CHAPTER THREE
“You and I both know that it isn’t enough to go forward with the article. There’s no value in an incomplete story.”
Delaney rolled her eyes, grateful that her boss, Benjamin Streep couldn’t see her right now. Not least because not all her bruises had faded yet, even though it had been two weeks since she’d been abducted.
“But you haven’t talked to the media yet about your own experience. About the kidnapping,” he continued. “Would you want to do that?”
Delaney tapped her pen against the dining room table, then threw it down. After a weekend where Mac had been nothing but helpful and attentively present, he’d finally gone back to work, and it was time for her to do the same. She’d collected all her notes and books out of storage, bought a new laptop online so she could access all her files from the cloud, and began to organize all the new information she’d found on her trip. Endless calls to her contacts in Afghanistan had not revealed the fate of her interpreter, and she was out of people to call on the new phone she’d purchased the day before.
There was no end to what she’d do to bring home the story. It burned inside her. But what had happened to her was private. Just thinking about what had happened made her feel sick to her stomach and gave her nightmares that kept her up half the night. She’d barely been able to make it through all the military debriefings and the statement the military police connected to the hospital had asked her to make. Taking the sleeping pills she’d been offered by doctors for her injuries might have helped with the fear along with her pain, but having been around her mother, Delaney had learned that numbness wasn’t anything she sought.
“No. I’m not for sale. And it’s too much of a distraction. It’ll get in the way of me figuring out the real story: Someone in the U.S. is providing funds and weapons to insurgents.” Fake it until you make it. She needed to sound as hungry for the story as she’d ever been, even if pursuing it terrified her. “If only I’d been shown that delivery like I’d been promised when we set up the meet. How could it have gotten so messed up? My contacts were solid.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. Not a good sign. Benjamin Streep was a thoughtful man with the strictest moral code of any person she’d ever met. “You can’t go back.”
“Don’t be naive, Benjamin. I have to go back. We need proof. Shipping documents, flight manifests, photographs of weapons at the place where they begin their journey and again at their destination. More sophisticated weapons runners than these guys have lathered, rinsed, and repeated for twenty goddamn years without anybody being able to pin them down because compiling the evidence was complex. It’s the same here. We need more than a bunch of factors that all point in the same direction—we need concrete irrefutable proof. We need to reveal the identity of whoever is doing this when there is no room for them to deny it.”
Damn. Why had she gone off like that? Pain? Meds? Emotional hangover? Nice job, Delaney.
“Delaney,” Benjamin said calmly. She hated that tone and knew what was coming next. “You aren’t going back. At least not yet. Give yourself time to heal. You know this company isn’t about racing to distribute the story. We’re where people come for unbiased facts. If there’s one thing the last election taught us, it’s that the media distorts the picture. We want to change that. I don’t want you working until you’re healed.”
She needed to go back, though. And soon. It was like wiping out on her way down a black diamond slope—if she didn’t return to the mountain right away, the fear would grow. It would wrap its invisible arms around her and pin her down so that she’d never leave San Diego ever again. In the past, thrill had always won out over fear. But after what had happened in Afghanistan—after that dirt floor—something had shifted. As much as she needed to go back to chase the story, win a Pulitzer, and have the courage and reputation of famed investigative reporter Nellie Bly, a part of her was scared.
Delaney rubbed her wrists where the fading scabs and red marks from the ropes itched as they healed, reminders of how close she had come to losing everything.
“You need to let me get back in the saddle,” she said. “If I wait too long…” She left the words hanging.
“I get it, Delaney. I do. But I care more about you than I do anything else. I’ll speak to you in a few days. And give some thought to whether you want to use our outlet to tell your story.”
The phone beeped, telling her that Benjamin had hung up.
Shit.
That crappy call out of the way, there was only one more item on her things-I-don’t-really-want-to-do list. And one decision to make. Go visit her mom, and decide where she was going to live.
She looked around Lochlan’s impressive apartment. Over the weekend, Mac had given her space, which she hadn’t expected. They’d taken turns cooking, and she realized she’d forgotten just how good Mac was at it. But when he’d dropped a comment about how spending months eating field rations had only developed his love for good food, she’d been reminded of Brock and his dream of being a SEAL. They would always get back to that. Always. She couldn’t stay here any longer.
She grabbed a hoodie that Mac had loaned her. The clothes he’d bought for her in Germany had been enough to last the weekend, but they were in the wash and she needed to grab some supplies from the things she had in storage at her mom’s.
The very idea of visiting her mother and her glorious world of Technicolor drama made Delaney nauseated as her cab hustled north through the Gaslamp Quarter. Though it was a cooler March day, the area was hopping. She felt a pang of envy seeing people with light jackets eating on patios. She tried to imagine having people to brunch with, but couldn’t. Occasionally she regretted all the hours she’d put into her studies, her constant pursuit of her career. Perhaps if she’d looked up every now and then, she’d have more friends today.
As she stepped out of the taxi, a silver sedan slowed on the opposite side of the street. For a moment, it felt as though the driver wearing a baseball hat and dark shades was watching her. But that was stupid. Paranoid. A blowback from what happened to her … not unexpected.
Her fingers hovered over the buzzer when she stopped in front of her mom’s unit. She hadn’t called to let Reba know she was home or what had happened.
Pushing away thoughts of running back to Mac’s apartment, she pressed her mom’s apartment number.
“Hello, Reba here,” her mom answered with a drawl, one as fake as the Kate Spade knockoff Delaney had picked up on a Tribeca street corner on her last trip to New York. Born and raised in California, Reba affected the accent of someone born and raised in northwestern Louisiana. Nobody had ever had the heart to tell her mom that it sounded phony.
“Hey, Mom. It’s Delaney.”
“My baby’s home,” she cried. “Come on up.”
The buzzer sounded and the door clicked. She took the elevator to her mom’s floor and walked to the door, each footstep filled with dread over how her mother would react to her injuries.
The door was already wide open. When her mom, whose eyesight required glasses but whose vanity prevented her from wearing them, finally focused on her, she gasped. “Oh, my sweet Delaney,” she said, hurrying forward to put her hands on either side of Delaney’s face. The stack of bracelets she wore jangled loudly. “What in heaven’s name happened to you?” The sickly sweet scent of jasmine embraced her.
“Car accident.” The lie slipped out of Delaney’s lips with practiced ease. As soon as she’d found out that the hospital had been trying to find her next of kin—her mother—she’d told them to stop. Most of her adult life had been spent minimizing her mom’s tendency to overreact. There was nothing to be gained by telling her the truth. “I came home to see my own doctor and recover.”
Reba clucked as she led them back inside. “Very wise. Those Afghanistani, Afghan … Afghani … whatever, doctors couldn’t be qualified.”
“Mom! You can’t say stuff like that. For a start, it’s Afghan. “
Afghani” is the currency. And the doctors were all great, and I’m healing fine.” Great, she was defending imaginary Afghan doctors she hadn’t seen. “I just came by to say hi and pick up some clothes from your storage.”
“No you don’t, Delaney. You will take a seat, and you will tell me about what happened. Coffee?”
“Please,” Delaney conceded as she took a seat at the bar. “And I’m fine. It was nothing. It could have happened here,” she said, gesturing toward the apartment balcony where a series of car horn blasts thoughtfully helped back up her story.
“Where are you staying?” her mom asked, popping a cartridge into the coffee maker, then reaching for a mug from a shelf.
Delaney paused, uncertain how her mom would take the news. “I’m staying with Mac.”
Her mom stopped mid-reach. “Malachai MacCarrick?” If the words were any more brittle, they would have shattered into a million pieces on the kitchen tiles. She turned around slowly.
“Yeah. He’s helping me out.”
Her mom grabbed a glass instead of a mug and wandered over to the ornate silver tray of alcohol that sat on the antique dresser.
The fact that her mom poured herself a beyond-generous measure of Southern Comfort was all Delaney needed to know.
* * *
Mac hit the elevator button and watched the illuminated numbers fall toward G. Finally home. According to his watch and phone and computer, it was Wednesday, but he wasn’t convinced. In some ways it felt like only ten minutes had passed since he’d left San Diego on Monday; in other ways it felt like weeks since he’d quietly opened the door to Delaney’s bedroom at five a.m., in no mood to get on a plane to Washington, and had whispered goodbye to the air. Seeing her sleeping like the dead, her hair spread all over the pillow and her body sprawled on top of the sheets, had made him smile. Many things about her had changed, but some things had stayed very much the same. He’d wished he could climb into bed with her to see if something as simple as physical connection could bring them closer.
Leaving her to go finalize the contract for an upcoming piece of work had felt wrong. Now that he was back, he was anxious to figure out if they had any chance of a future. It had taken every ounce of his self-control to give her space last weekend. He could tell that if he’d pushed her, she’d run. Would she even be upstairs now, or would he find a note on the counter? Would he find only empty hangers swinging in the closet of the spare room?
When they were younger, they’d had so much in common. A love of surfing. Travel. Lazy afternoons stealing kisses and waiting for her parents or his college roommate to head out for the day, or even half an hour, so they could explore each other’s bodies. Though he could be quick if he needed to, he always preferred to take things slow. Very.
His phone rang as he entered the elevator. He smiled as he looked at the display. “Hey, Mom.”
“You never write, you never call…”
Mac laughed. It was the way his mother had greeted him on the phone since the first call he’d made from college. Over the years, it had taken on truth. He’d be gone at a moment’s notice, and to places in the world that weren’t known for their cellular reception. “I’m just getting home. Can I call you back later?”
“You can do one better. Bring Delaney over to dinner. I’m sure the situation between the two of you is complicated, but I’ve missed that girl.” His mom and Delaney had always gotten along, which had made him happy.
“How did you know about Delaney?” He hadn’t said a word, mostly because he didn’t want his mom to start meddling in a “When are you going to give me grandkids?” kind of way.
“I saw Cabe’s mom at the Encinitas library this morning. Cabe told her that he picked you and Delaney up from the airport. Is there anything you want to tell me?” Her voice went up at the end.
Fuck. It was like being twelve again. My mom saw your mom and she said …
“I was helping her out, Mom.”
“I didn’t know you were back in touch.”
The elevator jolted as it came to a stop and the doors slid open. “Listen, Mom. It’s complicated. I’ll call you back, probably tomorrow.”
She chuckled on the end of the line. “The best things always are. I love you.”
“Love you too, Mom.”
The travel plan he’d left on the fridge had said he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow, but the meeting he’d attended on the use of contractors to protect foreign dignitaries had ended early, so he’d hauled ass to get to the airport and get back.
As he let himself into the apartment, his ears were assaulted by weird-ass hippy-shit music, all chimes and pan pipes and waves crashing. Silently, he dropped his bags to the floor, slid his shoes off, and opened an extra button on his collared shirt. Following the teeth-grating spa tune, he headed for the living room.
There, in a sports bra that stretched across incredibly toned shoulders, and a tiny pair of shorts stretched equally spectacularly over her ass, was Delaney, attempting to contort herself into a position he thought would be very useful in bed. For a moment, he leaned against the corner of the wall, and simply watched. His dick stirred in appreciation.
She stood tall, trying to place the foot she’d hurt flat on the floor. Her ankle clearly was still bothering her.
His eyes roamed back to her narrow waist and the round cheeks of her ass. His brain filled with visions of walking up behind her, his chest to her back, and nudging her forward until she could bend comfortably over the back of the chair. He imagined lowering the shorts down her tanned thighs. In his mind, she was naked underneath. If he kept up these thoughts, he was going to have a full-on erection. She’d always been able to arouse him. He’d been her first, and in appreciation of that, he’d never really pushed her to … experiment. But now …
Delaney reached her hands high into the air, then leaned forward, legs straight, until her hands touched the floor. God, she had a great ass. She obviously worked out more than she used to, although she’d always been fit. But, damn. She winced and fell forward.
“Goddammit,” she cried, rubbing on her ankle.
Mac hurried forward and scooped her into his arms. “What the hell are you doing?” he said, irritation replacing appreciation.
“Mac? You aren’t supposed to be home until tomorrow.”
He placed her down on the sofa and she rubbed her ankle. “Why isn’t your foot strapped up?” It was a little over two weeks since she’d been injured—not enough time for everything to heal. Mac crouched down in front of her and reached for her foot.
Delaney snatched it away. “I’m fine. I know what I am doing.”
He didn’t need to look up to know she was pouting—it was in her tone—so he focused on checking out her foot despite her protests. “I’m a trained medic, Delaney. And this should still be strapped up.”
“Fine,” she said. “I just wanted to stretch out. I feel like an old lady right now.”
He looked up at her and her indescribable eyes met his. He tried hard to ignore her golden tan, smooth skin, and the way her breasts defied gravity in the black and neon green sports bra. “Nobody would accuse you of that,” he said, unable to resist running the tip of his finger along her thigh.
Her eyes flared a little at the contact. Then she sighed and placed her hand on top of his, stopping the movement. As quickly as the moment had begun, it was gone. “Fine, I’ll strap it back up,” Delaney said, attempting to stand.
He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Let me get it. Where is your bandage?”
She nodded in the direction of the large dining room table that was covered with papers, files, and books. Considering that everything she’d brought back from Germany had fit in a small backpack, it looked like she’d been busy. There was a pile of delivery boxes on the floor, and a new laptop sat on the table. “I’m sorry. I would have cleaned up if I had known you were coming home today.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, getting to his feet. “It’s about time the pl
ace looked lived in.” It was true. He was organized. Meticulous. Resourceful. Didn’t need much. With Delaney’s mess lying around, it looked a little more like somebody actually lived there. Mac found the bandage on the table and returned to his spot on the floor by her feet.
He carefully bound her ankle with an ACE bandage that was a little wider than he would have liked. He wrapped it around her ankle twice to anchor it. There was still a little swelling, so he checked it wasn’t too tight.
“Try to keep your toes upright for me, Buttons,” he said, running it under her foot and giving it a gentle tug to pull it into the correct position. Her toenails were painted a pretty peach.
“I could have done this myself,” Delaney said, leaning forward. The floral smell of her shampoo hit him in the gut as her hair brushed the side of his face. “So, medic, huh?”
Mac fastened the bandage and placed her foot back on the ground before joining her on the sofa. “Yeah,” he nodded. “So, yoga, huh?” he said, looking her up and down.
Delaney chuckled. “Yeah. Maybe a little too soon. I’d only just started when you arrived, guess I need to wait a little longer.”
The bruises on her face had faded, but he couldn’t resist running his thumb along her cheekbone. “You look better,” he said. Too good. Good enough to lean forward and kiss. Right now, she looked like she was thinking the exact same thing. “But don’t overdo it.”
Carefully, Delaney stood. “I should go get changed.”
“Come out with me tonight. To meet up with Six and Lou.” He was sure the idea of going out with him alone would feel too much like a date.
She looked out of the window toward the harbor, fine lines gathering between her eyes. She was clearly undecided.
“He’s going away on a job soon. It’s not pretty, and they could probably both do with the distraction,” he added quickly, although he knew that both Six and Lou handled Six’s departures like pros. Right now, he’d say whatever he needed to if she agreed to go out to dinner with him.
“Fine, but you need to give me five minutes to get changed. I feel stupid in workout clothes when I can’t even work out.”
Final Siege Page 5
