He nearly hid the creases of pain in his face, which instantly aged him beyond his fortyish years. Nearly, but not quite. “All right, Kay-cee. Hello. How are you?”
“I’m fine. Great. Wonderful. Couldn’t be better. Now, go away.”
His half-smile forced his cheek to dimple, which she did her utmost to ignore.
“Kace, that’s no way to be. If I’m going to live here and work here, don’t you think we should at least take a stab at coexisting in peace and harmony? The war is behind us.”
Fuck you, the war will never be behind us, pal. Suddenly, she felt it coming on. Her heart’s extra beats, her lungs pumping fast and shallow. The all too familiar curtain of darkness pulling in the wings of her peripheral vision. The sound of the ocean roaring in her ears. The omigod-I’m-gonna-drop-like-a-stone warning that quickly approached. Her body trembled.
He reached for her. Ah hell, does he know what’s happening? No, he can’t know. How could he? The wood and laminate counter was the closest stationary object, so she grabbed for it before he could touch her, managed to steady herself.
Voice strained, she forced out, “Nathan, please leave. Go back to wherever you came from. Don’t make me beg.”
Before he could respond, she twisted away, slammed through the doors, reached the sidewalk, bent over, resting her palms on her thighs. He’s not dead, not dead, not dead. She gulped in fresh air to help clear her head. Home. She needed to get home. Home was the only place she could feel safe. Maybe.
…
As she headed for the house, Kacey’s symptoms began to ease up once she settled mechanically into a comfortable pace. It was just stress, that’s all, with the funeral and everything. Anyone would be under the weather. She’d nap for an hour or so, then she’d be fine.
She placed the picnic bag containing her cold coffee and stale muffin on the granite countertop next to the closest of the two oversized kitchen sinks. Finding what she needed in the medicine chest set into the wall of the nearest bathroom, she popped two over-the-counter pain killers, then splashed cold water on her face until her cheeks were numb. She toweled off, unbound her hair, ran a brush through it. It felt good to leave it loose.
She found her way to a front sitting room, then dropped with a distinct lack of grace, more like a limp scarecrow, onto a Chippendale sofa. A large, embroidered throw pillow cushioned her head, and her arm shielded her eyes from the dazzling sun that poured through the opened drapes. The bright, cheerful room in blues and creams had always been her favorite.
Nathan Weatherly. Of all people. Why here? Why now?
Settling in at the ol’ homestead had been tougher than she’d imagined, but she’d been doing her best. After the plane wreck claimed her parents, the previous warmth of the once-welcoming mansion, always a refuge, had been torn and twisted into something strange, nearly reduced to the stark coldness of a mausoleum. No matter how quiet she tried to be—and she’d been trained to be very stealthy, indeed—the small noises made by one person still echoed throughout the high-ceilinged rooms, defining its atmosphere of loneliness. Not haunted, just empty.
She’d been increasingly drawn to the large but cozy caretaker’s cottage set behind the extensive stables and carriage house-turned-garage, which would be more her style. The cottage had been empty for a year, after the head groundskeeper married his sweetheart and they decided to live in town, but the dwelling had always been well kept. In the estate’s heyday, the four-bedroom dwelling had housed various staff charged with overseeing the nearly palatial grounds. She knew the grooms had bunked over the stable, and the chauffeur in an apartment over the carriage house.
One of Kacey’s ideas centered on the possibility of hiring a hotel manager, then transforming the huge, nearly three-hundred-year old, one-hundred-room manse—eighty something of those rooms being bedrooms—into a stately bed and breakfast, or a posh hotel.
Her mother, her grandmother, her great grandmother, and many greats behind them, had always loved to entertain, but Kacey had definitely not inherited the guest-loving gene—she valued her alone time, her privacy. She didn’t need the income to survive, but putting Timberwyck to use would prevent the mansion from falling into disrepair and decay. Her Granda—on her father’s side—had steadfastly maintained that houses, no matter how large or small, needed to be lived in, or their spirits died, then the buildings crumbled. Plus, it would offer added employment to the town, which already depended upon the lumber mill, as well as the surrounding tourist trade, to survive. Summer vacations to enjoy the lakes, streams, and ATV trails. Fall for leaf peepers and Oktoberfest micro-brewery events. Skiing, snowboarding, and snowmobiling during the winter. Staffing Timberwyck would help support the local economy.
Kacey’s body finally relaxed in the suffused sunlight, allowing her fractured mind to drift as she succumbed to a comfortable doze.
And now there’s Nathan.
Oh yeah, Nathan. Nathan, whose attraction she felt from the very instant he’d disembarked the transport with his squad. She and Nathan had danced around each other at first, concentrated on doing their specialized jobs. Fought their mutual allure. There’d been no place in her plans for round heels, for dalliances that could interfere with her responsibilities. Lives were on the line, every moment of every day—with constant reminders of how short those lives might be…
…
Delaram Forward Operations Base, Afghanistan
Six Months Ago
The Forward Operating Base had been short-staffed until replacements could arrive. After Kacey had flown too many back-to-back missions to count, after Nathan returned from an op that could never be discussed, the pair could only manage twenty-four hours of R&R from their respective companies.
How does one cram a lifetime into twenty-four freakin’ hours?
Kacey’s body, restless, twitched as the memories flowed sluggishly to the surface before bursting like huge bubbles of heavy, molten lava. She and Nathan had hopped a Black Hawk transport, landed, grabbed an old, nondescript Hummer, then followed a hand-drawn map to the little bed and breakfast—more of a bed and supper, actually—recommended on the sly by another Viper pilot, Fast Eddie. A secret place, he’d promised, well off the Kandahar-Herat highway. Away from buried IEDs and high-powered rifles. A place loyal to American troops. Marines had rescued the owner’s only son from insurgents, then returned the adolescent boy to his family, barely bruised.
The evening had been perfect. Fresh, hot chai tea, a main meal of qabili palao, the rice dish cooked to perfection with tender lamb, fried raisins, slivered carrots, and pistachio nuts. As tradition dictated, they’d used their right hands to scoop food to mouths using rounds of fresh baked lavash bread. Supper had been beautifully prepared, obviously with pride, and delicious.
Separated from the main house by groves of pistachio trees and an irrigation ditch, the small guest quarters had its four mud brick interior walls and its floors covered with richly colored tapestries, the window openings devoid of glass. To accommodate their Western friends, the man of the house had constructed a wide wooden bed frame off the floor, on which mattress bedding could be unrolled and spread.
Nathan hadn’t wasted valuable time lighting the oil lamps; they didn’t need illumination to shed their clothing. The endless days of double entendres, of hiding in dark corners for quick, stolen caresses and heated kisses, had long since primed them for action. They were too conscious of time.
Twenty-four hours, and the clock was ticking.
Alone at last, Nathan’s ardent, demanding kisses had drawn the very breath from her body, replaced it with such raw heat that she felt sure she’d burst into flames at his touch.
He knelt on the topmost layer of mattress pads, sat back on his heels as he pulled her onto his lap, wrapped her legs around his hips. His hands investigated every inch of her body, leaving her to writhe under his touch, as forceful as he was gentle. He reached between her thighs, targeted her sex, fondled her, outside and in.
&nbs
p; “Come here, wench.”
Any further words were lost as they crushed their mouths together, bounding from heated kisses to tongues frantically lashing one another, sucking down each other’s moans before they could be released into the desert air.
She’d turned her head slightly to catch her breath, wrapped her hands behind his neck, wiggled closer, pressed tighter. “Oh? And who is giving orders to whom, Captain, sir, may I ask?”
He pulled her in, his heavy arousal trapped between them, begging for relief. “No orders, Captain, ma’am, only suggestions.” His fingers slid into her again, tested her readiness. His tongue flicked over her nipples, the cool Afghani night air caressed the wet points, bolstered their firmness, as tempting as ripe olives off the tree.
Hands lewdly fondled, then lifted, her ass. He’d settled the gateway of her womanhood over his cockhead, slowly lowering her onto his shaft.
“Omigod, Nathan, oh baby, yesss—” Her words had ended in a passionate hiss. Every millimeter he pushed into her increased her pleasure ten-fold. It had been so very long since…well, since anything. Playing in a man’s field left a woman ripe to be targeted by notch hunters. She knew the game, and refused to roll that way. Her career and her integrity meant everything to her, so she’d fought to remain a valued, ass-bustin’ crew member. One of the guys. And being one of the guys meant no sport sex, no casual one-night stands. She was worth more than that, more than a quick roll in the hay.
But now, with Nathan’s thickness stretching its way to her epicenter, she wondered what the fuck had taken her so long, why she’d held him off. A hard-bodied, incredibly handsome man, his skin tanned hazelnut brown from the desert sun, with honey-colored eyes and close-cropped hair to match, he’d certainly captivated her from the first. He could also be obnoxiously arrogant, bold, and self-assured. Driven, protective. Alpha.
No doubt he knew how much he affected her libido whenever he touched her, even with the most casual brush, and she’d cursed him for it. But it had been his smile that had done her in—the indolent decadence that promised to deliver every wish, every deeply private, secret desire. His lazy, heavy-lidded, leonine gaze promised it all.
She’d continued to twist against him, hands grasping his broad shoulders, pulling her body up only to lower herself again. She slid down his length until he was so deeply seated she thought she could die from the sheer gratification of being filled so completely. There’d been no doubt the wait had been worth the frustration.
Nathan had shifted from his position before circulation could be compromised, pulled her over until she stretched out under him. Settled snuggly between her thighs, his tough, SEAL-trained body covering hers. She wrapped her legs around his tight ass, pulled his head down, then smothered his mouth with wild kisses.
Throwing her off kilter, he shifted ever so slightly, did a weird thing when he slid his open hand between them, his palm against her flat belly. When he did, her pulse quivered and her breath labored, her womb shuddered. His action left her no choice. She needed him inside her, quickly, needed him to pound hard, plunge deep. Needed him to quench the inferno that had been building since he’d set foot on the sands of Delaram—when they first laid eyes on each other, when their gazes locked in like heat-seeking missiles.
Using his hand to guide his member, he teased her with his erection, adding the slipperiness of his pre-ejaculate to her own dew. Then, supported on thick, strong arms, he arched his big body and drove into her. He hadn’t been gentle.
Glad for the soothing darkness, Kacey had embraced every tactile sensation. No one used perfume or cologne in the field, but in the small hut she nearly overdosed on the scent of fir needles after spring rains. Her hands caressed every bit of his naked skin she could reach, relishing taut skin over muscles, and the nest of silky chest hair.
Nathan had played her body like a virtuoso, anticipating every need, responding as if they’d been together forever. If his mouth didn’t attend, his fingers did. Her need drove his actions. She came for the first time on his cock—he matched her stroke for stroke, buried his seed in her depths.
Modern contraception proved to be a wonderful thing for a woman in the field. No periods, no ovulation. They were both medically certified A-okay. No other partners. No condoms meant no hesitation, meant naked flesh against naked flesh, as often as they could manage. She knew he could feel every pulse, every throb of her body—just as she felt the pounding heat of his masculinity as he provided her with wave upon wave of exquisite pleasure.
She remembered how he’d attempted to lift himself from her, but she’d pulled him close again. Every tug of flesh against flesh, every frisson of friction, every movement of his softening cock continued to stimulate, enticed her into a string of mini-orgasms, drew out her craving. As her pussy couldn’t get enough of his shaft, her mouth did not tire of his kisses.
When he finally pulled out, he slid farther down the mattress pads. Before she realized his intention, his tongue plundered her swollen nether lips, swived her engorged clit with his broad tongue. He plunged stiff fingers deeply inside the still pulsing channel, forced her to grab her own forearm in her teeth to prevent her cries from waking the innkeeper and his family—or worse, attracting an unfriendly who might be searching for such a golden opportunity to rid the world of two more infidels.
Finally, when he’d been convinced she had nothing left, they collapsed, replete. Skin against skin, his strong body had formed a chrysalis around her like the wings of a dark angel, as he protected her, loved her. What? Protected, yes. Loved? No. That must be wrong. No mention of love in that hellhole. No mention of love to jinx whatever it was that they had. For as long as it lasted, for as long as they both survived.
He’d pulled a lightly woven blanket over them, kissed the top of her head. She’d felt his body relax as he finally drifted off to sleep.
Could love even be possible for people like them? Warriors all, knowing full well that the next moment could be their last?
No. Love isn’t a good idea for us.
Chapter Two
Winterpine, New Hampshire
Present
Nathan shook his head. Kacey was in really bad shape. Worse than Jonah thought. Why hadn’t the good doctor called him sooner? In all fairness, he couldn’t lay that on his best friend—the Navy wouldn’t even consider releasing Nate any earlier. Even if he could, it would have been insane to cut short his career mere weeks before his twentieth anniversary was up.
At first, Nathan left the police station and headed for The Hampshire Inn, his stride brisk. The cool-for-summer weather would have been perfect in so many instances, but today that perfection wasn’t enough to alleviate his concern. He was a man on a mission.
As a doctor, former SEAL medical specialist Jonah Taylor would never reveal a patient’s confidences. But as a friend, he’d been seriously worried about Kacey, who’d refused to seek medical evaluation from the VA. Actually, according to the good doctor, she’d refused any assistance. One phone call from Jonah put Nate on the first military flight out of Afghanistan, a microsecond after his discharge papers were in order. A quick stop in downstate New York to see his family, then he stepped into his ride.
During the cab trip from the airport to the Weatherly family home, Nate had pictured his father’s every move. He knew Nathan Sr., would carefully fold back the protective canvas dust cover from Nate’s fully restored 1970 Dodge Charger 440 Six Pack, would give the car a real, old-fashioned tune-up, then a bath. Dad must have completed his chores only minutes before the newly liberated SEAL pulled up in the taxi. There, parked in the driveway, the Charger’s black metallic lacquer paint and chrome wheels sparkled like sequins in the sun. The blue-on-white NY license plate read WIDOMAKR. Nate chuckled at the tag on the restored muscle car. Ah yes, the hubris of the young.
In his old life, his pre-Kacey O’Donnell life, Nate had intended the first ride in the Charger, after his release from the Navy, to be a day trip with his dad—but his need to
reach Kace trumped all. After a delicious lunch prepared by loving hands, he kissed his mom, took the insulated bag of travel food she’d prepared, hugged his father and siblings, thanked everyone who’d come to welcome him home. Then he dragged his heavy sea bag to the driveway, stowed it in the trunk.
Heart pumping with anticipation, he settled into the black bucket seat of the Dodge and inhaled the aroma of freshly oiled leather. With a turn of the key, the big-block motor roared to life, then settled to rumble like a newly awakened beast. Nate took a moment to let the adrenaline settle. Then, with a light foot on the accelerator, he steered the car while working smoothly through the gears, his hands remembering wheel and shift stick as if he’d never left home.
Hang on, Kace, baby, I’m on my way.
…
Jonah Taylor, the medical specialist of their team who’d already been an M.D., had been the first of their squad to opt out of the SEALs. Nate remembered how Taylor had been so enamored with Kacey’s descriptions of her peaceful, quiet New Hampshire hometown that he’d headed there without delay to hang out his shingle. Jonah L. Taylor, M.D., Family Practice. Few other than Nathan knew the “L” stood for Lionel, named after the trains of which Jonah’s hobbyist father had been so enamored. It took years before the childhood nickname “Choo-Choo” was forgotten. Out of the goodness of his heart, Nate never shared the embarrassing moniker with their SEAL team members.
It had also been Jonah who’d set up the relay between Nate and Big Bob MacCaffree. To hear Jonah’s version, Sheriff Bob had griped one time too many, over endless cups of coffee, as he unsuccessfully weeded through applications for a successor—someone with the knowledge, the skills, as well as the maturity to take over his post in the usually low-crime area of the tourist-driven town. Jonah threw Nate’s name and contact info on the desk in front of the sheriff. Big Bob called Nate, information was exchanged. Bob offered. Nate accepted.
Her Special Forces Page 2