by Johnson, Liz
But Captain Crawford stepped into his path, forcing him to stop. “Good to see you here, Lieutenant Sawyer.”
“You, too, sir.”
Crawford thumped him on the back, a grin in his eyes. “You brought a very pretty date tonight.”
Where was this conversation going? He didn’t know, but he didn’t have any choice but to respond with the truth. “Yes, sir.”
“She’s very familiar.” Dark brown brows swooped low over his pale blue eyes, and he elbowed Tristan in the side as Tristan battled a rush of cold dread. Crawford knew who she was. “Does she hang out at the pool hall?”
Maybe Crawford didn’t recognize her after all.
Clearing his throat, Tristan grasped for something to say, something that would excuse him from this increasingly awkward conversation. “I don’t think so. She’s a friend of my sister’s.” That wasn’t a lie. And it didn’t imply anything amiss.
“Uh-huh.” The older man—still fit and trim in his uniform—rubbed his hands together. “A bit young for you, eh?”
“We’re just friends, sir.” It wasn’t a lie, not really. He wasn’t interested in just being her friend—but friendship was all he had to offer. “Well, I better check in with her. Good evening.”
He slipped away, headed in the direction where he’d just seen Staci and her most recent partner, a kid fresh out of college. But she wasn’t there.
He spun slowly, surveying every corner and shadow for her flashing eyes and matching dress.
Nothing.
His gut clenched and his palms turned sweaty.
With a strained breath, he strode into the gaggle of spinning couples, eyeing every profile, even as the growing tension in his chest told him that he wasn’t going to find her. Most of the faces were familiar. Crawford and his wife. Several SEAL officers from other teams. The PAO who Staci had been deftly avoiding all evening.
But none of them were the face he wanted.
Maybe she’d stepped away to check her makeup or catch her breath. After all, she’d been dancing all evening. He forced himself to take even strides down the short hall toward the restrooms. The narrow corridor was empty except for one blonde woman in a striking red dress stepping out of the ladies’ room.
Throwing away caution, he gave her his best smile. “Excuse me, ma’am. I seem to have lost my date.” He managed a chuckle, despite the fear that wound around his throat and threatened to choke him.
Her laughter carried all the way down the hallway and into the party. “You certainly wouldn’t be the first man to say that.” She nodded toward the wooden door with the gold placard announcing Ladies. “I’ll just check in here. What’s her name?”
“Staci.”
The woman disappeared, and he held his breath, staring at the reflection in his shoes. Lord, please let her be in there.
“I’m sorry.” He jerked back up to meet the blonde’s laughing gaze. “There’s no Staci in there, but there are two girls commiserating about their terrible dates. Just be glad yours isn’t among them.” She waved as she passed by him, returning to the party.
He plunged a hand into his pocket, pulling out his phone and hitting the button to connect with Staci’s. She should have it in that sequined black purse she’d held like a lifeline the entire ride from the house. Of course, if he hadn’t been such a jerk, maybe she wouldn’t have had to cling to something like that.
The phone rang.
He’d just been too stunned seeing her like that. Every bit the vision he’d never imagined when she’d been wrapped in a burka the first time they met.
It rang again.
She was all soft skin and beautiful lines and bashful smile. At that moment his interest in her had had absolutely nothing to do with protecting her and everything to do with finishing that almost kiss they’d started at the gym a few days before.
One more ring.
She made him wish things with Phoebe had been different. Or at least that he’d walked away from that pain less certain of his own failures as a fiancé and future husband.
By the fourth ring, his stomach was in knots. And when her voice mail clicked on, he slammed his phone against his open palm, already running for the side exit and the parking lot.
Like a winter wave from the Pacific, the truth stole his breath.
Staci had vanished right in front of him.
TWELVE
“I’d really rather go back inside.” Staci tried to jerk her arm out of the commander’s grasp, but his fingers pinched her elbow until pain shot up to her shoulder.
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s hot and stuffy inside, and look at that moon.” He stumbled on his words, the S sounds catching on a lisp. Not heavy or overly pronounced, and probably more noticeable since he’d been drinking. The smell of liquor on his breath fell over her like a second wrap, clinging to her skin with sticky fingers.
He tried to drag her through the open front door of the club, and she raised her voice again. “I don’t want to go. Back off!”
The music from the band drowned out her cry, and since he was nearly twice her size, he had no trouble hauling her from the building and toward his car.
She spun as much as she could in his grasp, looking for anyone nearby, hoping that Tristan might have followed her. That’s what he had said. She just had to get loud enough to attract help. “Leave me alone!”
The commander sidled up to her, his free hand grabbing her chin and holding it still as he breathed over her. Swallowing a gag, she pulled back until she was flush against a car. “You don’t know what you want. You’ve danced with every sailor in there tonight, but I’ve seen you looking for me, waiting for me to make you mine. I don’t want to wait any longer.”
“Help!” She spat the word over his shoulder.
And with a crash, he was gone, swung into the side of the opposite car. She jumped out of the way, grabbing her throbbing elbow as she stared into Tristan’s twisted features. But he wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were slits, focused on the man in front of him.
Tristan breathed hard through his nose, towering over Commander Garrison, a forearm pressed against the other man’s throat.
The commander cowered, his head shaking as he tried to push Tristan away. “Don’t. I wasn’t doing anything.” He could offer no more than a croak around Tristan’s arm.
With a shaking hand, she touched Tristan’s shoulder, and he spun around. “It’s not him.”
Confusion replaced the anger in Tristan’s eyes and he shook his head. “But he tried to get you away.”
“Yes, but he’s not the one.”
Tristan must have let off the pressure against Garrison, who took a ragged breath.
“Are you sure?”
“He has a lisp. The other guy didn’t.”
He nodded slowly. “Did he hurt you?”
Her elbow would have a bruise, but the rest of her body was unscathed. Her sanity, on the other hand, was not so lucky. “No.” Mostly she just wanted Garrison to leave so that Tristan could hold her. So that she didn’t have to think about all the things that could have happened if he hadn’t shown up.
A fraction of the tension in Tristan’s face ebbed away, and he turned back to the quivering man. “You need to go sober up. And on Monday I’m going to report you for conduct unbecoming an officer in the United States Navy.”
“But I outrank you.”
Tristan jerked his chin toward Garrison, who jumped back. “Do I look like I care?”
The instant Tristan removed his arm, the commander bolted for his car. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to call this in.” Tristan held up a finger as he spoke into the phone. She could barely make out his words through the ringing in her ears. Something about an intoxicated driver on base.
When he hung up and put the phone into his pocket, she was ready to fall into his arms. But he didn’t hold them out to her or invite her into his embrace at all. He just stared at her, his face a mask devoid of emotion. He’d had no trouble showing Gar
rison his anger and iron-fisted control, but for her he had nothing.
Her chin quivered. Maybe from the crash of adrenaline following the scary ordeal. Possibly from the rush of relief at Tristan’s impeccable timing.
Both were unlikely.
It was almost certainly from Tristan’s rejection.
She dipped her head and raised a hand next to her ear. Before she could get there, Tristan caught her wrist in his loose grip, gently returning it to her side as she looked up with wide eyes. His gaze didn’t meet hers, instead it followed his hand, which trailed down her scar, this thumb caressing the jagged line.
“I’m sorry that I lost track of you. It won’t happen again.”
“It’s okay. You found me in time.”
When he finally met her gaze, the emotions he’d kept from his face swam in his eyes, soft as his touch and just as warm. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
“I think so.” Except that the circles of his thumb on her cheek were making her stomach dance in the same gentle motion. Couldn’t he just hold her and erase the memories of Garrison’s touch? She blinked at him, hoping he would understand her thoughts.
Whether he did or just followed his own desire, she’d never know. What she did know was that his arm wrapping around her waist was exactly what she needed. Safe and secure in his embrace, she stepped to his chest until there was nothing between them but her hands on his starched jacket and her trembling breaths.
“It’s going to be all right.” He pulled several loose pins out of her hair, sending tendrils falling down the back of her neck. “I’ll take you home.”
She wasn’t ready to go yet. She didn’t want to leave this haven.
Apparently he didn’t, either.
Letting out a slow sigh, his shoulders relaxed, but his grip tightened. The hand on her back stilled and his breathing stopped.
She sought out his gaze, again hoping that this might be the moment she’d been dreaming about. Wishing that he’d make good on the promise of his actions at the gym. That she’d have at least one chance to know the feeling of his lips on hers.
His head dipped low, his breath warm against her lips.
She hadn’t kissed anyone since Chris. She hadn’t felt like she had anything to offer a man since him.
But now she saw in Tristan the tenderness that Chris had never shown. The kindness and concern that left her boneless and weak against him. That left her craving his touch.
When he finally completed the motion, pressing his lips to hers, her eyes fluttered open for a brief moment, just long enough to catch a glimpse of the serenity etched into every line of his face.
She let herself go, falling down and down but always in his arms. He pulled back for a breath before kissing her again, this time with more vigor but no less wonder. She leaned against him for fear of collapsing without his support, a sigh escaping as she slipped her fingers over his jacket and into impossibly soft hair at the nape of his neck.
He smelled of spicy aftershave and tasted like chocolate cake, suddenly two of her favorite things.
Time lost all meaning until a door slammed and boisterous voices filled the night air.
She stepped away, a chill immediately sweeping down her arms.
Tristan ran a finger down the curve of her jaw, the smile she’d hoped for conspicuously absent. “I should get you home.”
*
As Tristan pulled his truck into his driveway and turned off the headlights, he sat in the dark for several long moments of silence. Only the shallow breathing from Staci in the seat beside him filled the cab. Squeezing his hands together, he stared out the windshield, hoping for any words that would help him say what had to be said.
The drive back from the base had been silent, and he still had no words to change that. He could ask how she was feeling, but that just opened up a world of possible emotions that he couldn’t respond to. He could just get out of the truck and act like nothing had happened, but she deserved better than that.
He could kiss her again.
He wanted to. But that wasn’t fair to her, especially when he should only be focused on keeping her safe.
He should never have kissed her, shouldn’t have let himself get so carried away.
It had been sweet torture holding her close and knowing that he couldn’t repeat their kiss or the roiling emotions swelling in his chest.
It was best to stick to the mission and their reason for going to the ball in the first place.
“So, you’re sure that Garrison isn’t the man that you heard?”
“Yes. He has a lisp and a very faint Southern accent.” She must have turned toward him, as her voice shifted directions, but he couldn’t see her in the darkness. “It wasn’t him.”
“Any luck with anyone else?”
“It was so loud in there, and there was only one who, for a second, I thought could be him, but it turned out to be a white-haired commander, who said he’ll be retiring soon.”
“Not him?”
“Definitely not. The man with the tattoo had strong muscles, firm skin and dark hair. Not a kid, but definitely not a man approaching retirement.”
He dipped his chin to his chest, staring at the outline of his folded hands, inky blackness consuming them. “So I guess tonight was a bust. We didn’t learn anything new.”
“We eliminated at least a few possible suspects.”
“Leaving only a couple hundred more.” His words were more bitter than he’d intended, and he bit back the next words that came to mind, waiting until he could put a more positive spin on the situation. But he didn’t have to when she jumped in.
“I did have another thought, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, stay with me for a second. Maybe it’s a stretch, but I think I have an idea where the explosion might happen.”
He sat up straighter, staring toward her eyes. “Where?”
“The map shows the harbor, right? So what if this is all to do with a ship? What would make a bigger statement than blowing up a naval vessel?”
“But there are dozens of ships of all shapes and size, in and out of the harbor every month.”
“Right. So that got me thinking about what was written on the map. ‘The second shall be first.’”
Where was she going with this? Her voice picked up volume and speed as her excitement grew, but he couldn’t follow the direction of her thoughts. “How does that tie into a ship?”
“It’s something that the captain at our table said. He toasted Nelson Rockefeller. I thought the new carrier was named for John D. Rockefeller, but he assured me that it’s the USS Nelson Rockefeller.”
“As in, Gerald Ford’s vice president?”
“As in the second in command.” She paused to let it sink in. “I asked if there were a lot of other ships named for vice presidents, and the captain said it wasn’t very common.”
His stomach swooped, and he grabbed for her hands before he could second-guess the action. He rolled her words over and over, looking at them from every side. “If the tangos want to make a statement—and something planned like this is guaranteed to—they’ll have the attention of news coverage, senators, the governor and probably every Rockefeller heir on the West Coast.”
“You don’t think it’s ridiculous?”
“I can’t believe I didn’t think of it. It’s logical and an incredible statement against the country. And if your theory is right, the person responsible will have full access to the base. We’ll need to watch the base closely and especially the carrier.” He squeezed her hands. “Smart.”
The weight on his shoulders hadn’t exactly lifted. It had just been replaced by a new set of worries. But at least he could contact his CO and let him know what they suspected. And he could call his friend in the FBI counterterrorism unit for some extra backup. This wasn’t going away, but at least they weren’t floundering without direction.
After he walked her inside, locking the door behind them, they stoo
d at the foot of the stairs for a long moment. The kitchen light, which Ashley had left on, shone brilliantly compared to the darkness of his driveway.
He shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching for her.
She looked up the stairs, then back into his eyes. “Thank you for tonight.”
Was that gratitude for letting her get dragged away by a man too intoxicated to know how to treat a lady? Or for the two dozen dance partners she’d had to endure without any hard leads? Or for the kiss?
Please let it be for the kiss.
“Good night, Tristan.”
His name sounded like honey on her lips. It would be far too easy to get used to that.
*
After church the next morning, Staci spent the afternoon on the couch, watching her football team clobber their rivals. In her pale-blue-and-yellow jersey, she cheered them on—as loud as she could get and not disturb Ashley, who had insisted she just needed a short nap three hours before.
From his seat in his recliner, Tristan would look up from his newspaper and smile in her direction every now and then. After halftime, he gave up reading the paper and joined her on the couch, cheering for the opposite team.
“What are you doing? Don’t you want San Diego to win?”
“I’m not from San Diego. I moved here for the job. I’m rooting for Kansas City all the way.”
His crooked grin and the glimmer in his eye made her question if he was telling the truth, or just being contrary to tease her. His phone rang before she could prod him, and he grabbed it from the end table, glancing at her over his shoulder as he disappeared into the kitchen.
In a low timbre, he responded to the call, but she could hear only the reverberation of his words and not what he was actually saying. She tried to watch the game, but her mind kept wandering toward the next room.
When he returned, his face was like stone, his hands clenched into fists.
“What’s wrong?”
He sat down next to her, but instead of facing the television, he angled his knees toward her. “I’ve been called in on a training mission tomorrow night.”