Big Guns Out of Uniform

by Nicole Camden

  “No, not okay.” Delia shook her head, and he urged her toward the table. “Enrique had a heart attack,” she began as Nick popped open a couple of beers. Then she told him about the conference, and her unexpected trip to Paris.

  Nick’s eyes went dark with emotion. “So just like that, you have to go? Tomorrow?”

  Delia nodded. “It’s my job.”

  Nick got up and began to pace the kitchen floor, one big hand set at the back of his neck. “How long?” he demanded, his voice gruff.

  Delia felt her frustration spike. “Jeez, it’s my job, Nick,” she said again. “I’ll be gone ten days, and it’s the career opportunity of a lifetime.”

  Nick turned to stare at her. “Ten days?” he said. “You’ll barely make it home for Christmas. Can’t someone else go?”

  Delia had never heard his voice so cool. “Hey, look, I’m sorry if this is putting a crimp in your sex life,” she said. “So it’s almost Christmas! What were you expecting? That I’d dress up like an elf and play sit-on-Saint-Nick’s-lap?”

  Nick’s expression darkened. “Damn it, Delia, I don’t appreciate your cynicism right now.”

  Delia stared up at him. “Hey, Nick, I’m sorry,” she said, softening her tone. “I shouldn’t be so sarcastic. But I came to tell you something else, too. I came to tell you…” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I came to tell you that I can’t keep doing this.”

  His tread was heavy as he approached the table. “Doing what?”

  Delia opened her eyes. He was bent over the table now, his hands spread wide on the wooden surface. “Doing what, Delia?” he demanded. “Being with me? Is that what this is about?”

  “Fucking you, Nick,” she said, feeling something inside her wither and die. “Having meaningless, mindless sex with you. I mean, it’s good, but I have obligations. I have to think rationally.”

  Nick lifted both hands, slammed them on the table, then turned his back on her. “Maybe, Delia—just maybe—if you didn’t think so damned much, if you didn’t have your nose shoved in so many friggin’ textbooks, if you didn’t pick apart and analyze every goddamn thing a man does or doesn’t do—then maybe our sex wouldn’t be so fucking meaningless and mindless. Did you ever think of that, Delia? Did you?”

  Delia drew back an inch. “Whoa, where’d that come from?” she asked. “Look, Nick, we knew this had to end eventually. I mean—didn’t we? So maybe eventually should be now? I have to go to Paris, and as soon as I get back, I’m moving.”

  “So you sold the house?” His voice was cold. Dead.

  “I think so.” Delia bit her lip. “My realtor says I may have to move fast, so she’s arranging for the bank to give me a loan against the equity for a condo in Chapel Hill.”

  “In Chapel Hill,” echoed Nick, as if it were the backside of the moon instead of a ten-minute drive.

  “Yes.” Delia tried to smile. “So I guess now I can even afford that new car,” she added a little sadly.

  “So while you’re gone, I should just shit-can the old one along with our relationship, Delia?” he asked. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  “God, no, Nick! You don’t know how deeply I appre—”

  “Delia, just don’t fucking start with that gratitude crap, okay?”

  “Yes. Okay. But I appreciate you, Nick. I really do. This has been special. A precious, wonderful time for me. I…I thank you for that. Don’t say I can’t, Nick.”

  “Yeah, special,” he repeated. “Well, I’m glad I showed you a good time, darlin’.”

  Delia just sat there, watching her beer fizz. “Look, Nick, I don’t know what I’m supposed to say here,” she whispered. “This feels like a game with no rules. What do you want? What am I doing wrong?”

  He was silent for a long moment, and when he spoke, his voice was calmer, his tone softer. “Nothing, Doc,” he finally said. “You’re right. And I know you’ve got obligations. I do, too. But it was good while it lasted, wasn’t it? At least tell me that much.”

  “Yes, Nick,” she said softly. “It was good.”

  Nick shrugged and turned away again. “So, have a nice trip, Doc,” he said, bracing his hands on the kitchen counter. “A nice life, too. I’m sorry I’m being a jerk. And I’m sorry this is so easy for you to walk away from. But hey, I wish you well.”

  Delia stood a little unsteadily and braced her hand on the back of her chair. “I never said it was easy, Nick,” she whispered. “I never said that.”

  But Nick kept his back to her. And finally, not knowing what else to do, Delia walked out of Nick’s kitchen, and out of Nick’s life. Then she walked on home, blinking back tears, and started packing.

  A REAL CLOSE CALL.

  Nick listened to Delia’s departing footsteps and decided that that was what he’d just had. And it was as close as he’d ever come to making a complete fool of himself, too. Good God, he should have seen this coming.

  For a long moment he simply stood with his hands clenched tight on the kitchen counter, willing himself not to do something unutterably stupid—like chase Delia down and drag her back inside the house. Instead, Nick tried to steady his breathing and focus on his brush with disaster. He had been kidding himself. He wasn’t commitment material, and Delia had sense enough to know it. Besides, it was just sex. Not a relationship. Hadn’t he once said as much to Delia?

  Yes, and he’d never un-said it, either.

  Okay, so maybe—just maybe—that was a part of the problem? Nick felt as if his fingers were digging into the damned Formica. Maybe there had been too much sex and not enough romance? Hell, men didn’t know the difference. Maybe he should have wined and dined her a bit? Or taken her to Georgia for Thanksgiving? Or told her how he felt. Yeah, that one. Door Number Three, dumb shit.

  But the truth was, he hadn’t been ready to share Delia, and it had taken him weeks to figure out how he felt. And when he had, it had scared the hell out of him. They had known each other less than two months. Everything had felt so fragile. So tenuous. So it had seemed better—safer—to just keep Delia to himself, to try to maintain what they had, and avoid the ravages of day-to-day life that could sometimes rip the heart out of even a strong, deep-rooted relationship.

  And she was right, they both had obligations. Big ones. Demanding careers and a hard daily grind. And all they’d had together so far had been a time out of place, a fantasy. But he wasn’t stupid. He’d known that was going to have to change. That eventually he’d need to brave the world and all its dangers with Delia. Still, he hadn’t moved fast enough, had he?

  Jesus! Nick bent down and picked up Click, who was rubbing his way around his ankles. He had to stop thinking of ifs and maybes. That way lay madness. It always did when you tried to figure women out. And it didn’t matter anyhow, because Delia had been way too determined to get rid of him.

  Nick pressed his cheek against Click’s and considered it. Yep, she’d been calm, cool, and pretty damned collected. A woman on a mission. Dump Nick Woodruff. The words were probably penciled in her Day-Timer, right between take out the trash and pick up the dry cleaning. It felt like a blow coming out of nowhere. But it wasn’t. A blind man could have seen it.

  An idiot. He was a goddamned idiot. Still carrying the cat, Nick went back into his office, jerked open the drawer he’d just closed, dropped the plane ticket into the trash, then picked up the phone and dialed his dad.

  Chapter Seven

  Delia’s ten days in the city of romance were anything but romantic. Paris in December was bleak, and her heart felt much the same. She spent her evenings alone in her room instead of networking, in the halfhearted hope that Nick would call. Which was ridiculous, since he had absolutely no way of finding her. Still, she was plagued by a gnawing sense of having made a dreadful misjudgment. Of having moved too quickly. Given up too soon. Something.

  She was a psychology professor, for God’s sake! But where Nick was concerned, she was acting like…well, like a woman. A once-bitten, twice-shy kind of
woman. Making assumptions. Thinking the worst. Giving up without talking. Jeez, she was turning into the kind of female that drove family therapists insane. There was probably even a diagnostic code for her sort of neurotic behavior.

  But Nick hadn’t put up much of a fight, had he? Only his pride had seemed wounded. She hoped he at least missed the sex. Delia missed it; missed a lot more than just that. Nick wouldn’t have much trouble finding another woman to warm his bed, and she knew it.

  So one day, out of sheer boredom and sexual frustration, Delia did something she’d never done before. She played hooky. She skipped her afternoon meetings, and went strolling through the rue du Faubourg St.-Honoré, with the vague notion of buying herself some sexy lingerie. Just in case. And, she boldly decided, some dark chocolates. Maybe a big old pink vibrator, too, while she was at it. Yeah, just in case…

  Delia found everything she wanted in one decadent little shop and returned to her hotel with two red shopping bags and a four-hundred-dollar Visa bill she couldn’t afford. She only hoped they didn’t search her luggage at the airport. For the rest of the conference, she tried to stay focused on her career, dragging on one of her business suits every morning and trotting downstairs to sip dark, bitter coffee and do the old grip-and-grin routine with her colleagues.

  At least her lecture went well. So well that on the final day of the conference, Delia was asked to collaborate on a new research project at the University of Copenhagen. An invitation to attend the European Congress of Psychology in Vienna followed, a serious honor for both herself and the school.

  So Delia should have headed for the airport that Friday feeling quite pleased with herself, but she didn’t. The flight was long, the landing rough, and Delia’s mood was not improved when her plane was grounded at Dulles. Her need to get home was reaching a feverish pitch. But snow and ice was pummeling its way toward the East Coast, taking a toll on the airports. Pittsburgh and Chicago had already closed. Up and down Concourse C, flight delays were flashing as frantic gate agents announced re-routings and cancellations. Hard-bitten business travelers already lined the corridors, bellowing into their cell phones like lunatics. The college kids had given up hope and lay scattered about the terminal using backpacks for pillows. Yep, it was going to be a long night.

  Feeling tired and grubby, Delia scrubbed herself from head to toe in the Red Carpet Club and put on fresh clothes. Then she bought a frozen yogurt, propped her feet up on her briefcase, and started checking her office voice mail. Three hours, two yogurts, and a dead cell phone later, United performed a miracle. The club attendant announced her plane was boarding.

  The flight was mercifully uneventful, and after circling Raleigh for thirty minutes while a runway was plowed, they touched down in a ferocious shudder, the last flight in before RDU shut completely down. Unfortunately, when they inched up to the gate, the plane hit a patch of ice and slid into the jetway, jamming up its hydraulics. Delia wanted to rip out her hair by the roots.

  An hour later the passengers finally disembarked, made their way through baggage claim, then strolled out into a winter wonderland. Delia dragged her suitcases through the chemical slush and wished she’d had sense enough to change out of her pumps. They were Nick’s favorites, she knew, because he always stared at her feet when she wore them.

  In the parking garage she hefted her bags into the car, slid inside, and cranked the engine. The Volvo purred out of the garage like a tamed tiger. Delia thought of Nick, and wished she could kiss him. Traffic on westbound I-40 was nonexistent save for SUVs and snowplows. Unlike her native Pennsylvania, the Carolinas could be paralyzed by three inches of snow. Along the highway, silvery trees bowed low, beautiful but treacherous. The power lines, too, were sagging, and the precipitation was now peppering off her windshield, pure ice. The snow deepened and the sky darkened the closer she got to Durham. It was then that Delia began to notice the downed power lines.

  By the time she reached Hidden Lakes, the Volvo was fishtailing. She spun her way through the security gate and skated sideways, trying to make it up her driveway. Deftly she cut into the skid, tapped the gas, and slid home, the front bumper just six inches from the garage door. Cold, starving, and glad to be alive, Delia dragged her bags into the kitchen, which felt like the inside of a meat locker. It made her remember her Parisian hotel’s cramped rooms and bitter coffee with newfound affection.

  After fumbling through her junk drawer, she found a stub of a candle, then felt her way toward the pitch-black dining room. There were some matches in the buffet, she hoped. But when she turned into the living room, a bright light flicked around the opposite corner, catching her squarely in the eyes. Blinded, Delia screamed, and her candle went clattering across the marble floor.

  “Hey, it’s just me,” said a rough, deep voice. “It’s okay.”

  “Nick?” The word was edged with hysteria.

  The bobbing light, accompanied by heavy footsteps, came toward her, and a strong arm slid around her waist. “Christ, Delia, I’ve been worried half to death,” Nick whispered, his warmth and scent surrounding her. “I was just checking upstairs before heading to the airport.”

  “Jeez, you s-scared me!” Delia’s teeth were chattering with fright and cold. “How d-did you get in?”

  Nick put the flashlight down on the buffet and pulled her close. “Resources,” he said. “I kept imagining you’d wrecked your car or fallen down the stairs. United said your plane landed two hours ago.”

  “Yes, but we skidded into a jetway.” A sense of warmth and relief was flooding through her. “How did you know my airline?”

  “Resources,” he repeated.

  “Oh, right,” said Delia. “Thank you, Sergeant Woodruff. What time is it, anyway? Why is it so cold?”

  “Midnight,” he said, then his tone shifted to his gruff policeman’s voice. “Look, Delia, you can’t stay here.”

  “I can’t?”

  In response Nick scooped her up in his arms, then somehow grabbed his flashlight. “It’s twenty degrees outside,” he said, sweeping her neatly through the kitchen door. “And ten in here. God only knows how long the power will be off. You’re going to my house.”

  Delia squirmed. “Hey, put me down!”

  “Why?” he asked, fumbling at the doorknob. “I have food, fire, and hot water.”

  “No, put me down.” Delia began to push at his chest. “And don’t let your knuckles drag on the way out.”

  “Nope. You’re going next door, darlin’. And we are going to have ourselves a little talk.”

  “Oh, God.” She wasn’t sure she was ready for this. “Can I at least take my bag?”

  Nick flicked the flashlight at her big rolling suitcase. “You gotta be shitting me.”

  “The small one,” she whined. “Please?”

  Somehow he snagged it off the kitchen counter.

  “Okay,” she said. “Now I’ll go quietly, Officer.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet,” said Nick. “Hold the flashlight.”

  “Just let me walk.”

  Nick shouldered his way through the kitchen door. “No way,” he said as the wind slapped them both in the face. “Not in those shoes.”

  Delia didn’t have much fight left in her. Nick’s body was warm, his shoulders broad and protective. And she was so tired. So tired of being without him. He wore heavy boots that crunched deep into the snow as he made his way across her yard and into his. Delia pulled her coat tighter. Other than the yellow beam of his flashlight, they were surrounded by a darkness so silent and so deep it was eerie. No lights. No sound. Anywhere. Just the crunching rhythm of Nick’s footsteps, and the certainty of his stride.

  Delia really did feel as if she were being carried off by some caveman—and it didn’t bother her all that much. “I’m not getting any say in this, am I?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light.

  “Nope.”

  In his embrace she shrugged. “So I’m more or less at your mercy?”

  Nick’s gait faltered
ever so slightly, and his breath hitched. “Yeah.”

  Delia thought on that for a second. “I, um, I thought we split up, Nick.”

  “You said.”

  Delia tried to look up at him, but could make out nothing but the hard angle of his jaw. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not now.”

  “I think I see,” said Delia quietly. “Is this going to be strictly a monosyllabic conversation?”

  “There you go again,” he said. “Thinking. And using big words.”

  Nick went effortlessly up his steps, which had already been shoveled, and shouldered his way through the door. Delia felt instantly awash in memories. The soft candlelight, the warm earth tones, and the comforting smells of Nick’s house: wood polish, dried rosemary, and his own spicy soap, all these things flooded her senses.

  The place was toasty, too. In the living room a huge fire burned in the fieldstone hearth, its flames licking up behind the wide brass fender. In front of it a half-dozen quilts had been spread on the floor, and topped with a pile of pillows. To retain the heat, Nick had nailed up blankets to seal off his office and the corridor that led to the bedrooms. Delia hadn’t missed the two Coleman coolers on the back porch, either. She’d have been willing to bet a month’s salary they were stocked with steaks and other delicacies. In fact, she had every idea she and Nick could safely camp here for a month or better. The man was like some overgrown Boy Scout. He was prepared.

  Mr. Boy Scout put her down next to the fire, tossed her bag on the sofa, and shucked his coat. Then he began to unfasten hers. Delia started to kick off her shoes, but something stopped her. Nick’s gaze flicked up from her buttons. “Delia,” he said, his voice suddenly raw. “I—”

  “Yes?”

  The coat slid off. Nick dropped his eyes, staring down at her breasts. Beneath her blouse and jacket, Delia could feel her nipples hard and peaked against the silk. His throat worked up and down. She touched him lightly on the face. “What, Nick?”