Bullets and bad guys.
Without warning, a vivid assault of memory slammed him like a gut punch.
Dead.
Ski. Gates. Rodriguez. Stover. All dead or dying.
He sucked in air. Stalked across the carpeted floor. But he couldn’t move fast enough to outdistance the six-year-old memory.
The stench of burning flesh seared his nostrils. The sick, sweet scent of blood and gore suffocated him. And the sounds. Jesus. Terrified cries of pain from both men and horses.
The ground was grave cold and running with blood, rubble and snow when he came to. Dead ahead…aw, God. Pain throbbing through his entire body, he clawed his way to Stover’s mangled corpse. The lance corporal’s eyes were vacant, unfocused as he lay sprawled in the debris, half of his face shot off. Twenty-three years old. His mother would never see him whole again.
Dallas rubbed a hand over the scar on his ribs, swallowed hard. Blinked to clear his vision.
Six years. Six fucking years and the images he’d thought he’d buried with his men were once again rising up out of the mucky swamp of his memory, sucking at his soul like leeches.
Never was a good time to relive this shit. So why the hell was this happening again? Why was it happening now?
“Bro?”
Dallas straightened. Wiped a shaking hand over his face and snapped at Nolan. “What?”
Brows knit, Nolan pushed away from the doorframe where, until now, he’d been attempting to look nonchalant. “What in the hell is wrong with you? You’re either sniping like a great white, or as silent and stoic as a monk.”
Dallas grunted and tossed several pairs of socks into the duffel that lay open on his bed. His brother was spot-on right. And Dallas was sorry about that. Just not sorry enough to muster the will to do anything about it. Except give Nolan a break and get out of his face. “So I’d think you’d be glad to get rid of me for a while.”
“Talk to me.” Concern knocked the edge off the ex-Ranger’s command.
Talk to him? Christ. Dallas had made that mistake once already. Two weeks ago. The night their eldest brother, Ethan, had remarried Darcy Prescott.
Dallas had been shit-faced drunk—not his usual MO—and, light-weight that he was, he’d spilled his candy-ass guts. Cried to Nolan about the recent recurrence of the flashbacks, the night sweats, the black holes that had become a part of his life again. Nolan had wanted to play touchy feely ever since.
“You know, the VA has head men who specialize in—”
Fuck.
“Don’t. Even. Go. There.” Dallas cut Nolan off with a dark look. He was a marine. Okay, ex-marine. For over four years now. Still, the marine doctrine was forever ingrained in his DNA. And it was pig simple: Solve your problems, live with them, or shut the fuck up.
He wasn’t about to flop down on a cushy couch in some psycho-babbling little cucumber’s office and puke out his inner demons. “Philosophy” battalion in the mosquito-infested swamps of Camp Lejeune in South Carolina had made certain of that. The head “philosopher’s”—AKA, the sergeant instructor’s—therapy of choice had been to apply a size-thirteen boot directly to the ass whenever the urge to whine came over a raw recruit. He’d never felt the boot, but he’d witnessed the results. Effective as hell.
“Have you thought about looking for her?” Nolan asked quietly.
Double fuck.
He’d forgotten that he’d spilled the beans about Amy Walker that same night. Boo-hooed about the fact that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the woman he’d helped rescue from that clew of terrorist worms with Ethan, Nolan and Manny when they’d staged an unsanctioned, civilian op to save Darcy from Jolo Island six months ago.
Amy had endured more degradation and torture at the hands of those Abu Sayyaf slime than any human being should be expected to bear. She’d survived because of her strong spirit and guts. But she would carry the scars—both physical and emotional—for the rest of her life.
Dallas respected her. Admired her. Cared about her.
Wanted her.
But he wasn’t going after her.
Hell, if that was going to happen, he’d have done it six months ago. Even though he’d suspected that she was planning to disappear from his life shortly after they’d returned to the States, he’d let her go. Didn’t even try to stop her. Hadn’t tried to find her.
Because he’d known. Alone, they might have a chance. Together, their excess baggage would break an elephant’s back.
“Or is that what this sudden trip is really about?” Nolan persisted, crossing the room, a speculative look on his face.
Dallas watched his brother set his root beer bottle on the bedside table then lay back on the bed and get comfy, crossing his arms behind his head.
“You finally going after her?”
“That’s going to leave a ring.” Dallas evaded the question by glaring toward the sweating bottle.
Just like he’d been evading the probability that the ground assault they’d launched getting Darcy and Amy out of the terrorist hellhole had been the catalyst for the resurgence of his PTSD. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Long convoluted term that shrinks preferred to “fucked-up in the head.” Go figure.
“Anal to the bone,” Nolan grumbled after a long, silent stare and grudgingly moved the bottle onto a coaster. “Did you ever think that might be part of your problem?”
“No, but I’ve been thinking that you are. Don’t you have a wife and a baby to go home to and harass?”
“You know,” Nolan said, purposely ignoring Dallas’ hint to leave him the hell alone, “I remember a day, not so many moons ago when you and Ethan invaded my inner sanctum and dragged my sorry hide out of a perfectly good drunken stupor.”
“Too drunk to remember that Ethan came alone. If I’d been along—”
“Oh, right,” Nolan interrupted with a tight grin. “You weren’t with him. Guess I was drunk.”
“Well, I’m not, so back off.”
According to Ethan’s account, Nolan had been close to the edge that day. Beyond drunk, deep in denial and ready to piss his life down the toilet. His little brother had DX’d out of the Rangers three months earlier, was laying a lot of blame on his big bad self for a buddy’s death, and Dallas and Ethan had decided Nolan needed something to live for.
Having Nolan join the team at E.D.E.N., Inc. as a securities specialist and protecting TV anchorwoman Jillian Kincaid from a crazed stalker had started out as a job. A means to bring Nolan back among the functional. Who knew he’d not only straighten up and fly right, he’d end up marrying his client, the daughter of one of the fattest cats in the publishing business.
“Okay. So drinking’s not your problem—and it’s obviously not your forté,” Nolan’s voice dragged Dallas back to the immovable object currently stretched out on his bed, “but you’re about a pin pull away from going off like a frag grenade.”
Dallas worked his jaw. One thing about brothers. They understood things. Nolan wasn’t going to let up.
“I’ll handle it,” Dallas said, because he also understood something else. Nolan was worried about him. And he wasn’t going to back away. “I’ll handle it,” he repeated with a grim nod when his brother’s expression relayed only skepticism. “I just need a little space, okay?”
Nolan studied him long and hard through narrowed eyes. “Give me more than crumbs here, D. You know I have to report back to the troops.”
The “troops,” Dallas knew, consisted of their mom and dad plus Ethan and Darcy, their sister, Eve, her husband, Mac, and Nolan’s wife, Jillian. And he’d already figured out that they’d sent Nolan here to get the goods on the only Garrett who had broken army tradition and opted to join the marines—a decision that had always made his sanity suspect in their eyes.
“Do not sic Eve on me,” he warned, figuring that would be Nolan’s next move.
Their sister—Nolan’s twin—was five feet two inches of blond hair, blue eyes and TNT. Eve loved hard, cared hard a
nd wouldn’t think twice about pinning Dallas to the wall if she thought she could protect him by doing so. The best thing that had ever happened to that woman was marrying Tyler “Mac” McClain. Mac gave back as good as Eve dished out, didn’t take any of her lip and, Dallas was relieved to know, was crazy in love with her.
“Give me a reason not to send her over. Tell me where you’re going.”
That was the hell of it. Dallas didn’t know. He didn’t know squat—except that he needed distance. The concerned looks were wearing on him. The worry that seemed to perpetually crease his mother’s brow fueled his guilt.
“Fishing,” he said, making it up on the fly. He had no idea where he was going. Anywhere but here. “I’m going fishing, okay? With some buddies from my old unit.”
He’d go to hell for lying, but since odds were he was heading there anyway, one more sin against mankind wouldn’t make a difference.
“So when do you leave?” Nolan clearly wasn’t taking the bait and was doing a little angling of his own trying to catch Dallas in a lie.
“In the morning. Early flight to the gulf. I’ll see you in a couple of weeks. Happy now? Good. Now get the hell out so I can finish packing.”
Dragging a hand over dark hair that was badly in need of a cut, he strode out of the bedroom toward his condo’s front door, swung it open and waited for his brother to follow. The sultry heat of the Florida night slogged into the room in thick, heavy drifts. A sky that had been threatening rain all day finally let go; a burst of fat, silver drops fell as he stood there. Needing to be alone.
After what seemed like a decade, Nolan finally sauntered toward him. Hands tucked in his hip pockets, he stopped about a foot away. Though Nolan was the youngest of the three brothers, he stood within an inch of Dallas’s 6'1" frame, carried his weight in the same lean, rangy build, and stared at him through the same intense blue eyes.
“If your ass isn’t straightened out when you get back—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Dallas interrupted with a weary roll of his shoulders. “You’re gonna introduce it to my shoulder blades.”
“Damn straight.”
And then Nolan did the damnedest thing. This ex–special ops soldier who was now a full partner with Ethan, Dallas and Eve at E.D.E.N. Securities, Inc., this hard-as-steel warrior who took no prisoners and cut no slack, grabbed him in a bear hug and squeezed until Dallas’ ribs cracked.
“Take care, man,” Nolan said and let him go. Without a backward glance, he walked out the door and into the rain.
Thank God.
Thank Jesus God.
Because if his little brother had taken time to look Dallas in the eyes, he would have seen they were wet. And that was one humiliation he could not deal with tonight.
Half an hour later, Dallas was dry-eyed and hard-faced. He was about to skip out for the airport earlier than planned and blow out of town when he heard the knock on his door.
“Eve,” he grumbled, a sick knot twisting in his gut. He hadn’t gotten out of here soon enough.
Swearing roundly, he dropped his duffel by the door. “Damn Nolan and his good intentions.” The little bastard must have gone straight to Eve—and she’d tear into him like a pit bull after a T-bone until she got some answers that satisfied her.
Muttering under his breath, he swung open the door, determined to nip this little inquisition in the bud.
Only it wasn’t his kid sister standing there, drenched to the bone as rain slammed down like buckshot.
His heart cracked him sledgehammer hard, dead center in the middle of his chest as he stared into the face of a woman he’d seen for the first time in the fetid jungles of Jolo Island.
Amy Walker.
Soaking wet.
Sodden blond hair hanging in her face.
Cornflower blue eyes speaking to him without her uttering a word.
Jesus. Sweet Jesus Christ.
Dallas had thought of her, dreamed of her, worried for her…even cursed her for messing with his head after she’d disappeared. But he’d never planned on seeing her again.
Too much baggage.
Too many problems.
Too much work, he’d told himself over and over again.
Told himself now.
All of that flew out the window when she took a halting step toward him and collapsed into his arms.
Dallas caught Amy up against him, lifted her into his arms and kicked the door closed behind him, shutting out the rain.
“Can’t…let them…find me…here,” she murmured, turning her face against his shoulder as he rushed over to the sofa and laid her down.
Heart jammed like a pulsing pike in his throat, Dallas knelt on the floor beside her, her words barely registering. He skimmed his hands over her body, searched frantically for injuries. No broken bones, no blood, no swelling. Good. Great. Okay.
So why was his heart still jack-hammering?
“Are you hurt? Amy? Are you hurt anywhere?”
She shook her head. “Tired…so…tired.”
Her eyes drifted shut and her head fell to the side, her wet hair and t-shirt and jeans soaking the sofa. Just like they’d soaked him.
Barely aware of his own damp clothes and not yet ready to take her words at face value, he used gentle hands to examine her scalp for bumps or lacerations, wanted to feel relief when he found nothing but a fading bruise on her forehead. But it wasn’t until he checked her pulse and found it strong and steady that he breathed his first deep breath since he’d seen her standing in the arch of his open door.
“Amy?” he prodded gently. “Jesus, Amy. What’s going on?”
Her eyes were closed. Her breathing even and deep.
Asleep, he realized with a mixture of concern and frustration. He was revved up like a Blackhawk at full throttle and she was out like a light.
Tired…so…tired.
Yeah. He dragged a hand over his face. She was tired all right. Dead tired.
And what had she said? Can’t let them find me here.
“Can’t let who find you?” he whispered, a million questions ricocheting around in his mind. He stood, strode back to the front door and threw the bolt. He hesitated over the drawer that held his HK USP tactical pistol, then unlocked it.
He chambered a round then tucked the weapon in his waistband above his right kidney. Just in case. Then squatting down beside the sofa, he sat back on his heels and watched her.
Just watched her.
Of all the scenarios he’d imagined when he’d thought of Amy Walker, this wasn’t one of them. He’d imagined her full lips smiling, her slim body healed and healthy. And against all attempts not to, he’d imagined her in his bed. Naked and needing him to mend the part of her that had been damaged by brutality and violence.
His hand trembled as he scrubbed it over his face again. Yeah, he’d imagined her a hundred different ways, all the time knowing all he’d ever do was imagine because no way in hell was he ever going to act on his feelings for her if he ever saw her again.
Now here she was. Soaked to the skin, shivering and exhausted, sound asleep on his sofa.
Shivering.
Get a grip, Garrett. She was chilled to the bone.
Of course she was freezing. Her wet clothes and tangled hair were plastered to her body like a cold compress and his AC was jacked up full blast.
His knees cracked when he stood. His heart felt…heavy or something. Thick in his chest as he hustled over to the thermostat, hiked up the temp, then snagged a blanket from the linen closet. And a lot of good that would do, he realized as he stood over her again, blanket in hand. He needed to get her dry. Get her warm.
Which meant getting her out of those clothes.
The thought had his pulse spiking again.
“Okay, badass,” he grumbled, “her physical needs outdistance your schoolboy hormone rush, so just strip her, wrap her up and get her dry.”
It was a plan. He liked plans. Liked things all tied up neat and tidy. Like his life us
ed to be. Like he needed his life to be again.
There was nothing neat and tidy about Amy Walker. She’d been abused and used by the rankest of men. She might wake up, realize he was touching her, not “get it” that he was only trying to help and tear into him like a wildcat.
He remembered the first time he’d touched her. They’d been dodging rounds from AK-47s, making tracks away from a terrorist camp and running through the jungle for their lives. She’d been sick and hurt and half starved and yet the minute he’d laid a hand on her, she’d exploded. Fought him like a crazed animal. He’d had to wrestle her to the ground, haul her over his shoulder and run like hell or they were going to die. It was just that simple.
Only just as nothing about Amy Walker was neat and tidy, nothing about her was simple either. Not then. Not now.
He hesitated a moment longer before gently tucking the blanket around her. Then, reacting to the fear he’d heard in her voice, he double-bolted his door and drew the drapes before he snagged his cell phone and called Darcy and Ethan.
CHAPTER THREE
Dallas plowed a hand through his hair. Paced back and forth in front of the doorway of his guest bedroom. On each pass, he cast a worried glance inside. Amy Walker lay on the bed; his sister-in-law, Darcy, watched over her.
“Far be it from me to point this out.” Ethan walked out of the kitchen with a beer in each hand. “But isn’t that new carpet you’re wearing a hole in?”
Dallas shook his head when his oldest brother held out one of the bottles. “Christ. Did you get a look at her?”
Ethan glanced past Dallas to the softly lit bedroom and his wife, who held vigil by Amy’s side. It was Darcy who had gently roused Amy then herded her into the bedroom, helped her out of her wet clothes and tucked her into bed a little over an hour ago.
“Yeah,” Ethan said. “She’s a helluva mess, but she’s okay, right? Didn’t the doctor say she was just exhausted?”
Dallas tugged on his ear, gave a grim nod.
“Drink it.” Ethan shoved the beer at Dallas’ chest, putting a little force behind it. “You might not think you need it, but I’m sick of watching you pace.”
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