Rex didn’t doubt his decision, and he didn’t have time to deal with regrets—like the fact that he hadn’t called his boys in nearly a month. Or that he hadn’t kissed Livia senseless when he’d had the opportunity.
He could only hope he would have a second chance. Rex eyed his opponent, measured the distance between himself and the knife.
And charged forward.
SEVENTEEN
Rex estimated he had three long strides to reach Ferguson’s arm and put himself between the blade and Livia. Number one rule in a knife fight? Be prepared to sacrifice a body part.
One step. He was partial to his organs.
Two steps. His face wasn’t much to look at, but he preferred it stayed intact.
Three steps. His arm was going to have to take the brunt.
Rex lunged at the roaring psychopath, grabbed a fistful of Livia’s dress with one hand and threw his other forearm up. He flung Livia aside. The knife came down. His leather flight jacket slowed the blade for a heartbeat. Then fiery heat seared through his skin. He held back an agonized roar and put everything he had into crashing the guy backward into the barn. His glasses fell off and hit the ground with a crunch, but he was close enough to see clearly the spittle frothing rabidly in the corners of Ferguson’s mouth.
A pop sounded.
A gunshot.
Rex waited for the flash of pain . . . And nothing.
Ferguson’s eyes went wide. His grip on the wooden handle loosened. The knife thudded to the ground a second before the crazed killer toppled backward, blood blooming from the middle of his chest.
Rex scooped up the blade, crouching, prepared in case Ferguson lurched up from playing possum or scavenged some crazed final burst of maniacal purpose. Acrid smoke from the discharged weapon hung in the air.
“Colonel?” Mason’s voice sounded from behind him, but he didn’t touch.
Rex flinched anyway, his heart thudding. He shook his head clear and glanced back. Jill Walczak stood with her legs planted, a revolver in both hands, her eyes still steeled over with professional purpose.
Rex passed off the knife to Mason and raced to Livia. He’d been so damn steady a few seconds ago, and now he couldn’t even keep his feet under him. He fell to his knees beside her and rolled her to her back. He searched for signs of life, of a heartbeat when he wasn’t even sure his own was still pumping.
Dimly he registered the sound of sirens, radio chatter as he pressed his fingers to the side of her neck . . . and felt the flutter, the warmth. The life. His head fell to rest on her chest in relief, and yeah, so her sweater dress could soak up the two tears squeezing out of the corners of his eyes. He coughed the rest back and gathered her into his lap protectively, making damn sure no one would get to her without going through him.
He glanced up. Sometime while he’d been losing his shit, Mason had started hog-tying Ferguson, and Jill was holding her gun while placing a call on her cell phone.
Thank God for the backup of these two top-notch defenders. Rex looked at Jill, the most kick-ass camo dude he’d ever run across. “Thank you.”
She tipped her mouth away from the receiver. “I couldn’t have managed it without you, sir. You distracted him just in time.”
“You saved my arm.”
“We all did our jobs.”
A siren wailed in the background, increasing and swelling into a whole freaking symphony of police enforcement. Rex cradled Livia closer, her heart thudding softly, a husky moan rumbling in her rib cage.
He lifted his head. “You’re okay. You’re safe now.”
Her lashes fluttered open, fear flashing briefly before her dark eyes focused on his face. A smile tipped one corner of her mouth. “Where is my latte?”
Mason locked Jill’s duplex door behind him and slid the dead bolt as well for good measure. On a night like this, even with the serial killer out cold in surgery, security felt all the more important. He still couldn’t erase the image from his head of when she’d drawn her gun, ready to stand down a man who’d brutally murdered at least four people.
In that second before she’d pulled the trigger, Ferguson had looked at her like he wanted to . . . Mason shuddered, his forehead thudding to rest against the door. He couldn’t even let the vision into his brain.
At least Livia Cicero was all right, uninjured other than the chloroform Ferguson had forced on her. She was being held overnight in the hospital for observation until the doctors were sure it had cleared her system. The colonel was keeping watch over her.
To think Ferguson had gone psycho because of being turned down for military service. Of course that was the very reason the military hadn’t wanted him in the first place. Barrera had already uncovered that Ferguson failed the psych eval when he’d tried to enlist. However, the boundaries weren’t as stringent for civilian employees working on base. It appeared Ferguson was even more off balance than anyone had realized, and he’d found a way to take out his twisted wrath on the military.
Phil had been called and reassured, although he’d still insisted on driving over just to look in her face and see for himself that Jill was fine before he drove away.
Leaving Mason alone with Jill.
He inhaled the pure, clean air of her home and pulled himself upright again, turning to face her. She stood in between the living and dining area, the mellow light of her curio cabinet casting her somber face in shadows. She crossed her arms over her chest defensively, and he knew he deserved it. He’d been a distant ass all day, but damn it, it had been everything he could do to manage to stay focused on keeping her alive.
He’d put up the wall today because their night together had rattled the hell out of him. She rattled him in a way no one had in a long, long time.
But now he’d made it through the day, alive, whole, and he couldn’t wait any longer.
Just that fast, his hard-won control snapped. He charged forward, plowed his fingers through her hair, and kissed her. She stiffened, but only for a second before her arms looped around him, holding him with a strength and urgency that attested to just how on edge she was as well. Her hands tore at his flight suit, yanking down his zipper. His jeans had been covered in blood, so he’d changed. And now it seemed he was changing again.
Mason tugged at her jeans. “I need you so damn much, Jill, I’m not sure I can make it to your room.”
He took a step back toward the sofa.
“Stop talking. You’re wasting time.” She tucked her hand in his pocket and filched a condom from his wallet so deftly his head spun even more than it already was.
She tugged him down to the floor, her soft but determined hand reaching inside his flight suit to free him, sheathe him. He barely had time to scrunch her jeans down her legs before she guided him inside her, and damn, but he was lost.
He levered on his elbows over her and thrust, rocking his hips against her while she arched up into him, around him. Her needy gasps drove him higher, while her frantic fingers scored his back. Everything he’d tried to hold back from her today poured out into the way his body fit with hers, drove inside her. No finesse or flowers or pretty words, he was all raw emotion, and damn it, but that tore through him.
And then Jill was trembling beneath him, her back bowing upward, her cries of pleasure louder, faster, her nails deeper into his ass through his flight suit, and damn what a time to realize they’d been so hot for each other they hadn’t even gotten out of their clothes—
His release slammed through him, knocked him off balance, and he sank on top of her with a final heart-deep thrust that left him shaking as he buried his face in her hair.
She gasped under him, her grip slowly easing as her body went slack. He breathed in the scent of her, the scent of them together and alive at the end of a day that could have turned out so horribly differently. He held Jill in his arms and fully accepted this for the first time.
This woman scared him shitless.
Sitting by Livia’s hospital bed, Rex scrolled through his
BlackBerry, checking for updates on the test flight. He’d dimmed the lights, and the private room was quiet except for the occasional calls over the loudspeaker that echoed in the hall.
His second-in-command was waiting on the flight line for the plane to land, since Rex had been getting his arm stitched. He would have to head over before long. Soon. After Livia woke, and he could reassure himself one last time that she was really alive and well.
He worked his stitched arm while reading through . . . The plane had landed safely. All appeared a go for the unveiling in two days. He cranked and stretched his elbow, determined to be in that plane for the big show, no matter how much it hurt.
And it did. But he’d survived, and so had Livia. His thumb slipped off his BlackBerry, and he drank in the sight of her sleeping. Her silky black hair fanned across the bleached white pillowcase, her exotic perfume overriding the antiseptic smell. Somehow she made even the dingy flowered hospital gown look elegant, her chipped manicured nails gripping tight to the sheet with residual tension.
Thank God, she hadn’t been harmed beyond the chloroform Ferguson had used to subdue her. She hadn’t even known what was happening until she’d woken on their way to the barn. Thank heaven Ferguson had forced her to take that call in hopes no one would go looking for her at the hotel. While Rex was just damn glad she was alive, he’d breathed one helluva sigh of relief when the doctor had informed them Livia had not been sexually assaulted.
However, she was being held in the hospital overnight for observation until they were sure the drug had cleared her system. That was fine with him, because she was safe here. He still hated hospitals, but he could deal with it for now. He took comfort from the regular check-ins from the nurses to reassure him she was still okay.
Her head rolled along the pillow, and she moaned. He bolted to his feet. She blinked fast, tried to talk, but her lips were dry. He passed her the juice cup from beside her bed.
“The nurse said you’re supposed to hydrate as much as you can.” He put the straw to her mouth.
She sipped down the last of her orange juice, then passed the empty cup back to him. “Thank you.”
He placed it on the rolling tray and sat in the recliner by her bedside again. “Not a problem. Would you like some more?”
“No, I am good for now.” She inched up higher on the double-stacked pillows. “And thank you for saving my life. I’m so sorry you were injured.”
His arm throbbed like a son of a bitch, and he would sport a scar, but overall he had a lot to be thankful for, since the blade had somehow missed any muscles or major arteries. “I’m fine. A lot of people had a hand in figuring out that Ferguson had abducted you.”
“You were the one who understood my hidden message on the phone.”
“It’s a part of my training to listen for distress words and cues.” Yet he knew full well he’d been tuned in to her voice, her fear on a level way beyond anything he’d picked up in technical training.
“Well, thank you all the same.” She tapped his temple. “You aren’t wearing your glasses.”
“They broke.” When he’d tackled Ferguson. When he’d been consumed with rage at the man and fear that Livia was dead. “I can see okay without them when I’m walking around. I have an old extra pair for driving. I guess this is a sign it’s time to make a change. You told me once I should replace those chunky frames.”
She laughed, her voice raspy with a reminder of what she’d lost. “You remember that?”
He simply nodded.
She sank back into her pillows, her brow furrowed. “Why were you so resistant to change them?”
“My wife liked them.” He tamped down a wince, his emotions too close to the surface on a day like this.
She touched his hand lightly, her nail resting on his bare ring finger. “How long has she been gone?”
“It’s been a year.”
“That is not so long as you try to make it sound.”
He glanced up sharply. How did she know? Understand? Everyone else seemed to think twelve months was some kind of magic number. Hell, he’d even been trying to convince himself of the same thing.
Livia smiled gently, her lips still glistening from the juice she’d drunk. “Thank you for a lovely breakfast, Rex, but I believe I am going to have to break up with you.”
Would this woman ever quit turning his life upside down? He squinted to detect the nuances of her expression or perhaps to make sure she wasn’t still delirious. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I know full well I forced you into that so-called date, and I have to admit you are a fascinating man. But I see now it will go nowhere.”
“Good Lord, Livia, I just saved your life. Doesn’t that count for something?” Age disparity and lifestyle differences be damned, he had more feelings than he ever would have expected for this woman.
“You do make me smile. Although answer me one question. Am I right in believing you would have taken this cut if it had been any other person in the same position? Of course you would.” She leaned forward. “So I do not owe you sex for the saving.”
“You’re outrageous.”
“Si, I have been told that before.” She cupped his face. “I have also been told I do not play second violin well.”
“Second fiddle.”
“Right. You still love your wife.” She hesitated as if maybe hoping he would say something . . . anything.
But there was nothing he could say to that other than that she was right. He still loved Heather until it filled him up inside. As much as Livia fascinated him, drew him, even made him want to climb in bed with a woman for the first time in a year, he could see in her eyes that wasn’t all she was looking for.
There was a damn good chance he’d had his once-in-a-lifetime already. So he stayed silent.
Her head sagged back on her pillow, her hair a dark splash against the bleached white hospital sheets. “In a strange way, that makes this even harder for me, because, oh, there is something so very intriguing about a man who gives his heart that completely.” She scratched her fingernail lightly over the left side of his chest before her hand fell to her lap. “But me, I want to be that woman for some man. I deserve that.”
And he couldn’t deny she was right about that. She deserved it all.
He gripped the bed rail to keep from reaching for her. “Livia Cicero, I can say with absolute certainty when that man comes along for you, he’s not going to stand a chance. You’re one helluva woman.”
She pressed her lips to her fingers, then touched his mouth. “Thank you, Colonel Scanlon. It has been a pleasure.”
He turned away fast before he did something stupid like ask her for some time to sort through his feelings. He was doing the right thing in giving this young woman a chance to live her life. If there were anything more out there for him, it wouldn’t be the sort of roller-coaster romance he’d enjoyed with Heather. And it sure as hell wouldn’t be a bungee-style emotional free-for-all that came with a woman like Livia.
It was time to move on.
Swallowing a bellyful of regret, he knew his exit line. As the door hissed closed behind him, he could still taste the hint of her on his lips.
EIGHTEEN
Jill sat on the edge of her bed, combing through her wet hair and wishing her feelings were as easy to untangle.
Mason stretched out under the covers already, his hands behind his head. After their cathartic sex on the floor—mind-blowing and even a little scary in its intensity—they’d showered together silently, made love again more slowly, then headed toward the canopied retreat tucked in the corner of her room. They talked, sure, about everything except each other.
It seemed strange somehow to transition into that sharing-a-bed through-the-night stage so quickly and without discussion. Yet he held back the sapphire and silver comforter, smiled at her, told her she was beautiful as he skimmed his knuckles down her spine.
He was charming.
He was solicitous.
But he wasn’t intimate, not on any real emotional level. She couldn’t hide from the truth. She wanted something more with him. If she’d learned anything tonight, it was that life could be cut short all too quickly for her to waste time.
She turned to Mason, determined to shake some emotion out of him and find out what was going on in that gorgeous head of his. How to start?
Before she could reconsider, she blurted, “I think that first wife of yours really did a number on you.”
Mason’s fingers went still against her bare spine. Then his hand left her altogether. “Do you really think it’s wise to have this conversation when we’re both exhausted?” He clicked off the Tiffany lamp. “We can talk after we’ve gotten some sleep.”
Maybe he had a point, but then maybe she did, too, and he was trying to avoid the discussion altogether. Perhaps she just needed to take a different approach. Jill set her comb on the night table and slid her legs under the Egyptian cotton sheets, her decadent pleasure. Yet they only served to tease along her already heightened nerves that hungered for Mason’s stronger touch.
God, she was about to jump out of her skin. “This isn’t going to work.”
Mason sighed and clicked on the light again. “What do you want to know?”
He looked like he would rather have a root canal. And honestly, if that was how he felt about the possibility of connecting on a deeper level, why would she push for it anyhow? Disappointment simmered.
“Never mind.” She tugged the covers up. “You’re right. Forget I even freaking asked.” And then she felt petty for snapping when she should be grateful to be alive. Instead, she wanted to scream.
“My ex-wife didn’t do anything to me. It takes two to make or break a marriage. I’m just as much to blame, as I’m sure you’re noticing, since apparently I’ve done something to piss you off.”
Renegade Page 19
