Always a Warrior

by Patricia Bruening

  "Laurie.” His tone was low but full of wonder and disbelief.

  She cringed at the knowledge that he had read her emotions so easily while she read nothing of his. Except physical desire, she had no idea if he even felt anything for her. But his touch scorched her senses. Her skin tingled and her pulse raced just from the simple contact of his fingertips. Her lips burned for his kisses. Her gaze dropped to his mouth and a sudden fierce craving shot into her. Need clawed her gut. Lifting her gaze to his, she let the hunger rage.

  She plowed her fingers into his hair and dragged him to her, frantic for his kisses. Suddenly cold, she craved the feel of him to prove they both still lived. Her mind knew. Heart and body wanted physical proof. With a low ragged groan, he fastened his mouth to hers and kissed her deeply, hungrily. She parted her lips on a shuddering breath and eagerly welcomed the invasion of his tongue. His touch and those deep, drugging kisses ignited a raging explosion of desperate passion.

  More, she demanded mentally, wanting only the friction of skin gliding over skin. She shoved him backward onto the floor, slithering frantically over him, kissing him voraciously. Blood rushed and roared in her veins. Her pulse thundered in her ears. His arms tightened and he rolled her beneath him. Frantic for more, always more, she scrambled to unbutton that hated terrorist jacket then impatiently shoved it over his shoulders.

  He dragged his mouth from hers, yanked off jacket and T-shirt, and then came down on top of her. He took her mouth again, hard and passionate and as desperate as she. Laurie kissed him back, as demanding as he. She gloried in the weight of him pressing her to the floor. They explored each other in a frenzy of mouths and hands, lips and tongues, somehow shedding their remaining clothes. She loved the slick feel of his body covering hers, his skin sweaty and damp from rising passion. She wanted more, craved everything he gave her, clutching and clinging to him as though to a lifeline dangling over a cliff.

  "Now, Damien, please,” she demanded hoarsely, urgently, and lifted her hips to him.

  His fingers interlaced with hers, he pinned her hands above her head. Her heart pounded in her ears. His mouth sought hers again, his tongue surging between her lips as he plunged hard and deep into her. A ragged gasp escaped her, swallowed by him, and she raised her hips to take all of him.

  In the life-affirming, adrenaline-draining frenzy, she met his every wild thrust until the universe exploded around them in brilliantly violent release. He released her hands and slumped onto her, his face buried in her wildly tangled hair. She took his weight gladly, clamping her arms around him. He shifted to his side and they held each other in a fierce mutual embrace.

  Their harsh raspy breathing mingled and filled the room. His heart beat as fast as hers. The rhythms mingled and finally slowed. Reality intruded and pulled them awkwardly apart. They dressed in utter silence. Laurie glanced around, looking at everything but him. Confused by a passion that refused to acknowledge deception, she struggled to rationalize her actions. Stress release, she told herself, gratitude, life, adrenaline,—she convinced herself of every excuse available to avoid her heart.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed in the cramped room, she squirmed under Damien's intent stare as he pulled on his boots. She kept her eyes on the dirty wall and refused to look directly at him. Then she abruptly remembered the computer disks in her pocket and dug them out.

  "I guess it's asking too much to find a computer in this one-horse village.” She carefully examined the three disks for damage. They were slightly curved from being sat on but otherwise intact.

  "What's that?” Damien demanded tersely.

  He stepped across the room and held out his hand. The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat beside her. She handed him the disks then scooted to the center of the bed and stretched out on it. Her head hit the thin pillow as a loud yawn escaped her.

  "I took them from a room in the armory,” she said, struggling against the urge to sleep. “They had a computer. One disk was still in the drive. It had lists of dates and targets. I took all the disks I saw."

  With a low whistle of admiration, he turned his head to face her. “Damn. What's on the other ones?"

  "I didn't take the time to look.” Her sleepy gaze drifted over him and she managed a tired shrug.

  "Amazing,” he murmured, his eyes on her as he slipped the disks into the breast pocket of his jacket.

  Exhausted, she didn't even flinch when he reached toward her. His knuckles skimmed the curve of her jaw and his face softened.

  "Get some sleep, honey,” he ordered softly, his eyes warm as his gaze traveled over her. “We'll be out of here soon."

  Laurie drifted into deep sleep as that last endearment echoed in her mind. She barely felt the ratty blanket he covered her with but her lips tingled with the light kiss he dropped on her mouth.

  * * * *

  Damien watched her sleep though he stayed alert for potential trouble. The General still lived and was no doubt furious. Damien dared not lower his guard until he and Laurie were safely in the United States. He leaned the chair against the wall, keeping a sharp eye on the door and the grimy window. His gaze strayed often to Laurie sleeping soundly in the middle of the bed. No matter how tempted, he did not dare join her. He could not relax his vigil just yet. If he stretched out on the bed beside her, he'd be asleep in seconds with her wrapped in his arms.

  He tried to shake the image, the memories, from his mind but only succeeded in pushing them to the back of his mind. He heaved a weary sigh. His mission would not be over until he was debriefed. Then, after a few days leave if he chose to take them, he would be back on active duty.

  The story of my life, he thought bitterly—then blinked. The bitterness startled him. Though far from conventional, his life had always satisfied him. His career was enough, especially after the loss of his family. If he wanted a woman, he found one. And every single woman he took to bed knew the rules—sex with no strings attached.

  He glanced once again at the woman in the bed near him. After knowing Laurie and Stacy, if only briefly, he suddenly wondered if he could fit them into his life. He caught himself watching the slow rise and fall of her breasts. The purely male reaction of his body to female flesh was instant and painful. He stifled a groan of desire but could not tear his gaze from her. Did she want to fit into his life? She fit in his arms, in his bed, and in his heart. Though he had not allowed her to verbalize the love that shone in her eyes the first time he made love to her, he knew she did.

  He scowled fiercely at her sleeping form. Hate and contempt had blazed in her eyes when she woke on that cot, when she looked at him. But her lovemaking just now, in this very room, had been frantic and urgent, as though time was running out. Adrenaline rush, he wondered. She had still looked at him with love in her eyes. But this time, she made no effort to say the words. Had he simply seen what he wanted to see?

  He scowled again, disgusted with his useless thoughts. It didn't matter anyway. Neither love nor hate fit in his life. No way, he thought firmly. There was no room in his volatile life for an emotional entanglement. No matter how well they meshed physically, their hearts did not belong together. He was better off without her. She was certainly better off without him. He had allowed old notions, old wants and needs, to resurface. He dragged his gaze from her and stared at the ceiling until he buried all of those old parts of the Great American Dream he had once wanted. He could never have them.

  Chapter Eight

  Three days later, Damien drove silently on eastbound interstate ten toward Wilcox, Arizona. He concentrated on the road while Laurie stared out the window wanting him to say something, anything. She needed to hear his voice. She remembered all of his apologies. What exactly did he regret? Making love to her? Caring even a little for her? All of the above? Her heart twisted at the thought.

  She knew she had made a monumental mistake, but she could not convince herself to be sorry she had made love with him. Neither did she attempt to delude herself anything might come of
it. After all, he had used her like a tool. She did not want to know if their relationship, if it could be called that, was part of his deception. She cast him a surreptitious glance. Just the sight of him scrambled her pulse.

  Damien McAllister—consummate Navy SEAL, highly trained, deadly, cool and professional—but there was nothing personal. He focused on the road. Fierce longing, physical and emotional, turned her blood sluggish.

  Despite her admittedly feeble protest, he had insisted on taking her home after the helicopter returned for them. She had endured constant questions for several hours, and then spent the night alone in an admittedly very nice hotel room. She had lain awake until nearly dawn but Damien had not come to her. She wanted just a little more time with him. Damien had turned the computer disks over to his superiors and endured his own much more extensive debriefing. And he still had not visited or even called her at the hotel until it was time to leave.

  Instead of coming to her room, he called from the hotel lobby. Her heart heavy, hiding her eyes behind cheap sunglasses, she met him at the front entrance. They took a taxi to the airport, the entire width of the back seat between them. Wanting just a few more hours with him, even in rigid silence, she let him override her protests. He had taken her from her home and insisted on returning her to it.

  He flew with her to Tucson then rented a vehicle at his own expense to drive her to Wilcox. During the past hour he had not said a single word to her. Even sitting beside him, she felt utterly cold and alone—not just ignored, but alone. She forced her gaze from him to the windshield.

  "Where is my father?” she demanded, breaking the tedious, painful silence.

  "In custody—in one piece.” His succinct tone implied he would have preferred several pieces.

  "Can I see him?” She had badgered officials for two days for permission to see her father but to no avail.

  "He's still being interrogated,” Damien replied evasively.

  "Oh,” she murmured then hesitated. After a moment of indecision, she continued softly. “Thank you."

  "For what?” he demanded sharply.

  "Helping us, protecting Stacy and keeping her out of danger,” Laurie clarified, confused and hurt by the thread of cold steel in his voice.

  "It was my job,” he shot back.

  "Was making love to me also your job?” she countered tartly, stung.

  That abrupt cold dismissal of her and everything they had shared stung deep. The fierce ache in her heart nearly broke her and she fell back on temper. Tears welled in her eyes but she made no effort to wipe them away. Nor did she blink them back.

  Damien expelled a harsh breath, pulled the car off the road, and switched off the engine. They were now parked on the highway off-ramp leading into Wilcox. Laurie turned her head slightly, eyeing him warily through tear-filled eyes. He glared through the windshield, his fingers curled tight around the steering wheel.

  "I'm sorry,” he said tonelessly. “I didn't promise anything."

  She studied him anxiously, searching for a sign of his feelings, if he had any. His expression was blank, his eyes cold. He had been very careful to make no promises and to keep everything but desire to himself. Her heart broke all over again. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream at him.

  "So, that's it. I was a means to an end.” Anger and disgust mingled with heartbreak as she grasped the door handle. “Thanks for nothing. I'll walk."

  In a blur of movement, he grabbed her wrist. His arm brushed her breast. Desire shot straight into her. Her nipple tingled and pebbled. She heard his sharp inhale as he jerked her hand from the door handle.

  "You were not a means to an end,” he insisted, harshly, his eyes hot and furious. “I lost my head for a while."

  She looked at him, hurt all over again. “Take me home."

  "Not until you hear me out.” He gripped both of her hands tight in his, his penetrating stare holding her captive. “Making love with you had absolutely nothing to do with the mission—but it was a mistake. It was more my mistake than yours. I should never have touched you."

  Laurie had told herself the same thing, but she didn't like hearing it from him. Mistake—it didn't have to be a mistake. But she could not make him love her—want her yes, but not love her.

  "Believe me,” he continued and his tone rang with quiet conviction. “Loving you is something I'll never forget. I can't quite regret it, either—not completely.” For an instant, he looked miserable. He shook his head in a sharp gesture of denial. “This—we—can't go any further. I've already disrupted your life. There is absolutely no future for us. My job, my life, does not allow emotional entanglements.” He stared into her eyes for a moment and she nearly drowned in his intense gaze.

  "For a few days I let myself forget that there are some things I can never have,” he muttered fatalistically.

  "It's just as well.” She had to force the words through her aching throat. “Stress and danger don't exactly make for a lasting relationship."

  Laurie stared at him for several seconds, as though committing every nuance of him to memory. But she didn't have to do that. She would never forget him. Only after he dropped her hands and started the engine did she tear her gaze from him. The ache in her throat became a hard, painful lump as she fought the urge to cry. In spite of everything, she loved him. She could not help it. Love did not come easily to her. It never had. Once given, it could not be taken back.

  This was new territory for her. She had never really been in love before now. She did not know how to stop it or if it was even possible. Against all reason, she had fallen in love with the one man she could never have—her dark, dangerous hero who owned her heart but did not want it.

  Damien turned the car into a driveway and stopped. Her eyes cleared. She was home. She fought to clear her mind as she climbed out of the car. Approaching the front door, she noted absently that the front wall and window had been repaired. She heard the clunk of the car door as Damien exited the vehicle.

  The front door opened and Stacy ran into the yard. Relieved, ecstatic, and on the verge of tears, Laurie grabbed her daughter up in a bear hug. Her heart full of love, she spun around.

  "Hi, Mommy!” Stacy squealed, her green eyes sparkling with delight. “I missed you! Hi, Damien!” She waved at him over Laurie's shoulder and squirmed for release. Laurie set her on the ground and Stacy ran to Damien, hugging his waist hard.

  "Laurie,” Marjorie spoke sternly, coldly from the open front door.

  Laurie looked up. Stiff and regal, her mother radiated disapproval from across the yard. Laurie squared her shoulders and straightened her spine. It was time for a long overdue confrontation.

  "Thank you, Mother, for taking care of Stacy,” she said with icy politeness as she slipped past Marjorie and into the house. Stacy followed, leading Damien by the hand.

  "What is the meaning of all this?” Marjorie demanded icily, her displeasure obvious. “What have you gotten yourself into now?"

  Laurie only glared at her mother as she lit a cigarette to cover the nervous flutter in her stomach. She had killed terrorists. She would no longer wither under her mother's cold disapproval or be made to feel inadequate. When she spoke, her tone carried an imperial air of cold command she had never before used on her mother.

  "Shut up, Mother. I'll ask the questions."

  Marjorie's pale blue eyes widened in shock then frosted with haughty temper as she turned to leave. “I did not raise my daughter to speak to me in that manner. I will return when you can keep a civil tongue in your head."

  Laurie smirked at her mother's back. Damien's bulk blocked the open door. He leaned casually against the door frame, his stony stare fixed on Marjorie as she stopped in her tracks.

  "Sit down, Mother,” Laurie commanded icily, concentrating on anger rather than nerves and uncertainty. “I want answers."

  Wearing dignity like a cloak, Marjorie crossed the room and perched primly on the edge of the couch, her legs crossed at the knee. Her rigid demeanor, perfec
tly coifed blond hair, cool blue eyes, and chic white linen pantsuit proclaimed a woman born to money and high society. Her method of intimidation was subtle but unmistakable. Laurie struggled to ignore it but after a lifetime it was difficult. Only anger helped her.

  Like a prosecuting attorney cross-examining a hostile witness, Laurie paced the floor. She stopped suddenly in front of Marjorie, forcing her mother to look up at her.

  "Why did you tell me my father was dead?” Anger and betrayal pulsed in every word and successfully hid the spasm of pain in her heart.

  Marjorie paled, her gaze shifting to the floor. She said nothing.

  "I know he's alive,” Laurie continued firmly. “I just witnessed his capture from his terrorist group. Tell me why you lied to me all my life."

  "Why do you care?” Marjorie countered sharply. Her head snapped up. Anger, carefully controlled, blazed in her eyes. “He's gone. He was never in your life. He may as well have been dead. He didn't care about us—just his precious work and his warped political ideals.” Bitter sufferance tinged her words. “I did everything for you. I raised you, cared for you, with no help from anyone."

  "So I heard,” Laurie responded with bitter sarcasm, forgetting her original purpose under Marjorie's typical counterattack. “You never let me forget that. You did not want me. I was your way of being a martyr—a reason for people to feel sorry for you and admire you at the same time. Yeah, it was real hard with all that money you were born with!"

  Marjorie glared icicles at her daughter, snapped her mouth shut, and stood up to leave. Head held high, she marched to the door. This time, Damien stepped aside and let her go. The door didn't slam but closed with a firm thud and a dull click of the latch. Her mother would never be so undignified as to actually slam a door.

  "Damn it. No wonder he left,” Laurie muttered, too weary to keep the bitter frustration from her voice. “He had to face that every day."