by Anne Marsh
Faye led her over to a cluster of low sofas in the center of the gallery. She sat down, waving toward the spot across from her. “Wow me.”
So Katie did. Or tried. That had to count for something, right? She pulled shoe after show from her box, unwrapping her treasures and talking Faye through what she loved about each one. After five minutes, she forgot to be nervous. After ten, she forgot to shut up.
Fifteen minutes later, Faye held a hand up to stem the tide of words and turned a sassy red leather pump over in her hand. “I would kill to wear these. I was supposed to get a loaner exhibit of gold miner drawings from San Francisco. They cancelled.” She shrugged. “If you want the slot, it’s yours. I can’t promise that you’ll get rich or that there will even be media coverage this late in the game.”
“You’re saying yes?” Don’t pass out on Faye’s couch.
“Absolutely.” Faye looked lustfully at the shoe in her hand. “You bet. Although, if you decide to sell these babies, I want first dibs on this pair.”
They discussed the logistics and Faye promised to draw up a contract and drop it by the bungalow later tomorrow.
“You should make custom shoes,” Faye suggested, walking Katie to the door. She still hadn’t let go of the red pump. “Bespoke. That’s the word, right?”
“I’d never thought about it.” She fished the pump’s mate out of the box and handed it over. Faye beamed. “I wouldn’t have thought there was a huge shoe market in Strong.”
Faye shrugged. “We get all sorts of day-trippers stopping at the antiques store and you could add a web storefront, maybe focus on custom bridal shoes. You should think about it. Plus, I saw what you did for Abbie. I want that for me, but different.”
Wow. She’d never considered going into business. Stepping outside, she eyed Strong’s main street speculatively. Maybe she should do a little real estate and lease shopping? Just in case Faye had a point?
Chapter Eleven
Katie had had her hands full getting her shoes ready to exhibit. She might be last minute filler for Faye’s gallery, but that didn’t mean Katie wasn’t giving it her best shot. Faye had given her an opening date of two weeks after their initial meeting. She’d spent her days picking shoes to exhibit, discussing lighting, presentation and press with Faye. Whenever Tye came home, she was on the phone, on the computer or bent over her damned desk working.
He’d wanted this for her. He just hadn’t realized it would mean temporarily giving her up. He’d taken to spending the night in his camper and she hadn’t said anything. He wasn’t entirely certain she’d noticed he was gone.
Tonight was the big night, however. He pulled his truck up in front of her bungalow and got out, but she was already coming out to meet him, clearly eager to get the show on the road. Her black cocktail dress had a front that just skimmed the tops of her breasts and tempted him to run a finger over those tempting curves. The dress hugged her tightly, stopping way too soon above her knees. And her shoes... Those were definite fuck-me shoes. Purple satin pumps with a four-inch stiletto heel and a ribbon tie that curled wickedly around her ankles and tied in a saucy bow at the back. He had no idea how she navigated the sidewalk and climbed up into his truck, flashing him a glimpse of her sun-tanned thighs and... Jesus. Christ. Yeah. He liked her thong, too. In fact, he was damned certain the black-and-white zebra print scrap would drive him crazy before the night was over.
He cleared his throat.
He wasn’t sure the peekaboo show was an accident, either.
He shut the passenger-side door, went around and climbed in. Looked over at her because some things had to be said.
“You look gorgeous,” he said gruffly.
His usual dress code was BDUs and combat boots. Fancy dress parties were out of his league. Even he knew he couldn’t wear denim to Katie’s gallery opening. It would have been disrespectful to everything she’d accomplished. He’d put on the only other thing he had. His dress uniform.
“You too.” She beamed at him. “I love a man in uniform. And thanks for picking me up.”
Her happy smile was contagious. He could feel the corners of his own mouth curling up as he tipped his head in acknowledgment. “Thought I wouldn’t make you walk in those shoes.”
Minutes later, he pulled up at the gallery. Light spilled out onto the sidewalk, drowning out the stars overhead and the black expanse of sky. The entire jump team appeared to be assembled on the other side of the plate glass windows (because he might have called in a few I-owe-ya’s just as insurance that Katie’s opening would be packed). And the shoes... yeah, Katie’s shoes were the star of the show. Faye had perched one sexy number after another on top of tall white pedestals, letting the shoes speak for themselves. Glamorous. Sensual. Playful. Tye had plenty of adjectives to describe what he saw, but he still had no idea how Katie did it.
When they went in, Faye immediately carried Katie off, to introduce her to various media people. While Katie mingled, the Donovans closed in.
“You’ve met Faye?” Jack handed him a crystal flute of champagne.
“Uh-huh.” Tye tried to figure out how to juggle the delicate glass without wearing his drink on his dress whites. “She seems real nice.”
Rio swooped in beside him, deftly trading the flute for a beer bottle. Thank. God. “She’s reeling you in.”
Tye eyed Faye. She seemed harmless enough. Plus, she was engaged to Evan Donovan, as the enormous rock on her ring finger advertised. “Why?”
Rio draped an arm around Tye’s shoulders. “You have heard of the calendar, right?”
He searched his memory. “The charity thing?”
“That’s the one.” Rio steered him towards the back of the gallery. “Faye wants to do another one and you’re fresh meat, my man. If you’re not careful, you’re going to star front and center. Evan has to let Faye have her way with him—he signed up for it when he popped the question—but the rest of us are free to run.”
Rio stopped them in front of a small side gallery. And... Jesus. Tye fought the urge to back pedal. To ring out and cry uncle. Twelve by twelve black and white shots of smoke jumpers lined the walls. Apparently, naked was a prerequisite. He’d also had no desire to know what Evan Donovan looked like fresh out of bed.
“Wow,” he got out, borrowing Katie’s word.
“It’s something, isn’t it?” Rio moved away and took a swig of champagne from Tye’s flute.
“Don’t scare him off.” Jack strolled towards them. “There are worse things than getting naked for a good cause.”
Not in a million years. There was no way Faye would convince him to strip down and pose.
“You’ll get used to it,” Jack said. “It’s kind of a prerequisite of working the jump team long-term. Unofficially, of course, because I’m trying to avoid sexual harassment lawsuits.”
Rio just grinned.
Settling down, staying put in Strong hadn’t formed any part of his plans when he’d pulled into town two months earlier, and his summer was almost over. He looked over at Katie. She was smiling, waving her champagne flute to emphasize some point. Tye loved the look of pure happiness on her face. She, on the other hand, clearly loved this.
Jack slanted him a look. “Job offer’s still good.”
He could stay. He could make a home with Katie, make sure that smile stayed on her face each and every day. He tested the thought. He’d read her letters to Kade, had anticipated each new drawing. She loved laughing, loved living. And she did both so well. He knew he was broken inside, that he had a dark inside he had no business bringing near her.
“Maybe,” he said. “I might do that.”
***
When the gallery opening wrapped up, Tye took her home. Her home, but she was pretty certain he felt comfortable with her even if he’d been strangely AWOL these last two weeks. When he opened the truck door, she was reaching down to untie her heels. The purple satin was one of her prettiest efforts, but her feet hur
t. Quick as lightning, he pulled her out and into his arms, her shoes dangling from his fingertips.
“Sweep a girl off her feet, why don’t you?”
He gave that quick, hard bark of laughter she loved. “Only you, honey.”
A quick key insert at her front door and then he headed straight down the hall to her bedroom. She leaned her head back against his shoulder, happy to enjoy the ride for a moment.
“Good night?” He asked the question gruffly, looking down at her as he strode toward the bed.
“You bet.” Tonight had been the best.
And she wasn’t ready to be done. She was keyed up, excited by the adrenaline rush of seeing her shoes—her shoes—perched on all those sexy little pedestals and doing media interviews for a handful of California papers.
Do something for yourself, he’d said.
He was right.
“Tye?”
“Oui?” He pulled back the covers and set her down on the bed, before turning away and undressing like they’d been married twenty years. For a moment, she watched him, enjoying the show. He took off his jacket and unbuttoned his dress shirt, leaving everything neat and folded and as dramatically unlike her own exploding closet as possible.
She definitely wasn’t ready to be done for the night. She rose up on her knees. “I’m going to do something for myself now, okay?”
“Whatever you want, angel.” He came over, his hands reaching for her hips to steady her.
She felt behind her for her zipper. Yoga was good for many things, including getting her own zipper. The black cocktail dress fell down around her arms. One good shimmy and she knelt before him in just her thong and thigh-high stockings.
He inhaled sharply. “How is this working out for you?”
She reached for his waistband. “I promise I’m going to enjoy myself a lot.”
When she leaned forward, baring him for her touch, her mouth, he got a whole lot louder. Oui. Definitely this counted as doing something for herself, because hearing him gasp her name, his rough pleas for more, for her? She could happily do this all night.
Chapter Twelve
It was fucking pitch black.
So dark Tye couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or shut. He lifted his hand in front of his face and, nope, he couldn’t see that, either. A quick pat of his side revealed his weapon wasn’t where it belonged, which meant he was defenseless. He had to be ready to shoot. Delay and people died.
He inhaled, sharp and fast, the dark closing in around him. Breathe. Night vision would come. It always did. He counted to ten, sucking air like a diver under too long.
On ten, he forced himself to listen. Was the Humvee on fire? Had he driven too fast, bit it at last? He couldn’t hear the other man who shared the cab with him. Kade. His wingman. The first thing he’d learned was that worse was always outside, worse was coming for his team and he couldn’t do a goddamned thing about it. Hatred roamed the streets outside the Humvee, armed with guns and sticks and a homemade napalm that burned so fast and hot that no foam could put it out.
Nothing.
No guns thundering. No wounded men moaning through clenched teeth, because some shit hurt so much that the sound tore free no matter how hard or how much you wanted to hold it in. Hell, not even the tick-tick-tick of the motor cooling down because he’d killed the engine. Was he pinned down?
Something—someone—moved behind him, clothing rustling. The gentle whoosh of breathing assaulted his senses. He wasn’t alone.
Rolling swiftly, he pressed the intruder into the mattress.
Mattress. Not the Humvee with its vinyl seats and hardware, but Serta goodness. Firm, with sheets that smelled like Tide and dryer sheets—and a floral perfume that teased his memory.
He had a female pinned on her side. Her breathing no longer soft and even. Startled gasps, each in and out pushing her breasts against his arm. He registered silky material dislodged by his roll and pin. A warm, plump breast resting on his arm. That was better than his usual meet and greet in the dark.
Keep it together. He wasn’t pinned down. Wasn’t trapped in the Humvee as a mob of angry Afghans moved in. That was the nightmare. This was the reality. Wasn’t it? Or had his head reversed fact with fantasy?
He curled his hand around the breast and rolled the nipple between his fingers. A SEAL didn’t know who was friend or foe. The woman offering tea today could be gunning for him tomorrow. His nine-to-five included roadside bombs and hidden snipers. A street wasn’t simply a street and no one—absolutely no one—could be trusted.
“Tye?” A sleepy voice floated out of the dark towards him, and his panic faded some. He’d told her to sleep facing away from him because he jerked in his sleep and tended to come awake fighting, reaching for his gun or the knife. She knew better than to get too close.
“Yeah.” That was who he was. Tye. Not sailor or Officer or infidel.
“You can’t sleep?” She didn’t move, didn’t demand he let her go. She knew better. Just like she knew what was coming now.
“No talking.”
“Okay,” she breathed. He gave her nipple a careful pinch, savoring her sharp gasp.
Her nightdress had that kind of crisscross bodice, all pretty lace and silky material. Thin straps crossed her shoulders and held the front up. He hooked his fingers in the straps and tugged. His knife would have done the job—beneath the pillow, his head reminded him—but she didn’t like knives. She’d made that clear.
Instead, he pushed the material down. Khost? Or somewhere else? Jesus, he didn’t know where he was. Wrong, his head told him, but his heart pounded hard and he anchored himself on her. With her.
“You’re the one pinned down,” he growled.
“Yes,” she whispered back and reached back for him. He stilled, legs wrapped around hers. He was naked. No camo, no survival gear. His heart pounded so loudly, he couldn’t hear her breathing, his chest tightening painfully. Vulnerable. No. She was the one at his mercy.
She tried to shift, but he controlled her body effortlessly.
“Stay put,” he growled in her ear. Wrapping her hands in one of his, he used his thigh to open hers while he pushed her nightdress up to her waist. His hand moved over her stomach, savoring the rounded curve and tracing her belly button until she squirmed.
“Please.” Was the rough word a plea for permission or a statement of intent? Hell if he knew. He rubbed his erection against the small of her back and she pressed into his touch, welcoming him. Yes. She’d said yes. This was okay, this simple, raw connection between that kept him sane in the darkness. He ran a hand down the straight line of her spine.
“Tye,” she groaned.
That was his name. He held onto the word like a lifeline, knowing he was all kinds of fucked up. He couldn’t give her niceties or pretty words. All he had was what was left of himself and how could that be enough?
“Katie,” he rasped, remembering where he was. Almost. He wasn’t in Khost. Wasn’t on patrol. Jesus. Christ. The relief almost made him boneless, but he teased her, sliding his dick along the cleft of her ass while his fingers stroked through her folds.
“I’m right here,” she whispered and she was and he was wrapped around her so tight. He knew this woman. Knew this bed and this place. He should sit up and swing his legs over the side of the mattress. He should get his boots on the ground and his ass out the door because he didn’t belong here.
Instead, he carefully pushed his fingers into her hot, slick depths, because that was the one place he did belong now. While he fought his lungs for control, sucking air in and out, his chest heaving, he drew his fingers up and down, enjoying the slippery, silky feel of her. She was impossibly soft. And wet. He could smell her and this was what home smelled like. Tide and Katie.
He didn’t belong back here in this world of parks and supermarkets and shopping centers. He couldn’t jog down a goddamned path without checking for explosives, half-expecting every footfall
to be his last. He breathed rough on the trail and not because he was out of shape. Nope. It was because he was scared shitless and running, running, running. Not that he’d admit that. He nodded his head and barked Sir and Ma’am at the oncoming tide of joggers and ran faster.
Katie arched her back, small, happy noises escaping her.
He could do this.
He touched her, tunneling his fingers deep inside her while he buried his face against her neck and breathed. Her hair tickled his nose and cheeks. He found a secret, hidden spot inside her and crooked his finger, rubbing. With the little scream he remembered and loved, she tightened around his fingers, the muscles in her thighs and ass clenching and quivering.
“Moving,” he rasped out the standard SEAL move call.
“Now,” she demanded and he notched himself against her opening and pushed. He banged into her and she met each thrust with a backward thrust of her hips, chanting his name in a desperate, glorious litany. The bed creaked, the headboard slamming into the wall. She stilled, coming with a long, slow gasp he recognized.
Katie.
He poured himself into her, marking her. Now she’d smell like him and her. Them.
***
“Wow. That’s an awesome way to wake up.” She didn’t sound upset. She rolled over, wrapping her arms around him.
He ran his fingers over her mouth, tracing the smile there. He was in Katie’s bed, Katie’s arms. Not Khost. He didn’t ever have to go back there.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked roughly.
Jesus. Christ. What kind of man was he?
“No.” She sounded certain, but he ran his hands over her, looking for hidden damage.
“Tye.” She rubbed her hand over his arm. “Tell me what’s wrong?”
Part question, part concerned demand, he didn’t know whether he appreciated her words or wanted to beg her to shut the hell up and leave him alone. He was working through this. He was. If there’d been a way to ring the bell and quit the nightmares, he would have taken it. He really thought he would have.
