Eric (In the Company of Snipers Book 15)

by Irish Winters

  “Shh,” he whispered, instead of ‘Shit!’ He didn’t need the gentle distraction of her fingers smoothing over his pecs and seeking assurance he wasn’t so sure she deserved.

  She nodded, bumping his chin with the top of her head, or maybe she just shook so hard that it seemed she’d agreed. God, he wanted to hold her, to pull her beneath his arm. To keep her safe, but she’d given up that option when she’d walked away. Was he stupid enough to believe she truly wanted him in all the ways he still wanted her?

  Not likely. She needed help. That was all. She might have asked for him by name, but he’d read her body language back at Rosie’s. She’d seemed sorrowful, but maybe she just seemed caught. Once again, she’d deceived him, pretending to be Finn to get him to come save her. Why should he forgive and forget?

  I haven’t.

  Yes, you have, his heart declared as quickly as he’d denied it.

  No. I haven’t. I’m not that stupid.

  Even he knew better.

  A slow burn commenced in both biceps from the strain of holding the fence, matching the slow burn in his pants. God was real funny, creating men like he had, their bodies ever eager for sex even at the worst of times, springing to attention at the slightest possibility of action, or the slightest scent of their woman. Even now with some killer on the other side of a silly green wall. Even now with the woman who’d destroyed his heart. Hell, his whole life. Even now…

  Tension tightened his back muscles into planks. Sweat trickled down his forehead. Still, he held his position. Someone had to protect Shea. I might as well be the dumb jock who...

  Still.

  Loves.

  Her.

  Damn it. I do.

  Eric swallowed hard, convinced he had to be the stupidest man on the planet. He tipped his chin to the top of her head and offered what little comfort he could.

  The sound of the intruder’s motorcycle reduced to a putter and headed back toward their hiding place. No doubt the guy couldn’t decide if his prey had truly gotten away or if he’d been duped. Maybe he was still sizing up the wall, intending to jump it. That made more sense. Yeah. He was doing exactly what any predator would be doing. Probing for a weak spot.

  Eric held his breath, his mind in a reluctant argument over the woman hugged up against him. Why should I forgive her? She’s the one who left, damn it. Not me. Hell, I searched for her for months after I got served with divorce papers. I never contested it. Never even retained a lawyer. Just left the POS on the kitchen counter and there it stayed. Just sucked up the hurt. Went back to work. Kept hoping she’d get in touch. Prayed. And now she needs me?

  His mind flittered across time and space to Jordan and Rosie, and instantly, blocked the worst-case scenario of what might have happened. The seconds turned into minutes. Eric lifted his head to keep an eye on the edge of ivy above him and his tenuous hiding place. His arms shook in their extended position. His biceps burned. Yet he didn’t shrug Shea off. Didn’t even ask her to help. Just kept his chin on top of her head and hoped they got out of this alive.

  To make matters worse, she’d pressed her nose into his neck, almost as if she’d read his thoughts about protecting her. Her fingers climbed up his back beneath the leather jacket, clinging to his shoulder blades. Her breath came hard and warm against his skin. Her lashes fluttered against his Adam’s apple.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and fought the overwhelming feelings of his heart, a sucker for all things Shea. Poor damned thing. God, I prayed for you to come back. I do love you, baby.

  And there in the middle of nowhere, with certain danger and death only feet away, the sweetest memory surfaced. That night in Rio. Their honeymoon. Their first time making love. No clothes. Didn’t need them. They had a crazy pagan lust for each other and... love. Hours and hours of passionate, sweaty love.

  After an exhaustive exploration of each other’s bodies, and possibly one too many orgasms, (if there were such a thing), she’d fallen asleep with her face mashed against his chest. With each flutter of her lashes, she’d tickled the daylights out of his nipple.

  Instead of disturbing her, he’d held still for hours, content to watch the tired beauty in his arms. The angel he’d worn out with nothing but love. He pressed a kiss into the crown of her head. I still love you, Shea. I always have. I always will.

  That night he’d brushed the silken tresses of her fudge-colored hair away from her swollen, well-kissed lips and out of her eyes. That was the most perfect moment of his life. He’d slowed his breathing so he didn’t disturb her. He’d wondered how a guy like him had gotten lucky enough to marry a hot babe who’d wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. He wondered still. Why did you call for me, Shea? What do you want, just a ticket home?

  The sound of the intruder shutting down his bike motor on the other side of the wall sucked Eric out of Rio and back to Ireland. His senses heightened as the meadow calmed.

  Insects buzzed. A dog barked off in the distance. But the biker didn’t make a sound, not one footfall.

  Eric strained to hear any indication the man had gotten off his mount and might be headed their way. He planned for worst-case scenarios and wished for his knife, but it lay sharpened and ready in his gear bag a good five feet away. His pistol was still holstered, his arms and hands raised supporting the gate, not much of a defensive position at all. More like submissive.

  Silence stretched while he waited for the scrape of a fresh magazine being slammed into that deadly AR, anything that would tell him the intruder’s next course of action. A suspicious killer might spray the bank of ivy with rapid fire just to make sure.

  Instead, a black and gray jackdaw fluttered off a branch overhead and flew to the nearby patch of trees lining this side of the wall. Eric accepted what the universe had just provided. The bird’s presence might actually convince the intruder there was no one here. He sucked in a steadying breath and hoped.

  The sun climbed higher. The leather jacket grew warmer while he breathed into Shea’s hair and wished the men hunting her would all go far, far away.

  Come on, you bastard. Start your bike up and get the hell out of here. Don’t make me have to kill you.

  At last, a low grumble from the other side of the fence in—Arabic? Okay, that made sense. This guy had to be in league with Abdul-Mutaal, though how he’d known where Shea was made no sense. But if he was with Mutaal, who were the Frenchmen with? Eric hadn’t discounted what Shea said the night she’d run from Grover’s cottage. She’d been so sure she’d seen a scimitar. What the hell was going on?

  A couple seconds passed, but finally, the Arab restarted his bike. He gunned the engine and rumbled off in the direction he’d come from.

  Eric blew out a sigh of relief. They just might live after all. He let the gate sag into its web of ivy and he leaned back enough to peer down into Shea’s face. Still nestled under his chin, she looked up, her bluish-green eyes wide with answers to questions he wasn’t sure he wanted to ask. Not yet.

  Where have you been?

  Why did you leave?

  Mostly—do you still love me?

  Ivy dripped from the tallest trees, swarmed the trunks, and blanketed the lowest branches. Green on green. Lovely. Questions could wait. They needed a safe place to lay low until he was absolutely certain the coast was clear. Then they’d start the bike up and venture back onto a paved road. Then they’d find a way to contact Alex. Jordan, too.

  Twisting his neck, he looked beyond Shea to the lush, green forest of this fenced communal pasture. His stupid heart was still tender from the deepest hurt a woman could inflict on a man, but it was also hopeful for the first time in years.

  Damn it. Love shouldn’t hurt so damned hard.

  He held an index finger to his lips, needing Shea to maintain a code of silence until they’d gotten farther into the woods. Their adversary might still be nearby. No bounty hunter would’ve given up so easily. He’d be back. If not him, Abdul Mutaal or the Legionnaires.

  CHAP
TER FOURTEEN

  Shea snagged her helmet and helped Eric lift the heavy motorcycle to its wheel, then followed while he pushed and grunted it over moss-covered rocks and rotted branches. The greenery beneath her bare feet proved sharp and prickly, but none of it prickled as much as her conscience.

  She avoided its nagging by watching him work. There was a time she thought he might have been of Hispanic descent, his skin the color of caramel and his hair dark and sexy. Now she knew he was simply one of those guys who tanned easily. At the first hint of summer sun, he’d turn brown. Sweat glistened at the back of his neck. His short black hair curled under his ears, just barely, just enough that she wanted to run her fingertips over his head and mess with it. He must’ve gotten cut in the accident.

  Dried blood still etched the side of his face and jaw, but not once had he complained at the task he’d set himself to. He just kept pushing and grunting. A fallen log covered with moss required more effort. His booted toes dug in. Muscles bunched beneath the back pockets of his denim jeans. His arms stretched forward. He grunted when the leather jacket rode up, lifting his shirt and revealing the tanned muscles of his lower back, his leather belt, and the black band of his underwear advertising Hanes.

  If this had been another time and if the circumstances were different, she would have snagged that elastic advertisement and snapped it—just for fun. Eric would have been all over her in play. They would have laughed and wrestled and…

  But this was not that other time. Shea kept watching and remembering, until at last he cleared the log and leaned the bike against the trunk of a huge, old oak, itself beset with the climbing nemesis of Irish ivy. Shrugging out of his leather jacket, he tossed it aside and brushed the sweat and blood from his forehead with the back of one hand. They both smelled like bog, but poor Eric hadn’t had time to change clothes like she had, much less boots. It hadn’t slowed him down. Not once.

  Shea stalled the inevitable. “You’re hurt.”

  “I’m fine,” he growled, his face flushed, but his gaze filled with the sincere need for truth. “Do you want to explain to me why you’ve got three assholes from France on your ass, and now some jerk from the Mideast? I’m pretty sure he just cursed you out in Arabic. What the hell are you into, Shea? Heroin? Hashish? Meth? God, just tell me. I need to know what I’m fighting.”

  Judgment day had come. There was nowhere to run and nowhere she’d rather be.

  “No drugs,” she murmured, hesitant how far back she should go or what to tell him. There was so much. She wished she were invisible.

  Eric lowered his butt to the lush green forest floor and sat cross-legged, his wrists on his knees and his holster on the ground beside him. “I’ve got all day, Shea, and it’s quiet at the moment. That guy might return. Might not. Tell me what you do know so I can figure what to do next. Who’s chasing you and why? What do you have that they want?”

  She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat a bigger hurdle than she expected. Dropping slowly to her knees a few feet opposite him, she slid out of Rosie’s leather jacket and tucked her bare feet beneath her. Leaning onto one hand, she met meet his gaze.

  “I miss Cheyenne,” she said softly, needing Eric to understand the impetus that had propelled her from his life.

  He bobbed his head once and gulped. “I miss her, too,” he said, his voice husky and tight.

  Shea stifled the sob that always choked out of her at the mention of her daughter. She gathered her courage and kept going. “Remember the story you made up about the three, dirty, little pigs? You told it to her that night she decided she wanted to sleep in her sandbox.”

  His eyes filled with tenderness for the child they’d created and lost. “I do.”

  She lowered her head and studied the myriad of plant life beneath her hand. Baby ferns curled around her fingers. Soft, green moss cushioned the heel of her palm. A thousand spears of tiny pink flowers shot up through the velvet carpet. Everywhere she looked, she saw Cheyenne. She would’ve loved picking those flowers and pinching them into a bouquet to give—me.

  “Remember when the mother pig dropped out of heaven one day and made them wash their hands before they could eat dinner? Remember how surprised they were that they even had a mother? Remember when she fixed them buttered corn and roast beef and mashed potatoes and wouldn’t let them eat the Twinkies and cotton candy and all the junk food they’d been eating?” Her heart swelled with the sweet memory of her handsome husband with his tiny daughter on his lap. He’d cocked his head to peer into Cheyenne’s face while he told the story, his baby girl nestled inside the circle of his arms. Dressed in his uniform of the day, he’d been the perfect Prince Charming for that little girl. And I miss him.

  Eric cleared his throat, and Shea didn’t have to look to know the cords in his neck were strung tight, or that he’d wiped his face on his sleeve. Eric’s heart was as soft as those Twinkies in his make-believe fairytale, but twice as sweet. Maybe three times.

  Shea struggled to control her ragged emotions, a difficult chore every day of her life. The green tendrils hanging from the tree branches overhead all seemed to have reached a point where they ceased falling and curled upward again, stretching for the sun. She was the same as that ivy. She’d reached the lowest point in her lifetime. To continue, she needed the comfort of the only one in her pitiful life who understood the canyon of her grief.

  The laughing jackdaws in the forest broke the stillness. Water dripped somewhere nearby. Suddenly, Cheyenne was there in spirit, if only because she would’ve loved a picnic in this magical setting. She would’ve climbed up every low branch and invented her own stories of unicorns and leprechauns, because she was so much like her father. Full of light and life.

  Shea opened her mouth, but all that came out was a creaky, “I...” She tried again, positive she deserved nothing this kind man had to offer, but just as sure she needed him to understand why she’d left him.

  “I...” was all that lifted from her parched throat. Her paralyzed brain had refused admission to her vocabulary. She’d been struck dumb by her own sin.

  Eric seemed not to have noticed her failure. He rolled to his knees and crawled over the weeds and flowers between them. He didn’t stop until he cupped one hand to her chin. “Hey. It’s me. Remember?”

  She blinked the tears off her eyelashes and held her breath. He had every reason to hate her, but there he was, reaching for her. She sucked in a sob and took the chance she’d been given and looked into his eyes. The rest of her life came down to this one defining moment. Either he loved her still and would find a way to forgive her, or she had no reason to live.

  “Do you remember the name I chose for that mother pig?” he asked, his thumb tenderly rubbing a circle on her chin.

  Of course, she remembered. It was the reason the Reynolds family had giggled together all those years ago. The reason they’d all snorted like those three dirty, little pigs. Not now. She tried to speak it again, but the simple, one word answer caught in her throat.

  He edged closer, his lips inches away. “I gave that mama pig a very special name, one that belonged to the smartest, prettiest, most loving mother in the whole world,” he whispered. “That’s the only mama our little girl loved. I named her after you, Shea. It made Cheyenne laugh. Remember?”

  God, how could I ever forget? A tiny cry for rescue crept up from her soul, needing to be heard. “Tell me that story again,” Shea cried, her voice tight with the pain of losing her child. “I... I really want to be that mama pig again.”

  With a groan, Eric bowled her over, his hand behind her head to cushion her fall, and his tears raining down on her face. Strong fingers skimmed over her cheekbones. The length of his body and legs pressed the length of hers. “Talk to me, Shea. Please. Tell me where you’ve been, and what you’ve been doing. We could’ve gone through everything together. Why did you leave?”

  “I... I couldn’t stay.” The pain in her chest twisted upon itself. “You were so sad when we lost her, a
nd I... I let you down.”

  He leaned his forehead to hers. Nose to nose they faced each other. “No, you didn’t. Life let us down, baby. It let us both down. I needed you then, and I need you now.” The soft cushion of moss beneath Shea comforted her nearly as much as the weight of the sweaty, sensuous male body crushing her. The pads of his thumbs caressed her temples while his fingers threaded into her hair. “Maybe more.”

  The pain eked out one word at a time. “I… I couldn’t stay. I was afraid.”

  A shadow shifted over his face. “Of what? Of me?”

  She stroked his cheek. “No. Of me. I couldn’t think straight. You greeted everyone at the viewing like you were glad to see them, and I wanted to be strong like you, but I… I couldn’t. I was so angry. So mad. I hated everyone back then, and every hand you clasped and every other person you comforted pushed me farther away until… I broke.”

  Shea didn’t want to relive the day she’d run, but she needed him to understand “I tried to act strong, Eric. I tried to be brave and I tried to help everyone else when they cried, when they said they didn’t know how I could live without her. What a stupid thing to say to me. God, Eric, to me! The mother of that little girl! I still can’t live without her.”

  He pulled her forehead to his lips. “I know, baby. I know.” For the first time, he sounded as broken as she felt, only that wasn’t right. He’d sounded heartbroken before, only this time, her ears were opened wide. Shea finally heard Eric’s pain through the noisy grief in her mind.

  There was painful courage in the realization that they shared the same depth of grief; that he understood precisely what she meant. “But one morning, I couldn’t pretend I was strong anymore, Eric. I couldn’t live without Cheyenne, and I didn’t care about anyone else. Cheyenne was my baby, and I... I...” She closed her eyes and wished the unthinking world of people who meant well away. “I just let go. I fell off the tightrope I’d been walking, and I… I…” Left.