Ready for Anything, Anywhere!

by Beverly Barton

  “Maybe because we weren’t.” In those days his only plans centered around escaping his family legacy. The rigid structure of the military provided a blessed relief to a childhood spent not knowing what to expect from minute to minute with coke addict parents.

  Lately he worried about the stress load sending him over the edge, something he was always on guard against and a part of why he kept his personal life as uncomplicated as possible. He dated, but low-key. He’d even dated Nola Seabrook three years ago, back when they were both Captains, when he was senior only in years and not her supervisor in any way. She was far more suited for him than Nikki, closer in age, they both understood the pressures of military life, combat, even captivity since Nola had been snatched during a mission in South America.

  Jesus.

  Surely the crappy-luck odds were about played out for them?

  Of course now with his new promotion in the squadron, a relationship was out of the question even if he was interested. Which he wasn’t, because the chemistry wasn’t there in spite of her bombshell-blonde looks … and he couldn’t shake a certain leggy brunette from his brain.

  He definitely needed to keep his personal life simple for at least as long as the squadron stayed under his command. Lives depended on it.

  Thank God the runway neared. Time to pull his attention back on landing this lumbering beast of a plane. An instant before he could thumb the radio button to contact the control tower, the headset squawked in his ears.

  “Major Hunt, there’s a message for you at the command post from Special Agent Reis. Something about an accident over at Nikki Price’s place, a loose balcony railing.”

  His muscles clenched as tight as the knot of dread in his gut. Screw having someone else check on her and keeping his distance. The second this plane touched down, he’d be out the hatch and on his way to Nikki’s side. Where he intended to stay.

  Chapter 4

  Enough already.

  Nikki considered herself a tough person overall, but had somebody painted a bull’s-eye on her back while she wasn’t looking?

  She toed off the water faucet in her steaming bathtub that hadn’t come close to easing the kinks and cold from her tumble off her balcony into the pool. At least she’d been able to control her fall enough to land in the water when the wooden railing gave way. Thank God for all those gymnastics classes her parents had paid for when she was a kid.

  Her stomach still lurched just thinking about those horrifying seconds in midair. She rested her head back and wished she’d thought to turn on her stereo before she sank into the bubble bath. She could use all the help relaxing that she could scavenge.

  Three stories was a helluva long way to fall and hope that the dive angle you’d taken would land you in the pool rather than smack you onto the cement instead. She’d no doubt made a record breaking cannonball splash. EMS techs called by her neighbor declared her unharmed, although she would be black-and-blue by morning.

  What happened to her nice boring life? She was a junior high teacher whose biggest concern should have been whether or not her students made it to regionals for the history fair.

  Her doorbell echoed.

  Peace over.

  She hauled herself out of the water and grabbed for her jogging shorts and T-shirt resting on the edge of the vanity.

  The doorbell pealed again. Her mother, no doubt, since the gossipy little old man next door had called her family’s house two seconds after phoning EMS. She really could have used a beach towel from him instead. It was darn cold in that pool in January, even in South Carolina.

  When she’d told her mother about Gary’s death, her mom had—no surprise—freaked. Nikki had calmed her down by tapping into her mother’s training for suggestions on regaining her memory. Keeping a dream journal and making an appointment with a hypnotherapist didn’t feel like much, but at least she was taking action, already unearthing snippets of memories.

  When she wasn’t busy diving off a third-floor balcony.

  The doorbell stuttered while she tugged her clothes onto her damp body. “Hold on, hold on, Mom.” She hopped, one leg at a time into shorts. “I’m coming and I’m gonna chew you out for not putting up your feet like the doctor—” a building sneeze tingled through her sinuses, down her nose “—aaaachoo!”

  She snitched Carson’s freshly washed and folded handkerchief from the stack of laundry on her sofa and tried to ignore the teacher voice inside of her that insisted tissues were more sanitary than a cloth holding germs. And was this stuffy nose cosmic justice for lying to her mom about having a cold last week?

  She tugged the door open. Rather than “concerned Mama,” she found “pissed-off hunky flyboy.” Her fingers fisted around the handkerchief, tucking her thumb to hide the telltale corner peeking out.

  Carson gripped the door frame, his sensuous lower lip pulling tight. “You’re okay.”

  “You don’t have to sound so mad about it.”

  His hand slid from the frame and before she could blink—or head back into her apartment away from temptation—he hauled her to his chest. “Jesus, Nikki, you could have died. I damn near had a heart attack when command post patched through an in-flight call about this.”

  Hunky, awesome-smelling flyboy, who’d raced straight over after a flight just for her. Muscle, leather and all that concern made for a heady sensory combination, especially when she was already susceptible to this man. Her body obviously wasn’t near as smart as her mind.

  But her will was stronger. She edged her shoulders free, stepping back without meeting his eyes. “I landed in the pool.” What was she doing staring at her bare feet beside his boots? She forced her gaze up to meet his full on, no flinching.

  His hand gravitated to her damp hair. “How long ago did it happen if your hair’s wet?”

  She held still under his touch, the heat of his fingers steaming her skin from a simple brush of his knuckles across her cheek. Better to let him think the water was from her impromptu swim than mention she was naked in the tub sixty seconds ago. “Why did they call you?”

  His hand fell away. “Your mother phoned my secretary at the squadron to track me down. She wanted me to check on you since her doctor has her on bed rest.”

  “Figures.” Where was Chris when she needed him? “You’d think I was still in college.”

  “I think you’re lucky to have a family who cares. Was she a little intrusive? Maybe. But I don’t see her here hovering.”

  “You’re right. I am lucky, and I don’t mean to sound like a brat.”

  She might not want a relationship with him anymore, but her ego still nudged her to be careful. They were inching toward dangerous—tempting—territory every time they spoke.

  He strode past. She grabbed the door frame to support her suddenly shaky knees.

  She watched him saunter into her apartment, a place he’d never stepped inside before. Seven months ago she’d been finishing up at UNC. Their one night together had been at his place, a beach community bungalow he’d bought from another military family when they’d moved.

  She wondered what he thought of her bargain-basement Pier 1 knockoffs and the scattered plants she’d grafted from her mother’s garden in an attempt to fill corners she couldn’t afford to decorate.

  Why was she thinking about appearances now when she’d never cared about material things before? If Carson Hunt—obviously from wealth—was only impressed by a price tag, then she was well rid of him.

  He stopped short in front of her class’s latest history project. “What the hell is this?”

  She laughed and damn it felt good, almost as good as the rush because he’d noticed her most prized possession in the whole place. Her students had crafted the towering project which made it worth gold to her. Nikki walked deeper into the apartment, surreptitiously hiding the used handkerchief under a throw pillow until she could wash it.

  Nikki tugged a tissue from the end table on her way to the six-foot-high papier-mâché creation she�
��d brought home from school strapped into the back of her Ford Ranger. “It’s a sarcophagus.”

  “Ohhh-kay.” Hands hooked in the pockets of his leather flight jacket, he studied the psychedelic coffin propped against the island counter separating the small kitchen from the rest of the dining area. “While I don’t claim to be an interior design expert, why do you have one in your dining room?”

  She ambled closer, determined not to bemoan the fact she was wearing nothing but ratty gym shorts and a threadbare T-shirt over her damp body. “My students are studying Egyptian history. The kids have been crafting papier-mâché items to go in the tomb, and we tried to build this in class, too, but Trey Baker spilled his lunch inside the sarcophagus and tapioca pudding totally stinks when it rots, so I had to cut that part out. Although what kid actually eats tapioca? Most children I know like chocolate pudding with candy sprinkles or gummies, or maybe a cookie crumbled on top.”

  “I liked tapioca when I was a kid.”

  “Geez, were your parents health food nuts or what?”

  “Or what.”

  Welcoming the chuckle, she leaned an elbow against the counter bar and smoothed down a straggly corner of newspaper sticking from the still-damp section. “Anyhow, I’m patching over where I cut out the damaged part.”

  She’d taken a break from repairing the project to eat supper out on her balcony. Memories of Carson’s apology had drawn her to the railing and before she’d known it, she was tumbling heart over butt toward the pool. “It should be dry enough to paint by tomorrow.”

  “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

  Reasonable notion except every time she closed her eyes she saw Gary Owens’s vacant dead stare. “If I rest, I’ll think. I’d rather work. Although building a coffin really isn’t helping take my mind off this whole mess.”

  “Rather macabre.”

  “Macabre.” She snatched up a piece of paper from under the phone.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Writing down the word.” And trying to think about anything but the dead man and unanswered questions. She finished scrawling on the notepaper and tore the top sheet off from the soccer-patterned pad—a Christmas gift from one of her pupils. “I’ve got this student who’s a word wizard. Feeding his brain is a full-time job. You use these words that are not the kind guys would usually choose.”

  “I can’t decide if you’re insulting or complimenting me.”

  “Neither. You just don’t speak as informally as most guys I know.”

  “I’m older than most guys you know. Hell, I even eat tapioca, remember? If I said dude a couple of times, you wouldn’t notice the other words.”

  “Still hung up on being a cradle robber, are you?”

  His eyebrows shot up at her open acknowledgement of their past relationship. Relationship? One-night stand.

  Ouch.

  He thumbed the pad of paper, fanning through sheets until one piece peeled loose. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

  “You already said that.”

  “Must be early onset Alzheimer’s at thirty-five.” Absently he picked up the stray piece of paper, leaned back against the bar and started folding. “I understand you need to keep your mind off things, but how about reading a book? Your body has been through hell the past few days. You should take care of yourself.”

  “I’m a young, resilient twenty-three, not an old thirty-five like you.”

  He stopped midfold on the soccer paper. “I’m guessing your mother and father encouraged you to speak your mind when you were a kid.”

  “What clued you in?” She smirked for a full five-second gloat before the fun faded with reality. “And how surprising that you always manage to bring up my dad anytime we speak.”

  “People have parents.”

  “You don’t.”

  “Sure I do.” His fingers started tucking and folding the paper again, drawing her eyes to his talented nimble hands.

  Hands she remembered feeling over her skin too well right now. “Other than our tapioca conversation, you’ve never mentioned your parents once in all the time I’ve known you.”

  “I didn’t crawl from under a rock.”

  She smiled slow and just a little bit impishly vindictive. “That’s open for debate.”

  His laugh rumbled low and long, wrapping around her with far more languorous warmth than the ineffective bubble bath she’d stepped out of ten short minutes ago. Her body tingled with awareness, her breasts suddenly oversensitive to the brush of cotton against her bare skin.

  “Damn, Nikki, you never did cut me any slack.” Shaking his head with a final self-derisive laugh, he bent a last tuck on the paper and extended his hand to her with the finished product cradled in his palm—an origami bird.

  She inched backward, then caught herself. This was her home, her life. She stood taller and stood him down. “Stop trying to be charming.”

  His beautiful smile and laugh faded to a mere echo. “I thought you accepted my apology.”

  “I did.” She wadded the tissue in her hand, tossing it aside with a final sniffle. Cold. Not tears. No more tears over this man. “But you can drop the charming friend act. There’s no going back to how things were. You had your chance, and you blew it, dude.”

  His mouth went tight, his eyes dropping away from hers. Pausing. Holding. Right at her shirt level.

  A damp T-shirt she now realized clung to her breasts that happened to be hyperaware of the sexy blond hunk standing a reach away.

  Carson’s hands shook from resisting the urge to reach for Nikki and cup her breasts that he happened to know fit perfectly in his palms.

  And damn it all, why did he have to remember the feel and taste and texture of her in his mouth right now? Washed-thin cotton clung to her skin and subtle curves, begging to be peeled up and off so he could dip his head and lick away whatever water remained on her skin.

  Water.

  He needed to remember what had happened tonight, how she’d almost plunged to her death, would have if not for the pool below. The thought alone served as an effective cold splash on his heated body. That railing shouldn’t have given way. This was a new complex with pristine upkeep. He couldn’t ignore the possibility that someone could have tampered with the balcony rail, someone who didn’t want her to remember what happened that night in Owens’s VOQ room.

  He could be wrong, but it was a helluva lot safer to err on the side of caution. “You shouldn’t stay here by yourself.”

  Her spine went straighter, which just so happened to press her peaked breasts tighter against the T-shirt. Counting to ten—twenty—he set the origami bird on the counter.

  She folded her arms across her chest. “If you’re offering to hang out with me, I’ll have to decline.”

  “I never thought you would agree to that anyway. And quite frankly, I don’t think it would be wise.”

  She bristled to her full five feet ten inches tall. “Because you’re afraid I’ll jump your bones? Well, you can be sure that even if I’d been the least bit tempted before, you’ve killed that spark.”

  Heard. Understood. And regretted.

  “I’m more concerned with my own self-control.” The words tumbled out ahead of his better sense. Not really a surprise considering how he always seemed to lose his head around this leggy dynamo who could outrace most men and kept a sarcophagus in her living room.

  Her jaw dropped wide, started to close then went slack again. A bracing sigh later, she answered, “I don’t know what you’re expecting to accomplish with a comment like that, but you made it clear the morning after Spike’s wedding that you don’t want me in your life, and you didn’t do it in a particularly nice way. If you had a sister—”

  “I do.”

  “You do?”

  Her jaw went slack again, tempting him to kiss the surprise right off her face. Coming here had really been a mammothly stupid idea.

  But before he could drag his sorry, horny butt out the door she continued, “Quit distrac
ting me. My point is, if someone treated your sister the way you treated me, you would kick his ass.”

  “You’re right.” More than she could even know. He shoved away from the counter and her too-cute sarcophagus and idealistic too-young heart. “And since I don’t want my ass kicked by your brother or father, it’s best I don’t stay here. I just had to see for myself that you’re okay and make sure you’re safe.”

  Did she have to look so damn conflicted? He was having a tough enough time resisting her when she told him to shut up with all that fire and spunk he knew she brought to bed with her.

  She skirted around the sofa full of inviting green pillows that would spread perfectly along the carpet to make a downy lawn for all-night sex. “Good night then. Have a nice drive home.”

  “Fine, but you’re not staying here, either.”

  Nikki stopped short. “Why do I feel the irrepressible urge to put my hands over my ears and shout, ‘You’re not the boss of me’? Of course that would fit right in with your whole too-young-for-you mantra.”

  God, he liked her sense of humor. “You’re good.”

  She snorted. “That compliment came about seven months too late.”

  “I meant at distracting me.”

  “Apparently not nearly good enough.” She sagged to sit on the arm of the sofa. “Why are you so gung-ho on my not being alone?”

  “With everything that happened with Owens, I’m concerned your balcony railing giving way might not have been an accident.” He planted his boots deep in the plush carpet, the need to see her safe burning even stronger than the need to see her naked.

  God, she hated being afraid of her own shadow.

  But Carson’s words kept rolling around in her head the next day as she parked her small truck in her parents’ driveway. Late-afternoon sun dappled through the evergreens packing the yard surrounding the two-story white wood home.

  She’d brushed aside Carson’s concerns the night before, told him she would double bolt her door and think about what he’d said. She’d bristled out of pride and a need for independence.