by Trisha Telep
Levering up on to his knees, he tore at the fly of his jeans, swearing as his fingers fumbled with the button and the zipper. His breath hissed out of him. He ached, throbbed. He shoved his jeans and underwear down past his hips. Celeste reached out and wrapped her fingers around him, smiling.
Her hair, black as the night, spread around her shoulders and a wicked smile curled her lips. “Witch,” he muttered. She had a confidence now that she hadn’t before. Some seed of jealousy tried to grow inside him, but he shoved it aside. It had no place here – neither of them had stopped living. He certainly hadn’t.
Gritting his teeth, he reached down and wrapped his fingers around her wrist, stilling her movements. “I . . . shit, Celeste, I don’t have anything with me.”
She reached up and slid her hand under one of the fat pillows crowding the headboard. She pulled out an unopened box of condoms and tossed them to the middle of the bed. “Problem solved.”
His gaze landed on the condoms and then he glanced back at her.
She shrugged, somehow managing to make the gesture look sophisticated, elegant, even as she lay naked on a bed. “I didn’t exactly plan this – had no idea you would be around. But—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Ethan said, shaking his head. He dipped down, pressed his lips to hers while fumbling for the box. He tore it open, shredding the box in his haste.
Nothing mattered . . . nothing but her, nothing but him, nothing but this.
Endless seconds passed as he stretched his body out and covered hers. Endless seconds as he held himself still, hovering just above her while he stared at her face.
She smiled up at him.
Brushing his lips against hers, he whispered, “I love you. I’m always going to love you.”
Then, without giving her a chance to reply, he crushed his mouth to hers. She groaned into his kiss as he pressed against her. He growled deep in his throat as she yielded to him.
Heat to heat . . . softness to strength. It was bliss. It was everything.
And even when it was over, even as Ethan was left wondering what would happen come morning, he felt complete for the first time in ten lonely years.
Three
I’m in hell.
Too fucking hot.
The air was thick; thick with the sounds of screaming voices and the stink of blood. Heavy with death, despair.
I’m in hell . . .
Something cool touched his face. Stroked his cheek. Warm lips pressed to his. A voice murmured in his ear.
“. . . wake up . . .”
Just like that, so easy, he slipped out of hell and into heaven. Opening one eye, he peered up at Celeste. She was propped up on one elbow, staring down at him. Her midnight-black hair fell around her shoulders, lay across his chest. Her dark-brown eyes gazed at him solemnly.
“You were having a bad dream,”she said softly.
Ethan grunted. Yeah. Bad dream. That might describe it well enough. If one could call a bad dream having a friend turn and sell them out. Four years. It had been four years since that particular nightmare – one of the men in his unit, a guy he’d known for years, had turned traitor. Max Blesset – the fucking bastard was dead, cold in the ground, but it wasn’t enough.
How many nights had he spent reliving that night in dreams?
Too many.
“Are you OK?”
Ethan forced himself to smile. “I’ll be fine.”
But he wasn’t sure he would. Now that he was awake, now that he realized morning had come, fear settled inside. A cold, hard knot of fear that threatened to block his throat.
“You don’t look like you feel fine,” Celeste murmured.
Tangling his fingers in her hair, he shifted in the bed, rolled until he could tuck her body under his. “I’m fine,” he said again, slanting his mouth over hers. He needed her again.
Because in his gut, he suspected she was going to walk away from him now. She’d walk away and, for the rest of his life, he’d live with the knowledge that he would never get over her.
He needed more . . . he needed always.
He would have to settle for moments and memories.
Celeste lay collapsed on his chest, gasping for air. Ethan’s big arms held her close, clutching her tight, so tight she could barely breathe. He held her like he thought she’d slip away.
Working her arms between them, she lifted her head and smiled down at him. His face was an expressionless mask and Celeste felt something cold begin to work its way through her heart. Her smile wobbled, but she tried not to let it show as she lowered her head and kissed him.
He kissed her back.
But it felt . . . off.
Nervous, she pressed against his chest and he let her go, let her slip away from him. She felt cold. She grabbed the sheet and wrapped the tangled cloth around her as he climbed out of bed.
The bright early-morning sunlight fell across his golden body, played over his skin as his muscles shifted.
Mouth dry, she watched as he grabbed his jeans from the floor and pulled them on. “What are you doing?”
He glanced at her. His long, dark hair fell in his eyes, obscuring his features. “Getting dressed.”
“In a hurry?”
He shrugged, lifting one big shoulder before grabbing his shirt from the floor.
The cold ache in her chest expanded, shifted, flooded her. She’d felt like this once before – the day he’d walked away from her after he told her about her father.
Blinking back the tears, she climbed off the bed. Her hands shook. She wanted her clothes, but she doubted she could even manage to pull anything on just then.
She felt sick.
As he put his shoes on, she stood there, watching him. Dazed.
It lasted until he started towards the door. Then the cold exploded into fury. Snarling, she grabbed one of her shoes from the floor and hurled it at him. It hit him square between the shoulders.
“You son of a bitch.”
He reached the door.
Celeste grabbed the other shoe and hurled it. This one hit him in the back of his hard head. Finally, he paused, reaching up to rub at his head as he looked at her.
“You’re walking away from me. Again.” She hated the petulant whine she heard in her voice. Hated how desperate, how needy she sounded. “You’re doing it again.”
He just stared at her.
Fighting to force the words past the knot in her throat, Celeste gestured to the bed and said, “So if you’re walking away, just like that, what was last night about?”
He lifted a brow. “Sex?”
If she’d had another shoe handy, she would have thrown it at him. And she’d aim for his nose – maybe she could break it. “You bastard. So much for that line you handed me about this meaning something.”
“What was it supposed to mean?” he asked, his voice weary, strained.
Glaring at him, she said, “I thought it meant that we still meant something. To each other. Obviously, I was wrong.”
“What was it supposed to mean?” he asked again.
Celeste didn’t even know how to answer that. Turning away from him, she walked to the balcony and slipped outside. It was hot – even though it was barely eight in the morning, the sun shone down with burning intensity and the air was thick, humid and still.
She sucked in a lungful of that sultry air and told herself, I’m not going to cry.
She didn’t believe it, though.
And right up until the door opened at her back and she felt the cool wash of air-conditioned air dancing over her skin, she was perfectly OK with crying. She was entitled, damn it.
When she’d woken up, she’d felt like she was on cloud nine. Ethan was with her . . . finally.
Then he’d started moving in his sleep, restless. Occasionally, he’d muttered in his dreams, his voice hoarse, angry and sad. She whispered to him until he came out of the nightmare and he’d touched her . . . made love to her.
Now he was walking away �
� hell, yes, she was entitled to cry.
“Celeste?”
Dashing the back of her hand over her eyes, she stared straight ahead. The busted roads of Belle, Texas were in desperate need of repair, like half of the buildings. But it was easier to look at the eyesores of the poor town than to look at him.
“Just leave, Ethan.”
He laid his hands on her shoulders. Celeste hunched away and when he didn’t take the hint, she moved away, putting as much distance between them as she could.
“I’m not leaving,” he told her quietly.
Snorting, she glared at him. “Oh, really? So were you going for coffee just now or what?”
He had the grace to look a little ashamed. “Maybe we can wind the clock back.”
“No need.” She looked away and stared at the barber shop across the highway. “You want to leave, so leave. No reason to wind the clock back.”
“I don’t want to leave.”
“Oh, puh-leeze.” Rolling her eyes, she shook her head. “If you didn’t want to leave, you wouldn’t have rolled away from me less than a minute after you made love to me. You wouldn’t have gotten dressed and headed for the door.”
“I didn’t want to – I figured that’s what you would want. Hell, Celeste, you barely know me any more.”
Slowly, she turned and stared at him. “I know you as well as you know me. But I wasn’t the one heading for the door. That was you.”
A muscle jerked in his jaw. “You blame me for your father’s death.”
“No.” Celeste closed her eyes and sagged back against the balcony railing. Through the thin cloth of the sheet, she could feel the rough, heated concrete rail. It felt solid, sturdy. Needing something to cling to, she reached down and braced one hand on it, curling her fingers into it.
“No. Dear God, there have been times when I’ve hated my father, you know that? Even though I loved him, even though I still love him, a part of me hates him, hates what he was, hates how he lied to me.” Opening her eyes, she stared at Ethan through her lashes and said softly, “I blame him for his death, Ethan. Him . . . not you.”
“You say that now.” He stared off over her shoulder, not looking at her. “But practically the first thing out of your mouth was whether or not I had anything to do with it. What would you have done if I’d said, yes . . . if I had known? Hell, if I had killed him?”
Celeste flinched. She covered her face with her hands and whispered, “I just don’t know, Ethan.”
With a terse nod, he said, “Well, maybe you should think about it. I didn’t kill him. I don’t know if it was a sanctioned hit, who did it, nothing.” He took a step closer and reached up, caught her chin in his hand, angled her face up to his. In a low, rough voice, he said, “But I could have done it. Hell, I wanted to, once I figured out who he was, and how he’d kept you in the dark all your life. I wanted to kill him and, if I’d had the chance, I just might have done it. So think about that. You don’t really want me in your life, Celeste. Not really.”
He stroked a thumb along her cheek, leaned down for a kiss. It felt like goodbye. It felt like an ending.
Tears burned her eyes as he turned away.
But she didn’t let him walk away this time. Lunging after him, she grabbed his arm. The sheet she had draped around her gaped and she fumbled with it one-handedly as she glared at him. “That’s my call, Ethan. I get to say whether or not I want you in my life and, damn it, I know what I want. And I don’t want you walking away from me again.”
Her voice broke and she reached up, touched her fingers to his cheek. “I don’t want you walking away, Ethan. I’ve been so damned empty without you in my life.”
She trailed her fingers over his mouth, felt the hard, chiselled lines, committed them to memory. Then she made herself take a step back. “I know what I want. But I’ll be damned if I chase after you. It’s your call . . . if you want me, you come looking for me.”
She left him standing on the balcony and locked herself away in the old-fashioned bathroom. Struggling not to cry, she turned on the water and let the claw-footed bathtub fill. The sound of running water echoed in the small room and she sniffled, giving in and letting one ragged sob escape.
There was more sadness trapped inside. But she couldn’t give into it. Not yet. She needed to get cleaned up, get the smell of his skin off her body, and then get the hell out of there. Once she was on the road back to Mexico City, she’d give in, then she’d cry. Then she’d grieve.
But not yet.
She let the sheet fall to the floor and climbed into the tub. Water sloshed against the rim as she settled back. It was hot, almost too hot, but the temperature wasn’t doing a damn thing to penetrate the icy shell around her heart.
She was so cold. So cold . . .
Heaving out a sigh, she leaned back in the tub. “Don’t think,” she told herself.
It was how she got through that first year after Ethan had left her. It was how she’d gotten through her father’s death. Denial – it was her friend. “Don’t think.”
Abruptly, the water cut off.
Startled, she opened her eyes, staring at Ethan through a cloud of steam. Instinctively, she drew her knees to her chest, shielding herself from his gaze. But he was looking at her face. Only at her face. He knelt by the side of the tub and reached out, fisted a hand in her wet hair.
“What?” she demanded, defensively, when he did nothing more than stare at her and toy with her hair.
He still didn’t say anything. He reached for her and hauled her to her knees, slanting his mouth over hers and kissing her. Water dripped from her body and hair, soaking his T-shirt, dripping down on to his jeans.
Celeste tore her mouth away and glared at him. “Don’t do this to me, Ethan. I can’t handle this roller-coaster ride, not if you don’t know what in the hell you want.”
“I’ve always known what I wanted,” he said. “You. Just you.”
“Yes, as evidenced by you walking away from me. Twice.”
“I know what I want,” he said, his voice low and rough. “But that doesn’t mean I think I can have it. Damn it, Celeste, I barely survived walking away from you.”
“Then why did you do it?” Celeste demanded, arching her back and trying to put some distance between them.
Ethan just tightened his hold. Grey eyes flashing, he glared at her and said, “Because it was the right thing – for you. I’d ruined your life.”
“No.” She shook her head. “No, you didn’t. That wasn’t my life. It was a lie, one my dad made for me out of the lies of his life. That’s not the kind of life I wanted then, and it’s not the life I want now.”
“What life do you want now?”
She gave him a bitter smile. “Haven’t you been listening? I want a life with you. I don’t know much more than that, but I want it with you.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. His eyes, dark and stormy, stared into hers, so deep, so intent, as though he was trying to see clear through to the other side of her soul. “Celeste . . .”
She leaned in and kissed his throat. Her heart raced in her chest, soaring high, then crashing to her feet. “If you really walked away because you thought it was the right thing to do, then so be it. I don’t like it, but I understand . . . I think. You made a choice. Now you’ve got a chance to make another one.” Leaning in, she pressed her lips to his ear and murmured, “Make the choice, Ethan. Choose us this time. Us. Not me. Not you. Us.”
He didn’t say anything out loud.
He just kissed her.
But this time, when he kissed her, it wasn’t goodbye. It didn’t feel like an ending.
It felt like a new beginning.
Heat of the Night
Jordan Summers
One
The plane bucked and sputtered, its engines threatening to die before the wheels could touch down on the dirt runway that had been carved out of the jungle a hundred feet below. Ken “Viper” Thompson stared at the civilian medical
team from behind mirrored sunglasses. They were a ragtag group of do-gooders, who believed they were making a difference in the world.
Had he ever been that naive and young? If he had, Ken couldn’t remember. Fifteen years as a professional sniper would do that to a man. He and his spotter, John James Ekle had replaced one of the nurses and the minister on the team at the last moment, which was why they were jammed in here like a half-dozen squids in a jar.
Sweat trickled down his back as the heat rising from the jungle smothered the little plane and its occupants. Lack of circulation made the stale air take on an edge of fear and desperation. Nerves were running high. Ken scanned their faces once more, but everyone seemed to be preoccupied with what was outside the aircraft.
No one suspected the real reason he and John were here, not even the sharp-eyed doctor in charge of the team. They hadn’t had time to develop a deep cover – thanks to a power-hungry ex-general’s accelerated timetable – so they’d decided to blend with a real medical relief team. Danger came with that decision, since civilians were unpredictable and could blow even a good cover by accident.
That’s how Ken had ended up dressed as a missionary priest and John had passed himself off as a nurse. Both had enough combat medical experience and training to pass scrutiny, but Ken’s size had made him conspicuous. At six foot three, there was no blending in. Without the collar to deflect suspicion, the home-grown military would spot him for what he was – a warrior.
It was one thing to pretend to be a priest, it was quite another to think like one. Ken’s gaze dropped to Dr Lily Houser’s bare legs as she uncrossed them. They weren’t long, but they were shapely like the woman. Firm and compact, they had just enough strength to grip when it counted. It didn’t help that her short sexy blonde hair and sleepy green eyes looked as if she’d just crawled out of bed after a night of vigorous love-making. Hell, maybe she had.
The visceral reaction the thought provoked made Ken pause. Why should he care if she had a lover or not? He didn’t even know the woman. It wasn’t like he was looking to get involved in the middle of a mission. His eyes strayed to her chest and what few saintly thoughts he’d had fled from his mind. Ken tugged at his clergy collar, wishing he’d worn the vestigial tab instead. The cut-out display in his shirt would’ve saved a lot of choking.