Someday Soon

by Debbie Macomber

  The silence was tense. Linette was the one who broke it.

  “How were you hurt?” The words came quickly, as if she regretted the need to know.

  He could make up something to satisfy her curiosity but didn’t. “A rescue effort.”

  “You were on a mission.”

  Generally Cain didn’t relay the details of his assignments. He would make an exception with Linette, mainly because he felt he owed her that much. “Terrorists kidnapped a nineteen-year-old boy, the son of an important man. We found where they were keeping him.”

  “The teenager? What happened to him?”

  “He’s alive. He’s recuperating at home with his family.”

  “Did anyone else get hurt?”

  “Yes,” Cain said, unwilling to disguise the truth again. “Four men were killed.”

  She took a moment to digest this information. “Any of your men?”

  He shook his head. They’d been fortunate. He’d come away with the worst of it, two cracked ribs and a bullet that had grazed his side. A couple of inches in the other direction and he would have lost a kidney. And would not be sitting across from Linette now.

  “How long will you be in town?”

  “A few more days.”

  “Then where will you go next?”

  “Florida. I have a compound there for training purposes.”

  “So you have another mission?”

  “Not right away.” Clearly she didn’t understand that his assignments were never planned in advance. He was often called, as he had been early Christmas morning, without warning. Desperate voices in desperate situations. Lives depended on his quick response. It had been hell leaving her that day, but Linette didn’t know that.

  She glanced at her watch.

  Cain could take a hint. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  The four-block trek passed with lengthy lapses in their conversation. Neither seemed to know what to say. This meeting had gone badly. She’d already learned what he’d come to tell her.

  When they arrived at her car, she turned to him, her keys in her hand. Cain held himself stiffly away from her, knowing she was about to ask him not to contact her again. He didn’t blame her.

  Taking matters into his own hands, Cain reached for her. She came without resistance. Not even a token one.

  They exchanged a slow, sweet kiss. Then, like the gathering turbulent winds of a storm, the kiss changed. Their need for each other grew more urgent, deep and desperate. If this was the last time she would see him, then Cain was determined she would remember him. If she was going to date someone else, he wanted the imprint of his kisses on her lips.

  Linette broke away, her shoulders heaving. “Why did you have to come back?” she asked.

  “I couldn’t stay away.”

  She was the one who kissed him, being careful of his injury. She pulled aside his coat and flattened her hand against the bandage. Her touch was gentle and caring.

  “You’re going to be killed someday,” she whispered, and bit into her lower lip.

  He tried to make light of her fears. “We all have to die sooner or later.”

  She shook her head. “I couldn’t bear to bury another man I love.”

  Cain realized he was asking a good deal of this woman. He couldn’t be anything less than fair. “If you want me to leave you, I will. I’ll never contact you again. All you need do is ask.”

  Her silence encouraged him. He kissed the underside of her jaw, nibbled at her earlobe, and rubbed his hand down the small of her back. This was crazy, and they both knew it. Forbidden fruit was sweeter by far. No woman had ever been sweeter.

  The words to send him out of her life never came.

  “I’ll pick you up Saturday,” he said between deep, lingering kisses, his heart pounding with triumph. For the first time Cain could remember there was music in his soul, and all because a beautiful young widow had agreed to have dinner with him.

  Tim Mallory had never been more glad to see anyone than Cain McClellan. Cain had arrived the day before, and the two men had talked nonstop for hours. Then Cain had made some weak excuse Mallory didn’t understand and left. Frankly Mallory wondered what was so all-fired important.

  If he didn’t know better, Mallory would think a woman was responsible. But in all the years he’d known Cain, he’d never seen his boss lose his head over a woman.

  Although Mallory remained self-conscious about having to use the walker, it felt so damn good to be in an upright position that he didn’t care. He gladly accepted the imposition of a metal contraption since it meant he could stand.

  Walking was another matter. Thus far all he’d managed to do was shuffle about awkwardly, but Mallory had never been prouder than the moment he’d first placed one foot in front of the other. An Olympic gold medal winner couldn’t have been more pleased with himself.

  Naturally Mallory griped long and loud about the walker to Francine. But only because he derived a good deal of pleasure in complaining when she was around; also it kept both of them on their toes.

  Thinking about his physical therapist produced a small smile. In the beginning, Mallory had viewed her as a hard-ass bully. Even now he couldn’t picture Francine as any angel in white.

  He enjoyed baiting her, enjoyed watching the color creep into her face. Other than the one time he’d kissed her, there’d been no sexual contact between them, but not because of any lack of effort on his part. The woman had a backbone of iron. He should know, since he’d suffered a head-on collision with that stubborn pride of hers on more than one occasion.

  Mallory had never told her how furious he’d been Christmas Day when she’d dropped by uninvited. He had to hand it to her, though, she’d given as good as she’d taken. Not until later that day did he realize how alive he felt. After spending the majority of eighteen months on his backside, to have the blood pumping through his veins again felt damn good.

  “I can’t believe the progress you’ve made since I last saw you,” Cain said. He’d arrived shortly after Mallory’s morning workout in the pool and was staying for lunch. Mallory was grateful to see his friend, but frankly he was going to miss having lunch with his feisty therapist.

  “I have to tell you, it feels good to be standing,” Mallory said in response to Cain’s comment. “I won’t be needing the walker much longer.”

  “You most certainly will be needing that walker,” Francine announced, leaning against the doorjamb, her arms folded. “Just because everything’s progressing quickly doesn’t mean you’re going to be walking all on your own by next week.”

  She’d changed out of her swimsuit and back into the basic uniform she favored. Damp tendrils of hair framed her face. Tim drank in the sight of her, wondering how he could have ever thought of her as unattractive. It was true, she wasn’t a classic beauty, but then the Miss America types never had appealed to him.

  She was Francine. Stubborn. Demanding. Spunky. And one hundred percent woman.

  His therapist might think his ultimate goal was to walk again, but she was wrong. Somehow, some way, he was going to get this sexy Amazon beauty into bed with him. Mallory spent a good portion of each night planning just that.

  Greg delivered their lunches. Soup, salad, and a couple of thick sandwiches. Mallory was hungry. An appetite was something novel. Food hadn’t appealed to him for months. He wasn’t sure when it had happened. Sometime around Christmas, he guessed. About the time Francine had waltzed into his disgruntled life.

  “Didn’t I tell you you’d be back with Deliverance Company someday?” Cain said, looking too damn smug to suit Mallory.

  “Yeah, but it’ll never be the same.” There would always be limitations now. He wouldn’t be able to do all he had before the accident. One thing was sure, he refused to be a weak link on the team’s chain.

  “There’s plenty you can do.”

  Mallory frowned. “I want to be in the field.”

  “Fine, I’ll put you in the field.”

 
; Francine stepped into the room, her eyes flashing. “What do you mean, you’ll put him in the field?”

  “Mallory says he wants to be in on a mission, then I say he’s in.”

  “No, he isn’t.” Francine circled the table like a shark closing in on dinner. Mallory had seen her like this often enough to know when to keep his mouth shut. He knew to bide his time and wait until he had the advantage before tackling her when she was in this frame of mind.

  “If you think I’ve worked this hard with this man just so you can haul his sorry butt out on some crazy soldier-boy escapade and get hurt again, then I suggest you rethink your game plan.”

  Cain’s jaw sagged open. Few dared to cross Cain McClellan. It did Mallory’s heart good for his boss to get a taste of the sheer brute stubbornness he’d faced in the last few months.

  “You can trust me, Francine,” Cain said with admirable restraint. “I’m not going to put Mallory in a position where he’ll be hurt.”

  “If that’s the case, then kindly explain how he nearly lost his leg.” She folded her arms and shifted her weight to one foot with ill-concealed impatience.

  “Perhaps I should clear this up,” Mallory suggested.

  “Stay out of it,” Francine snapped.

  “I’ll handle this,” Cain insisted.

  The two glared at each other while Mallory calmly ate his sandwich. If the truth be known, it was all he could do to keep from laughing.

  Cain left without explanation early that same evening, and Mallory was disappointed. He’d counted on the two of them talking over old times and sharing a couple of drinks. Being with Cain filled him with eagerness to return to Florida and the good friends he’d left behind.

  After he’d first been injured, Mallory had spurned their efforts to help him. He regretted that now. Regretted the things he’d said and his childish behavior.

  Thinking Cain was going to be around for the evening, Mallory had given Greg the night off as well. Now, with both Greg and Cain out of his hair, he was left to his own devices for dinner.

  He mulled over his options. He could order out and have it delivered. Or he could cook something himself. Not an impossible task. Actually he welcomed the freedom to move about the kitchen. Before the accident he’d cooked the majority of his own meals. The idea of tackling this simple project appealed to him.

  After checking out the freezer, he decided upon a thick T-bone steak. Two thick T-bone steaks. Why not? After the afternoon workout with Francine he deserved a reward.

  He was fumbling around the kitchen, shocked by how quickly his energy left him, when the doorbell rang. Before he could do anything but wonder who it could be, Francine flew into the room like a small tornado.

  “We need to talk,” she said, her eyes snapping.

  He stared at her for a moment, wondering what burr she had up her butt, when she apparently noticed he was standing in front of the stove with a steak dangling from his hand.

  “Exactly what are you doing?” she demanded. Not waiting for him to answer, she whirled around as if looking for something. “Where’s Greg?”

  “I gave him the night off.”

  “And your friend, although I’m using that term loosely?”

  “Hell if I know where he went. He left about an hour ago.”

  “He left you?” She made it sound as if Cain McClellan should be strung up from the nearest tree.

  “I don’t need a baby-sitter, Francine.”

  “Then kindly explain what you’re doing with that steak. And what’s that?”

  Mallory looked at the cast-iron skillet, surprised by her question. “A frying pan.”

  “I know that much. What have you got in it?”

  “Salt. You sprinkle a teaspoon or so on the bottom, turn it up on high, and sear the steak. That way the meat doesn’t stick to the pan.”

  She shook her head as if this were the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. “What were you planning to cook other than that T-bone?”

  “I hadn’t given it much thought.”

  “Sit down,” she ordered.

  Actually Mallory was more than ready to do exactly that. “You’re getting bossy in your old age, aren’t you?”

  “Do you want dinner or not?”

  “You cooking?”

  “Yup. Any objections?”

  He felt like whistling. “None. I like my steak rare.”

  “How rare?”

  He thought about it a minute. “So rare a good vet would have that cow back on its feet.”

  Francine laughed softly.

  Mallory made his way to the table and sank onto the chair. Not until then did he notice the therapist was wearing something other than her uniform. She had on jeans and a cable-knit sweater the color of winter wheat. The sweater did an admirable job of showing off her ample breasts. Other than when they were in the swimming pool, he hadn’t paid much attention to her breasts. They were nice and full, just the way he liked. He’d told her that once and damn near got his head bit off.

  This was one hell of a woman, only she hadn’t figured it out yet. He just prayed he was around when she did.

  “Do you always wear your hair in a braid?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She was busy at the stove.

  “Why?” Tim watched her remove the pan from the burner and set it aside. Not exactly a promising start if she was cooking his dinner.

  “It keeps the hair out of my face.”

  He should have suspected it was something as utilitarian as that. “I don’t mean to question your obvious culinary skill, but exactly what are you doing?”

  Francine turned about, a surprised look on her face. “Cooking dinner, what else? I thought you should have something other than protein. There’s a couple of potatoes in here I was going to slice up and fry, and while I was at it I’ll grill a few onions. I’ll fix a salad, too.”

  She opened the refrigerator and bent forward, searching through the contents of the vegetable bin. This particular view of her soft derriere was something Tim had never seen, and it surprised him by how incredibly sexy he found this woman.

  “How about gunslinger’s sauce?”

  The question came out of left field. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’ll like it, I promise. It’s flavored with whiskey.”

  “Yeah, but what do I put it on?”

  She straightened and turned around. “Your steak, of course.”

  “Naturally,” he echoed with mild sarcasm. “What else are you cooking up? Boot Hill broccoli?”

  She laughed, and the sound of her amusement caused him to smile. Holding a carrot in her hand, she waved it at him. “We’re still going to have that talk.”

  “Anything you say, dahlin’, only feed me first.”

  She blinked at the endearment and quickly reverted to the task of salad making. “I’m not your dahlin’, your sweetheart, or anything else.”

  “Yes, but with a little sweet talk you could be.”

  She grated the carrot as if she intended to puree the thing. “If you continue in this vein, I’ll walk right out that door.”

  “And leave me here half starved?”

  “Yes.”

  Mallory didn’t doubt she would, either. “All right, I’ll be good.”

  She continued slicing tomatoes and tossing those with the lettuce, and Mallory continued studying her. Damn, but he liked her. Francine was his equal in every way. In all his years, he’d never met a woman like her.

  Finished with the salad, she set it in the middle of the table. Recognizing this as an opportune moment, Tim caught her around the waist. “Take your hair out of the braid,” he said.

  She blinked down at him as if he’d spoken in Greek, then braced her hands over his, although she didn’t shove them aside. “Why?”

  “Because I want to see you with your hair down.” Not waiting for her to refuse, he reached behind her back until he found the end of the French braid and released the clasp. The long, thick strands sprang free,
almost bouncing in their eagerness to comply with his wish.

  “Tim, please,” she whispered. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “Sit,” he ordered. He wanted to look at her without getting a crick in his neck. With his good leg he dragged a chair away from the table and gently eased her onto it.

  She kept her eyes lowered, refusing to look at him. “I wish you wouldn’t,” she whispered.

  “That’s too bad.” He splayed his fingers through the soft blond hair, draping the abundance over her shoulders. Leaning back on his chair, he studied the effect. His heart caught in his throat at the beauty he found her to be. How could he have been so blind? Francine Holden literally took his breath away.

  “I better slice the potatoes.”

  Mallory edged his chair closer to hers. “Don’t leave,” he said, weaving his fingers through her hair and using it to urge her mouth toward his.

  “I…I thought you were hungry.”

  “I’m famished,” he whispered just before his mouth settled on hers.

  Mallory was convinced neither one of them had anticipated the explosion of fire and need that would erupt between them. He’d intended to go slow and easy, introduce her gradually to his touch, coax and soothe her as he would before riding a feisty mare. But the minute she welcomed his kiss, encouraged his touch, Mallory was lost.

  His lack of control surprised even him. He kissed her long and hard a number of times. Instead of appeasing his appetite, it increased a need for more of her. He reached inside her sweater, half expecting her to stop him. Encouraged that she’d allowed this small invasion, he cupped her breasts in his palms. He groaned as her nipples tightened and seemed to grow hot beneath the manipulations of his fingers. With a decided lack of finesse, he reached behind her and undid the clasp. The damn thing wasn’t the least bit cooperative, and he was tempted to tear the obstinate slip of lace, and would have, if it hadn’t freed her lush breasts just then.

  Her bounty spilled from the confines of her bra. Godalmighty, she felt good. The need to make love to her was so intense, it was painful. It seemed every part of his body throbbed. All he could think about was getting Francine into his bed. And fast. He wanted her nipples in his mouth and her legs wrapped around his waist. With exquisite anticipation, he yearned to fill her beautiful body with his. Never in all his life had he needed a woman more.