Taylor

by Irish Winters

  Opportunity called, so he closed the distance between them. Pulling her into his chest, he removed the towel and plate from her hands. Her breath caught when he circled her inside his arms, her breasts flattened against him. His breath caught, too. Hell, his whole heart caught.

  So this was the real Gracie Fox, a sexy, dancing, dishwashing machine.

  With one hand at the small of her back, he tipped her chin up with his fingertips to really look into her depths. She wasn’t smiling now. She was trapped, but she didn’t seem to mind.

  “May I?” he asked, his lips a fraction from hers.

  “Yes,” she breathed.

  He lowered his head. Just before their lips touched, she closed her eyes with a soft sigh, and he wanted that singular moment to last, that split second when his world was about to change forever.

  Her palms rested lightly on his chest, carefully avoiding the tenderness near the bandage. So much kindness resided in that simple, thoughtful gesture. This was an incredible first in a lifetime that had only offered loneliness. God, she was beautiful. So trusting.

  He lingered less than a breath away, letting her scent pull him in. Desire turned tactile. She lifted onto the balls of her feet. Her hands moved to the back of his neck, her thumbs against his ears. He closed the space, tentatively brushing his lips over hers, afraid where this might lead but wanting desperately to find out.

  The delicious warmth of her body quickened his heart, and he was caught in a wildfire named Gracie Fox. Passion took control. He pressed his mouth to hers and she parted her lips, in sync with the fever storming his senses. The delightful tang of mingling tongues and mouths sent a shockwave of desire down his legs to his stocking feet and back up again. Nothing had ever tasted sweeter. The buttery soft texture of her lips offered the oddest, most overwhelming comfort, a cross between luxurious silk and to-die-for delirium.

  Damn. This was not what he’d expected. A kiss, yes, but kissing Gracie was more like inhaling oxygen. Craving manna. Maybe heroin. He wanted, no, desperately needed more. Maybe all.

  With a rumbling growl, he lifted her off the floor and into his arms. She clung to him, faithfully avoiding his right shoulder. The nagging hole in his body bowed to the hole in his heart. He couldn’t get enough of her mouth.

  He deepened the kiss, his appetite whetted. His soul craving. The universe fell away. Even heaven seemed dull and plain. Gray. Gracie became everything.

  She eased back, a soft murmur of concern on her lips. It took all his strength to put the delightful accelerant in his arms on the floor, but when he did, she leaned her head onto his chest. The poor thing. She had to be getting a noisy earful as his heart pounded out of control.

  How had this happened, this one hundred eighty degree turn in his life? He wrapped her comfortably in his arms, his nose in her hair. If ever there was a campaign to win him over, she’d won. Maybe she wasn’t so crazy after all.

  “I want to know you better,” he murmured, surprised at the thunder that holding her had evoked within. Something more than mutual attraction was happening between them

  “Who? Me? I’m an open book,” she said softly, melding her body to fit his, her hands pleasantly exploring his back and shoulder blades, but still careful of his wound.

  “Then I need to start reading.” He kissed the top of her head.

  “You just don’t know.”

  “Know what?”

  “How long I’ve wanted to hold you like this, Taylor. To kiss you.” She lifted her chin and peered up at him. “Am I hurting you?”

  “Never felt better.” He tightened his hold. A smart man doesn’t let a little thing like a hole in his chest come between him and a woman the likes of Gracie. His body might be a little banged up, but it was also springing to life in all the best ways. The peace of the moment nailed his feet to the floor. He couldn’t have moved if he wanted to.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee? It’s still hot.”

  So are you. Hot. Damned. Sexy. Too damned kind for your own good, too.

  Reality intruded. This was not the time or the place for the thoughts running through his head or the thrumming pulse flaming through his body. He smoothed his hand over her shoulders and placed one last, chaste kiss on her forehead. “Yes, ma’am. Coffee would hit the spot.”

  And so would you.

  When she pulled away, he clasped her fingers before she got too far. “What can I do to help?”

  “You could feed Buford. He’s on the porch waiting for me.”

  “Buford? Who’s he? Another uncle I don’t know about?”

  Amusement lit her face. “No, silly. He’s my dog.”

  Thank you, God.

  “Then I’ll feed Buford.”

  She reclaimed her hand with a lingering smile. “And I’ll feed you.”

  The sun came out. Or wait, was it just that her smile lit up the kitchen, and the rest of the world with it? He stood transfixed at the sight, his heart bumping under his ribs like she’d never been his crazy warden. Why did he feel like he’d just become her prisoner again, and why the hell didn’t he mind?

  Gracie leaned back on her heels to make sure Taylor was out of sight before she launched into another quick, foot-pounding, happy dance. It was happening.

  Yes, she still had some explaining to do, some repenting, but he was coming around. She’d finally caught a glimpse of her old Taylor. Of course, hot and sexy Taylor showed up, too.

  Oh. My. Heck. What a drool-worthy combination.

  Those incredible arms. So strong. Her heart jumped remembering the way he’d pulled her into that killer, rock solid body of his. Ah, the smell of him. The taste of his mouth. That devil may care scruff rubbing her chin. Heaven!

  “He’s home,” she whispered to herself. “He’s finally home.”

  But that kiss. The taste of him lingered on her lips like wine. No, not wine. He wasn’t sweet. More like bourbon with a hit of hot sauce. Fine, perfectly aged hot sauce that branded her insides all the way to her stockinged toes. Made her blood boil. Heated some other body parts, too.

  She pounded out another dozen dance steps. Martha and Michael might not have gotten along, but their genes certainly did. They’d melded together into one incredible man.

  Who was hungry. Maybe thirsty. Oh, my gosh. I need to feed him.

  She flew to her refrigerator and stared inside. Her brain on Taylor overload and the rest of her body still off in Taylor-land. Her pulse still pinged. Her tongue kept circling her mouth, tasting the kiss he’d left behind.

  Yes, yes, yes! Her crazy dancing feet itched to chase him and tackle him to the ground like she used to do when they were children, but of course she wouldn’t do such a thing now. He was a wounded man. She was a lady thinking very unladylike thoughts, but a lady all the same. She knew better. Maybe.

  Why am I here? She blinked, still breathing hard and unable to think one thought that didn’t include Taylor. Oh, yeah. I’m fixing bologna sandwiches for lunch. Hmm. Maybe he’d like a hot dog. I bought a pack of foot-long wieners and buns and—

  A geyser of liquid heat flamed up from her belly to her breasts. Nope. Hot dogs were definitely out. She wanted one, just not one made of beef, pork, or chicken parts.

  A Taylor hot dog. Hmm. Lip smacking tasty.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Damn Luke.

  One foot inside Gracie’s shed and the anger came back with a vengeance. Taylor just meant to look. Thought he might find his wallet or I.D. Instead, he found all the crap he’d thought he’d let go. Like hell. Being shot and left to die was a damned big deal. One I’m sorry didn’t mean squat.

  He dropped to one knee at the spot where he’d fought his greatest battle. Blood still stained the wall. His blood. The bastard hadn’t even washed it away. Why not? What’d he want, a damned trophy?

  Pain lanced through Taylor’s chest again, quivering like the arrow was still in charge of life or death. He’d been so angry—and scared.

  The image of Luke’s angui
sh returned to his mind, and damned if Damn Luke didn’t transform into Uncle Luke.

  Shit, I don’t know if I’m coming or going.

  Every time he thought he could forgive, something like this blood-spattered wall slapped him in the face, reminding him how close he’d come to death just a couple days ago. To being murdered. Good reason or not, blood hunt or not, what Luke did was wrong.

  Taylor’s fingers curled into fists. All of his life, he’d been trained to be a warrior, to fight back, strike first and hit hard. Now, here in this very place, he’d been grievously wronged. Mortally wounded. Brought as close to checking out as he’d never been in his entire military career. He should strike back. Be all he could be. It’s what Marines did.

  God, he wanted to. His heart thudded with a surge of unexpected adrenaline, his instinct to fight or flight wrapped up into high gear and climbing. Luke. The ass. The stupid, despicable—

  “Oh. Here you are.” Gracie stood at the door, concern clear in her voice. She seemed filled with the sunlight behind her, nearly transparent while he crouched in shadows, hidden and ready to spring. To strike. To get the fuck out of there.

  “Yeah. Here I am.” Again.

  The shed suffocated the tenderness he’d just shared with her in the kitchen. He wanted it back, but that good feeling didn’t seem able to exist with the darkness in his heart.

  Damn that Luke.

  Gracie’s eyes darted to the blood on the wall, then back to Taylor. The tip of the pink tongue he’d only just tasted slipped along her top lip. “Your coffee is ready and I made lunch. It’s just bologna sandwiches, but...”

  But what? Another fairy tale that wouldn’t come true? Another lie? Another slap down?

  Therein lay the eternal conundrum, the same one he’d faced in Afghanistan’s Helmand Valley. Anger flared that he wanted to embrace as much as he wanted to deny. How could he forgive Luke or this sweet woman after what they’d done to him? And yet he had asked for forgiveness and he’d meant it when he said it, but now?

  Revenge for Darrell.

  Revenge on Luke.

  The two sins had become one, soldered together by the blowtorch of too much death, rape and pain. How could he save Darrell when Darrell was already dead and buried? Why the hell should I forgive Luke?

  Revenge whispered tempting lies, but he’d listened to them before and still suffered from those poor decisions he’d made overseas. In the end, he was the one who’d languished in disgust and regret. Not the Taliban who’d killed his friend. They were dead. What did they care?

  Nothing he or his company did that day changed what happened to Darrell. Nothing brought him back to life then. Nothing would now. Not another’s death. Not another’s pain. Not all the hatred in the world. Only the damnedest act of what felt like doing nothing. Only forsaking revenge. Only stepping outside the cycle that anger built. Only by meaning what he’d asked of his Uncle Luke. Of Gracie.

  Can you forgive me?

  Taylor swallowed hard. Can I forgive Luke?

  A man of action, he found forsaking a well-deserved payback the hardest road to take. To simply do nothing in to the face of horrific brutality made the General’s word seem—right.

  Sissy. Cowards didn’t strike back. They let others walk on them. They were weak sons of bitches. Like him. Not being all he could be. Never man enough. Good enough. Cruel enough. Never just like the General.

  Taylor glared at the dirty floor beneath his knee, weighing a lifetime of right and wrong, trying to fit in a concept so big it felt an impossible task.

  Why the hell did good men have to die?

  His chest hurt with the internal struggle. His heart. Had he, on some unconscious level, been striving to walk in the General’s footsteps all these years? Was that what this was about? Pleasing a guy who didn’t give a shit about his own kid?

  Gracie still stood at the precipice of his dangling decision, holding her breath, waiting for his mood to turn ugly like it had before. She seemed gifted to see through him like she knew exactly how dark he’d already become. How much he’d already sinned. Maybe she did understand him. After all, he was a White Hawk, the nightmare she’d grown up with. The sinners. Maybe she was the key.

  He glanced at her, wanting a sign. She bit her lip like she’d done when she stopped him from bleeding to death, her top teeth clamped over her bottom lip, like she’d fight heaven and hell for—me. How can she believe I’m worth forgiving? Or saving?

  But she did. A guy had to be blind not to see the light in her eyes when she looked his way.

  He fingered the dried blood on the wall, wanting a clear answer to the storm of emotions in his head. Gracie was a lot of things, but she wasn’t the key. She couldn’t change the past. Neither could he. But she did believe in him.

  Taylor planted his curled fist to the ground at his knee and bowed his head. This was Helmand Valley all over again. Either he set the anger aside or he locked his soul in another useless quest for payback that never felt right and never accomplished what he needed most. Peace of mind.

  It all came down to this single moment. This incredibly painful now.

  The decision was his alone to make. His alone to live with. Stay in the shed. Stay angry. Hateful. Weak. Try forever and a day to be what the General demanded or—leave. Walk away. Find an easier way to breathe.

  Forgive...

  Gracie held her hand out to him, palm up, her fingers extended in a childlike gesture of come to me. Her brown eyes pleaded the same. Please come to me.

  God, could it be that easy? Just stop hating the world and everyone in it? Take her hand?

  She stood waiting with fingers outstretched and ready to take hold. All he had to do was—believe.

  With a mighty growl, Taylor pushed up from the floor and away from the bloody wall. He reached for her small hand, needing her fingers locked with his and the light in her smile more than the darkness he’d known too well for too long. He gulped, not sure how to live without rage to stoke the fires of his soul, but if she believed, well, he was willing to give it one helluva shot.

  Her fingers curled around his, tugging him into her. The sweetest glow clicked back on in her eyes like she knew what he was and still wanted him.

  “Taywer,” she whispered playfully. “I see you now. There you are.”

  Shit!

  Lightning struck out of the clear blue sky. That word. That name.

  He choked. Damned near dropped to his knees again. A storm of strobe light images rushed him, sucking the air out of the sky. That name! The happy face of a little girl with sparkles in her eyes flashed onto the mental movie screen in his head. Dark smiling eyes.

  Gwacie and Taywer. That’s me. That’s us.

  He jerked her into his arms because he had to hold onto someone before he fell apart. He couldn’t explain the gut-wrenching flood of loss. Confusion. And fear. The kind that transformed into the stern shadow of the General looming over him. The kind of fear he didn’t want her to see. The fear of a very brave but powerless little boy who had no one to trust.

  I’m falling apart. What’s wrong with me?

  “Are you okay?” she asked, her heart pounding against his ribcage as hard as his pounded against hers.

  He nodded, unable to speak and damned near unable to breathe. Whatever had just happened to him, it left as quickly as it came. Only the shakes and the disquieting taste of blood in his mouth remained. He’d bitten his lip like a freaking sissy.

  “I used to call you that when we were little kids,” she whispered, her fingers splayed across his back, warming him.

  Raking an embarrassed hand over his head, he blew out a deep sigh and closed his eyes, willing the image of the General far, far away. Holding her soothed the ugly feeling until it diminished. The April sun poured warm and bright over them, bathing them in golden rays, and for that singular moment, life was perfect.

  Taylor took a deep breath and determined to put up a brave front like he’d done every other day of his life. It
felt different this time, though, like maybe he was as brave as she thought.

  “Let’s eat,” he muttered, reaching around her to close the shed door with a resolute click.

  Finally. It was time to move on. He could do it. With her.

  Alex studied the terse message from SECDEF that threatened punitive action if there was another black ops leak. Unfortunately, although addressed directly to Alex, copies had gone to all contractors currently employed by the Department of Defense.

  He brushed his pride away, and placed a direct call to his long-time friend. This was the beginning of the end of Arnold Steele. The letter was a necessary ploy to make Alex look bad. There were bigger things at stake. Like national security and catching a traitor.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Secretary.”

  “Alex,” Arthur’s crisp no-nonsense voice rang loud and clear with authority. “It’s about damned time. Have you taken up golf yet like I suggested?”

  “Not going to happen. Just calling to say I appreciate the smokescreen you provided. It’s a well written letter. Is your man in place?”

  “Steele hired him yesterday. Apparently the bastard couldn’t resist owning a disgruntled employee from the office of the current SECDEF.”

  “That’s your man’s cover line?”

  “It worked, didn’t it?”

  “Thank you, sir. Appreciate your quick assist.”

  “No problem at all. We take care of our own. Your business is our business.”

  “I think it’s the other way around.”

  Secretary Turner chuckled in response. “Either way, I appreciate the heads-up. If Steele and your mole are leaking classified intel to the Chinese, we’ll know shortly. My inside man is good. So are yours. You still got your mole under surveillance?”

  “One of my best agents is sitting on him, sir. The FBI and Homeland Security are involved as well.”

  “Good. Glad to hear it. Sounds like we’ll get these traitors one way or the other. I suspect you’d appreciate being there when we bring your mole down?”