Ripped!

by Jennifer Labrecque

“Yeah. You’ve done well for yourself.” Her work was featured in several galleries and she ran a small gallery out of her home studio in the French Quarter. Her Mercury photo had been one of the ones featured on her Web page. “I have to say, I don’t personally think I look like Mercury but there’s something very arresting about the picture.”

  He wasn’t sure how or why, maybe it was part of her talent coming through, but it seemed to him that the statue was almost lifelike. It left Mitch almost holding his breath waiting to hear what Mercury had to say.

  A delighted smile curved her lips. “That’s so cool. You got it. I wasn’t sure if you would because I work in that realm beyond black and white.”

  What the hell? He wasn’t culturally illiterate, well, not to a severe degree. “I got it. All of your work is like that.” It was as if she’d captured the essence, the core of her subjects whether they were living, breathing people or inanimate objects. “I don’t pretend to be an expert but it’s apparent you have immense talent. I didn’t realize how damn lucky the Army was to have you shooting the calendar.”

  Again, a stillness he’d sensed once or twice before descended on her, even though they were still moving through the airport. It was more a state of being than a state of action. “Thank you.”

  “I’m looking forward to seeing your gallery.”

  “You can rummage around while Val and I go over stuff. It won’t take long.”

  “The meeting or the gallery?”

  “Both.” Her smile was like the sun slipping over the horizon in the morning, dazzling, promising. “Did you want to stay in or go out?”

  He had no interest in New Orleans nightlife, but he had plenty of interest in making the most of his remaining time with Eden. “I definitely opt for staying in.”

  “Good answer. I need to do a little work. I want to take a look at the calendar shots and the Sanchez family on my good equipment. Val closes the gallery at five and then we’ll have the house to ourselves.”

  The hours before they could be alone felt like a lifetime, but he understood she had business to conduct. “That sounds like a plan.”

  “Great minds think alike,” she quipped.

  Actually, considering their differences, he was surprised to find just how much they did think alike on so many issues.

  “YOU’RE OFFICIALLY CLOSED FOR business?” Mitch asked from where he stood studying a black-and-white print of a monk on a hilltop at sunset. It was one of her favorites. Traditionally sunsets were captured in vivid color. But when they were done in black-and-white, all the marvelous shades of gray found in the world came through. There was a tranquility about the photo that soothed her soul. Apparently it spoke to Mitch, as well. She’d watched and noted which photos he spent time with.

  “Until Monday at noon.” Eden closed and locked the front door. She’d lived here three years and never invited a man into her home. Granted plenty of people moved in and out of her gallery, but the rest, the private part, had been just that—private. Sacrosanct.

  But it had seemed right to invite Mitch Dugan here. Perhaps because it was as if having Mercury in her garden had already paved the way for Mitch in her private space.

  Sleeping with him in a hotel room had been one thing. But then things had shifted when she’d been in his house, in his bed. She knew whatever this was between them was about to change here in her sanctuary, the space she’d created, the home that was an extension of herself. It would now bear the imprint of his presence.

  She crossed the gallery floor to the interior French doors covered in heavy drapes that separated the gallery from the rest of the house. They stayed locked during the hours the gallery was open. She unlocked them now.

  He was still in front of The Monk, as she thought of the photo. “It’s all nice, but I really like this.”

  She nodded, a glow of pleasure blooming inside. There was nothing quite like having your artistry appreciated. And while “this is nice” from anyone else might seem almost insipid, nothing about Mitch Dugan was hyperbole, so if he said it was nice, it came through as high praise indeed.

  “I like that one a lot, as well.”

  “Why black and white instead of color?”

  He was discerning, she’d give him that. “Color is beautiful but the shades of black and white make an impact you simply don’t get in the color. It’s the juxtaposition of starkness and complexity.” He’d either really get it or simply think she was weird.

  “It works.” He crossed the room slowly, his tread measured, his eyes serious and with each step that he drew closer her heart beat harder and faster until he reached where she stood in the doorway of the French doors leading from her public gallery to her private space. He lightly cupped her shoulders in his hands. “You are a remarkably talented woman, Eden Walters. Your pictures were great on your Web site, but standing here in front of them…Wow.”

  Emotion washed over her, swamped her, drowned her to the point that tears filled her eyes. Embarrassed by her intense vulnerability, she bowed her head.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “No. I’m not upset. I’m just…It’s…” She didn’t know how to say it because she didn’t even know what it was, what was going on with her. “It was a very nice thing to say and it moved me.”

  And then it hit her. She understood precisely why his comment had affected her so. She knew Mitch wasn’t exactly like her father, but there were a lot of similarities between them. They were both military men. They both lived and died by structure. And both men were happiest in a world that was black and white.

  Her father had always treated her photography as something frivolous. She always had the impression he was waiting for her to grow up and do something important with her life. And yet here was a man with many of the same qualities, only he recognized and lauded her talent.

  He smoothed his thumb over her cheek and the tenderness in that simple gesture shook her to her core.

  “Show me your house.”

  “Didn’t you look around while I was with Val?”

  “Not really.” He dipped his head and brushed a butterfly kiss on her lips. “It felt intrusive to look around without you. I’d rather you show me. I’d rather see it through your eyes.”

  Her heartbeat seemed to echo throughout her body and she paused. Somehow, somewhere this had gone beyond what had started three days ago at Fort Bragg.

  “Okay.” She caught his hand in hers and led him across the threshold separating the two rooms. “This is the place I call home.”

  DUSK SETTLED AROUND THEM, filling the corners of the courtyard with shadows. “This place is definitely you,” Mitch said from the wrought-iron chair next to hers, the fountain next to them soothing and peaceful. Oddly enough, Mitch felt as comfortable here as he did in his own home in Fayetteville. But was it the place or because she was here? “Beautiful, fanciful, orderly but a little bohemian.”

  “Oh, so you think you’ve pegged me?” Her ever ready smile lit her face. He brushed aside the thought that he could never get tired of seeing her smile.

  He tried to keep it light. “My job is to assess people in a very short period of time so I know what I’m dealing with.”

  She reached over and traced a faint scar on the back of his hair-smattered hand. “What you’re dealing with?”

  One touch and he was hers. Then again, hadn’t it been that way from the get-go? How could he want her so intensely and still find himself laughing? “That was a general term. Not specific to you.” He caught her hand in his and tugged. She obligingly rose and came to him, sinking into his lap. He welcomed the weight of her against his thighs, the intimate press of her buttocks against him, her scent, her warmth, her joy. She wrapped her arms around his neck and her lips unerringly found his.

  He slid his hand up to her hip, mapping, memorizing the terrain of her body. “Let’s go inside,” he murmured against her mouth.

  “No. Make love to me here,” she said. She leaned back and tugged h
er shirt over her head. Reaching behind her, her bra followed. In two deft movements the rest of her clothes followed and she stood naked in the semidarkness before him, offering herself.

  And he knew, as surely as he knew his own name, that she was offering something special. This wouldn’t just be sex on an Indian summer night when the cicadas were still competing with the New Orleans nightlife. She was offering herself.

  And a stronger man, a better man wouldn’t take such a precious gift, but he seemed to have lost himself when it came to her. He stood and silently shed his clothes.

  And then in her courtyard he took everything she offered and gave her more than what she’d asked for. But in the end, he wasn’t sure that it was an equitable exchange.

  12

  EDEN MADE A MENTAL NOTE to adjust her camera setting to accommodate the dark paneling, circa the 1960s, that covered the walls of the VFW hall.

  “Damn, boy, you found yourself a looker, didn’t you?” a bald man with the cane said. Eden thought he’d been introduced as Charlie O’Hannigan.

  A man in the wheelchair, sat up a little straighter. “A hooker? She’s a hooker? She don’t look like a hooker. How much does she cost?”

  “Turn up your hearing aid, you old fart,” Charlie snapped. “I said looker, not hooker.”

  She was pretty sure the man in the wheelchair was Jack Phillips. Jack’s blue eyes twinkled with mischief. “Oh. Too bad.”

  Mitch’s grandfather snorted. “Too bad my foot. You’ve been on blood pressure medicine for years. You couldn’t get lucky if you wanted to.”

  “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Damn straight I do.”

  Eden laughed, thoroughly enjoying the interplay between the men. Mitch’s grandfather still had the erect military carriage that became instinct to most career military men. Mitch bore a striking resemblance to his grandfather, George Lavelle. It was no mystery what Mitch would look like in half a century. The notion gave her a funny feeling in her tummy.

  She moved around the room, snapping photographs as the old war dogs positioned themselves at the round table. Jack Phillips was in a wheelchair, having lost his legs to diabetes, according to Mitch. Charlie O’Hannigan walked with a cane. However, the other two men, Tex Rogers and Dickie Turner were still in very good shape considering they were all pushing eighty.

  Soon they were drinking beer, gnawing hot wings and meandering into full-blown reminiscing mode. She’d faded into the background which was always her goal in situations such as this.

  Mitch had become background, as well. Actually, he was in waiter mode, fetching beer and food refills. She sent a smile his way. “So, how much of being so good to these guys is to be nice, and how much is to monitor their alcohol consumption?”

  He grinned, “Busted. About fifty-fifty. The only way Jack’s wife would let him come was if I promised her he wouldn’t get wasted. Apparently Jack likes to wheelchair race when he’s pounded a few too many. He’s always been the cutter in the group.”

  Eden smiled. Every once in a while, Mitch’s Southern boy upbringing came through. She found it charming.

  “Your grandfather’s the leader, isn’t he?”

  Mitch nodded. “He was their ranking NCO. The old man never talks about it, but the other guys love to tell how he saved their butts when he roused them all to move out in the middle of the night. They found out the next day the Chinese were right across the Yalu River.”

  “Korea?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s got that same air of authority you have.”

  “We’re a lot alike. These guys were always my heroes growing up. It’s men like them who made our country what it is today. I hope one day I’ll be sitting here, listening to my grandson say the same thing about me.”

  Eden had an instant snapshot of Mitch’s grandson-to-be appear in her head. She saw a striking replica of Mitch…only with her coloring. A shiver ran through her. That was definitely dangerous territory to wander into. He shifted and she realized he’d just revealed perhaps more than he’d meant to.

  “I have no doubt your grandson will be saying exactly that one day,” she said softly.

  His gaze snared hers and she could swear he was seeing the same possible grandson. Her heart tripped against her ribs. Mitch looked away first and Eden struggled to regain her composure. This never happened to her.

  She trained her camera back on the group and fired off a shot. That’d be a wash. Her hand had been unsteady and blurred photos didn’t work.

  Mitch replenished the hot wings and joined the men, settling back in his chair and stretching his legs out before him. He didn’t join in the conversation but took a long pull of his own beer and seemed to thoroughly enjoy the tall tales being swapped.

  Watching through the lens, she saw the looks that passed between him and his grandfather. Affection. Respect. Understanding. A shared love of service to country and fellow man. Click. Click. Click. And she knew. That was the good stuff she wanted. Needed. And then she narrowed the focus of the lens until it was all Mitch, only Mitch.

  In the instant, in the moment she snapped his picture, her heart echoed the same click. It wasn’t so much a conscious thought as it was a total state of being. She loved him. Loved the strong line of his jaw and the masculine yet tender regard he had for his grandfather. And fast on the heels of her realization came the absolute certainty that the two of them had no future.

  She didn’t belong in Mitch Dugan’s world. And Mitch Dugan’s world was everything to him.

  “I LIKE HER,” the old man said as Mitch walked up the sidewalk leading from the parking lot to the assisted-living center beside him. Eden had insisted on staying in the car and catching up on phone calls. Mitch was certain, however, that she was simply giving him and the old man time alone.

  His grandfather leveled a frank look his way. “You need to hang on to her.”

  “I just met her four days ago.”

  “I saw your grandmother across the room and I knew. She’d come to a dance with her cousin Edna. I was married to that woman fifty-eight and a half years.” The old man never failed to include that half year. “I saw the way you looked at this girl. Nothing wrong with my eyesight now that I’ve had those cataracts removed. Don’t tell me you don’t know, too.”

  Mitch opened his mouth to deny it and realized he couldn’t. He simply didn’t know. He was used to black and white. Cut and dried. He was used to making a quick assessment, a decision, and living with that. However, Eden wasn’t so easily pegged. Plain and simple, Mitch was confused. It was a struggle, hell it was downright painful to admit it to the old man, but he did.

  “I don’t know.”

  Another one of those laser looks from the old man. “All right then. But you better not take too long to figure it out cause gals like that don’t come your way every day.”

  They entered the front door and headed down the hall.

  “I’ve never met anyone like her before.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about. Where’s that ability to make snap decisions that made you a Lieutenant Colonel at thirty?”

  The old man was proud as hell of that. Mitch was frank with his grandfather in a way he wasn’t with anyone else. But then again, no one else would’ve dared pose that question to him. “It seems to have deserted me.”

  A sly humor glinted in the old man’s eyes. “Boy, if that doesn’t tell you what you need to know…. Are you waiting for someone to hit you over the head with a brick?” He unlocked his room door and Mitch followed him into the apartment that held a fraction of the furniture and mementos that had made George and Cherie Lavelle’s house on Winnow Street in Charoux a home.

  The old man retreated to his recliner and Mitch took a spot on the love seat next to it. Then he gave the old man the whole story. He briefed him on Eden, her father, her background, her reaction to the military. “And I saw her house and studio in New Orleans. You’ve never seen a person more wher
e they belong than she did there. And she’s so damned talented it’s scary.”

  Now his grandfather would understand. Now he’d tell Mitch the only logical course of action was for her to go her way and Mitch to go his.

  “If you want something bad enough, you figure out how to make it happen. The problem isn’t in the situation. The problem is in how bad you want it.” He offered a sharp nod, dismissing the matter, having spoken his piece. “You did good with that get-together, boy.” The subject change was the old man’s way of telling Mitch that the topic of Eden was closed…for now. “The beer was cold, the wings were hot, and Jack’s old lady can’t complain.” The old man snorted. “Well, she can and she will, but that’s just the way she is.”

  “Glad you had a good time.”

  “If I don’t kick the bucket in the next twelve months I’d like to do it again.”

  “How about six months?”

  “Scared to push it, boy?”

  “Can’t see the downside to it.”

  “This had to set you back a pretty penny.”

  He’d covered the costs of flying in the other guys and their wives and putting them up at the local motel. It’d been worth every red cent. “It didn’t break my bank.”

  “Then we’ll see if Jack’s old lady will let him out to play again in six months’ time. Now I need to rest and you need to get back to that gal of yours.”

  Mitch had to say it was a good feeling to know Eden was waiting out for him in the parking lot. Not just for the sex he knew was coming but for the conversation. He was eager to hear her take on the evening.

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  “I know you will.”

  The old man stopped him as he opened the door leading to the hall. “Boy…”

  Mitch turned. “Sir?”

  “Don’t let her get away.”

  “Ten-four.”

  What the old man didn’t understand was that not letting her get away would destroy her.

  13

  A FEW HOURS LATER, THEY SAT in Eden’s parlor, sharing the sofa. But the intimacy of the last few days had disappeared. Mitch had been reserved, distant on the drive back home. She’d reminded herself all the way back to New Orleans that this had been inevitable. Still, it didn’t make it any easier. And she didn’t understand why he’d suddenly built a wall between them.