FRIEND, LOVER, PROTECTOR

by Sharon Mignerey

  A blinding flash lit everything. He imagined that he saw the inside of his brain. Horrifically loud thunder rumbled at the same time, more felt than heard.

  Impressions sizzled through his mind—the lightning that had struck mere feet away from where he had been standing; that he might never see again; the aroma of the ozone, clean, crisp; the vibrations of thunder deep in his chest and deafening in his ears.

  The fear pushed him into his seat and reminded him of the time when he had been an eight-year-old boy cowering in the storm cellar with his grandpa—a man who had died before Jack had told him the important things.

  Somehow Dahlia was in his arms, and they clung to each other while the thunder reverberated around them, through them. There was another flash of lightning, and thunder boomed again.

  "That was too close," she whispered.

  "Damn straight." He opened his eyes. Visibility outside had dropped to nothing. The storm that had seemed so far away was suddenly on top of them. Rain began to fall, going from a sprinkle to a downpour within a few seconds. He couldn't see a thing farther than five or eight feet away from the van.

  "How did you know?" he asked, inhaling the scent of her hair, the same scent of mint that he had noticed in her bathroom.

  "Didn't you feel it? The static electricity?"

  Outside, the storm intensified, and the lightning raged around them. Within his arms Dahlia was warm, vibrant and so alive. Thunder reverberated through his head.

  The woman beneath him heated his blood. He lifted his head to look at her. In the dim light her hair was shiny as a beacon. And her eyes … invitation and need as old and familiar as Eve. He lowered his head and met her lips.

  In a heartbeat the kiss turned fiery, consuming Dahlia in its heat. He nibbled, he tasted, and she answered him kiss for kiss, caress for caress. She eased her hands into his hair, the military-short strands stiff against her fingertips. And the kisses … made the blood roar in her ears and melted her into an achy pool of need greater than anything she'd ever known.

  She wanted this man. She didn't care if he was as bad for her as she feared, or if he was leaving in a few days. She wanted him right now right here, right or wrong.

  His breath came faster, and when her roving hands encountered the shoulder holster, he slipped out of it. She pulled his shirt over his head, which allowed her to have free access to his chest and back. Smooth, hard muscles, bisected only by a fine line of black hair that pointed toward the waistband of his jeans. She explored the way she had longed to since she had watched him shave the other morning.

  Through it he kissed her as she had never known it was possible to even be kissed. He tasted wonderful … and when she had more time, she would lay her nose against the smooth column of his throat and absorb his scent into her very pores. Just now the touch of his mouth against hers was more vital than breathing, each slide of his tongue against hers taking her deeper into the heart of him, where searing want replaced thought.

  He sprawled across her, hard … hot … and not nearly close enough. She shifted to accommodate him and at last felt him against her mound. It wasn't nearly enough.

  In some distant recess of her mind, she felt something digging into her back, knew there wasn't space enough to do this properly, heard the storm pounding against the car. None of it mattered. Feeding the hunger that stormed through her veins … that mattered.

  Thought ceased, and all that remained was sensation: his warm fingers against her belly; the cool, taut skin of his back just below his waist. The heat of his breath against her neck. The sound of the rain pounding against the roof of the van. The feel of his cheek against hers. And the consuming endless kisses.

  "Dahlia." He raised his head to look at her, his intensely blue eyes beautiful to her and hidden by long lashes as he came back for another long kiss, an onslaught so powerful she trembled in his arms. "Gotta stop," he said, his breath hot against her neck, his hands even hotter against her bare thighs.

  "Not yet." She arched against him, wild with her need for him.

  "Dahlia." This time his voice was sharper, and his eyes were clear and so intense. "This is your chance to say no."

  "I don't want to," she whispered, dragging him closer.

  "Last chance," he warned, already leaning toward her.

  "Yours, too." She drew his head down, her fingers against his scalp. Outside, the rumble of thunder was no less than the cannonade of her heartbeat.

  She heard the rasp of her zipper as she was busy with the buttons of his fly. Dimly she was aware of taking off her shoes and pulling down her pants. And through it, he continued to kiss her, delicious searing kisses that pounded through her blood.

  Somehow they were bare enough that she could feel his naked flesh probing against her. Instinctively, she arched toward him, wanting him more than she had ever wanted anyone. So close. Almost. She squirmed trying to complete the contact.

  "Shhh." Jack stilled her movement … until he found the entrance. And, he was there, buried to the hilt. And it was like that moment when you first jumped out of the plane and the rush of wind hit your face and your whole body came alive with the wind streaming past in those endless seconds before you pulled the rip cord and the parachute opened. Like that, only a million times better. Like that, only he never wanted to move again. Like that, only she was so tight and the pressure was so intense … and he let go of her hip so she could control the pace and drive him right out of his mind.

  He could smell the ozone and her, taste rain in the air and the droplets of sweat that he licked from her skin above her shirt. And behind his eyes lightning flashed and his blood pooled, making him harder than he had ever been, keeping rhythm with the storm and so lost within her incredible body that he never ever wanted to be found again.

  Convulsions rippled through her, and he watched her expression, knowing he'd remember how she looked until the day he died. Rapt, lost and so beautiful it hurt. Her eyes opened, fathomless dark-brown eyes that looked nearly black in the dim light, eyes that seemed to smile at him. He gathered her closer, trying to smile at her, afraid it looked more like a grimace, wanting the climax that was coming closer, hoping it would never end.

  The rhythm of her climax caught him, and he moved with her, praying to extend her pleasure and happy that he had the power to make her lose control. Control, though, was wrested from him in the next heartbeat and his own climax thundered through his blood and left him shaking.

  When he could think again, he realized that his knee, braced against the floor of the vehicle, was killing him. Outside, the storm was, if anything, more intense than it had been, the wind shaking against the car and hail pounding down in a roar only slightly less deafening than his own heartbeat. Beneath him, Dahlia was boneless, her eyes closed and her arms loosely draped over his shoulders. Her shirt was damp and plastered against her skin.

  She opened her eyes and looked at him, then touched his cheek with the flat of her palm. "I want to do that again—" she reached beneath her back and looked at the object in her hand "—when I don't have a dog biscuit boring a hole into my back."

  He grinned and took it from her. "I'd love to accommodate you, but—"

  "I can wait. Not long, but I can wait." Once again her palm was against his cheek, bringing his face to hers, where she kissed his chin.

  It was an invitation for more and brought vivid images of the two of them sprawled across her big bed. "Good. Next time I intend to have you naked as the day you were born." He fingered the fine gold chain around her neck, partially hidden by her shirt. "Except for this."

  Outside, the rain continued to pour, the wash of water against the windows and windshield making the world beyond them blurry. Though his leg was cramped and he knew he was too heavy on her, they lay like that, simply listening to the rain pour over them and watching the water slide down the windows. The wash of rain on the glass had never before been peaceful or comforting.

  "What are you thinking about?" Dahlia asked, her h
ands brushing against the short strands of his hair.

  "My grandpa," he said.

  She didn't say anything, simply watched him with wide eyes.

  "Storm came, like this one." He cocked his head, listening to the storm, which was beginning to lose some of its punch. "My grandpa and me … in the storm cellar while the storm and the sirens wailed and the rain seeped in around the edge of the door."

  She touched his cheek, then stretched when he shifted his weight so he wasn't crushing her. He needed to move soon—he really was too heavy on her—but, damn, he loved lying like this with her. Still connected, but satisfied. For now.

  "Then it was quiet." He looked down at her, memories swamping him. The fear of storms that he'd had nearly all his life was still close enough to touch. "That's even more scary."

  Outside the van the rain paused, as if in accompaniment to his story, then began pouring again, even harder than before.

  "His house … okay. The big cottonwood tree that I loved to climb. Gone." He shuddered. "My house. Gone. Everything gone."

  "And so you hate storms."

  "Yeah." He leaned down to kiss her. "But I like what this one brought me."

  She looked around at the van's interior. He followed her gaze to the monitors that continued to display data as it came into the computers. The windows were still awash with pouring rain and the steam that coated them.

  "This is definitely a first for me." Her voice was wry.

  "Never done it during a thunderstorm?" he asked with a grin, lifting himself away from her. Grateful for the thousands of push-ups that gave him the strength to hold his body off his throbbing leg, he eased into a sitting position and pulled his jeans up.

  She shook her head. "Not that I recall. And I've never done it in the back seat, either."

  He chuckled, pulling his T-shirt back over his head. "Who would have guessed that you had such a sheltered existence?"

  Finding her jeans and panties on the floor, he picked them up. Her color high, she took the panties from him and wriggled into them, the motion sexy, so sexy he was instantly hard. Who would have thought? Silently he handed her the jeans and completely failed at not watching her. Much as he wanted her again … right now … he was determined that next time they were doing this right.

  After she pulled the zipper up, he drew her back into his arms and kissed her again. "Promise me you won't regret this."

  "You're going back to Fort Benning within another few days."

  "But—"

  She pressed fingers against his lips. "All I'm saying is that you have a life elsewhere. And me … I've never been good at long-term relationships."

  Somehow he doubted that.

  "So, we take what we have for these few days. No past, no future. No regrets." She met his gaze. "Okay?"

  "Okay." Except that he didn't like it, even though she had named the terms he thought he wanted.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  « ^ »

  The telephone was ringing when Dahlia and Jack came through the front door of her house several hours later. Boo raced from the back of the house to greet them, then danced between them as they hurried down the hall where the beeping alarm system added to the pandemonium.

  The phone continued to ring. Jack set down his bags, picked up the receiver and handed it to her while taking her bags.

  "Hello," she said.

  "I'm so glad you picked up," came her mother's voice through the receiver as Jack punched in the code to turn off the alarm. "I was beginning to think that you were out chasing storms."

  "Mom. I was. We just got back." Dahlia leaned against the counter, realizing just then how much she wanted to hear her mom's voice, how much she wanted to pour out her heart over all that had happened in the past few days. Even more, she needed to know they were all right. "Are you okay? I've been thinking about you. How's Dad?"

  "He's fine. In fact he's on the extension. I was just calling to tell you that I spoke with Lily this morning, and she's hoping that she'll be testifying within the next three or four days."

  "That's good." Dahlia sat down on the stool next to the counter. She watched Jack as he opened the door to the patio and let out the dog. Now she knew how much longer she had with him. Three or four days. She had the awful feeling it was too much. She had the even more awful feeling it wasn't going to be nearly enough.

  "Actually, we've been worried about you. We got to thinking last night, and it occurred to me that if these guys are determined to come after your dad and Rosie, they might…" She paused, clearly unwilling to state aloud what they both knew—Franklin Lawrence wanted an insurance policy any way he could get it. If not Lily's daughter, then one of them.

  "What she's saying," came her dad's voice over the line, "is that we think you should call the police, Dahlia."

  "I already have, Dad." She glanced at Jack, thinking about today's close call and yesterday's even closer one. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell them everything that had happened. Except, how did she break the news without scaring them to death? For years her family had kept things from her all in the name of protecting her. There was nothing her folks could do so far away, and the last thing she wanted was for them to worry. "And, actually, I'm not alone. One of Ian's friends is visiting." The truth, as far as it went.

  "Taking a vacation in Colorado, isn't that nice? It's good of you to put him up," her mom said.

  So that's where Lily got it from, Dahlia thought. Their mother. She'd been listening to them both all her life, and until just now, she had never realized Lily's ever-optimistic view of the world was an echo of their mother's. They both always found the silver lining, always expected things would turn out for the best.

  "Is he one of Ian's Ranger friends?"

  "Yes."

  "Even better," her dad interjected. "You can never tell when a man with military training might come in handy."

  Her dad. The voice of caution. The one she always heard in Rosie. The one she now heard in her own voice, Dahlia thought. It hadn't always been like that.

  "No, you never can," Dahlia returned faintly.

  "I'm glad to know you're not in your house alone, then," her mom added.

  "No, Mom. I'm not alone." Dahlia smiled, knowing that if she had told her mom that she and Jack had just become lovers, her mom would be happy about that, too. A flower-child of the late sixties, she had raised Dahlia and her sisters to be self-sufficient and to understand the difference between lust and love. The latter was a lesson Dahlia wasn't sure she had learned even yet.

  "Have you heard from Rosie?" Dahlia asked.

  "Not since I last talked to you. I'm sure they're just as anxious for Lily to put this business behind her as we are."

  They finished catching up on family news, and Dahlia assured her mother that she was doing fine chasing the storms. Through the last part of the conversation, she watched Jack move around in her kitchen, putting the groceries away. He winked at her, and she was swamped with the sensation of lying beneath him, a tactile memory so vivid it seemed real.

  "I love you, Dahlia," her mom said by way of goodbye. "I expect to have a long talk with you as soon as this whole business is over."

  "Me, too, Mom. Love you both."

  After she hung up the phone, Jack braced his arms on either side of her and kissed her. A long, slow, seductive kiss that held the promise of endless lovemaking.

  "Your folks had news."

  "They did. Lily is supposed to testify within the next few days."

  "We have to decide," he said against her mouth, preventing her from answering … or even thinking … as he took her mouth in another of his mind-blowing kisses.

  "What?"

  "If we're going to try to act like adults and eat dinner first." He gave her another lingering kiss. "Or move directly to dessert."

  "I'm starved."

  He laughed. "Me, too, but at the moment it's a toss up on which I'm more hungry for." Another kiss followed. "You or food. What
time is your class in the morning?"

  "Nine. Why?"

  He nibbled down the side of her neck. "I'm a Ranger, you know. I can get by for days without much sleep. But you—I wouldn't want to keep you from being at your best in front of a class."

  "Are you saying I'm not enough for this man's army?" She grinned with the realization that despite everything, she was happier than she had been in years.

  He backed away and lifted his hands in surrender. "Not me." He pulled her off the stool. "In fact, I'm pretty sure you can do me in. So what is it? Food or upstairs?"

  "We have to eat sometime."

  "Okay." He clapped his hands together. "You cut up that pile of vegetables into strips and I'll light the grill." At the doorway outside he stopped. "I know you said you don't cook, but you can use a knife, can't you?"

  "On you, if you're not careful."

  "I am so not scared," he said with a laugh and went through the door to the patio. She got out the cutting board, and instead of cutting up the vegetables found herself watching him as he played with her dog. Which one was having more fun was anyone's guess.

  He came back into the house a few minutes later, whistling. She hadn't been sure what to expect, as he had reverted to the quiet warrior during their drive home. She would have been tempted to believe their heated lovemaking was a figment of her imagination had it not been for the box of condoms he added to their shopping cart when they had stopped for groceries. He had filled the cart with more food than she would have eaten over the next month. Since he knew she didn't like to cook, she was content to let him make the choices, knowing that she'd reap the benefits.

  He smiled when he caught her watching him. When he realized that she hadn't made a dent in the pile of vegetables, he came to stand behind her, his breath hot against her neck.

  "It looks like you can use some personal instruction," he said, wrapping his hands around hers. "We need nice, long even strips." He demonstrated, somehow keeping her hands in concert with his.

  Compared to hers, his hands were huge. Tanned against the white of her skin. Pronounced veins. Each of his fingernails more than twice the size of hers.