Her Special Forces

by Sophia Roslyn

  She’d collapsed against him, the air bellowed from her lungs. He heard activity in the hangar behind them, so he shifted her so she was sitting sidesaddle on his lap. When she could breathe normally, he tucked her body next to his, so they were once again sitting hip-to-hip on the bench. His lips brushed her hair. “Hey, pretty lady, are you all right?”

  A noise had come from her chest, and it sounded suspiciously like a purr. “Omigod, how did you do that? My body’s turned to warm tapioca, and I can’t move. I’m totally wasted. How am I going to make it to my rack?”

  He tightened the grip of his arm around her shoulders. “Shh. Just relax for a few minutes, pull yourself together, then I’ll walk you back.” And as soon as she was safely delivered, he promised his trouser buddy a quickie hand-job in the shower before he exploded.

  Kacey blew out a sigh. “I don’t know what just happened, but it was a first on so many levels. Damn.”

  “A first for me, too, to be lucky enough to find a woman so incredibly responsive.” He’d nibbled the curve of her ear, felt her shudder again. “And so beautiful.”

  Leaving him had apparently not been on her list of things to do—nor did he want to let her go, shower or no shower—so they cuddled and talked until the awesome sunrise splashed blinding sunlight in their eyes, forcing them to head for their separate bivouacs before the brutal heat had a chance to bake them.

  After their first night-into-morning, any spare moments the Marines or Navy didn’t command from them, they’d spent together.

  As covert as he’d thought his actions had been, Nate’s teammates had begun razzing him, making kissy-face smooches over coffee in the mornings. He hadn’t realized anyone else in his crew had been interested in his Irish firebrand until early one ghost-gray morning, minutes after Nate had left Kacey and headed for his own bivouac.

  Barracuda had appeared from nowhere, faced him. “So, I guess it’s true. Timing really is everything. We drew straws. I get first dibs on the lady after you fuck up.”

  Nate stayed perfectly still, not sure how the potential confrontation would shake down. Then the Iron Giant shrugged, nodded, and walked.

  There had never been any doubt that Barracuda wasn’t far away, just waiting for the golden opportunity. Nate had to wonder if he was still willing.

  Chapter Fifteen

  If Nate didn’t open his eyes, if he breathed slowly and deeply, if he managed to ignore the pain in his heart, the morning reminded him of a summery Sunday in his youth. A morning when his dad, accompanied by the family dog, would head to the Italian bakery in their town, then to the news store. At home, everyone would wake to the smell of fresh coffee, to waxed paper bags filled with rolls, to bakery boxes of delicious pastries taking up the center of the kitchen table, to sections of the Sunday paper spread out between kitchen and living room.

  Listening to early bird song, he rolled onto his back, arms folded behind his head, morning arousal tenting the sheet as it searched for its absent bedmate. The point now moot, he was left to wonder about the things he’d never been given a chance to discover in their civilian lives. Was Kace an early riser? Did she like to shower in the morning or before bed? Did she dress first, or hit the kitchen in her skivvies, then get dressed later?

  He’d known her in a war zone, known her exhausted and wrung out in a mansion, known her as she healed from bullet wounds, knew about her night terrors. But, there’d been so much they didn’t know about each other. After last night, so much he would never know.

  Fuck, enough of the sentimental bullshit. She’d made her feelings clear, and he couldn’t handle that sort of sex-only relationship with a woman he loved. Yeah, admit it. Love. He loved her. At least, had loved. He shook his head. No more of this crapola, he needed to move the fuck on.

  He’d be sorry to disappoint Sheriff Big Bob, but the best option for all concerned would be to rejoin the boys in Woburn before they packed their gear to head to Winterpine, then sign up with TASG. Join the private security sector, see more of the fucking world. Experience more of man’s inhumanity to man. At least the compensation would be, as they said, commensurate with his skills and abilities. Great, as a matter of fact.

  Then again, he could take a sabbatical, cruise the military bars and shag as many silicone-enhanced Navy groupies as he could until his dick fell off or his liver crashed. He could hunker down in his old bedroom at his parents’ house until time came to eat a round—take Jeffrey’s way out and stage a one-man incident in the middle of the woods to spare friends and family.

  Ahh, fuck it, that was bogus bullshit. He’d never do that to his family.

  The senator wouldn’t arrive for hours. Plenty of time to pull down some trail time, then jump in the shower, fix breakfast for the kid, pack, close up the chalet. Down to one vehicle, Cannon could drop Nate and Kacey at her castle so Nate could pick up his ride, then tender his regrets to the sheriff. He figured Jack would catch up to the senator’s mini-entourage, follow them back to Kennebunkport before the agent finally headed for his own home. Nate wondered how long it had been since Cannon had actually been home, how long since he’d seen his family.

  Home. Until last night, the matter of home had been left a bit unclear in Nate’s mind. Timberwyck was on the other side of the town proper, maybe forty-five minutes from the chalet. Kacey’s home, not his home. They hadn’t really discussed living arrangements, had they? What exactly had “stay with me” meant? Stay the night in her bed? Stay in the chalet, which apparently belonged to the O’Donnell family? Move into Kacey’s ancestral home—or maybe bunk over the carriage house-turned-garage? Steal into the mansion, into her bed, in the dead of night, like a thief? Maybe, if she really wished, be her boy toy? Her friend with benefits? Someone she could tap on the shoulder when she needed to scratch an itch? Yeah, well, regardless of the nastiness he’d growled at her, that wasn’t gonna happen.

  After last night’s debacle, he needed to blow off some steam, get his head straight. A good run at a punishing pace should do the trick. It always worked before, whenever he needed to clarify issues. As a senior in high school, already topping six feet, with his man-body beginning to fill out—when hormones tended to interfere with common sense—his dad had taught him to channel his frustrations and testosterone-fueled energy by distance running, rather than using his fists, or by killing his brain cells with alcohol and recreational drugs. So, he did resistance weight training, worked out on the heavy bag, and ran.

  As he entered the hallway from his room, Nate nearly collided with Jack.

  “Weatherly, you look like hammered shit. Couldn’t sleep?”

  Nate checked out the FBI man’s wardrobe, which mirrored his. Sweats, white wife beater instead of black, running shoes. Shoulder holster. Radio at his waist. “Trail run. Wanna come, old man? If you think you can handle it.”

  “I’ll old man you. What do you think the FBI does, let Marines deliver them to their assignments, like they deliver SEALs? We work for a living.”

  “Wow, testy in the morning for an old fart, aren’t ya? Them’s fightin’ words. You’re on, Fibbie.” Great. Physical competition. Just what he needed. Get his mind off her. Like that was gonna happen.

  They each downed a cup of coffee and a couple of slices of eight-grain toast smeared with peanut butter and headed out. It wasn’t until they’d cleared the pool house and reached the tree line that it occurred to Nate that he should have at least left a note on the kitchen table. It would be okay. After all the bullshit yesterday and last night, they’d probably be back to the house before the girls were up and moving. He and Jack wouldn’t be missed.

  At least, Nate was sure he wouldn’t be missed.

  …

  Hair still damp from her shower, Kacey exited her bedroom wrapped in a bathrobe just as Nathan and Jack cleared the back door. She watched them as they jogged easily to the line of trees behind the pool house, both men stretching and warming up as they moved across the lawn to the hiking trail.

  At
least I’ll have some time alone to decide what to do. Before I deal with the aftermath of last night’s Charlie Foxtrot. A total cluster fuck of my own making.

  She actually envied the men their exercise, but she couldn’t even manage a power walk at the moment. Soon. Soon she’d be back to normal.

  That was a lie, and she knew it. Normal wasn’t a condition with which she was familiar. Normal? What did the concept even mean? Had her relationship with Captain Nathan Weatherly, SEAL, sniper, retired, been anything close to normal?

  She admitted that they were both adrenaline junkies, fueled by an over-the-top sense of patriotism. Maybe that had been the draw between them, and not the physical and sexual appeal. Okay, so maybe adrenaline and patriotism weren’t such bad things. It wasn’t like they went bungee jumping off bridges for shits n’ giggles.

  She decided she should at least pull on some clothes. She returned to the kitchen in black, ninja-style pants with a loose waistband, and a monster-sized black Fast and Furious T-shirt—courtesy of sexy Barracuda, her wannabe sweetheart. Why didn’t they ever get together?

  Handsome Marcus of the light chocolate skin was certainly a man’s man, rugged, talented, even though he was nearly too stunningly beautiful for words. Yet, as much as they flirted and teased each other, he never made her skin tingle with anticipation, or her heart hammer with passion, as Nathan had done. Had being the operative word. Had, as in past. Had, as in never again. In her infinite fucking wisdom, she’d seen to that.

  Nathan must surely be finished with her, after the terrible words she’d said to him. Terrible words she didn’t really mean, terrible words that were lies—said for his own good. They still needed to get back to Timberwyck, and she sure as shit wasn’t looking forward to the ride. Well, at least Jack and Gemma would be there to soften what was sure to be an awkward and uncomfortable trip.

  The large coffee pot on the kitchen counter was over half full, so she poured a mug. She didn’t feel like cooking, so she scrounged through the cupboards and found the Cracker Jack prize—an unopened box of authentic Frosted Flakes with its authentic blue and orange design. Surprisingly, the SEAL squad scavengers had missed it. She hadn’t had breakfast with Tony the Tiger since kindergarten.

  She poured nonfat milk over the heavily-sugared flakes, gave half a chuckle at the irony. She stood over the sink while she ate, gazed out the window at the dive-bombing horde of little sparrows, chickadees, and juncos, apparently having a rumble over the empty bird feeder. She felt a twinge of guilt at the lack of seed, but only in passing. “It’s summer, guys, you can fend for yourselves.”

  With all the windows opened to allow the summer breezes to drift through, she heard tires crunch on gravel as a vehicle approached. Did someone forget something? The SEALs should have reached Woburn last night, and Jonah said he’d see her when she returned to town. The senator wasn’t due to arrive for—a glance at the kitchen clock confirmed it—another three hours.

  Carrying her cereal bowl, she headed for the front door. No shit, really? United States Senator John Mansfield stepped from the big black Lincoln Navigator, followed closely by a tall, wide-shouldered, well-dressed, man who looked very tanned and very fit. MIB suit. Raybans. Shaved head. No shoulder pads for that boy. Must be the bodyguard.

  Without any niceties being exchanged, she stood aside to let them in. Well, hell. No hello, how are ya, drop dead, fuck off—nothing. She felt like the invisible doorman, no more than dirt under their expensive shoes. Should she have bowed and scraped, or at least dropped a curtsy?

  She wasn’t exactly awestruck, either, although the bodyguard made her edgy, straightaway. Mansfield had never impressed her. One of the newspaper rags had published photos of him partying in baggy swim trunks on someone’s fancy yacht; his physique had not exactly been inspiring. Only medium in height, his tailored suits, always in some shade of gray, masked his soft middle, pinched shoulders, and shallow chest. Women seemed to find him attractive enough when he dressed for success, with his blue eyes and well-groomed silver hair, but he gave her the creeps.

  The bodyguard, on the other hand, looked like a cage fighter straining to break free and throw off any perceived yoke of civilization. No sense of subservience there. He had to be ex-military. The cut of his expensive jacket definitely covered a shoulder holster with a sidearm. He took off his sunglasses, his sharp brown gaze giving her the same impersonal once-over he directed at the household furnishings. The hair on her arms rose, and an ugly chill traveled up her spine. What’s up with that? Danger, Will Robinson, that’s what.

  She cleared her throat. “Senator, may I offer you and your…friend…a cup of coffee? Something to eat? Frosted Flakes? I could probably whip up a couple of omelets, if you’d like.” Her eyebrow raised as she waited for a response, and her nervous system kicked up. Something was so not right.

  “No thank you, young lady. I was expecting Agent Cannon to meet us. And you are—?”

  The bodyguard’s hard gaze finished his sweep of the area, targeted her as if he were the Terminator and she was human vermin to be extinguished. Oh man, no doubt about it. There was a bad moon on the rise.

  She slipped into Hi, I’m happy and harmless mode. “Kacey O’Donnell. Housekeeper.” Backing up a few steps, she didn’t offer her hand.

  “And Agent Cannon? I see his vehicle.”

  She fought the urge to look. Hide it, hide it. “Ahh, yeah, well, he took my little Jeep into town. At these ridiculous prices at the pumps, it’s better on fuel than his gas guzzler. He volunteered to make a run for the Golden Arches, should be back soon. Surprised you didn’t pass him on the road.” Shit, I hope they weren’t paying attention. There aren’t any Golden Arches in town.

  “I see. It is quite desolate here, I must say. Mr. Brown and I had quite the time finding the place.”

  Liar. Once out of town, only two turns to get here. “Yeah, the guests like it. Quiet, peaceful, nice place to get away for a few days. Can go skinny-dipping in the pool without neighbors around to call the cops.”

  Still scanning the surroundings, the bodyguard finally spoke. “Do you stay here often?”

  “Me? Not really. I fill in when I’m needed. I work for a staffing company in town. Lots of temp gigs. As a matter of fact, I’m expected to call in this morning. I have another job lined up. Nanny.” Her Spidey-senses had bypassed tingling, were screaming in alarm. Fuck. Her Sig wasn’t doing much good sitting in her underwear drawer. “Sure I can’t get you something? Tea? Orange juice?”

  “Where is the girl?” To her surprise, this also came from the bodyguard, not the senator. His accent wasn’t as strong as “Aaaahl be baaack,” but his speech was too precise.

  “Yeah, well, we played cards last night, so Gemma didn’t go to bed until really late. I guess she’s sleeping in. Usually she’s an early riser, up with the birds, so I’m sure she’ll be awake soon. We didn’t expect you until much later.”

  “Yes, well, I was impatient to see my daughter, after all the excitement.”

  Excitement? He called a kidnapping and murdered FBI agents excitement? She schooled her face into a mask of understanding and concern. He hadn’t even asked how or why Gemma had been brought there. How weird was that? “Oh, I’m sure you can’t wait to see her. Such a terrible ordeal for you.” Bastard.

  Mansfield looked around the room, hands folded graciously in front of him as if to be camera ready if a member of the paparazzi should jump out. “Yes, terrible.”

  Kacey tried to keep the conversation going. “Gemma is a very brave girl. You’re a lucky father.”

  That earned her a look of condescension, and she was sorely tempted to direct the pointy end of her sneaker straight to his cojones, just for the pleasure of watching him double over in agony. The prick.

  Kacey heard a door open, then scuffling steps as Gemma came into the kitchen, yawning, knuckles rubbing her eyes, still in her pajamas and slippers, the riot of dark, curly hair mussed in bed-head mode.

  “Hey, Kac
e, I thought I heard…Dad! I mean, Sir. You’re here!”

  Not for nothing, but the girl mirrored surprise rather than excitement, then caution, at seeing her only parent. No hint of a smile reached her face, and she made no move to go to him. Nor he to her. She stood very still, seemed to draw into herself.

  “Gemma. How are you?”

  “Uh, oh, um, I’m okay. All right. Good. I’m good.”

  “Child, don’t babble. Speak concisely if you have something to say.”

  The girl’s gaze dropped to the floor, her hands at her sides. “Yes sir.”

  Kacey shook her head. The guy was a real dickhead, no doubt about it. Gemma deserved better. Definitely, the wrong parent died.

  Looking bored with the barely domestic tableau, the bodyguard slid a hand into his jacket pocket, pulled out silver and blue foil-wrapped disk about the size of a drink coaster. As soon as he folded back the wrapper, the strong aroma of dark chocolate and peppermint drifted through the kitchen.

  Gemma froze. Her body, her facial features, turned stiff as cardboard, her eyes nearly as wide as half-dollars. Before Kacey could pop out a comment, Gemma grabbed her hand and pulled. Hard. “C’mon, Miss Kacey, you need to help me.”

  “What’s up, sprout? Need help with what?”

  “You gotta help me pack my stuff. Y’know, my stuff. In my room.” She tugged again, both of her hands gripping Kacey’s wrist. “Now.”

  The first yank was bad enough, and Kacey didn’t react at all well to the repeated tug. “Jeez, kiddo, take a chill pill. Not much to…”

  Before Kacey could finish, Gemma let go, stomped her feet, her arms stiff at her sides, hands fisted tight enough to whiten her knuckles. She let out a hellacious screech. Face flushed, lips tightened. Then she damned near jerked Kacey’s arm out of her shoulder socket.

  Kacey nearly dropped the bowl she still held in her other hand. “What the—”

  The girl’s shriek escalated to fingernails-on-the-chalkboard auditory pain. “Now. I want to pack now so I can leave with my dad! Y’know, my dad. I really missed my dad!”