Delia sat down on the bed and fell back on the cover. “Actually, It’s going to bed that makes me want to cry. There’s never anyone else there. It used to be a happy place. Now, it’s empty.”
“You and Ted had a great relationship. I can see why it would be hard going back to the single life. What about men? Is there anyone at work who might be husband material?”
“They’re all too short or too married. I have friends, but I’m in charge of all of them. They can’t date the boss.”
“You met someone you liked at the Andersons last week. He was tall.”
“Yes. I thought he had possibilities, but he had tattoos. I saw the edge of one under his shirt. I hate tattoos. He had a scar too. It was on his neck. Maybe it’s because I’m an Army brat, but I can’t handle scars or tattoos.”
“How about a dating site? You could put in that you aren’t open to any man with tattoos or scars.”
Delia sat up. “I feel so bad about that, especially considering where I work. I know we have veterans with scars, and they need to be accepted. I just can’t do it. Speaking of guilt, have I ever told you about my father and brother.”
“You said your brother lost an arm in Afghanistan.”
“I always feel queasy whenever I look at him. My father’s worse. He fought in Viet Nam. Two tours. He has PTSD. My mother does nothing but care for him. It’s wearing her out. I want somebody who isn’t military in any way.”
“That shouldn’t be hard.” There was a pause. “I’ve got to go. I’m cooking a roast, and it needs me.”
“Okay. Bye Beck.”
“Take care.”
Delia walked toward the bathroom and caught her reflection in the full length mirror on the closet door.
She did ‘The Pose’. She’d started doing it when she was a teenager and unsteady in her femininity. It consisted of tilting her hips, lifting one knee and sticking her chest out. She ran her hands up the sides of her chest, moving slowly as her hands went past her breasts. She completed the movement by sliding her hands up her neck into her hair and looking at some imaginary man and smiling. She liked it and did it at least once a day.
The next morning, she drove down to the 140th Intelligence unit at the Camp Breed military base and parked her car.
She walked to her office and through a door. Ahead of her sat a group of men who were all short or married and who always watched her walk from the door to her office. She liked the attention but couldn’t show it because it would undermine her authority.
The day went well. Her job consisted of handling field agents who investigated terrorist intelligence in the Los Angeles area.
That night she faced her empty bed again. Her face hardened. She turned around and stomped back to her computer. She fired it up and found the Veterans Together website. She’d found out about the website a few days earlier when an advertisement came in the mail.
As she flicked through the list of eligible men, her mouth drew down in discouragement and disgust. She’d seen a lot of soldiers. There was always one or two that captured her attention. The dating site seemed to appeal only to ugly men. She didn’t want to judge men by their looks, but her emotions required it.
She turned to the fifth man on the list and stopped. Luther ‘Stone’ Stonersland caused her to stop moving, even stop breathing. He was handsome and looked rugged and capable. She read his bio. He’d been on two tours of Afghanistan and worked with the Army reserve. She saw his description and nearly fainted. He was six feet eight inches tall. She could wear heels.
She filled out the form to begin contact. She wrote, “Hi Mr. Stonersland. I’m a lonely widow, age 25. I want a good, strong man to date. You can’t have any scars or tattoos. I like an unmarked body.”
Chapter 3
Take A Chance
Stone saw the notice and paced around the room. He knew what he looked like in the mirror. He muttered, “It’s only one date. What the hell. I’d like a date with a beautiful woman. It’ll end when she finds out I have markings on my body, but I’ll enjoy it until then.”
He replied to her message. “Hi Miss Stackhouse. I’m 27. I’m not gorgeous, but I don’t get many complaints. Let’s go to dinner and talk. I’d love to talk with a beautiful woman.”
Luther Stonersland got out of the shower and stood in front of a mirror. Since he’d seen it before, he didn’t notice the depth and breadth of his chest or the size of his arms. He barely glanced at his face. It was a good face, not pretty, but nice, especially when he smiled. When he frowned his buddies told him he looked like the death of all hope.
He counted the bullet holes along his side. He saw five. He had another one on his chest, low on the ribs. It was smaller than the others. There were always six. He measured the slash across his ribs on the other side. It was always as long as the distance between the fingertip on his little finger and the tip of his thumb. He counted the tattoos; still four on the front and three more on his back. His favorite had a girl in a bikini, an American flag and the heftiest Harley Davidson motorcycle that the company made. The words ‘ Babes, Big Bikes and Democracy. Is this a Great Country or What?’ were written underneath.
He moved slowly toward the closet in his bedroom. As he walked, he rubbed his left hip. The Army replaced the hip socket the IED blew apart. The metal joint worked well as soon as he warmed it up in the morning. His knee replacement on the same side not so much. He’d have to go back and have it adjusted. It caught sometimes when he knelt down.
He put on his uniform. He’d wanted to wear something that didn’t have all of his medals and insignia. He couldn’t function as a team leader in his Special Forces unit so he shouldn’t have the round insignia on his arm. The Army disagreed.
He was grateful for the Army’s care. As a Special Forces veteran with a silver star and two bronze stars, they owed him something. He stayed in shape and wanted field assignments. The Army disagreed. His desk job was demanding and important, but it was still a desk job. He didn’t resent it. The Army could have separated him from the Service. They didn’t, and he still qualified for Army medical care. The job gave him something to do during the day. The nights were his own to fill.
He drove to work in the Intelligence Unit of 124th Special Forces Command. He had to walk down a row of desks with men and women at each one. When he entered through the frosted glass door, They all stood up.
He grinned. This made up for everything else, almost. He did the usual male handshake and pat-on-the-back with the men and got a full hug from the women. Each woman ended the hug with a kiss on the cheek. Nobody spoke. It wasn’t necessary.
His boss was Colonel Andrew Hanson. They had a ceremony each day. It started with Andrew and indicated how the day was going to go.
Sandra Collins walked into his office. “The Colonel wants to see you.”
“Thanks, Sandra.”
Sandra was thirty nine and felt it. She had crows feet from too much sun and wind and a figure she considered bony and unlovely. Her mousy brown hair and dull brown eyes didn’t help much. She was a civilian, hired by the Army as the Colonel’s secretary until someone else could be found.
Colonel Hanson was two years away from retirement. He still had the straight-up posture that the army drilled into him. His blue eyes made women of any age look twice. He was a grandfather five times over.
He walked into Stone’s office and said, “Hey Stone. How’s life today.”
Stone grinned. Andy said ‘Stone’ not ‘Sergeant Stonersland’ which meant no big fires to put out and they could loosen up slightly. “Same old. Same old.”
At age twenty six, Stone could have been Andy’s son. Sometimes Stone felt like he was.
The Colonel said, “How did you sleep last night?”
“Just one dream, and I didn’t scream once.”
The Colonel looked at him with intensity and didn’t speak.
Stone said, “Alright. I’ll give you the entire situation. The therapy works as long as I don’t have
a lot of stress. Last night was better. The doctor says she likes me.”
“Your therapist likes you. Might be a chance there.”
“No,” Stone shook his head. “She’s almost sixty, gives me a hug after every session.”
“Better than a punch in the mouth.”
“True.”
The day went well. Stone knew Intelligence work. He coordinated the surveillance of their possible suspects and loved when it a complicated task was completed successfully.
The day had to end. They all did. Stone drove home in silence. He could have gone to a bar with his friends, but he didn’t drink. Growing up with an alcoholic father made him uncomfortable in bars.
He ate, watched TV and worked on his computer until bedtime. He took a hot bath to help his muscles and prosthetics settle down. The bed was still empty. He looked at it in disgust. He stood still for a moment, trying to think of some way of avoiding the sterile bed. He found one. He’d joined a website dating service the day before. He checked Veterans Together and saw a response to his ad. He answered.
He was so excited he couldn’t sleep. To keep his mind occupied, he went through the steps of making a cherry pie. He’d made one the day before, and he could smell it from the kitchen.
Chapter 4
Date
Delia arrived first that Friday night. The Chez Rotisserie had class. The chefs worked in a kitchen set in the middle of the dining floor. The owners used soundproof glass to keep the noise and profanity from the patrons.
Diners tried to lip read the words of the head chef, who had a very bad grasp on polite behavior, as he yelled at his subordinates.
Delia and Stone agreed that Stone would wear a carnation in his lapel to identify himself.
Delia saw the very large man with the white carnation walk slowly into the room. Her eyes dilated. A slight sheen of perspiration sprang up on her skin, and she began to breath very deeply. She stood up, and Stone walked toward her.
She frowned when she saw his slight limp. She told herself, “It might be nothing; a high school football injury or something like that.”
Stone shook her hand. “I’m Luther Stonersland. Call me ‘Stone’ please. ‘Luther’ sounds like someone who runs a still in the backwoods.” He smiled. Delia felt a little weak in the knees. He held her chair as she sat down, and he moved to his own.
“I’m Delia Stackhouse. Not ‘Dee’. I like ‘Delia’. She smiled.
“I like it too.” He picked up the menu. “Let’s order.”
Stone divided his attention between the menu and Delia. She’d worn a dress with a low neckline. He liked the soft fullness he saw above the fabric.
Delia could feel his eyes on her décolletage. She sat up straighter and held her chest out. She bent over slightly as if studying the menu. She’d done the same thing in front of mirror and liked the view it presented. She stayed quiet until the waiter came for their order. She did it on purpose. She knew men were visually oriented. The longer he looked at her, the more interested he’d become. When the waiter left, she said, “Tell about yourself.”
Stone told her the words he’d been practicing all day. “I was born in Los Angeles and went to UCLA. I have a degree in criminology. I served time in the Army. I still work for the Army. I’m in an intelligence unit. What about you?”
Delia said the words, she’d been practicing all day. “I was born in Denver, got a degree in mathematics from Colorado State. I was married for eleven months to a very nice man. He died a year ago.” She paused. “I work for the Army too. I’m in intelligence as well. That’s a coincidence.”
“I agree. We can talk about it, but we’ll have to sift out the sensitive information.”
“I know.”
Stone told her about his work as a coordinator for the agents in the field. Delia told him about her work running the Special Decoding Department.
The food was good and the conversation comfortable for ten more minutes.
Then it all went to hell.
Delia said, “I noticed you had a bit of a limp when you walked in. High school injury?” She’d put off asking for as long as she could.
Stone didn’t say anything for a moment. He looked at her eyes, directly and hungrily. He sighed. “I really like you. You’re intelligent and beautiful.”
Delia said, “Are you going to tell me you’ve got cancer, and you’re going to die in six months?”
“No. It’s just that I’m in a special situation. Not a lot of women can handle a man with my baggage.”
Delia sat back in her chair. She frowned. “I should have known it. After all we found each other on a veterans dating site. Where did it happen? Fallujah? Anwar province?”
“Fallujah. IED by the side of the road. I have a metal hip and knee joint.”
Delia closed her eyes. Without opening them, she said, “I knew it. It was too good to be true.” She opened them quickly and leaned forward. “Tell me about your tattoos and scars. I know you have them.”
“Seven tattoos and six scars. Five of the scars are from an AK47. They run down my left side. One was made by a pistol. I don’t know what kind. It’s on the front of my chest. The last one is from a Al Queda knife. It runs down my ribs on my right side.”
What about the tattoos? Any naked women or knives stabbing skulls?”
“Three women. None naked. No knives or skulls or declarations of loyalty. The scars and tattoos must make a difference to you.”
She studied his face. “It does. If we were going to get to know each other better, I’d explain it to you.” She stopped talking. His face looked hard and controlled. She said, “I don’t understand. I can see you’re an honest man. You’re too big to bother lying. Why didn’t you tell me about your service?”
“I apologize for not mentioning it. A lie by omission is still a lie.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I just wanted a normal experience with a woman. A normal date like other men have. I didn’t want to have to tell war stories or discuss weapons or talk about death.” He looked down at his food. “I’m not hungry anymore. What about you?”
“No.”
They didn’t talk. Not as they left the restaurant or in the car or when he opened her car door and walked her to her apartment. They didn’t even say good night.
Chapter 5
Maternity Clothes
Fahad smiled. “It goes forward. They hate each other. My contacts in their offices will put them together for the delivery to Las Vegas. My opponents are a cripple and a woman, and they won’t work well together. How do these Americans say it? It will be a slam dunk.”
Sandra Reichart fretted. Racheem Sulleiman, the man she loved, would knock on her door in an hour, and she didn’t like her hair. She stood back from the mirror. Her blouse and skirt fit well. She looked good. She frowned. She muttered, “How can I keep a man when my boobs are so small.”
The knock came an hour early. She ran to open it. A swarthy, handsome man stood on the other side. He smiled at her. She smiled back.
“Sorry I’m early, a meeting was moved up.” He said.
She stepped back to let him come in. “For a carpet salesman, you have a lot of meetings.”
“That’s true. I don’t have a lot of time” He grabbed her hand, bent over at the waist and put his shoulder into her midsection. He pulled the hand, pushed into the midsection and hoisted Sandra over his shoulder. She whooped and bounced on his heavily muscled shoulder. “Where are we going?”
“Bed, my darling. I’m going to fuck you.”
Sandra frowned. “That’s a crude word.”
“I know. I’m going to be crude and direct. I don’t feel like the soft approach today.”
Sandra hummed “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” as they made their way through the living room, down the hall and into the bedroom. She stopped humming. “What if I do? What if I want a soft approach?”
“I’m afraid we’re doing it my way today, honey. We’ll do it slow and nice next time.”
&nbs
p; He dropped her to her feet next to the bed. She frowned at him until he kissed her. It was a simple kiss until Racheem reached around her and grabbed her rear end with both hands. He lifted her up, tilting her hips into his body. She moaned when she felt something as big as a police baton rub against her belly.
Sandra had to wrap her arms around his neck because Racheem wasn’t carrying her weight any more. His hands tugged and lifted her skirt. She made protesting noises against his mouth. He ignored her.
When he had her skirt up around her waist, he slipped his hands inside her panties and held her butt. She wriggled against him.
He took his hands out of her panties and moved them down to her thighs. He lifted her knees. He brought her legs around him, and she hooked her ankles together.
ROMANCE: Badass Boss (Billionaire Alpha Bad Boy Romance) (Western Mail Order Bride Calendar Contemporary) Page 24