by Skye Taylor
She took it from him. “Score one for the gunny.” She pushed his fingers back into the rice.
Philip found and correctly named a large button, guessed AA battery on the second try, but then fished a coin from the rice, his brow furrowed. It slipped from his grip and he opened his eyes. “A quarter,” he announced as it rolled to a stop on the desktop.
“That’s going to be your homework over the next week or so. There are a few ways to play this game.”
“I don’t consider this”—he held up his right hand—“a game.”
“What happened to the man I knew fourteen years ago?” she shot back. “He never lost his sense of perspective. Or his sense of humor.”
“Sorry.” Philip’s voice immediately softened.
“The flip side of strength recovery is sensory and dexterity. Practice at home. Vary the things you put in the bowl. Challenge yourself.” She shoved the rice to the side and set a yellow lined tablet in front of him. “You mentioned your frustration at writing with your off hand.”
“It takes forever,” he complained.
“It will get easier and faster if you have to rely on writing lefty, but hopefully it won’t be forever.” She opened a box of fat crayons and dumped them on the desk. “Let’s see what we can accomplish with your right hand, starting with these.”
“Crayons?”
“Toddler crayons are fatter. They’re easier to hold onto,” she told him, pushing a pad of the kind of paper children learn their letters on in kindergarten across the desk.
Philip picked up the green crayon. He held it awkwardly for a moment, and then settled it into position using his other hand. He placed the blunt green tip on the top line, but as soon as he pressed down, the crayon slipped from his grip and skittered across the table.
“Damn!” He grabbed for the crayon. “Sorry.”
This time she helped him, holding his fingers closed around the crayon and trying to ignore the sensations running through her when their skin came into contact. Together, they formed the letters of his first name. Sweat beaded up on his forehead.
“Does it hurt to hold the crayon?”
“No.”
“On a scale of one to ten,” she admonished him. She quashed the urge to press her lips to his scarred hand and kiss it better.
“A one.” He scowled, and pressed the crayon back to the pad without her help. It took several tries before he had a legible C that filled the space.
“I think I might have something that will help. I’ll be right back.”
She left him still struggling over the A as she headed for the supply closet. She should have gotten the pencil grips out beforehand. Although Philip hopefully wouldn’t need one permanently, it might help in the short term.
She rummaged in the closet. Where were they? Ah! She grabbed the grip and began putting things back.
Terry poked her head around the door. “Your Marine is throwing things out here.”
Elena glanced past Terry’s shoulder in time to see Philip sail the lined pad like a Frisbee across the room. Then he swept the remaining crayons off the desk with his forearm.
Where was all the patience she’d assured Julie he possessed? She hadn’t been away more than a couple of minutes. Hardly enough time to have this kind of meltdown. She hurried toward him.
“Philip, please,” she said as he cocked his left arm back in preparation to fling her yellow pencil after the crayons. He ignored her, and the pencil skittered off the wall and fell to the floor. He reached for his half-empty bottle of water.
“Gunny! Stop. Right. Now.”
He dropped his hand to the desk and looked up at her with such a look of loss and defeat that it nearly broke her heart.
Philip flushed and looked down. Then he got up to retrieve the crayons and pad of paper. Her first reaction was to help, but he’d behaved like a thwarted three-year-old, so she would treat him like one and let him pick up his own mess. She set the pencil grip on the table and waited until he’d collected everything and brought them back.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
“Is something bothering you? I mean, more than just the frustration with the crayons?”
He shrugged and gazed across the room. Thankfully, it was empty this late in the afternoon. Then he brought his gaze back to her. “My unit deployed today.” His voice was carefully neutral, but his eyes were dark with emotion. He’d never make a good poker player. His eyes gave too much away.
The Philip she’d known and fallen in love with years ago would never have flung things across the room, however sorely he was tested. She’d dealt with frustrated, angry soldiers and sailors before. And it was easy to empathize. Easy to understand why a man in the prime of his life, used to being able to do anything he set his mind to would lash out in fury at failure. But with Philip, it went beyond empathy. She felt his frustration to her very core.
Because her heart was involved. The realization swept over her like a bucket of ice water. She’d known working with him would be difficult, but not like this. Not because his loss would break her heart as much as he had.
“I’m sorry. I—” She’d almost said she understood. But she could never really understand what he was going through. “It must be difficult. Not going with them.”
“And I get stuck ashore taking orders from Captain Clueless.” Disgust dripped from his voice.
Elena snorted out a laugh in spite of the tumult in her heart. “Captain Clueless?”
“Captain Clooney. He’s an arrogant little pri—jerk who thinks he knows everything, and won’t listen to anyone. I don’t even know why they put him in charge of this unit unless they figure he can’t get anyone killed on a desk job at Lejeune. They should have put him in charge of counting rolls of toilet paper.”
“I know this is frustrating for you, but—”
“Frustrating! You don’t know the beginning of frustrating.”
“Suppose you tell me.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
The tension in Philip’s jaw should have cracked his teeth. Elena had the strongest urge to reach across the desk and smooth away the strain.
“Are you most frustrated with Captain Clueless? Or with me?”
“It’s not you.” Philip made an obvious effort to relax his jaw and regain control. “It’s not Clooney either. Not really.”
“Your injury, then. Or being left behind?”
He looked at his hand, flexing and straightening his fingers several times. “Fourteen years, Elena. Fourteen fucking years of combat in some of the crappiest places a man could imagine. And I’ve always brought my men out.” His gaze rose up to meet hers. His eyes were bleak and filled with pain. “It’s not just about my hand, or what I can’t do with it anymore. It’s a reminder. Every minute of every fucking day. They’re going and I’m here. I won’t be there to watch out for them, and make sure they get home.”
The unaccustomed language gave her some idea of the level of his distress. He might talk like that among his men, but Philip was a gentleman to the core. He was not the kind of man who had temper tantrums and cussed in the presence of women.
“I understand that, unless you’ve been there, you really can’t know what it’s like, Philip. So, I won’t pretend to know what you’re going through. What I do know is that talking about it can help. Maybe you’re already seeing someone. Professionally, I mean. But you can talk to me, too. Any time. I’m a good listener.” And she was going to pull every string she knew of to find out what had happened so she could begin to understand the grief that filled his eyes, even if he couldn’t or wouldn’t share it.
Philip sank back into his chair, his eyes not meeting hers. “Thanks, but I’m—I’ll be good.”
“At least tell me what s
et you off. Was printing your name with the crayon painful?”
“It didn’t hurt . . . much.”
“Can you put a number on not much?”
He clenched his jaw until a muscle jumped in his temple, then sighed. “A five.”
Five! That was some concession.
“The damned crayon kept slipping, and I couldn’t squeeze it hard enough. That part hurt,” he explained.
“In that case, let’s try this.” She slid the finger grip over the end of the pencil and demonstrated how it was to be employed. “Try it.” She gave him the pencil.
The pencil didn’t slide out of his grip, but his movements were spastic and poorly coordinated. Again, he was sweating by the time he’d gotten his first name printed. He looked up for her approval.
“Not bad, considering. Practice often, but not for too long. If the pain gets to five, it’s past time to quit. I’m also going to give you these.”
She handed him a deck of cards. “You used to shuffle cards like a Vegas dealer. Take them home and learn how to do it again. You can swear and fling them at the wall all you want. Maybe it will help to blow off steam once in a while.”
He shoved the cards into his pocket along with the pencil with the special grip. “That it for today?”
“Hardly.” She glanced at the clock. “We have almost twenty minutes left. We’ll spend it working on range of motion with your shoulder, so you can strip down.”
“Everything?” A hint of the old Philip colored the query.
“Just to your waist,” she told him, trying desperately not to picture him naked. His bare chest was more than enough to bring back memories that were better left buried.
While he moved to comply, she picked up the paper he’d just printed his name on and studied it. Philip B. Cameron.
The last time she’d watched him print his name had been with a stubby little pencil like the ones they use at golf courses. His hand had moved so deftly, but she hadn’t really been looking at his hand. She’d been looking at his face through her tears.
Chapter 16
August 2001
Tide’s Way, North Carolina
“DON’T CRY, ELENA. I promise—” Philip leaned forward to kiss her, then pulled a small scrap of paper from his pocket, along with the stubby red pencil he’d kept their score with at the miniature golf course. He printed his name, Philip Cameron. Then his email address. “Write to me here, and I promise I’ll write back.”
Elena brushed the tears from her face and took the paper and pencil from him. She tore the bottom half of the scrap of paper off and perched it on her bent knee, then printed her own email address.
“Juliegirl? Why Juliegirl?” he asked with a puzzled frown.
“Julie was my dad’s choice when my parents were considering baby names, but Mom won. So Dad used to call me Juliegirl, like a nickname.”
“Well,” he replied kissing her again. “I love both names.” He tucked his half of the slip of paper into his pocket along with the pencil.
Elena pulled her knees to her chest and gazed out at the ocean. If only Philip would tell her he loved her instead of just promising to write. This was their last night together. Her last chance to tell him what was in her heart, but she didn’t want to blurt it all out if he didn’t feel the same way.
“I got you something.” Philip bumped her shoulder with his and held out a small box.
Elena held her breath as she took the box from him. The box was too big for a ring.
“Aren’t you going to even peek?”
She lifted the lid to reveal a sparkling bit of crystal in the shape of an anchor.
“The Marine Corps’ emblem.” She touched the delicate little anchor with her fingertip.
“That would be a fouled anchor,” he said with a little snort. “I was thinking of the big anchor at the end of the path to this beach. We’ve walked by it so often I thought this would remind you of all the great times we spent here. Maybe bring you good luck.”
“It’s perfect.” Not a ring. And not a declaration either. But their relationship was still so new, and the little anchor was a thoughtful reminder of everything they’d shared these past crazy, passion-filled weeks.
She touched the anchor where it lay nestled in its bed of tissue, then held the box toward him. “You too. Just in case it really does bring good luck.”
He solemnly tapped the top of the little anchor, then leaned forward to press a kiss to her forehead. It was a chaste kiss, but still it filled her with the feeling of being cared for and protected.
“I have something for you, too.”
“I don’t need anything,” he whispered as he pressed his lips to her forehead again, and then claimed her mouth in a kiss that very quickly turned hot and arousing. Elena turned into his embrace and gave herself up to the swirling sense of excitement. Her fingers curled about the little box as her body awakened to the all-consuming passion only Philip had ever evoked in her. But after a few moments, she pulled away, drawing in a shaky breath.
She eased onto one hip and dug in her pocket for the little velveteen bag. “To keep you safe,” she said as she pressed the bag into his hand.
Philip tugged the top of the bag open. Then he dumped the contents into his palm. He grinned at her, his teeth gleaming white in the dusky evening light. “My father has one just like this.”
“It’s a cross,” she told him, unnecessarily.
Philip fished beneath the collar of his polo shirt and pulled the chain with his dog tags over his head. He unhooked the link and slipped the cross onto the chain. “My dad never takes his off and neither will I.” With the tags and cross still clutched in his hand, he touched her cheek and drew her close to kiss her. “Thank you.” He put the chain back around his neck, and dropped it beneath his shirt again.
Over the last euphoric week, she’d managed to ignore what Philip was and what that could mean. “I’m going to pray every day to keep you safe.”
“Prayer doesn’t always keep soldiers safe, Elena.” Philip rolled back onto the blanket and took her with him. “But having someone to come home to helps keep a guy focused on not taking risks he doesn’t have to take.”
Elena nestled her head into the hollow of his shoulder. She placed her hand on his chest and outlined the cross and dog tags with the tip of her finger. “Well, now you have me to come home to, so you better be careful.”
“I’m always careful,” he murmured as his fingers went to work untying the knot holding the tails of her favorite shirt together beneath her breasts.
He shifted her head to the blanket and rolled up onto one elbow. “You are so incredibly beautiful.” His voice turned husky as he gazed down at her. His eyes glimmered in the shadowed hollows of his face, and Elena’s heart swelled with emotions that threatened to explode. How was it possible to love a man this much in so short a time?
Philip combed his fingers through her hair, and then, with his hand cupping the back of her head, he brought his mouth to hers. She touched his cheeks, letting her fingers skim over the sharp line of his jaw as she returned his kiss. Her heightened senses wanted to imprint every dip and curve of his face so she would remember them when he’d gone.
He caressed her breasts then bent his head to kiss her through the lacy fabric of her bra. Her nipples tightened, swelling and aching for more. He circled one nipple with his tongue, dampening the delicate material. Heat surged into her, and she gasped, holding his head with trembling hands.
He ran his hand down her side to her hip, then to her thigh and on down to her knee before returning to push his way under the cuff of her shorts. By the time his fingers slipped beneath the elastic of her panties, she was thoroughly wet with desire.
With a murmur of approval, he unsnapped her shorts and pushed them down her legs and off, pantie
s and all.
She tugged at the strap of her bra, eager to get all her clothes off.
“Let me,” he said, pushing her hands away. “I love undressing you.” He had her bra off with as much practiced ease as he’d removed her shorts. He kissed her belly button, then leaned away to gaze down at her while his hand skimmed over her eager flesh.
Desire crested into a fierce and powerful need. “Oh, Philip,” she groaned, reaching out to touch him.
He stopped her, pressing her hands back to the blanket. For several long hungry moments, he gazed at her naked body without touching her. “This is how I want to remember you.”
“I want to remember you inside me,” she pleaded. She trembled with the force of her need. “Please?”
“You’re a horny little witch.” He chuckled as he pulled his shirt over his head and wriggled out of his shorts. “Gotta admit I’m a little eager myself.” He rolled on a condom then knelt between her thighs, all traces of humor gone from his face. His eyes burned with desire as he stared down at her.
And then, with a groan of pleasure, he thrust himself home.
She rose up to meet him, but he pressed her down, pinning her against the blanket and holding himself unnaturally still. Supporting himself on his elbows, he framed her face with his hands and kissed her, first on her forehead, then her eyes, and finally her mouth. He lifted his head and gazed down at her. “Inside you like this?” he rasped, his voice husky with the effort for self-control.
“Just like this,” she echoed, meeting his intense gaze. She trailed her fingers down his back to his muscled butt. His flesh trembled under her touch, but still he did not move. She stared up into his passion-darkened eyes, relishing that instant of being on the very edge of the precipice, knowing what was coming, wishing the intense sensation could last forever.
“Philip,” she whispered, so wanting to say, I love you, but forcing herself not to.
