by Alicia Scott
She flitted over, more nervous than she ever wanted to be, and opened the glass doors as if it didn’t mean much to her at all.
“I started collecting them ten years ago,” she said, her voice only slightly breathless. He stood right beside her now, and she could smell the warm masculine scent of sweat and soap.
“When your mother died,” he filled in softly.
Her hands stilled for a moment, then she willed them back into motion. She forgot sometimes how smart Garret was, how easily he could fill in the blanks. “Yes.”
She drew out the first of the ten dolls, a beautiful, porcelain girl with long brown hair falling in silky ringlets. She had wide blue eyes, blushing cheeks and a feathery hat. An exquisite creation, she was draped in a lovely dress of roseflowered cotton, gathered with lace and bows. Suzanne lifted the doll up, feeling the full porcelain body rest like a baby’s weight in her hand. As she raised the doll, the delicate eyelashes fluttered up, her jointed arms coming down.
“She’s fully jointed porcelain,” Suzanne tried to explain briskly. “She has pierced ears, detailed clothing down to the shoes and twenty-four-carat gold painted around her wrist.”
All careful considerations when contemplating buying a doll. And none of them explained why she’d actually bought the first doll ten years ago. Maybe because she didn’t like to recall the tightness that hit her chest when she’d seen the beautiful little girl staring back at her with china blue eyes. She didn’t like to think of the pang of loneliness that struck so suddenly and so sharply that tears had sprung into her eyes as she stood in front of the store.
The dolls were everything beautiful and innocent and cosseted. Everything that as a child she’d never been, and as an adult would never be. And sometimes, in moments of weakness, she could picture herself handing the dolls to a phantom daughter and whispering with her about the beauty of their shared treasures.
Now, she fussed with the doll’s hat, her hands trembling, while she tried to keep her emotions under control. “They’re good investments,” she said evenly. She could feel Garret’s eyes boring into her face and didn’t dare look up.
“They’re pretty,” he said roughly. She nodded, but he felt the nervousness rolling off her in waves. Her face was pale, her hands shaky as she fidgeted with the fragile doll. And suddenly, he could see her in the rain, dressed in the ragged jeans and worn T-shirt she’d always worn back then, her hair long and lank around her thin face. He’d never completely understood why she’d walked him to the bus stop until those last moments when the bus had been pulling away and he’d seen her lips form those three silent words in the rain.
Funny how he’d never forgotten that image. Funny how over the years, in all the wars and battles, in times of crisis, it was always her face that came to mind. Now here he was, standing in her house with its antiques and roses and dolls, and he felt suddenly eighteen again.
He felt hungry and raw and strange. More than anything in the world, he felt like he wanted to take the doll from her nervous hands, draw her into his arms and kiss her.
He found himself leaning forward, and at the last moment, her hazel eyes swept up to meet his own. Immediately, she froze, a deer captured by headlights, and her gaze fell instinctively to his bearded lips.
He leaned closer, catching the faint scent of dried roses and apple shampoo. He watched her lips part, full and pink and trembling with the anticipation. His body was rock hard again, and he only knew that he wanted her.
His large, callused hands drew the doll from her nerveless grasp and rested it carefully on the ledge of the buffet. Then he cupped his hands around her shoulders, feeling the soft, polished cotton of her beautiful dress and pulled her toward him. She came willingly, her eyes still round and glazed as they fastened upon his face. For a long moment, he didn’t move, but let her feel the heat and hardness of his body pressed against her soft, giving curves. His bare, muscled leg pressed between her own, rubbing her intimately.
She gasped softly, her cheeks coloring, but she still didn’t pull away. His thumb caressed the softness of her cheek, following the curve to her tender earlobe, finding the throbbing blue pulse in her neck. She shifted restlessly, the movement brushing her suddenly swollen breasts against his furred chest. His gaze darkened, his eyes heavy lidded as they fell once more to her lips.
“Suzanne,” he whispered huskily, “kiss me.”
Her hazel eyes opened wider at the command, and for the first time, he saw the war in her eyes.
“I—I can’t.”
His thumb brushed across her soft lips, feeling them tremble. “Yes, you can.”
Her eyes closed, and a deep shudder ran through her body. She could feel the muscled heat of his thigh, the rough caress of his thumb, the crisp arousal of his chest hair. In all her practical, efficient existence, she’d never felt like this. Deborah Kerr had probably known these sensations when Cary Grant had kissed her that first time on the cruise. But then Cary Grant had called it love, and Garret promised no such thing.
“You’re leaving,” she whispered.
His thumb rasped again over her lips, so soft, so seductive. “Yes.”
“It’s not right.”
His left hand ran down her spine, following the curve to her buttocks. She shivered once more, instinctively arching against his granite body.
“All you ever have to do is say no.”
Her eyes opened, and she peered at him through dark, dazed depths. He was seducing her with touch, with words, with feelings. And she was letting him, like the small-town, provincial fool that she was. Hadn’t she learned anything fifteen years ago?
And why did his body have to feel so good pressed against her own, just as she’d imagined it would last night when images of him tortured her into the early-morning hours?
Her hands came up of their own volition, flattening themselves against his bare chest. Tentatively, she combed her fingers through the dark matting. It was crisp and silky and nerve-tingling against her fingertips. She pressed her hand flat again, and absorbed the heat of skin, the feel of his pounding heart.
She closed her eyes and, because she’d dreamed about this man so much, allowed herself one moment of weakness. Slowly, hesitantly, she leaned forward and pressed her lips against the base of his throat. Very tentatively, her tongue came out and tasted him.
Immediately, his hands tightened on her shoulders, a shiver racking his tall, muscular frame.
“Suzanne…” he whispered thickly. His fingers were strong on her shoulders. Strong and needy.
And all at once, she was afraid.
“This is crazy,” she muttered frantically, pushing herself away and taking quick steps back while her cheeks flushed a desperate red and her knees threatened to give out completely. She banged up against the head chair and clutched the antique for dear life. “I’m saying no. No, no, no.”
It was probably more than adequate, but she was too flustered to care. Her cheeks were bright from burning heat and acute embarrassment. What had happened to the practical and efficient woman she’d become? What had happened to all that backbone she’d fought so hard to build?
Before her eyes, Garret swayed a bit, then steadied himself with a quick hand on the old buffet.
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Garret said, his knuckles turning white on the buffet edge with the effort of holding himself up. As Suzanne watched in wide-eyed shock, his face paled, his arms beginning to tremble as his regained strength suddenly fled.
The buffet shook dangerously, and he immediately reached for the table.
Instantly, Suzanne was at his side, concern for him sweeping away her embarrassment. Without hesitation, she wrapped her arm around the wounded man’s waist, pulling out a chair for him. “Sit,” she commanded. “For goodness’ sake, Garret, you’ve got to take better care of yourself.”
Out of habit, she felt his forehead, then brushed back his hair, peering into his dark eyes. For a change, he didn’t look devilish or intimidating; he sim
ply looked like a man in pain. He shifted a bit, and his face winced with the effort.
“Garret, you must try to take it easy.”
“Seduction never used to be difficult,” he muttered. Suzanne’s cheeks colored immediately, but she kept her chin in the air.
“You need more water,” she declared primly. “I’ll bring you a tall glass and I want you to drink it all down. Perhaps we should try a light lunch, as well. You’ll need your strength.”
Instantly, she remembered Cagney’s comment from earlier, and she halted midmotion. If the past five minutes were anything to go by, she certainly didn’t want Garret to recover any more of his strength, either. Or worse, maybe she did.
With a mental kick, she thrust herself back into action, bustling toward the kitchen. She was the nurse and the hostess, she reminded herself. She would keep it on those terms.
Some of the color had returned to his bearded cheeks by the time she returned. This time, she kept her gaze off his chest and busied herself with putting the doll away while he drank. That accomplished, she kept her eyes decorously on the wall.
“Better now?” she asked after a bit.
He nodded.
“Hungry?”
“Maybe. Tired mostly.”
“You should lie down, then. Cagney will be back shortly with your clothes. I can fix a small meal for later.”
He nodded once more, and absently spun the glass in his fingers. It felt cold and slick and wet. And looking at the shiny droplets condensed on the outside, he remembered absolutely nothing about the past two years. Shouldn’t water trigger some sort of recollection for a SEAL? God, it seemed he’d lived in water since joining the navy at eighteen. Shallow dives, deep dives, open-water dives, night dives. He’d done it all. Until…until…the picture eluded him, dipping behind the black haze of his amnesia.
As if reading his thoughts, Suzanne piped up hesitantly, “Do—do you remember yet the language you were speaking? Or maybe where the burn scars came from?”
He frowned darkly, feeling his exhaustion even more intensely, and shook his head. A man suffering malnutrition, who bore marks of fire. Where the hell had he been?
Suzanne sat down at the head of the oval table and looked at him curiously. “What do you remember?”
He glanced up, finding her eyes still cautious, but sincere with their concern. He hated to see that concern in her eyes. No one should ever have to worry about him, but himself. Disgusted at the whole turn of events, he let the glass go and drummed his fingertips impatiently on the table.
“I remember Hell Week,” he said suddenly, his fingers fast and rhythmic. “I remember training.” The jogging with green fatigues and heavy boondocker boots through seven days and nights of sand while the extra twenty-eight pounds of his wet kapok life vest practically dragged him to his knees. He remembered the sheer exhaustion of being allowed only two hours’ sleep a night, and the temptation to give in that might have been too strong if Austin hadn’t always been right there at his elbow, egging him with his golden, surfer looks.
“That’s good,” Suzanne encouraged him. “That was fifteen years ago?”
“Thirteen.”
“What about five years ago?”
His fingers stalled momentarily, and more images poured into his mind. Creeping low through jungles with his tigerstriped team, MP-5s carried low, but safetied. The XO motioned ahead, and Garret responded immediately to the silent command, falling into flanker position with Austin at his side. Into the clearing, target in sight. The first shot rang out, and the yells began. “Early contact, early contact.” MP-5s were switched to full-fire and the SEALs released the jacketed hollow-point bullets in controlled three-shot bursts. His arms vibrated with the motion as he raked the submachine gun around, sweeping the four-to-six position. He didn’t feel anything though. In the chaos of combat, he was only aware of the singing of his blood and the dull roar of adrenaline in his ears.
“I remember,” he said.
Suzanne nodded, but her eyes were more intent on his face now. His fingers had stopped drumming, but his shoulders moved instead, as if he was reliving a scene hidden to her eyes.
“Three years ago?” she tried.
“Parachute,” he responded promptly this time. In his mind, he was at eighteen hundred feet and fighting with two collapsed cells of his silk chute while the altimeter clicked away precious feet. At the last moment, he wrenched the cells enough for them to suddenly catch the air and he buoyed sharply up. Several hundred feet off course for the LZ, but at least in one piece.
“Two years?”
His brow furrowed, and suddenly he wasn’t so sure. He could feel the weight of a Beretta in his hands, ringing off a quick two shots as he rocketed up through the hatch of a plane. Or maybe it was just training, and those weren’t terrorists at all but the three-by-five note card he had to hit with both shots on all occasions. Then he had escape and evade training, E&E, and he was under water, holding his breath as the sound of a ferry passed by. Two more minutes, his lungs burning more and more as the seconds ticked off. Until just when he thought he couldn’t possibly take it anymore, he lifted his head up and saw the three-man craft finally turning away.
Training. He’d been participating, part teaching. And then…
He’d left, he thought for the first time. At the end of the two weeks, he’d left and gone—
“Garret?”
He shook his head, the pieces slipping away as before. “I don’t know.” Suddenly, he couldn’t bear it, and he jerked back his chair to stand. He swayed immediately, but this time he didn’t care. He hated being sick and he hated being weak. Damn it, his SEAL team was out there somewhere. Austin and Luke and Charlie and C.J. and the others and what the hell was he doing sitting in some dining room not even sure of his own memories? Where in hell had he been? And what had gone wrong?
“I should check in,” he muttered. But the minute he said the words, other images filled his mind. The fire consuming the building while he frantically swung his ax, trying to save what he could while bullets whizzed behind him and the distant sound of shelling penetrated even the roar of the flames. Working with a team of faceless men to fight the fire, men not in camouflage or even fire-fighter uniforms, but men in denim and cotton, all covered in soot and sweat, all still fighting the fire while the snipers tried to pick them off one by one. And walking back to the camp with those shadowy men, his new team.
Then, coming to the rocks, the ax in his hand, the birds circling overhead, he saw the bodies.
“No,” he muttered, low and frustrated and fierce, pounding his fist abruptly on the table. Hot pain lanced down his side, but he didn’t even mind the piercing slivers. He just wanted to remember. For God’s sake, he had to remember.
His fist rose again, and for one savage moment, he really wanted to slam it through the wall. But at the last instant, he saw Suzanne’s face and knew he couldn’t do that to her house. He raked his fingers through his hair instead, and his whole body shook with the effort at control.
“Garret?” Suzanne whispered. She remained poised at the end of the table, her face pale as she watched his face contort and his muscles practically scream his fury. For a long minute, she didn’t dare move, afraid the slightest startlement would send him over the brink. Then, as she watched, he slowly reined himself in inch by inch with a tremendous effort. He sat like a stone, and his face looked grim. “It’ll come back, Garret,” she murmured, her hand reaching out a little on the table, only to flounder halfway and fall limp. “Give yourself a little time.”
“I don’t want time,” he said lowly. “I want answers.”
She shrugged helplessly, not sure what to tell him. “You have to get your strength back anyway,” she returned. “You can at least work on that now.”
It seemed to help, for his obsidian gaze drifted up to find her face. Slowly, he nodded. “I can do that.”
She offered him a small, hesitant smile. “It’ll work out.”
“Always an optimist, Suzanne. You know, you really ought to make me leave.”
She stiffened a little, her eyes automatically wary. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know what’s happened, Suzanne. Until I do, I can’t very well protect myself, let alone you. You deserve better.”
“Cagney said you would be safe here.”
“With all due respect, Cagney’s a small-town sheriff. What does he know?”
Suzanne frowned and her lips thinned. “Just because you always thought you had to leave doesn’t mean there aren’t some pretty neat things and people right here in Maddensfield. You’ve been away a long time, Garret. With all due respect, what do you know?”
Abruptly, Garret grinned, and just like it did fifteen years ago, the grin made her heart leap in her chest. All at once, he was the old, wild Garret. And for no good reason at all, she felt reassured.
“Point well taken, schoolteacher,” he drawled. “Point well taken.”
Chapter 4
Suzanne crawled behind the wheel of her old Ford and breathed a sigl of relief. She was back to her routine. Everything would be all right now.
She’d risen with the dawn, her mind promptly full of all the things she had to get done today. People to check up on, the car wash to set up, groceries to buy and other various errands to run. She’d breezed through her morning walk aware of only the sun shining through the trees and the hint of blackberries in the air. Shower, change, and then she was on the back porch with her chamomile tea to admire her roses.
Nothing stirred behind the door down the hall, and that’s the way she wanted it. After finishing the tea, she’d grabbe her purse and, at 8:30 a.m., finally rejoined her hectic life. She had to check up on eighty-year-old Mrs. Alston and probably restock her pantry and write a letter or two for her. At eleven, Suzanne was due down at the church to organize for the car wash. She’d oversee that until four, then most likely take the kids out for pizza and congratulate them on their fund-raising efforts. Of course, she should stop by the bank, buy more bandages at the pharmacy and pick up some groceries.
