Call to Engage

by Tawny Weber

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “I don’t know,” Ava said again. “I guess that’s what I have to figure out. I teach enough classes and have enough massage clients to cover my bills, and I can pick up extra classes here and there if I feel like it. Commitment is a big step. Right now I can just go with the flow.”

  Of course, she kept throwing commitments into the flow, things like class competitions, black belt testing and new massage classes to increase the range of treatments she could offer clients. But those were all on her terms. It would be different if the schedule were etched in stone. Or at least carved in wood.

  Wouldn’t it?

  “Only dead fish go with the flow,” Chloe pointed out, her face perfectly serious.

  Ava had to laugh. Leave it to Chloe to sum it up perfectly. “Well, I guess I’m still swimming, so I might as well consider it.”

  By the time they strode into the gym, Ava realized she wasn’t just considering it. She was seriously considering it. She loved this place, she thought as they worked their way through the early gym rats toward the locker room. She really did. She appreciated the scent of exertion, the pounding music accompanied by swearing grunts and easy chatter.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to meet the banker?” Chloe asked, eating the last of the strawberries while Ava stashed her bag in her locker. “He really is cute.”

  “Nope. My schedule is full,” Ava replied. “Tonight I’m trying that new Bikram yoga class. Right now I’m heading to the supply closet for a dozen nunchakus for weapons training in this afternoon’s taekwondo class. And at some point I have Mack’s proposition to consider, remember?”

  Chloe shook her head, her dreadlocks sweeping over the hemp straps of her beige tunic. “I tell you about the hottest guy you could ever meet, and you turn down a date because you claim you’re going to be busy stretching yourself into a pretzel in an oven filled with sweaty people. Then you receive a career-changing offer and you’re going to count out a bunch of sticks on chains so you can teach pajama-clad Bruce Lee wannabes?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Ava shot back with a delighted smile. “I’m going to put my gi on first.”

  * * *

  WHETHER IT WAS twelve hours down, or simply getting his first dreamless night in months, Elijah woke feeling great.

  Rested. Refreshed. Alive.

  One way or another, Mack had always been there for him. He’d taught Elijah to drive in his Honda, had stood by him when Elijah had pissed off the family with his choice to join the Navy and had given him the sex talk at the tender age of twelve. Of course, Mack’s version had been more along the lines of birds and birds than birds and bees, but Elijah had been a smart kid. He’d made the translation without too much trouble. Mack had helped guide Elijah after his dad had died, then a dozen years later had gotten him through the darkest time in his life.

  Elijah didn’t expect his cousin to fix his problems now; he was a big boy. He’d fix them himself. But it would be nice fixing them here.

  With that in mind and ready to get started, Elijah rolled out of bed. He snagged his jeans from the floor, fishing out his cell phone to check the time: 8:05 a.m.

  Elijah tugged on his pants, then strode out of the room in search of hot coffee and his cousin. He found neither. But as he wandered the apartment, he did find a note propped against the coffeepot.

  Sorry! Got called away to step in as referee for a big match. Gotta follow the money. You chill here, take it easy, rest up. We’ll talk when I get back. I know I got things to explain. Get your massage—you’re booked for 8:30. I’ll be back in a few hours. In the meantime, coffee is ready to go, just push the red button.

  Elijah read it twice, but no amount of cryptology training was making Mack-speak any clearer. So he took the last part to heart, pushed the red button and noted he had enough time for coffee and a shower.

  He was still feeling good when he stepped out of the apartment. Damned good.

  It wasn’t pride that made Elijah take the stairs down to the Fit Wellness Clinic. It was a desperate attempt to work the stiffness out of his leg before someone started pummeling it.

  Located in the same building, the clinic was as unisex and comfortable as the rest of the gym, with wide glass doors opening to the street and a juice bar along one wall. The narrow hallway leading to the treatment rooms was guarded by a display counter showcasing fitness gear, energy bars and insulated bottles. Sitting behind the counter was a pretty blonde who looked like she’d gotten lost somewhere between deciding if she wanted to be a hippie or a sex symbol. Her dreadlocks were tied back from her face with a wide magenta hairband, her shirt appeared to be made from hemp and her lips were painted bloodred.

  Elijah approached her with a wary smile. “Hi. I’m booked for an eight-thirty massage.”

  “You must be Bruce Banner.” Her smile was appreciative. “Mack said you were a big boy.”

  “Is that what Mack said?” Not as big as the Hulk, though. Figuring there was no point trying to explain his cousin’s joke, Elijah shrugged.

  “You’re in room one. Go ahead and go on in. Strip down naked and get comfy on the table.” She inclined her head toward the first door on the left. “You let me know if you need any help.”

  “You the one who’s going to come work the kinks out?” he asked.

  “I wish. But you’re down for an injury rehabilitation massage, and we only have one person qualified for that.” Her sigh said that person wasn’t her. “Your therapist will be with you in a few minutes.”

  Therapist. Elijah grimaced. He’d had enough of that. But he didn’t figure anyone rubbing his burn-scarred flesh was going to ask what was going through his head. They’d be too busy holding back their gasps of horror.

  He stepped into the massage room, letting the door close behind him as he checked it out. The therapists must have free rein on their decorating choices, because this was not a room done by Mack.

  The colors were soothing, cream and tan with splashes of black and red to keep it from being boring. There was an Asian feel to the art and statuary, with delicate coins on a red string hanging in one corner and chimes in another. But the star of it all was the massage table. Bigger than most, it looked sturdy enough to hold an elephant and was set at its lowest height, telling Elijah that the massage therapist was probably a woman.

  Cool, he grinned.

  He wouldn’t mind being rubbed down by female hands. Something that his recovery had put on the no-fly list for the last few months.

  He stripped down, neatly folding his clothes and stacking them on the chair. Comfortable with his nudity, he reached for the ceiling, stretching out muscles still tight from yesterday’s drive, then climbed under the sheet.

  Maybe that was his problem, Elijah considered as he propped his chin on his fists and began systematically relaxing his muscles. He started with his toes, breathing deep, relaxing each digit before moving on to his ankles and calves.

  Maybe all he needed was a good lay. A hot ride to clear his pipes, knock loose the kinks and get him back in fighting condition.

  His eyes drifted closed as he felt a few of the tighter knots loosen in his thigh. Seemed like his body was all for that idea.

  About the time he’d breathed relaxation into his shoulders, he heard the door open. A familiar scent tickled his awareness, teased his senses with both desire and dread.

  “Sorry I’m running late, Mr. Banner. Bruce, is it?” There was humor in the friendly words and a hint of doubt. “I hope my delay didn’t upset you.”

  Elijah didn’t have to turn his head to know who had just walked in. Like her scent, he’d know her voice anywhere.

  Fuck.

  He was going to kick Mack’s ass sideways.

  He forced his expression to clear before he turned on the massage bed, propping himself o
n one elbow and offering as close to a friendly smile as he could manage.

  “Hello, Ava.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “ELIJAH?”

  Elijah Prescott?

  Her emotions ricocheting between denial and delight, Ava tried to think straight. Her fingers itched to reach out, to touch that gorgeous face, to caress that warm skin. To see if he was real.

  But all she could do was stare.

  Then, in her next breath, her initial surge of joy-filled pleasure died a fast, ugly death as memories flashed in a painful cacophony of images. White lace and teddy bears. Gold rings and baby bottles. Basic black and a tiny coffin.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” she snapped, stepping away from the table as if breathing his air would suck her back into the past.

  “I thought I was getting a massage, but clearly I was mistaken,” Elijah remarked in that deep, easy voice of his. Once that unflappable calm had comforted her, had made her feel safe and secure and even, yes, on occasion, had turned her on.

  Now it made her want to storm over to that massage table and kick him.

  Hard.

  “Why are you here?” she asked again. “Here. In Napa. In the spa. On my massage bed?”

  “Yours?”

  Those sharp bottle-green eyes angled around the room. Not a flounce, flourish or bit of fluff to be seen. She didn’t need his arched brow to tell her that he didn’t think she fit this setting.

  Good. The woman he’d known didn’t fit here. Ava took comfort in that. But comfort wasn’t much of a cushion against the shock of seeing Elijah Prescott again.

  Her gaze shifted from the intensity of his face to check out the rest of him. A mistake, she realized when her eyes roamed the corded muscles of his shoulders and arms. It was bad enough that she could barely form a coherent sentence or think straight. The last thing she could afford to add to that was lust.

  She tried to look away, but her eyes wouldn’t cooperate. God, the man was built. Not gym fit, but weapon fit. She’d forgotten that there was a difference, and in ignoring the former had blocked out how deliciously tempting was the latter.

  “I’m in Napa visiting my cousin. I’m in the fitness clinic,” he continued, “because Mack insisted I get a massage. Now how about you fill me in on the details of how this came to be your massage bed?”

  It wasn’t the demand in his voice or the absolute assurance in his expression that she’d do exactly as ordered that snapped Ava out of her stupefied fog. It was realizing that she was about to obey. Chin high, she pulled on her best bitch face and threw out a snotty—albeit pretty lame—insult.

  “Well, well, what do you know? You’re one of those guys who can’t handle a woman giving them a massage,” Ava taunted. “Like, what? Just because you’re some big, hard-bodied sailor boy, a woman can’t be a professional and do her job? Are you a misogynist, Elijah? Is that what’s wrong?”

  The words were as empty of truth as they were ugly. But they had the desired effect.

  “I’m fucking naked,” he snapped, shoving into a sitting position and making her mouth water when the sheet slipped down his chest to pool in his lap. “That’s what’s wrong.”

  “I’ve seen you naked before. Quite a few times, as a matter of fact.” She rounded her heavily lashed eyes as innocently as she could. “I have pictures if you need a reminder.”

  “I’m aware of the past, and remember every naked moment, thanks all the same,” he said dismissively. Then his frown deepened. “What pictures?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Ava laughed, a real laugh this time. For a man who’d never had any issue walking around in his altogether, he sure had a puritanical streak about some things.

  “I’m taking that as my cue to get dressed,” he said. At her questioning glance, he added, “I assume I’m not getting that massage. Unless you want to set aside your touted professionalism and use this opportunity to get your hands on my body again, of course.”

  His brows arched and his smile slid into wicked as he gave her a long look up and down. Ava pretended that look didn’t send tiny thrills of desire sparking through her system. God, she was doing a lot of pretending today.

  “No, thanks. The last thing I want to do is touch you,” she lied, trying to make the words sound uninterested instead of breathless and filled with regret.

  Elijah didn’t seem to care either way. He simply stared with an intensity that seemed to see right through her secrets and into her soul.

  “What?” she finally asked, forcing herself not to brush self-consciously at her hair or tug her simple black tee to make sure it was in place.

  “You look...different,” he said, his tone not indicating whether that was good or bad.

  Ava’s spine stiffened, her jaw jutting out as she filled in the unsaid blanks. Yes, she’d lost most of her curves when she’d dropped fifteen pounds. She heard that lament often enough from her mother, the woeful despair that men preferred curves to angles, softness to muscle.

  And, yes, she’d let her hair grow out without the golden highlights she’d sported for so many years. Monthly salon visits were too much time and money, so the world had to settle for seeing her natural dark brown hair in all its waving glory. Her face was free of makeup but for a layer of tinted moisturizer, and her nails were short and unpolished.

  She knew she didn’t look the same as she had four years ago. So what?

  The last thing she wanted was a man gazing at her with interest, with desire. As far as Ava was concerned, that part of her life was over, and she was glad for it. Mostly.

  She bit her lip, watching the play of muscles as Elijah shifted position. His green eyes flashed with irritation; his own gilded-brown hair was just long enough to show a hint of curl. His full lips were pressed tightly together, but she knew they could be seductively soft or hard with demand, depending on his mood.

  His lap was covered by the sheet, but she took a moment to consider what the fabric hid. Oh so many kinds of heaven, she knew. Then her gaze shifted to where the sheet had fallen away.

  Her breath caught, pain gutting her of all thought but for horror. It wasn’t the sculpted perfection of his abs or the corded muscles of his thighs that Ava’s eyes were glued to.

  It was the scars, rigid and red, scored in ugly lines over his right leg. From hip to knee with a scattering of scars dotting his calf. Her heart wept at the sight. What had he done? She tried to swallow past the scream knotted in her throat. Those were burns. She’d never worked on a burn-recovery client, but she’d seen enough during her stint at the hospital to recognize them. How deep did scars like that go?

  She wanted to ask. Her hand ached to reach out, to run her fingers along the puckered tissue and ease the tight pain.

  Her mother had predicted that Elijah’s job would kill or maim him. From their first date, Celeste Monroe had warned her that Elijah would never put her ahead of his daredevil ways, his need for glory. She’d dismissed Ava’s argument that the SEALs operated on the down low and never sought credit, that Elijah was highly trained and skilled, and that he was trained in linguistics—basically, talking, and how much trouble could a guy get into talking?

  According to Celeste, the wrong words could get him blown to bits. Damn Elijah all to hell for proving her mother right. Again.

  She tore her gaze off his leg to meet his eyes instead. “Ouch,” she said, pulling a face.

  “Ouch?” he repeated with a half laugh.

  “You expected me to, what? Get hysterical at the sight of your mangled flesh? To throw myself on your body, wailing over your injury?” she asked, putting as much sarcasm as she could into the words since her stomach was quivering to do just that.

  “Actually, I didn’t think about it,” he said with jerk of his shoulder. “But if I had, yeah. I’d have expecte
d wails and tears and hysteria. As I recall, you were pretty good at freaking out.”

  “Unlike you, who nothing ever fazes,” she countered, gripping her arms tightly over her chest. Using her chin, she gestured toward his thigh. “I’m sure when that happened, you simply got up, dusted yourself off and finished your supersecret mission.”

  “That’s what I’m trained to do.”

  Of course it was. Ava had once figured Elijah was the perfect combination of Lancelot, Michelangelo and Superman.

  But she’d been wrong about so many things.

  “And you? Suddenly you’re trained to rub naked people’s bodies for a living now?”

  “That’d fall under the category of none of your business,” she snapped. She hated people judging her. Her life, her choices. She’d grown up with it, had spent her life guided by it, had once accepted that as simply the way things were. But no longer.

  Apparently Elijah hadn’t gotten that memo.

  “Your old man lets you do this?” he scoffed with a look that was much too condescending for a man naked but for a pale cream sheet. Granted, his body was freaking awesome. But that was beside the point.

  “My father,” she emphasized, “has no say in my life and no authority over my choices.”

  “I meant your—what do you call him? Boyfriend is pretty high school, isn’t it?” The bitterness in his words matched the expression in his eyes. “Booty call is tacky. So what’s the term? Man friend?”

  Ava had to swallow hard to breathe past the knot in her throat, but she hoped she managed to look nonchalant. “I hear significant other a lot, or partner.” Partner. Something she’d never been. She let the bitterness show through her smile for just a second before shrugging. “Personally, I think lover sounds perfect.”

  Not that she had one. But there was something satisfying about watching fury flash in Elijah’s gorgeous eyes.

  Tossing the sheet aside, he didn’t give her much time to appreciate the view before he yanked on his jeans. She indulged in a brief sigh of regret when he grabbed his shirt and yanked the gray cotton over his head.