Cavanaugh in the Rough

by Marie Ferrarella

  There wasn’t a day that went by that she didn’t remember their faces. She had deep remorse and shame, those feelings combined in a troubling sense of guilt. And that guilt ate at her with a terrible sense of foreboding. She wasn’t subject to disciplinary action because the investigation deemed the storm and other factors were at fault, but Neve felt—and she thought her commanding officer might guess—that she would have been in better condition if she heeded the pilot’s suggestion they wait just a bit for the winds to die down.

  She just wanted to get back to active duty and put the tragedy behind her.

  Even though she was expecting it, the knock on her front door made her jump and rise quickly to her feet as if she was facing a threat. Her heart pounding, she approached the door like it was a live grenade. “Who’s there?”

  “The Avon Lady,” was the deep, husky reply.

  She sighed when she opened it. She had expected her brother Tristan would be standing there ready to take her grocery shopping. Instead, she found Russell “Rock” Kaczewski, her brother’s best friend and business partner.

  Gorgeous, frustrating and wholly commanding Russell.

  She got a sense of danger she couldn’t quite pin down whenever she came within sight of this man, and it had nothing to do with getting hurt—at least not in the physical sense. Neve couldn’t seem to drop her guard one iota around him.

  There were times when she didn’t understand the way he looked at her or the way he acted. At one moment, his intense gaze would rake her, and then in the next it was banked and indifferent. He confused her, and she’d be lying to herself if she didn’t acknowledge she thought about him in a way that heated every molecule of her body. But he maintained his distance and kept his attentions toward her platonic. Which suited her fine. Getting tangled up with Tristan’s friend, his best friend, wasn’t smart; he was a take-charge man just like her father. Too many complications and problems could come of it.

  His brotherly behavior toward her was just fine. Brotherly. Yeesh. She certainly did not feel the same way about Russell as she felt about Tristan or Thane. At all.

  He was tall, six-five, with a heavily muscled, 240-pound, ripped body. His impossibly broad shoulders and shredded arms were encased in a tight-fitting, short-sleeved black Henley T-shirt, a few of the snaps undone to reveal the enticing column of his strong neck and the smooth skin of his wide chest. His equally impressive lower half was in a pair of worn-out jeans, snug in all the right places. He smelled delicious, an earthy and subtle blend of wood and fruit. His face, covered in a sexy-as-all-get-out short black beard, no mustache, was made of more angles than curves with animal magnetism in every line. He couldn’t be described as cute or even handsome. Neither was the right word. Russell wasn’t pretty. He was striking, serious even when he smiled, and looked like he’d been to hell, kicked asses, took names and knocked the ash off his boots before coming back. As easy as a walk in the park.

  There were two features that Russell possessed that were the exception to the pretty rule: his eyes, an incandescent, deep, aching blue, and his thick and silky hair, the color of midnight and cut long enough in the front to spike over his forehead.

  Feeling her resolve weaken, Neve seriously thought about confiding in him. But getting close to Russell wasn’t a very good idea. She’d call Tristan later today and mention the situation.

  She’d felt trapped for the two days after receiving the plain white envelope outside her door with a piece of paper inside. On the paper was a single line: Death will come for you on swift wings.

  “Your voice is pretty deep for an Avon Lady...but I hope you brought all the eye shadow colors to model for me,” she shot back at him.

  He gave her a classic Russell smile—tight, bland—then a split second later, he narrowed his eyes. “What’s wrong?” He was instantly alert, and that was also quite intimidating and, dammit, so sexy. Russell had been a marine. Or, according to him and her brother, was still one—once a marine...always a marine. He’d retired five years ago and opened up Rockface, a chain of sporting goods stores. He’d convinced Tristan to join him as a partner and to leave the marines when his last tour was up. Now they were running it together. Just like they had been working together in a two-man US Marine Scout Sniper team.

  She’d never seen her brother Tristan happier. He was settled down, engaged to Amber Dalton, a blonde beauty and tough-as-nails NCIS agent he’d met and fallen for while they were working on a friendly fire incident at his last billet, Mountain Warfare Training Center at the foot of the Sierra Nevada.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” she replied, trying with all her might to give him no reason to worry about her.

  He tilted his head and said, “Are you sure, Neve? You look spooked.” He leaned in, brushing her arm and shoulder to get a better view of the apartment as if he was expecting some kind of threat behind her. She responded automatically to his warmth and strength, swaying toward him. When he pulled back, the air of danger only intensified as he studied her face.

  “I’m fine. Just didn’t expect you.” She never liked it when someone saw her emotions. “Where’s Tristan?”

  “He’s in Vermont, Stowe to be exact, with Amber. Did you forget they were going on that buying trip and taking the time to visit with her family?”

  “Oh, God. I did. I totally forgot. He told me a few days ago. It must have slipped my mind.” Yes, he had. That was the day before she’d gotten the disturbing and alarming warning.

  She’d looked up the saying on the internet and discovered it was part of a supposed curse written near the entrance to Egyptian king Tutankhamun’s tomb. But there was never any proof the door had actually been inscribed with those words. It was a myth. In fact, it was rumored that the archaeologists who had found the tomb were all cursed and died because of that. She didn’t believe in curses or myths.

  “Are you ready to go?” he asked.

  She nodded and grabbed her bag from the side table. After closing the door, she locked it and tucked the keys in her jeans pocket. At least this would be a quick trip to grocery shop. She really didn’t need that much.

  Russell made way for her to go first, the touch of his hand at the small of her back much too provocative, and the hallway much too narrow to accommodate her, let alone Russell’s powerful frame.

  She sensed his subtle appreciation of her as a woman. His awareness was in the ease of his touch, the light pressure of his fingers and the unspoken admiration in his eyes. Unnerving and charming, flagging him as both a gentleman and a rogue, contrary but apt descriptors for him.

  They left her apartment complex, Spanish-flavored, charming red-and-orange stucco buildings with black wrought-iron and quaint balconies, situated not far from downtown and affording her a view of San Diego Bay.

  They headed to the I-5, a major highway that ran from Mexico all the way to Canada.

  “Whole Foods, please, Russell.”

  He sighed and glanced at her. “Why can’t you just call me ‘Rock’ like everyone else?”

  “I don’t know. You always seem to be Russell to me.” Before she could stop herself, she glanced in the rearview mirror as they pulled away from the high-rises, watching for anything suspicious.

  “You just like to argue with me.” He glanced at her, and she could feel that scrutiny again. She pretended to look for something in her purse. Russell was one of the few men she’d been attracted to who she argued with this much. She’d left behind her high-school boyfriend when she’d enlisted. She didn’t want to be tied down, and Doug was never leaving Dutch Harbor. After him, there had mostly been casual dating and an occasional one-night stand.

  “Maybe, and maybe you just like to argue with me.”

  “I can’t be forced into calling you something that doesn’t work for me.” She pulled out some lip gloss and smoothed it on. That, too, seemed to hold his attention, his eyes briefly dropping to her mouth.

  “You don’t seem to mind me calling you ‘Fins.’”

&nbs
p; She shrugged. “That’s your choice, and I have no problem with that.” The truth of the matter was that “Russell” was more formal and “Rock” was too personal. She preferred to keep it formal between them. “Fins” was much less personal to her than her first name. He always pronounced “Neve” with a soft inflection that drove her crazy.

  One hand was on the wheel of his cherry-red Lexus SUV. The other was lying against his well-muscled thigh. He had beautiful, strong looking hands, his fingers long and tapered, the tips blunt. She wondered how they would feel—Nope. Stop it! That was a road best not traveled.

  She would be so glad when she could stop relying on other people to drive and she could pick up her own groceries. Tristan was adamant that she wasn’t to do any heavy lifting until she was fully shipshape. And, to be honest, the only reason she went along with him was to be sure she healed as fast as possible. It was in her best interest. Loving her Search and Rescue job, she hated being out of commission.

  “How is Dex doing?” Dexter Kaczewski was Russell’s younger brother, a Navy SEAL who had just recently had a harrowing experience with getting attacked in Afghanistan. Then he’d had to go on the run with Senator Piper Jones from her own Diplomatic Service detail. Once she’d finished her husband’s Senate term, she’d moved to be with Dex here in Coronado.

  “He’s great. He’s just got back from deployment. They’re giving him another medal.”

  “Of course they are. How is Piper?” Neve couldn’t stop checking the rearview mirror to see if they were being followed.

  “So we’re going to have a wedding in the family. I’m going to be...ah...an uncle.”

  “You’re kidding me?” She smiled for the first time in weeks. “Oh, my God, that is so exciting.”

  “Yeah, he deserves to be happy. I was surprised he even gave her a chance. He’s been burned so many times.”

  “Are you ready to be an uncle?”

  He took a few moments to answer, and his voice was infused with pleasure when he said, “I am. Ready for the rug rats.”

  The tone of his voice made her stomach jump as if he was saying he was ready for children. That was a really, really deadly and pothole-ridden road with land mines, and she wasn’t going down it. Maybe never.

  “She gave in to my brother, which had to be tough. Dex is career SEAL, gone most of the year, but she looks strong enough, as strong as my mom, to handle his deployments and not know where he is.”

  “That wouldn’t be for me. I don’t like secrets.”

  “For us military guys, it was necessary.”

  She nodded, understanding. She just didn’t want to handle not knowing. She’d grown up with her parents keeping the dangers of fishing the Bering Sea from her and her siblings. It wasn’t until she was older that she realized the risk involved when her father set foot on his boat. She preferred to be open and honest when possible, but she acknowledged the need for secrets and that sometimes they were appropriate.

  “More power to them. After being a military brat and then a marine, I’ve had enough of moving around. I’m happy to have laid down some roots.”

  “I’m just getting started,” Neve said. “I’ve worked in some interesting places, like Panama. I speak Spanish fluently, but I have a knack for languages anyway. Helps in the job.”

  “I bet. You’re ready to see the world, huh?”

  “Yes. More than ready.” She was prepared and set to get out there and make her mark.

  Russell pulled off the I-5 when they got to Del Mar and turned into the lot of the Flower Hill Shopping Center.

  Parking his vehicle, he got out and opened the door for her, reaching to help her out. There was that gentleman part, except it only made her impatient. Neve ignored his hand. She didn’t want to touch Russell, and she refused to act like she was eighty years old.

  Another car pulled up behind them, and she forced herself not to look. She was probably paranoid, but that note had been creepy. She followed Russell’s delectable backside as he walked toward the store and pulled out a shopping cart.

  She was sure he wouldn’t even let her push it. “I can—”

  “I’ve got it,” he said in that authoritative tone that grated on her nerves.

  As they progressed through the store, she barely had to lift a finger. It seemed Russell not only remembered her preferences, but recalled what had been picked up on her last trip.

  “Oops, forgot the peanut butter,” he said, and left to head around the aisle. That’s when she noticed him. He was lingering around the salad dressings like he couldn’t decide what kind of ranch to get. A shiver went down her spine, but just when the tension had built to an almost unbearable degree, he slipped around the corner at the end of the aisle. The winged tattoo on his neck and the reference to wings in the note weren’t lost on her. She didn’t get a good look at his face.

  “Got it. You like the Jif brand, creamy, not crunchy.”

  She made a small, involuntary sound and spun at his voice, her heartbeat hard against the wall of her chest.

  Russell stared at her. And her gaze drifted over his face, the hard angle of his jaw, before finally coming back to his eyes, so seductively dark blue, so intensely focused on her. Suspicious.

  She reached for the peanut butter and forced a smile. “I’m out. Thank you! I so love peanut butter. Smooth is my favorite. It’s amazing how you remember that.” Smooth. Something she wasn’t being right now. He eyed her, his mouth tightening and his eyes narrowing. He tilted his head, watching her; his eyes never wavered, and she was desperate to distract him.

  “Oh, I need crackers,” she murmured, then rubbed at her shoulder. His expression cleared some and sympathy replaced the doubt there. He wet those full lips and turned to get the crackers. “The buttery kind,” she called after him, and he gave her a quick wave.

  The jar of peanut butter still in her hand, she twisted to find that the aisle was empty. Man, she was losing it. There was no one following her. It was probably some Halloween prank. Releasing a breath, she rubbed her hand over the label, over the word creamy, and wondered if his skin would feel smooth over the firm hardness of his golden-hued muscles.

  This time, when he returned, she was ready. He set the crackers inside the cart, and they moved on to continue their shopping. As they were checking out, the man who had been looking over the salad dressings was just exiting the store.

  He turned and made eye contact, holding her gaze for several seconds, then he left. Had that been a come-on? It hadn’t felt flirtatious.

  They made a quick trip to the drugstore to pick up a prescription for pain meds. By the time they got back to her apartment, she was tired and was happy to let Russell carry all the bags upstairs and put the food away.

  She settled on a bar stool and watched. He also remembered where everything went. As soon as he was done, he straightened, then came around to where she was sitting. “You need anything, Fins?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I can cook something for you. You look wiped.”

  “No, I’m not hungry, but I appreciate it.”

  “All right. You have my number. Just call me if you need me.”

  “I will. Thanks again.”

  He nodded, but still looked reluctant to leave. She slipped off the stool, getting another noseful of his enticing scent. She opened the door and he walked out.

  “Good night, Russell.”

  “Night,” he murmured.

  She closed the door on his retreating back and went to shut her sliding glass door and lock it, but before she could reach it, she heard a brush of a shoe. Her reflexes rusty, she dodged awkwardly away as a knife sliced the air where she’d just been standing.

  With automatic precision, she grabbed the attacker’s knife hand and twisted, bringing him to his knees. But before she could disarm him, he punched her in her sore shoulder and sent her to the carpet. With the butt of the knife, he dealt her a stunning blow to the head and raised the blade for a killing strike to her hea
rt.

  Neve rolled, and his weight came down onto the carpet. She jabbed out with her foot, catching him in the ribs, and grabbed a lamp, smashing it over his head. He dropped the knife and she snatched it up, bore him to the ground, straddled him and placed the weapon against his throat.

  Blood dripped from the knife handle gash on her forehead into her attacker’s face, the tip of his captured KA-BAR combat knife embedded in his neck, right below the wing tattoo. “Who are you? Why are you in my apartment attacking me?”

  “Vendrá la muerte para ti en rápidas alas,” he whispered in distinct Panamanian Spanish.

  She ripped off his mask, her mouth going dry and her eyes widening. Death will come for you on swift wings. It was the man from the supermarket.

  “¿De que estás hablando?” she asked, demanding to know what he wanted.

  “Si me matan, más vendrán. No puedes escapar,” he said, making it clear he was sent to kill her, indicating that if she killed him, more would take his place. She couldn’t escape. Her mouth went dry.

  “¿De qué?” she asked him. From what?

  “Nos. Muerte. El Halcón Blanco se vengará. Tú. Toda su familia va a morir.” His response had been chilling. Us. Death. The White Falcon will be avenged. You. Your whole family will die.

  “¿Venganza? Para qué?” she asked him. Revenge for what? Was he threatening her whole family?

  There was a knock at the door, and her momentary distraction cost her. Pain exploded as he slammed the broken lamp into her temple.

  Suddenly he was on her, grappling for the knife. She yelled for help and heard the sound of splintering wood even as she fought her attacker. The knife descended, her injured shoulder and arm trembling with the effort to hold him off, her strength failing even as the blade inched closer to her heart.

  Then the weight was gone as her attacker was grasped in a powerful headlock and the two males—Russell and her attacker—wrestled for control.

  She heard bones break and the bodies whirled toward the open balcony door. Close quarters, powerhouse fists flying. Punching through the screen. She couldn’t make out who was who in the dark. They jockeyed for position, and one man’s arm sliced the air as the other jumped back. Who had the knife? Russell or her attacker? Then in one fluid motion, after another feint from the oncoming man, the retreating guy grabbed his wrist; then, more sounds of broken bones and the cornered guy clotheslined the attacking figure. He flipped off the balcony, and his scream was abruptly cut off as he inevitably hit the pavement. Please don’t let it be Russell!