“I don’t think Catalina’s a woman.”
That was unexpected. “How do you figure?”
Naturally, Beau couldn’t just answer the question. “Tell me how you know her.”
“Who says I do?”
“I overheard Maverick and Gabe while I was laid up in the hospital. They said you ran into her years ago. That you suspect she killed a friend of yours.”
Alex crossed his arms over his chest. “Sounds like you know what I know.”
Beau shook his head. “Tell me what she looked like then. What’s wrong with her?”
Maybe there was hope for this junior agent after all. Alex came clean. “There’s nothing wrong with her. I’ve never actually spoken with Montego, but I saw her in a bar in Norfolk years ago the night before I first deployed. I was there with my buddies, Aaron Pope, Vic Irvinson, and Rodney Barr. Her hair was blonde. She weighed around one-ten. Stood five feet tall and came into the place with her brights on high-beam. Never noticed her hanging around before then, but she doubled down on Aaron the second she saw him. Her face lit up like she knew he’d be there. Like she’d been waiting for him. They left the bar together. Never saw Aaron again.”
Beau cocked his head. “Then we’re talking two different women. The one I fought was my height, and she packed more muscle than tits. She fought like a man. Long, stringy hair in a braid, and her breath smelled like black licorice, or some kind of chewing tobacco maybe.”
“Not so. Mother’s got a copy of the surveillance at Dulles. I’ve seen it. Catalina Montego was at the airport and at the hotel. I’ve seen those security cameras, too. She’s still five feet nothing and blonde. She’s the one who left your finger in her room.”
Beau shook his head. “You’re wrong. No five-foot chick could’ve gotten me out of Boxster’s on her own, much less wrangled me onto that stinking worktable at Ringers. Did you even think to check their security cameras? Most congressmen have them.”
Who does this ass think he is? Alex nodded, his patience wearing thin. With Beau it was always two steps forward and ten back. “I had Mother check them after the EMTs took you away the day you escaped. She also checked every available cam within a two-block radius of Boxster’s, and I had Lee and Adam retrieve your bike from curbside parking before Metro PD had it towed. Is that good enough for you?”
Of course, Beau ignored the part about Lee and Adam rescuing his motorcycle. “So what’d you find on the cameras? Anything? Or haven’t you looked at them yet?”
“I looked at them,” Alex bit out, sick and tired of this agent’s bullshit attitude. “Nothing conclusive, unless you being stuffed into a cab by two of Boxster’s bouncers counts as incontrovertible evidence, which it does not.”
“Wait. Was I conscious?”
Alex shook his head. “You were drunk and barely standing on your feet. But that’s the only sign of you being at Boxster’s that we’ve located.”
“Which doesn’t mean fuck.” Beau staggered to the nearest kitchen chair and all but fell into it. About time, too.
Alex hadn’t noticed how pale he was or how sunken and black his eyes were until then. Yet he wasn’t one to baby his men. If Beau thought he could walk on water, let him.
“Shit. She drugged me. I didn’t come to until after she cut my finger off. If she’s out to hurt you, why not film the bloody amputation? Why not wait until I was lucid and screaming? How’s she getting a thrill out of this” —he held up his bandaged hand “—without making sure you see it?”
“Because there are worse kinds of torture,” Alex growled, for the first time a note of true menace in his voice.
“Oh, yeah? Like what?” There went that damned hand again, like Alex needed to be reminded he’d failed his friend.
He leaned into his junior agent’s taunt, as tight as he’d been since he’d lost his first wife and daughter. “Think, for once, damn it. What’s worse than knowing, than watching exactly what you went through? What’s worse than watching torture? What’s every parent’s worst nightmare, when they send their sons and daughters off to war? Hell, when they send their kids to their first day of school!”
Beau’s eyes glazed over. He had no clue.
“Death is quantifiable,” Alex hissed. “It comes to us all, but when you know what happened… When you read the police report, and you finally know the name of the bastard who got the DUI for running the red light that killed your family... When you read the attending physician’s findings in the emergency room… When you know without a doubt that your little girl is never coming back…” He swallowed hard. “Then you know, don’t you?”
Beau nodded like he knew, but he still didn’t have a clue what Alex was talking about.
Weary to the deepest part of his soul for the misery Aaron’s parents were still going through, Alex breathed a tortured sigh. “Not knowing, Beau. Not knowing what happened to the people you care about hurts worse than knowing. It never stops hurting and it never gets better. I wake up every day thinking about Aaron. I think about his mom and dad. His sister. What they’re going through. At Christmas. On his birthday. On any damned day of the week. They’re out there, and they’re hurting, and they’re still waiting for him to come home. They’re still praying. They haven’t given up yet.” And neither have I.
Understanding flickered deep in Beau’s eyes. His chin tipped up like a wave on the ocean with a quiet swell of, ‘Oh, I get it now.’
Alex ended with, “Knowing and seeing what really happened brings closure, but not knowing is the worst torture, the kind you get to live with every day and night, every second for the rest of your life.”
“So if all you’d ever found of me was my little finger…” Beau let his words trail away. Yeah. Now it was sinking into that hard Army head. “You would’ve kept worrying? About me? Really?”
The way this asshole asked that simple question gutted Alex. Why’d Beau find it so hard to believe that people cared? How could anyone go through life not knowing what it felt like to be worried over?
“Every day for the rest of my life,” he finished, switching gears before he lost hold of his emotions. “I asked Detective Oberg to send a forensic artist. I want to know precisely who you think you saw.” Emphasis on think. Considering Beau’s condition when times he’d seen Montego, Alex doubted he really knew what he’d seen.
“When will he be here?”
Man, this guy never let up. “First thing tomorrow morning. Is that soon enough?” Heavy on the sarcasm.
Beau had the damned nerve to nod like Alex needed his concurrence, which he did not. He would’ve come back at Beau for being such an ass, but sweat beaded at the guy’s temples, and Alex knew how much energy it took to maintain that badass persona.
Swallowing his pride, he walked the distance from the window to the kitchen table and told his smart-assed agent, “You’re confined to quarters until further notice. I’ll have…” He was going to say he’d have dinner delivered but stopped short. “You haven’t eaten yet today, have you?”
Beau—being Beau—waved his good hand at the notion he might actually need sustenance. “I’m good.”
Said every stupid man ever.
Good, my ass. “Stay. Sit,” Alex snapped. “You take it black?”
That brought Beau’s head up. “What?” he asked, his lip curled like he thought Alex was the stupider of the two of them. His dark brown eyes looked like two pee-holes in a bank of cream-colored snow, he was that pale.
“Your coffee. You like it black or is that too strong for a pussy Ranger?”
“You trying to piss me off?”
“No, dumbass. I’m fixing you coffee and an omelet, so shut up.”
She stood in the dark shadows cast by the covered patio at Golden Horizons Assisted Living Home. Which was very much to her liking. The late afternoon sun had created perfect, long shadows that draped like ghouls over the comfortable pink and mint green chaise lounges. She’d never seen so many w
icker peacock chairs in her life, which told her what she needed to know about the rich old people living here. Not that she cared about them. She only wanted one. The prissy daughter might’ve gotten away, but Sanders Fitzgerald would not.
The lying bastard.
Chapter Thirty-Four
“Are you sure?” Beau asked McKenna one last time as he eyed the other bed, the one she hadn’t yet slept in. Sleeping with her while she was unconscious was different. Hell, this whole damned day had been different, and he had no idea where he stood anymore. Not with McKenna or Alex or—shit. Not even with himself. How could one man get so fucked in the head in less than twelve hours?
“No, I’m not sure,” she said, biting her bottom lip like a frightened little girl again. “All I know is I don’t want to be alone when it gets dark.”
And that was the problem. He didn’t want anyone else comforting her or her seeking out anyone else, not the way she trembled when she said ‘dark.’ Not since he’d awakened with her in his arms this morning had he felt so... so... something.
Hell, he wasn’t in touch with his feminine side. He just didn’t want McKenna in anyone else’s arms, okay? The thought drove him crazy in a scary way he’d never known before. As per usual, he needed to hit something. That was his go-to when things got intense. Physical pain. Sometimes, it helped.
But he couldn’t act like that with McKenna. She was so soft. Malleable. Vulnerable. She fit inside his callused body like a pearl in an ugly oyster. Pure and clean. Precious. He was the throwaway shell, good for nothing but the trash.
Lifting his good arm, Beau scraped his fingers over his head, unsure for the first time in forever. He didn’t want to screw up the delicate thing happening between McKenna and him. It’d only take one wrong word out of his big mouth to crush it, and he was the king of destruction.
In no way did he deserve her, and for sure she was still coping with what she’d lived through. But damn. She had no business wanting him in her bed. Admitting him into her life just didn’t seem right. As much as he hungered for what Alex had with Kelsey, what Maverick and Gabe had with their wives, Beau had never been half of a couple. Any couple. He did alone, and he was damned good at it. But alone was never enough, and she was here, and so was he, and...
Shit. At least she’d dressed in two-piece pajamas instead of that flimsy shift. Still… Most nights he slept in boxers, and those pajama bottoms of hers with that thin elastic band were removable. Easily.
Swallowing hard, he nodded. “Then climb in. Face the other way. I’ll join you.”
From behind. Not like that meant her ass would be any safer from his all-male, starved-for-a-woman’s-body than her front, but it was the best he could do. He would keep her safe, even from himself. Putting her in a separate bedroom like China suggested earlier—which McKenna had shot down the second she brought it up—was a risk Beau couldn’t take.
Meekly, she pulled the blanket back and slid beneath the covers, her back to him. Lifting her head up from the pillow, she gathered her raspberry blonde hair into a lovely ponytail that draped over her shoulder like a fragrant temptation he wanted to get lost in.
She tugged the blanket up to her neck. Like that helped. No red-blooded man on earth could ignore the gentle tuck and swell of her hip under the cover. Or the way her long legs stretched. The way she sighed as if she were finally comfortable. Ready. In his bed.
He was so hard he could pound nails. Made undressing, umm, harder. It was a good thing she didn’t see the spike in his boxers, when he doused the lamp and climbed in behind her. Careful so he didn’t bump her, Beau maneuvered his bad arm, bending it above her head so his bandaged hand rested on her shoulder like he’d done before.
But what to do with that good arm and those itchy fingers at the end of it? The ones that wanted to slide beneath those pajama bottoms of hers and explore every last one of her secret places.
Holding that arm to his chest would trap it between McKenna and him. It’d be uncomfortable. Stretching it down between their bodies would put his fingers within range of the delectably soft rump that already rested too close to his erection. He cocked his arm tight, thinking to use it for a pillow until—
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” McKenna grumbled as she lifted her head again and tugged his elbow over her pillow until she rested her head on his bicep. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
He squeezed both eyes shut. Why’d she have to use that word? If he was hard before, he was a steel spike now. And the damned thing kept growing.
Beau stiffened, every ounce of his blood rushing to complete the one mission he’d give his left nut for, but would never, ever be good enough for. Swallowing hard, because that was the one thing he could do, Beau forced his horny mind to the simple mechanics of cleaning his gear, of field stripping his rifle.
Now there’s a word for you. Field stripping. Visions of stripping McKenna bare, of tasting her luscious body from her soft lips to her toes and over every succulent pleasure spot in between…
A groan escaped before he could call it back.
“Is this as hard for you as it is for me?” she asked, still being a good girl and facing the other way.
That word was going to be the death of him! “No problem,” he lied.
“Then lift your arm, so I don’t hurt your finger,” she told him, which he did since she’d already commenced wiggling around to face him. That put her knees within his danger zone. He winced, expecting a sharp jab to his groin, which would hurt like a mother.
But it also put her head on his shoulder, and he didn’t mind looking down into her pretty face. There was a strength inside McKenna. Maybe because she was a medical professional and trained, but she seemed to have recovered from her night of trauma better than he’d expected. To be honest, she seemed steadier than him at the moment.
Tracing his jaw with just one fingertip, she said, “I wish I’d known you when you were a little boy.”
“That would’ve been nice,” he told her, because, well, that was what she expected him to say. In reality, a friend back then—any friend—would’ve been a godsend. But gutter trash didn’t make friends. They stabbed each other in the back because survival was more important than friendship, and it didn’t pay to trust others. No good deed ever went unpunished and all that. Kids on the street learned fast.
“You don’t believe me,” she whispered, her eyes wide and so damned innocent.
He shrugged. Believing wasn’t the problem. Remembering was. When a kid’s own parents didn’t think enough of him to protect him… When they were the ones who’d thrown him out like a piece of trash… What difference did anyone else make?
Leaning into him, she pressed her fingers to his chest and her lips to his mouth.
Beau closed his eyes, instantly inhaling the sugary cookie scent of the woman in his arms.
This.
She canted her head, pushing into him for fuller access, and Beau held on, his bandaged hand and arm pressing her to keep going. Her tongue teased his lips, and he had no problem opening for her, not as good as she tasted.
Yeah. This.
She growled and nipped his bottom lip, then kissed it, her tongue stroking and tangling with his, tasting the inside of his mouth until he was lost in heaven. Bumping teeth. Angling her head for more and more access until...
He pulled back, breaking the connection. “Are you sure,” he breathed, his heart about to explode, the blood in his veins running hot and ready to set this night on fire. Burn it up. Light the fuse that already throbbed with its one sure mission in life. Make love to this woman.
She nodded, her lips wet and swollen and...
Jesus. What a sight. He blinked, the raging fire in his heart a new and different meteor of epic proportions. One that after it touched down—if it ever did—he’d never be the same.
“I want you,” she murmured, her eyes big and wide and glimmering with a feral intensity that looked good on
her.
Okay then. Beau took possession of the night. He pressed his bandaged hand to the back of her head and kissed McKenna with every last beat of his heart.
Chapter Thirty-Five
“More,” McKenna murmured, never more certain that this was the time and Beau Jennings was the right man. Breathing through her nose brought the musky, masculine scent of his skin to her, but kissing his mouth flooded her with a heady dose of feral lust for the first time in her life. The molten burn in her veins consumed her. She needed him, wanted him inside her body, now.
Yet he seemed determined to take his time, savoring her lips and tongue as if she were a rare delicacy and he hadn’t eaten in years. Carefully, he’d taken her wrists in his one good hand and straddled her, stretching her arms over her head while he rested his injured hand alongside her and made a meal of her mouth. Nipping at her bottom lip and suckling it like she was a decadent dessert. Groaning, his deep masculine voice vibrated against her mouth.
He breathed her in and his breath became her only air. She drew it inside for all she was worth. With each inhalation, he became her world. Without missing a beat, Beau trailed warm, wet kisses down her chin to her neck. Yet he was careful with her bandaged wounds. Pausing at the hollow of her neck with his nose flat against her skin, he inhaled deeply. What a funny, pleasant sensation.
She shivered. “Are you smelling me?”
“Yes,” he admitted, his voice ragged as he rubbed his nose back and forth. “I love how you smell and taste. You’re incredibly delicious.” His tongue made a swipe up her throat where he nipped her chin. “Like a cookie. Hmm, I could eat you up.”
Her body exploded with a surge of wet anticipation. “Then do it,” she cried, throbbing for him to stop kissing and get down to business.
“No, baby, this is about you tonight, not me,” he said as he worshiped her mouth again.
And she was lost in the tumultuous sensation of whiskers scraping her chin and cheeks. The heat of his all-male body surrounding her. The luscious masculine scent that whispered to her psyche of smoke, earth, and wind. His moist kisses on her lips and forehead, her eyelids, and the tip of her nose. The slick anointing of his tongue sliding against her lips and tongue, tasting her. For an angry, solitary man, Beau certainly knew how to make soft, sweet love to her mouth.
Beau (In the Company of Snipers Book 18) Page 23