by Zoe Dawson
The door opened and Bowie materialized in the door frame. Damn, it was hard to take this man clothed, but naked—she felt as if the bed had just opened up beneath her and she was falling.
“Hey, cupcake. You look good enough to eat in the morning.” He was obviously as unselfconscious of his body as he was everything else. Truly a man who led a SEAL team, confident in his orders and the split-second decisions he made on a daily basis.
He said “cupcake” with an inflection of affection now instead of that annoyed, impatient way he’d said it when they first met. Gaining this man’s admiration was no small feat, and she felt totally jazzed that he had come to respect her.
“You’re not bad yourself. I’m not sure if you realize this, but you’re quite a hunk. Any woman would be happy to wake up to you.”
Something dark and dangerous flashed behind his eyes before it disappeared. “I’m not interested in making any other woman happy right now,” he said, walking to the bed. “You are it.”
“Think you can expand on what went on here last night?”
“Ah, babe, I got that covered, tied down, locked up, tagged and bagged.”
He tumbled her onto her back, and before her peal of laughter could subside, he had the sheet off her. He pushed her legs apart, moved in between them, slowly stroked his warm, callused palms up her thighs, until his thumbs caressed her intimately.
“You are amazing.”
He grinned and she was trembling in anticipation, and the rogue knew it, too. “I’m always about lifting the bar, sweetheart,” he quipped huskily, and she caught the hot blue of his eyes as he settled his provocative hips more comfortably between her legs. He nuzzled her thigh and applied a wet suction to a patch of flesh that made her gasp and would no doubt leave a mark.
The only problem: she already felt thoroughly branded by this man’s heat, his touch, everything about him.
“If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to lose my focus,” he murmured.
“Too bad. I’ll look at you any way I please.”
He chuckled, his tongue swirling a path to where she ached for his attention the most and lost herself in him.
By mid-morning the next day, she was feeling rested after two good nights of sleep in Bowie’s arms. She had dumped out all the contents of both of their packs, assessed what they had—geez, the navy made sure their SEALs were well stocked in the field—and knew what they needed. Food was an issue, but if they got the boat Bowie was currently negotiating, it would be a quick ten-mile trip to Yaviza.
His throat mic was on the side table, and she was fascinated with it. She put in the earpiece and set the transponders against her own throat. It was more comfortable than she thought it would be.
“LT, airport is clear as a bell. Operation Cupcake is a go. We’re ready to rendezvous with you at your orders.”
Experiencing a sharp, hard twist to her heart, she quickly removed the apparatus without a response. She closed her eyes trying to absorb the information that he had lied to her. He’d promised he’d take her with him, but it was clear he sent his men to the airport to make sure they could get her out without incident.
He’d “handled” her so that he could complete the mission. Dana closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead, a chill of comprehension making her insides shrink. She felt like a bomb ready to explode. Every sound sent her heart into overdrive. She finished packing the stuff back in the packs, then picked up the clothes she’d borrowed from Sienna.
Making her way to the cantina, she saw that Sienna wasn’t there. She knocked at the doorway in the back, but there was no answer. Deciding to leave the clothes she set them on a small table and turned away. Before she took the steps out of their apartment, a weakened muffled voice called out, urgency in her tone.
She turned to the closed bedroom door and looked toward the door leading out of the bar. The woman’s frantic pleading got worse. Making a snap decision, she opened the door to find a lean, frail woman with iron gray hair lying loose on her pillow. Her moist eyes turned toward Dana and she said plaintively, “So thirsty.”
Dana hurried to the side table and poured water from a pitcher there, then sat down on the edge of the bed and supported the older woman so she could take a sip, then more. Her grateful, warm eyes thanked Dana as she drank her fill.
“That better?” Dana asked, the memory of her mom lying in her hospital bed, looking just as fragile, but the power of her gaze still as strong as ever. Pain and a deep sense of loss threatened to engulf her, that hollowness had been with her since the moment her father had called and delivered the devastating news. Her mom had died, alone and unexpectedly from a heart attack, the chemo, cancer and stress to her body had been just too much.
There was no way Dana could have known, no way she could have gotten there in time. But other than the Darién Gap story, her mom had asked Dana to come home and spend the last moments with her.
“Thank you, poppet,” the woman said. “Bless you.” Then she drifted back to sleep. It was hard to take the woman’s gratitude, the guilt at failing her mom pressing hard against her heart.
A noise broke her concentration, and she looked up to see Bowie in the doorway. His face showed his compassion, aware of what she was struggling with. But her anger at his betrayal made her push everything away. She rose abruptly and brushed past him. Out in the cantina, she spied Sienna.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude, but I was replacing your clothes and your mother called out. I gave her some water. How ill is she?”
“Terribly. She was a missionary who came here to help, then she got cancer and refused to go back home. I came out here and opened this place and have been nursing her, but with each day she fails. It won’t be long until her suffering is over.” Sienna’s breath caught, and she covered her mouth. “It’s been very hard.”
Dana reached out and hugged her in a tight embrace, her eyes closing. “I know. My mom died from cancer. I wasn’t there when it happened. I’m glad you’re able to be here for your mom.”
Her stricken eyes captured Dana’s, the sympathy clutching at Dana’s heart.
“I’m so sorry about your mom.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. She let go of Sienna and gave her one final bolstering look, then headed for her room. Bowie who had been a large presence came in a few moments later. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“So that’s a no.”
She whirled on him. “You never had any intention of honoring my wishes, so you don’t get to have a say in how I’m feeling now.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know you’re not taking me to Salazar.”
He glanced at the bedside table and the throat mic. His features went taut. “Son of a bitch, Dana. It’s too goddamned dangerous. You don’t belong in a special op.”
“Maybe not, but it’s my choice to do this and you’re not taking that away from me. I’m an American citizen and you can’t force me to do anything.”
He ran his hand through his hair. She dug in her pack, adamant about what she had to do. She grabbed five hundred dollars and headed for the door.
He snagged her arm as she passed. “I have my orders. You’re getting on that plane.”
“I’m sure you do, but I have my own orders. You can go to hell.”
She jerked her arm out of his grasp and slammed the door on her way out. Back in the bar, she approached Sienna and slipped the money into her hands. “Here, take this. Maybe it can help to get you something to ease your mom’s pain.”
Sienna looked down at the money and then up at her. “I couldn’t—”
“Yes, you can,” Dana said. “For her.” Her eyes stung, her voice uneven. Tears filled Sienna’s eyes and Dana’s spilled over. She hugged Dana this time.
“God bless you.” She tightened her hold. “God bless you.”
She was hoping that was true, because the moment she could, she was giving Ruckus the slip and going afte
r Salazar herself. She would get those memory cards back. She had to now more than ever.
10
Ruckus felt like a first-class jerk, but he couldn’t get around his orders. Sometime SEALs made split second decisions in the field and went with their gut. His gut was saying that Dana was determined to do as she pleased. He had no reason to give into a civilian and her foolhardy plans. Except he’d watched her give water to that old woman, the memories and the pain washing across her face. He’d read every regret, every sorrow. He understood why she wanted to go with him and that all tore him up like nothing had in a long time.
He’d watched her with that old woman and knew she was remembering. She’d fought to school her breathing into a regular rhythm, blinked furiously at the moisture gathering in her eyes, busied herself with the welfare of the figure in the bed. Damn, she was a tough beauty. Once the lady had fallen asleep, there was no reason she shouldn’t have just let go and bawled her eyes out if she wanted to. But she struggled to rein her emotions in, fought for control.
He sighed heavily.
She was getting on that plane. He just hated that she would never forgive him. So, what the hell? He’d let another woman down. What else was new? At least she’d be alive and safe. So why did he feel so raw inside?
He’d negotiated for a boat, the small, wiry man jumping up and down until he got his desired price. Ruckus paid him and he and Dana were leaving at nightfall for Yaviza. She had been giving him the cold shoulder ever since she’d heard through his mic that Wicked had secured the airport.
She was across from him shoveling in her food, focusing on it. He looked over to the bar where Sienna was taking care of customers. Dana had given the money she’d taken out of her pack to the young Brit.
It was a purely knee-jerk reaction on Dana’s part, helping a young woman who was currently in the same boat Dana had been months ago, except, Ruckus got the feeling that she hadn’t gotten closure.
This situation was volatile because there were deep emotions attached to those memory cards. Promises and guilt. A double-edged sword, sharp and dangerous—and poised between them. One of them would get cut. Ruckus had a feeling it’d be him. So he would have to take it a day at a time, living in each moment, breathing her in, absorbing every nuance. The heated fragrance of her bare skin beneath his palms, her lush naked contours pressing to him and making him so hard he’d thought he’d come before he could even enter her. Dammit. The memory of her body jangling his nerves.
Ruckus felt like a man tottering on the brink of insanity and scowled, then the little boy came into the bar and went to one of the stools. A man was slumped over and the boy tugged on the man’s sleeve. He stirred and pushed the little boy away, but the kid, nerves of steel, went right back.
“Worthless little bastard…”
The voice came out of the past, out of his childhood. A voice beyond the grave. He flinched at the memory of that voice. A conditioned response, even after all this time. Often enough, a slurred line from his old man had been followed up with a back-hand across the mouth.
The image of his father rose up from one of the dark corners of his mind to taunt, and unable to help himself, he stood. Dana looked up at him and something on his face must have alarmed her because she said, “Bowie?”
The memory of his mom sent anger shooting through him, blood running from her nose and lip brought the rage he’d buried for so many years shooting into his gut like adrenaline. Tears swam in her eyes and streamed down her cheeks, but she didn’t utter a word. His old man didn’t like noise. Made him even meaner.
His eyes were riveted to the little boy now helping the man out of the bar. He followed them and a few paces down the street. The man backhanded the kid and he tumbled into a puddle. When he lunged at the kid, Ruckus was on him, shoving him against the wall, his fist landing in his father’s face.
Just like he had all those years ago. When he’d been too small to help her, he’d tried and it had gotten him nothing but pain. But then he grew, matured, filled out and the blow he’d delivered at seventeen knocked his father against the wall, out cold.
“Stop it, Bowie,” Dana’s voice pierced his memories, the fog lifting abruptly as the view of the bloodied stranger’s face came into focus. He squeezed his eyes closed against it. He slammed his fist against the wall, the sounds of agony lost in the impact. He backed away from the man.
“Go home,” he growled and the drunk stumbled away. He turned to find the kid looking up at him, wet, shaking with the same look in his eyes that Bowie had seen in his own.
He knelt down and took the boy’s small arms in his hands. “Don’t ever let him make you feel worthless. You’re not.” He grabbed his chin. “Be strong.”
The little boy’s eyes flashed and his chin lifted. He nodded curtly and then ran off down the street. For a moment, Bowie knelt there breathing around his pain. Finally he felt her hands on him. “Come on,” she whispered.
He rose and they went back to their room, the meal forgotten. He went into the bathroom and turned on the water, hissing a little at the sting of the cuts on his knuckles, the blood, his own and the drunk’s, washed down the drain.
He understood how she felt about her mother, but he had hated his father and hadn’t mourned his passing for even a fraction of a second. The resentment was more acute that his mom had thrown him out. It hurt like a bitch, even now.
He wanted to let go of his bitterness and his pain, find some common ground and have a successful relationship out of the SEALs, but his role model had been so damaged, lost in a bottle, mean to the bone. Sometimes Bowie worried that he was just like him, if he didn’t hate alcohol so much he might have even…he couldn’t finish the thought.
When she came into the bathroom and took his hand, he tried to pull away, but she held on tight. She pressed her lips together and used the first aid kit to take care of his cuts.
When she was done, he left the room, brushing past her in the confines, the scent of her filling him up and pushing away the darkness.
He knew that old fears never quite died—they just hid in dark corners of the mind and waited for the chance to slip out.
He went to the window and looked out. “He deserved it,” he said and believed every word. Maybe it would stop him from hitting the kid again, but Bowie didn’t think so. There was nothing he could do for that kid, just like he’d been powerless with his own father.
“He did. Absolutely. But I don’t care about him. How are you?”
He debated the wisdom of revealing anything about that time in his life. A part of him wanted to guard the secrets, hide the past, protect himself. “We should get a couple hours of sleep before we move out.”
She came around in front of him. “Don’t,” she whispered and cupped his cheek. “He abused you, that’s clear. Can you talk about it?”
He shrugged, as if it was unimportant or easy, when it was far from being either. “Yeah, old news.”
“Apparently not.”
Trying to hide anything from this woman who had shared the most private, intimate time with him, who had given him so much pleasure and held him safe in her arms challenged him and surprised him. She had opened her body to him, now he felt safe opening another part of himself, tentatively, hesitantly, feeling more vulnerable than he had in his life. “He was a mean, abusive drunk. I tried to fight back, but I was too small. Then I turned seventeen, and I clocked him, knocked him out cold. My mom threw me out after that.”
“Did she? Maybe she wanted you to be safe. Maybe she wanted something better for you. Maybe she knew you were strong enough to survive, and she wanted to give you that chance before the violence closed off your freedom.”
“Closed off my freedom?”
“Bowie, the violence could have gotten worse. I bet she knew that.”
He’d never thought about that. He’d been mired in his bitterness. He’d never considered that his mom cared enough about him to make him go. She would have been trapped with him a
nd his moods.
He thought about all the years that had passed. The years she had endured when he was alive, and now, Bowie had cut off any ties with her completely. He tried to breathe around that revelation, but his lungs couldn’t seem to expand to accommodate the humid air. The pressure was so great, he wondered wildly if he would simply explode.
He needed control.
His hands balled into tight fists at his side as he tried to leash the fury building inside him. His whole body trembled with the power of it. If there wasn’t rage and pain, there was now guilt.
“I wished him dead so many times, I lost count. He robbed us both,” he whispered, his voice strained. He covered his eyes for a minute, trying to swallow past the emotion clogging his chest, rising in his throat.
“Oh, Bowie.” She clasped him around the waist and pressed her face against his. “It’s not too late.” He watched her blink rapidly, as if she were afraid to take her eyes off him for even a fraction of a second. She held her ground, that was for sure, brave as all get out. And his heart squeezed painfully at the thought.
A fresh surge of hate for his father welled up inside him, and he recognized that a large part of his anger was from the fact that he had never been made to pay for his crimes. Justice had never been served. Some of the blame for that was his, he knew, and the guilt for that was terrible. If only he had found the courage to refuse to go or tell someone at school. But he hadn’t.
His mother had been the one to suffer the price. Regret burned like acid in his throat, behind his eyes. He clenched his jaw against it, whipped himself mentally to get past it.
“Come on.” She coaxed him toward the bed. Let’s get a couple hours of sleep before we have to go.” He moved with her, relieved that she wasn’t giving him the cold shoulder any more. Somewhere along this journey with her, he found that he needed her. But, that was something he would have to get over. He wasn’t convinced that he could take any steps to make himself feel better. Not sure he could bridge the gap between his past and present, release the hatred and bitterness that had been so much a part of his life. It had fueled his anger, allowed him to excel as a SEAL. The team was his family.
