by Sue Wilder
“Garrett…”
He bent his head, kissed the tangle of my hair. “When I dream, that’s what I see, trouble. I’ve got the fucking camera case and I’m running across the sand. Then I’m down and bullets are making these divots in the sand. I see them coming closer, but I can’t move. Then two of my guys, they’re with me, shouting. I can’t hear them. I’m dragged because my legs are useless, and it’s slow motion, how each man looks stunned. Men who followed me. Men who dedicated their goddamn lives to doing shit no one should be asked to do. And they were dead because of me, while a reckless woman comes out of it fucking famous and unscathed.”
When I felt the anger he held in check, I sat up and gripped both his hands. “You’re safe with me, Garrett. Let it out, don’t deal with it alone.”
“I am angry,” he said. “Angry because I was on my back in that fucking helicopter for three hours, lying between two brothers I loved, and I hear myself, over and over, asking for forgiveness they can’t give because they’re dead. I’m begging, while the woman screams about how the memory card wasn’t in the case. She keeps ranting on about going back until one guy threatens to throw her out of the bird.”
His inhale ripped through me.
“When I came home, I faced reality. I took that assignment because I was tired of sitting behind a desk. That’s why I was there in Morocco, and why I had to get the camera case despite the obvious risks—because Brandon Slate was right. I couldn’t stop playing fucked-up hero, and two men died because I couldn’t get enough of the rush.”
“Garrett, you’d be dead now if they hadn’t come for you. The risk you took—willingly—was for something worth doing, because it was good and necessary, and they made the same decision, saving you.”
I felt him slipping away and tried desperately to pull him back.
“I would have gone back for you,” I hissed. “I would have risked my life for you.”
“You look at me like you see only the best,” he said roughly. “When all I accomplished in that goddamn desert was failure. I lost men under my command, saving a woman who decides she doesn’t care about illegal arms dealing after all. There’s more money in writing a fucking book. She wants to be famous. Brandon Slate wants to star in the fucking movie and that’s not happening.”
He stood abruptly. I let him go, waited while he crossed to the night-dark windows. “I changed, trouble. I’ve been shot before. Risked my life before. But all it took were those hours in the chopper, those bullets in my back. I can’t function the way I used to, and the decision to leave Ibiza is the only decision I can make and stay sane. I gave control to Con. It was one of his connections who got us out of that desert, and I owed him that much.”
“You were there to save someone’s life,” I said quietly. “Two lives. And you did.”
“Don’t goddamn call that even, trouble.”
“I would never do that. Think that way. My choices were selfish.” I drew in a calming breath, wanting to reach him through my words, my voice, because I had nothing else. “Your choices weren’t selfish, and I know… I know how hard it is, accepting that the decisions we make can hurt other people. They die, and—God—I wish I could go back. I wish I could change things. But we can’t go back. The only choice left is to honor them by how we live our lives. Luna told me that.”
His pain drove me forward. He bent his head while I wrapped my arms around him and pressed my cheek against his back.
“I didn’t mean that to sound harsh,” I whispered. “And I haven’t found forgiveness, either. But listening to you, Garrett, strengthens me. I love who you are, strong, loyal, brave, courageous. I see those traits in you and my life feels lighter because it gives me hope I can reach for those things, too.”
He turned and wrapped his arms tightly around me. I waited for an answer, but he remained silent.
“Come back to bed,” I pleaded. “You’ve had enough stress for one night.” I slid my palms from his back to the ripped muscles of his stomach, tantalizing beneath his shirt. “I have this friend.” I crawled my fingers up to his pecs. “She’s deep into tantric sex, the positions, philosophies. She had a book, with pictures.”
I thrilled when he murmured, “You needed a book with pictures, trouble?”
“Visual aids.” I pressed a kiss to the base of his throat. His skin warmed me. His scent unraveled my control. “And the position on the couch reminded me of what tantric offers. Savoring, drawing each sensation out, letting the energy build. Like sipping whiskey, waiting for the burn. First, it’s bittersweet on your lips. Then the heat wraps around your tongue, tantalizing. Finally, it slides down your throat until the throbbing starts, deep.” I reached for the buttons on his shirt. “Let me show you.”
“Will you be dominant, trouble?” he asked as I slid the material once again from his shoulders.
“Face-to-face, Garrett.” I whipped off my tee with the odd sense that we were repeating a scene, because we hadn’t gotten the first take right. “You won’t even have to move.”
“I think I’ll be moving,” he said against my mouth. “Hard. Deep.”
“Your back…”
“Is fine.” He pulled me down to the floor, and, with one hand, Garrett jerked the loose trousers from my legs. He grunted his approval at my lack of a thong. Then his palms pressed down on my thighs, forced my legs apart, and the sudden, hot stabbing of his tongue had me gasping for breath.
“You like that?” he growled, increasing the torment, the simulated love-making, stroking, laving. His lips closed down hard as he pulled, sucked until I was breathlessly panting.
“It’s too much…” I pushed at his hands.
“Savor,” he ordered. “You’ll tell me if I don’t match the… pictures.”
His dominance was decadent, erotic. The muscles in my legs trembled.
“You’re beautiful, all hot and clenching. I’d never hurt you, trouble.”
His fingers stroked with seductive knowledge, then his tongue until I bowed with desire. My hair fanned across the rug. Whimpers rose taut in my throat.
Where he’d taken me before didn’t compare to where he was taking me now.
“God—Garrett.”
“Feel me.” He pressed deeper with his tongue, withdrew. My body grew taut and ravenous. The friction from his cotton pants sensitized my skin. Moments passed, endless, until the punch of pleasure he delivered took the breath from my lungs. I gripped his head. Regained enough sanity to force him to look at me.
“My turn.”
Untamed, the light in his eyes was potent. He rolled to his side, and I rose to my knees. Heat throbbed through my core as I stripped the cotton pants from his hips. He was beautiful. Virile, dominant. The sight of him aroused desires, both disrupting and daring. Honesty was important, and I offered intimacy in a way I’d never allowed myself to be with a man, always keeping a part of myself guarded. Secret.
I cupped him. Worshiped his sculpted body. Savored the taste of him. The heat. His muscular legs moved against my arms as I held him captive, the way he’d held me, with my mouth. My hands. His fingers twisted in my hair, guiding my head while he murmured with throaty, uncensored words I didn’t understand. Catalan, I realized. He felt safer speaking in Oz’s native language. Revealing thoughts he didn’t want me to hear.
The rose-colored glow from the dying fire highlighted his face, making him look dangerously handsome, savagely determined not to break, and I pushed him toward the place I knew he’d never been with any woman, not the way he’d be with me. Where his hands shook. His body arched, and I crawled up to his chest, cradled his face. Kissed away the tears from his lashes.
“It’s okay, you’re safe with me,” I whispered, using my fingers to smooth the tightened muscles in his forehead. I traced the curve of his eyebrows. The taut press of his lips.
Kissing him gently, I stretched my body over his, and held him while he slept.
We woke once more during the night, and he was hard and deep inside me
while I muffled my cries against his shoulder. In the morning, I woke to find myself curled in a blanket while Garrett moved around the kitchen. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee urged me upright, with a blanket wrapped around my body, but I murmured apologies and hurried up the stairs.
My mouth felt dry. I needed to stand beneath the pelting heat of the shower, reorganize my thoughts. Settle the pounding of my heart as I remembered how I’d pushed him toward a catharsis he might not have wanted.
But we shared secrets in the dark. Now, the result had to be faced in daylight, and if there was regret between us, then I’d deal with it.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Garrett
As trouble ran up the stairs, the pressure increased in my chest. She was like no other woman I’d known. Her touch awakened needs I hadn’t recognized. I craved her body, and I’d never get enough of being inside her. She was sexually addicting. Burned with her sensuality, using her body the way I’d accused her of doing, but luring me toward a place where trust was stronger than fear. Where loneliness disappeared beneath the relief of shared confidences.
She’d charmed with innocent playfulness, stealing my pizza. Then concerned me with her determination to confront Brandon Slate. I’d wanted nothing more than to drag her to my boat, sail away, find a place where only the two of us existed and the past didn’t matter. I accepted the man I was and the life I led. The people I protected. Those I destroyed, firmly admitting the choices were mine, and I’d never looked for redemption.
Redemption was what I found, though, for a few hours last night, and the memory was difficult this morning. Because Max was right. He was always right, about me, anyway. I fought a battle with grief and regret. I wasn’t alone in that battle; thousands of people wallowed in the same emotions. Luna told me the reaction was normal after what I’d been through, and I’d find my way. Move forward again.
I got that. Didn’t take rocket science. And analyzing was Luna’s jam. I listened, because I respected her. Needed some damn light at the end of the tunnel.
The emotion I held close, though, was anger. Losing Oz, the way we did. My mom getting so lost in her grief it took years for her to get back to life. Missy had been left alone to raise Tad Junior—and years ago, I’d turned anger into an asset I wasn’t sure I could set down.
I discovered how anger soothed. Empowered. Made sense of my world. I knew how to focus on the mission. What I didn’t know was how to focus on the person. To feel safe with someone, the way trouble wanted to feel safe.
When she came downstairs, I memorized the sight of her, blonde hair drifting innocently around her face, the slight smile on her lips. She wore the blue cotton sweater I liked. Her jeans fit tight like the jeans she’d worn the day she walked into my bar.
“Hey,” she said, trailing her fingers down my bare arm as she passed, heading toward the coffee. “This is great—fresh coffee I didn’t have to make.”
“I want you to pack,” I told her while she splashed cream and poured the steaming brew. “I don’t want you in this house. I want you at mine.”
“The one next door?”
“No. The one across the bay.”
She watched me over the rim of her mug as she took a first sip. “For how long?”
“Until I resolve the situation.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” Her agreement came too smoothly. “But this house has an effective security system, and there’s a team of vigilant men across the street who follow me everywhere.”
“I’ve decided it’s not enough.”
“And you’re the kind of guy who likes things handled,” she said carefully. “But you seem distracted, like there’s a million thoughts running through your mind, and I’m willing to bet we talked about one of those thoughts last night.”
A muscle in my cheek twitched. “I just need to run a few things down.”
“Do you?”
When I glared, she tipped her head and held the mug close to her lips. I recognized the gesture. Her version of the one I used with a whiskey glass.
“Tell me what’s going on with you,” she said.
“I have Brand to deal with, Billy-Joe. Then we catch Marsh wandering around and I need to know what I’m dealing with right now.”
She set the mug aside. “What you’re dealing with, right now, is me. I told you I didn’t want to hurt you, and I explained why. What happened next was conversation. Then sex. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
“That isn’t what I meant.” I raked a hand through my hair. “I’m a lot like Max.”
“We’re talking about bar fights in kilts now?”
“No, we aren’t talking about bar fights.” I stared at her. “I’ve only lived my life one way, according to my own rules, and I’m trying to figure out what comes next.”
“Nothing comes next. I told you, Garrett, we’re adults with trust issues, caught up in a temporary situation. We will both handle what needs to be handled.”
The warning was clear in her voice. She’d be stubborn about protecting someone, and by going after Brand, she’d convinced herself she was protecting me.
I braced for the coming argument.
“I meant it when I asked you to stay at my house,” I said, taking a sip of coffee and staring hard. “I wasn’t trying to control you.”
She brushed at her hair.
“You’ll like my house,” I coaxed. “It’s big.”
“Where is your house?” she asked cautiously.
I pushed her mug closer to her hand, watched the way her fingers flicked. “Close to the bar. Across the bay, on the side of a hill. With a view.”
“That description sold me as effectively as a junkyard dog sells trespassing. But I’ll agree on one condition.”
Suspicious, I hid behind my mug. “What is it?”
She picked up the coffee. “You don’t obsess about what I’m doing.”
“I don’t.”
“Oh… please.” She rolled her eyes. “What do you call it?”
“Clarify what you mean by obsess,” I demanded, uneasy with her choice of words. If she gave me specifics, at least I’d be able to counter them.
“First, you go to work the way you normally would. That means today. I don’t want you ignoring the bar because of me. Second, I get my pick of bedrooms—how many do you have?”
“Six.”
“For all your many guests?” she mocked gently. “I suppose you have the same number of bathrooms.”
I tipped my head. “And a workout room, entertainment area, an oak soaking tub outside. I had it sent from Japan—can’t find them stateside—and the kitchen has everything I need.”
“So good of you to phrase it like that.”
Her teasing smile was provoking, but I thought we were making progress and was wise enough not to let it go to my head. “I can show you my art collection.”
“I’ve already seen it—all over your back.” The words were out before she realized it, and the shame that crushed her expression rocked through me. “Garrett. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
I stepped forward, cupping her face. “I know you didn’t.”
Lightly, I kissed near her hairline, a sensitive area that I’d discovered last night. Erotic in the sweet way her skin tasted and the tiny gasp I’d heard in her voice. “Go pack. Count on more than a few days.”
“You need days to run a few things down?” she asked with exaggerated innocence.
“If you cooperate,” I lied, because I wanted more time than she would give.
Trouble smiled. Maybe she understood the lie because she laid her palm gently, fleetingly, on my bare chest before walking away. I tugged on the shirt I’d left tossed over a chair. While she was packing, I’d run back to the house I was using, shower and change, grab what I had and return before she finished.
But when I walked back twenty minutes later, carrying my duffel, trouble was outside. She stood on her front walk, talking to Marshal Gray while watering the
pots of red geraniums.
Sunlight caught in her hair, turning the loose strands into spun gold. The relaxation in her stance soothed my apprehension. A person’s posture, when they thought they were unobserved, revealed state-of-mind. If they were oblivious, or braced. Harmless, or hiding aggression.
Marsh didn’t worry trouble. She was comfortable while he pushed at the black-rimmed glasses that didn’t fit his nose. I’d concluded the only clothes he had were wrinkled, and his attention was on the bubbling stream of water flowing into the geranium pots. Diamond-bright droplets sparked everywhere. On the green petals. White cement. The hem of his pants and the toes of his stained tennis shoes.
I dropped my duffel with a thud and walked up to trouble. Placed one hand possessively against her back while I stared at Marsh. “Feeling better?” I asked to be polite.
He looked chagrinned. “I thought I should apologize to Ms. St. Clair for my behavior last night.”
I nodded. “We all get disoriented in the dark.”
“Maybe.” Marsh dropped his gaze to my duffel, then toward the porch, the eye-flick so subtle, I almost missed it. “Anyway… I see you’re busy.” His nod was toward trouble.
“We can talk later,” she offered when he backed away. I glanced over my shoulder toward the porch, curious about what interested him.
An overnight bag, sitting beside a designer duffel that made mine look like something belonging in a gym.
“You ready?” I asked, as trouble turned off the hose.
“I just need to lock up.” She was chewing on her lower lip and watching as Marsh disappeared into his house. I thought she might be wavering in her decision to come with me, and I reacted.
“I’ll take care of it.” The sharp edge in my voice must have startled her because her body language changed. I forced myself to ignore the wariness. Some things had to be done, and I set the alarm, picked up both her bags with one hand, grabbed mine and led her around the house to where my car waited in the drive.
