Maverick

by Lisa Marie Rice

  The instant that thought struck him, he knew he was in deepest, deepest shit, because the problem with all of these women was that none of them were Claire, and Claire would never walk this earth again.

  So he told himself he was too busy building his business to have time for sex, and tried to forget about it. Which was okay during the day, sometimes, but his wayward head betrayed him at night, when likely as not he’d fall asleep thinking of her, wake up thinking of her, and suspected that the dreams he could never remember were of her.

  It was insane. He remembered every second he’d spent with her that last day. He remembered the sound of her voice, the curve of her cheek, that lock of shiny pale-blonde hair curling over her shoulder.

  He remembered the hot kiss, the taste of her mouth, the shape of her tongue, the feel of her skin, the smell of her.

  He remembered the affection in her voice as she spoke of her father. Above all, he remembered how strong and brave she’d been, alone with him in an Embassy in a city under siege, with no guarantees that it would end well. And it hadn’t, not for her, anyway.

  It hadn’t ended well for him, either. He’d blown out a knee and an eardrum, didn’t have a spleen anymore, and had spent three months in physical rehab. Worst of all, he’d never be an active-duty Marine again, which was like a kind of death.

  Not Claire’s kind of death, though. She was gone forever. Nothing he could do and nothing he could say would change that.

  Dan hardly recognized himself. He didn’t do mooning. He never wanted what he couldn’t have. He was a hard-headed, practical man. He was a fucking Marine, for fuck’s sake. Even with a busted knee, no spleen, and one eardrum blown out, he was a Marine. Once a Marine, always a Marine, forever. And Marines took life exactly as it was and didn’t wish for the impossible.

  So, what was with the wanting a dead woman? What was that about?

  Claire Day was never coming back, and he had to recognize that before he blew a gasket or his dick shrivelled from lack of use. Maybe he should just… what? Accept the advances of a couple of the less loony-sounding women? Only, how could he tell? It’s not as if they had an I’m only temporarily deranged due to the news report but am actually very sane sign hung around their necks.

  Maybe he should have them vetted by Roxanne. Yeah, that would work. Roxanne would have made a great Marine. She cut straight through any BS and was as tough as any Drill Instructor he’d ever had.

  So let her sift through all the phone calls and letters and e-mails to see if there was anyone viable he could date. Maybe go to bed with, just to get Claire Day out of his head.

  Jesus.

  He rested his forehead on his hand a minute, tired and frustrated that the thought of just going out and bedding a woman didn’t hold any appeal at all.

  The intercom crackled to life. “Dan, the lady has arrived.”

  “Damn it, Roxanne, I don’t have time for this,” he growled.

  “Uh huh. Yeah, I know. But she said to say that the two of you worked together in Makongo. Her name is—"

  She conferred with someone, and as Dan heard the soft voice replying, he sat up straight, electrified. Christ, it sounded like—. But that was crazy.

  “Blondie,” Roxanne said. “She said her name is Blondie.”

  He raced for the door, not even feeling his feet. He wrenched the door open and—God, yes! Oh Jesus, yes.

  Claire. Claire.

  “My God,” he breathed, hanging on to the door frame, hoping his metal knee wouldn’t collapse. “You’re alive.”

  There she was. Much thinner, very pale, with short-cropped hair and deep purple bruises under her eyes. Looking sad and lost and lonely. But definitely Claire.

  In two strides he was with her. He pulled her up by her elbows and put his arms around her. At the last minute, he realized she was trembling badly, so he kept his embrace loose, when what he really wanted to do was pull her tightly against him, using all his strength, and never let her go.

  She felt so… fragile. As if her bones would bend under his hands. Dan was about to let her go when he suddenly felt her hands clench around his back and her forehead bury itself in his shoulder.

  An enormous shudder worked its way through her body. She sobbed once, a harsh sound coming from deep in her chest, then she pulled in a sharp breath to stop another one coming out.

  She was trembling so hard, Dan was scared she might hurt herself, so he wrapped himself around her, keeping his hold gentle. His eyes rose to meet Roxanne’s kind, chocolate-brown eyes. She looked troubled.

  It’s okay, he mouthed, then bent his head back to Claire’s. They stood there, clinging to each other. Claire to keep upright and Dan to make sure she wasn’t a mirage and wouldn’t disappear again from his life.

  “I thought you were dead,” he said finally into her hair. That glorious, pale, shiny hair, now cut boy-short. It was still as soft as he remembered, though. Like goose down.

  He kept his voice low and had to swallow against a tight throat.

  It was as if he hadn’t spoken. Claire pulled away slightly, and though it cost him, he let go of her. He kept his hands loose, ready to catch her if she fell. She looked as if a strong wind would blow her away.

  Claire watched his eyes carefully, as if there might be something very important in them. “You know me,” she whispered. “You remember me. Oh God, it’s not all in my head.”

  She swayed and Dan gripped her elbows. He wasn’t going to force her to have this conversation on her feet. She looked close to collapse.

  “Yes, I know you.” Dan kept his voice gentle. “But I thought you were dead. I thought you died in the blast. Listen, why don’t we go into my office and…” Stay with me. I’ll never let you go again. “…and we can catch up.”

  “Oh yes,” she breathed, sounding relieved. She turned and with shaking hands gathered her purse and umbrella. Dan ushered her into his office, then stuck his head back out. “Roxanne, how about—"

  “Coffee,” Roxanne said promptly. “Lots of it, black and strong. Milk and sugar. Croissants from the French pastry shop across the street.”

  Bless her. At that moment, Dan loved her. “You be sure to tell that husband of yours he’s a lucky man.”

  “I do, constantly.” Their eyes met, and Dan could read infinite kindness there. “Go on in, I’ll bring the coffee soon.”

  He nodded and placed a hand at Claire’s back. Because it was the gentlemanly thing to do, but also because she looked like she needed it.

  Once inside his office, he took her coat and showed her to the most comfortable armchair, the one he sometimes took a short snooze in. He didn’t sit behind his desk. He sat on the couch, at right angles to her.

  She sat down gingerly, at the edge of the seat, and folded her hands in her lap. Her hands were trembling. Dan looked at them, wanting to hold them so badly he hurt with it.

  What the hell.

  He reached over and encased her hands in his. They were ice-cold. He didn’t say anything, just sat there until her hands warmed up a little and stopped trembling.

  She watched his eyes carefully, unmoving.

  She opened her mouth, then closed it.

  “What?” Dan kept his voice low and gentle.

  “I—you’re going to think I’m crazy.”

  He tightened his grip on her hands. “I’m pretty tolerant. Why don’t you try me?”

  She drew in a deep breath, like someone about to dive, then stopped.

  He simply waited, hands over hers.

  “Were we—were we lovers?” she finally whispered, then gasped at her own words.

  She really was crazy. Completely blitzed, off her rocker.

  Claire waited, trembling.

  Of all the things she could have asked—Do you remember me? You were there the day of the bombing. What happened?—that was the one that burst forth out of her mouth. It was a massively embarrassing question. Insane, actually. But it had welled up out of her with an unstoppable force, the words
out before she even knew she was going to say them.

  The thing was, there’d been some... image, some aura of her having been intimate with him.

  It wouldn’t have been such an awful question if he’d been a less attractive man. But the fact of the matter was that he was almost insanely attractive, in a very rough way.

  When she’d had her meltdown out in the reception area, her arms had been unable to encompass his immensely broad back. His muscles had been like steel, and she’d clung to him the way you’d cling to a girder in a storm. Hard, unyielding, safe.

  She didn’t date much, but the men she did date—had dated, when she still had a life—were metrosexuals. Soft and funny and even a little flighty. Daniel Weston was the exact opposite of her usual date. He was hard and serious, and right now she wanted to cling to him and never let him go.

  And he was letting her cling to his hands, letting the crazy lady work out whatever nuttiness was in her head. Which was obviously filled with fluff because the first thing she’d talked about was… being his lover.

  Where had that come from?

  Obviously it had come from her deep loneliness and sorrow. A year completely alone, she falls into the arms of a dangerously attractive man—a very male man—and Crazy Claire goes right off the deep end. It was totally humiliating, and if she had any backbone at all, she’d stand up, apologize for bothering him, and fly straight back to Safety Harbor.

  Except… her cold hands were encased in his large, brown, warm ones, and they felt so good there. She looked down at them, suddenly ashamed of herself. Of her weakness. Her inability to remember anything, the constant feeling of standing over an abyss.

  “No, we weren’t lovers. Why do you ask that?” Daniel Weston was watching her carefully, eyes dark and intelligent.

  She told the truth. “I don’t know. I have no idea why I said that. It wasn’t what I was going to ask at all.”

  His gaze was so steady. “What were you going to ask?”

  “If you were with me,” she answered simply, watching him. “That day. The day of the bombing.” The day her world died.

  He didn’t answer, simply bowed his head, eyes fixed on hers.

  Yes!

  There’d been no one she could talk to, no one at all. The entire staff had been at Crock-of-Shit’s reception, all the Marines at Marine House. Marie was dead.

  By the time she’d woken from the coma, Crocker had retired and most of the staff had been reassigned. There was no one that she knew of to ask. She’d been alone with her nightmares and the black hole in her head instead of memories.

  “You were there, on guard,” she whispered. He had to have been. An Embassy was never left without a Marine Guard.

  She hadn’t even thought of that.

  Claire Day, able to write a report on threat levels based on scanty intel and still be right, had been totally unable to think her way through this. “You weren’t at Marine House?”

  “No. I was at the Embassy,” he answered soberly.

  “Because I can’t remember anything,” Claire whispered, searching his dark eyes for answers. “Nothing at all. The last thing I remember was the reception at the French Embassy.”

  “November 18th.” He nodded. “A whole week before. My first official day of duty was November 17th, but I spent that day and the next being briefed. You don’t remember anything? Anything at all?”

  “No.” She didn’t tell him of her nightmares, the incessant heat, the whispers and gunfire. “Nothing. It’s like this huge hole in my head. And I’m sorry about the question about being lovers. I have no idea where that came from.” She gave a little half laugh that came out sad and unfunny, and decided to tell the unpleasant truth. “I sustained massive head injuries. I’ve had… problems since the bombing.”

  A swift knock, and the voice of the receptionist through the door. “Dan? Can I come in?”

  He released her hands, stood, and walked swiftly to the door, opening it. Her hands immediately felt cold again.

  The receptionist stood on the threshold with a big tray, holding a pot of coffee, two big mugs, a sugar bowl, a milk pitcher, and two plates, each with a huge croissant on it. She set the tray on the coffee table and stood back, eyeing him, then eyeing Claire with a worried expression on her face.

  Claire was ashamed of the way she’d behaved earlier, falling apart in this man’s lobby, making this very nice lady worry about her. She drummed up a smile. “Thank you so much. The coffee smells delicious.”

  The woman’s worried expression lightened slightly. “You’re welcome. You two eat every bite now, you hear me?”

  Daniel Westin snorted. “Yes, ma’am.” He rolled his eyes at Claire after snapping off a military salute. “You’d better obey Roxanne here, because her revenge is swift and brutal if her orders are ignored.”

  The receptionist smiled, showing dazzling white teeth, and swatted him on the arm. The air of affection between them was palpable. “Go on now. You just make sure that girl eats something. She looks like she’s about ready to fall down.” She turned and met Claire’s eyes. “Did you have breakfast this morning?”

  Claire was taken aback by the first personal question anyone had asked her in over a year.

  “Um, no.” She sketched a shaky smile. “Lucky thing, too. I flew up from Florida, and it was one of the most turbulent flights I’ve ever been on. The lady sitting next to me tossed her breakfast right into the barf bag.”

  Roxanne shook her finger. “And I’ll bet you anything you didn’t eat much yesterday, either.”

  Actually, Claire hadn’t eaten anything the day before except for some milk and honey. She’d come back from the cemetery so depressed that her appetite, never strong since she’d woken from the coma, had deserted her completely. The hot milk and honey had been to warm her up.

  “Uh huh,” Roxanne replied nodding, as if she’d spoken. “I thought so.” She pointed a slender brown finger at the tray, looking first at Daniel then at Claire. “I don’t want to find even crumbs on that plate.”

  Daniel grinned. “Yes, ma’am.” And gave another ironic salute.

  The door closed quietly behind her and Daniel bent to the tray, giving her a sharp-eyed glance. “Roxanne’s right,” he said quietly. “Try to eat something. You do look like you’re about ready to fall down.”

  In her previous life, Claire would have bristled like a cat at those words. She’d never taken orders well, and was lucky that she often worked alone. Few Embassies could afford two DIA analysts, and so she was always at the top of her own pecking order. No bosses and no colleagues, just as she liked it.

  But right now, what he said was so palpably true her indignation lobe just switched off.

  “How do you take your coffee?” he asked.

  “Black,” she replied.

  He looked at her, a long, penetrating look out of those intelligent dark eyes. “Are you sure you don’t want to try the coffee with some milk and sugar? Might be a bit easier on an empty stomach.”

  Claire shrugged. “Okay.” And watched as he made the coffee almost white and refrained from wincing as he proceeded to dump half the sugar bowl into the mug.

  “Here.” He put a plate with a huge croissant in front of her, followed by a mug of pale coffee. “Those come from a French pastry shop across the way, and they’re not half bad.”

  Claire leaned forward carefully, checking her stomach. To her astonishment, it wasn’t closing up like a fist, it wasn’t lurching back in horror. It was… quiet. Calm, peaceful. Not noticing that she was about to eat something. Maybe thinking of something else.

  She pulled off a corner and smiled. The exact same buttery smell wafted up of the croissants she used to eat in Paris, except this croissant was about three times the size. A croissant on steroids, but excellent just the same, she found as she put the soft puff of pastry in her mouth. Heaven.

  Dan was watching her carefully, nudging the mug closer to her. “The coffee now.”

  Okay. It did
n’t taste of coffee, it tasted of milk and a mountain of sugar, but it was warm and went down and stayed down.

  He nodded as she sipped. “So… you don’t remember anything?” His jaw muscles rippled. “Nothing at all?”

  Claire shook her head, tearing off another small bite. “No.” Her voice came out almost a whisper. She cleared her throat and pushed her diaphragm to make her voice stronger. “Nothing. I read some of the after-action reports, but it was like… like reading about the Beirut bombing of the Marine Barracks back in 1992, which we did in my poli-sci classes at Georgetown. It felt sort of long ago and far away, you know what I mean?”

  He nodded soberly.

  “But—" She took another sip of the overly sweet brew and put the mug back down. The room was quiet. The reception area had overlooked Barron Street, but this office overlooked a series of back gardens, lushly green in the damp air.

  “But?” he prodded quietly, and Claire nearly wept with frustration.

  There’d been something she wanted to say. A memory had flashed across her mind. Or maybe not a memory—a vision.

  It was gone now, like so many things in her life. It had retreated back into the big black hole of her mind.

  “Nothing,” she whispered. How could she tell him she saw things that came and went? And that she had difficulty distinguishing reality from visions? He’d think she was insane, and he wouldn’t be far off the mark.

  Change the subject. It was a tactic she’d developed this past year, when she found herself forgetting things that everyone knew, or blurting out something that made people look at her as if she’d just been beamed down from Mars. When that happened, she changed the subject. Comment on something entirely different.

  Her mind whirred uselessly as she checked the room for a diversion, but nothing presented itself. The furnishings were bland, not expensive, not cheap. Bookshelves, a couple of framed certificates.

  Her eyes alit on the Washington Post on the coffee table, open to the Politics section. She’d had zero interest in politics this past year, but something about the article arrested her attention. A photograph. Of a smiling, good-looking man.