by Sarah Andre
“Go chase the skirt,” he said. “I’ll be fine hanging with my posse.” He nodded to the bags of dripping IVs.
Leo methodically replaced the chair, threw out the burger wrapper, and gathered his book. At the door he turned back. “For what it’s worth, the nurses hold a lottery every day. The winner gets to give you a sponge bath.”
Lock cocked a brow. “Has Jessica ever won?”
“She’s never put her name in.” A corner of his mouth kicked up. “Can you believe it?” He clicked off the overhead light and slipped out.
Lock scanned his stark surroundings, still dimly lit by the bathroom light seeping from the partially closed door. Digital numbers on the machines tracked his vitals. He wasn’t sure what all of them meant, but the chronic beeping was definitely Morse code spelling out the time of death on his ski career. He allowed himself one ragged breath of self-pity. His thoughts drifted back to Jordan, and he viciously shut that down. She was out of his life. Keeping his mind blank, he willed himself to sleep.
And dreamed of her.
Jordan sat beside him in the car, laughter peeling out of her, and he stared mesmerized. The moment was so vivid it jerked him awake, and all that remained were remnants of complete happiness. The kind of happiness he’d chased down slopes for years and never came close to catching. He groaned as physical pain and the harsh reality of his pathetic existence took its place.
Although he had no clue of the time, he knew without a doubt it would stay night for hours, and he would not be sleeping anymore. He couldn’t risk it. The door whispered open, and he glanced over, expecting to meet Jessica, the “really nice” nurse.
Jordan stood there.
He grew breathless, as if he’d just been shot again, and he was pretty sure his mouth hung open. You don’t care, she’s just another reporter using you.
“Hi,” she said softly, letting the door swing shut behind her.
He hoped to God that he emanated hostility. His eyes raked over her, the jet-black hair cascading over the white, button-down sweater, black jeans that hugged her good, and sexy little high-heeled boots. He took his time traveling back up to that haunting, unforgettable face, and those damn midnight-blue eyes that dropkicked him into next week.
“I’m not accepting visitors,” he said grimly. “But thanks for taking five days to check up on me.”
She blushed, and even that affected him. When she took two steps closer in those tight jeans, her summer-forest scent wafted his way. She was so close. Blood thundered through his veins, racing downward. Like he needed to deal with this right now.
“I had an emergency, Lock. But I called here every day.”
He swiveled his head to stare out the window, but the bathroom light only reflected her, the vision of an angel sent from hell. He closed his eyes. The click of her boots brought her closer. Panic and desire warred inside him.
“I came back as soon as I could.”
“I can’t deal with any more lies, Jordan,” he said through gritted teeth. He gulped a breath and turned to her. “Just go.”
“I am not lying. And I won’t apologize for racing home to take care of my mom.”
“How convenient that you raced home just as everything was solved.” He sucked in another excruciating couple of breaths, hating how weak he looked. “Who bought the article?”
She crossed her arms and thrust out a hip. “You sure have some huge ones, copping that attitude, pal.” Her reporter tone set his teeth on edge. “I left before I knew what the hell happened. The cops took my statement but didn’t cough up any details about whether you were still alive.”
She took another step. Six feet to go, and they’d be nose to nose.
“Get. Out.”
…
Pewter eyes blazed at her. Two weeks ago, she’d have been scared to death of that look. Now he reminded her of a wounded animal, snarling from fear and distrust.
The combative words died on her lips. “Christ, I’ve lied to you so often that now you don’t trust me when I’m being honest.” She clasped her shaking hands. “I swear on my mother’s life I will never lie to you again. Ask me anything.”
“Okay.” Pure skepticism dripped from the word. “Have you fielded offers for the story you promised not to write?”
“Yes. Sixteen actually. All of them were seven figure deals. I’ve declined every one.”
A look of confusion flashed across his face before he replaced it with that fierce scowl again. “What really happened in Vannini’s room?”
She bit her lip. Those memories were better left forgotten, but if she meant what she’d just said, she had to give it up. “He—he held me against my will and mauled me. I knew I wouldn’t get out of that room without being raped. Prissy saved me by knocking.”
Lock shut his eyes, as if her words were too much to process. She closed the distance between them, and tentatively touched his forearm. His Adam’s apple bobbed in a hard swallow.
“Why didn’t you tell me when I asked?” he whispered.
“Because I knew your hatred of Vannini was so deep that nothing would stop you from seeking him out. Three days before your trial. With a million satellite vans a block away. I didn’t need you to protect me, but you would’ve rained hell on him anyway.”
His eyes flew open, the look in them fierce and primitive. “You got that right.”
She wasn’t leaving here until all the words were said. Until he understood. “Ask me something else.”
“Why did you leave me?”
Her heart squeezed at the bewildered hurt in his voice. “While I was waiting for you at the car, I spoke to my father. He’d forced his way into my home, where my defenseless mother and my best friend live.” She had his startled attention and rushed on. “Then I heard two shots fired at Marcy’s. I dropped my phone running to you, and it broke into pieces. Before I got to the house, the cops and EMTs drove up, and I watched your bloody, lifeless body get hauled off in an ambulance. I overheard the cops talking about how you took a bullet for your brother.”
He inhaled deeply and winced. “What happened when you got home?”
“It was over. Outside of Marcy’s, while they were interviewing me, I’d borrowed a cop’s phone and woke up Jefferson. Between him and his cop friends, my dad didn’t stand a chance.”
“Then why didn’t you come back?”
She squeezed his hand. “The sight of my father sent my mom into hysterics that lasted for days. I couldn’t leave her. Your family was here for you. I watched the constant updates on a dozen networks; you were critical but okay. I’m all my mom has.”
He reached up and touched a strand of her hair. “But you didn’t call.”
“I did, almost hourly. Seriously, no one can get through to you.”
“You’re crafty, Jordan. You could have found a way.”
She fought her arrogant grin. “Dude, I snuck my way in here, didn’t I?”
“Why didn’t you call Leo?”
“I’ve tried everything since the moment I landed back in Boston. My broken phone had Leo’s cell number. His landline is unlisted, and I didn’t have his email address. I’d given it to Jefferson once, but it was a weird address, and I couldn’t remember it. Everything I tried bounced back. As crazy as it sounds, I never knew where the cabin was. The two times you carried me to and from his place, I passed out. You drove out of his driveway backwards, and when you drove in, I was laughing too hard to notice where exactly we’d turned off the highway.”
“Your boss could’ve found all of that.”
“If he was in Boston. He’s personally extraditing my father back to Alabama.”
“Then that other PI, your girlfriend…”
“Saved my mom’s life before Jefferson got there, but in fighting my father, she ended up in the hospital.”
She caught hold of the fingers now sifting through her hair. “Please know this, Lock. There wasn’t a day I didn’t think about you, and pray for you, and wish I could jump on an ai
rplane.
“But another part of me figured the week we had was—just that. One very intimate week. You’ll rehab and go on with your life. You’re Lock and Load. I don’t belong in that world. I don’t want to belong. I came here tonight to see how you’re doing, and,”—she knotted her fingers with his and squeezed—“and to say good-bye.”
He shook his head, one brow furrowed. “You’re not saying good-bye.” He disengaged her clasp and patted the tiny space left on the mattress. “Lay down.”
“I’ll hurt you.”
“Not a chance.” He held out the arm not hooked to tubes. “Get in.”
“Now look who’s being all bossy.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled. “It’s annoying, huh?”
Smiling, she gingerly squeezed in and laid her head on his sturdy left shoulder. Even with beeping monitors and IV tubes dangling close, it felt intimate and right.
“First of all,” he murmured, kissing her forehead. “There is no Lock and Load. Thanks to your lack of appreciation for his stud-like coolness, he skied off into the sunset.”
He sounded breathless, and she propped an elbow on the edge of his pillow to study him. His chest rose and fell shallowly, but his face seemed free of pain. His eyes held a frank humility as they appraised her back.
“Second of all, now that I’ve found myself a real goddess, I’m not fucking this up.”
Her heart swelled painfully. “You’re not talking about some nurse, right?”
He grinned and cupped her head. “Nope,” he said softly. “My goddess is a control freak who gets in my face, and asks questions, and bosses me around until I have to stop her like this.”
He pulled her down to his lips, his mouth lingering on hers, barely moving, and she savored the simple contact, like they were tasting each other all over again.
He broke the kiss, planting feather-light kisses on her mouth, cheeks, and nose. “Did your dad tell the authorities what you did?”
“Probably.” She smoothed the blanket covering him, noting the stiff tenting below his waist. “I plan to go back to Alabama and face it. I’m so tired of the hiding and perpetual lying that comes with creating a false identity. Rebecca is sure I can get the charges dismissed or reduced to aggravated assault with a deadly weapon. Either way I’ll plead self-defense. Audrey, Rebecca, Jefferson, and the medical staff who care for my mother will back me up.”
He stroked her cheek. “Look at me.”
With a stabilizing breath, she met those warm, gray eyes. He broke into a dazzling smile, the kind that made her stomach flip-flop.
“I have no further questions, reporter lady. I trust you.”
She kissed him, and although it was tender, there was nothing tentative about it. Only the sound of a machine beeping faster and faster made her ease away. His chest rose and fell rapidly, and guilt coursed through her. “Are you okay?”
“Never better.” His heated gaze fixated on her mouth. “We should try that again.”
She took in the myriad of medical equipment surrounding them and all the readings the digital numbers captured. Inwardly she shivered at how close he’d come to losing his life. “When Clutch is interviewed, he’s pretty guarded about you competing again.”
Lock didn’t answer. Her attention snapped from the numbers to him in horror. Maybe this topic was too sensitive to bring up this soon. But the lust hadn’t left his hooded eyes. Horndog. Her muscles relaxed. He probably hadn’t even heard her.
“I have you,” he finally said. “I have my freedom. Skiing competitively is coming in a distant third right now.”
His words warmed her insides, but she still grimaced. He’d need months of therapy, and long-distance relationships rarely worked out.
As if he read her thoughts, he added, “Besides, I can rehab anywhere. Why don’t I come to Boston and check it out?”
Hope swelled. “Mass General’s as good as they come.”
“I’ll tackle that with Clutch.” Cautiously he shifted to accommodate the IV in his other arm and enclosed her in an embrace. She stroked the scruffy growth along his jaw and trailed her thumb across the sharp angle of his cheekbone. Even as an invalid, he pulled off a look that was deliciously dangerous.
He dwarfed her on this bed, physically and with his overwhelming intensity. His ego, the only off-putting side she’d clung to in her grasp to remain professionally aloof, had vanished. A large part of her melted even further into that magnetism, as his palm caressed a lazy trail up her waist and lingered on her breast. Under his coaxing, her nipple strained against her bra, and she sighed. Beneath the sheet and blanket, his erection poked her pelvis relentlessly. She began sliding her hand down as her lips lifted to his. The annoying machine beeped even faster and her palm and mouth stilled an inch from their targets. She was the horndog! His lung wasn’t even remotely strong enough. Besides, a nurse would come in any moment to investigate the cacophony.
She pulled away. “Lock—”
“Are you about to boss me around?”
“Yes.” She grinned. “As good as this feels, you don’t have the stamina.”
“I, Lock Roane, Olympic champion, don’t have the stamina?” His fingers slid from her breast and plucked open the top button of her sweater. “Sure sounds like a double dog dare to me.”
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Acknowledgments
Thank YOU, dear reader, for giving me this chance! I hope you enjoyed cozying up with Lock, Leo and Jordan in the Colorado blizzard. Please know that writers crave honest reviews. I’d appreciate a moment of your time letting the world know what you thought of this. (No spoiler alerts, though! ACK!)
…
This has been a 9-year project, and many hands helped shape it. But SPECIAL THANKS to my agent, Maura Kye-Casella for trying so hard to get this story noticed, year after year.
To my editor, Anya Kagan, who took this clump I called a romantic suspense, and kept chipping away until it became a shiny gem I’m proud to show the world. You truly have a magical gift.
To Jeannie Esti, for grabbing those cardiac paddles in ‘04 and shocking my passion for writing back to life. Allore, Bella. Baci mille!
To my brother Dave, who did absolutely nothing whatsoever to help me write, edit or publish this, but insisted I thank him here anyway. (Dude will probably never even read this…)
To Lark Howard, my critique partner and best friend, who journeyed right alongside me from the very first word. How many versions did you end up reading? And poor Lock is still stuck in that blizzard!
Special thanks, Gayle Evers, developmental editor-extraordinaire, for pointing out the major issues that kept this story from sprouting wings and flying. Look up! I did it!
To KissandThrill.com sisters: Sharon, Gwen, Lena, Krista, Diana, Rachel, Carey and Manda. I probably would’ve found another profession long ago without your hilarious emails and support. Workshop!
Thanks and appreciation to Brandeis Sperandeo, for patiently explaining Colorado criminal law. All legal misinterpretations are mine, although frankly, I blame the characters. They just up and did their own thing. (There’s no controlling them.)
To the amazingly talented and generous Brenda Novak for the cover endorsement, and taking so much time each year to organize the Brenda Novak’s Auction for Diabetes Research. You are the epitome of the kind of classy author I aspire to be one day.
To bff, Susan Breeden for keeping me sane. (Some might argue you did not do a good job.)
To Judy Jaastad, Jeannine Ramey and Barbara Barrett: You’ll see your years of influence in this version.
To my great friend and ex-personal trainer in Houston, who insisted I name a character in the novel after him: No, you do not get chopped up and stuffed
into trash bags, but it would’ve happened if you’d made me do one more push up!
To the overwhelming support and friendship of writer-friends in WH, NWH, SWFLRW, WRW, KOD, TGN, Starcatchers and Dreamweavers. You make writing fun, and that’s saying something.
And to the love of my life: SCOTT ANDRE, who slays dragons, grants me wishes and ropes the moon. I am the luckiest woman in this world for having a real life hottie-hero by my side. I love you like crazy!
Half of the net proceeds for this story will be donated to United Cerebral Palsy (UCP.org)
About the Author
If daydreaming was an Olympic sport, Sarah Andre would be buried under gold medals. She lives with her husband in Southwest FL and is a 2014 and 2011 Golden Heart® Finalist in Romantic Suspense. Besides writing, her passions are eating chocolate, exercising (because of the chocolate) and playing with her very naughty Pomeranian hooligans…er…boys. She loves reading all types of fiction and discussing books with readers—come say hello!
www.SarahAndre.com
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