by Jodi Watters
Was she actually going to turn down the most fascinating man she’d ever laid eyes on because of her job? This man who hadn’t stepped foot on Coleson Creek in more years than she’d been employed here? And who was heading back to whatever godawful, disease-infested jungle he’d come from in three short days?
Could she really say no after that insane father-of-my-children moment?
“Liv, it’s just dinner.” He was perceptive. “Or only drinks, if you want. Shit, I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he added, rubbing a hand over his bristled face, “but I’ll even drink wine if you want me to.”
The sandpaper sound of his five o’clock shadow sent a jolt of sexual desire straight to her core, her body responding on a primal level. It took true talent to make a woman wet without touching her, especially while she stood fully clothed in a crowded room, her superior examining the exchange.
But the proof was in her damp panties.
“On one condition,” she said, defying all reason. He dipped his head, agreeing before hearing the terms. “No matter what happens, say you’ll remember me. Standing on a patio, wearing a prom dress, looking like I don’t belong.”
Tall and handsome as hell, he flashed that surprise smile. “With pink lips, fake diamonds, and kick-ass cleavage? No chance I’ll ever forget you.”
Before she thought better, she grabbed his muscled forearm, peering at the Rolex. “Meet me by the white Honda parked next to the barn in two hours. And you can’t have any wine. I’m gonna drink it all myself.”
Lifting the hem of her dress, she waded into the crowd, looking for the boring bald guy who could douse her raging libido with another root canal story.
Olivia didn’t bother looking back toward the patio, leaving the men who shared a remarkable resemblance to work out their differences without her, unaware of their vastly different expressions as they tracked her. The disapproving set of Marshall’s jaw wouldn’t have stopped her, though. Nothing and nobody could’ve stopped a thoroughly enamored Olivia from pursuing the zing of attraction to a soldier who’d be a ghost before she could punch the time clock Monday morning.
Only it wouldn’t be the last time she watched him vanish from her life.
Asher Coleson hadn’t always lived his life from the outside looking in. That neat little trick of the mind started somewhere around four years ago.
Right about the time he’d gone to sleep one night living the American dream and woken up the next morning in his own private nightmare.
He wasn’t one for dramatics, but if you asked him on his deathbed to sum up his solitary life in one sentence, that would be it. Considering he was a front-lines defender of that American dream, it was irony at its best.
But that didn’t change his life story.
Magic to tragic, in less time than it took paint to dry.
And the really fucked-up part was, he’d do it all again, just for the opportunity to be with her one more time. He was a masochistic motherfucker for sure, because today, that opportunity came knocking.
When Caroline strode into the conference room again, this time wearing a sly smile that put all six men on edge, his irritation rose another notch. She had dirt to dish and somebody was about to get served.
But now wasn’t the time.
“Ash, this is no joke, I really need to speak with you. Privately, please.” It was her fourth attempt, too.
Focused on the five men huddled around the rectangular table, Ash leaned against the wide window sill and crossed his arms, biting back a harsh retort. It wasn’t unusual for him to lead the meeting from his preferred spot along the perimeter, rather than next to Sam at the head of the table. Anti-social, some said, if not all out mental. But not unusual.
“Carrie, you’re killing me.” He was proud of himself for saying it nicely. Her bad side wasn’t where he wanted to be. “I already told you, I’m busy.”
“But I’m now in possession of classified information. The kind that is way above my pay grade. Just between you, me, and the fence post kind of thing.”
“If it’s so important, spill it, so I can get back to work. Otherwise, it’s gonna have to wait until I have time.” Or until somebody else took care of it.
If the persistent lady currently copping a squat in their lobby was some overzealous reporter wanting an exclusive on retired Special Forces turned private contractors, then she better have packed a lunch. Public Relations was Sam’s department.
“This is serious, Ash. The kind of information that, upon its release, will cause such an uproar within the female community, it could get me shanked in the ladies’ room simply by association. A lot of single women are gonna be spitting mad if this turns out to be true, and you know what happens to the messenger. I have little children.” She looked at Mike. “And a big one.”
“Jesus, stop with the fucking riddles and just say it.”
He was skirting a fine line, considering Carrie’s clout. Office manager was her official title, but her duties included everything necessary to keep the place running and he and Sam in line. Without her, he’d be stuck shuffling papers all day instead of out there, hiding in the shadows with a pair of night vision goggles and a laser sight lined up between his horns, locked on some joker about to buy the farm.
Impatient, she looked at Sam. “For the record, I want it stated in my Human Resources file that I tried to tell him privately.”
As bewildered as the rest of them, Sam shrugged. “Duly noted.”
“So, Ash’s secret admirer is still here,” she said, bouncing the baby on her hip.
“Jesus, it’s not Donna, is it?”
He couldn’t hold back a groan at Sam’s abrupt question. It was common knowledge that Sam’s sister had taken a certain shine to him. The kind that had him watching his drink when she was nearby, not putting a good old-fashioned date-rape drugging past her.
She’d roofie him in a heartbeat, given the chance.
“No, it’s not Donna. But good guess.” Carrie paused to wipe drool from the cherub face of her offspring. “Do you wanna tell Daddy, Uncle Sam, Uncle Grady, Uncle Beck, and Uncle Nolan what you just found out about Uncle Ash?” Taking in all five men, she smiled that shit-eating grin again. “It’s pretty juicy.”
“I knew it,” Grady said, before she could continue. “He’s got a crazy psycho stalker, right? Let me take care of this for you, sir. First things first, Carrie. Is she hot?”
She nodded. “I’d fuck her.”
“Geez, Carrie, language!” Mike motioned toward the baby. “Our child.”
Grady stood, nodding at Ash. “I got this, buddy.”
“Stay put,” he ordered, temper flaring at the trivial distraction.
They had a potential hostage recovery in Somalia, pending the Feds willingness to get involved. A female AP journalist had been kidnapped near her Mogadishu hotel twenty-four hours ago, after venturing out for tea without her male companion. It was a sure bet she was being raped and tortured, praying for a mercifully quick death rather than any kind of rescue.
He and Sam had spent the night devising a strategy and the last several hours going over the extraction plan with the guys. Each run through, detailing every step down to who went right and who went left, sent adrenaline surging through the highly-trained men. The go-ahead call could come any time.
Grady sat down, the former Green Beret properly chastised. “I’m sick of talking about this, Ash. Let’s take these deviant bastards out and grab the hostage before she’s completely fucking mutilated.”
“Geez, Grady, language!” Mike parroted again. “My kid, dude.”
The baby giggled as if he understood, and Carrie snapped her fingers.
“Gentlemen, please. I need your full attention for my announcement regarding the hot blonde in the lobby. You guys are gonna flip when I tell you who it is.”
Sick of the silly banter when a woman’s life hung in the balance, Ash winged satellite images of the kidnapping at the table with an angry flick of his wri
st. Nolan collected the photos as they spun randomly across the polished surface.
“Carrie, I’ve told you ten goddamn times, let somebody else take care of it or send her packing. I’m not here to play fucking games with—”
“Olivia Quinn Coleson.”
Boom.
The room closed around him as the name—and the face that went with it—ricocheted through his entire being, shards of razor-sharp glass piercing him from the inside out.
Puncturing wounds that should be long scarred over, the hurt bomb exploded before he saw it coming. Before he could brace.
“She’s says that’s her name.” Carrie’s distant voice echoed, stuck in the vacuum of detonation.
As the carpet rushed toward him, he white-knuckled the window sill, his biceps flexing with the force it took to remain upright. To appear unaffected. To not go down, dropping to his knees like some pussy-whipped lightweight, in front of his business partner and their employees.
Carrie dropped the next bomb before he could issue his stop order. “She says she’s your wife.”
Choices. We all had them.
Benign decisions like medium rare or well done. Pitching a canvas tent or booking a five-star hotel. Paper or plastic.
Permanent decisions like pulling a trigger or holding your fire. Cutting the red wire or snipping the blue. Staying or going.
And no matter which category they fell into, once a person made those choices, he had to live with them.
Living, at least by the dictionary’s definition, was about the hardest thing Ash did every day. It was one choice he didn’t have. Other than taking drastic action, that was, but he’d never had the urge to end his life. He’d seen enough death for one man. Been the instigator behind more of them than he cared to count. His own seemed too burdensome to bear.
Making decisions in the space of a beating heart was second nature, drilled into him from his first day of boot camp to his last day on the battlefield. Shooting a round through a radical dictator’s eye at seven hundred yards, without hitting an eyelash or the innocent collateral damage surrounding him? That was the right choice. Slipping into an enemy encampment in the harsh light of day, knowing your team was evenly matched in skill but outnumbered in manpower, retrieving precious, time-sensitive intel? That was the right choice. Leaving The Unit after it stole the love of his life but before it blackened the entirety of his soul, starting a private security firm with Sam Gleeson? That was the right choice.
Choices. Ash had made his most difficult one four years ago.
Having little say in the matter seemed inconsequential. Contractual obligation aside, it was his moral duty to the United States of America. The government had invested over a dozen years of systematic training, an infinite amount of focused energy, and wads of taxpayer money on him, molding him into an elite, single-minded operator who sent the fear of God through the hardest of hearts.
The choices were always easy, and they were always right. Until Liv.
With Liv, he’d made the wrong decision, and it was the single most devastating error of his life.
If he’d known then what his losses would total, he would’ve declined his orders and taken the option of a court martial. A few years spent in a jail cell at Ft. Bragg was nothing, time he could do standing on his head. Add in a dishonorable discharge and it seemed little sacrifice in retrospect. At least he’d be out of prison by now. Instead, he was doing time in the dismal jail cell that was his mind.
Because some decisions couldn’t be undone.
Standing at the wall of windows in his personal office, he felt the air shift behind him as she walked in, closing the door with a sharp click. Not a slam, because that was too trashy for Liv, particularly in public. If she was mad at you, you knew it well before she started slamming doors.
Hands on his hips, he closed his eyes to her reflection in the glass, not seeing the beautiful woman who was once the face of his future. Not feeling the dark craving simmering inside, boiling over now that she was near. Not feeling the toll of regret, dead weight deep in his belly.
As if preparing for an imminent mission, he schooled his breath, steadied his heart rate, and centered his mind, knowing too much emotion could get him hurt. Get him killed.
“You’re just gonna stand there with your back to me? After I’ve waited a good—” She paused to consult her watch. “—ninety-seven minutes to see you?”
“After waiting almost four years for you?” He didn’t need an answer. “Hell, yeah.”
She made an impatient sound. “Speaking to me is the least you can do.”
Her accent was the same. A slow, honeyed drawl that brought visions of magnolia bushes, trees dripping Spanish moss, and hot, humid nights spent making lazy, sweaty love. It was a musical lilt so hypnotizing, she could grin at you and say, “Why don’t you eat shit and die,” and in response, you’d nod and smile blindly, happy to do her bidding.
And it was still a powerful punch to Ash’s gut.
The hit to his solar plexus reminded him that he didn’t make love. Hell, these days he didn’t even fuck. No conjugal visits for him. He was leading a pathetic, sexless existence.
Turning to face her, he leaned his backside against the window sill, stretching his long legs out in front of him and crossing his booted feet, as if his estranged wife showing up out of the clear blue sky was only a minor hiccup in his day. Sam always joked that they’d only leased this suite because every room featured wide window sills, allowing Ash a small level of comfort when perched in his favorite spot against the perimeter. Trained to never turn your back on a room, old habits died hard. A guy never knew where the next knife was coming from.
If his breath stalled at the sight of her, kicking his libido into high gear and sending a surge of arousal straight to his balls, nobody knew it but him. She hadn’t aged a bit in the thirteen hundred and twenty-two days since he’d seen her. Not that he was counting.
Same porcelain skin that he’d bet his cherished Jeep was still adorned with the tiny, hard-on inducing emerald stud in her belly button. Same flashing hazel eyes that glowed molten amber when she was turned on. Same pink-tinted lips that had skimmed every inch of his body, loving him like she’d never stop. The long, blonde hair hadn’t changed either, free flowing and wavy one day, cinched up tight the next, depending on her mood.
Always determined to have her brain noticed before her beauty, the sleeveless black dress she wore was meant to be professional, the female equivalent of a power suit, but because it was a tad on the short and tight side, it screamed powerfully sexy instead.
“Long time, no see, Mrs. Coleson.”
“Ash,” she acknowledged in a husky whisper. Her throat moved, and she laid a hand on her chest, her gaze roaming over him as she took her own inventory. “You’re looking well. Life’s been good to you, I see.”
They were the words of an acquaintance. And Jesus Christ, they pissed him off.
“Yeah, life’s been real good to me. Decent job. Money in the bank. My health. What more could a guy ask for? Certainly not a wife, two-point-five kids, and the picket fence thing, right?”
“Don’t.” Her face blanched, the sharp catch of her breath loud in the quiet office. “Don’t you dare go there.”
The vulnerability surprised him, a look of longing in those hazel eyes, contradicting her words. When he stood, needing the feel of her embrace as badly as he needed air, she held up a hand.
“Who do you think you are?” The chilly accusation, opposite the heat in her eyes, kept him rooted in place.
“I’m doing fine, Liv, thanks for asking. How are you?” Jutting his chin, he indicated the chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat. Stay awhile.”
“I’m serious, Ash. Just who the hell do you think you are? You had no reason to warn off Trey Gillis. And no right, either.”
Scratch that. Her emotions were coming across loud and clear.
“That’s why you’re here? Because of the fucking vineyard?” Th
e realization shouldn’t shock him. It shouldn’t hurt him this bad, either.
She’d made choices, too.
When her jaw dropped, as if any other reason was out of the question, he suited up. Body armor in place, he emotionally bulletproofed himself, leaning back against the sill.
“Jesus Christ, Olivia. Is there nothing else in this goddamn world you care about more than that hellhole? This is some cold-hearted shit right here.”
Her lips pressed together. “That’s rich, coming from a man with ice water in his veins. And it’s not fair, either. There are many things I care about more than Coleson Creek, and you know it. But I have a job to do, and for some ludicrous reason I can’t put my finger on, you’re getting in my way. You have no right to interfere.”
“Oh, I do have the right. Let’s get that inconvenient fact straight, pronto. And I know exactly who I am, though it seems you could use a reminder. Figured I’d save old Trey some blue balls and fill him in on the fact that you’re a married woman before he puts clean sheets on his bed and buys you a lobster dinner.”
“You think I’m dating Trey?” Scoffing, she lifted her chin in amazement. “Or anyone at all? I have responsibilities that leave me little time to hit up the singles scene. But if I was on the prowl for some action, I can assure you, I wouldn’t hook up with somebody so close to the vineyard.”
“Oh, that’s right,” he said, his voice rising as he gained steam. “Wouldn’t want to upset Marshall, would we? How is dear old Dad? Doubted the old man could handle a hot piece of ass like you, considering I know all about your voracious sexual appetite first hand. Might still have the fingernail marks on my ass to prove it. Probably got himself a raging addiction to those little blue pills just to keep it up.” The possibility kept him awake at night, killing him piece by piece. “I’m not judging. A guy’s gotta do what he’s gotta do.”
“You’re disgusting,” Olivia sneered, as close to a shout as she ever got, ignoring him when he snorted in response. “I think all the new pussy you’re getting is making you crazy!”