Six years. Four of which had been the happiest of her life.
She shook off the rising despair with a slight shake of her head and tossed her legs over the side of the bed. No moping. With Christmas fast approaching, she had things to do. She hadn’t finished her shopping—frankly, Kyle’s impending return took precedence over ticking off items on a list. Conner’s mother wanted to join them for Christmas dinner, which meant including Conner as well. While Kyle would fight that idea, Aimee intended to plan a menu she could adapt at the last minute if he changed his mind.
Not that Kyle changing his mind was likely. He’d spent nine months avoiding Conner. Chances of him suddenly welcoming him with open arms were slim to none.
All of which spelled disaster. Add in Kyle’s attitude, and Christmas felt more like a night with Scrooge than any joyful dinner with Tiny Tim.
Deciding a shower could wait until after breakfast, Aimee pulled on her robe and trudged barefoot down the stairs. Kyle lay on the couch, half tucked beneath the cushions for warmth. The pitiful way he’d crunched himself away from the chilly overnight temperature in their house had Aimee returning up the stairs for the heavy quilt she’d made last summer. When she’d realized he would be awake a good deal longer last night, she should have turned the heat up. But habit, coupled with their mutual preference to sleep in colder temperatures, overrode common sense.
She lugged the quilt back downstairs, carefully pulled the cushions off his legs, and tucked him in. Normally a light sleeper, the fact he didn’t wake, told her he hadn’t been asleep long. She ran her fingers affectionately through his cropped dark hair, then smiling, wandered to the kitchen where she pulled six eggs and a package of sausage from the fridge.
Taking great care not to make too much noise, Aimee cracked the eggs and dumped them into a bowl. Scrambled were his favorite. The comfort food ought to tame his inner bear when he awakened. If not, fresh coffee would.
She poured out last night’s half-empty pot and carried the used filter to the trash. There, a handful of torn up photographs in the top of the can gave her pause. Curious, she fished the pieces out before dropping the filter in.
As she sifted through the tattered images of his team, a frown tugged at her forehead. His team—why would he throw these out? Why tear them up? She shuffled through the colorful stack once again, suspicion growing that he’d pulled some of them out of the scrapbooks. The bright blue sky in several pieces distinctly reminded her of the last batch he’d sent home.
Her frown deepened, and she went to the table to confirm her memory hadn’t failed her—she had, indeed, put several of these in the last book. Other photos of his team he let remain. What was it about these specifically?
Bewildered, Aimee dropped into the chair and laid the pieces out side by side. She chewed on her lower lip as she fit them together, aligning backgrounds, postures, and clothing differences. Slowly, the pictures took shape. Seven in total. All of his team. They spanned the years. Captured moments from the two tours before his last in Afghanistan.
With the images lined up in front of her, she zeroed in on the obvious. One man occupied space in all of them. Not a team member, but an Afghanistan native. Well groomed. Confident, friendly smile. In one shot, his arm was wrapped around Conner’s shoulders. In another, he shook hands with Kyle. The rest were various images of the team sitting with him while they apparently dined. Except for the last—one she had particularly liked—that captured the Afghani man and a pretty, dark-haired woman with startling topaz eyes.
She hadn’t asked Kyle who the man was—shortly after she turned a stack of nondescript photos into a scrapbook, the sheriff delivered Kyle’s divorce petition. In the following months of chaos, she’d forgotten about the pictures. So who was this man?
Only one way to find out.
Gathering the torn bits up, Aimee stood. She took them upstairs to the loft and picked up the phone. A glance at the clock made her cringe. Conner would never forgive her for waking him up at seven while he was on leave.
He answered with a gruff, “What do you want?”
“Sorry. I didn’t realize what time it was.”
“Mm-hm.” Rustling covers further emphasized he was still in bed.
Aimee moved to the chair in the corner and lowered her voice. “I found some pictures in the trash. Kyle tore them up. Who’s the Afghani man you were with over there?”
Deafening silence drifted through the line.
She waited, tapped her foot, shifted position in the chair. “Conner? Wake up, would you?”
“I’m awake.”
His flat, emotionless answer sent chills rushing up Aimee’s spine. The downy hair on her arms lifted. Apprehension crawled through her like a spider scurrying to sedate its pray. “He’s got something to do with it, doesn’t he? The explosion. Denton, Parker, Jones. Kyle’s injuries. Who is this guy, Conner?”
Conner cleared his voice, and the rustling met her ears once more. “If you’re so bored that you’re digging through the trash, maybe you should run off some energy and jog over to Starbucks. How long’s it been since you stopped in, anyway? Aren’t they missing you by now?”
Aimee clenched the photographs in a fist. “Damn it, Conner, don’t pull that crap with me. It’s not going to work. Who is this guy, and what does he have to do with Kyle’s leg?”
“Put ’em back in the trash, Aims. That’s where they belong.”
Before Aimee could tell him how sick and tired she was of everyone dodging answers, the line clicked in her ear. She pulled the phone away, blinked at the receiver. He’d hung up on her. What the hell?
Punching his number in, she ground her teeth together. She wanted answers, damn it. Conner knew, and she wasn’t accepting his silence. His voicemail answered, prompting her to leave a message.
His refusal to pick up made her want to scream. She dialed again, met the same smooth recording of his voice. Damn. If it wasn’t sleeting outside, she’d drive across town to his house and bang on the door until he explained.
Angry and frustrated, Aimee slammed the phone down and stomped down the stairs. Clearly, whatever had happened over there wasn’t a simple matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time like Major Renfield and Conner had insinuated. They hadn’t driven over a buried IED. They hadn’t been caught in the crossfire of a counterstrike. And for some reason, the people who had once trusted her with privileged information now shut her out.
It all screamed cover up.
But why? Sind Krait took risks. Nothing they engaged in was what the standard military considered within regulation. Half the time, Kyle’s team executed orders that would spark a public outcry. All these things, however, she’d been privilege to. Not details, not precise locations, but general information that her veteran’s background, and her status as a Delta Force operative’s wife, afforded.
What had Kyle gotten into that even the wives couldn’t be trusted with?
She stared at the beaten eggs on the countertop. And why, why, was it eating him from the inside out?
Aimee blew out a hard breath and set the shredded photographs by the sugar bin. She didn’t dare reach out to Linda Jones or Missy Parker. They were still trying to put their families back together. Gina Williams, Denton’s girlfriend, had left town after his funeral, and Aimee didn’t know how to contact her. Conner didn’t make it a habit to keep women around.
Which left her to sort it out solo.
And Kyle…who was stirring on the couch.
****
Kyle hesitantly opened his eyes, prepared for the bright Afghanistan sunlight that had filled his dreams. Instead, the dull grey hues of winter filtered through the living room bay window. He let out a relieved breath and huddled deeper into the warm blanket that weighed him down.
His hand stilled against the heavy fabric of the quilt. Last night, he hadn’t possessed a blanket. Which could only mean Aimee was awake, and she’d taken the time to cover him up. A smile tugged at the corner of his mo
uth. She always knew what he needed most. The few times he’d been sick and chose the couch to keep from passing her his illness, he awakened like this, covered, warm, and comfortable.
With coffee brewing in the kitchen.
His mouth watered at the rich aroma. God, he was dying for a cup of the good dark roast she brewed with breakfast.
And after the intensely erotic dream he’d had about Aimee, he was dying for a taste of her as well. A little sip, a long drink—he didn’t particularly care, so long as her sweet flavor soaked into his tongue.
Kyle scowled. What was the matter with him? He’d divorced Aimee—last night shouldn’t have happened. At least not the kiss. Even if it had been pure heaven, he couldn’t lead her on. They weren’t getting back together. She might harbor feelings for him still, he might still be in love with her, but impassable roadblocks existed between them. He couldn’t go through the rest of his life with a wife he couldn’t confide in. He needed someone to talk to, like they’d done in their early years, when he’d believed she was inherently strong enough to accept the brutal truths.
Worse, this time, what he harbored wouldn’t just make her worry. He could tell himself all he wanted to, that shooting Denton was an act of mercy, but Kyle had killed a man. His friend. Aimee’s friend. The last time she lost someone they loved, she’d fallen apart. She simply wouldn’t understand how he could pull the trigger on someone he cared about. And he couldn’t bear the thought of the way she would look at him if she ever learned the truth. Affection wouldn’t sparkle in her ale-colored eyes. More like disgust and horror.
This time, it wouldn’t be God she screamed out to, demanding why. Instead, it would be him. Kyle couldn’t bear to put Aimee through that kind of torture.
Resigned to the hopelessness of their situation, he pushed himself to a sitting position. The quilt tumbled to his waist, exposing him to the chilly air. Coffee would help to clear his head and erase the lingering hum of arousal his vivid dreams had provoked. It would also warm him up. That, and hitching up the thermostat several degrees.
Falling into his ingrained household routine, Kyle used his cane to pull himself out of the couch and hobbled to the thermostat. He kicked it up from sixty-two to seventy-three. Multiple surgeries had changed one thing permanently—he no longer possessed a tolerance for cold. A slight chill cramped the muscles in his injured leg and spread a dull ache all the way up his spine.
When the heater kicked on, he made his way into the kitchen for a cup of hot coffee. Aimee glanced at him while she furiously beat eggs in a bowl. He lifted an eyebrow at her obvious agitation. “Something wrong?”
She shook her head then tossed the whisk into the sink. It clattered noisily against the porcelain.
Uh-huh. Everything was as right as rain.
“Thank you for the blanket.”
Aimee acknowledged his thanks with a curt nod. “Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes.” She gestured at the skillet of sausage patties. “Those are almost done.”
As a rule, Aimee liked mornings. She got up, bustled around the kitchen, dodged him until he had a chance to fully wake up. Once he spoke, however, she chattered endlessly while he sucked down coffee by the gallon and tried to make sense of what she said.
This was not his normal, smiling, aggravating, morning-person wife.
Ex wife.
He took another long sip and leaned his good hip against the counter top as she stabbed her two-pronged fork into a patty with a little too much zeal. “Aimee, you’re killing the sausage. Care to tell me what’s on your mind?”
“Yeah.”
The way she methodically set the fork down, turned off the burner, and reached for something tucked behind the sugar canister tripped him into high alert. He knew how to read her signs loud and clear, and this one said he was in trouble. As she slowly turned around to face him, Kyle eyed the clenched fist she dragged across the countertop.
Her palm smacked against the Formica. Something he couldn’t identify fluttered to the ground and disappeared behind her long robe. Her voice rang with a hard insistence he’d never heard from her before. “I want answers.”
As she lifted her hand, Kyle stared at the pile of ripped up photographs he’d tossed into the trash.
Oh, shit.
Chapter Six
Kyle’s jaw turned into a hard line of granite that further fueled Aimee’s determination. She held his darkening stare. “Who is the Afghani, Kyle? What happened over there?”
With one furious sweep of his hand, he gathered the torn bits of paper in his palm and stalked to the trash. “Leave it alone, Aimee.”
“Why? Because you might have to accept your leg might never be the same again? Because you’d have to confront whatever it is Conner did that made you write him out of your life?” She stalked after Kyle as he retreated toward the dining room and the scrapbooks still sitting on the table. “I’ve left it alone long enough. I deserve answers.”
One hand on the tabletop for balance, Kyle whipped around, the flash in his eyes as ominous as gathering storm clouds. “You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t?” Aimee flipped open a scrapbook and stabbed the picture of the both of them on the beach in Italy. “I know this man loved me. He told me about his life, his work. He trusted me with confidential information.”
Kyle’s angry stare narrowed, but he remained infuriatingly silent.
“This one,” Aimee jabbed her finger into his chest, “forced me into a divorce and couldn’t be bothered to explain why. I fought you for a year, waited for you to come home.” She jabbed him in the sternum again as all the pent up hurt and anger she’d been denied an outlet for rushed to the surface and flowed over. “You didn’t have the courage then, and you don’t have it now.”
She’d gone too far by calling him a coward. The slow way his left hand balled into a tight fist and his upper body tightened like a belt only reinforced the depth of her error. But beyond his affronted pride, this was the first bit of true emotion she’d witnessed from Kyle, and she clung to it like a life raft. Desperate to break through the hard shell he’d built around himself, she refused to back down.
“It’s easier to push everyone away, isn’t it, Kyle? Hide away where you don’t have to face your best friend, your ex wife, the desire you still feel for me.”
His low, menacing voice cracked like thunder. “You don’t have the first fucking clue.”
“I don’t? I’m sorry. I guess I imagined the last year, didn’t I? The phone calls you ignored. The letters you refused to answer.” She let out a derisive snort. “I must have dreamt the way your body responded to me last night too, huh?”
Before she could even see him flinch, his fingers dug into her shoulders. He shoved her back against the wall so hard a picture fell to the floor. The impact ripped the air from her lungs, and as Aimee gasped, Kyle’s body pinned her in place. His kiss was hard and bruising. But beneath the rough assault ran something deeper, something more genuine than Aimee dared hope she could expose. She didn’t fight. Didn’t turn her head and protest. She wouldn’t. Not now. Not when Kyle had finally cracked, even if it was in fury. Because behind all that pent-up rage, she could taste the depth of his desire. The soul-deep connection they’d always shared that had bonded them even in the worst of times.
Kyle drew back, his face inches from hers, his eyes as dark as emeralds. “Is that what you want, Aimee? Proof you’re right? Proof I want to fuck you?” His right hand slipped between their bodies to cover her breast. He squeezed, the bite of his fingers harsh and punishing.
Aimee bit her tongue to silence a surprised cry. She held his gaze in defiance. He could bruise her, but she wasn’t afraid of Kyle. She refused to be intimidated by his crude words and rough fingers.
“I’ll give you proof.” He sank his hips into hers, his arousal hard against her belly. “I’ll show you how I can’t feel a damn thing in my hand.”
As if to prove his point, he gave h
er breast another rough squeeze. This time, Aimee couldn’t fully stifle a sharp yelp. It slipped through her clenched teeth, and she flinched.
Kyle dropped his hand, a cruel smirk dancing on his lips. “You don’t have the first fucking clue.”
As he took a step backward, Aimee reacted on instinct. She caught his face between her hands, lifted to her toes, and forbade his retreat with the firm, aggressive, hold of her mouth. He wasn’t running. She knew him too well to believe he meant to hurt her. What she heard behind his words, what she felt in the bitter pinch of his fingers, was the soul-deep anguish that for some unexplainable reason he didn’t want to share with her. She’d be damned if she let him retreat when all those ragged emotions were so close to the surface. He could try to push her away all he wanted. It still wouldn’t change what she had learned as Kyle’s wife. He had never been good about keeping things bottled up inside. Now was no different. He needed an outlet, needed to connect before whatever he harbored destroyed him.
His pursed lips softened.
With the tip of her tongue, Aimee nudged the corners of his mouth apart. Kyle’s breath caught. Then, his hands tangled into her hair, and he tugged, putting her where he wanted her as he took control of the kiss.
Nothing about the stroke of his tongue was gentle. Aimee didn’t care. This was Kyle. For better or worse, this was the man she had married, and at long last, he was responding to her with something other than intolerable silence. This kiss spoke volumes. Screamed out for her to give all she possessed, and then some.
Yielding, Aimee sank her weight into her heels and inched down the wall. Kyle followed, one arm winding around her waist as they hit the floor on their knees. He dragged her flush against his hard chest, bent her backwards, and pushed her to the carpet. His comfortable weight settling against her body was like coming home. So right. It had been so long. She dipped her fingers beneath the hem of his t-shirt, slid her palms up the firm contours along his spine.
A Broken Christmas Page 5