by Sharon Wray
After Arragon slipped away, Balthasar studied Romeo’s window and hoped, for the errant warrior’s sake, that he was making good use of his last night alive.
Chapter 31
Juliet rolled over into a softness that nestled her aching body. Fleece blankets cradled her, and she smiled at Rafe’s scent. She felt safe and loved. Then the noises hit her. Coffee pot gurgling. Grunting. When had the power come back on?
The clock on the nightstand blinked in frustration. The pillow next to hers had an indentation. Sitting up, she remembered where she was and what’d happened.
Explosion at the restaurant.
Coming to Calum’s apartment.
Making love to Rafe.
Learning the truth about his tattoos.
She wrapped a blanket around herself and went into the kitchen. Once she poured a cup, adding too much cream and sugar, she saw the donuts. She bit into a jelly one when she heard grunting again. Carrying her coffee mug, she followed the sounds to the guest bedroom. Calum had filled the room with exercise equipment and a twin bed.
An army duffel, with its contents spilled out, blocked the door. In the corner, with his side to her, Rafe was doing pull-ups using a ceiling bar. She blinked against the sun glaring through the window. He wore his sweat pants, the rest of his body on display.
His eyes were closed, his breathing heavy, as he kept a steady pace. He bent his legs slightly so they wouldn’t hit the floor. They’d made love in the dark, and she hadn’t seen him this bare in eight years. While her hands and mouth had explored his body, touching him wasn’t the same as looking at him in full daylight.
His massive arms, wide chest, and muscled thighs mesmerized her. All she could think about was the last time they’d been together—as in man-and-wife together.
They’d spent the day at a hidden waterfall. They’d made love in the water and fallen asleep in the sun, drunk on lemonade, humidity, and raspberry bars. When they’d stirred, he’d taken her on the blanket with such gentleness she could still feel his kisses against her tears. After the sun went down, they’d gone home with every intention of going to dinner and a movie. But when he joined her in the shower, their plans changed. Whispers turned to sighs, and they’d spent hours curled around each other’s naked bodies until the phone rang at four a.m.
It was Pops telling them that Tess had died in the Cemetery of Lost Children. Almost a week after the funeral, Colonel Torridan told the unit to get ready for a mission. She and Rafe had spent the next few days arguing over things she couldn’t remember now, all caused by her fear of losing him.
Months later, during her interrogation, she’d questioned what had happened to change everything. One thing she knew for sure—something every wife knew—was that up until he left, her husband had been hers. He’d loved her in all the ways a man loved a woman. The man she’d made love to that afternoon was not the man who’d abandoned his men, betrayed her, and disappeared.
She picked up a towel and noticed his back. Her cup smashed on the floor, porcelain and coffee flying everywhere. Deep scars covered him from his neck down to the low waistline. Lashes, knife cuts, burns, stitches. The scar tissue had to be half an inch thick in places. Other areas looked like the flesh had been gouged.
He dropped and spun around. He moved swiftly, swinging her up in his arms and taking her back into the family room. “Are you hurt?”
“No. But you were.” How could she not have noticed last night? Then she remembered. He’d never allowed her to feel his back.
He dropped her on the couch, on top of suit bags, and then disappeared. He came back wearing the long-sleeved tee. After finding a garbage can and a roll of paper towels, he went to clean up her mess. She followed.
“What happened to you?”
“Nothing.” He gathered the mug pieces and wiped up the coffee. “Be careful. You have bare feet, and there are shards everywhere.”
She didn’t care. Besides, he had bare feet too. “Why are you lying?”
“Because it doesn’t matter.” He carried the garbage can back to the kitchen.
She followed, and when he’d dumped everything, she grabbed his arm. “It was the Gauntlet, wasn’t it?”
Rafe’s gaze dropped to her fingers on his arm. “Do you know how much I want to kiss you right now?”
“You’re trying to distract me.”
“Is it working?”
“No.” She let go. “Take a shower and get dressed.”
“Yeah,” he said heavily. “Okay.”
But neither one moved. His lips lowered enough so his breath caressed her mouth. He pressed his lips against hers for the barest moment, the briefest rest. “Do you want to shower with me?”
“No.” She pushed his chest. “Everyone will be here soon. I also have to check in with Bob, and I definitely need more coffee.”
Rafe kissed her again before heading into the bathroom. When the water turned on, she sat on the couch. Someone had tortured the man she loved. And he discounted it as nothing. What kind of world had he been living in?
When he was done, he came out in jeans, boots, and a long-sleeved black T-shirt. “I’m making breakfast.”
She avoided his outstretched arm and ran into the bathroom. It’s not that she didn’t want his touch; she just needed to process everything. After showering, she found her overnight bag and dressed in yoga pants and a cami. She heard him in the kitchen, the smell of bacon sizzling, the sounds of plopping and frying. Then she smelled peaches. He was making peach French toast. The same thing he’d ordered for them the morning after their wedding night.
She twisted her wet hair into a loose bun and straightened her shoulders. The shower helped with her confidence, but her emotions were as hot and raw as an exposed nerve. She passed the dresser and noticed a Dopp kit on top. She ran her fingers over the worn leather. The last time she’d seen this she’d packed it up for his final mission. Although it wasn’t hers and she had no business opening it, she did.
Inside she found an open box of condoms. Her face warmed up. They hadn’t used any protection last night. Who had these been for?
* * *
Juliet appeared as Rafe placed the plates of French toast and bacon on the table. She wore stretch pants that hugged her ass and a camisole barely covering her breasts. Her wet hair was twisted up, and her eyes shot bottle rockets.
He sighed. The post-sex rapport was gone. “You look beautiful.”
She threw a box at him, and he caught it against his chest. “We didn’t use protection.”
He raised one eyebrow.
“Yes. I found them in your Dopp kit. Which I peeked into. But only because I was surprised you still had it.”
He put the box on the table and went back to turning French toast. He loved it when she showed her jealous side. It made him feel like he could run the Army Ten-Miler and bench press an Abrams tank. “You gave it to me as a wedding present.”
“And?”
He glanced at her. Now her hands were on her hips. “And what?”
“We didn’t use protection. So why are you carrying around an open box of condoms?”
He faced her. After returning from the Isle yesterday, he’d found the box while going through Escalus’s backpack. Since Calum had been in the kitchen directing the delivery of clothes, most of which Rafe would never wear, he’d shoved the box in his Dopp kit. Rafe hadn’t wanted to deal with Calum’s questions.
Why Escalus kept condoms in his backpack was a mystery. Most Fianna warriors, including Escalus, were celibate. “If I told you that box wasn’t mine, would you believe me?”
She looked everywhere but at him. “I don’t know.”
“What if I told you the directions are in German and they’re recently expired?”
She picked up the box to read it, and her eyes widened. “Oh. German.”
“
I’m pretty sure American drugstores don’t carry expired German condoms. And they’re not available in Leavenworth’s commissary.”
She chucked them in the trash and sat. The sizzling French toast filled the room with a sweet cinnamon and peach fragrance.
He knelt in front of her, took her hands, and addressed her other worry. “While we were married, did we ever use protection?”
“No.” She scrunched her nose. “We wanted a family. Except I couldn’t get pregnant.”
“That’s not the only reason.” His squeezed her fingers, wishing they’d stayed in bed. “I couldn’t bear the thought of putting something between us when we made love.”
She pushed him away and stood. “If the condoms aren’t yours, whose are they?”
He rose and poured her more coffee with too much sugar and cream. “Escalus’s.”
“The guy killed on the Isle yesterday.”
“I…inherited his backpack.”
“Oh.” She straightened her shoulders. “You were there. When he died.”
“Yes.”
She waved her arms. “You couldn’t have killed him. He was shot from far away.”
“I know.” Still, Rafe appreciated her belief in him. He went back to the griddle and flipped the egg-soaked bread.
“But you were with him.” She lowered her voice. “If anyone finds out—”
“They won’t. You and the man who killed Escalus are the only ones who know.”
“Who—”
“A warrior named Arragon.” And that’s all Rafe was going to say about that. He changed the subject and turned off the griddle. “While you were showering, I texted Sarah Munro, the historian Miss Beatrice mentioned yesterday. She’s doing research later today on the Isle, and I suggested we meet her at Boudreaux’s. Two thirty p.m.”
Juliet found her phone on the counter. “Bob texted too. The site sustained flooding last night, and the city’s electrical crew can’t work until it dries out.”
Rafe indicated the plates on the table, hoping she’d remember their wedding morning breakfast in bed. “Why don’t you eat before it gets cold?”
She got another message and texted back.
“Who’s that?” He was annoyed she wasn’t paying attention to him. Or the breakfast he’d made her. That she’d put up walls again. Damn Escalus and his stupid condoms.
“It’s Philip. He wants us to visit.”
Rafe took a drag of coffee. “You. Not me.”
She dropped her phone. “Sorry about that.” She picked up her cup. “I wish you two didn’t hate each other.”
“I don’t hate him. Philip hates me because the woman he’s adored forever wants me.”
Rafe loved the flush that rose from her neck to her face. He was tired of hiding how he felt. And it was way past time she admitted her own feelings as well. He knew she was scared of her feelings for him. Hell, he was terrified.
“Just because we…” She lowered herself into the chair and bit her lower lip.
“Made love?” He sat and watched her carefully. “Three times?”
She ate some bacon. “That doesn’t mean we’re in a relationship.” She spoke so softly, her voice reminded him of pencil-written words that’d been erased but still left a gray impression behind.
He got up to get more caffeine. “There’s a hair dryer in the bathroom attached to the small bedroom.”
“You’re not eating?”
“I’m not hungry anymore.” He kept his features as unconcerned and cool as she seemed to be. “You can wear the sweatshirt in my bag.”
“Why?”
“Because if we’re not in a relationship, you don’t have enough damn clothes on.”
She got up and headed for the guest room. Then she slammed the door so hard his mug fell off the table and shattered on the floor.
* * *
Juliet slammed the door of the spare bedroom. Damn that man.
Why was she so mixed up around him? Part of her wanted him to agree that they had no chance of having a long-term relationship; the other part wanted him to carry her back to bed.
She kicked his duffel, and more stuff fell out. After finding the hair dryer in the bathroom, she kicked his bag again. Except this time her big toe hit something hard.
“Ow, ow, ow.” She hopped until the throbbing stopped. Although she didn’t care what her lack of clothing did to Rafe, she didn’t want to sit in front of the other men in her cami. It didn’t take long to find a gray sweatshirt with a faded ARMY on the front. She unfolded it, and something fell out—a leather journal with an embossed heart with a sword through it.
Escalus had kept a journal, but had Rafe done so as well? She’d be surprised, since she’d had a hard enough time getting him to write a grocery list.
Once back in the master bedroom, she propped the book open on the dresser and dried her hair while she read. Diaries were private things, but he owed her so many explanations she didn’t care. She started on the first entry written on paper thinner than onion skin:
November 2. All Souls Day. Northumberland, UK
I am in.
Unfortunately, the rest of the journal was written in French. As pages progressed, the French morphed into Latin. Two languages she couldn’t read. She could only make out the names of cities and people, dates, and numbers at the top of each page.
The first six months he wrote a daily entry. Beneath each date on the left page, he’d written sequential numbers: 2190, 2191, etc. Another set of sequential numbers on the right-page corner started with 1.
Many pages had multiple dates and numbers, and some days and months were skipped. She flipped to the last page. The last entry was written in English:
September 29. Feast of St. Michael. St. Petersburg.
4015 days. I have failed.
The number in the right corner was 301. She flipped through, looking for names, but found no Juliet. He’d never written about her.
Rafe knocked. “Nate and Pete are here. I made more coffee.”
“I’ll be right out.”
She also didn’t see any other female names. She wrapped up the journal in a towel and unplugged the dryer. After putting on the sweatshirt, she ignored the voices in the kitchen and went back to the spare bedroom. She returned the journal to Rafe’s bag and the appliance to the bathroom. Back in the hallway, Samantha rushed into Juliet’s arms. Today she wore black leggings, a lavender-and-black lace cami, and combat boots. Her reddish-blond curls danced around her shoulders.
Samantha squeezed. “I was worried about you.”
Juliet hugged back. “I’m alright. How are you?”
Samantha let go but held Juliet’s hand. “The explosion happened during my ghost tour of the tunnels. Once I got everyone out safely, I had to promise a refund. My boss is going to be furious.”
“You stayed with Pete last night?”
“Yes.” Samantha’s nose scrunched. “I wish I didn’t have to have a roommate. But now that the club is closed I may need a third.”
Juliet led Samantha to the master bedroom. “I wish I could pay you enough so you didn’t have to have roommates or give ghost tours.”
“I don’t mind giving tours. The people are nice, and it’s fun to walk around the city at night. It reminds me of New Orleans. The irony is that yesterday I wanted to ditch my job at the club, but now that it’s closed, I’m not sure what to do.”
“Move in with me.”
“In that tiny thing?” Samantha waved her hand around the bedroom. “Maybe Calum would give me a break on this one. It’s his fault the club is closed in the first place.”
Juliet slipped on her black flats while Samantha frowned.
“This bed looks like two people were in it, and they weren’t sleeping.”
A hot flush rose up Juliet’s neck, and her cheeks i
tched.
“No.” Samantha covered her mouth with her hands.
Juliet went to the mirror to begin a dutch braid. Her cheeks were red, but the rest of her face was pale. She took a deep breath, and then exhaled. “Yes.”
Samantha took over the braiding. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
“No.”
“Are you still in love with him?”
“I don’t know.” Juliet found the ring Miss Beatrice had given her the previous night and slipped it on her thumb. “There’re so many secrets between us.”
Samantha tightened her hold on the braid until Juliet yelped. “You’re screwing a man who’s completely into you, but he’s also violent and untrustworthy, and you’re not sure you’re in love with him.”
Could her life be any more messed up? “Yes.” She handed Samantha a hair tie and met her gaze in the mirror. “I can handle this.”
Samantha raised an eyebrow. “When this ends?”
Juliet spun around with a straight back, a silent resolution. “I’ll deal.”
Samantha hugged her again. “I’m not happy, but yesterday you wouldn’t consider asking anyone for help. Today”—she tilted her head toward the male voices in the kitchen—“you’re working with people who care about you. That’s huge.”
“I hadn’t thought about it that way.”
“I have. And if sex with the hottest man in town—besides Pete—is the reason, that’s a good thing.” Samantha took Juliet’s arm and led her toward the kitchen. “I just hope you don’t end up with another broken heart. You barely recovered from the last one.”
Juliet blinked, hating the moisture behind her lashes. She hoped so too.
Chapter 32
Rafe poured Juliet another cup of coffee, his jaw cranking. Her comment about their not being in a relationship had hurt, and he regretted how he’d handled it. He knew her closed-off attitude hid fear—fear he was responsible for. But what more could he have done last night to show her how much he loved her?
Nate finished off Juliet’s plate of French toast and poured his own coffee. His long hair was tied behind his neck. Despite the jacket he wore over his jeans and blue T-shirt, Rafe was sure Nate carried one if not two guns. He didn’t even try to hide the knife sheath on his belt.