Craving Her Soldier's Touch

by Wendy S. Marcus

  Jaci was about to say they couldn’t possibly stay for breakfast because it was totally inappropriate and unprofessional and she had to get to her next patient, when Ian strolled into the room. “Now don’t go getting me into trouble, Barry.”

  That was Ian. In a room with someone for five minutes and he’d made a friend.

  “I told you,” he went on. “Jaci’s in charge. It’s her call. I’m just the hired help.”

  Hired help? Jaci glanced at him through narrowed eyes. Exactly what type of compensation was he expecting?

  Ian winked and Jaci’s insides fluttered. She was in big trouble.

  “It’s the least we can do to say thank you for coming out in this terrible weather,” Mr. Lewis said.

  Ian raised his eyebrows, tilted his head and nodded from behind Mr. Lewis, a nonverbal ‘he has a point.’

  “The electric company doesn’t expect power to be restored in our area for at least two days,” Laney offered. “If we don’t eat the food in our fridge it will spoil.”

  “A dozen eggs.” Ian tsk tsked. “Laid in vain. Wasted. Because we didn’t eat them.”

  “And you did rush Ian out with no breakfast,” Mr. Lewis said.

  Ian jumped in with, “My stomach growled.” He held up both hands. “I wasn’t complaining. I’m happy to be here.” He turned away and mumbled, “Even if I am about to keel over.”

  “Please say you’ll stay,” Laney said, placing her now warm hand on Jaci’s forearm, looking more relaxed.

  Oy. Three against one. “Okay,” she relented. “But I need you both with me for the next fifteen minutes,” so she could observe Laney’s blood sugar monitoring and insulin injection techniques and offer instruction/encouragement where needed, as well as review diet, the signs and symptoms of hypoglycemia and how to handle a hypoglycemic episode.

  “I’ve got the pan heating,” Ian said, looking at his watch. “Breakfast will be served promptly at zero-eight-hundred.”

  * * *

  “You’d have made a good soldier,” Ian said as Jaci programmed the address of their next stop into the GPS. “I’d have welcomed you on my team in a heartbeat.” She worked hard, didn’t complain, and remained calm in a crisis.

  “Green’s not my color,” Jaci joked.

  She’d look good wrapped in burlap. “Honestly. You were great back there.”

  A blush tinted her cheeks. “Just doing my job.”

  And in the process, she’d given him even more things to like about her. Professionalism. Compassion. Competence. Confidence. All very sexy qualities in a woman.

  He veered as far to the right as safely possible to drive through the shallowest edge of a length of standing water.

  “You’re an okay cook,” Jaci said.

  “Breakfast is my specialty. I’m happy to make it for you any day of the week.” Preferably after a night of hot sex.

  “I know what you’re thinking. Stop it.”

  “Okay, smarty pants.” He glanced over at her. “What was I thinking?”

  “That you’d like to cook me breakfast after a night of sex.”

  Technically he’d specified ‘hot’ sex, but okay, he’d give it to her.

  She smiled and nodded. “I was right, wasn’t I?”

  Damn her smile did things to him. And her teasing tone. If Ian wasn’t mistaken, the light, fluttery feeling in his gut might just be happiness. “Considering I haven’t been up close and personal with a naked female body since you and I were together,” the GPS interrupted and told him to prepare for a right turn, “lots of things get me thinking about sex. So don’t go getting all cocky that you know me so well.” But she did, and it hadn’t taken her long to figure him out, which, in addition to the distraction of attraction, was another reason he needed to keep his distance. So she didn’t pick up on his PTSD crap. Thinking him weak, pathetic and unstable was unacceptable. It shouldn’t matter, but it did.

  “So you haven’t been with...?”

  “No,” he said. He’d been at war for nine months, in the hospital for three. When exactly...?

  “I haven’t, either,” she said quietly.

  No declaration had ever made him happier. Ian junior started to swell with delight. “You know, maybe we could change the subject.” He shifted in his seat and adjusted his pants. “Because I’m about ten seconds from pulling off the road, hauling you into the backseat, and initiating a few let’s-you-and-me-get-

  reacquainted activities.”

  Eyes wide, Jaci said, “You wouldn’t dare.”

  That sounded like a challenge.

  “Oh yes I would.” If she wasn’t working and didn’t have to get to her next visit. Just to have a little fun he swerved. She screamed. “You’re crazy.”

  Yup. Certifiable.

  After leaving her fourth visit in the city of Yonkers, Jaci looked at her watch and said, “Turn left here. I’ll treat you to lunch.”

  A quick scan of the neighborhood and Ian had no intention of letting her out of the car.

  “Turn right.” Jaci directed him into the parking lot of what looked like an abandoned, brick building that could have once been a high or middle school. “Drive around back.”

  “What is this place?” Ian asked, pulling into a spot next to a rusted out frame of a car with cinder blocks where the tires should be. Dozens of down-on-their-luck types milled around a long cement sidewalk. Loose fitting clothes. Bags. Strollers. Hundreds of places to stash a weapon.

  Lately Ian was not a fan of crowds.

  “The local soup kitchen,” Jaci said. “Come on.” She opened the door and climbed out before he could stop her. Did the woman have no concern for her well-being at all?

  “Jaci, I don’t think—”

  A huge black man wearing an oversized football jersey that stretched tight across his rounded chest and belly approached her.

  Ian hurried to Jaci’s side, wishing he’d thought to strap on a firearm before leaving the condo.

  “Hey there, Big D,” Jaci said with a wave. “You checking in on your grandma like I told you?”

  Ian let out a relieved breath, but remained on guard as all eyes turned in their direction.

  “Sure am,” the big man said.

  “She taking all her meds?”

  “I’m pouring them every Sunday like you taught me.”

  “She’s lucky to have you.”

  Big D smiled proudly.

  “Give her my regards, will you?”

  “Sure will.”

  On their way into the building, several other people standing on a long line said their hellos. Jaci, looking totally at ease in her surroundings, offered a warm, familiar greeting to each of them.

  Ian stood tall, focused on not limping, and assessed everyone he passed for a possible threat.

  When they reached a large industrial-sized kitchen an older woman wearing a smudged white chef’s apron and a hairnet called out, “Jaci, honey. You are a gift from the gods.”

  Jaci hugged the woman. “Where is everyone?”

  “Not one volunteer showed up.” She talked while she worked, efficiently slathering peanut butter on pieces of white bread. “Russell has no electric and a foot of water in his basement. School was cancelled and Angie has no one to watch her kids. So it’s me, Red and Cooper.”

  With what looked like more than a hundred people lined up for lunch. They were significantly outnumbered with him unarmed. Ian fought the urge to grab Jaci and escape out the back door of the kitchen. He was home in New York, he reminded himself, trying to calm his rising tension. The people outside weren’t hostiles. He doubted any foreign operatives mingled among them. They were simply hungry people looking for a meal.

  Or so it seemed. And a friendly gathering could turn into an angry, violent mob in an instant. Yelling. Pushing and shoving. A distraction. Gunfire. Two men hit. A bomb blast. He stared at the one double-door entry into the large room, waiting for trouble, starting to sweat.

  Get it together, Ice.

 
; A warm hand on his upper arm brought him back to his senses. “Mary, this is my friend, Ian.”

  He reached out a clammy hand to Mary, relieved when she held up her plastic-gloved hands instead of shaking it.

  “Put us to work,” he said, assuming that’s why they were there, knowing the sooner they got everyone fed, the sooner they could leave this place.

  “We have no gas to cook,” Mary said. “Water’s questionable, but the fridge is working. We’re doing peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, sliced apples, cake and chocolate milk.”

  “Apples?” Jaci asked.

  “I know,” Mary said. “Half the people who come don’t have sturdy enough teeth to bite into an apple. But a local farm dropped off a couple of bushels. We’d planned to make a cobbler but without working ovens Red and Cooper are peeling, coring, and slicing them, then soaking the wedges in orange juice. That’ll have to do.”

  Jaci walked over to a small box on a wire shelving unit, took out a hairclip, and put her hair up in a ponytail. “Gloves are over there.” She pointed to a box to her right. “Paper plates beside them. Knives are by the stove. If you’ll portion out the cake stacked on that table,” she motioned to the left with her head, “I’ll get the tables, utensils and trays ready.”

  Ian spent the next ten minutes cutting up an assortment of day-old bakery items, placing them on small paper plates, which went on large metal trays that got inserted into a rolling food service rack. All the while he watched Jaci move around the room with purpose, lining the long rows of tables with plastic sheeting, stacking trays on the end of the serving line, and wrapping plastic forks in napkins. She knew exactly what needed to be done and did it, like she’d worked there many times before.

  There was much he didn’t know about socialite Jaci Piermont.

  Mary came to stand beside him. “She’s something, isn’t she?”

  “Yeah.” Something special.

  “Been coming here since she was a little girl, first with a group from her church, then with her mother and sister.” Mary put two bottles of liquid chocolate on the counter. “Would you get me four gallons of milk from the fridge? Make sure you check the dates.”

  Ian did as requested and they poured the milk into a large tub, added the chocolate, and Mary stirred the mixture with a long paddle. “After her mom’s accident, we didn’t see Jaci around much. But since she’s been back working in the area we see her at least once a week. Depending on her schedule, she either helps out with lunch or just stops by to drop off food donations.”

  Did Mary know who Jaci was? A member of the powerful Piermont family? From what Justin had told him, a girl who’d grown up with a butler and chauffeurs on the largest estate in one of the richest towns in the U.S.?

  As if she could read his mind, Mary said, “Yeah. I know. Only because years ago I recognized her mother. Jaci doesn’t talk about it, so neither do I. To the people in the area, she’s a hard-working, generous, well-liked community health nurse.”

  She sure didn’t look like a socialite with her functional black slacks tucked into black, red and white plaid rain boots, a plain white blouse, only a hint of makeup, and no jewelry other than a discount-store wristwatch. Her perfectly manicured, brightly painted fingernails were the only tell that she was accustomed to the finer things in life.

  “It’s one o’clock,” Jaci said. “We ready to serve?”

  In a flurry of activity plastic cups appeared before him and Ian dunked a pitcher into the tub of chocolate milk to fill them. A tall, muscular man with red hair rolled out a rack containing trays of sliced apples in small plastic dishes. A short, dark-haired man pushed over a rack containing trays of Mary’s sandwiches. In a few short minutes they were lined up with Mary on trays, paper plates, utensils, and sandwiches, Jaci on bottled water and coffee, Ian on milk, Red on apples, and Cooper on cakes.

  “Let ’em in,” Cooper called out. Within seconds the large cafeteria filled with people. Some hurried to claim a seat. Others headed straight for the line forming for food.

  The volume of voices swelled. The room seemed to shrink in size. The air heated. Thickened. A colorful sea of unfamiliar faces, old and weathered, young and disheartened, dirty and scarred, floated before him. Afro-American. Caucasian. Latino. Central American.

  An olive skinned man who averted his eyes. Why? What had he done?

  Ian froze with his hand mid-way to placing a cup of milk on the man’s tray.

  “He’s only here for lunch,” Red said, carefully taking the cup from Ian’s hand and serving it. “How long you been back?” he asked.

  Ian cleared his throat. “Military hospital three months. Home three weeks.”

  Jaci dropped a mug which bounced on the rubber drainage mats under their feet.

  Damn. Had she heard? He didn’t dare look at her.

  “Iraq?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’ll get better,” Red said.

  What the hell did he know?

  Red raised the short sleeve of his drab grey T-shirt to reveal a Semper Fi tat. “I had a rough time re-acclimating, too. Took about a year, but I managed to get it together. So will you.”

  Yeah. Red had gotten it together enough to show up for his minimum wage job at the soup kitchen looking like he’d just rolled out of bed after a long night of hard partying. If that worked for him, fine.

  But Ian wanted more. Needed a good, high paying job. And soon.

  Ten years in the Army and successful completion of Ranger School, in his opinion, the toughest most intense training program in all branches of the military, had to be worth something.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  AFTER a thankfully quiet trip from the soup kitchen, during which Jaci sat uncharacteristically still and quiet, Ian pulled up to visit number five right on schedule. In this more suburban part of the county, they didn’t pass any visible flooding, but there was plenty of damage from high winds.

  “I’ll be out as soon as I can,” Jaci said when she opened the rear door to get her nursing bag.

  “Take your time.” Ian reclined the seat and closed his eyes, although he wouldn’t admit it, happy to relax for a few minutes.

  Maybe he’d dozed off. More likely he’d been lost in thought when a knock on his window made him jump so high he banged his left thigh on the steering wheel hard enough to send black dots floating through his vision.

  At Jaci’s look of concern, Ian swallowed down the slew of curses demanding to be set free and resisted the urge to punch something. Instead he tried out some of the anger management techniques his rehab therapist had taught him. He inhaled. Exhaled. Counted back from ten. Made it to six. Swallowing down a string of curses he reached to turn the key in the ignition with his right hand and hit the switch to lower the electric window with his left. “Sorry. I must have fallen asleep.”

  “I didn’t mean to scare you,” Jaci said. “Your leg.” She leaned into the car and looked down at it. “Are you all right?”

  “You didn’t scare me. You startled me. There’s a difference.” He leaned forward, positioning his head directly in front of hers, crowding her so she’d move out of his space. Worked like a charm. “My leg is fine.”

  She didn’t look convinced.

  “Why are you out here with me instead of inside with your patient?”

  “I’ll, uh, work it out.” She turned back to the house. “You rest.”

  So she had overheard his conversation with Red. “Get back here,” Ian yelled through the window as it closed. Good thing she’d stopped, because when he climbed out of his Jeep it took a few moments of gradual weight-bearing on his left leg before he felt confident enough to walk on it. “I don’t need to rest.” Or be babied or pitied or treated like he was weak. Useless. “Keep me busy. Give me something to do.”

  “The Janoviches have no electricity. The house is cool and Mrs. Janovich can’t tolerate anything more than a sheet on her lower extremities. We want to move her hospital bed closer to the fireplace.”

/>   “They put the blasted thing together inside the room,” an elderly, slightly hunched man wearing a green cardigan said as he walked onto the porch. “Never thought I’d have reason to move it.”

  “We’ll get it done, sir,” Ian said.

  “Mr. Janovich, this is my friend, Ian.”

  “Good man driving our Jaci around on a day like today.” Mr. Janovich held out his hand and Ian shook it. “Nice to meet you.”

  Our Jaci. Damn if Ian wasn’t starting to feel possessive of her, too.

  The main living area of the house was rundown and cluttered. Neglected. Jaci led him down a long, dark hallway, turning to stop him prior to entering the room at its end. “Give me a minute.”

  “Mrs. Janovich,” she said quietly as she walked into the room. “My friend is right outside. Is it alright with you if he comes in so we can figure out the best way to move this bed?”

  He didn’t hear a response but Jaci added, “Nakisha and I are going to pull up the sheet.” The woman groaned her displeasure.

  Mr. Janovich arrived at his side. “That complex regional pain syndrome, especially the allodynia, is nasty business.” He handed Ian a screwdriver. “I think if we remove the door from the hinges we’ll have a little more room.”

  “Come in,” Jaci whispered from the doorway. “Try to be quiet. Today is not a good day.”

  It took under five seconds for Ian to come to the conclusion there was no way to get that hospital bed out of the tiny room with the patient in it. He looked at Jaci who stood on one side of the bed and a heavy, dark-skinned woman in navy blue scrubs who stood on the other. “Can she sit in a chair for a few minutes?”

  The two women both looked down at their patient who, with her pale, sunken cheeks, furrowed brow, and tissue-paper-thin, wrinkled skin, looked years older than her husband. Constant pain aged a person. Some days Ian felt closer to sixty than thirty.

  “There’s no need for that,” Mr. Janovich said. “I’m sure we can—”

  “Ian’s right,” Jaci said. “We’ve been avoiding the inevitable. Even if we did manage to get the bed through the door, all the jostling would probably cause more pain than a quick transfer to her wheelchair.”