Too Far Gone

by Marliss Melton

  With her heart racing, she swung the baby back into his crib and waited to face the music.

  Now she’d done it. All her life, from her earliest memories of following her mother from one man’s home to another to the day her beloved Granny Annie had died and she’d been handed over to social services, Ellie’s life had been a series of uprootings. Not even Carl had thought twice about selling that shabby old trailer out from under her and her boys. How could she be so stupid as to offend her landlord, just when things were settling down for them?

  He loomed suddenly at the door. Ellie swallowed hard, gripping the crib rail as she scrounged for the apology she owed him, but Sean was the first to speak.

  With a mocking smile and a glint in his eyes, he said quietly, “Never challenge a SEAL, darlin’. There isn’t anything we can’t fuckin’ do.” With a wink that took the edge off his boast, he disappeared from the door.

  A second later, she heard the front door open and close quietly. His truck engine roared and he pulled away.

  Ignoring Colton’s wail of protest, she crossed to his door and turned the lights out. “Night, night, sweetpea,” she choked out. She went straight to her darkened bedroom and sprawled onto her stomach across the bed, feeling heartsick.

  Well, at least it’s over, reasoned a voice that sounded like Granny Annie’s. You can bet Sean won’t be sniffing ’round your skirts no more.

  For some reason, that realization only left her feeling worse. She’d be lucky if he didn’t throw her out of his house on her ear. She’d never find a rental half as nice or affordable.

  Chapter Two

  Drake Donovan regarded the mysterious lump of meat on his tray with revulsion and asked himself, Why did I volunteer for this again? Being an undercover special agent for the FBI was anything but glamorous. From the moment he’d skulked into this homeless shelter in Savannah, Georgia, his dignity had been shredded too many times to count, and his stomach had rumbled with digestive problems.

  He was four months into his assignment, and what he’d learned about the Centurions and their leader, Owen Dulay, could be written on one side of a Post-it note. But it wasn’t too late to change tactics. The time had come to befriend Dulay’s daughter, Skyler. Tray in hand, he made his way over to her now.

  With a halo of short golden curls and wide blue eyes, Skyler Dulay looked every bit like the angel of mercy she was reputed to be. But looks could be deceiving, as Drake knew well. For months now, he’d played the part of a runaway teen. With his slight frame and baby face, he’d spent most of his two years in the FBI masquerading as a high school student in efforts to uncover drug dealers and gang leaders.

  Who really knew what secrets lurked behind Skyler’s wide blue eyes? After all, her father, the object of FBI scrutiny, had probably been using charities like this one to launder money for years, and yet no one had managed to prove it. Some at Quantico put the number of his Centurion followers into the tens of thousands. It was believed they’d infiltrated the topmost levels of government, where they now protected their own.

  Having watched Skyler for some time, Drake hadn’t made up his mind yet whether she was what she seemed. Gracious and poised, she won the hearts of the pathetic creatures who ambled in, searching for a warm meal, a smile, and a place to lay their heads. Could a woman that selfless really exist?

  As he slid his tray onto the table beside her, she gave him a startled look. “Mind if I sit here?” he asked.

  “No, not at all.” She sent him a fleeting smile and directed her attention back to the Vietnam vet who was busy regaling her with tales of his heroism.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Drake murmured. Nibbling his mystery meat, he reviewed what little he knew of Dulay’s daughter. She’d graduated with honors from the Savannah School for the Arts but still lived with her father. Her mother, once heralded the beauty of Savannah, now lay bedridden with Alzheimer’s at Savannah’s Hospice House, and Skyler divided her time between caring for her mother and rehabilitating homeless men.

  She seemed entirely selfless in her devotions. But if she had even a clue of her father’s illicit dealings, and if he could persuade her to tell him, Drake would know more than he did now. It was certainly worth an effort.

  As the veteran picked up his tray and left, Drake made his presence known. “Hi,” he said, grinning like the eighteen-year-old he pretended be.

  “How are you?” she replied. Her smile revealed dimples in both cheeks but failed to reach her eyes.

  For months, they’d done nothing but watch each other across the busy hall.

  “Drake, is it?” she asked.

  “Yes, very good.” He chased down the taste in his mouth with a swig of milk. “You doing okay?” he asked her earnestly.

  His question seemed to catch her off guard. “Of course,” she said brightly. “I’m surprised you’re still here. It’s almost summer now. You do landscaping, don’t you?”

  It amazed him that she could keep everyone straight. “I did,” he said with a shrug. “I’ve applied everywhere, but no one wants me.”

  “Not even Bushwhackers? I thought they always needed help.”

  “Oh, yeah, but they . . . uh, they heard about my former habit.”

  “Oh.” She assessed his worn T-shirt gravely. “Are you still attending the group sessions?” she asked him gently. The shelter offered free drug counseling every other afternoon.

  “Oh, yeah,” he reassured her. “I’ve been clean for weeks, but, you know, it’s hard to shake a reputation.” In fact, having a supposed drug addiction might even keep her from befriending him—damn. Too late to change that tune now.

  “Don’t let that dissuade you,” she urged. “Someone will hire you eventually. You’re young and strong.” Her gaze flickered to his muscular biceps, then back to his face, and she frowned. He wondered if she could see the tiny lines fanning the corners of his eyes, betraying his real age.

  “So, I noticed you’re wearing an engagement ring,” he prompted, startling her into meeting his gaze.

  For a split second, his remark seemed to devastate her. Her lashes fell as she glanced at the immense diamond on her left hand and swiftly hid it in her lap. “It feels too decadent to wear here,” she muttered, firming her lips.

  “Who’s the lucky guy?” he asked, intrigued by her lack of enthusiasm.

  She glanced at him briefly, managing the false smile. “His name is Ashton Jameson. He’s a friend of my father’s.”

  Several seconds ticked by before Drake managed to read between the lines. “Wait a minute, you mean this is like an arranged marriage? Not that it’s any of my business,” he added with a searching look. “But is it?”

  His incredulous concern managed to penetrate the invisible buffer between them. “I’ve known Ashton all my life,” she replied, not really answering his question.

  “What does your mother think?” he asked, knowing perfectly well the answer to his question.

  With a stricken look, she touched the pendant dangling from the silver chain at her neck. “My mother has Alzheimer’s,” she informed him quickly. “She doesn’t even know me.”

  He was struck by an overwhelming urge to take her into his arms. Jesus, was she really this vulnerable? “I’m sorry,” he murmured, focusing on the pendant as she stroked it. “Did she give you that?” he asked softly. It looked like a key.

  “When I was younger,” Skyler confirmed. “It’s the key to her heart,” she said, clearly repeating what her mother had told her. She sent him a heartbreaking smile.

  Drake swallowed hard to remind himself of his agenda. “So . . . you love him, this Ashton guy?” he asked.

  Her downcast gaze and sudden silence supplied an obvious answer. This time he wanted to throw her over his shoulder and run like hell.

  “You know,” he growled, wondering what kind of surreal existence she lived, “I had a dad who used to run my life.”

  She nodded but didn’t look up.

  “He’s the reason I ran
away from home,” Drake added, hating that he was lying, but in a way it wasn’t all that much of a lie. His father was his boss, the special agent in charge of the undercover division, and—sadly—he still wielded a powerful influence over Drake’s life. “I’ve never looked back,” he added, wishing his words held more weight.

  Skyler finally looked at him, eyes suspiciously shiny. “If you’ll excuse me,” she told him hoarsely. “I have to go. My mother’s waiting.”

  “Oh, sure.” He jumped up, pulling back her chair.

  She rose with a curious but grateful look.

  “Be careful,” he added. “It’s raining out there.”

  As she headed to the locked coat closet to retrieve her purse and keys, he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. Gathering her belongings, she prepared to dash into the late spring shower. She sent him one last glance, and their gazes locked. A warm feeling skittered through Drake.

  He told himself he was glad to have found an informant.

  “If you pussies can’t complete this course in less than four minutes,” Sean bellowed at the dozen or so young men scrambling up the wall of the obstacle course, “you’re going to be here all fucking morning!”

  The junior SEALs glanced at him quizzically but quickly picked up speed.

  “What in God’s name has gotten into you?” demanded Senior Chief Solomon McGuire, who stood next to Sean, their backs to the building.

  It was a brisk fifty-five degrees with the sun just edging over the Atlantic Ocean and a chill breeze blowing in off the dunes at Dam Neck Naval Annex, but Solomon, who hailed from Maine, stood in his PT shorts and T-shirt, while Sean shivered in his sweats. Solomon’s cheeks were still ruddy from an early morning jog on the beach. He looked so freaking content that Sean wanted to punch him in the nose.

  “Nothing,” he snapped. He could feel his friend watching him through his pale, all-seeing eyes.

  “Nothing, my ass. You’ve been surly ever since you got back from Afghanistan.”

  Sean shot him a quelling glare.

  “And normally you’re a pushover on Mondays.” The senior chief smirked, his black mustache lifting. “What’s the matter? Haven’t you been laid yet?”

  “Mind your own fucking business.”

  Solomon’s eyebrows shot toward his hairline, which was as thick and black as his mustache, except for a streak of silver that hinted at his maturity. “You haven’t!” he surmised. “What happened to that blonde at the NCO club Friday night, the one with the pierced nose?”

  “Claudia,” Sean supplied.

  “I thought you got her phone number.”

  Sean shrugged. He had, so what? He hadn’t called. “I don’t want Claudia,” he muttered. Since Ellie had gone off on him the other night, stating all the reasons why she didn’t want or need a man in her life, he’d done nothing but think about proving her wrong, which was the worst damn notion he’d had in a long time.

  He didn’t date women with kids.

  “Then who do you want?” Solomon demanded in that terse, bossy way of his that made it evident he wasn’t going to quit nagging Sean until he had an answer.

  Why not tell him? Solomon’s reaction might be just the antidote he needed to his unwanted obsession.

  “All right,” said Sean, pivoting to face him. “It’s Ellie. I thought about her the whole time I was in Afghanistan. And now that I’m back, I’m thinking about her more. I can’t get that woman out of my mind.”

  Solomon’s thunderous expression might have been funny under different circumstances. He went nose-to-nose with Sean. “Leave Ellie the hell alone,” he growled, in danger of crushing the paper coffee cup that steamed in one hand. “She is not yours to fuck with.”

  If Sean didn’t know better, he’d say Solomon was jealous. But Solomon’s world revolved around his lovely bride, Jordan, and their growing family. Ellie was Solomon’s first wife’s stepsister, who for the past three years had raised Solomon’s son, Silas, until last summer when Ellie’s desperate finances had forced her to seek out Solomon and return his son to him. Her efforts had earned her his lifelong gratitude. Ever since Ellie had followed Silas to Virginia, Solomon had helped her in any way she’d let him—not just because he felt he owed her, but because he admired her courage and grit, much the way Sean did.

  “You wanted to know,” Sean pointed out, swinging back to observe the SEALs’ progress on the obstacle course.

  Solomon glowered at him. “What are you going to do about it?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know,” Sean admitted. He crossed his arms over his chest as a shiver rippled through him. “Gibbons, go back and help your teammate, for Christ’s sake! This isn’t fucking Survivor series.”

  “You’d better do something soon,” Solomon warned him, “or you’re going to blow a gasket. I say you take time off, hook up with one of your regulars, and screw her brains out.”

  Sean grunted. He couldn’t think of a single other woman who turned him on right now.

  Solomon rubbed his mustache. “What about that golf pro, the one with all the sex toys?” he suggested.

  “Oh, yeah, Tiffany,” Sean murmured, picturing the feisty little brunette with a faint stirring of interest. “I wonder if she’s around.”

  “Call her,” Solomon exhorted, finishing off his coffee with a long swig. “And stay the hell away from Ellie,” he added, stalking toward the Spec Ops building.

  Sean glanced at his watch. “Time’s up!” he roared, causing the men on the course to cease their efforts with groans of defeat. “My little sister can move faster than you pansies. Now, start over!”

  A shadow fell over Carl as he wormed a finger into the soft soil, intending to uproot a dandelion weed. The crooked little smile on his face faded, and a cool sweat beaded his brow as he recognized the silhouette folding over him.

  Mr. Dulay must have been watching through the window. Since offering him a gardening job and a place to live ten months ago, Carl had been conscious of his employer assessing and monitoring his every action. He must have seen how Carl had leered at Miz Skyler just now as she hastened from the garage to the rear entrance, hiding under her umbrella like a turtle in its shell. Only she couldn’t hide those shapely calves coming out of plaid capris, and those legs had inspired an appreciative whistle, which his employer must have overheard.

  Scrambling to his feet, Carl prepared to answer for his crime. “Sir?” he squeaked.

  “I’d like a word with you,” Owen Dulay announced, his gaze as dark and fathomless as a well.

  “Sure,” said Carl with a careless shrug and a twitch in his cheek.

  Dulay gestured with a hand. “Let’s take a walk.”

  Together they passed along the walkway between the three-story mansion and the carriage house where Carl lived, entering the private garden surrounded by ten-foot sandstone walls. Carl had labored several months in this charming little garden, pruning branches, raking leaves, coaxing exotic shrubs to bloom as the weather warmed. Trailing his employer toward the fountain of a griffin spouting water, his anxiety rose with every second that Dulay remained quiet.

  At last the man turned, slipped his hands into the pockets of his golfing trousers, and with watchful eyes announced, “I’ve located your children, Carl. The ones you claimed you couldn’t find?”

  The announcement was so unexpected that Carl froze, his mouth hanging open. “My children?” he squeaked.

  “Christopher, Caleb, and Colton?” Dulay prompted, supplying the names that on very rare occasions gnawed at Carl’s conscience. He’d sooner just forget about them.

  “The brotherhood wouldn’t approve of the way you’ve washed your hands of your obligations, Carl,” Dulay added, his voice redolent with disapproval. “Any man who fathers children is responsible for their welfare.”

  “But Ellie took ’em from me,” Carl insisted. “I wanted to pay child support, honest.” He was so frightened by the Centurions’ opinion of him that tears sprang to his eyes, lending credence to his as
sertions. “I’ve looked everywhere for those boys,” he added, his voice breaking with emotion. “Where’d you find them?”

  “It doesn’t matter where,” Dulay replied, glancing up at the windows of his Federal-period home. “What matters is that you’ve sworn, as a Centurion, to protect your progeny. And while our daughters help propagate our own kind, it is our sons who are our greatest treasure and legacy,” he added, sending Carl that strange, piercing look he’d seen before.

  Carl nodded in agreement.

  “Soon your boys will be returned to you,” Dulay added, making Carl’s blood run cold. To him? How was he going to look after them? He barely made enough to support himself.

  “They’ll remain at a boys’ home just outside the city,” his employer continued, “until you find the means to look after them. Once I find a gardener to replace you, I’ll employ you as my chauffeur. The pay is more, which should accommodate you a higher standard of living in order to support your sons.”

  Carl nearly wilted with relief. He was off the hook for a while longer, thank goodness. “W-what about Ellie, my ex-wife?” He simply couldn’t envision Ellie relinquishing her boys.

  “Don’t concern yourself with her,” Dulay advised, a malicious glimmer in his eyes. “She’ll get what she deserves for keeping them from you.”

  A chill rippled down Carl’s spine. Dear God, was there nothing this man couldn’t do?

  “Doing right by your sons is the only way you’ll be one of the Elite,” Dulay added, his gaze darkly compelling. “I need you to trust me implicitly in all things, Carl.”

  Carl swallowed against a dry mouth. “Oh, I do, sir,” he reassured him. “I do.”

  “Well, then,” said Dulay with a dismissive nod, “carry on.” Turning his back on Carl, he strode arrogantly toward his mansion.

  Sean was proud of himself, damned if he wasn’t. Thanks to Solomon’s suggestion, he was firmly in control of his libido. The CO hadn’t even batted an eye on Monday when he’d asked for Thursday and Friday off, leaving him with a four-day weekend in which to dissipate his lust. Tiffany Hughes, an ever-willing playmate from his past, had agreed to let him tag along as she headed up to Williamsburg to compete in the LPGA. By the time he returned to work on Monday, he’d be so sated, he wouldn’t even be able to think about Ellie, no, sir.