It was a superstitious ritual, but one that provided another level of comfort to Lauren whenever she was away from home.
“Who is Lauren?”
Dalton’s head jerked up at the sound of Kira’s voice. She was staring at him as though he’d been rambling for a while. Her cheeks were flushed an enticing shade of pink, which matched the T-shirt barely covering her hips. Her hair billowed around her shoulders with angelic ease, the golden-blond strands reflecting the light.
“My wife.” He couldn’t remember anyone ever asking him the question.
Everyone knew Lauren.
Knew about her sudden rise to fame, knew about her tragic death.
“You’re married?” The color drained from Kira’s skin.
He shook his head in denial. “No, I was married.”
“So you’re divorced?”
He didn’t want to talk about it, but her borderline mortification at the prospect of him being married meant he needed to set the record straight.
“My wife committed suicide eighteen months ago.” There, he’d managed to say it without any long pauses or cracks in his voice.
“Oh, Dalton, I’m so sorry.” Kira patted his leg before placing a hand on his knee.
Her green-eyed gaze turned somber and her eyes filled with tears. And then there was silence between them. She was waiting for him to change the subject or to provide more details. He wasn’t sure if he could do either.
Covering her hand with his, he rubbed his thumb across her bruised knuckles, and she flipped her hand over to entwine their fingers. His heart tightened in his chest as he willed the painful memories to their rightful place in the far recesses of his mind.
“I’m listening.”
He chuckled, certain she didn’t know how simply she’d released the tension in his body. “It sounds like you’re talking.”
She sighed. “You know what I meant. I’ll listen if you want to tell me about it.”
What could he say about Lauren without adding more emotion to their day?
Kira pulled her hand from his grasp. “Don’t feel obligated to share anything with me. Jeez, we hardly know each other.”
Not completely true. They’d both lost spouses and neither one of them was certain what had gone wrong. But maybe now wasn’t the best time to dredge up everything he’d shared with Lauren.
“I hope it was all right that I cleaned up. I found a T-shirt in one of the dressers.”
He took a good long look at Kira. Her face was freshly scrubbed, revealing a hint of bruising along her jawline, and a fresh bandage was on her forehead. An intoxicating mix of jasmine and musk floated around her. The T-shirt was actually from a famous lingerie company and he had no doubt what she was wearing beneath it.
Someone had been using the corporate jet for more than business. Someone who dated several lingerie models, so it wasn’t a surprise they’d left some items on the plane. Leave it to an old friend to provide items barely qualifying as clothing.
“I couldn’t find any pants, so I’ll have to wear those ugly sweats again.”
He stared down at her bare legs and resisted the urge to touch her. Having her half-dressed and seated next to him brought all sorts of unwanted images to mind.
“Do you want me to wear something else?” Her innocent question sent desire arcing between them in the span of two heartbeats. He allowed it to simmer for another few seconds before standing and stepping away from the temptation of her warm body.
It wasn’t enough. Her eyes sparkled mischievously and he shoved his itchy fingers into his front pockets, latching on to the thumb drive and steeling his resolve to keep her at a kiss-stance, or distance.
He was losing it.
He retreated from her and the secret smile painting her lips. A little devil. She had designs on getting the thumb drive with seductive distraction. Underestimating Kira or her determination to regain the driver’s seat was unwise.
He grasped at the first, apparently safe, topic jumping into his head. “The clothes must belong to Tate. We were best friends growing up.” Past tense. And although he never intended the implied we aren’t friends anymore, it hung in the air.
“Something happened to change your relationship?” Kira tugged the blanket from the seat and wrapped it around her shoulders.
Dalton knew she already sensed the truth. “Lauren was his sister.”
Kira stared at him for another moment. “Everybody grieves differently.” The blanket drifted to her waist, and she secured it there before crossing her arms over her chest in a knowing manner. “Time is supposed to make it easier to deal with losing someone we’ve loved.”
“When?” The sarcasm in his tone was much harsher than he intended, and he immediately felt contrite for taking his frustration out on her. But before he could retract the statement, some abrupt turbulence knocked Kira out of her double seat. His arms wrapped securely around her before the two of them tumbled to the floor.
* * *
The plane hit more turbulence and Kira was immediately on alert. So was Dalton. He tensed, perked an ear toward his pilot. The surrounding fluffy clouds had been replaced with gray denseness. Water dribbled across the outside of the window.
“Mr. Matthews?” a voice inquired over the intercom.
“On my way,” he said loudly over his shoulder, before turning back to Kira. “You should buckle up.”
She did as instructed and waited. Dalton would surely tell her if they were in trouble, right? Her stomach danced, either from the sound of his voice or from the movement of the plane.
“Kira, are you okay?” The intercom crackled as he spoke over it ten minutes later while the plane continued to shake from side to side.
“I’m fine.” Which was the biggest lie ever told, because she was anything but all right, being on a plane in obvious distress.
“The storm we tried to miss turned into a blizzard. Hang tight until we get on the ground.”
“Dalton?” When he didn’t respond, she tightened her seat belt and prayed. None of this was his fault. Okay, almost none of it was his fault. If only he’d walked away at the convenience store, he wouldn’t be risking his life for her. Again.
* * *
An early-autumn storm dropped visibility to zero, causing Dalton and his copilot to change course from his family’s ranch near Waco to his ski chalet. The secluded retreat had its own runway and Dalton got them on the ground before the heavier snow started falling.
Kira added a few essential toiletries to her tote bag while Dalton wielded a cardboard box filled with rations from the plane’s kitchen and then led her and the copilot down a paved path toward their final destination.
The soft gray blanket from the plane was wrapped around her shoulders. Unfortunately, she had to wear the temporary shoes Dalton had made for her, causing her to shuffle along the sidewalk leading to the chalet’s wide front porch.
Spotting the for-sale sign in the front yard, she paused a moment, glancing around the area. She couldn’t see a road from here, so who would be able to see the sign?
“Do you own this house, too?”
“Yes.” His clipped response put a stop to any other questions she may have wanted to ask.
He stomped up the front steps while she gingerly placed one foot in front of the other and reached for the railing. Dalton balanced the box on his shoulder and reached for the alarm keypad. The door flew open.
Somebody was already here? Kira made her way onto the porch, uncertain what she should do or say. Maybe the Realtor rented the property while it was on the market? If so, where else could they go?
The man who opened the door was about Dalton’s height, but with short jet-black hair. “I thought you were dead.”
“More like you wish I was dead,” Dalton responded.
“They said your house exploded.”
“The house didn’t explode. It was my truck,” Kira offered.
“Hello there, Gene. Good to see you again.” The man appeared to know both Dalton and the copilot.
“Nice to see you again, Mr. Wilson.”
The dark-haired man leaned to one side, making eye contact with her. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Make yourself useful and carry this to the kitchen.” Dalton shoved the box against the man’s chest and then turned to help Kira navigate the final steps. When he tugged her inside and shoved the door shut after they’d all entered, she noticed Mr. Wilson was nearby, watching them.
“Gene, can you get a fire started? And I’ll have that ride for you in a bit.” Dalton cleared his throat. “Kira, this is Tate Wilson. Tate, this is Kira.”
Dalton reached for one of her feet and removed the bags and sock, dropping them onto the tiled entryway.
“I’m sorry for showing up—” she began.
“Stop apologizing,” he interrupted. “It’s my house.” He reached for her other foot, yanked off the sacks and sock. Kira leaned against the wall and watched while Dalton next removed his boots. She was afraid to do or say anything else that might cause more tension.
“What bedroom are you using?”
“The one off the kitchen,” Tate replied. “Need to turn up the other furnace if you’re staying upstairs.”
“Fine. Kira can shower down here.” Dalton grabbed her hand and led her past Tate, down a hallway and through the kitchen. They rounded a corner and entered a bedroom, then Dalton steered her through to the adjoining bath.
The counter was lined with cans and bottles. Shaving cream, moisturizer, hair mousse and gel stood next to a bottle of mouthwash, toothpaste and teeth whitening strips. Okay, wow. All the pieces were coming together.
“Is he gay?” Kira whispered.
“You’d think so, right?” Dalton shook his head in disgust. “No, he’s not gay. Vain, yes. Gay, no.” He checked the cabinet beneath the sink and pulled out two towels and a washcloth, stacking them on the counter. “There should be soap and shampoo in the shower. Take one of those extra long showers that women love and I’ll find something for you to wear.”
“I don’t want to cause any more trouble for you.”
“Then take a bath.” He checked his watch. “I need at least an hour to get rid of Tate.”
“You can’t kick him out because of me. Dalton, there’s a storm coming and he was here first.” She was prepared to list more reasons why it was wrong, but Dalton’s glare sent her in a completely different direction. “I’m taking a really long bath now.”
He slipped off his wristwatch and pressed a couple buttons before laying it on the counter. “Don’t come out until the alarm sounds.”
She pointed to the watch. “Is it waterproof?”
“It’s water resistant. Why?”
She plucked it from the counter and slipped it on her wrist, then frowned, shaking her head. “No telling how much trouble I can get into. Alone. In a bathroom.” She gestured to the sink. “With man stuff everywhere.”
She was disappointed when Dalton didn’t continue the conversation. He sighed, locked the doorknob and pulled the door shut behind him.
Chapter 10
If Tate could do nothing else right, at least he’d stocked the pantry. The women he normally surrounded himself with were more the fashionista variety. Tate was a gourmet chef with thousands of recipes stored in his giant brain. Dalton preferred simple meals that were immediately recognizable and just as good served left over.
He headed to the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. Seeing Tate Wilson for the first time in over a year brought old emotions to the surface.
“Tell me about your new friend.” Tate dropped an armful of clothing on the counter and crossed his arms over his chest.
“This doesn’t concern you.” Dalton dumped two teaspoons of sugar into the muck Tate called coffee and stirred so hard the spoon clanked against the mug.
“Maybe not, but I want to get all my facts straight before you try throwing me out.”
“There aren’t any facts, just speculation.”
“About what?” Digging for any nugget of information was Tate’s main character flaw. He could never let an argument end because he never forgot anything. Ever.
Dalton switched gears. “How did you know about the explosion?”
“The sheriff’s office called. Sounded like more than a truck caught fire. It surprised me to be listed as your emergency contact.” Tate poured himself a cup of black tar and slurped. “Good thing you showed up. My next call was going to be to your mother.”
“I’m fine.” Truthfully, his mother had checked in with him three times a day in the months following Lauren’s death. Dalton had managed to stretch the calls to once a week on Wednesday nights. One thing was in his favor: it wasn’t Wednesday.
“You’re fine?” Tate banged the mug on the counter. “Nothing has dragged you out of the woods for months. Then boom—literally—you’re playing with explosives and running around with a woman who obviously has issues, but no shoes.”
“Your opinion means nothing to me.” Dalton didn’t need to justify a thing. Not to the man who’d sold him out. “Is this how it’s going to be?”
Tate leaned on the fridge, then impatiently shifted forward again, the coffee forgotten.
“How many times have you visited her grave?” Dalton demanded.
Tate stared blankly, then shrugged.
“From the guy who never forgets a single damn detail.” Dalton emptied the pot and his mug’s contents down the drain. The black swill didn’t deserve to be deemed coffee. He searched the cabinets for some Buckshot’s, leaving the next move to Tate. They used to be best friends. But they hadn’t been civil to each other since the funeral.
Tate cleared his throat, braced his arms on the counter and dropped his head. “Seventeen.”
“You went to her grave seventeen times?” Dalton’s stomach churned as he measured ground coffee into the machine and pressed the start button.
Tate slapped the granite counter. “She was my baby sister.”
“We were like brothers, man. You think I killed your sister, my wife. You told the press that I must have been involved.”
They were suddenly toe to toe, both men’s fists clenched. Dalton wanted to swing. He wanted to knock his brother-in-law’s block off. Then Tate relaxed. He shoved his hands into his pockets and his shoulders dropped.
“I didn’t leak it, but I was wrong not to deny it.” He was too calm and relaxed, almost depressed.
Dalton couldn’t believe the bad luck that had forced them to land. And then more rotten luck that Tate would be here, right where it all had happened. “Why are you here, Tate?”
“I can be alone. No one comes here. You abandoned it.”
“And it was Lauren’s favorite place.”
“Yeah.” He pushed away from the counter and clapped his hands, faking a smile from ear to ear. “I need a drink.”
“I need you sober.”
“Now, that proposition doesn’t sound nearly as inviting as getting sloshed and enjoying your interesting friend.” Tate crossed to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water. He guzzled half the contents before setting it on the counter.
“She’s not that kind of friend.” Dalton needed real caffeine to steady his nerves. “But thanks for finding her some clothes.”
“You’re welcome. If you need anything else, let me know.”
His ex-best friend made him feel like a guest in his own home, but it wasn’t worth arguing about.
“No matter what state our relationship is in, Tate, I need your help. I’ve got something I need to get
to my techs.”
“So how did Kira become your problem?”
“Who said there was a problem?” Dalton shrugged and willed the coffeemaker to brew faster. No coffee, no cigarettes and no patience left for the inquisition that was sure to come. Perfect.
“There’s definitely a problem, buddy. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.” Tate made an hourglass figure in the air and nodded knowingly.
The very last thing Dalton needed was juvenile prodding from his old friend. Maybe he should have given a bit more consideration before asking for help. But Tate always had his back. Or used to. But still, he had extensive knowledge of security, guns and jets. Added bonus that he was a doctor.
“Come on, what’s this favor?”
Tate fed off all this adventure crap. He needed the constant adrenaline rush and tended to take risks without thinking a situation through to a safer conclusion.
“There was a time when you could have talked me into anything, probably because you had a way of selling every idea with a stack of attractive adjectives,” Dalton murmured. “Nothing was ever just an adventure. It was an unbelievable opportunity. You can change ordinary events into ten-point earthquakes.”
“Got it. I’m a leader and Dalton is a sheep. Your mother blamed me when you passed up the scholarship to Stanford and followed me into the Coast Guard. You still mad that I ended with a higher rank? Or that I got through school quicker?”
That age-old crack Dalton could ignore. He’d never been jealous of Tate seeking dangerous assignments patrolling the Gulf Coast in pursuit of drug runners from Central America. He wanted to slug Tate’s arm for the joke. For a second, he almost did. But he saw the change in Tate’s face, as his old friend was suddenly overcome with grief. Dalton recognized the look. He saw it too often in the mirror. They couldn’t forget what had happened. They both knew Tate was right to blame him for his sister’s death.
“Do you expect us to talk about the good old days and forget the last two years?” Tate asked.
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