Soldier, Hero...Husband?

by Cara Colter

“I can’t just jump in,” she decided.

  She could sit on the edge of the pool, reach out and put her hands around his neck... Connor gave himself a shake. This was going to be quite hard enough! “There are stairs at that end.”

  She looked where he was pointing and saw the stairs entering the pool at the shallow end. She eyed her dropped caftan for a second, as if she was considering putting it back on for the short walk to the stairs. Or putting it back on and fleeing.

  Instead, she tilted her chin up and went over there, wiggling her hips self-consciously the whole way. It gave Connor plenty of opportunity to study how much of her was not covered by those skimpy green scraps of fabric. It also gave him plenty of opportunity to set his face into a mask of indifference.

  At the top of the stairs, she repeated the put-one-toe-in-and-withdraw-it procedure. Still in the water, he slogged his way over to that end of the pool and stood close to the bottom of the stairs.

  “At this rate we are still going to be here tomorrow,” he groused out loud, instead of saying what he really wanted, which was get in the water, dammit.

  She held up a hand, a very Italian gesture that warned him not to hurry her, and then Isabella proceeded to get into the water with painful slowness.

  CHAPTER SIX

  AS CONNOR WATCHED, Isabella got on the first stair leading into the pool. She was acting as if the world was tilting and her life depended on her hanging on to the handrail.

  The world was tilting, and Connor felt as if his life depended on her getting in the water. With the water at her ankles, she paused there, allowing him to wallow in the full impact of that bathing suit. Was that a piercing, right below her belly button? Was his jaw clenched?

  “The easiest way is just to jump in,” he told her. Yes, definitely clenched. He deliberately relaxed it.

  “Never let it be said I’m easy.”

  He contemplated her. Her command of English and all its nuances and slang was not good enough for her to have meant that the way it sounded. Though the beautiful young widow was probably about the furthest thing from easy that he had ever met.

  She went down one more step. Now she was up to her knees. She had both hands on the handrail. Her knuckles were white.

  “I thought the water would be warmer,” she said.

  “It’s perfect.” His jaw was clenching again.

  She wrinkled her nose, letting him know their ideas of perfect were different, which would be a very good thing for him to keep in mind, because a bathing suit like that made a man think he could make anything work out, even against impossible odds.

  And the odds were impossible. Everything about them was different. He was large, she was tiny. He was powerful, she was fragile. He was cynical, she was innocent. They were culturally a million miles apart. He’s seen colleagues fall for the seemingly exotic girls of foreign lands. It never worked.

  He tried to hold those thoughts as, finally, Isabella was at the bottom of the steps, up to her cute little belly button in water. It was a little dark mole under her belly button, not a piercing. He was not sure which was sexier.

  Isabella was still holding onto the handrail as if her life depended on it. He tried to remember why he had thought getting her in the water would be easier on him. It was not.

  “Let go of the handrail and walk over to me,” he said.

  “Not yet.” Her voice had a little quaver to it.

  And that changed everything. Because it reminded him this wasn’t about him. It wasn’t about recalculating impossible odds. It was about her, giving her a few tools to deal with the harsh realities of life. And he could not let her scanty little bathing suit distract him from that. That’s one of the things he was trained to do. Sift through information very quickly, ignore the distractions, focus on the mission.

  So he crossed the distance that remained between them and pried her hand, ever so gently, off the handrail. He placed himself right in front of her and held out his other hand. She hesitated and then placed her hand in his.

  Their hands joined as they faced each other, they were like two dance partners who had never danced together sizing each other up. It occurred to him this was going to be like no swimming lesson he had ever given before.

  “Don’t even look at the water,” he said softly. “Just look at me.”

  Her eyes fastened on his face as if she was drowning and he was the lifeline. Her gaze was as disconcerting as the bikini. Maybe more so. It made the mission waver a little more.

  “See?” he said, forcing himself to speak, keeping his voice soft, and taking a step back, “No danger. No crocodiles. No chance of falling over a ledge. No current to sweep you away.”

  No danger. Ha-ha. Her hand, small but strong in his, felt like one of the gravest dangers he had ever encountered. Had he really thought getting her in the water was going to be better than watching her on the deck?

  Now, added to his physical awareness of her hands in his, she was so close to him he could smell that spicy perfume that was hers and hers alone. It felt as if he was being swept away by the absolute trust in her eyes fastened on his, the way she was holding his hands. She took her first tiny step through the water toward him.

  He backed up. She took one more. He backed up two. And then they were doing a slow waltz through the water. He was careful to stay in the shallows, even though it wasn’t nearly deep enough to help him deal with the worst of the distractions. Was that tiny bathing suit top sliding sideways just a touch?

  Connor repeated his command to himself.

  Suck it up.

  “See?” he said softly. “It’s not so bad, is it? Just stay in the moment. Don’t think one thought about what could happen.”

  She actually closed her eyes. A tiny smile touched her lips. He ordered himself not to look at her lips and definitely not to think about what could happen. Connor felt the purity of the moment—water on his skin, her hair shining in the sun, her small hands in his, the rapturous look on her face—seducing him.

  Somehow, he’d had this utterly foolish idea that he was going to pretend she was a raw recruit and be able to keep professional distance from her as he taught her the basics of swimming. He was not sure how he had deluded himself. He had never had that much imagination. He’d always prided himself on being such a realist.

  “The water does feel amazing on my skin,” she breathed. Her eyes remained closed in wonder.

  Connor cleared his throat. “So now you’ve seen the water in this end of the swimming pool holds no danger to you,” he said, trying desperately to stick to the business at hand and not think one single thought about her skin. “So, let’s try the next step.”

  Her eyes flew open and that pulse in her throat picked up tempo. “What is the next step?”

  “I’d like you to learn the water will support you. Human beings are buoyant. They float.”

  She looked doubtful about that—the pulse in her throat went crazy.

  “Isabella, you will float.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “I know.”

  His life’s work had presented him with this situation, again and again. He’d had plenty of encounters with people, civilians, who found themselves in difficult situations. Families who, through no fault of their own, found themselves in war zones. Hostages, in the wrong place at the wrong time, who didn’t know the rule book, who had spent their entire lives blissfully oblivious to the fact there was a rule book.

  Connor had led people from burning buildings, evacuated the terrified, navigated the fear of others in a thousand different ways. He’d dealt with people who were scared. He did it all the time.

  He excelled at this: at infusing his abundance of confidence and calm into panicky people through his voice and his actions.

  It felt different this time, way too personal
, as if that enemy called fear was hovering at the edges of his own awareness. But that was his fault, not hers, bikini notwithstanding. He took a deep breath, gathered himself, formed a plan.

  “I’m going to stand beside you,” he said quietly, “with my hands like this. You are going to lie down in the water, on your back, and let my hands support you.”

  “Oh, God,” she said in Italian. “I don’t think I can. Could we just walk around some more? I was getting the hang of that. Walking in water. I think it’s biblical.”

  “I think that may be walking on water.”

  “It’s good enough for me. For today.”

  “Swimming lessons, heavy emphasis on the swimming.”

  “My hair isn’t right. And the bathing suit won’t work. You already said that.”

  “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

  Together. He did not excel at figuring things out together. It had been his greatest weakness with the SEALs. He was not a good team player. He had a tendency to go maverick. The last time he had done it, against orders, Justin had followed him...

  “Are you all right?” Her hand, wet, warm, was on his cheek.

  He shook his head. How was it she could see what no one else ever saw? “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  She didn’t move her hand. He didn’t move it, either. He had to stop this craziness. He shook his head again, trying to be all business. But droplets of water flew off his hair and rained down on her face, emphasizing the compassion there.

  “Lie down in the water.” His voice had a snap to it, like a flag caught in the wind.

  Isabella’s hand dropped to her side, but Connor could feel the warmth of it on his face as if it still rested there.

  “No, I—” She twisted and looked at the stairs.

  “Trust me,” he said in that voice, firm, the voice of a man who was used to being in charge of everything, including the safety of others.

  She dragged her eyes back from the staircase and looked at him for a long moment. Her eyes, with the water reflecting in them, looked more green than gold.

  “Okay,” she whispered.

  “So just lean back,” he coaxed her.

  She leaned back an inch.

  “Maybe a little more.”

  She leaned back another inch, so stiff-spined she looked like a tree bending over. He sighed and moved into her swiftly, before she could guess what he was going to do. Maybe he didn’t even know what he was going to do himself until he had done it.

  He scooped Isabella up and held her against his chest.

  “Oh,” she sighed with surprise. She would have weighed about as much as a feather under normal circumstances. With the water taking most of her weight, it was like holding a puff of air.

  Except that her skin was warm and sensual, like silk. She blinked up at him and then twined her arms around his neck.

  What part of the Swimming 101 manual was this in? he demanded of himself. He pried her fingers from around his neck and put her away from his chest, supporting her body on his hands, at right angles from his own.

  “Okay,” he said. His voice was faintly hoarse, not completely his talking-a-hostage-away-from-the-bad-guy voice. “Just relax. That’s it. Now straighten out your legs. I’ve got you.”

  Tentatively, she did as he asked, her forehead wrinkled with anxiety as she gave herself over to the water. Her hair floated out in the water around her face, like dark silk ribbons. The small of her back was resting securely on his hands. Her skin was warmer than the water, and he felt a primal awareness of her that he did not want to feel.

  At all.

  “You’re a bit tense,” he told her. He heard the tension in his own voice and took a deep, steadying breath. “Relax. I won’t bite.”

  “Yes,” she said. “So you’ve said.”

  “Focus on your breathing. Put your hands on your tummy—no, you don’t need them, I’ve got you—and breathe until you feel your tummy rising instead of your chest.”

  Shoot. Did he have to mention her chest just as his voice was returning to normal?

  “This is quite amazing,” she said after a moment.

  “Amazing,” he agreed. His jaw was starting to hurt from clenching his teeth so tightly. “So, just try moving your legs a bit. Kick.”

  She did a little kick.

  “Very good,” he encouraged her. “Harder, both of them.”

  She kicked tentatively. And then harder. The splash hit him in the face, which seemed to motivate more strenuous kicking on her part. She giggled.

  That giggle helped him turn a page. Connor pretended to be worried about getting wet, ducking the worst of the splash while never letting her go. She giggled some more.

  “Now straighten your legs out. Think of a pair of scissors opening and closing and kick like that. That’s perfect. That’s why it’s called a scissor kick. Now, instead of just standing here, I’m going to let the kick propel you. I’ll move with you, though. You see how it works? Your legs are amazingly strong.”

  What he meant was that everyone’s legs were amazingly strong, that this particular movement used the gluteus maximus, the largest muscle in the human body, but he didn’t clarify, since she looked so pleased. And there was no denying her legs were amazing!

  He supported her and guided her until she had kicked around the pool in a large circle.

  “Now,” he said, “my hands are still here, but I’m moving them away from you, so you can see it’s the water supporting you, not me.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  She glared up at him.

  “Don’t be nervous. The water’s only three feet deep here. You can stand up at any time. Just relax. I’m going to—”

  “No! Don’t let go of me. I’m not ready.”

  He’d heard it again and again, looking into the eyes of a terrified civilian who was being asked to do something that required more of them than had ever been required before.

  “Yes, you are,” he said, “you are ready.”

  Slowly, he slid his hands out from underneath her. Her eyes grew wide, and then she got nervous, and her body folded at the center, legs and head going up, abdomen and torso going down, under the water.

  “Ahh,” she yelped.

  His hands were floating inches below her, and so he supported her again, very quickly.

  “Try and keep your body stiff.”

  “I thought I was supposed to relax!”

  “Well, relaxed stiffness.”

  “There is no such thing.”

  “Maybe not in Italian. There is in English.” He managed to say it with a straight face.

  She smiled in spite of herself, and then he let her go, and she tried again. Again, she got nervous and began to fold; again he used his hands to steady her. The third time, she got it. She kicked on her own and he shadowed her.

  “Am I swimming?” she demanded. “Am I swimming all by myself?”

  He smiled at her enthusiasm, and she seemed to realize she was swimming, unaided, on her back. The realization ruined it, of course. This time he wasn’t quite quick enough, and her head went under the water. She came up sputtering, her hair spilling rivulets of water down her golden skin. She grabbed for him and clung to him.

  He realized he was enjoying that way too much and put her away from his chest, though he allowed her to hang on to his forearms.

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he asked her.

  She shook water from her hair. “No,” she said, surprised and then delighted. “No, it was fine. I just held my breath when I went under.”

  There was a moment when people reached deep inside and found out who they really were that was awe-inspiring. It could happen as you sneaked them across a border or pushed them out of a plane, or it happened in
those moments, large and small, when people required just a tiny bit more of themselves.

  And so it could happen just like this, a woman in a swimming pool on a warm spring day when everything seemed suddenly infused with a light that was not the sun.

  It was always an amazing thing to be a part of this moment. She was grinning ear to ear, which increased Connor’s sensation of basking in the light. He had to force himself to move away from that moment and back on task.

  “And that brings us to part two,” Connor said. “For some reason, people have a natural aversion to getting their faces wet.”

  “I told you not today,” she said. The grin disappeared.

  “Let’s just ride this wave of discovery,” he suggested.

  For a moment, she looked as if she intended to argue, but then, reluctantly, she smiled again. “All right. Let’s ride this wave.”

  Both of them had said it—let’s. Let us. Us. A duo. A team. Sheesh.

  “So, before you dunk again, we’re going to work on getting your face wet,” Connor said. There it was again, slipping off his tongue naturally. We. “Lie on my hands again, this time on your stomach.”

  She flopped down on her stomach, and he supported her, his hands on the firm flesh of her belly. “Good. Now put your face in the water and blow air out of your mouth. Make bubbles. The more the better. Think of yourself as a motorboat.”

  Whatever reservations she might have had up until this point now disappeared. Isabella gave herself over to learning to swim with unreserved enthusiasm. With Connor supporting her stomach, she blew bubbles and then they added a scissor kick. She managed a few kicks without any support before she went under and came up laughing.

  Isabella laughing.

  Isabella soaking wet, in the world’s skimpiest bathing suit, laughing.

  It was probably one of the most dangerous moments of Connor’s entire life, and he had had a life fraught with danger.

  It wasn’t dangerous because she was so beautiful, or even because she had lost her self-consciousness and she was so sexy in her teeny bathing suit. It wasn’t dangerous because she was finding her inner resources of courage and strength.