by M. S. Parker
Haze. My grandfather was even calling him by the nickname rather than the more formal Mr. Welch. And it wasn't even only that. There was a familiarity to the way he said it. It shouldn't have surprised me that my grandfather liked Haze. Former military, with discipline and focus. Strength. Integrity. Sacrifice. Haze embodied everything I wasn't.
Ian's voice pulled me out of my thoughts.
“I gotta get out of here. Grandfather is picking out law schools for me.”
“What're you going to do?” I asked.
I felt a squeeze around my heart and pushed aside my own issues. I know Ian didn’t want to be here. I knew where he wanted to be and I didn't have the heart to tell him I didn't want him to enlist again. I wanted him to stay home. I wanted him safe. I needed him safe. I needed to know that he'd never leave me alone.
But I could never tell him any of that. He could never know how absolutely terrified I was of losing him. If he knew, he'd stop trying to get back on active duty, and while that would mean I'd know he was safe, I knew he'd also be unhappy. And that it'd be all my fault.
Mindlessly, I changed the channel on the wall-sized television.
“Haze gave me the name of a construction company. Said the foreman had served with one of his brothers.”
He stood. For a moment he looked like Grandfather, his forehead crinkled as he paced. I'd always told myself that he looked like our dad, but I could see now how much he looked like Grandfather.
“You want to go into construction?” I couldn't stop myself from sounding as surprised as I felt. I'd never pictured Ian working construction.
He sighed and ran his hand over his short hair. “It's an active job, on my feet all day. It'll prove that I'm fit for active duty. Plus, with the foreman having been in the service, he can vouch for me.”
“Staying fit is good.” I smiled despite the ache in my heart.
“Maybe that's what you need to do,” Ian said quickly. “Go work out or something. You're just going to get depressed hanging out in here.”
I threw a pillow at him. He caught it and laughed at me. I glared at him as he tossed the pillow back before he left. I swore softly. He was right. This place was depressing and lying on the couch for the rest of the day wouldn’t help matters much.
I heaved myself up from the couch and headed upstairs to change. Ignoring the bright perfection of my newly redecorated room, I changed into workout clothes and then headed back downstairs.
The basement had a fully-equipped workout room including treadmill, stairclimber, free weights, a host of other machines I didn't understand...and a body bag. I'd always been naturally slender, so I'd never had to worry about having a workout routine. At the moment, I wanted physical activity. The thought of punching the solid sandbag appealed to me.
Except that it was already being used.
Haze was there, destroying the body bag with heavy punches. The guesthouse had its own workout room, but it didn't have a punching bag. Apparently, I wasn't the only one who needed to work off some steam.
Before he could see me, I darted behind the archway door and considered my choices. I could march over to the treadmill and run with my back to Haze, continuing to pretend that he was just another employee. Except I knew that every bouncing step would feel self-conscious whether or not his eyes were on me. And I wasn't sure which would be worse. If he watched me, or if he ignored me. My other option was simpler. I could send him away and do what I'd come here to do.
Even as I was sorting through my choices, the sounds from inside the room registered. The heavy thump of his fists against the bag. The exhalation of breath. My stomach twisted, and I couldn't resist. I peeked around the corner and watched Haze for a moment. The solid sandbag shuddered back from his punches. When I hit it, I hardly made it move.
He grunted with the effort of his next hit, and the sound sizzled in my brain, bringing with it memories of the other time I'd seen him like this, shirtless and sweating. I swallowed hard.
He had a tattoo on his back that hadn't been there before. Words. De oppresso liber. Latin. And I actually knew what it meant. Sort of. To free from oppression or to liberate the oppressed. It was the Special Forces motto. I knew that because I'd looked it up. Or, to be more accurate, I'd looked up pretty much anything to do with Special Forces over the past couple days.
I'd been bored.
I wondered when he'd gotten the tattoo. With that thought, I realized that even though we'd had sex, there'd been a lot of his body I hadn't seen. Something deep inside me twisted at the thought of seeing more of him.
But that would never happen, I reminded myself.
Haze had pretended he hadn't heard Paris’ big mouth that day. Instead he'd stood with his hands locked together, his eyes obscured by reflective sunglasses, and only spoke when I spoke to him. There was no way he hadn't heard. She'd been talking loud enough. So he was either pretending he didn't remember...or he really didn't.
How could he not?
I knew it was silly to still be thinking about it. It was clear he didn't remember. But, no matter how much I tried to resist it, I couldn't stop wondering what would happen if I flat-out asked him. What would he say? Would he say he felt bad for leaving without a word?
Was that the reason for the silence?
Even as I pondered the question, I couldn't deny that a part of me wanted him to crush me against him, to sear my mouth with a demanding kiss, to show me what his body must remember even if his mind had set it aside.
I knew Ian had left after our conversation. Grandfather was working and the staff wouldn't come down here to clean until late afternoon. No one would come downstairs for at least a couple hours, I thought.
I could walk right into the room and kiss him. I could force Haze to look me in the eyes, dare him not to kiss me back, dare him to pretend that he didn't remember me. The idea made me quiver, and I leaned on the archway as I continued to watch him.
He shifted, kicking the body bag, then attacked from another angle. His back was a hard board of muscles, and I remembered the feel of them underneath my hands. A slick trail of sweat ran down his spine, and I had the surprising urge to lick it off. His waist was narrow, his ass flexing beneath his shorts.
Fuck.
Other girls did it. I knew plenty of girls who'd slept with their drivers, their butlers, even their attorneys and bankers. Paris had said it herself, Haze was incredibly handsome, and no one would wonder why I'd been tempted.
It'd be so easy.
I imagined coming up behind him, slipping my hands around to his flat stomach, while my lips kissed over the salty sweat on his back. The muscles would clench under my touch when I tucked my hands under his waistband. One hand would find him, wrap around him, tease him until he was helpless to resist.
This time, I would make him lose control. He'd pick me up, wrapping my legs around his waist as he devoured my lips. I could almost feel his wide hands gripping my backside, spreading me open as he lowered me to the mat.
My cheeks blazed with the fantasy, and when I shook off the images, I saw my nipples standing out hard against my sports bra. I was wet and aching, my pussy throbbing with need.
Shit.
I turned and fled back up the stairs. I needed to get out of here. But I didn't really have anywhere I wanted to go. I did know that I didn't want to go to a club or hang around any of the vapid people who usually filled my social circle. But I had to clear my head.
As I went into my room, an idea popped into my mind. There was somewhere I could go, something I could do. Something that would actually make me feel better. I jammed clothes and shoes, unused toiletries, and jewelry into a Louis Vuitton suitcase. If I hurried, no one would notice I was gone.
I crept down the back stairs, lugging the heavy suitcase, and slipped out to the garage. Outside the rows of shining sports cars, parked in the shade under an oak tree, was a reliable, but beat up old pick-up truck. Grandfather kept it for the gardener to use. The keys were folded up in th
e driver's side visor.
There was an old baseball hat, left by the gardener, on the passenger seat. Perfect. I twisted my hair up and tucked it under the hat. If anyone happened to look at the security screen when the front gates opened, they'd just think I was the gardener.
I gripped the steering wheel, leaning far back against the seat to avoid the camera catching my face. It wasn't my first time sneaking out. The gates opened slowly, but once I was out, I took off down the curving road that led out of the hills.
So much for those Special Forces training, I thought. Even if Haze realized I was gone, he wouldn't even know where to start, much less where to find me.
I smiled and tossed the baseball hat out the window.
Maybe this was the best way to get him out of my life and my mind.
For good.
Chapter 16
Haze
I stopped by the kitchen on my way up from the workout room. For all the punishment the punching bag had taken, I still felt frustrated and bored. I'd only been stuck in the house for a couple days and the sheer boredom of it was driving me crazy. I'd taken this job because I'd wanted to prove that I was good for active duty, not that I was good for sitting on my ass.
Not being active sort of made it difficult.
Okay, so beating the shit out of the punching bag was technically active, but I was getting seriously stir-crazy. And it wasn't like while we were in the house I needed to do much to keep an eye on Leighton.
The entire place was fully staffed. Granted, the butler was a snob, the cook was unfriendly, and had a habit of gesturing with knives, and the cleaning staff kept to themselves. But there were also chauffeurs, gardeners, delivery drivers, and Devlin's business associates. With that many extra people marching around the house at all hours, all I had to do was ask whoever I passed in the hallway, and they could tell me what Leighton was doing.
After another outing with Paris, Leighton had decided to spend the last couple days at the house, redecorating her room and then watching television. I'd peeked in a couple times yesterday and had seen her settled on the floor with a mountain of fabric swatches around her and a checkerboard of paint samples drying on the wall. The sunlight had been pouring through the French windows and had lit her red hair like a candle. Against the turquoise paint, she'd burned so bright I hadn't wanted to look away.
I never wanted to look away from her.
Earlier, I'd felt her watching me while I'd been working out. Even if I hadn't heard her – my hearing wasn't that far gone – I would've known she was there. I always knew where she was, and it wasn't only because I was good at my job. I was more aware of her than I'd ever been of anyone before. It went beyond the sort of sense that I had of the men I'd served with, beyond my family. It was nothing I'd ever felt before.
I wanted to tell her I was sorry. I needed to tell her. Tell her why I'd left her alone in the hotel that morning. She thought the worst, and I couldn't blame her. She thought that night hadn't meant a thing. How could I tell her I'd left because I'd felt too much? My leave had been over, and I had to go back overseas. There'd been no way I could've faced that, faced the uncertainty, dealt with the harsh conditions and the details of our missions with her in my head.
Then, today, instead of turning around and talking to her, I'd done what I'd done since the moment I'd seen her again.
I'd ignored her.
It had been harder this time though.
For one brief moment during Leighton's conversation with Paris my first day on the job, I'd thought she'd come clean, tell me that she did remember me. That we would talk about it.
But she'd dismissed me.
Not that it was surprising.
Leighton Machus was a spoiled rich girl. I'd known it the first moment I'd seen her at that party. I'd known it when she'd gotten exactly what she'd wanted –not to go home or to the hospital.
Me.
No matter what Paris had said, I had no doubt that I was just one more thing she'd wanted and taken.
I gave myself a mental shake. I needed to stop thinking about her, about the past. That's what I'd been hoping to accomplish by working off some steam.
Boxing had always been my favorite sport, but the inner ear damage had stopped me from practicing. One wrong swing and I was knocked out by the wave of nausea and dizziness. Not to mention the new damage that could happen if someone hit me too hard.
I'd started slow and found that my recovery held. It felt great to work up a sweat again, not to mention taking out my frustrations on the punching bag.
The only problem was, every time I thought my head was clear, thoughts of Leighton had crept in. Thoughts that came with questions. Did she really have vivid dreams about me that made her climax? Was it possible she'd felt what I did?
The warmer my body had gotten from the workout, the more I thought about the Leighton I'd met that night. She'd been dismissive and shallow even though I'd saved her life, but she'd also been hurt and all alone. Her boyfriend had been gone before I'd dived into the pool after her. Paris had left her with a stranger. But she'd fought to keep any of that from showing.
And I had a feeling that she was still hiding behind that wall.
It had been that thought, more than actually feeling like I'd finished my work out that had driven me upstairs.
Now, I walked into the kitchen to find the chef chopping celery and carrots for a stew. When I asked if she'd seen Leighton, she gestured with her knife toward the back door.
“She left?” I asked.
“Not my job,” Shandra snapped. In her mid-forties, she was a genuinely unpleasant woman, and I wondered if Devlin would've kept her around if her food hadn't been delicious.
I sprinted to the media room. The television was still on, but Leighton was gone.
Shit.
Even though the house was huge, the feeling in the pit of my stomach told me that I'd seriously fucked up. I took the stairs two at a time. Her newly perfected room was a pile of chaos. The closet had been torn open, and large swathes of expensive clothes were missing. So was the largest suitcase from a matching set.
Fuck!
The first thing I had to do was figure out when she'd left, figure out how wide my search radius had to be.
I went for the stairs again and was halfway down when I saw Ian coming up.
“Ian, when was the last time you saw Leighton?”
“Maybe an hour ago. Why?” he asked. He looked more curious than concerned.
“Did she mention going anywhere?” I asked.
He frowned and I could see the concern now. “I told her she was acting depressed and that she should go work out. Why?”
Shit. Shit. Double shit. This never should have happened. If it'd been a Special Forces mission, I would've had every angle and detail nailed down. She never would've made it past me.
I knew she'd come downstairs and had seen me working out. Now I knew why. The problem was, that had been at least thirty minutes ago. And now I had no clue if I'd just missed her or if she'd taken off as soon as she'd seen that I was occupied.
“Just trying to keep an eye on her.”
I let him go and leaned against the hallway wall to think. What did I know? If she'd been on the couch all day, she must've been in her pajamas. I forced myself not to follow that thought any further than the fact that she would've needed to change her clothes either before or after she'd come downstairs. And she'd taken clothes with her, needed to pack a suitcase.
The suitcase.
Leighton wasn't a weakling, but there was no way she would've wanted to haul a suitcase wherever it was she was going. She was too much of a princess for that. Which meant...she had to have taken a car.
I wasn't about to start a panic by asking around about Leighton's car leaving the property, so I went straight to the security room and punched in the code Devlin had given me. The guard in the little room slid out of the way without a word, and I pulled up the garage feed. Leighton's car was still in its s
pot. I reached for my phone to call her driver, but stopped dialing when I saw him walk by on the computer monitor.
That meant she drove herself. She hadn't taken her car, which meant I needed to look for other vehicles. Taxis or other rented cars pulling up to the gates, or other cars leaving. I pulled up the recordings and backed up a half-hour. Even if she'd left right away, that'd be the earliest she could have driven off. Nothing happened until the gardener's truck pulled up to the gates about ten minutes into the tape. I paused it and leaned forward, my eyes narrowing in on the driver. His hat was pulled down low, but something flashed in his ear.
A diamond solitaire earring the size of a bean. Not exactly the gardener's style.
Within minutes, I was out the door, and into the car Devlin had given me for work. I tapped my fingers, and swore as the large wrought-iron gates swung open.
Dammit!I didn't know which way to turn. I'd left before getting the outside cameras to tell me which way I should go. I couldn't back up, so I pulled out of the driveway and turned to the left, intending to turn around and go back in to check the tape again. That's when I saw it. A green dot on the side of the road: the gardener's hat.
I tore along the curving road out of the hills. She had a fifteen-minute head start, but she wasn't used to driving herself on a regular basis, so I figured I had a good shot at catching up to her. As long as she'd stuck to the main thoroughfare. I hoped she had, or this was going to be a lot harder. I didn't want to have to make the call to trace the GPS tracker on the truck. All of Devlin's vehicles had them. But if I did that, I'd have to tell Devlin that I'd lost Leighton, and that didn't seem like the best way for me to get what I wanted.
My hunch paid off when I finally saw the pick-up truck four cars ahead at a stoplight. My heart thumped harder in my chest now that relief allowed the blood to flow again. She was safe. Anger quickly followed the relief. Had this been Leighton's idea of a joke?
No. I remembered. She'd taken a suitcase full of clothes with her. Had she decided to go see her idiot boyfriend but hadn't wanted me to go with her? But then why the clothes? I was sure she had some at his place. Was she running away completely? The light turned green, and I followed the truck, my heart sinking even as my car closed in. Was it my fault? Had she wanted to run because she thought I didn't remember? That I didn't care?
