by Julie Miller
“Harry?” He must have been quiet for too long because Daisy was sliding across the ambulance to sit on the gurney beside him. She tucked her hands beneath his arm and leaned her head against his shoulder. “Talk to me. We’ve been long-distance friends for a long time, and I know I don’t have any real claim on you. Still, it’s crazy how fast I’ve gotten used to having you around. But for a few seconds down there in the basement, I thought you’d left me.”
He adjusted his blanket around both of them and rested his cheek against the crown of her head. Dr. Polk had advised him that the first step in dealing with his problem was admitting the extent of it.
“For a few seconds there, I did.”
Chapter Eight
Harry got up to pace the house again.
The first two times he’d come downstairs from the guest room, the dogs had trotted out from Daisy’s bedroom to inspect the noise and identify his presence. The two little dogs had trotted back into her room to go back to sleep. Caliban limped around the house with him, reminding Harry of the hundreds of night patrols he and Tango had gone on together. It was a bittersweet treat to work with a well-trained dog again. Caliban was willing to answer his commands to go out ahead of him and come back, to seek, to sit and to play a game of tug-of-war with his rope toy before the older dog, too, tired and went back to his comfy spot in Daisy’s bedroom.
Losing a leg hadn’t stopped the retired K-9 officer from belonging somewhere and having a purpose. Just because Caliban wasn’t serving KCPD anymore didn’t mean he didn’t have a home and companions and a reason to get up in the morning—or the middle of the night when restless house guests roamed the halls and raided the cookie supply in the kitchen.
There was a lesson to be learned there. But the hour was late and a lot of the things Harry was feeling since first ringing Daisy’s doorbell were new and alien to him.
The dogs must be getting used to the sound of his tread on the floors because none of them came out to greet him this time. Good. He hoped they stayed close to their mistress and that all of them were getting a good night’s sleep. Daisy had stayed up far too late, running their clothes through the laundry twice, to rid them of the smells of smoke and acetone. Pike had brought over Harry’s duffel bag with all his belongings and stayed to keep watch on the house while Harry showered the grime and nightmares off his skin. Then Daisy had soaked in the tub for nearly an hour before declaring she finally felt tired enough to sleep and had gone to bed.
Harry came down the stairs in his jeans and bare feet, with his M9 strapped to his hip. The enemy was different and the temps were colder, but this detail wasn’t different from any other watch he’d served over the years. There was somebody out there who wanted to hurt the thing he’d sworn to protect. He stopped at the window beside the front door, folded his arms over his bare chest and stared out into the moonless night. Although the snow on the ground reflected the glow of the street lights, there were plenty of shadows, plus darkened vehicles and shaded windows in other homes where someone could hide. Still, the neighborhood looked secure for the moment. Unlike all the activity at Daisy’s school earlier that night, this part of Kansas City seemed quiet.
Didn’t make it any easier for him to fall asleep.
But he’d be damned if he’d get hooked on those sleeping pills Lt. Col. Biro said he would prescribe for him.
Harry could get by with an occasional nap and dozing on and off through the night. Maybe staring at something besides the tin-tiled ceiling in the upstairs guest room would be enough of a change of pace for him to grab some much needed rest. He’d give one of the recliners in Daisy’s living room a try. At least on the ground floor, he’d be closer to any ingresses an intruder might use to break in. Surely, that was enough of an advantage to drop the alert buzzing through his veins to a level that would allow him thirty winks.
After checking the mudroom door and backyard, Harry wandered into the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of milk and downed half of it before eyeing the cookie jar again. One more reindeer cookie would take the edge off his growly stomach and give his taste buds something to savor instead of focusing every brain cell on replaying nightmares and envisioning the stalker he wanted to take down with his bare hands. He hoped the cookies weren’t all for that party Daisy kept talking about, because he’d made a serious dent in her supply. He’d have to buy her some groceries or run to the bakery for her, although he had a feeling store-bought cookies wouldn’t taste as good.
He was licking the icing off his fingertips when he strolled into the living room and found Daisy standing there in front of the empty fireplace, staring at him. His hands went instinctively to his shoulder and chest to cover himself, not out of modesty, but out of horror that she was getting a full-on view of the scarring he hid from the rest of the world. He couldn’t hide his face, but why the hell hadn’t he taken two seconds to put on a T-shirt?
He was glad that the only light in the room seeped in from the night-light in the kitchen and the glow from a street lamp filtering through the sheer curtains at the front door. “Have a nightmare?”
“I was worried about you, beating yourself up because you don’t think you did a good enough job protecting me. The way I see it, the alternative is that I would have suffocated from the smoke and fumes if you hadn’t been there.”
Daisy crossed the room and reached for his hands, lacing their fingers together and holding on as she pulled them away from his disfigurement. He held himself still as she studied the hard ridges, stitch marks and skin grafts that were pinker and lighter than the rest of his chest, wishing he could spare her the horrific events that she must be imagining. She tilted her gaze above the brown glasses—that were far too plain for her colorful style—up to his for a moment before she released his hands and walked straight into his chest. She wound her arms around his waist and turned her cheek against the very scars he thought would repulse her. Her breasts pillowed against him, and the undamaged half of him was awkwardly aware of the tender nipples pearling against him. When her damp hair caught beneath his chin and her lips grazed across his collarbone, Harry surrendered to their mutual need to be held, and wound his arms around her back.
Daisy squeezed him in a hug, and Harry automatically tightened his hold on her, pulling her onto her toes. “Yes, I had a nightmare. About what happened tonight, and I was wondering if we could talk?”
Her voice trailed away, allowing him a glimpse of the vulnerability she worked far too hard to hide. He nuzzled the crown of her head, unsure that comfort was the best thing he could give her. From this angle, he could see the damp tendrils of purple and brown clinging to the collar of her flannel pajamas. And heaven help him, he could see and feel the siren silhouette of her hourglass figure cinched in at the waist by her robe. As much as he wanted to hide his own body, he wanted to see more of hers. He imagined everything about her was soft and touchable—from that shampooed hair to those sweet lips and delectable curves, right on down to the fuzzy green socks that covered her toes.
An answering male heat licked through his veins, reminding Harry that at least one part of him hadn’t been affected by nightmares or injury. Everything about Daisy being here, standing close enough for him to breathe her scent, reminded him of how much time had passed since he’d been with a woman, how badly he needed a woman’s gentle touch. But he reined in that feverish blast of longing that was stirring where her thighs pressed against his—this woman only wanted to talk.
“What’s up?” he asked, mentally beating back his hormones and focusing on her needs, not his. He moved his grip to her shoulders and urged her warm body away from him.
Her gaze had landed on the gun he wore. “Do you sleep with that?” Before he could answer, her gaze bopped up to his. “Or don’t you sleep at all?”
“I don’t wear it in bed if that’s what you mean. But I keep it close.” Harry released her to unh
ook his belt and remove the Beretta and its holster. He set the weapon up on the mantel. “I don’t want to be too far from our best protection. But I don’t want to scare you more than I already do.” He gestured toward the pair of recliners facing the fireplace. Separate seats would be best, considering the ill-timed lust simmering in his veins. “Shall we?”
“You don’t scare me, Harry. I’m not afraid for me, at any rate.” Once she settled in the first recliner, Harry sat in the other. But before he could raise the footrest, Daisy surprised him by moving over to his chair and sitting in his lap. “Is this okay? I want you to be comfortable. I have a feeling you won’t like what I need to talk about.”
He had a feeling he wouldn’t, either. She wanted to finish that conversation they’d started during the game. For some reason he couldn’t yet comprehend, Daisy was feeling the same attraction he was, but she wanted to know just how screwed up he was before anything else happened between them.
And yet, she was sitting in his lap, her hand braced at the center of his chest. Her hip and bottom warmed his thighs and...other things. “After everything that happened, you want to be with me?”
Her fingertips clenched into his skin. “Do I scare you?”
“A little. But I’m not saying no.” Harry raised the footrest and leaned back, pulling Daisy into his arms and letting her settle into the chair, half beside and half on top of him, giving his body a taste of her curves pressed against him. He curled his right arm around her back, his hand hovering above her before settling on the swell of her hip in a grip that felt more possessive than it should. Her body was as perfect a fit as he’d imagined it would be, and that desire he’d tried to check flared to life again. But she needed to talk, and maybe he did, too. With his left hand, he sifted his fingers into her hair, smoothing damp strands off her face, stirring her sweet scent around him. “I should have stuck closer to you tonight, and not let everything get to me.”
When her glasses butted against his chest, and got pushed askew, he took them off and lay them on the table beside them. She snuggled into a more comfortable position, brushing her stockinged feet against his bare toes and tucking her forehead at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. He was okay with her not being able to see him clearly. Talking about his past was going to be hard enough without Daisy seeing how ill-equipped he was to handle this kind of emotional intimacy.
“I don’t blame you for what happened, Harry.”
“I blame myself.”
“You have post-traumatic stress. I remember when I was in the hospital after Brock’s attack, I was so afraid of men that I only wanted female doctors and nurses working on me. Then Mom told me my father had died. She blamed me for bringing Brock into our lives and causing Dad so much stress. I blamed myself.” Where was she going with this? When he felt her tensing against him, Harry covered her hand where it rested against his chest, silently telling her it was okay to continue. “I curled up into a ball in that hospital bed and wanted to be left completely alone. I didn’t want anyone touching me, talking to me. I holed up in this house once I was released. I didn’t see anyone but my lawyer. I didn’t do anything but help Mom go through Dad’s things and sleep.”
“You? You’re the most social creature I’ve ever met.”
She switched the position of their hands, lacing her fingers with his. “PTSD. I was depressed. I got counseling. I made it through Brock’s trial and Mom remarrying and moving away. And then, finally, one day I was done with it. I didn’t want to be sad and paranoid anymore. I didn’t want the bad guys—the bad feelings—to control my life. I got busy living again. Got a new teaching position. Got Muffy from her elderly owner who was moving into a nursing home and rescued Patch from the shelter. I started fixing up this house. I wanted to do for others and make friends and have a meaningful life.”
“You’ve succeeded.”
“But I needed that time to heal. So do you. Losing Tango must have devastated you.” He tightened his grip around hers, confirming her suspicion. “I know you’ve lost friends. You nearly lost your own life. Be kind to yourself. Be patient. I believe you’ll eventually learn to cope, too.”
“I don’t know. I was almost out of control tonight.”
“Almost. So you yelled. To my way of thinking, you were yelling for help.” She tilted her face away from his neck and cupped his damaged jaw, asking him to meet her solemn gaze. “You didn’t hurt me. Trust me, I know what it’s like to be hurt.”
Harry touched his lips to hers for a brief kiss, sitting up enough to slide his hand behind the crook of her knees, pulling her across his lap so he could hold more of her in his arms. “I hate that you know that.”
“The smells of the fire were a powerful trigger for your flashback. I imagine someone coming at me with a knife would do the same for me. In the meantime, I do the best I can every day. I try to be honest about what I’m thinking and feeling, but I try to stay positive and keep moving forward.” She wiggled in his grasp, innocently planting her hip against his groin and snuggling beneath his chin again. “And I give myself a break when I don’t. You should try it.”
The tension in him eased at the gentle reprimand. “How do I express what I’m thinking and feeling without completely losing it?”
She traced mindless circles across his chest and shoulder as she considered her answer. “What would you say if you were writing it to me in a letter?”
He was aware of each surviving nerve ending waiting in hopeful anticipation for her fingers to brush across it again. “Dr. Polk suggested something similar—that I start journaling. Write things down and get ’em out of my head so I’m not always fighting to control everything in there. But I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“Sure you do. Give me the rough draft. I’m an English teacher—I can make sense of just about anything. The beginning is usually the hardest part for my students. But you know how to start a letter.”
“Dear Daisy?”
“So far, so good.”
“I thought I was going to lose you tonight.”
The circles stopped. “That’s a dramatic opening.”
“I’m not very good at jokes.”
But she wasn’t letting him off that easily. “The point is honesty, not humor. When you flashed back tonight, where did you go?”
His hand traveled up and down her back, squeezing her bottom and coming back to hug the nip of her waist before he mustered the courage to tell her about the insurgent sniper taking out Tango before the dog could pinpoint the two IEDs planted in an ambush. He told her about the two men he’d lost that day, including Albert Logan’s pen pal, Benny Garcia. He glossed over the details of shrapnel shredding his body and fire searing his face and neck. His speech was halting, his sentences disjointed. But with his senses focused on the scent of her hair and the heat of her sensuous body warming his, other defenses inside his head crumbled. He’d gotten what was left of Tango and his men out of there before blacking out. Then he didn’t remember anything until waking up in the hospital in Germany.
He’d been angry. All the time. Afraid he might lose his eye or the use of his arm. He’d been wild with guilt—about the dog who’d been with him since Day One of shipping into the hot zone, and about the men he was responsible for who weren’t coming home. He’d endured numerous surgeries and painful rehab. He’d been taken off active duty, told he wasn’t good enough to do the job he loved anymore. He’d talked to shrinks—reawakened memories of the violence from his childhood, felt that same violence seething inside him and had been afraid he couldn’t control it. He’d read Daisy’s letters, over and over, clinging to the hope in her words, internalizing the wisdom and compassion she’d shared.
When he made it back to the present, Harry realized his skin was wet and that Daisy was trembling against him. He cupped her chin and tipped her face up to his, inspecting the pain he’d inflicted
there. “Damn it, I’m making you cry again.”
“That means I’m not just hearing, I’m feeling what you’re saying.” Bracing her hands on his shoulders, she closed the few inches separating them to press a kiss to his lips. When he responded, she lingered, and the quiet kiss lasted for several endless moments. Her tongue reached out to his in a tentative mating dance and Harry caught it, caressed it, before thrusting his tongue into her mouth and continuing the dance there. Harry felt the tender solace all the way down to his toes before he tasted the salt of her tears on her lips and he pulled away.
“Daisy—”
“Stop it. If you can yell, I can cry.” She slid a hand behind his neck, scraping her palm over the short cut of his hair. “It’s an honest expression of emotion. You should try it sometime.”
Harry anchored his hands at her waist, keeping her from moving close enough to resume the kiss. “You want honest? When I lost it tonight in that fire, you were afraid of me.” She squinted, keeping him in focus, listening to his words as she always had. “I never want to see that look in your eyes again. What if something happens and I scare you?”
“What if it doesn’t? What if I cry again? Are you going to stop caring?”
She knew he had feelings for her? “No.”
“Then why do you think I would?” She stroked the back of his neck, sending soothing comfort and tremors of anticipation down his spine and out to every working nerve in his body. “Crap happens to people sometimes. You get help, you work through it—you do the best you can. Sometimes you falter, but you get up and try again—and with the important people in your life, that’s all that really matters.”
