by Rachel Grant
The motion carried unanimously.
Fiona leaned against Dean in the small hospital waiting room. They were alone in the room outside the surgery suite. Both their gazes were fixed on the twenty-four-hour news channel offering up headlines. Dylan had been in surgery for hours, and the story of his rescue from Chiksook Island was on repeat on the TV.
Sylvia Jessup had been arrested at the same time as Trevor Watson. Dean felt a spike of hostility every time they showed the clip of Sylvia’s perp walk from the FBI vehicle to the federal detention center in Seattle, where she would be held prior to her arraignment.
The FBI had worked fast, but they’d had to, knowing she was likely to flee the moment she learned Dylan had been found alive. Same with Trevor, although he, apparently, was already on the run and had been found thanks to his Good To Go! pass, which registered an early-morning trip over the Tacoma Narrows Bridge on the way from his Gig Harbor home to SeaTac Airport.
Dean picked up the remote to the TV. “I can’t watch anymore.” He flipped channels, finally landing on the first Indiana Jones movie. “Ahh. A classic.”
“You do realize this movie opens with our hero stealing an artifact, destroying the site in the process, and then running from the natives who were just protecting their heritage? He’s basically the worst archaeologist ever.”
Dean laughed. “Yeah. But it’s fun to watch if you tell yourself he’s a looter and a thief and try to forget he’s supposed to be an archaeologist.”
“That’s fair. But worth noting universities have to include lectures in their Archaeology 101 classes to break down all the ways these movies spread terrible misinformation about the profession.”
“Ouch. I can change the channel if you want.”
“Nah. I like watching Marion. She’s smart and strong and takes care of herself.”
“Marion is totally hot,” Dean said. “You know what we should watch . . . the movie with Kathleen Turner and Michael Douglas. Romancing the Stone. She’s trying to find her sister, and they follow a map to a treasure—a stone—called ‘the heart’ in Spanish.”
She laughed softly, leaning against him again. “Don’t they spend the night in a drug dealer’s crashed airplane at some point?”
“Yeah. A Douglas DC-3.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. It felt so right having her at his side.
“You know the plane?”
“I like planes. I think it comes with testosterone.”
“Is this your way of trying to tell me you were after the meteorite all along? Because I don’t believe it. I mean, we did find your brother.”
He chuckled. “But . . . this is the reverse. You’re the one who was after the stone. You said so that first day—you wanted to get back the stone that had been collected from the site.”
“Maybe, but . . . the hero—or antihero?—was collecting birds to sell at the beginning, I think. And you’re Hot Bird Man. Not me.”
“Oh my God. You’re just pretending to not remember the movie. I mean, who remembers that Jack was collecting birds?”
“Jack?” she said suspiciously. “You remember his name?”
He pursed his lips, feeling somehow sheepish for not admitting it from the start. “I might have watched it on Netflix or HBO in the recent past. There’s a Land Rover in it. I never pass up watching movies with Land Rovers. I like them even more than airplanes.”
“Uh-huh.” She paused. “So did they get stuck in a volcano at some point?”
“No. Now you’re thinking of Journey to the Center of the Earth. The one with Brendan Fraser and the kid from The Hunger Games.”
“Oh yeah. Hey. They were looking for a volcanologist brother in that one.”
“They find him too . . .” His voice trailed off as he remembered that scene in the movie, which in turn reminded him of her sister. He cleared his throat. “But there are also dinosaurs, so I think that’s pretty much where the similarities end.”
The door to the waiting room opened, and they both rose to their feet to greet the surgeon. The man had a confident smile on his face—very different from the tempered demeanor he’d had prior to surgery. “Dylan came through with flying colors, and I’m happy to say the bone looks good. Better than I expected. We had to make some adjustments and screw him back together, but with a lot of physical therapy, he should get full mobility back.”
Dean felt a weight lift from his chest. “Oh, thank God.” He’d worried about Dylan’s weakened condition going into surgery. What if his heart couldn’t handle it?
“Thank you so much, Doctor. When can we see him?” Fiona asked.
“He’s still in recovery. He should be moved to his room in an hour or two. You can visit him then.”
After the doctor left them alone, Dean turned to her. “Why don’t you go to the hotel and get settled in? Maybe rest a bit? I’m fine alone here.”
The FBI had set them up in two rooms in a large hotel that they’d yet to visit. She looked exhausted, and he still had adrenaline to keep him going. Plus, nothing would pry him from the hospital before he’d had a chance to talk to Dylan, see that he was okay.
She nodded. “I suppose I could use a good soak in the tub. You’ll call me as soon as he’s awake?”
“I promise.”
He kissed her softly and watched her leave, his heart still in a jumble. This intimacy between them was dangerous. He wanted her. All of her. But she didn’t do flings—and now that he knew why, any idea of crossing that line was impossible. He could not, and would not, offer her more.
But what if she initiated it? Could he take what she offered, knowing in the long run it would hurt her?
Could he sleep with her and walk away?
Two hours later, he was no closer to an answer as he walked into Dylan’s hospital room. His brother was propped up on the bed, eyes closed, but he smiled at the sound of footsteps and cracked open one eye. “Hey, bro,” he whispered. “Was kinda hoping your better half would be here.”
Dean smiled and moved to stand next to his brother’s bed. “She’s much nicer to look at, that’s for sure.”
“Take good care of her, man. Or I’m gonna break your leg.”
He didn’t know what to say to that. Fiona wasn’t his. Wouldn’t be his. “You know I don’t do relationships.”
“Sh-she’s worth being an excep-ception.” His voice slurred a little, having a bit of a dreamy quality that came with heavy sedation.
Dean had no doubt about that. But he didn’t think he had it in him to love like that again. But this wasn’t the time to tell his brother that.
He placed his hand over Dylan’s and squeezed. “How about you focus on healing?”
“I mean it. If I didn’t want you to be ha-happy, I’d go after Fiona myself. Don’t blow it.”
Dean’s entire body tensed. “What do you mean? I thought you weren’t interested in her?”
“Of course I was interested. Shhhhe made it clear shhe wasnn’t interested in coworkers, s-so . . . thought of you.”
Dylan had wanted Fiona all along?
Dylan, who would love her without reservations?
Dean took a deep breath and dropped into the visitor’s chair. He fixed his gaze on his beloved brother’s face and tried not to think about anything except how grateful he was that his brother was safe and recovering at last.
FORTY-ONE
It was strange, crawling into bed by herself in her hotel room, but the FBI had booked two rooms without asking, and it would have felt even stranger to tell them they only needed one room and one bed.
She’d figured Dean would ignore the second room and join her in her bed, but after a late dinner in the hotel restaurant, he’d accompanied her to her door, politely kissed her good night, then sauntered down the hall toward the stairs, heading to his own room two floors below.
She’d stood in the foyer of her room in indecision for minutes as she debated what his walking away like that meant. Last night he’d been insistent on holding her. Ton
ight, he hadn’t even offered.
But he was likely as confused as she was, his emotions in turmoil after all they’d gone through. Elation topped the list, certainly, but there was still trauma to process.
She took a long bath—her second one today—as she tried to force her brain to relax. In the tub, she decided it was a good thing he’d walked away. After all, she was flying home to Seattle tomorrow, and he would remain in Anchorage until Dylan was discharged and able to fly home.
She needed to sort out her life—including facing her job after she’d watched her boss cook in a vat of oil.
Her coworkers were being investigated. Others in the office could have been in on Graham’s scheme. There weren’t a lot of places she was comfortable working in the Pacific Northwest, considering everyone in her field knew she believed Jeff Koster had murdered her sister, and the man was a respected archaeologist in the CRM world.
If she couldn’t work for the navy anymore, there weren’t a lot of places for her to go.
And what would Dean do now? He’d said he wanted Dylan to move back to Southern California, live with him while he recovered and went through physical therapy. Dean would probably resume his carefree playboy lifestyle between jaunts around the globe for lengthy expeditions.
She didn’t feel jealous of the women he would sleep with, per se. After all, they didn’t get his heart. All they got was sex.
Fiona, quite simply, wanted both.
So now she slipped between the clean sheets of her hotel room bed and had neither.
She lay there in the darkened room, eyes wide open as she stared at the ceiling. Dean had promised to drive her to the airport in the morning. He’d rented a car so he could go to and from the hospital with ease while he was stuck in Anchorage.
After she passed through security, would she ever see him again?
She had no doubt she’d see Dylan. He’d insist on it, and so would she. But Dean was different. He didn’t want to feel. The best way to avoid feeling things was to avoid people who made you feel.
She’d bet money that Dean would be conveniently out of town if she flew south to visit Dylan. And she was certain he’d avoid Washington altogether.
If tomorrow would be the last time she ever saw Dean, was she really risking anything if she went to him tonight? After all, she knew the rules. He wasn’t married and didn’t have a pregnant girlfriend. Wasn’t lying about his feelings to get her into bed.
He’d said he wanted to possess her, and damn, but she wanted to be possessed like that, just once. To have a wild, perfect night with an incredible man she admired. She wanted his heart, yes. But she also wanted a simple, pure, raw, and carnal connection. With him. Only with him.
She tossed off the covers and practically sprang from the bed, her mind made up. She pulled on the jeans and top she’d purchased earlier when she’d taken a few hours to herself while he waited in the hospital. The one thing she didn’t think to buy was condoms. But she could remedy that. The hotel had a small store in the lobby.
She checked her appearance in the mirror with a small laugh. She’d spent days with the man without a real shower, and now she worried about how she looked?
She hurried to the elevator and jabbed the button impatiently. She didn’t want to lose her nerve, and with every second that passed, she was in danger of doing just that.
In the lobby, she grabbed a three-pack of condoms, then on impulse grabbed a bottle of champagne and a box of prepackaged chocolate cupcakes with peppermint frosting. They weren’t LUNA bars, but they’d do. “Do you have champagne glasses I can bring to my room?” she asked the cashier.
“You can get some from the bar. Just give them your room number.”
“Perfect. Thanks.”
The woman bagged her purchases, and Fiona crossed the lobby for the dark bar, nearly empty at this late hour. She made a beeline for the bartender, and he gave her two flutes.
Feeling an excited rush, she turned, holding the glasses in one hand and a bag of goodies in the other. Her gaze landed on a couple standing next to a booth. The woman wore a skintight cocktail dress that was out of place in Anchorage. Her body was pressed to the man’s, her hand on his chest in an intimate pose as the man wrapped his arms around her.
No. No. She was imagining things. It was dark, and her brain was filling in details.
He must’ve heard her gasp, though, because he looked up, and the light hit his face, highlighting his blond hair, trim beard, and blue Newman eyes.
The champagne flutes slipped from her fingers and shattered with a loud crash on the bar’s concrete floor.
The look of shock and horror on Fiona’s face was enough to rip Dean’s heart out. He pushed Becca away. “Sorry! I’ll call you tomorrow.” He shouted the words over his shoulder as he bolted after Fiona, running from the bar and into the wide, brightly lit lobby. “Fiona! Stop!”
She jabbed at the elevator button at the far end, and the door opened. She slipped inside.
He had no choice but to continue the gruesome scene for everyone in the lobby to hear, and he shouted, “She’s my wife’s sister!” as the doors closed in front of her.
The Black man behind the reception desk shook his head. “My dude. That does not make it better.”
Dean let out a pained laugh and ran a hand over his face. “My dead wife,” he clarified for the man. At least Fiona would understand.
A moment later, the elevator doors opened again, and there was Fiona, white as a sheet and still the most beautiful woman alive. “I’m listening,” she said.
He stepped into the elevator. “Thank you.”
He reached to pull her into a hug, but she stepped back, clutching a shopping bag to her chest. “Start talking.”
He looked at the panel of buttons. “Your room or mine?”
“My room. So I can kick you out if I need to.”
He jabbed the button for her floor. “Fair enough.”
“You didn’t tell me your wife had a sister.”
“I didn’t tell you anything about my wife’s family. And I didn’t realize Becca lives in Anchorage now or I would have mentioned her. I didn’t know I would see her tonight. I set up my new phone this morning but had it turned off in the hospital, per their rules, and didn’t bother to call in to my old number to check messages until after we had dinner. She’d seen the news. They named the hospital Dylan was in, so she guessed I was in town and asked if we could meet. I figured my life is already an emotional wreck, so why not?”
The doors opened on her floor, and they headed to Fiona’s room. “You don’t get along with your wife’s family?” she asked.
“No. Only Violet’s grandmother liked me. Everyone else thought I was after her for her money. You see, Violet had a massive trust fund.”
“And you inherited it.”
“I did.”
She swiped her key card in front of the sensor, and the light clicked green. Fiona pushed open the door, and Dean followed her inside, thankful she was hearing him out.
She made a beeline for the fridge and then grimaced at the contents of her bag before pulling out a bottle of champagne and stuffing it in the fridge.
He remembered the shattering glasses, and his heart squeezed as he realized she’d been clutching two champagne flutes in the bar.
Two. This was her last night in Alaska, and she had a bottle of champagne and two flutes. “What else is in the bag?” he asked, his throat feeling dry.
“None of your business.”
He had a feeling it was but didn’t say as much.
“Tell me about your wife and her supermodel waif of a sister.”
Come to think of it, Becca was pretty and waiflike. And she’d been dressed in a form-fitting cocktail gown worthy of an heiress who’d just left some fundraiser for a politician running for the Senate. Becca was filling the stilettos her parents wanted her to fill as the socialite philanthropist who provided excellent PR for the family business.
Good lord. What F
iona had seen was ripe for misinterpretation, and his reputation only made it worse.
He explained the fundraiser, which in turn explained Becca’s polished look, which wasn’t exactly normal for Anchorage, Alaska, and Fiona probably knew it. He then returned to his unpleasant situation with Violet’s family.
“Violet’s parents pretty much hated me. But they were also damn controlling of Violet, so she wasn’t too fond of them either. We weren’t married yet when she was diagnosed, and when she got sick, she was terrified of the decisions they would make if they had medical power of attorney for her. Including the fact that they would prevent me from being by her side. She begged me to marry her. She trusted me with the big decisions and wanted me with her until the end.”
“Oh. Damn. You weren’t married yet when she was diagnosed? No wonder they thought you were after her money.”
“Bingo.” He dropped onto the foot of her bed, the emotional upheavals of the day too much for him to stay on his feet any longer. “Becca was in her teens when Violet and I married. Barely twenty when Violet died. She always believed her parents’ take on the situation. But over the years, her grandmother has had some sway, and she’s also experienced her parents’ controlling behavior. She chose Alaska for her home to get away from them. Tonight, she said she’d wanted to reach out to me for some time. Today, when she realized I was in Anchorage, she saw her chance. Got my cell number from the family’s trust attorney.”
She stepped close to him, and he reached out and pulled her onto his lap and buried his face in her neck. “Fi. I would never do anything like that. Would never hurt you in that way.”
