Navy SEAL Rescuer

by McCoy, Shirlee

  More time?

  She didn’t need that to have her heart broken.

  Every time she looked into his eyes, she fell a little deeper, risked a little more.

  “Go on up, Catherine. I’m going to check the perimeter of the house, then I’ll be back. I’ll bring in your grandmother’s things when I come in.”

  “Thanks,” she responded, wishing she could follow him outside, follow him around the house, follow him to wherever he went, because being around him felt better than being away from him did.

  She whirled away and hurried up the stairs, trying to ignore the truth that had been pounding through her for the past eleven hours.

  The narrow staircase led into a bright and open landing. Two rooms were near the top of the stairs and a third opened up from the back wall of the house.

  Taryn appeared in the doorway. “Come on in. You’ve got the suite. I guess it’s the master bedroom. I stocked as best I could based on the sizes Darius gave me.”

  White curtains framed oversize windows. Dark wooden storm shutters blocked the view and echoed the darkness of the wide-planked wood floor. Catherine wanted to open them and let some air in, but she doubted Taryn would approve.

  “You want to check things out and let me know if you need anything? I can make a run to town if there’s something you want, but I’ll have to do it soon. The whole place shuts down after nine.” Taryn leaned against the doorjamb, her blond hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, her skin flawless. If Catherine had met her anywhere else, she’d have guessed her to be a model or an actress.

  “I’m sure whatever is here will be fine.” She didn’t want to look through the room while Taryn watched. As a matter of fact, the only thing she really wanted was some time alone. Eleven hours in the truck with Darius had only made her appreciate him more.

  Then, there had been the kiss.

  The soul-searing, toe-curling kiss.

  She shouldn’t have let it happen, but she hadn’t been able to stop it.

  “As long as you’re sure, I’ll go ahead and leave you to get settled. You have internet access, but don’t email friends or family. No phone calls, either. They can be traced.”

  “Thanks,” Catherine responded by rote, her gaze on the computer that sat on a small white desk.

  As soon as Taryn closed the door, Catherine went to the desk and booted up the computer. She typed in Gerald Kensington’s name, watching as a list of hits appeared on the screen. She clicked on one, her gaze caught by a color photo of a handsome man with searing blue eyes and salt-and-pepper hair. The article below it described Kensington’s thirty years as a senator and his retirement from public service. His beautiful home on the Oregon coast.

  Was this the man who’d written a ten-thousand-dollar check to a fifteen-year-old girl?

  If so, why?

  She skimmed a few more articles, pausing on one with a photo of Kensington’s family. The senator stood tall and lean, his arm around a thin, pretty woman with red hair and dark eyes. Two young men stood on either side of them. Both as handsome as their father.

  A good-looking family, but what did it have to do with hers?

  Someone knocked on the door, the soft rap jerking Catherine back to the moment.

  “Come in.” She didn’t look up from the computer as the door opened. She didn’t need to. She knew who was going to walk in, and when Darius did, every nerve in her body jumped to attention.

  “Which one is Kensington?” He leaned over her shoulder, one hand resting on her nape, the gesture comfortable and easy.

  “The older guy. The other two are his sons.”

  “A senator, huh?”

  “Yes. He retired five years ago.”

  “Maybe we should pay him a visit. Let’s see how far he is from here.” He leaned over and typed the address into the computer, his cheek so close to Catherine’s that she could feel his heat. If she turned her head, if he turned his, they’d be a breath apart.

  Not a good place for her mind to be going.

  “I’m not sure visiting him is the best way to handle things,” she responded, shoving down the images that danced through her mind. Images of throwing herself into Darius’s arms.

  “I can’t think of a better way. Can you?” he responded.

  “I called. Maybe he’ll call back.”

  “He hasn’t yet.”

  “It hasn’t even been twelve hours. We should give him a little more time.”

  “We don’t have a little more time, Catherine.” He stepped back, his hand slipping away as he paced across the room and set Eileen’s things on the bed. His stride hitched as he turned to face her, and the pain that flashed in his eyes was gone so quickly she wasn’t sure she’d actually seen it.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, because it mattered more than she’d ever thought it could. He mattered, and no matter how much she didn’t want to admit it, the truth was there, burning hot in her heart as she looked into his face.

  “Fine.”

  “Then, why are you limping?”

  “It was a long drive. My leg is a little stiff.” He rubbed his thigh and sat on the bed.

  “Let me get you an ice pack.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m here to take care of you. Not the other way around.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” She stood and walked out of the room, hurrying down the stairs and through the living room. A small dining room led from there into the kitchen. Taryn looked up from a computer screen she was bent over. “Hey! Hungry?”

  “I need a trash bag, some ice and some pain reliever. Tylenol or Motrin.”

  “Pain relievers are in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. There’s ice in the freezer.” Taryn didn’t ask what either was for. Just pulled a trash bag from a pantry closet and handed it to Catherine.

  “Thanks.” She poured ice into the bottom of the bag and carried it upstairs.

  Darius had moved from the bed to the desk and was reading an article about Gerald Kensington. She didn’t give him a chance to protest, just plopped the ice on his thigh and walked into the bathroom.

  A small pile of plastic cups sat on the edge of the sink. She filled one with water and pulled Tylenol from the medicine cabinet. She carried both out to Darius, setting them on the desk.

  He frowned, but opened the bottle and tapped three tablets into his hand. “Thanks.”

  “You’ve done plenty for me, Darius. It’s about time I did something for you.”

  “That’s not the way it works, Catherine.”

  “The way that what works?”

  “Us.” He shifted so they were facing each other, and her breath caught as she stared into his eyes. Years ago, she’d looked into Peter’s eyes, and she’d imagined that she saw the future. She’d been more mistaken than she’d ever thought she could be. When she looked in Darius’s eyes, she didn’t see the future, she saw the moment, and it stole her thoughts, her resistance. Made her want to dream again.

  “There is no us.”

  “Not acknowledging something doesn’t make it cease to exist,” he responded, turning back to the computer and printing the article.

  “Acknowledging it doesn’t make it exist, either.”

  “You’re right. We make it exist. The way we feel when we’re together. That’s what makes it real.” He handed her the printed page. “Take a look at the photo.”

  “I’ve seen it.” But she looked
anyway, studying the Kensington family, searching the faces for some clue that would reveal the truth about their connection to her mother.

  “What do you think of Kensington’s wife?” He tapped the woman’s image.

  “She’s pretty.”

  “She has red hair.”

  “Lots of people have red hair.”

  “You do. Did your mother?”

  “No. She was a brunette.”

  “Guess that blows my theory, then.”

  “What theory?”

  “That Kensington had a thing for redheads. That he and your mother met, and he—”

  “My mother was fifteen when that check was written. He must have been fifty.”

  “Forty-three.”

  “You think he’s my father,” she said, giving voice to the thought that had been nudging at the back of her mind. The thought she hadn’t wanted to consider, because acknowledging it meant acknowledging that everything she believed about her parents was a lie.

  “I’m just throwing out the idea. You and Kensington don’t look much alike, but you resemble his wife. If your mother resembled her...”

  “She didn’t. There’s a picture in the box.” She pulled it out and handed it to Darius, her heart hammering as he scrutinized the image. Her parents stood on the porch of her grandmother’s house, young and obviously in love, their faces wreathed in smiles. Her father’s tattoos showed beneath the rolled-up sleeve of his white button-up shirt, his hands cupping her mother’s pregnant belly. Two months before Catherine was born, the day they’d been married by the justice of the peace, and Eileen had snapped the photo when they returned home. Catherine had heard the story a thousand times. She’d looked at the photo as many times, but she’d never noticed her mother’s wild beauty. Her full red lips and kohl-rimmed eyes. Her graceful arms, her curly hair spilling over her shoulders. Fifteen, but she looked twenty.

  “Your mother was a beautiful woman.”

  “I know.”

  “The guy with her is your father?”

  “Yes.”

  “This was taken before you were born, right?”

  “Two months before. My parents were married at the courthouse.”

  “And your mother was only fifteen? She looks—”

  “I can see that she looks a lot older than she was, Darius, but I still don’t believe that Gerald Kensington is my father.”

  “He wrote her a check for ten thousand dollars. He was a senator, married with two sons. He had a reputation he needed to protect.”

  “That doesn’t mean he had an affair with a minor.”

  “He might not have known she was a minor.”

  He had a point, but Catherine didn’t want to admit it. Not out loud, anyway. Inside, though, she couldn’t help thinking about Eileen’s descriptions of Jessica. A sweet girl who had some problems. A rebel who seemed bent on self-destruction until she’d gotten pregnant and turned her life around.

  “If they did have an affair, and she got pregnant, why didn’t she cash the check? It would have made her life easier.”

  “Good question. I think we should pay Gerald a visit tomorrow and ask,” Darius said.

  “I don’t think he’s going to be happy to have us show up on his doorstep.” But she couldn’t refuse to go. Eileen had made a point of telling her about the box before she’d died, and that meant the contents were important, that there was something Eileen wanted her to learn from them.

  “Do you care?”

  “Not really.”

  “Good.” Darius smiled, reaching for the box and pulling out the newspaper article. “Any idea why Eileen kept this?”

  “There were plenty of articles about my parents’ deaths. I was able to access them at the library when I was a teenager. I don’t know why she chose to keep this one.” But Eileen had never done things arbitrarily. Obviously, she’d had a reason.

  “Maybe there was something in this one that was different than the others.” Darius scanned the article, his fingers splayed across the newspaper.

  She knew how warm they’d feel on her back, how gentle on her cheek, and her pulse jumped in response.

  “I don’t see how there could be. They all said the same. My father shot my mother with his hunting rifle. Then shot himself in the head.”

  “The article says he shot himself in the back of the head. Must have been difficult with rifle.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you ever held a rifle? They’ve got long barrels. I’m not sure how a man would point one at the back of his head and pull the trigger.”

  She’d never paid attention to the details before, but she took the article, read it carefully. “Maybe the reporter made a mistake, and that’s why Eileen kept the article. Now that I’m thinking about it, I’m pretty sure the police report said that he shot himself in the temple.”

  “You read the police reports?”

  “Yes. When I was in college, but it’s difficult to remember the details. I’ll ask Logan to send it to me.”

  “Mind if I take a look once you get it?” He carefully folded the article and placed it back in the box, then stood.

  “No. I’ll see if he can email it. That’ll speed up the process.” She followed him to the door.

  He was leaving, and that was exactly what she should want, but she touched his arm, holding him there with that simple gesture.

  “You okay?” he asked, his knuckles skimming her cheek.

  “Yes.” But she wasn’t. Not really. As much as she wanted to be alone, she dreaded it. Alone meant time to think about Eileen, about her parents, about the mysteries that were unfolding.

  Too many questions and not enough answers, and someone who wanted her dead.

  Were the past and the present connected?

  If so, was Gerald Kensington part of that connection?

  “Do you want me to stay up here with you for a while longer?” Darius asked, and she was so tempted to say yes that the word almost slipped out of her mouth.

  “No. I’m fine.” She let her hand drop from his arm and stepped into the room.

  “We’ll leave early tomorrow and try to get to Kensington’s place before he goes out for the day. Six o’clock sound okay to you?”

  “That’s fine.”

  “You keep saying things are fine, but you look like you’re about to fall apart. You don’t have to pretend with me, Catherine. I understand heartache, and I know what you’ve been through. If you need me—”

  “You can go,” she said too quickly, because she wanted him to stay and she shouldn’t. Even when she’d been with Peter, she hadn’t needed him the way she seemed to need Darius. Not with the kind of need that made her feel hollow and empty and alone.

  His face tightened, his lips a hard straight line, but he turned and walked away without another word.

  Catherine closed the door and retreated to the bed. Her stomach growled, but she didn’t want to go to the kitchen to get something to eat. She didn’t want to see Darius again, didn’t want to see the disappointment in his eyes.

  He’d offered what she wanted, maybe even what she needed, and she’d shoved him away.

  She’d become good at shoving in the past few years.

  Good at pushing away reporters and inmates and guards. Good at building walls to keep people out, because she hadn’t wanted to be hurt again.

  She was hurting anyway.

  Worse, she had hurt someone else. Darius deserved better th
an the brush-off she’d given him.

  She picked up Eileen’s Bible, thumbing through the well-worn pages, wishing for the peace she’d had when she was younger, but it was as elusive as a dream, and all she could find was the hard ache of disappointment.

  SEVENTEEN

  “Hey! Osborne! It’s your shift.” Taryn’s whispered words seeped into Darius’s dreams, waking him from the first sound sleep he’d had in days.

  His shift?

  He glanced at the alarm clock. 2:45 a.m.

  Not quite his shift, but he got up anyway, strapping on his prosthesis and walking out of the room. “You got me up fifteen minutes early, Taryn,” he growled, and she smirked, her dark blue eyes dancing with amusement. One of the best security specialists he knew, she had a sweet pretty face that belied her toughness.

  “I figure you’d need some coffee and something to eat before you got started.”

  Both sounded good, and he headed to the kitchen, Taryn close on his heels. “You were also bored.”

  “True. It’s been a quiet night.”

  “Just the way I want things.”

  “Then let’s hope that’s the way things stay while I catch a couple of hours of sleep. What time are we heading to the senator’s place?”

  “Six.”

  “That’s an early start. I’d better grab my catnap.” She left the room as he poured coffee into a mug. No sugar or cream, just black and bitter. He sipped the brew, leaning over the computer that sat on the kitchen table. His boss, Ryder Malone, had purchased the cottage three years ago and equipped it with exterior security cameras that monitored the house and the perimeter of the lot. A split-screen computer allowed Darius to monitor all the cameras with ease, and he studied the images.

  Quiet.

  Just like Taryn had said.

  The house had grown quiet, too.