He nodded, looking gravely at Thor, who now snuffled the edge of the area rug, and cautiously looked around. “Sean taught him that trick, with the rose. He loved that man so much, it was—” he paused. Cleared his throat.
Jessie filled a glass with water and gave it to him.
“Thanks,” he said roughly, and drank deeply.
Eyeing the scars on his arms, she reached out and absently touched them. He shied away as if he’d been burned. Embarrassed, Jessie said, “I’m so sorry! I don’t know what made me do that!”
He took her hand, sandwiched it between her own. “Shhh. It’s okay. Complete strangers do it, too. Damnedest thing.”
Every molecule of her body seemed to suddenly overheat, as if his touch were some kind of chemistry experiment, and Jessie trembled very slightly, looking up at him. She was struck dumb, her brain awash in the same cloud of heat that boiled her vocabulary right out of her head. She could only feel, only see: his beautiful laser blue eyes, peering right through her, into her heart, her foolish, foolish heart; his mouth, sensual and severe at once; his hands, sandwiching her own.
The moment seemed to stretch, exaggerating everything. The steadiness of his regard, the shape of his shoulders under the simple t-shirt he wore. “I missed you so much it was like somebody burned a hole in the middle of my gut,” he said quietly. “It wasn’t fair, what you did.”
“Marcus, I—”
Abruptly, he pulled his hands free and walked away. Thor scrambled behind him, hurrying to catch up as Marcus headed outside into the backyard.
Standing alone and bewildered by her kitchen counter, Jessie thought, well, at least we’re getting somewhere with the dog.
Marcus paced the perimeter of the back yard, trying to calm his raging emotions. A thousand things welled up—fury and hope and anger and disappointment.
And love.
Damn it.
It took a moment, but he saw Thor out of the corner of his eye, pacing behind him, his hips low, ears high. On alert. Protecting him, looking out for danger.
“Sergeant Thor, at ease,” he called out.
Thor paused, midstep, head cocked, ears at the ready. One paw was lifted. He looked exactly like Rin Tin Tin.
“All clear, Thor,” he said. Firmly, clearly.
The dog sat, his body at ease. After a second, his long pink tongue fell out of his mouth. “Good dog,” Marcus said, and maneuvered himself into position to give Thor a good knuckle scrub, down his back and haunches, as Sean used to do. It was awkward for Marcus to do a puppy bow, but he came as close as he could, slapping his hand down on the ground. Thor leapt up, smiling, and bowed, then danced sideways.
Marcus chased him, then let himself be chased, playing that he was terrified. Thor leapt and lightly bumped hips with Marcus, then dashed away. Neither man nor dog were the graceful creatures they once had been, but they’d been through it together.
They knew.
At last, Marcus fell on the grass, breathing hard, and closed his eyes. Thor came over and fell against him, his back against Marcus’s side. Idly, Marcus flung an arm around the front of the dog, and after a moment, he felt the slippery dog tongue gently washing his forearm. Caressing the scars.
Marcus turned his head. Thor paused, his whiskey brown eyes earnest, and met his gaze, steadily. He lifted one wheat-colored paw and put it on Marcus’s chest, the pad directly over the man’s heart.
“I love you, too,” Marcus said. “I know you didn’t mean it.”
Jessie quietly, easily sat beside them. “What happened to your arm, Marcus?”
“Both Sean and Thor were shot by the snipers. Sean was dead instantly.” He closed his eyes, telling the story in a steady monotone, trying to keep it at a distance, maybe. “Thor covered Sean’s body with his own, and wouldn’t let anybody near. He was bleeding badly, and the mission was falling to pieces, and I had to get him out of there, but every time I got close, he snapped at me. No one could get anywhere close to him.” He swallowed, his nostrils filled with the acrid smell of smoke and dust, the coppery scent of blood. And there was Thor, about to die for love if Marcus didn’t save him. “So I just grabbed him and hauled him away, and he bit the hell out of me, trying to get back to Sean until I could get him muzzled and subdued.”
He sensed her hand hovering over the scars and opened his eyes. Looked at her. “It’s all right,” he said. “You can touch them.”
Her fingers brushed over the marks, lightly, just as Thor had done moments before. Tears flowed down her face. “I was so unfair to you, Marcus,” she said.
“Yes, you were.”
“I’m so sorry.” With misery, she looked down at him. “I never stopped missing you. Seeing you like this feels like the world is suddenly alive again. Like it was black and white and now it’s color.”
He lifted a hand to her cheek, feeling the tears beneath her hair. Fiercely she pressed his hand closer, turning her face into his palm. She kissed the center.
“Come here,” he said, and she flowed over him, into the hollow on the other side of his body, so that he was sandwiched by dog and woman. Sunlight poured down over them, and the air smelled of freshly mown grass, and maybe things could work out. “If my leg heals well enough, I’ll go back into the military,” he said.
“I asked something of you that I never should have,” Jessie said, and lifted up on one elbow. She touched his face. “You are honorable and driven to serve. Asking you to give that up was wrong, and I’m sorry. Do you think you might give me another chance? Give us another chance?”
Thor’s paw still rested across his chest, reminding him of second chances, of the possibilities that might still be available if you could choose to live in this moment, not the past or the future. They had a long, long road back—Thor, and Marcus, and Jessie and Marcus, too, but it was a road worth walking.
“I think that’s possible,” he said. “But you probably need to kiss me so I can decide.”
With a little cry, she bent over him, pressing her mouth into his. He was flooded with the fresh apple delight of her, the familiar and perfect way they fit and as they tumbled sideways, bodies wrapping naturally and easily into the other’s, he thought he heard a faint voice say, “All clear, men. All clear.”
Thor woofed softly.
WHIRLWIND
Roxanne St. Claire
Billie waited until the last possible moment to delay the inevitable. With the wind rocking the rusted corrugated metal of the trailer and fat drops splattering like a thousand hammers against the roof, she watched a soundless, ancient television set. Over the past two hours, the hurricane’s path had changed dramatically, shifting east over the Gulf of Mexico. Instead of passing by as a rainy, windy night, the storm was bearing down on Florida’s west coast barrier islands, ready to do some major damage to the vulnerable shores of Barefoot Bay.
Clutching Nutmeg, Billie soothed her nervous little terrier with loving strokes, sharing sips of bottled water with her four-legged companion to buy every extra second before evacuating.
Billie Jo Taylor was scared, but she wasn’t stupid enough to try and ride out a hurricane in a two-room mobile home. She had to go to the school shelter, where they’d probably demand an ID she didn’t want to show them, and all the Mimosa Key locals would stare at her, wondering who the hell was the crazy blonde lady with the ratty looking dog. Everybody knew everybody on this island . . . except nobody knew her. And that was how she’d planned to keep it until this damn storm blew in.
Still, the longer Billie waited, the easier it would be to slip into the shelter and hide in the bathroom, possibly undetected until morning.
The lights flickered, drenching her in darkness, making Nutmeg bark. But the power came back after a second, something which probably wouldn’t happen the next time. An outage was inevitable, and the least of what she’d have to endure if she stayed.
“It’s time, Nutsie.” She settled the dog on the bed next to the overnight bag that held most everything th
at mattered in the world—including the package that had landed in her P.O. Box yesterday. She hadn’t had time to get to the library computer and log on to her eBay account to post auctions, and with the storm, who knew if there’d even be a library tomorrow?
She pulled out the soft leather box just to look at the contents one more time, touching the large military watch that made her pulse jump when she’d found it online. The seller had been a fool, taking only twelve hundred dollars. Billie’s years of owning an antique store had given her a flawless eye, and a Laco in this condition was worth almost five times that much.
This watch was her ticket to her next destination . . . wherever that may be. She’d been on this island, hiding in the rented trailer for almost four months, slipping in and out of town for what she needed in a beat-up old truck she’d bought for next to nothing. Four months was enough time for Frank Perlow to use his considerable resources to find her. It was time to move on, except now she had to go to the damn shelter and risk exposure.
A gust of wind whistled through the cracks of the drafty windows, startling Nutmeg.
“Shhh.” She petted the dog’s head with one hand, but fingered the timepiece with the other. This would get her enough money to run, hide, and survive another four months. Maybe by then Frank Perlow would be dead. It was her only hope.
She turned the watch over and read the inscription she’d already memorized.
I am what you will be. I was what you are. R.M.S.
“Back in the old days,” she whispered to Nutmeg. “I would have created a whole World War II display around this. I’d have one of my historian friends write up a story about this RMS person. Robert Martin Smith, a hero who died in action. Or Raymond Michael Simmons, a seasoned vet.” Whoever bought this would truly appreciate a fine piece like this and the deep history behind it. “Back in the old days, this would have been a showpiece in my store.”
But the old days were gone, along with her precious antique shop and well-ordered life. With a sigh, she stuffed the box back in her duffle bag, refusing to think of how much being in the wrong place at the wrong time had cost her.
“All right, baby. We’ll go now and . . . ” She stopped talking, a distant sound humming louder than the wind. Was that a car engine? All the way up here in the deserted, forested tip of Barefoot Bay? Nutmeg heard it, too, lifting her furry little head and cocking her ear.
The rumble grew louder, more distinct, then bright beams of headlights streamed in through the corners of the blinds she kept pulled tight. Instinctively, she dropped to her knees.
Who could it be?
A neighbor from the more populated end of Barefoot Bay coming to warn her to leave? That lady who lived in that beat up old house on the beach being a good Samaritan in a storm? Or maybe the Mimosa Key sheriff had to alert every resident to evacuate.
Or maybe . . . Frank had found her.
“I bet it’s the sheriff,” she said softly, more to reassure herself than her terrified dog. Still, she reached under the bed for the last item she’d been planning to take, even if it would spend the night under the front seat of her truck because they’d never let her bring it in the shelter.
The Winchester Model 12 might be over a hundred years old and therefore a bona fide antique, but the rifle could shoot, and it had been locked and loaded since the day Billie’d moved into this tin box.
A car door slammed. Nutmeg jumped up and barked sharply.
“Shhh, quiet.” Chill bumps crawled up her arms, despite the sickening summer heat in the trailer. Nutmeg obeyed the order, but dipped her head to launch a low, slow growl that could easily escalate into a loud bark.
Holding the rifle, Billie stayed down and inched to the window to sneak a peek at a compact car. The door opened with the headlights still on, blinding her to whoever got out of the driver’s side. But as the figure emerged into the light and walked toward the door of the trailer, she hissed a breath of horror.
“Son of a bitch. He sent someone to kill me.”
Someone who obviously could do the job. The man must have been six two and damn near two hundred pounds of rock solid muscle covered in a rain-soaked T-shirt and worn camos. His hair was shorn to highlight sharp features, an angular jaw, and a mean slash of black brow.
But it was his hands that stole her breath. Hands the size of a small country, with long fingers and wide palms. Hands designed to do two things: make a woman scream in pleasure or squeeze the life out of another human.
Billie had no doubt which one this beast had come to do.
Nutmeg’s growl grew louder and Billie shook her head furiously. “Hush, Nutsie, please!”
As if she understood her owner’s fear, Nutmeg obliged, sinking back into the pillow. But it wouldn’t last; the second Conan the Barbarian reached the door—the only door in or out of this damn place—nothing could keep that dog quiet.
Think, Billie Jo, think. Just as she turned to grab the dog, the man pounded on the metal door, the sound reverberating back to the bedroom where Billie stayed.
“Anybody home?”
As expected, Nutmeg vaulted from the bed, staccato barks echoing as she ran into the trailer’s only other room.
A hit man who knocked?
Still, Billie directed the barrel of her rifle toward the door that led to the living room, while she considered her options. If Frank had hired him, this man wouldn’t leave with her alive. She’d have to escape somehow. There was only one way out—through the front door that she couldn’t even see from where she stood in the bedroom. If he got in here, she’d have to somehow get past him to the door.
Without Nutmeg? It was unthinkable.
But, then, so was dying. So she’d shoot the guy. The callousness of that thought made her swallow. Okay, maybe not a mortal wound but enough to immobilize him, say a shot in both legs. Then he’d be stuck here and the hurricane would . . . do what hurricanes do.
Would that be murder? Not . . . technically.
She snapped her fingers three times, usually enough to get Nutmeg to come, but the dog didn’t hear or respond, and Billie didn’t want to give herself away by calling out.
“Hey!” the man called again, a bellowing baritone louder than the wind and rain and far more terrifying. “Is anybody in there?”
Would a trained killer ask to come in first? Maybe this was a concerned neighbor or—
He rattled the door, shaking hard enough that the whole trailer moved.
A looter? Some creep looking to make a quick buck in places evacuated for the storm? On instinct, she scooped up the bag and threw it into the bathroom. Maybe she wouldn’t have to shoot him if she convinced him she had nothing of value. Maybe she could—
The shatter of wood splintering and metal tearing echoed from the living room, drawing a tiny shriek of shock from her lips. He’d kicked the door open! A heavy footstep landed in the living room and she braced her legs, ready to fire, lowering her rifle so she’d hit his legs and not his heart.
“Hey, pooch, you get left behind?”
She blinked in surprise at the sudden change in the intruder’s voice. Who was he? Whoever, he knew how to subdue dogs, because Nutmeg instantly quieted to a breathy pant.
“What the hell kind of dickhead evacuates and leaves their dog behind?”
Oh, a looter with opinions. Resentment sparked through her and she had to clamp her mouth shut to keep from responding. Nutmeg whined, the happy sound she made when someone picked her up. Damn it. I really should have gotten a Rottweiler.
Another footstep, bringing him that much closer to the only other room in the trailer. Billie squared her shoulders, curled her finger around the trigger, and took a deep, calming breath just as her bedroom doorway filled with the silhouette of a man holding her dog.
When he stepped into the light, their gazes locked instantly. Surprise widened his steely blue eyes and unlocked a square, whisker-shaded jaw. And disgust rolled off him as he angled broad shoulders and tightened his hold on Nutmeg.
>
“Don’t shoot the dog.”
She almost choked. “Get the hell out of my trailer or I’ll kill you,” she said through gritted teeth, hoping she sounded tougher than she suddenly felt.
“I’m not leaving till I get what I want, ma’am.” The threat was quick and easy, scary and sure, accompanied by a few steps and punctuated by a sputter of lights. And then complete darkness.
Nutmeg barked.
Billie gasped.
And the man just kept walking toward her.
She tightened on the trigger, squeezed her eyes shut, and—the whole rifle went flying out of her hand, the force of the blow making her teeth crack together. Before it hit the floor, a shot echoed through the trailer, making Nutmeg yowl as the man cornered Billie against the wall.
He peered down at her, still holding her dog, close enough that even in the darkness she could see the ice in his eyes. They were shockingly blue, fringed with black lashes, somehow threatening and inviting at the same time.
“Look, lady, I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt this cute little dog. I don’t even want to be here. But someone named William Josephs, who rents this hellhole of a house, has a Laco B-Uhr Type Two Pilot Watch. I’m not leaving until it’s in my hands. Is that clear?”
Holy hell. He wanted the watch.
The tiniest glimmer of recognition flickered in the hazel eyes that peered up at Rick, wiped away so fast that a lesser trained man would never have noticed. But Lieutenant Rick Stone was trained by the U.S. Navy, and SEALs didn’t miss a tell. Annie Oakley in her double-wide with an old-school rifle had just given herself away.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her jaw still tight in a mix of fear and fury.
“The watch that was delivered to a P.O. Box owned by William Josephs, who rents this fine piece of property. Know him?”
“No.”
Squeezed between them, the ratty little terrier whimpered softly. It probably knew she was lying, too.
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