by Cindy Gerard
“Don’t talk,” she murmured against his mouth. “I’ve missed you. I’ve been so scared.”
He tasted the salt of her tears on her lips, and it was all over for him. He had no defense against this. No resistance.
The instant the heat of her body moved into his he reacted, like he always did when surrounded by the feel and taste of her. She was the woman he’d been waiting for his entire life, and it had been too damn long since he’d held her.
His mouth covered hers and he took what he’d been missing, but had no right to claim anymore.
“Joe,” she whispered. No censure. Only giving. Only love, as he scooped her up and carried her into her bedroom, where soft lamplight cast the room in a pale glow.
Consumed in the moment, he kissed her deeply, then laid her on the bed that still held her lingering scent and warmth. Then he swiftly began shucking his clothes.
Her gaze followed every move and sent his pulse slamming as he tossed his jacket on the floor, then whipped his black sweater over his head and reached for the snap on his jeans.
Hunger flamed in her eyes as he stripped off his boots and pants and finally, naked, sank a knee onto the mattress beside her hip.
“I’ve missed you,” she whispered again, her fingers skimming slowly up his thigh, then circling over his hip before trailing across the tightly clenched muscles of his belly.
“Missed you,” she repeated on a throaty breath, and finally brushed her fingertips along the throbbing length of his erection.
His breath caught on a groan. “Steph . . .”
“Shh . . . let me.”
He tunneled his fingers through her hair, urging her closer.
Her gaze locked on his, she sat up. Her robe slid off one shoulder to reveal the creamy round of a bare breast as she slowly, and with great attention, pressed her mouth to all the places her fingers had been, trailing fire in her wake.
He was one live electric nerve, one raging sexual urge, when she finally caressed the most sensitive part of him with a slow stroke of her tongue . . . and damn near blinded him with her passion.
He sucked in a harsh breath, let his head fall back, and knotted his hands tighter in her hair losing himself in the sweet, wet suction of her mouth.
It was always this way with her. She drove him out of his mind with the selflessness of her giving. Humbled and thrilled him with the passion of her sighs and urgency of her touch, until mindless pleasure gradually transitioned to the dawning realization that her fervor had changed to desperation. That her desire had become a plea.
Don’t leave me. Please, don’t leave me.
It was clear that she knew he’d come to say good-bye. With every kiss, every wild and reckless touch, she told him she knew, and she was begging him not to go, bargaining with him to stay.
“Steph,” he whispered, stilling her. He couldn’t let her do this. “Steph, don’t.”
He tilted her head back and saw the tears trailing down her face, her beautiful eyes so full of pain.
And he hated himself then; hated that he’d made her beg. He was so far from worth it.
“I’m sorry.” He gently laid her down, then settled her with a brush of his fingers across her cheek.
“Don’t.” She caught his face in her hands, dragged his mouth down to hers. “Don’t talk. Just love me. Please . . . just love me now.”
A better man would have resisted. A better man would have done the right thing.
But he’d stopped being a better man when he’d chosen the course that was going to take him away from her and could destroy everything he’d ever stood for.
Helpless to fight her, he lowered his body over hers and captured her mouth. And when she wrapped her ankles around his hips and opened herself for him, he drove deep. And kept on driving urgently inside her, indulging one last time in the one good thing he’d ever had going for him.
2
Stephanie lay back on the bed, focused on the man who stood naked and brooding across the room. His back was to her; his palms were braced above his head on the window frame as he stared silently into the wintery night.
Snow drifted past her third floor window in pristine, fluffy flakes. If she’d been in a daydreaming mood, she might have dwelled on the memory of a cherished snow globe she’d loved as a child. But tonight wasn’t about woolgathering. Tonight . . . frankly, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know what tonight was about. For the moment, she was just relieved that Joe was here.
Seeing him so troubled was haunting. Like the tattoo running down the length of his bare back was haunting. The intricate serpentine design, set against his large, muscular frame, never failed to move her, as did the sheer size and brute strength of him that so contrasted with his innate gentleness.
She studied the ink work that was as complex as the man. It began at the nape of his neck and trailed down his spine, ending a few inches below the point where it would have disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.
Cobalt blue and scarlet red, powder white and rusty gold, it twisted like an unfurling ribbon down the ridge of his backbone, forming an abstract banner of red, white, and blue, braided with a gold cord imprinted with the names of his fallen brothers-in-arms and the dates they had died.
Her brother’s name was among them.
She knew that Joe still mourned her brother’s death as gravely as he had the day Bryan had fallen in combat. Was Bry’s death working on him again tonight? Or was it more than that? A man didn’t do what he did for a living and not live with a host of ghosts haunting him.
“Joe?” She needed him close to her. And he needed her.
He turned slowly to face her. The hard cut of his jaw was cast in dark shadows, his high cheekbones and brow thrown into stark relief. He wanted to resist her—that was apparent in the tight clench of his jaw and the thin line of his lips.
She wasn’t having any of it. There was too much pain, too much conflict in his eyes. It broke her heart.
She patted the sheets beside her. “Come back to bed.” Where she could hold him. Where she could feel the hard, warm strength of him and fool herself into believing that if she tried hard enough, if she loved deeply enough, he would find some peace in her arms.
“Please,” she whispered, feeling a small measure of relief when he finally walked across the room and lay back down beside her.
“Your feet are cold,” she murmured as she snuggled up naked beside him, never more aware of the softness of her body than when aligned with the steely strength of his. She was totally at a loss for what to say to ease the tension strung so tightly between them.
“You should be asleep,” he said gruffly.
She laid her head on his shoulder and after a moment of hesitation, he folded her against his side. This was the man she loved; the man she missed. Caring, loving, tender.
“Mean” Joe Green. She smiled every time she thought about the nickname his teammates at Black Ops, Inc. had given him. On a mission, in combat, she had no doubt he was a fierce and ruthless warrior.
But when she was in his arms, a more gentle man did not exist.
He was a quiet man, and she had grown comfortable with it. But tonight, his silence was far from easy.
She hadn’t wanted to talk before; she’d been too desperate with wanting him. But now she had to take that plunge. She had to know what was going on. Even before he’d disappeared four weeks ago, he’d grown emotionally distant.
She’d like to think he’d come back because he couldn’t stay away. But the vibe she was getting—the edginess, the restlessness, the way he looked away rather than at her—told another story. One that terrified her.
She raised up on an elbow. His soft hazel green eyes were more of a smoky gray in the dim light. “Please tell me what’s working on you.”
She felt that emotional distance between them grow to a chasm when he lifted his arm from around her and crossed his hands behind his head.
He stared at the ceiling. She stared at his face. H
is captivating and intriguing face. The strong, prominent nose. The clean-shaven jaw. The deeply set, mysterious eyes.
She loved looking at him. She loved everything about him, right down to the sandy brown hair that he kept cut military short, and his quiet confidence that always made her feel comfortable and safe. She’d told him so in one of their very first conservations.
“You’re very comfortable to be around, Joe Green.”
He shot her a doubtful look.
“Okay, maybe comfortable isn’t quite the word. I feel safe around you.”
He gave her a rare smile. “That’s funny. Usually I make people nervous.”
“Ah. The Mean Joe Green persona.”
“That would be it.”
“And you perpetuate it.”
He lifted a shoulder. “I don’t have to. This face doesn’t exactly say ‘nice puppy dog.’”
She smiled. “No, I don’t think puppy dog. Should I?”
“Rottweiler, maybe.” He smiled again and she’d been thoroughly charmed.
“Is that what you want people to see?”
“Most of the time, I guess I do. And most people don’t bother to look further.”
“Well, I’m not most people.”
The whine of a distant siren jarred her back to the present.
It seemed like a lifetime ago that she’d first met him. That she’d gotten to know him as well as he’d let her. A lifetime since she’d discovered that she loved him—though it hadn’t even been two years.
She watched the pulse beat in a strong, steady rhythm along his throat.
Could she have been wrong? Was the love only on her side?
No. He loved her. She hadn’t doubted it since the first night they’d spent together. But something was gravely wrong.
It was his last mission, she was certain. Something had happened on the operation that had unexpectedly taken the Black Ops, Inc. team back to Sierra Leone last month.
Sierra Leone—the words had become synonymous with pain. Bryan had died there in an ambush by a squad of Revolutionary United Front soldiers, whose reign of terror had decimated the people of Sierra Leone for almost a decade.
Like Bry’s death had decimated her family.
She understood that Joe felt responsible. All of the guys felt some responsibility, but Joe seemed to carry the load even more heavily than the others.
Back then they’d all been U.S. military, pulled off their Special Ops teams to form a multi-branch unit. Bry, Gabe Jones, and Sam Lang had come from their Army Delta squads, Rafe Mendoza from his Ranger battalion. Luke Colter had been imported from his Navy SEAL team, Johnny Reed from his Force Recon Marine unit, and Wyatt Savage and Joe from their CIA posts. Together they’d become Task Force Mercy, an elite, top-secret, handpicked unit of fighting men under the direct command of the president and the Joint Chiefs. Their mission had been to carry out covert operations in third world hot spots under the leadership of Captain Nathan Black, U.S. Marine Corps.
Bry had been so proud to be part of the unit, and he’d written about the others in his letters home. She hadn’t met them but discovered why they were so special when they’d gathered in Virginia to pay their respects to her and her parents at Bry’s memorial service.
They’d been more than teammates then. And they were now more than Black Ops, Inc., a private and highly covert paramilitary organization based out of Buenos Aires, Argentina, once again under Nate Black’s leadership.
They were brothers. Like Bry had been their brother.
She sighed heavily and laid her hand on Joe’s chest. “Please talk to me.”
He’d only opened up to her once before, giving her a glimpse of the horrors that lived in his memories. Everything in her told her that Bryan’s death was still at the root of his struggle, but he had to be the one to expose that wound, not her. “Tell me what’s wrong, Joe.”
He remained silent for another moment.
“This isn’t working for me anymore,” he said without looking at her.
For several heartbeats, she just stared. She couldn’t have heard him right. But his silence said she had. And her brain finally accepted.
Her fingers felt numb. Her head felt like a balloon—light, unstable, and floaty.
“Wh-what isn’t working?” She wasn’t certain how she managed to form the words, let alone string them together into a coherent question.
The muscles in his jaw clenched. “This. You. Me. Us,” he said with a weary finality that sent the blood rushing from her head and stole her remaining powers of speech.
“I thought I could make it work,” he continued, still avoiding her eyes. “I care about you, Steph, but I just can’t do this commitment thing.”
“Is there someone else?” she finally managed around the knot of shock lodged in her throat.
“No,” he said quickly. “Jesus, no. I’d never do that to you.”
“Then what?” She felt physically ill. “What does that mean, you can’t do the commitment thing? And when have I ever asked you to commit?”
She understood that in his line of work, it was difficult to plan a future since tomorrow was always an iffy proposition. She knew that they had miles to go before he gave her access to all the life experiences that had shaped him, that still haunted him, that had made him the man he was today. But she’d been willing to wait, certain they were on the same wavelength. Certain that the natural progression of their relationship would involve a commitment to each other someday.
It was hard to think above the rush of blood pounding in her ears. “I’ve never pressured you, Joe. Never.”
She heard the desperation in her voice. Hated herself for it, but he was ripping her heart out.
“But it’s what you want, right? A commitment? You think I don’t know it’s what you deserve?” He scrubbed a hand over his face, looking as miserable as she felt. “That’s not going to happen with me. I’m not cut out for long term. I thought I could do it. I wanted to. But I can’t.”
He rose swiftly from the bed, then bent down and snagged his clothes from the floor.
“Look. I shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry.” He stepped into his pants, jerked his sweater over his head, then shoved his feet into his boots. “I never meant to hurt you.”
He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.
“Wait!” She grabbed the sheet and covered her breasts. “You drop a bomb like that, and then just leave? Can’t we at least talk about it?”
He didn’t turn around. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
Blind rage rolled over the hurt and confusion and burst out of her like gunfire. “So why did you come here? Jesus, Joe, you could have phoned that in.”
He stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, offering no defense.
She scrambled off the bed, ripping the sheet free and wrestling it around her body as she stormed across the room. “Sorry. I’m getting real tired of hearing that word.”
He still didn’t say anything.
“So what was this? A drive by? One last chance to get lucky?”
The guilt that flashed across his face devastated her.
“Oh, God. It was.” She pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead in disbelief. “Wow. That worked out well for you. You drop by for a late-night confession, and cash in on a booty call before you leave.”
“Christ, no,” he said, sounding wretched.
Something in his eyes—more than regret, more than guilt—gave her a kernel of hope.
“You know what?” She touched his arm. “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe any of this. Tell me what’s really going on—you owe me that. Look me in the eye and tell me what’s going on with you.”
He finally met her eyes. “What’s going on,” he said without an ounce of emotion in his voice, “is that I don’t love you.”
She gasped.
“Not enough,” he added apologetically. He shoved his hands into his hip pockets, tipped
his head back, and stared at the ceiling. “I thought I did. I thought I could. But I don’t. I’m so—”
“Don’t!” She held up a hand. Her heart felt too big for her chest; it physically hurt to hold it inside. “Don’t you dare say that word again.” She blinked back the tears that threatened to destroy what little pride she had left.
She’d wanted an answer? Well, she’d gotten it.
She turned away from him and stared at the rumpled bed, knowing it was still warm from their entwined bodies, knowing she’d never feel his warmth in her bed or her heart again.
I don’t love you. Not enough.
“Go, then. Just . . . go.”
Several long moments passed. She was certain he would tell her it was all a mistake, that he hadn’t meant what he’d said, that he loved her and would never leave her again.
But then the door opened behind her. An icy draft from the hallway skittered across her bare feet and wrapped around her heart.
Then the latch closed quietly behind him and he walked out of her life.
3
“Steph, I think you should take a look at this.”
Stephanie looked up as Rhonda Burns squeezed into her cubicle. Like Stephanie, Rhonda was a cryptologist in NSA’s Signals Intelligence Division. Unlike Stephanie, who dressed in dark pantsuits, crisp white blouses, and sensible two-inch pumps, Rhonda pushed the limits of acceptable professional attire. Today, her anti-establishment statement consisted of a very short red skirt, very high black heels, and a very tight, low-cut white sweater.
Despite her flamboyant style and the untold pleasure she took in her ability to turn heads with her blatant sexuality, Rhonda was a damn good cryptologist. Stephanie also considered her a good friend. And in many ways, Rhonda was her “she-ro.”
The pretty blonde added color and life to the division. Most days, she was the only bright spot on the open floor buzzing with worker drones. Rhonda was a shining beacon within the industrial gray walls and hundreds of small, sterile cubicles marching in rows beneath fluorescent lights suspended below dingy white ceiling tile.