A Holiday to Remember

by Helen R. Myers

  Dropping her bra onto her panties, she stepped inside the stall.

  When she was safely seated, Mack followed. He’d ditched his sneakers back in the kitchen. The confines of the fiberglass booth created an intimate cocoon of humidity and warmth. Alana already had her face lifted to the spray, water sluicing over her head, the weight making her dark hair like a cape covering half of her back.

  “This isn’t going to be the quality you’re used to in shampoos, either,” he said, squeezing some of the amber liquid into his palm.

  “I’ll smell like you.”

  There was a smile in Alana’s voice that matched the sweet expression on her face. It and the sight of her rounded breasts glistening from the water caressing them and all of her alluring body had desire gripping Mack like talons. “Yeah,” Mack replied, his own voice becoming as raw as hers. He started to work the liquid into her hair. “We’ll see what Tanker has to say about that.”

  “Did he give you and Eberardo any trouble this afternoon?”

  “He’s no fool. Four hands brushing that coat and massaging his tired muscles, then cool water, carrot sticks and oats? You shouldn’t have named him Tanker, you should have named him Shah or Tsar.”

  “He didn’t have the finesse for a royal name when I first got him. That took a lot of work to bring out. But he definitely had the appetite.”

  “You go through a lot for him. Why cut the carrots into sticks? Why not just let him bite off a chunk?”

  “It’s a safety precaution. It’s less likely he’ll choke on a stick than a chunk or a circular slice.” Alana moaned as Mack worked the soap deeper into her hair and massaged her scalp. “Thank you, Mack. I know this isn’t fair to you, and that I’m more trouble than you want to deal with.”

  She didn’t know a blessed thing about what he wanted. Heck, some of it was still formulating in his mind. “Let’s rinse this soap out. You’re sounding as though you’re about to slide off that bench from sheer exhaustion.”

  She didn’t say a word after that. Mack knew she’d been stung by his lack of reaction to her words of gratitude and apology. He was sure she’d been hoping he would protest that she was any trouble at all, but that wouldn’t have been the truth. She was a problem, every bit as much as his inheritance was a problem. Both were gifts, too, but ones that carried enormous responsibility. Could he handle them long-term? He was a man who’d come to believe that having survived war, he would spend the rest of his life alone. Maybe he would have an occasional fling—there wasn’t a damned thing wrong with his libido yet—but he’d doubted he had the DNA, or capacity, or whatever it was, to love. In a matter of days, one dark-haired, dark-eyed, devastated beauty was challenging that.

  Turning off the water, Mack pushed open the door and reached for one of the two blue bath sheets draped on the towel rack, and placed it around Alana’s shoulders. “I’ll go get you one of my T-shirts to put over your other things,” he told her.

  “Fine. Thank you.”

  “Can you handle aspirin or do you want something else for the pain and fever?”

  “Aspirin is okay,” she said quietly. “And a big glass of water? I am feeling dehydrated.”

  “Back in a minute.”

  After delivering the T-shirt, he took the other towel and got a change of clothes, and retreated to the master bedroom to change himself. Then he returned to the kitchen and downed the rest of that beer he’d opened in two long swallows.

  When he returned to the bathroom with a tall glass of ice water for her, she was dressed in his T-shirt, which swallowed her every bit as much as that jersey had a few days ago. The bags were neatly folded on the vanity, and she’d wrapped a smaller towel around her head.

  “I don’t have any need for a blow dryer,” he said, running his hand through his dark ash-blond hair that was only slightly grown out from its military cut. “But you’re welcome to use my comb.”

  “I’d ruin it before I got the tangles out of this mess,” Alana replied. “I need conditioner to get a comb or brush through it, so I’ll keep my hair in this and wash it again tomorrow at home.”

  Her eyes were glassy and her gaze avoided his, but she thanked him for the water, and he got the aspirin from the drawer where he’d put his toiletry bag. He started to hand her two, thought better of it upon seeing her blistered fingertips, and raised the pills to her lips.

  “Open.”

  She did with only a faint expression of exasperation. As she drank, he went to turn down the bed.

  “Oh, wait a minute, Mack,” she said, when she followed him and saw what he was doing. “I can’t take your bed.”

  “I’ll need to check on you for the next few hours, but I know you’re sore and exhausted. This is the most comfortable place for you. Get in.” He held back the top sheet for her to climb in.

  After another slight hesitation, she took another long drink of water, then set the glass on the nightstand and did as he’d ordered. Mack drew the sheet up to her waist, then sat down beside her.

  “Don’t brood,” he said gently. “It’ll be all right.”

  “Will it?”

  Her uncertainty and the vulnerability in her eyes ate through the rest of his resolve and he lowered his head to kiss her. He needed at least this after what he’d witnessed tonight. Not surprisingly, she tensed for a moment, only to yield to the soft persuasion of his lips parting hers. Thankfully, the fire had spared this soft skin, and he teased her with soft caresses and nibbles, until he could slide his tongue into her mouth and drink in her sweet essence.

  A soft sound of pleasure rose from her throat, and Mack absorbed that, as well. He ached to take anything and everything she would offer, but this was not the time. It would be so unfair to her, and he still had one or two brain cells left that registered conscientious thoughts.

  He wished they’d grown up together. He would have made himself her other guardian, the one who would will her to see him instead of the horrific images her imagination forced her to relive day in and day out, year after year. He would have taught her to reach for him instead of a dangerous horse, or a career that was every bit as perilous. She’d told him children were drawn to her—he would have given her a son or daughter. Three, he thought, as the vision of a little mouth at her breast sent a spasm of hunger into his loins.

  “Mack—”

  Hearing Alana’s soft appeal, he knew he had to stop. As she began to wrap her arms around his neck, he forced himself to withdraw. Placing a fervent kiss at each of her wrists, he set them back on the sheet. “Close your eyes. I’ll be close.”

  * * *

  At two o’clock in the morning, Mack polished off a second bourbon from his father’s stock and thought it might be safe to turn in himself. He was sitting in the living room when the phone sounded, and snatched up the receiver before it finished its first full ring. He hoped that aside from Alana and Eberardo, it was still only the chief who would use this number.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “I thought I’d try you before calling the hospital. Is she still there?”

  Duke Anders was in a bad mood, not that Mack could blame him, considering the big fright he’d taken tonight. “You know she is. I would have told you if things had changed.”

  “Just an update would have been appreciated. How is she?”

  Better than she could have been, Mack thought. But he knew he didn’t have to say that out loud. He suspected Duke had thought that himself, repeatedly, while inspecting the aftereffects of the crash scene.

  “She’s finally sleeping more deeply,” he told the lawman.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Are the nightmares back?”

  So even though Duke and Alana kept different hours, the old man didn’t pretend that she had ceased to struggle. Mack had been wondering about that and other things as he’d sat nursing his drinks. “I had to check her periodically to make sure she was breathing okay,” he pointed out. “In fact, she hasn’t coughed in the last hour.”

&nb
sp; “That’s good. That’s very good. And the burns?”

  “I’ve been giving her aspirin. The swelling is going down. I gave her two more during the last check. No nightmares,” he finally confirmed quietly. Hearing the heavy exhale signaling relief, Mack felt a wave of sympathy for the other man. There was so much else to tend to that kept him from seeing for himself how his flesh and blood was faring. “Are you just home?”

  “Yeah. Another day like this one, and I don’t think I’ll make it to retirement.” With another sigh, Duke added, “Listen, what you did for her tonight—I’m not going to ask how and why you were in town, but thank you.”

  Mack smiled slowly. He’d wondered when that would register with the two-legged watch dog. “Get some rest,” he replied. “I’ll bring her back to you in the morning, and cook you both breakfast.”

  “Oh, will you, now?”

  Chapter Seven

  When had he decided this?

  The thought came to Alana shortly after she next opened her eyes. She’d discovered by way of the small travelers clock on Mack’s nightstand that it was 6:03. The daylight coming around the miniblinds confirmed that it was morning. She’d actually slept over three hours since Mack last came to check on her.

  Turning her head the rest of the way, she discovered another surprise. He was lying beside her.

  Was she dreaming again? Surely she would have sensed it if he’d settled down here at some time during the night. On the other hand, stealth had been a job requirement in his previous line of work.

  She didn’t want to think thoughts like that—thoughts of where he’d been and might go again if he felt things weren’t working for him here. She had read about men unable to find work stateside, or those who just didn’t fit in a civilized world anymore, taking jobs as civilian security contractors. The thought had her closing her eyes and she lightly massaged her temple, willing the images away.

  “Headache?”

  Blinking, she found him watching her. His sharp-angled face looked all the more mysterious and compelling in this diffused light, and his eyes were the color of last night’s smoke rather than the Spanish-moss shade. Nevertheless, the emotions within transfixed her and tempted her to reach out and touch him, caress his high cheekbones, and beard-rough jaw. But memories of the way he’d stopped her from touching him last night made her hesitate. He was confusing her. One minute he acted as though he couldn’t stop kissing her, and the next he was pushing her away.

  He said it himself when he’d snapped at you in the bathroom. You’re a complication he didn’t want.

  “Alana...?”

  “Umm, no. I’m fine. I just—I didn’t expect to wake and see you here,” she admitted to avoid telling him the rest of the truth. “But...I’m glad you decided to lie down. You must have pushed yourself to your own limits to finally yield to common sense.”

  With a wry look, he rose onto one elbow. “I planned on doing this all along. How are you? I noticed you’re no longer sounding as though you’re trying to kick a three-pack-a-day habit anymore.”

  “Right, only a pack and a half.”

  “At least you haven’t coughed in hours.” He touched her forehead with the back of his fingers. “Almost cool to the touch. Ah, the durability of youth. Now let’s see the hands.”

  Alana held them up, not too upset with how they were now. At least she didn’t look as though she’d spent a small fortune on a ghoulish Halloween party costume.

  “Better,” Mack said, his own voice still a bit more gravelly from smoke and sleep. “What does it feel like when you flex? Burn or sting?” He showed her what movements he wanted her to duplicate.

  Alana repeated them. “Only a little sting.”

  “Excellent. We should switch you over to Tylenol or something in that family to give your stomach a break.”

  How civilized they were being. She was beginning to feel as though last night hadn’t happened at all.

  Her disappointment growing, Alana assured him, “I’ll do that when I get home,” and eased the sheet aside to sit up. “I need to see how Uncle Duke is. He must be—”

  “We spoke earlier.”

  The latest surprise had Alana glancing over her shoulder. “You called him? My uncle?”

  “No, he phoned here.”

  “No, he didn’t.” She glanced over to the handset beside the clock. She’d never slept so hard that she’d missed a ringing phone. Had she? “You’re serious.”

  Bemusement had the corner of Mack’s mouth quirking. “Just before I checked on you the last time and lay down. I assured him that you were stabilized.”

  If he’d wakened her to do that she didn’t remember, so she grasped onto the subject that served as a life vest to her. “What about the pilot? Does he know anything?”

  “You can ask him yourself when we get over there. I’m making breakfast.”

  This was hopeless, Alana thought. Nothing was computing. “Does my uncle know that?”

  “Sure. It’s the last thing I told him.”

  * * *

  Less than a half hour later, Mack drove toward the side gate that connected their properties. Alana was quiet, feeling self-conscious in her state of dress—or mostly undress—and couldn’t wait to rinse her hair again and then get conditioner on it, so that she could comb out the tangles. But she also couldn’t keep her thoughts off Mack.

  He’d continued to be thoughtful and considerate of her as they got ready to head this way. He’d given her a packaged toothbrush that he’d had in his kit, opened the truck door for her, then insisted on securing her seat belt. Just as a lover would after having her spend the night. Only there hadn’t been any caresses, and he hadn’t tried to kiss her again, let alone make love to her. That begged the question—why cook for her and Uncle Duke? Until now, her uncle hadn’t allowed anyone but her in his kitchen. Had Duke even agreed to this?

  Hoping Duke was still in bed, they arrived at the house to find him making coffee.

  Dressed in his uniform.

  On a Sunday.

  “Has something else happened?” she asked, unable to stop the sinking feeling she was experiencing inside.

  For his part, her uncle had turned upon hearing the door open. Seeing her attire, he grimaced. “Is that any way to be walking about? There could be TV trucks already at the front gate.”

  Alana hugged the garbage bag that contained her uniform and shoes, and upon which her service belt rested. “We came through the side way. As for my uniform, it’s here, ruined.” She set the bag by the washer and dryer in the cubbyhole behind the door. “So now that we have that pleasantness out of the way, why would TV trucks be here instead of by the crash scene, and why are you dressed for work?”

  His answering look spoke of frustration. “Interviews, of course. The whole state is focused on us—and they’re sharing their feeds with the big national news organizations.” Having completed pouring water into the coffeemaker’s reservoir, he punched the power button, and then busied himself with getting two mugs out of the cabinet. After a slight hesitation, he took out a third. “You know how people are today—the crash was videotaped and someone posted it online—or several people did, I don’t know. Anyway, we’re everywhere.”

  That wasn’t good news, but Alana tried to focus on what was most important. “How’s the doctor?”

  “Fine. Fine. He’s talking, too.”

  “Well, he’s lucky to be able to do that, I guess,” Alana replied, trying to be generous. “Where is he? How is he?”

  “They airlifted him to Dallas about a half hour after you two left. Since then anything I know is on NBC, ABC, CBS!”

  “Which is?” Mack asked, his focus all on Duke.

  “What do you think? She saved his life,” he declared, pointing to Alana. “She was like a fearless angel coming through the smoke and flames. He learned from others that her father had been a doctor, too. Oh, the guy is an interviewer’s dream. He claimed to have felt your determination not to let death win twi
ce,” Duke said directly to Alana, “and he hoped to meet you soon in order to thank you in person.”

  Dread had Alana turning away, only to meet Mack’s enigmatic gaze. That made her feel just as naked—no, as though her very skin was being stripped off. She spun around and argued back, “The man was concussed if not half-unconscious, and there was blood running into his eyes from his scalp wound. Anything he saw was compromised by his physical and mental condition.”

  “But it makes such good TV,” Duke countered, speaking to her as though she was a third of her real age. “And now even New York is wanting to expand their interviews.” Duke’s gaze shifted to Mack, and he lowered his head as though targeting who to blame for everything. “I’ll do what I can to keep you out of this, Ally, but you know no one can deal with something of this magnitude.”

  At that moment, the phone began ringing. Meeting her uncle’s gaze, he shrugged, as though saying I told you so, and said, “Let the machine take it. That’s what I’ve been doing. It should be full soon.”

  “You could have pulled the plug from the wall,” Alana muttered, and headed for her room.

  “Ally! Alana—there’s more we need to talk about.”

  She kept going, knowing she needed some time before she listened to any more. As for the interviews...those she knew she would not be doing. Not one. She still remembered the way the press had hounded them back when her parents and Chase were killed. Her father had been a beloved doctor, and her mother was equally respected for her impressive charity work. Chase had been touted as future senator material, or more. The media had attempted to milk their family tragedy for weeks. Fortunately, Alana had been cloistered and escaped most of that—but not all of it. A few wily reporters had gotten through—thanks to so-called friends. That was another reason why Alana had become something of a loner; she’d learned the hard way that there was a world of difference between an acquaintance and a friend.

  Not even allowing herself to be concerned for how Mack was handling her uncle, she locked the door to her room and worked on getting herself into more presentable condition. She needed that to feel stronger to deal with whatever would be asked of her. One thing was for certain—she no longer felt a need to check on that pilot. Why was he doing this to her if he knew her family’s own tragic experience? Did he see this as a great publicity opportunity to advertise for his practice?