Striking Distance ti-6

by Pamela Clare

  “He won’t bother us tonight.” Javier handed her the glass of water, turned her other hand over, and dropped the pills into her palm. “Even if he wanted to come after you, he’d need a plan, and he’d need an opportunity. Nothing is going to happen tonight.”

  She looked at the pills and placed them one at a time on her tongue, washing them down with deep drinks of water. She set the empty glass down on the granite countertop, her fingers finding their way to massage her temple. “This stuff never really works for me anyway.”

  They settled on the sofa, Laura insisting that she wouldn’t sleep, so they might as well watch a movie. She chose Pride and Prejudice, and Javier didn’t complain, despite the fact that watching guys with goofy-ass hair and prissy clothes walking around speaking in fussy English wasn’t exactly his thing. Hell, he’d have spent the night watching Sesame Street if it would make her feel better.

  He popped the DVD in her player and was about to sit down beside her, when she started to get up again. “Stay put. What do you need?”

  “I was going to start a fire. It’s chilly.”

  “I’ll do that.” He wondered where she stacked her firewood, then realized she had one of those natural gas contraptions. “How do you make this thing work?”

  “Flick the switch.” Her voice, though strained by pain, held a note of amusement.

  It was like turning on a light. A fire sprang up between fake logs, putting out a surprising amount of heat. Still, he preferred the kind of fireplace that actually burned wood. What the hell good was this thing if the electricity went out and you actually needed a fire?

  He sat beside her, consigned to watching the film. Instead, he found himself watching Laura. Her eyes grew heavy, the lines of pain on her face easing as the medication kicked in, but still she fought to stay awake.

  “Come here.” He drew her close, resting her head in his lap, his fingers finding their way to stroke the softness of her hair.

  In a few minutes, she was sound asleep.

  He left her on the sofa, drew down her covers, then went back, lifted her into his arms, and carried her into her bedroom. Her eyes fluttered open for just a moment as he laid her on her bed. He drew her covers up and turned to go.

  “Javi?” she said sleepily. “Don’t go.”

  “If that’s what you want.” Heat pulsed through his body at the idea of being in bed with her, but he ignored it. He pulled off his T-shirt, crawled between the sheets, and stretched out beside her, still wearing his jeans.

  “I’m . . . I’m afraid.” She turned toward him, snuggled into him.

  He knew she was half-asleep and sedated, but he liked that she trusted him. He stroked her hair. “You don’t need to explain, bella. I am more than happy to be your teddy bear.”

  * * *

  JAVIER LAY ON his side, watching Laura sleep, the first weak rays of winter sunshine peeking through the cracks in the blinds. He wished he could say he’d slept well, but he hadn’t. Every part of him had been aware throughout the night that she was there. When he had managed to drift off, he’d had the nightmare again—the helo exploding in midair, bits of metal and body parts raining down on him and his element, the stench of charred flesh and burning helo fuel. Only this time, Laura had been on board, and he’d known she was dead. He’d jerked awake, covered in sweat, unable to sleep again.

  If he’d been alone, he’d have gotten out his guitar and worked the dream out of his system with music, but he hadn’t wanted to risk waking her up. Instead, he’d watched her sleep, grateful she was safe and alive.

  She lay curled against him now, her face pressed against his chest, her left leg tucked between his, her hair tangled. She looked serene, untroubled, her sweet face relaxed, her eyelashes dark against the pale skin of her cheeks, her breathing deep and even. Even though she was taller than most women, she felt delicate in his arms, her body soft and slender compared to his, her hands fine-boned, her nails neatly manicured with just a touch of clear polish.

  For some time now, a part of him had wondered whether everything that had happened—their weekend in Dubai, her abduction, the false news of her death, his role in rescuing her—had made him see her in some kind of ridiculous, rosy light, exaggerating his feelings for her, leaving him confused. But holding her like this, he knew that nothing he’d felt had been exaggerated.

  And what exactly do you feel for her?

  Okay, so maybe he was confused.

  His gaze traveled over the soft curve of her cheek to her jaw and along the silky skin of her neck. He’d once kissed her there, nipped and tasted her there, raising goose bumps on her skin, making her gasp and shiver, the heat inside him like a fever. He’d nibbled his way across her collarbone to the valley between her breasts, then taken her soft pink nipples into his mouth and suckled her, feeling her arch beneath . . .

  Blood surged to his groin at the memory, making him hard—not typical morning wood, but a full-blown boner. Pretty certain Laura wouldn’t like waking up to find herself being jabbed by his junk, even if it was still encased inside his jeans, he shifted his hips.

  Time to think about something else, chacho.

  But the moment he moved, Laura stirred, stretched, pressing her belly against his erection. Her eyes opened, her gaze unfocused. She blinked, gave a little gasp, went rigid. Her gaze fixed on his chest, then slid slowly upward until their gazes met.

  ¡Coño! Damn!

  What the hell was he supposed to do now?

  Play it cool, man.

  “Sleep well, bella?”

  She nodded, her gaze flicking southward toward his erection, then up to his face again, her cheeks turning pink. “You?”

  “Yeah. Like a rock.”

  Not the best choice of words right now, Corbray.

  “I’m glad.” Her gaze flicked southward again, and she drew away from him.

  “Don’t worry about the . . . uh . . . hard-on.” He shoved aside the covers, his dick catching awkwardly against the seam in his jeans as he slid out of bed and stood, leaving him a choice between adjusting himself or risking accidental circumcision. “It’s just what happens to guys, you know . . . Morning wood.”

  She sat up, looked straight at his crotch, then looked quickly away again, her face flushed. “You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

  “Oh, I’m not. I just didn’t want to you to think . . .”

  To think what, pendejo? That you got hard thinking about having sex with her? Because that’s what happened. No, you’re not embarrassed. You’re guilty!

  She stood, looking hotter than any woman had a right to at seven in the morning, her hair hanging in tangles, the buttery softness of her robe and nightgown clinging to her curves. “There’s a bathroom through there.”

  “Thanks.” He walked in the direction she’d pointed, locking the door behind him.

  He lifted the toilet seat, unzipped his fly, and looked down at his dick, which was giving him the one-eyed stare from behind the waistband of his black boxer briefs. Of course, there was no way he was going to be able to take a piss with a full-on rocky.

  It was time for a shower.

  CHAPTER

  8

  LAURA HEARD JAVIER step into her shower and walked down the hallway toward the kitchen, not sure what to think of what had just happened. She remembered putting her head in his lap, waking up in her bed, asking him to stay. She remembered, too, what his answer had been.

  I am more than happy to be your teddy bear.

  She’d woken up in his arms. Somehow, she’d curled up against him in her sleep, had known even before she’d opened her eyes that she was with him. It had startled her, but at the same time, she’d felt an unexpected trill of . . . excitement.

  She found her handbag on the counter, took out her comb, and ran it through her tangles, then walked into the main bathroom, where she kept a spare toothbrush, and brushed her teeth. She found herself smiling at her reflection, amused by Javier’s embarrassment over an everyday average morning
erection.

  Well, maybe not average. From what Laura remembered—and from what she’d felt pressing against her—nothing about Javier was average.

  Distracted by her thoughts, she didn’t feel it coming. Grief stole up on her quietly, seeping under her skin, sliding over her like a shadow. Her smile faded. She rinsed her mouth, set the toothbrush aside, overwhelmed by a sense of emptiness.

  Oh. God.

  She missed it. She missed all of it. She missed that entire part of herself—the part that had loved sex, that had reveled in intimacy, that had known how to tease, laugh, and play with a man. Al-Nassar had crushed it, stolen it, beaten it out of her, and she hadn’t realized until this moment how much she longed for it, not just the physical pleasure of sex, but the sense of closeness that came from joining with a man, giving her most private self to him, accepting what he gave her.

  She inhaled, Javier’s scent on her skin, images of that weekend in Dubai sliding through her mind. Endless slow kisses, deep kisses, fierce kisses that stole her breath. Lips, hands, and skin moving over soft skin. The scent and taste of him mingling with her own scent and taste. The hard feel of him moving inside her as he took her against the wall, on the floor, in the sunken tub. The warmth of his muscular body as he lay in her bed, held her, slept beside her.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, fought to stop the bittersweet barrage of memories, her life now so empty by comparison. That wasn’t how she wanted it to be. She’d never intended to live a sexless, lonely life. Yet she wasn’t sure she was capable of enjoying sex right now—with anything other than her vibrator, of course. But seeing Javier again, being close to him, waking up to find his arms around her . . .

  No. She couldn’t. Especially not with Javier.

  The time she’d spent with him in Dubai had been special. If she got into bed with him now, she would tarnish that precious memory for both of them. She didn’t want to risk hurting or humiliating him. And then, of course, there were her stretch marks—and the fact that someone out there wanted to kill her.

  She closed her eyes, drew a few deep breaths to quash the emotions she was feeling, then turned away from her mirror, walked into the kitchen, and started a pot of coffee. Fairly certain Javier wouldn’t care much for the traditional Swedish breakfast of hard-boiled egg, cucumber, and cod roe on knäckebröd, she opened her fridge and took out some eggs, then began to search for anything she could use to make omelets.

  There wasn’t much—green onions, some slightly wilted spinach, mushrooms, a handful of cooked baby potatoes.

  She needed to go grocery shopping.

  “Don’t go to any trouble for my sake.”

  She gasped and turned to find Javier standing behind her. His hair was still damp, his jaw smooth and clean shaven. He’d put on a pair of jeans and a dark gray long-sleeved T-shirt that fit over the muscles of his chest like a second skin, its sleeves pushed up his corded forearms to just below his elbows. A heavy watch was bound to his left wrist by a black leather band. He looked masculine—and devastatingly hot.

  Laura almost forgot what she’d been about to say. “I . . . I’m just making breakfast. Are omelets okay?”

  “As long as there’s hot coffee, I’m good.” He turned, and she saw the gun holstered on his right side—a cold reminder of her reality.

  She ignored it, shut the refrigerator, and retrieved two mugs from the cupboard. “Let me guess—you take your coffee black.”

  “Only if I have to.” He grinned. “Why don’t you focus on the omelets, and I’ll make you coffee the way we drink it in Puerto Rico? Got milk?”

  While he heated milk on the stove, she went to work on the omelets, willing herself to control her thoughts and emotions and focus on this moment instead, the two of them talking about little things. His summers visiting his grandmother and cousins in Humacao. How she’d been born in the U.S. while her father had finished his doctorate at Princeton and therefore had dual citizenship. Why she’d left Sweden when she’d turned eighteen to return to the U.S. Neither of them mentioned yesterday’s bombing, her abduction, their time together in Dubai—or the fact that they’d slept side by side last night.

  Soon breakfast was ready.

  Laura sat and took a sip of her coffee. “Mmm.”

  “Good?”

  “Yes. Mmm. Very good.” It was sweet, but not too sweet, the strong coffee aroma rich and satisfying. “Thank you.”

  “De nada.”

  Then Laura asked him the question she’d wanted to ask the men who’d rescued her, the question she’d wanted to ask him since she’d found out what he did for a living. What drove some men to put their lives on the line for others, to risk everything, when most risked nothing? “Why did you decide to become a SEAL?”

  * * *

  JAVIER TOOK A bite of his omelet, wondering how to answer. There were things about his past few people knew, things he wished he could forget, things he didn’t want Laura to know. She was polished, classy, smart. She’d come from a different world. How could she possibly understand?

  He told her what he told most people. “I’ve always been stronger than other guys, faster, had better endurance. After I graduated from high school, I got an associate’s degree in sports medicine and landed a job as a certified personal trainer at a gym in L.A. At first, I thought it was the life. My clients were upscale. I was making good money. I had my own apartment, a shiny new Mustang. I always had a date. Life was good.”

  It was the truth—or part of it.

  Laura took another sip of coffee, watching him over the rim of her cup. “I can see you as a personal trainer. Why did you choose to do something different?”

  Between bites of his breakfast, Javier told her how he’d slowly come to feel that what he was doing was meaningless. He’d gotten tired of listening to people’s bullshit excuses for missing workouts, of bored Hollywood wives trying to get into his pants during sessions their wealthy husbands had paid for, of people saying they wanted to improve their health and change their lives and then giving up without really trying.

  “I was twenty-four and going nowhere, doing nothing. I felt restless, like I was wasting my life. I wanted to do something, be a part of something that mattered.”

  Something that would make his parents and abuela forget the teenage gangbanger who’d gotten his younger brother killed and see him as a man.

  “So you enlisted.”

  He nodded. “One of the other trainers had a client who’d lost a leg serving with Delta Force in the Battle of Mogadishu in ’93. He was in the gym six days a week, working hard, doing his best to stay fit. He never made excuses, never missed a workout, never complained. I was watching him one day when I realized there was a way I could do something meaningful with my physical strength. I talked with a few recruiters, then signed on for the toughest challenge I could find.”

  She was watching him still, a soft smile on her face. “I think that’s noble.”

  She thinks you’re noble, pendejo. Way to pull the wool over her eyes.

  “Did your family support you?”

  Even as a part of him hated himself for hiding the truth from her, another part savored how it felt to sit here talking with her like this, still damp from his shower, Laura still in her nightgown and bathrobe. They’d had a couple of mornings like this in Dubai—except that neither of them had been wearing anything then.

  Don’t go there, man.

  “Once they got over the surprise, yeah, they were okay with it, though my mother and poor abuelita were afraid for me. They still are.”

  “I can’t blame them. What you do—it’s incredibly dangerous. I’ve seen a team in action, remember? The men who rescued me almost got shot down.”

  Ah, hell.

  Javier wanted so much to tell her that he’d been on that helo beside her, that he was the one who’d tried to reassure her when the RPG explosions had scared her. He wanted to tell her, but couldn’t. “It’s a helluva way to make a living, I’ll give you that.”


  “How long have you been a SEAL?”

  “Fourteen years. I enlisted in 1998, and earned my Trident in ’99 before—”

  A knock at the door made Laura jump.

  He stood, hating to see fear on her face. “Expecting company?”

  They’d buzzed no one in, and neither the DPD nor Agent Killeen had called to say they were coming up.

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Stay here.” Javier walked quickly and silently across the room, positioning himself off to the side of the entrance so he wouldn’t be hit if someone fired rounds through the closed door. He drew his SIG. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Kathleen Parker. I’m Laura’s neighbor.”

  Relief on her face, Laura got to her feet and walked toward the door. “I recognize her voice.”

  Javier looked out the peephole just to be certain no one was holding a gun to Kathleen’s head, then holstered his weapon and opened the door to find a woman—late thirties, maybe five six—standing there in brown yoga pants and a light green fleece jacket, her dark blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her gaze shifted nervously from Javier to Laura. “May I come in?”

  Laura motioned for her to step inside. “Yes. Of course.”

  Kathleen eyed Javier’s gun. “Are you a police officer?”

  Laura opened her mouth as if to answer, but Javier beat her to it. “I’m part of Ms. Nilsson’s protection detail.”

  So this Kathleen is the nosy type.

  “Oh.” Kathleen turned to face Laura, looking nervous. “First, I just want to say I’m glad you weren’t hurt. What happened yesterday was terrible.”

  She had that part right.

  “I appreciate your support. Thank you.”

  Kathleen’s gaze dropped to the floor. “Some of us in the building have been talking. We’re concerned that you’re endangering all of us by staying here. We think it would be better for everyone if you stayed somewhere else until this was over or maybe even sold your loft and found a more secure place to live.”