“And I’m damned near an alcoholic, a drunk,” Kruze interrupted testily. “I go through women like they’re disposable, and I’m carrying enough self-hatred in my gut to choke a fuckin’ horse. Bet you didn’t know that, did you, Doctor Packard?” He poured on the cynicism.
“Bet I did,” came back quietly through Kruze’s cell phone. “You’re still hurting. I get that, and I hate to tell you, but that pain isn’t ever going completely away. That’s the point of someone like you speaking with my people. They’re hurting too, but the difference between them and you is they’re still in denial. They believe, no, make that they’re determined, that they’ll just wake up one morning, and magically, everything will be okay. That they’ll be their old selves again. Everything will be wine and roses. But you know that’s not going to happen.”
Well, damn. Wayne was right. Kruze did know that. Denial was one of his best drinking buddies. Deny getting too close to anyone. Deny you care, that yes, you would love to hold that little boy of Chance’s, but you know you never will. Make a joke when things get too personal, too close, too serious. Or when well-intended comments hit so close to home you feel like crying. Drink until you’re soused when nights get too dark, and all you can think about is the woman you lost. Bust something up when the pain and memories get too hot to handle, and you can’t stop the fuckin’ tears. But never let anyone know...
“Have you ever told your brothers what happened?” Wayne asked when Kruze didn’t answer.
What the hell was he, a mind reader? Kruze raked his hair out of his eyes and growled, “Not their problem and…Shit, stop analyzing me!”
“Sorry, man, it won’t happen again.”
Yeah, bet me. Kruze dropped his gaze to the checkered light-tan and equally non-descript light-olive-green carpet between his work boots. He was in a hotel room in Crystal City, Virginia. All rooms were no-smoking now, and he hadn’t had a cigarette since early morning. So yeah, he was on edge and easy to rile. Originally, he’d flown east to speak with Senator Sullivan about General Berfende. It seemed those two Apache helos hadn’t ended the rat bastard the morning Kruze and Bree escaped Eastern Anatolia after all. Berfende was here in America. He’d come in through JFK in New York three days ago, but Homeland Defense had no idea where he went or where he was now.
Sullivan suspected Berfende was coming after Bree. Kruze damned well knew the pompous ass thought she already belonged to him. Now Sinclair wanted Kruze to hunt Berfende down and end him ‘with prejudice’, once and for all. But Sullivan also wanted Kruze to stay clear of the media. Don’t shoot the fuckin’ town up. Sinclair’s words, not Kruze’s. But keep it on the down-low. Don’t involve Brianna Banks or her family. Be circumspect. Whatever that meant.
Kruze still had to look that word up. He was the jokester of the Sin Boys, not the linguist or brainiac. He was the one who diverted intimacy with well-timed banter and distraction.
Group therapy, huh? Kee-rist, what could he tell Wayne’s folks that would help, not hurt? Kruze had no idea. He probably needed as much help as they did. Maybe more.
“Are you still with me, buddy?” Wayne asked extra-quietly.
“Yeah. Yeah. I’m here.” Kruze shook his head, not ready to jump into the deep end of the psycho-babble pool. Sure, he’d seen a few Navy shrinks after his deployments, always after combat, especially if things had gotten bloody or if a sailor died. But the thought of being on the other end of that kind of conversation was unsettling. He was no psychiatrist, certainly no hero anyone should look up to. Hell, most days he had to talk to himself just to get out of bed. Not so much when he was home in Montana, though. Pagan’s wife wasn’t usually cheerful, but Suede had a way of breathing sunshine and starlight into the monstrosity of a lodge that Chance built. She made every day something a man couldn’t wait to wake up to. Life. That was what she’d given Chance—his life back. Which was why Kruze never stayed in Montana longer than he had to. He was the fifth wheel to two contented married couples. Yay, him. Not.
“Okay, so…” He ran a tired hand over his face, wishing he hadn’t answered his cell when Wayne called. “How many people are you talking about? Twenty? Thirty?”
“An even dozen if they all show.”
Just twelve, huh? Kruze cracked his jaw. A crowd that small might be doable. Too bad he was busy. “I’ve got an assignment that can’t wait, sorry. Maybe next time I’m on the East Coast.” But then he added, “So, umm, what kind of folks are these people? What’s their problem?”
“They’re decent, good people, Kruze. Every last one of them.” Wayne sounded so damned earnest. “It’d be best if they tell you their stories themselves, but I’ve got one guy who couldn’t get his son out of his SUV before it burst into flames after a head-on collision. He’s walking a fine line. Every time he checks in, I can’t tell you how grateful I am to see his ugly mug or hear his voice. Another lost her hand in an industrial accident. Another was kidnapped and can’t shake the nightmares. She’s the one I worry about most. I believe these people are each one step away from committing suicide. They’re lost, and they haven’t caught their balance yet. You know what that’s like.”
Kruze nodded though he knew Wayne couldn’t see him. “Local kidnapping?”
“No, she was overseas, not sure where. She won’t talk about it, and I can’t get her to open up like she needs to. She’s holding it all in. I’m hoping these group sessions will set the stage for more dialogue, that’s all I’m asking of you. I’m not expecting miracles. What’s the assignment?”
“Sorry, can’t share. You know the drill.”
Wayne laughed. “Yeah, yeah, you’d have to kill me.”
Damned if that wasn’t the segue Kruze needed to ask, “How old is she, the one who was kidnapped? Are we talking about a kid or—”
“She’s actually an attractive business woman who needs to get her head together, so she can get back to work. She’s one helluva journalist. I’ve read some of her articles. Why? You interested, you dog?”
Kruze shook his head, then enunciated clearly, “No.” Yes. “Just wondered.” He couldn’t help but ask, “What time is this get together?”
“Seven, tomorrow night.” Wayne sounded hopeful.
Lifting his chin off the floor, Kruze stared at his reflection in the mirror across from him. The guy looking back wondered what the odds were of that kidnapped victim being Brianna Banks. If not, no harm, no foul. He could talk about—something or other. He’d have to give that some serious thought. But if it were Bree, and if Berfende was on her trail, she definitely needed protection, maybe someone to hold her if she fell apart and started shivering and…
What the hell. “I’ll be there,” Kruze said with a tone of resignation, so Wayne didn’t get it in his head that he’d ever do this kind of shit again.
“Meet me for dinner beforehand?” Wayne asked, his tone a lot cheerier now that he’d gotten his way. Who was the dog now?
“Sorry, I really do have an assignment I need to prepare for. I can only give you two hours tomorrow night, tops, and I won’t be able to stay afterwards. Make sure your people understand. Two hours, Torpedo. Not a second more.”
“Great. Understood.” Wayne gave Kruze the address where the group therapy session was meeting, and he hoped—God, how he hoped—that kidnap victim wasn’t Bree.
But if it was? Kee-rist, it’d be good to see her again.
Chapter Thirteen
Am I going in or not? Bree fluttered her fingertips on her steering wheel, wishing she knew the answer to that million-dollar question. Dr. Packard had already waved when he’d walked by on his way into Morristown Community Center. A good-looking man, he was compassionate. Certainly worth following into that brightly lit brick building. Everything about the place looked cheery. Lively. Downright chipper, as her dad would say.
Yet Bree still sat frozen in her car, paralyzed with fear, like a panicked deer when it stepped into some car’s high beams on the freeway. Eve
ryone within a hundred square miles would be able to see her once she stepped out of her car. She’d be a target. A skinny target, but still…
Am I going in or not?
Probably…
Maybe...
Maybe not...
She didn’t want to sit through any group therapy session, no matter how cute or kind the moderator. She wasn’t even sure she could, given her claustrophobia. Wouldn’t that be the worst, her screaming her head off and running out the door? Her hysteria was not what these other people needed. Besides, what possible good could come out of listening to their traumas and problems? Wouldn’t that just pile more stress and worry on her already stretched to the limit shoulders? Didn’t she have enough issues to deal with? Why take on more crap? Why, why, why was she even there?!
Am I going in or not?
Bree ran a trembling finger under her itchy nose, not sure how to answer that. Dr. Packard wanted her here because he thought the discussion, if there were one, might help. He’d invited a guest speaker. That was why she was here, because she knew she needed help, and handsome Dr. Packard was smarter than she was about these things. He had his medical degree. He’d persevered after his Navy career, and how unique was that—a vet becoming a no-kidding family practitioner? That had to have been tough. She respected Dr. Packard for throwing himself back into the college scene, all those tests, the cramming and deadlines. The college kids who thought they knew everything. He’d set quite an example to older adults. Bree wished she could be more like him. Confident. Professional. Calm.
But still…
This first step was so hard. She hadn’t gotten over her terror of Josephus or Berfende yet. Or that stupid phone call. Would it hurt anyone if she backed her convertible ’61 Chevy Impala, now restored with its original 409 engine, dual-quad carbs, and four on the floor, out of this parking lot? What if she took the long way home with the wind in her hair, and never came back? She deserved a relaxing cruise, especially in this baby. She’d bought the car for next to nothing and, with her dad’s help, restored it mostly herself. It was summer, for heaven’s sake, the perfect time of year for an evening cruise. That would surely help more than listening to other people’s troubles.
But she had promised Dr. Packard she’d come, and she was here, and—
Tap, tap, tap.
Oh, Lord! Someone was standing beside her car. Right by her door. And she had the top down! Bree freaked, clenched the steering wheel so hard, it cracked. Or maybe that sound was her teeth. It took every last nerve just to turn her head and look and see… “K-K-Kruze?” she blurted, never so relieved in her life. “What are you doing here?” she all but screamed at him.
The biggest, warmest smile stretched over his handsome face. Lord, she’d thought of Kruze so much since Turkey, and he was here, and she loved him and… Bree couldn’t believe what she’d just thought. She loved this guy? Uh-uh.
“This ragtop’s yours?” Typical male incredulity at a woman’s diverse skills crinkled his handsome face.
Which Bree let slide because her heart was still pounding so hard, she was afraid she’d pass out. “Mine,” she breathed, already light-headed. “Dad helped me rebuild it back in high school.” Breathe, just breathe.
“You took auto shop?” Again with the sexist disbelief of every male chauvinist in the world.
Bree wanted to laugh at the comical expression on Kruze’s face. He’d scared her and saved her at the same time, but she was still falling apart. Silly tears flooded her eyes. He looked so darned good, but her teeth were chattering, and she was making a fool of herself, and—
Kruze opened her door and slid onto the bench seat with her, gently shifting her to the middle. Once inside, he curled an arm over the steering wheel and turned his big, wide, wonderful body toward her. That button-up shirt looked darned good on him, especially under his leather bomber jacket. Which instantly reminded Bree where his wallet was—in her top drawer. Oh, dear.
“Are you one of tonight’s speakers?” he asked. Shrugging out of the jacket, he tossed it into the backseat, the light in his eyes sparkly and welcome. But then his brows dipped. “What’s wrong, sugar?”
Bree wanted to scream, ‘Everything!’ But like the gentle man he could be—when he wasn’t being an ass—Kruze produced one of those mini-packages of tissues out of nowhere, pressed a thumbnail to the perforation, and offered it to her. Swallowing hard, Bree tugged a tissue out of the pack, then two more. Turning away from him, she blew her nose, wiped her eyes, stuffed that soggy tissue into her litter bag, and tried her darnedest to compose herself.
It didn’t work. The moment she turned back around, Kruze pulled her into his arms and under his chin, and she was a goner. Bree melted against that familiar powerful chest, unable to speak. This was who she’d needed these past miserable months. This man. His masculine scent in her nose and his genuine strength wrapped around her. When he squeezed and growled like he’d never let her go, he sounded just like Robin. Oh, Lord. She was so much like her father.
Bree fell apart, guilty as charged. She hadn’t realized she’d been strung so tight until now. Once again, she was safe. Everything about this man, even her secret, drew her like a moth to a flame. The rumbling purr when he’d kissed her. The intoxicating scent of cedar and spice on his chin and neck. The comforting power of his muscular biceps and forearms wrapped around her. His touch. Why couldn’t he ever just stay?
“I’ve missed you,” he whispered huskily, his lips pressing a hot brand on her forehead. “Don’t ask me why, sugar. I don’t usually think about a job once it’s done, but you…” He cupped her jaw and tipped her head back enough to look down at her, to hopefully, really see into her teary eyes. Into the woman she was, not the journalist he’d once hated.
Bree blinked up at him, her heart on the line all over again.
“You were more than just a job,” he murmured. “You’re something else, you know that? Ever since Turkey—” His fingers roamed into her hair, massaging her scalp and bringing life to her tense muscles, to her brain. “—I’m useless. Please don’t cry.”
They were sitting dangerously close. With her almost on his lap, Bree leaned into him. He was her kryptonite. She had no resistance.
Her view was blurry, but so, so good. Kruze had shaved. His beard was gone, and his hair was neatly trimmed on the sides of his head, but longer on top. He actually had short sideburns, but it was those longer locks up top that made her fingers itch to reach out and comb through them. They glistened in the ambient light, and they looked soft and lush.
But his beautiful eyes. Green. They were the most gorgeous shade of green. They were Robin’s eyes. The cute dimple tucked into his left cheek, right next to the corner of his mouth was hers, too. But his lips were knife thin, not lush like a child’s, and he was smiling like only he could smile. Yes, there was always a tinge of sadness to his smiles, but that was Kruze. Half caveman, half lost boy.
Bree dropped her lashes, not knowing where this fatal attraction would lead, not sure of anything. As much as her heart craved this man, she had a three-year-old daughter to consider, a sweet child he didn’t know about. It wouldn’t be fair to break Robin’s heart if Bree were to tell Kruze about her, and if he denied she was his. If he didn’t want her. A mother’s job was to protect her child from everything, including that child’s father.
Bree didn’t dare ask if he liked children in general. He’d think she was hinting at marriage, which she would never. There seemed no easy way around the problem she’d created. Let him go, never to know his daughter? Was she that heartless? Bree honestly didn’t know what she was capable of anymore. But to take a chance that might lead to heartbreak for Robin? Never.
“Kiss me,” she breathed, going for distraction.
No sooner said, than done. Growling, Kruze leaned into her face and pressed his lips to hers. But where she’d expected him to be rough and intimately invasive, this kiss was tender and chaste. His hands cupped
her jaw carefully, as if he were afraid of scaring her. Despite the throaty growl, his lips were soft. Questing, not demanding. His breathing hitched higher and shorter, yet he didn’t breach the barrier she’d set. Until she licked him. That elicited the manly groan she was after. When he tipped her head to one side, all bets were off. Kruze took her mouth by storm, tonguing her lips and teeth, the inside of her cheeks. He nipped his way inside, licking as he went, his tongue tangling with hers. There was no holding back now.
Bree wound one arm around that handsome neck, raked one hand into his hair, stretched her leg over his thighs. Her skirt pushed up to her waist when she straddled him. She knew she’d lost her mind, but she no longer cared. She needed this man.
Still kissing her, Kruze took hold of her hips and arched his back, rubbing his length against her core. So good. Bree exploded with slippery, wet heat. They were both wearing too many clothes! It was hard to think, much less plan what to do next. How to get him undressed. How to get him inside her body. How to make him stay.
She grabbed his belt, intent on whipping it off. But the second she unlatched his buckle and fingered the first of so many buttons instead of one lousy zipper on his pants—! Kruze took hold of her fumbling fingers and brought everything to a halt. “Whoa. Slow down, sugar.”
“Why?” she shot back at him, twisting her arm to get free of his grip. “You want this, don’t you? You want me, I know you do.”
He tipped his forehead into hers. “I want you more than I can tell, but not here and not like this. We’re in a public parking lot. Sweetheart, for Christ’s sake, what’s wrong?”
“Everything! Nothing! I’m just sick and tired, that’s all. It’s been a really long day. I need you. Now!” she snapped, her heart pounding dangerously loud again, warning her to calm down. Like that was easy? “Take your pants off, Kruze! Is this so wrong?”
Damned (SOBs Book 4) Page 10
