by Holly Hart
Skye slumps back, as though that admission took all the energy she had.
I believe it.
I feel drained as well, because Skye Warren is right. I brought her here – onto this jet – to impress her.
The story about the share price – that was true. But it was a half-truth at best. I could’ve met her in any one of a dozen apartments across Manhattan, had someone pick her up and spirit her to me in complete secrecy.
No, the reason she’s here – on my plane – is I thought that by dangling this shiny object in front of her, I could buy her trust – buy her desire.
But Skye’s not like that. She’s better than that.
Better than me.
That’s the truth, and it hurts. But I can rise to the challenge she’s setting up for me without knowing she’s thrown down the gauntlet.
Or does she know it?
Maybe I don’t give her enough credit. Maybe Skye knows exactly what she’s doing.
Maybe this is what she planned all along.
I take off my jacket, eyes fixed on Skye, but looking at a place a continent away – a dusty place, full of bombs, bullets, and men with guns. I feel the warmth of Skye’s gaze upon me – curious, now – but I don’t see it.
“You know where I served,” I say. My voice sounds quiet, as though I’m speaking from the bottom of a well. “You know there are things I can’t tell you.”
I pause. One heartbeat. Two heartbeats.
“But there are other things… that I can.”
“At your own pace, Harlan,” Skye says softly. Her voice is calming, almost singsong. I latch on to it, let it guide me. “Just tell me what you feel comfortable sharing.”
My mind idly wonders whether this is what she sounds like when she’s conducting a session – without realizing that’s exactly what she’s doing.
“I’ve killed men,” I admit.
“How many billionaires out there can say that? Sometimes I sit around a boardroom table, and I feel like a stranger. I feel like I don’t belong. How can these people understand what I’ve experienced? Do they even try?”
Skye stays silent. I’m glad of it. Strangely speaking those words was a relief. I’ve kept this heavy truth bundled inside me for far too long. There’s no one I’m able to share it with – my daughter?
No way.
“I’ve had brothers die in my arms. I’ve called down airstrikes on my own position, knowing that I could die, but accepting it because my men would be saved.”
“And –?”
“How did that make me feel?” I spit bitterly, anticipating Skye’s question. My eyes are closed now, and I can smell the cordite in the air now, and hear the helicopters clattering in the distance.
“I wasn’t going to say it in so many words,” Skye says softly. “But your way works too, I guess…”
In spite of myself – and the seriousness of what I’m talking about, I can’t help but smile. Skye didn’t start all this by taking my shit, and she sure as hell isn’t planning to start now.
“It made me feel like shit,” I admit. “Powerless. I resolved that I was never going to feel that way again.”
Something – I don’t know – flashes inside of me. It’s like a light bulb switching on. I feel a kind of lightness inside me, but I can’t for the life of me work out why.
“And that,” Skye says, “is the heart of it, isn’t it? It’s why you are the way you are. It’s why you try to control the world around you – why you try to control me.”
“I – ”
The second word of my protest – don’t – dies in my throat. It dies because I know that Skye is right. This whole trip – this whole time, I’ve been trying to control this beautiful, fiery headed, fiery souled woman.
And this whole time, whether I realized it or not, she’s been controlling me. Shaping the way I think, shaping the way I feel. My eyes are already shut, but I let the darkness envelop me in a desperate attempt to hide from my embarrassment.
I’ve been such an ass.
“Don’t try and deny it,” Skye says. But her voice isn’t hectoring, it isn’t accusing. In fact it’s masterfully pitched. Whoever hired her got one thing right. She’s the goddamn best in the business.
“Okay,” I breathe.
In truth, I’m bristling. Bristling from the memories of the things I’ve been through, bristling from the memories of the men – and women – I left behind.
“Tell me the truth, Harlan.”
“The truth?”
I hear her nodding. Or maybe I imagine it – but I’m sure that my ears pick up the sound of her hair whispering as it kisses her face.
“Tell me the thing you’re hiding from me. The thing you’re hiding from yourself. Whatever it is, I don’t care. You’ll never be able to move past your –,” her voice breaks, “issues without coming to terms with it.”
I pause for a second. Somehow, perhaps in the way Skye said those words, she gave me an insight. I think when she speaks, she reveals as much about herself as about me.
My throat is gripped by a sudden burst of emotion the likes of which I haven’t felt in years.
I’m Harlan Wolfe. I’m cold, ruthless – a killer. I’m the kind of man who’s deadly for America’s enemies, and now I’m as ruthless when I make money in her markets.
And yet today, with Skye by my side, I’m a different Harlan Wolfe. I’m the kind of man not afraid to give into my emotions. The kind of man who’s afraid, that if he doesn’t give in, then the goodness in his life will seep through his cupped hands. I don’t mean my money:
my daughter.
“I –,” I take a deep breath, preparing myself for a truth that no one in my life – bar one person, one angel – knows.
“You can tell me, Harlan,” Skye whispers.
And in her voice I hear something different than anything I’ve ever heard before – I hear acceptance. I know that no matter what happens in life, Skye will never judge me, not like some. She’s not in it for my money. If she was, she wouldn’t be doing this. She’s doing this because she wants to help.
“I had a wife,” I croak, “Ashley Ward, then Wolfe. She was a medical corpsman, Charlie Company in the Marine Corps 1st Combat Medical. The best woman I’ve ever known.”
To her credit, Skye doesn’t let my revelation interrupt her, not even for a second. She’s just heard my deepest secret without blinking.
“What happened to her? To Ashley?” She asks.
“Her squad was doing a run, clearing IED’s from some dusty road in the middle of fuck nowhere,” I say, losing myself in my past once again.
I hear the satellite phone ringing in my head. I hear the call that gave me the news the turned me into the man I am today.
“They were stretched – too many bombs, too few men and women. They didn’t have enough guns on perimeter security. By the time the quick reaction force got to them, it was too late…”
“Harlan,” Skye whispers. “I’m so sorry…”
I clench my jaw, doing my best to ward off the tears. But it’s useless. I feel like I punctured a dam inside me, and now hot lava streams out of my eyes, and I’m incapable of stopping it.
But I’m glad of one thing. I’m glad Skye hasn’t tried to reassure me with empty words. I’ve had enough people tell me that my wife died a hero. I don’t need that from Skye as well.
“And that’s why you are the way you are,” Skye says.
I’m so wrapped up in my own grief that I’m not sure I’m hearing right, but she sounds closer to me.
“That’s why you built Wolfe Capital – because you felt powerless over the death of your wife. There was nothing you could do to save her. You never wanted to be in that position again.”
I nod, and hot tears drip down my front as they are shaken loose. Now it seems like after a decade of hiding from the truth, now I can’t stop talking.
But there’s one thing I hold back. I’m not sure why – maybe the same need to be in control. I don’t tell her about
my daughter. Not yet.
“When I heard the news, I was in the field. I got the hell out, sweet talked and bullied my way onto half a dozen choppers and planes. Benefits of being in spec ops,” I say with black humor coloring my voice, “people think you’re important. That there’s somewhere you’ve got to be.”
My hand grips the seat rest as I remember the hours ticking by. My nails dig into the soft, expensive leather. I smell the aviation fuel on the air, and the sweat of the door gunners. I remember the way the rotor wash kicked up sand into my face, and the way the sun’s fierce heat blasted my cheeks. But more than anything, I remember the feeling of utter powerlessness that consumed me on that long journey.
“I was too late,” I whisper. “I never got to say goodbye. She was medevac’d, made it to the hospital, even. But she’d lost too much blood.” I let out a deep, shaky breath that seems to expel half my body’s heat.
I say it again. “I never got to say goodbye…”
The silence hangs heavy between me and Skye. It takes me a few long, hard seconds to master my breathing, to stop the flow of tears running down my face. When I finally force them open, Skye’s not where I left her, sitting in the plush seat opposite me.
She’s standing in front of me. Her cheeks seem flushed with sadness, her eyes almost as wet as mine.
“Thank you, Harlan,” she says in a broken, yet nevertheless strong voice.
“I need you to know – I can’t be her.”
She takes a pace forward, and then she’s in front of me, and I’m forced to look up to keep my eyes on her face.
“I can’t be Ashley. I can’t be your wife. I can never be that.”
She crouches in front of me.
“But I can be something different, if you’ll let me in?”
She stops, dangling the question in the air like bait to a fish. But there’s nothing dishonest about it. There’s nothing dishonest about Skye, full stop.
She’s right.
She can’t be Ashley. But I can’t have Ashley. I realize that now – and a woman as good as my dead wife would never have wanted me to be lonely all these years.
Because the truth is, no matter how good my life seems, it’s been missing the most important thing.
And if I spend all my days grieving, I’ll never be able to raise my daughter the way she deserves.
I reach forward, cupping Skye’s cheek. God, she looks so damn perfect. I don’t want to screw her, not right now. Hell, that’s the last thing on my mind. I just want to taste her.
to thank her,
to kiss her,
“Thank you,” I croak, from the bottom of my heart.
I know that one conversation one time with one woman won’t be what fixes me. But if anyone can, it’ll be Skye.
I stroke her cheek with my thumb, then push my hand forward, entangling my fingers in her hair. I hold the back of Skye’s head and pull her toward me. She doesn’t resist. Her eyes, now wet, are glistening with an even deeper blue.
I am not afraid to admit it. I’ve never seen a woman as enticing as Skye Warren. Okay – maybe one, but I’m a different man now than I was then.
I’ve seen things, done things that have changed me forever. But if there’s anyone who can lead me out of the darkness, it’s Skye.
I pull her the last couple of inches, and then her lips graze mine. It’s electric. I’ve seen her naked, done things to her that are unspeakable – graphic things.
Yet this, this is different.
This is perfect, because it means something. I feel like we’ve shared a moment that will change both of our lives for the better, forever.
“Thank you, Skye,” I whisper.
I don’t know what I’m thinking her for – for everything, perhaps. Just for being here…
… or maybe this kiss.
Because it’s not like any kiss I ever remember. It’s like we’re made for each other. I pull Skye forward yet more, and rest her on my lap. Her heat blends with mine.
It’s as if we are one person. I wouldn’t change this moment for anything in the world.
Chapter Thirteen
Skye
After that kiss, everything happens so fast. Within a couple of hours, we land at an airfield in California, then another driver whisks us to Harlan’s cabin in the woods above Lake Tahoe. It’s hard to keep up.
It’s a magnificent home in a magnificent spot with a magnificent view – all glass and steel – that somehow blends into the environment, as though the sparkling, translucent glass has become a part of the forest itself, reflecting and concentrating and redoubling the view.
Yet I barely see it.
I’m still spinning, spinning, spinning from the kiss, and spinning from everything that Harlan has shared with me.
He had A Wife! He had A Wife who died. I knew he was hiding something, I just never expected it to be so…
… heartbreaking.
I understand now how he became the man he is today. His wife’s death drove him to build walls around himself – to protect his mind from any more hurt.
So now I’m forced to confront a painful question.
Am I the right person to tear down those walls?
Am I just using Harlan for my own purposes? Am I only with him so I can get the elusive orgasm that I hope will break down my own walls? Do I want the man he is, or just the thing that’s dangling between his legs?
I don’t know. Until I know, I can’t give myself over to him, not completely. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.
Harlan strides into my bedroom and throws a small pack onto the manicured array of cushions and pillows and bed sheets. The room itself is perfect – including, somehow, a fully stocked wardrobe, all in my size.
“What’s that supposed to be?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“What does it look like?” Harlan chuckles. “Come on, princess, we’re going hiking.”
“Hiking?” I say with genuine shock. “I thought we were going skiing, or something?”
“Skiing? What, you think I’m made of money?” Harlan winks at me. “Besides, look out the window and tell me how much snow you see. It’s June. The white stuff melted weeks ago. Don’t worry, though,” he says, taking a pace towards me and lazily stroking his palm down the side of my torso. “I’ll take you next year…”
Next year?
For some reason, that thought shocks me. I know I shouldn’t react that way – after all, I was the one who coaxed Harlan into opening up. I just didn’t expect it to happen so…
Fast.
“Besides, you’ll love it, I know you will. The mountains around here are like nothing you’ve ever seen. Meet you out front in ten?”
I don’t know why, but I was surprised to realize that Harlan is into hiking. That’s silly, really. After all, he was in the Navy SEALs. If you join an elite organization like that, I guess you better be prepared to do a lot of Bootpacking!
“That’s what they call it, right?” I ask Harlan as we’re sucking in air after a particularly steep section of trail.
I’ve kept a couple of paces behind him this whole time. The man has a magnificent rump, and I’m not afraid to admit that a part of me is happy we’re out here all alone. Together. I don’t want to share either of these views with anyone else!
“Huh?”
“Bootpacking. That’s what you do in the military, right? It’s your fancy word for walking.”
Harlan grins. “Uhh… right. So you’re a Frog Hog now?”
I frown, racking my brain for the term. “Frog hog?”
“Yeah,” he chuckles, “it’s what they call women who go after us Navy SEALs. You wouldn’t believe how many hang around bars down by Coronado, just waiting to get their hands on a sexy, unshaved –”
I make a face. “I really don’t want to know what you got up to back when you were younger, Harlan,” I wink.
But you can call me a Frog Hog if you like. You can call me any kind of hog, as long as I get stuffed!
I flush a touch at the filth passing through my mind.
“I had my own woman, remember,” Harlan says with a wistful smile.
It doesn’t bother me that he’s talking about his dead wife. It’s a good thing, really. That kind of emotion is the last thing I’d ever ask a man to bottle up.
I’m not so fragile that I feel the need to be in competition with a woman like Ashley Wolfe. In my line of work, I’ve seen jealousy sink relationships enough time to know that it’s just not worth it.
“Hey, you’re looking a bit red,” Harlan says, unintentionally referencing the effect my embarrassment is having on my cheeks. “Want me to cream you up?”
“Oh yes,” I say with unexpected vigor. “But not like that. Don’t worry – I think I’m just a bit … a bit out of breath.”
Harlan gazes at me for a couple of seconds. That’s the only way I can describe how he’s looking at me.
I kind of like it. I never expected to be in the middle of this – I don’t even know what to call it – holiday? Affair? But whatever it is, it’s like a dream. And I don’t want to wake up.
“See,” he says. “I told you you’d like hiking.”
I laugh. “We’ll see. I’m happy as long as you keep walking out front, and as long as I get to watch…”
Harlan mock salutes me, spins and jogs ahead.
“I didn’t say you had to run,” I mutter with fake sourness.
But I follow him without complaining.
We hike – sometimes laughing, sometimes engaging in deep conversation, sometimes just in companionable silence. Harlan hauls me up treacherous sections of rock, and sometimes he doesn’t let go of my hands.
I don’t argue.
We hike until my arms have sprouted a thousand new freckles from the sun, and then some more. We hike until my legs are bone tired, and I’m practically ready to swoon into Harlan’s muscular arms and just let him carry me home.
Not that I would, of course. A girl’s got to seem at least a little self-reliant… although the thought of Harlan cuddling up to me is – I’ll admit it – hard to resist.
“Tired?” Harlan asks, hiking – no pun intended – his eyebrow up as we near his cabin on the route back home.
