There he was, standing at the sink without so much as a stitch on and she wanted better visibility? Violet-blue settled on his chest and then his stomach, slowly drifting downward, her mouth open in a silent O.
He turned to face her. There was no sense hiding what she’d already taken a gander at. “Care to join me?”
Her mouth finally closed, but a lovely shade of rose blossomed up her neck, spilling onto her cheeks. An embarrassed young woman replaced the cool, professional and very stuffy Nurse Sullivan, who’d probably seen it all in her line of work. She took her glasses off, blinking like crazy and shaking her head. This shy girl took a step back and blurted out a squeaky, “No, umm... no.”
Her glance dropped to his feet. His prosthetic foot. She shook those blond tresses, glanced at his cock, which by now had stood up and noticed her, too. One more time her eyeballs scrolled up and over his bare chest. She bit her lip right before she blew out an adorably embarrassed sigh and slammed the door behind her.
He chuckled. It had been a long time since any female had seen him in the raw. Women tended to steer clear of guys with fake limbs. He’d learned the hard way. War hero or not, once he let the cat out of the bag that he’d left a part of himself in Afghanistan, the romantic dinner was over. The night was done. They’d taken off. Every damned time.
He’d stopped looking for Mrs. Right months ago and bought a house. Less stress. More equity. As far as his feelings toward his missing foot? He’d dealt with it long ago.
Wasn’t much choice, was there?
Modern technology had provided a rugged substitute that would’ve allowed him to stay in the Corps if he’d wanted, but hell no. The molded plastic served its purpose. It kept him mobile, functioning, and able to stay productive. He had others, like his paddle foot for running, but it drew too much attention. He preferred to look like other guys. Normal on the outside.
It ached when the weather changed, which was really funny, considering the foot wasn’t there anymore. Phantom pains, his rehab therapist called them. Ha. Nothing phantom about those aches. Otherwise, a foot was a foot, mechanical or not. It held him upright. He stuck it in his boot and forgot about it. Other things hurt a helluva lot worse. Like losing friends and brothers. Just ask Maverick, why don’t cha?
But the look on Sullivan’s face? Priceless.
He wiped the last of the lather off his grinning mouth and chuckled loud enough that she surely heard it from wherever she’d run off to. Everyone else must have, too.
The steam in her eyes had been unexpected, though. Dark violet—a very enticing color. Simmering. Hmm. Yet another side to the beast.
Well, now she knew. A twinge of regret shifted over the face of the man staring back from the mirror. He’d been down this road before. Never ended well.
Gabe focused on shaving instead of that—silly girl.
And I had to push my glasses up? Like I needed to get a better look? At him? Naked? Am I that stupid!
Shelby fled toward Kelsey’s room, blood humming so loud in her head she couldn’t think. Not only had she embarrassed herself by intruding on his privacy, but the man had a prosthetic foot attached to the bottom of his right leg. Agent Cartwright was a tibular amputee. How had she not noticed that before?
Her flustered mind raced over the last two days. He didn’t limp. He didn’t even favor the leg. Nothing. But she should’ve detected the difference, especially when she’d seen him lying on the floor this morning. She should’ve noticed the difference in his gait yesterday when he’d played with the dogs. She should’ve noticed something. Anything.
Why didn’t I? Am I really that stupid?
No. Simply focused on job number one, Kelsey, like you should be.
Other things bothered her about these two guys. Like their need to always wear those darned holsters, guns included. And their boots. And those dogs. Had she been so irritated with all that stuff that she’d missed really seeing them? That she’d never really looked at the men behind the whole professional bodyguard persona?
But wow, a transtibial amputation. Most orthopedic surgeons opted for less of a residual limb, taking a damaged leg off closer to the knee joint and leaving just enough of a stump to attach a longer prosthetic leg instead of a prosthetic ankle and foot. Why had this doctor elected to leave more of Agent Cartwright’s leg? Was that what Army doctors did?
Oh, wait. He’s not Army. What was that rank he’d tossed at her? USMC, something or other. She hadn’t cared enough to listen, but wished she had now. Agent Cartwright might act like any other guy, but he wasn’t.
Agent Lennox treated him like he had two normal legs. Surely he knew, didn’t he? Or was Agent Cartwright just that good at hiding his... his what? His handicap?
The word didn’t fit. Not one bit. Not him. No. The man wasn’t handicapped in any sense of the word. Those were oftentimes more of a mental condition anyway. People who’d suffered acute trauma tended to label themselves as handicapped, crippled or divorced, as if that label truly identified who they were. The problem was that once labeled, they’d effectively pigeonholed themselves for the rest of their lives. They accepted less. They believed they were less than whole.
But Agent Cartwright hadn’t. He still worked. Walked. Acted like any other guy. He was just—Gabe. Kelsey’s protector. The one who had gotten up with her in the middle of the night and took her for a short early morning walk after a night of little sleep. Like he cared.
Shelby pressed her hand to her chest to still the kettledrum beating there.
But the light in those eyes when she’d flung the door open. Sultry green. Downright enticing. Steamy…
Another heat wave throbbed up the length of her body, just thinking about him standing there without a stitch. Nope. Agent Cartwright, umm, Gabe, wasn’t like other guys. Not at all.
Missing a foot or not, he still looked—chiseled, like one of those carved Grecian gods adorning half the buildings in D.C. with all their naked splendor. Only this guy was built. Ripped. Muscled from chin to, umm, foot. Tanned. The right sprinkle of dark hair dusted his pecs, trailed down his stomach and from there to—
There.
She should know. She’d just seen all that male splendor, up close a little too personal. He was more—endowed. She licked her lips. Prickly desire filled her breasts yet again, places farther south, too. He was fast becoming an unhealthy fixation, and she needed to get a grip. This uncontrollable feeling was nothing but animal attraction, but—mama. What an animal.
She’d almost reached out to touch that six-pack just to know if that abdominal wall was as solid as it appeared. What did the guy do? Live at the gym?
Thank heavens she’d kept her hands to herself, although further examination would’ve been purely medical. Yeah, right. His medical condition wasn’t why her heart banged at the back of her throat. Well, kind of it was. Every rare specimen deserved a thorough examination, didn’t it? Didn’t he?
Shelby composed her nerves as much as she could. She had work to do. This crazy infatuation had to stop. Opening Kelsey’s bedroom door, she peered inside.
Kelsey looked up from where she sat at the edge of her bed.
“Can I help you with your shower?” Shelby asked, her voice squeakier and her mouth drier than she’d intended.
Kelsey looked up from where she sat at the edge of her bed. “Thanks, but I’m already done. I have a favor to ask, though. Could you reach the box on the top shelf in my closet while you’re here? I can’t grab onto it with my fingers like they are. It keeps slipping.”
“You bet.” Helping Kelsey was easy and Shelby needed someone else to think about. She retrieved the box, and would’ve made Kelsey’s bed for her, but it was already tucked in for the day, the pillows fluffed, the drapes opened. “You’re doing really good for a lady with four broken fingers.”
“I manage. The plastic bags you suggested for my hands worked perfectly in the shower. Good thinking, Shelby.”
Shelby placed the boxes on the bed. �
�Is here okay?”
“Yes, thank you.” Kelsey lifted the lid off the nearest.
The boxes were full of carefully indexed photographs, each index card dated in black ink with feminine handwriting. She’d just given Kelsey a time bomb of memories.
Oh, no. What have I done?
Shelby sank to the bed. “Are you sure you want to do this right now? Wouldn’t you rather sit on the couch or something?” Play with your dogs. Read a book. Anything but this.
Splinted fingers tapped over the index cards. “No. This is exactly what I want to do right now.”
God, why not wait a year or two until you’re over him? Give yourself time to heal, to find someone else. To move on.
“Can I at least help you find what you’re looking for?” Shelby asked, her heart in her throat.
“No. I’ve got it. This. Just this.” Kelsey pulled out an envelope of photos, her lips pinched in a thin line of determination. She spilled them to the comforter, spreading them like a deck of playing cards. “I want to introduce you to my husband, Shelby. We took these on our honeymoon. This is the man I love. This is Alexander Bradley Stewart.”
Shelby swallowed hard, taking the photo Kelsey offered. She’d used one very definite word: love, not loved. Shelby adjusted her thinking accordingly. If Kelsey wasn’t ready to use the past tense, neither would she.
The happy couple in the wedding picture melted her heart. Kelsey’s smile filled her whole face, but the man standing behind her? Utterly drop-dead gorgeous.
Alex stood at least a foot taller than Kelsey, dark-haired and debonair, his arms around her and his hands interlocked over her stomach, his chin tucked into her neck and his eyes on the camera. They were both dressed formally, her in a long, ruffled gown, her bare toes peeking out from beneath the hem. He wore a proper black tux and shoes, but the light in his blue eyes? Pure adoration.
What a hunk.
“That was taken on the beach at Waikiki. Sunset. We’d just said our vows.” Kelsey rummaged for another shot. “Here. Look at this one.”
In the next shot, she faced him, her hands on his chest and his heart very much on display in those sexy blues. What a romantic couple. They glowed and it wasn’t from the pink sunset tinting her white gown, either. Love and lust emanated from both of them. The perfect couple.
“My goodness, you two look amazing. How did you meet? How did he propose to you? Why did you choose Hawaii?” A plethora of questions filled her head stemming from a need to know this man and woman better.
“That’s another story, but this picture...” Kelsey placed another in Shelby’s hands. “This is my favorite.”
Shelby took the image carefully, a lone shot of Alex walking out of the blue Pacific ocean toward the picture taker, which had to be Kelsey, judging by the smirk on his handsome face. With his athletically sculpted body still wet from the surf behind him, he was the epitome of relaxed. Tan. Sexier than hell, and maybe a little bit hungry for the woman in his sights. Swimming trunks hung off his hips, adding to a truly delicious photo. A snorkel and mask hung off his fingers by a strap. The man definitely had his swagger on.
“That was at Hanama Bay. I was sunbathing—well, kind of. I had more fun watching him snorkel. I swear, the man isn’t afraid of anything. Alex can be such a tease. He walked straight out of the surf and didn’t stop until he spilled a scuba mask full of cold water all over me.” She rubbed her biceps. “We had so much fun acting like kids again.”
“You married a very handsome man,” Shelby said. “What a cute couple you two were.”
A shadow shifted over Kelsey’s face, and Shelby wanted to call the word back.
Were. Not are.
“The thing is...” Kelsey’s eyes brimmed, “. . . it doesn’t matter where he is, Shelby. Maybe he really is gone. Maybe I’ll even believe that someday. But Alex doesn’t have to be here in this room for me to feel him. Wherever he is, he’s thinking of me right now, and he’s loving me. Maybe that’s what I sense when I finally fall asleep. Maybe that’s why I can still feel the man who owns every beat of my heart, every breath I take. You’re young, but one day you’ll understand. When love comes to you, I hope your man will love you as deeply and as purely as I know my man loves me, wherever he is.”
She stilled, her fingers caressing the rugged face of her man in the photo. “Because there is only true love, Shelby. Once it springs to life, it cannot end. No one but you can kill it. There is no ‘he loved me.’ Only ‘he loves me.’ And I’ll love him until the day I die.”
Chapter Fourteen
Damn it. David again. He was fast becoming another Harley, only calmer. Methodical. And still barking up the wrong tree.
Mark clenched his jaw and hunkered down to listen to more logic. Once again, they were head-to-head in Alex’s office, out of earshot. David had come up with some damned convincing evidence that Alex might be alive, but try as he might, Mark knew better.
God, he wanted to believe in fairy tales. So what if the ME and the FBI were covering something up? So what if Sam Becker’s clever little bullet carried no heat signature? The FBI had funding. The damned round might have been a smart bullet. At the end of the day, none of these speculations mattered. Eyes don’t lie. They don’t. Maybe in a magic act in Vegas they did, but not in the damned morgue and cemetery.
David pursed his lips. “Let’s assume Alex is still alive.”
“So assume. What next?”
“I believe he’d do everything possible to contact us, don’t you?”
“At least he’d contact Kelsey,” Mark murmured, “and since she believes he rescued her, maybe he’s already been in touch with her. Is that where you’re headed?”
“Who else would’ve stayed with her those three days in a vacant home?”
“We’re assuming a lot here, but okay. He would’ve made sure she was safe before he left her.”
“He also took very good care of her. Like you would’ve done with Libby.”
“I guess,” Mark admitted.
“And he placed an anonymous call that directed us straight to her because he knew we’d protect her. He trusts us, Mark.”
This was a lot of guessing and assuming over a man with three holes in his chest, embalmed, and supposed to be six feet under, but okay. If David wanted to play guessing games, what the hell?
“If our first assumption is valid, why hasn’t Alex come out in the open?” David asked, still probing and still working on Mark’s last nerve.
Because he’s dead, Mark thought, but he played along and said, “I guess he would if he could.”
“Exactly.”
David was a lot like Mark, a behind-the-scenes kind of a man, steady and calm while others, like Alex and Harley, tended to overreact. Not David. He was the rock, not so much unemotional as extremely thoughtful and analytical.
He seemed the steadiest of the three senior agents, and Mark was grateful to have him. But the man was obsessed, and Mark couldn’t for the life of him understand why. It seemed he was fighting his team. Every last one of them.
“I’ve lain awake every night since it happened,” David continued. “I know Alex as well as you. He’s the sharpshooter we all want to be, but he’s also the best ghost out there. I’ve seen him at work. He can get into places the rest of us wouldn’t think of going and never be seen again. The man doesn’t even need a ghillie suit. He just evaporates into thin air.”
“But he’d never hurt Kelsey, David. If he isn’t dead, this bullshit game he’s playing is killing her. Hell, it’s killing all of us.”
“You’re right. He’d never hurt Kelsey or his team—if he could help it.”
“So you think maybe he can’t help it?”
As much as Mark hated to admit it, David’s assumptions answered a lot of questions. The only problem was the truth kept getting in the way.
“But I saw him, David. So did you.”
“And it was a very traumatic experience for all of us. We were highly susceptible to misdirec
tion.”
“I guess.” Mark scrubbed his face with both hands, tired of remembering.
All it did was bring the nightmare back in living, dying color, and he wanted to forget. No, he needed to forget because more and more, it forced him into the role of devil’s advocate, the one who argued that Alex was dead. The last place Mark wanted to be.
“How is Kelsey?” David changed the subject.
“She’s hurting. She looks more like the living dead than—”
“Jesus Christ! What the hell do you want now?” Maverick bellowed loud and angry from the work bay. “The shirt off my back? Every last ounce of my blood? What, you sonofabitchin’ asshole? Spit it the hell out of your lying mouth!”
“Get off me, Carson! Back off before I hurt you!”
By the time Mark and David got out the door, Connor had Maverick in an arm lock. Maverick looked lethal, his chest heaving, his face red and his jaw tight. Landon lay flat on his back with Izza’s knee in his chest. Lisa Channing stood behind Izza, her eyes bright with tears that hadn’t spilled yet.
What the hell? This was a first—a brawl in the office.
Maverick jerked out of Connor’s grasp but Landon stayed put because Izza wouldn’t let him move, not with her knee at his throat.
“What the hell’s going on?” Mark asked.
“Nothing,” Maverick said angrily. “Forget it.”
“These guys broke my coffee maker.” Mother glared at Mark as if that was his fault, too. Wasn’t everything?
Mark looked to Landon for an answer, but he was no more talkative than Maverick.
Izza had no problem, though. “They’re fighting over Channing, Boss.”
“Are not!” Maverick spat, thumbing his chin, still ready to fight. “I couldn’t care less that they’re sleeping together. They deserve each other.”
The guy seemed wound tight, ready to take a swing at Connor. Good luck with that. Connor had grown up with a few brothers in Boston, plus he’d married Izza. He knew a few things about kickboxing and playing dirty.
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