her legs under her, she sat on her feet and leaned her head over the tub on the floor by the one full of clean water. Her dog tags clanked against the metal. Smoke from the fire drafted surprisingly well up the pipe until only the sweet scent of burning wood remained, almost sweet enough to cover the musty smell of bedding and damp clothes.

  She gripped the sides of the basin, trying not to feel silly and, oh, so vulnerable with the back of her neck bare as if for an executioner. Her spine arched right there for him to see, curved in such a submissive pose.

  Come on, Josh. Talk. Or do something other than tempt her with the warm whisper of his breath across her shoulders. The fire snapped and popped like the nerves inside her.

  He cupped his hands in the water and trickled it over her head. Lukewarm, but still she shivered.

  "Do you want me to heat it more?"

  And wait longer? Or explain why now she suddenly didn't mind having grungy hair because the mere thought of being so exposed to him left her feeling weak and hungry? "No. Thanks. Go ahead and finish."

  His hands continued to scoop until her hair was saturated. He reached for the bar of soap and lathered it in his hands. Not a salon-quality shampoo, but she would settle for clean.

  Soon, please.

  He palmed the crown of her head, slowly working over her hair to spread the suds. Strong fingers from an even stronger man massaged gentle circles along her scalp. Lethargy spread through her exhausted body. Against her steely will, her head lolled forward.

  As long as she was doing the vulnerable gig, she might as well go for broke and finish spilling her story. At least this way she didn't have to look him in the face when she talked. "When I told him, Ben, that it was over, he seemed so surprised."

  Josh's fingers slowed, then picked up pace again while he stayed silent.

  "He just sat there behind the steering wheel, staring stunned out the windshield over the city. I thought all the signs were there that the relationship needed to end, but he seemed clueless."

  And what were her instincts telling her now? That she wanted to climb all over Josh and lose herself in his arms. In him. She yearned to forget everything and roll with him on the sleeping bag, bathed in the warmth and light of a crackling fire and his equally hot touch. But even if she trusted him, she wasn't so certain she trusted herself.

  Stay strong. Hold it together.

  Even if that meant being alone? Losing the incredible feel of Josh's hands, so conversely comforting and stimulating.

  Her hands clinging tighter to the metal rim, she rested her forehead against her knuckles. "Then he started crying and begging me not to leave him. I actually felt sorry for him—until I realized he was playing me. When the tears didn't work, he got angry." An understatement. Her jaw ached at the memory. "He hit me. I still don't understand how he gained control over the situation so quickly. I guess he caught me by surprise. And then I was dazed. My head hit the dash pretty hard."

  His fingers twitched against her skull. Veins stood out along the tops of his feet. His hands fell away and she almost cried out at the loss. Then she heard the swirl of water, caught a flash as he scooped through.

  Water trickled over her head and into the basin, parting murky suds. If only the past could be that easy to clean away, but she knew otherwise. "Eventually, he realized what he'd done."

  After more blows than she could count or even fully remember. She couldn't begin to explain her mad scramble trying to get the hell out of the car. Every one of her nails breaking as she scraped her hand across the door, her vision clouded from a swollen eye, snarls of her hair, tears born of terror.

  She couldn't bring herself to go into that much detail, but surely Josh would understand how those horrible details imprinted themselves in the mind after his college trauma with the gunman.

  A strange new thought flickered. Why had she never thought of Josh understanding because of his past? Likely because he seemed so damned invincible she couldn't imagine him feeling so weak. "Ben panicked. I think. I'm not really sure what was going through his head. He started the car."

  She blinked back tears that wanted to slip into those streams of water Josh kept pouring over her with soothing regularity. "He drove for maybe a mile or two before the car went off the road. We rolled down an embankment. He died and somehow I survived."

  The water stopped. Josh cupped the back of her neck with one hand. She didn't bother protesting, just let the comforting heat of his touch seep into her. "At the hospital, they all assumed my bruises—" the broken ribs "—were from the accident. I didn't see the need to tell anyone otherwise. It would have only hurt his family even more when they were already grieving."

  She swiped the cloth off the floor, pressing it to her eyes, then up over her wet hair until she ran out of delay tactics. She looked up at Josh, his face calm even while veins bulged along his arms as well as his feet now. A pulse popped in his temple.

  He shoved the washtubs aside with overly controlled movements. "You still didn't tell anyone? Just for you, to let it out?"

  "And risk having it get back to his family? Or mine?" The towel fell to her lap along with her hands. "You know how overprotective my father is. When he heard that both Darcy and I wanted to go in the military, he blew a gasket. One of the few times he ever lost his temper with us. I stood him down straight off, but baby-girl Darcy had a harder time winning. The last thing I needed was more reason for him to think I couldn't protect myself. No. It was better just to let it go."

  One brow shot up so high he didn't need to say a word.

  "Or at least try to let it go." She twisted the damp towel around her hands. "I know it's been eight years, and yes, I still have boundary issues. I have some serious trust issues, as well, way beyond whether or not to let go during sex."

  He hunkered beside her, letting her talk, giving her space. But did he have to be so broad and big and looming in doing it?

  She combed her fingers through her hair, more for something to do than from any real need to tame her short locks. A few months after Ben's death, she'd chopped off her long hair that had impeded her view on that horrible night. One of a million little ways she'd struggled to resurrect her confidence.

  "My head can tell me all day long that he was just a creep, but I trusted that creep for nearly two years. And when a person you trust betrays you in such a fundamental way…It breaks something inside that I'm not sure I can ever fix. So yeah, you were right when we argued back at the apartment about me not giving my all to the marriage. I haven't been a hundred percent yours
in ways that had nothing to do with sex."

  There. She'd admitted it. God, why couldn't he just put his arms around her and tell her everything would be fine? Her body still hummed with the awareness from the way he'd seduced her with a simple hair wash.

  And she suffered no delusions. She'd been thoroughly seduced by his touch. But where did they go from here? "Will you just sit down," she snapped, then felt like a total witch. "Please. Don't you want to talk? Or ask me questions? Or yell at me for not telling you sooner?"

  He lowered beside her, his long legs stretching to the end of the bedroll. "Do you want to talk more?"

  About as much as she wanted an icicle in her eye. "Do you?"

  "Right now isn't about me. It's about you. And actually, I think you've had enough of talking for one night."

  Her stomach twisted tight with nerves…and an undeniable anticipation that transcended good judgment. "Oh. So do you, uh, wanna go to bed?"

  CHAPTER SIX

  GO TO BED? HELL, YEAH, HE WANTED TO go to bed with Alicia. More than he needed air he longed to toss a few more logs on the fire, recline them both along the padded length of the stacked sleeping bags and celebrate that they were still alive. They wouldn't even have to worry about birth control thanks to her Norplant.

  He always burned to bury himself inside her, an ever-present desire Josh didn't see waning anytime soon. If ever. Especially not with her on a blanket wearing nothing but a red plaid braand-panties set, looking like the best gift ever waiting to be unwrapped. Her slicked-back hair reminded him too well of the feel of her seeping into him while he massaged soap into her scalp.

  But right now, more than sex, he needed to hold her and he suspected she needed the same. So he watched for some sign that she wouldn't bolt if he gathered her pride-filled body against him and offered her the comfort he knew she would never let down her guard enough to request. Sex could wait.

  Sex?

  Making love, he amended, because hell, yes, he loved her. Even as pissed as he was right now over her keeping such an important part of her past from him, he couldn't deny the obvious any longer. He still loved his wife.