by Amy Vansant
She giggled. “You’re the worst.”
She refused to look at him.
The server, a tall skinny twenty-something arrived and introduced himself as Chaz.
Shee smiled. “Great. Hi, Chaz. Do you have a wine menu?”
“Sure.” Chaz bolted from the table before she could say another word.
Shee looked at Mason, embarrassed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to chase him off. I don’t even know if you like wine.”
He smiled, the table’s candlelight dancing in and out of the depths of his dimples. “I’m more of a bourbon kind of man. I’m surprised you’re a wine drinker. Last time I saw you it was strictly wine coolers.”
Shee snorted a laugh and covered her mouth with her hand, shocked by the noise. “Oh God, I forgot about those horrible things.”
“I guess my girl’s all growed up now.”
“Don’t bet on it,” she murmured. “This is a special occasion. I’m celebrating the complete unraveling of my entire life.”
She looked at him, only to find him peering at her through those piercing blue eyes.
“Miss, do ah make you nervous?”
She froze, momentarily mesmerized.
My God. That face. How I loved that face.
Shee thrust herself forward, until her nose almost touched his. “I don’t know. It’s kind of dark in here. Who are you?”
They laughed and she heard her voice crack.
His grin dropped. “Are you okay?”
Shee realized her eyes had teared, the candlelight splintered into wavy prisms. She wiped her eyes.
“Sorry. I don’t know where that came from.”
He shrugged. “Long day.”
Chaz returned to hand Shee the wine menu. She scanned it as he rattled off the specials.
“We’ll take a bottle of the house cab,” she said when he finished.
Mason held up a peace sign. “Two glasses with that and I’ll start with a bourbon, neat.”
She mimicked his gesture. “Make that two bourbons, but I’d like mine with ice.”
Chaz nodded. “Would you like the wine now or with the—”
“Now,” said Shee.
“Of course.”
She turned her attention back to Mason. He seemed amused.
“Don’t laugh at me,” she said. “You said it. It’s been a tough day.”
“I’m not laughing at you. But if you start snatching drinks off the other tables, I’m going to have to draw the line.”
“Understood. I’ll be good.”
They fell into an awkward silence. Mason watched a man walk past their table and she turned away to wipe her eyes, worried her mascara had run.
Get a hold of yourself, Shee.
Chaz returned with two bourbons, a bottle and a wine key. They waited as he opened the Cabernet and poured. He wandered off, promising a hasty return.
Mason held up his bourbon glass. “To Mick.”
She smiled and tapped his glass with her own.
“To Mick.”
They sipped. Mason set down his drink and Shee did too, worried if given the chance she’d mainline it.
A second later she raised the glass to her lips again.
Excellent restraint.
“So. Archie’s cute,” she said, figuring the dog would be safe ground.
Mason nodded. “He’s a good kid. We got to know each other on the ride from Coronado.”
“I bet. Long drive.”
“Very.”
Silence again. Shee tried not to stare at Mason, but every time he looked away she let her gaze molest every molecule of his body.
“So are you going to tell me how you ended up with him?” she asked.
“Oh. He saved my life.”
“How?”
Mason finished his bourbon. “He was at my last mission. I turned to grab him. If I hadn’t...” He popped out his fingers and made an explosion noise.
“Is that when you lost your leg?”
He nodded. “Without Archie, it would have been a lot worse.”
“He doesn’t look like a military dog. Too fluffy.”
“He’s not. He belonged to the target.”
Shee arched an eyebrow. “Were you infiltrating the suburbs?”
Mason tipped an invisible cap. “I’m afraid that’s classified, Ma’am.”
Shee rolled her eyes and finished her bourbon. When she looked up she caught Mason staring at her. His gaze dropped and he slid away his own empty tumbler to move his wine glass to a position of prominence.
“Any thoughts on that missing picture?” he asked.
“At Viggo’s?” She shook her head, not minding he’d gone back to talking shop. “No. It’s weird. If it’s the same guy who shot Dad, why does he need a picture of him?”
“For his trophy case?”
“That’s warped.”
Mason shrugged. “Do you know many well-adjusted assassins?”
Shee’s head cocked as a thought knocked it out of plumb. “Maybe he didn’t want someone seeing a picture of Viggo and Mick together and start making connections?”
“It’s a solid theory.”
Sipping on her wine, Shee scanned the menu. “Is it wrong to order New York strips in Minneapolis?”
“I hope not. Hey, what about Angelina? Do you trust her?”
“Angelina goes waaay back with Dad. Smooth as silk and tough as nails. She could con the Pope out of his pointy hat.”
Mason nodded, looking as if his mind had drifted elsewhere.
“Hey, remember that floppy blue hat you loved so much?” he asked.
“The one with the sunrise on it?”
He nodded. “I think about that hat a lot,” he said, his voice suddenly soft and low.
An image of herself wearing nothing but the floppy blue hat, her body reflected in a bureau mirror, flashed through Shee’s mind. Mason lay beside her on her twin bed, his naked hip visible behind her own—
Chaz appeared. “Can I take your order?”
Neither of them spoke. Mason’s gaze locked on Shee.
She’d seen the look before.
“Um...” Her mind had gone blank.
Chaz’s expression changed, as if he’d suddenly recognized them. “Or did you want us to send it upstairs?”
Shee straightened. “Upstairs?”
“To your room. You’re staying in the hotel?”
“There’s a hotel upstairs?” Shee looked at Mason. “There’s a hotel upstairs.”
He nodded. “I heard that.”
They fell quiet again, staring at each other.
Chaz cleared his throat. “I could take your order and then have them deliver it to—”
“I think we need it to go.” Shee’s gaze never left Mason’s. “And maybe another bottle of wine?” She swiveled her attention to Chaz as if he were Santa, about to grant her every Christmas wish.
He grimaced. “I can’t sell you an unopened bottle, but I could uncork and then recork one for you to take upstairs.”
“You’re a genius, Chaz,” said Mason. “Two New York strips? Medium rare?”
Shee nodded. “Perfect.”
Chaz pulled out a pad and pen. “No problem. And your room number?”
Mason stood, reaching for his wallet.
“I’ll tell you that as soon as I get one.”
&&&
Chapter Thirty-Two
Shee and Mason didn’t so much walk down the hall from the elevator to their hotel room as they rolled along the wall, like a pair of gravity-defying vampires, exchanging hungry nibbles.
“I think this is it,” mumbled Mason, too busy to annunciate.
He fumbled with the key card. She snatched it from his hand. On her third try, Mason moved his lips to her neck and suddenly she had a better view at what she was doing. Another attempt and the lock’s green light lit.
Victory is mine.
The door popped open and they fell into the room, the handle on their oversized wine doggy bag tear
ing. The bottles clanked together and tipped. Mason made a last minute, one-legged dip to grab them both in one hand and hefted the corked bottles to safety.
“That was impressive,” said Shee.
He set the bottles on the dresser and grinned. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
He pretended to tackle her onto the bed and she giggled. No, squealed. Squealed with delight. She didn’t remember hearing that noise come out of her mouth before.
Maybe once. A long time ago. Somewhere in Coronado.
She wanted to pull him inside of her—directly through her chest. She wanted to envelop him, melt into him like two candy bars left out on a summer’s day. One big pile of sweet oozy goodness, impossible to tell the Hershey from the Godiva.
“What?”
Shee opened her eyes. “Hm?”
“It sounded like you just said Godiva.”
She shook her head and tussled with her shirt. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He took the pause in the action as a chance to rid himself of his own shirt.
She grabbed on to him and twisted until he was beneath her, her palms splayed across his chest. She took a moment to drink in the vision of him, her reoccurring dream turned real. She ran her hands across his massive chest, a man’s chest now, not a boy’s. The bump of the scar on his arm caught her attention and she stroked it with her fingertips, feeling its rugged topography. Something hard sat beneath the surface.
“What happened there?” she asked.
He put a hand on either side of her hips and gazed at her like a hungry wolf. “Bullet.”
His arms were bigger too, darkened by a perma-tan. He had a few more scars, but beneath the new aftershave, he smelled the same. If she closed her eyes she was eighteen again—
“What’s that?”
She opened her eyes to find him pointing at her lower abdomen. She looked down to see the five-inch-wide scar smiling above the waist of her unzipped jeans.
Her mouth went dry.
Oh no. How could I forget?
“Uh—” She wanted to spit out the name of an organ found in that general area, but her mind offered no ideas.
“Did you have an operation?” he asked.
She nodded. “It’s, um, from a long time ago.” The words barely burbled over her lips. She couldn’t push them out. She felt too weak.
Shee rocked back. The moment was over. He was staring at her, his mouth ajar.
He knows.
Her most horrible secret, stuffed so long in the darkest places of her heart, had finally clawed its way to the light. She struggled to find a way to brace for the impending storm.
“It looks like a C-section scar,” he said.
She wanted to laugh, roll her eyes, slap his chest and call him silly, but she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t lie to him.
Not again.
“You had a kid?” he asked. His voice sounded weak now, too.
Her once-flushed cheeks felt clammy.
She nodded. Something roiled in her stomach.
“You did?” he asked.
She could see he was struggling with a way to process the information.
He had no idea how much worse it was about to get.
No puppy to save you from this bombshell.
She cleared her throat, her hand shaking where it rested on her thigh. She dug her nails into her flesh to hold her fingers still.
“We did,” she said.
“We—?”
“Excuse me.”
Shee rolled sideways off the bed and ran for the bathroom, slinging the door shut behind her.
I am not going to throw up a third time—
She lost half a bottle of a bold, oaky Cabernet Sauvignon into the toilet, chased by a touch of aged bourbon.
When she was done, she sat with her back against the cool tile wall, staring at the closed bathroom door. The room outside was eerily quiet.
She pulled herself to her feet, rinsed, spat a few times and dabbed her mouth dry.
“You have to come out sometime,” said Mason’s voice from the other room. It was a different voice than the one murmuring what he wanted to do to her when they got to the room. This one sounded...
Scared.
She opened the door.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his shirt back on, gripping the sides with curled fingers as if he feared the mattress would try to throw him off.
She closed the bathroom door behind her and leaned against it.
“That’s why you ran away?” he asked.
She nodded.
His lip quivered. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She rolled her fingers into fists. “We were too young. You’d fought so hard to get where you were. I wasn’t ready—”
He motioned to the scar. “But you had the child?”
“Yes.”
Mason’s expression twisted into something too complicated to read. Some strange combination of pain, horror, anger—
“You’re telling me I have a son? Daughter?”
“Daughter. Charlotte.”
The tears leapt to his eyes so suddenly Shee raised a hand to cover her mouth, her own eyes welling.
“That was my mother’s name,” he said.
“I know.”
“Where is she?”
“West Coast. Near Tampa.”
He wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. “How could you raise—”
“I didn’t. I gave her to my sister. It was Mick’s idea. She wanted a baby and I wanted—” All the possible words to finish her sentence sounded awful to her now and she let her thought die there.
“You have a sister?”
“Half.”
“And she raised our daughter?”
“Until Charlotte was eleven.”
“What happened then?”
“My sister died. Charlotte went to live with her grandmother.”
“With her—” Mason stood, wobbling a little as he adjusted to his leg. “And you knew? You let that happen?”
Shee shook her head as if it could help her dodge the questions. “It’s complicated. I couldn’t take her. I couldn’t risk anyone finding out—”
Mason clenched his fists. “Why?”
“Because it was my fault,” Shee said, her voice rising to match the urgent tone of his. “I wanted so much—”
Mason’s hand moved to the lumpy scar on his arm. He stood there staring at her, rubbing his fingers around its rough surface until, finally, he held up his palm and closed his eyes.
“I can’t do this now.”
“What?”
“I—” He felt his pocket for his wallet and looked around the room as if he’d lost something. “I have to go.”
“Where?”
He strode toward the door. “I don’t know. I can’t be near you right now.”
Shee drew a ragged breath as he jerked the door open and disappeared into the hall.
She slid down the door to the floor, sobbing.
&&&
Chapter Thirty-Three
Twenty-six years ago. Somewhere off the west coast of Africa.
Mason entered the cruiser’s medical bay, gripping his arm. Blood oozed between his fingers.
Doc looked up from his magazine. He looked about fifty, with spikey gray hair echoing the steel tufts poking from his ears and nose.
“You’re back already?” he asked.
Mason nodded. “Cakewalk.”
Doc laughed. “I can see that. Sit down. Take off your gear.”
Mason wasn’t feeling chatty. This was his first mission and he’d managed to get shot. The task had been easy, he’d just messed up. A branch had snagged the locket around his neck and pulled it free. He’d doubled back to retrieve it, and taken one in the arm before he could take out the shooter.
Stupid.
As Doc inspected his wound, Mason stared at the locket in his hand. It held one of the diamonds his mother had died for. This one had Shee’s name all over
it. He planned to ask her to marry him when he got back, but if the damn locket caught on everything, he’d lose it—or his life—long before returning to Coronado.
“Through and through. We’ll be able to stitch you up both sides,” murmured Doc.
Mason nodded. “Hey, ah have a question for you. If ah gave you a little rock, could you drop it in and stitch it?”
Doc’s expression twisted as if he smelled something awful. “You got a headwound, too?”
Mason shook his head and held aloft his orb-shaped locket. “Ah’ve got a diamond ah’m keeping for my girl. Gonna lose it if ah don’t put it somewhere safe.”
Doc’s face didn’t change. “You know they have these things called banks. Safety deposit boxes? Maybe you’ve heard of them?”
“That woulda been a good idea a couple months ago, but there ain’t much ah can do now that ah’m here.”
Doc motioned to the locket. “You want that thing in your arm?”
“Just the diamond inside. It twists open.”
The doctor took the locket and opened it. He spilled the diamond into his palm and let it roll around his palm.
“This is the ugliest damn diamond I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s rough. Uncut.”
“Where’d you get it? Rob a jewelry store?”
Mason chuckled. “Something like that.”
Doc sighed. “I guess I can tuck it in there for you, for now, but it’s going to work its way out sooner or later.”
“That’s fine. Ah just need it safe ‘til ah get back.”
“I’ll have to sterilize it. There’s going to be a lump. The scarring will be worse—”
“That’s fine.”
Doc shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this.”
“Come on. Help me out.”
Doc huffed a sigh. “Fine.” He tapped beside the wound with his finger. “You want me to numb you up or are you one of those SEALs who don’t feel pain?”
Mason settled back. “Pain don’t hurt.”
Doc barked a laugh, reaching for his stitching needle. “You guys and your Roadhouse quotes. I swear.”
&&&
Chapter Thirty-Four
The flight back was fun.
