by S A Gardner
Dammit—if I had, I’d damn well had reason to.
So at first I was only ecstatic that he’d survived Jake’s jabbing him with one of my cyanide darts before I crash-landed the plane. But though thankfulness persisted that all his other injuries had been reversible, I spent my days mired in the consequences of his actions and I couldn’t help but express that I held him responsible for it all.
So that had been unfair. He’d been responsible only to a degree. The bulk of the blame had been Jake’s. And Damian had done his level best to rectify his mistakes, had been there for each one of us, above and beyond. But had I given him any sign that I saw or appreciated his efforts?
No. I’d only grown more critical of his transgressions. I’d implied or said all the things he’d said I had. No two ways about it. I’d pushed him away.
But I hadn’t wanted to. I’d burned for him.
Yeah, and I had a very clear memory of how that had made me angrier with him and myself. So I’d been a bitch.
But for God’s sake, how could I have just forgotten all he’d done? And even if he’d been atoning for it all, even if no one blamed him for anything, his constant reminders that we’d been waiting for something catastrophic to happen had been driving me crazy. Being forced to hold back, consider my people’s safety against his temptation to go out there preempting our enemies hadn’t contributed to any sane or fair reactions.
Another factor messing up my signals had been his agitation as everything he’d worked for turned to ashes and all the people he’d invested most of his life in had seemed to have abandoned him. Contrary to myself, who had my people around me, his worry had mounted at his team’s continued silence. It had been no longer convincing that they’d been following his standing orders in extreme situations to go fathoms deep undercover. Nightmares about them being dead or worse plagued him. But maybe he’d begun to assume the absolute worst. That even if his people resurfaced, he might never be able to trust them again.
He’d hidden his mood plunges well, yet I’d felt them. But I’d been overloaded, hadn’t spared him sympathy and empathy when he’d been at his most vulnerable…
OK, St. James, cut the bullshit. Use that brutal honesty for a sec here. You know you’ve done way worse than that.
I hadn’t only realized he’d been going through hell being forced to rethink his direction, his judgment, his whole future even, but I’d even felt spurts of satisfied spite. That he’d found himself in my same position, unable to find out the truth, at a loss about what and who to trust. He had done that to me, best intentions notwithstanding.
And then I’d done worse still.
I’d had bouts of insanity. One painted me a scenario where Damian was manipulating me, scaring me into stopping my operations. Another where he was trying to use me to get to those who were his enemies only and not mine, needing me and my team now he’d lost his. At my craziest I’d even had doubt demons whispering in my ear that maybe the whole story had been a lie, that Ed had had nothing to do with any of it, that it had all been Damian and Jake playing each other all the time.
Distrusting Damian had corroded me. My heart believed in him, my instincts, but his ingrained reticence had always acted as a suspicion fertilizer. So instead of offering him moral support, I’d pressed his hot buttons, rubbed salt in his wounds.
God, how had he lasted two months of that? How come he hadn’t walked out on me after the first two days?
I could talk myself into anything, couldn’t I? Next I’d think it was probably a good thing he’d walked out. To give me time to think in a semblance of clarity.
To grow a brain.
Yeah, sure. It had taken watching him walk away to show me I couldn’t think worth spit without him around. My logic and decision-making had been sabotaged by his anger and absence, by my fear for him, for what I might have driven him to. And it didn’t wash that I’d been shackled into inaction by my responsibilities to my team.
I’d let him down. And in doing so, I’d ultimately let my team down.
He’d been right about that, too. Damn him.
So why wasn’t he showing up to rub my nose in it?
Why wasn’t he giving me the chance to grovel for his forgiveness? To beg for his help? How come he could stay away? He’d said that what he felt for me was here to stay, for life and beyond, and I’d believed him…
Suddenly, I crashed to my knees, gasping, groping.
What if something had happened to him?
No. No—no, nothing could have happened to him.
He wouldn’t dare let anything happen to him. I’d kill him if he did. And then, nothing ever happened to him except as a direct result of something I’d done. I’d been the only reason he’d ever brushed shoulders with death. When I wasn’t around, he was invulnerable.
God, let him be OK. I’ll do anything…
“Cali, I think you should come hear this.”
Matt. I raised drenched eyes, saw his blurred bulk filling my doorway, his face distorted through the convex lens of tears and a scowl. He didn’t appreciate his co-leader simulating a heap of dirty laundry on the ground, eh?
I rose, swiped shaking hands over the evidence of my impending breakdown. “If it’s more deaths, I really shouldn’t.”
His lips tilted.
Hey, was that a smile? I’d thought his humor centers had been fried in the invasion his brain had suffered. And I hadn’t cared. He’d been the one hit hardest. That he was back at all still felt like a miracle. He took my elbow in his big brother-like care, looked down at me as if he might fracture me if he looked too hard.
“No more deaths. It’s good news. We found Damian.”
Damian had been found, by accident.
Lucia had been shopping for the team when she’d seen him. She’d followed him as he’d entered a shop.
A lingerie shop.
He’d turned to her, smiled and asked about her healing arm. Then he’d paid for his chosen articles and walked out.
Lucia had tailed him, found out where he was staying. She’d seemed…unable to elaborate on his current residence. She’d just given me its address then lapsed into mute stupefaction.
And here I was. In a déjà vu of that pre-Colombia time when I’d come seeking Damian’s help. Or it would have been if this mansion was in the same league of the one where I’d visited him before. This was way beyond anything I’d seen outside of—outside of ever.
And just like that time, the invisible forces guarding this place let me walk through the gates, down the long, long path through the landscaped grounds to his door.
Now I stood there, sure he must have been alerted, praying he’d open the door without me ringing this time.
I let minutes drag by. He didn’t.
I rang the bell.
I held my breath. My heartbeats. My every fear and longing that was beginning to dissociate me cell from cell.
Then the door was opening.
In a second, I’d see him standing there. And I’d suffocate. If I didn’t just throw myself in his arms, tell him before he could erect defenses what I had to say, what—what…
What the hell!
Six
What the hell.
That was the sum total of what inundated my grey matter when the door fully opened.
For it wasn’t Damian who stood there. It was—Suz?
Was that her? That vision of golden-bronze voluptuousness?
But—but—but she was one of Damian’s warriors…
And so was Mel, moron. And in a way, so are you.
Still—I never even thought…was that really her?
During our time in Russia, I’d never seen her with her hair down—literally. Her long, spun-gold hair. Never seen her outside fatigues or uniforms, or seen her toned body, her firm, gleaming flesh…
What the hell was she doing here? And in a see-most-of-said-firm-gleaming-flesh nightie?
“Cali!” The vision exclaimed. “Man, it’s so good to see you! C’m
on in.”
C’mon in? As in walk? Move? That was as beyond me as arm-flapping flight right now.
Lingerie. Damian had been buying lingerie.
That bit of news had hit a barrier of disbelief when I’d heard it, refusing to be processed, assimilated. It now pummeled through.
Had he been buying lingerie for Suz?
“Hey, Cali, are you OK?” She dragged me inside. A dozen steps in, my uncoordinated body bumped into something. I jerked my head around only to meet huge, stricken eyes. Mine. In a mirror with a gilded frame over a marble console.
Then I noticed the rest of the images reflected at me. The contrast between her satin-swathed figure and my jeans-clad one was too jarring.
I escaped the side-by-side comparison, focused on my surroundings.
Muted lights poured from wrought iron sconces in vantage points, casting mysterious tints on an interior out of a catalogue for classic opulence with a modern twist. Suz herded me along a huge corridor, and I almost skidded on a silk carpet overlying burnished hardwood floor, before I plopped down on a two-seater with the most luxurious burgundy and gold floral design. Don’t tell me Damian had bought this, too!
Suz bent over me, the silky tips of her hair pricking my eyes like a thousand detached lashes. Or was the shower of hot needles the internal pressure that would be vented in one of those damned wet exercises in futility?
I recoiled from her solicitude, cringed in confusion, in crushing mortification.
Could this possibly be what it looked like?
God, please, no.
“Geez, Cali, you look real bad. Can’t say that I blame you, though.” Yeah? Commiserating with me? Over what hardship, exactly? What loss? “Say—I’ll get you something to drink. I’ll tell Damian you’re here, too.”
Her hand squeezed my shoulder, her artificial smile bright, squeezing brighter pain from me. I watched her recede in the spacious wallpaper paneled corridor, passing by ambient lights that illuminated her lithe form in a play of light and shadow the Masters would envy. I was busy envying her her ability to move, to breathe. Did I have more cause to envy her now? To wish her dead?
I closed my eyes. I couldn’t even think this. There had to be another explanation. There was only so much I could take…
Suddenly, everything inside me tightened, surged, clamored. My blood stopped in my arteries, my metabolism, my very lifeforce held their breath.
He was here.
I opened my eyes. And he was. Standing where the corridor expanded into the hall, where Suz had disappeared minutes or a lifetime ago. He filled the passageway, my sight, existence. And—oh, God—he looked—he looked so-so—everything. Prime, powerful—and loved—so loved…
And naked!
My eyes swooped downwards and… He wasn’t naked.
But no, no—goddammit, he was. All but for one of these mold-and-showcase-all silk black boxers of his.
He’d been in there wearing this—or worse, not wearing this—with Suz? And was the moisture plastering his raven mane into that severe ponytail the sweat of exertion, or the after-exertion shower? And just what the hell had been the nature of said exertion? And…
Wait a minute! Ponytail? Damian now had a ponytail ?
And a beard?
But—but he was so mind-messingly smooth all over!
I’d spent whole nights with my hands and lips and tongue luxuriating all over him, and even there he was trim and silky. Still—he did shave, if not as frequently as Matt, and when he had a stubble it was nowhere as industrially-abrasive as Fadel’s, for instance.
I could feel it again, the soft scratching all over my face, breasts, buttocks, between my teeth, my thighs. It must be a localized effect of his Spanish blood overriding
his Native American component…
I was losing it. I was thinking these things, now? It had to be exposure to him, my Damian-sense going haywire, inundating me, obliterating distance and all else.
Everything was streaking, stumbling, dimming with oxygen deprivation.
And he just stood there, watching me. Remote, detached. What did it mean? That he was really gone beyond my reach?
How dare he?
Fury tumbled in a vicious, viscous mix with denial, with dread, clogged my circulation.
He had no right. No matter what happened between us. He had no right. No right. To stop being mine.
How dared he even think it? And did he actually do it, too?
Had he sought solace, shared intimacy with someone else? Could he have dared make it Suz?
Dammit, I liked the woman. I liked her a lot. And I’d always thought Suz liked Matt. How dared he mess this up for her? Dangle himself when he was no good for her? When I was the only one who’d ever consume his restraint and ignite his emotions? How dared he short-change her? Like he’d done Mel?
At least with Mel, he’d had no choice. I’d—happened to him when he’d already been involved with her. He hadn’t chosen to feel for me, had remained faithful to her as long as she lived. Now, this, with Suz—this would be sick. Monstrous. He’d be using her.
Or—maybe he wouldn’t be, because he’d forgotten me?
I’d come here to grovel for his pardon? Well, change of plan. I’d just tear his eyes and heart out and stomp on them.
It would still be far from fair retaliation.
“Suz said you were here.” The dark music of his voice cascaded over me. I shuddered as if with the force of close-by explosion. “She thought I should see you. She gave me this for you…” He raised his hand. He was holding a mug.
And Suz was where now? Back to bed? Their bed?
And he’d come out to see me only because Suz said he should?
I rose on lead-rigid legs, advanced on him. He didn’t move, let me zoom in on him, his face a blank, tear-your-heart-out-beautiful mask. Not even one nuance there to guide me, to give me a hint, where I stood, how far he’d withdrawn.
Yeah, master chameleon at work here.
I was so going to do him some serious damage.
When I was within harms’ reach, he extended the mug and the scent of the latté hit me. Milk-and-sugar-laden.
Just the way I liked it. Had he told Suz how I did? The idea that he might have shared such trivial, intimate knowledge with her, that she’d observed my preference, in placation, in pity…
Breath emptied from me, along with the artificial support of fury, the tension of dread. I stood in front of him, feeling filleted of bone and will and reason, staring down at the steam spiraling from the mug.
God, what was I doing here? If he was no longer mine, I never wanted to see him again.
If he was no longer mine, I didn’t want to know.
“You have a point.”
I did? OK, I knew I did, but what was he talking about? Reading my mind now? Why not? Seemed everyone could. He brushed past me, moving air and sensation across every inch of skin left exposed by my T-shirt. Two steps ahead, he turned, body language beckoning me to follow.
“Since you took the trouble of crossing L.A. to come here, the least I can offer is a seat while you drink your latte.”
He prowled ahead, giving me a hormone-roaring show of contained power and inbred poise. I saw myself running after him, jumping him, mounting his back, sinking my fingers in his pectoralis, his abdominals, my teeth in his deltoids, tearing away that mockery of an underwear, forcing him to the carpet, forcing him to acknowledge our bond, his need…
I bit my lip so hard I drew blood and instant swelling. Unacceptable. Humiliating. Mutilating. My need, if he no longer reciprocated it.
I crushed down on the longing, contained the oppression as I followed him into an office that had been transported untouched in a time capsule originating in the nineteenth century then outfitted in latest twenty-first century advancements. Crystal sconces turned on as we crossed the threshold, their illumination rising to a preset, soothing level.
He headed for a giant, polished mahogany desk adorned in intricate
copper work, glided behind it to stand before the button-backed, dark-camel leather chair, leaned over to put my mug across from him. So this is where I was supposed to sit? Across a desk? Like a job applicant?
Sure enough, he gestured for me to take the mug, and the seat he’d marked by its position. My unwilling awe clung to the movement, the effortless expansion of power radiating from his arm across his chest. I wondered if a good enough opening was knocking his damned latté over.
“So, what brings you here, Calista?”
As if he didn’t know. Everything. I revised my mug-knocking scenario. A better retort was hurling it past his head, sending it smashing a dozen feet behind him into that immaculate ocean blue wall that made him such an asset-enhancing background.
Was he giving me a cue to grovel? Or was he just being an obnoxious son of a bitch? I gritted my teeth.
Stating the obvious always hurt like hell. “You know why I’m here, Damian.”
Our gazes locked, mine freezing with the plummeting temperature of his. Was the deep freeze the chill of anger? Or of nothingness? Or was it only my imagination?
His tranquil “Do I?” sent my hand to the mug. Any second now. “Hmm. Let me guess. You must be over your head in some mess. It’s the only time you think I’m worth bothering with.”
His dispassionate comment scraped my confused-raw nerves. But—did it contain bitterness, too? Or was I again smearing his neutrality with the emotional heat I was disintegrating to detect? And if it did contain bitterness, did that mean…?
God—please, I’ll do anything. If only he isn’t lost to me.
But I needed to know. Now. I couldn’t breathe one more breath if I didn’t know.
Have I lost you? For real? Forever?
Out loud I only rasped, “That’s not only not true…” I gulped past the burning coal that used to be my larynx. “…it’s an offensive presumption. Not to mention stupid as hell.”
Another interminable, stonewall glance, then he shrugged. “If you say so.” He sat down. I followed suit. I would have collapsed under my heart’s weight in a few more seconds. “So it’s a social call, hmm? Strange, but stranger things happen. Since that’s the case, let’s observe the common niceties, shall we? So, Calista—what have you been up to?”