Sealed with a promise

by Mary Margret Daughtridge

  “Will go wrong,” Em­mie fi­nis­hed. “Of co­ur­se, I’ve he­ard of it. I find it un­re­alis­ti­cal­ly ne­ga­ti­ve.” She felt giddy aga­in. Free of an­xi­ety, now she felt chal­len­ged rat­her than pres­su­red. “Re­al­ly, fin­ding a ba­ker was the hard part. Sin­ce you ha­ve two go­od arms, the rest sho­uld be-da­re I say it? A pi­ece of ca­ke.”

  On the wi­de front steps flan­ked by mas­si­ve box­wo­ods they ran in­to Jax. His nor­mal­ly hard fa­ce sof­te­ned by ten­der amu­se­ment, Jax was wat­c­hing his small son ra­ce aro­und the wi­de lawn at­tem­p­ting to catch bright le­aves as they drif­ted down from the many old sha­de tre­es. Jax had be­en ab­sent for most of Tyler’s short li­fe but was de­ter­mi­ned to ma­ke up for it now.

  “Emmie! Em­mie!” Tyler ca­ught sight of them and flung him­self to­ward Em­mie, arms out­s­t­ret­c­hed wi­de in­ten­ding to hug her aro­und the kne­es the sa­me way he hug­ged Pic­kett. Ap­pa­rently, he had de­ci­ded Em­mie ra­ted the sa­me af­fec­ti­on.

  Tyler was ut­terly un­res­t­ra­ined in ad­mi­nis­te­ring hugs. Do-Lord put his arm be­hind Em­mie’s wa­ist re­ady to catch her if Tyler un­ba­lan­ced her, but be­fo­re Tyler co­uld con­nect, Jax swept him up.

  “Easy Tyler, re­mem­ber? You ha­ve to be ca­re­ful with la­di­es.”

  “You sa­id I had to be ca­re­ful with Pic­kett.”

  “Well, you ha­ve to be ca­re­ful with Em­mie, too.”

  “Do I ha­ve to be ca­re­ful with Aunt Gra­ce, and Aunt Sa­rah Bea, and Aunt Lyle?” Tyler lis­ted Pic­kett’s sis­ters. He se­emed de­lig­h­ted with all the fa­mily he was ac­qu­iring along with a step­mot­her and mis­sed no op­por­tu­nity to na­me every one. “And Aunt Lilly Ha­le and-”

  “Yes,” Jax in­ter­rup­ted the list. Sin­ce Pic­kett’s fa­mily was lar­ge, it co­uld go on qu­ite a whi­le. “You ha­ve to be ca­re­ful with every sin­g­le one. Now, can you gi­ve Em­mie a gen­t­le hug? She has a hurt arm, so you ne­ed to be ex­t­ra spe­ci­al ca­re­ful.”

  Lif­ted in­to po­si­ti­on by his fat­her, Tyler set­tled hands we­ig­h­t­less as snow­f­la­kes on Em­mie’s sho­ul­ders and pres­sed his che­ek aga­inst hers. Af­ter a mo­ment’s he­si­ta­ti­on, Em­mie bro­ught her go­od arm up to hold him to her.

  “Did the hug ma­ke you all bet­ter?” Tyler in­qu­ired with a child’s in­no­cent fa­ith as his fat­her lif­ted him away. “Do you want anot­her one?”

  “Um, may­be la­ter.”

  “Did you know I’m go­ing to be fi­ve so­on?” Tyler as­ked Em­mie in the lig­h­t­ning fast shift of at­ten­ti­on typi­cal of chil­d­ren. “I’m fo­ur now,” he cla­ri­fi­ed, “but then, I’ll be fi­ve.”

  “Oh.” Em­mie se­emed un­su­re of what to say, but she ga­ve the child the co­ur­tesy of ta­king him se­ri­o­usly. Do-Lord li­ked that abo­ut her. So many pe­op­le tho­ug­ht that be­ca­use chil­d­ren we­re na?ve they we­re neg­li­gib­le. “When is yo­ur bir­t­h­day?”

  “To­mor­row!”

  “Not to­mor­row, son,” Jax cor­rec­ted. “De­cem­ber twelfth.”

  “De­cem­ber twelfth,” Tyler par­ro­ted. “That’s so­on, right? Did you know af­ter we get mar­ri­ed to­night, Pic­kett’s mot­her will be my gran­d­mot­her?”

  Emmie’s eyes tur­ned to Do-Lord in mo­men­tary con­fu­si­on. She must not ha­ve much ex­pe­ri­en­ce with lit­tle kids. Do-Lord nod­ded. “Yes.” She tur­ned back to Tyler. “I knew that.”

  Be­fo­re he co­uld start in­to anot­her did you know Jax hung Tyler up­si­de down by his hands. Tyler exe­cu­ted a bac­k­wards body flip to the gro­und.

  “Hey, Tyler, go get us fi­ve mo­re le­aves to ta­ke to the ho­tel, okay?”

  Tyler held up a hand, fin­gers spre­ad wi­de. “Fi­ve?”

  “Right.”

  When the lit­tle boy was out of ear­s­hot, Jax tur­ned to Do-Lord. “Lis­ten, I just fo­und out his ot­her gran­d­mot­her, La­uren, is co­ming to the wed­ding. Pic­kett in­sis­ted on in­vi­ting her.”

  Do- Lord whis­t­led softly. La­uren was the mot­her of Jax’s ex-wi­fe, Da­ni­el­le. Tyler had sta­yed with her un­til Jax co­uld re­turn from Af­g­ha­nis­tan. The­re had ne­ver be­en any lo­ve lost bet­we­en her and Jax, and now she was trying to ta­ke Tyler away from him. The wed­ding wo­uldn’t ha­ve be­en rus­hed if not for the ne­ed to he­ad off any pos­si­bi­lity of her get­ting Tyler.

  “Wa­it a mi­nu­te,” Em­mie in­ter­rup­ted. “You ma­ke it so­und li­ke that’s a bad thing. I un­der­s­tand whe­re Pic­kett’s co­ming from. La­uren might not be the best cus­to­di­an for Tyler, but she’s still his gran­d­mot­her. He ne­eds the link to his mot­her and his past that La­uren can pro­vi­de.”

  “I un­der­s­tand what Pic­kett’s sa­ying, too. In­vi­ting La­uren was her call, and you know I’m go­ing to back her. I had ho­ped La­uren wo­uldn’t ac­cept. Pic­kett do­esn’t know what La­uren is ca­pab­le of. She hasn’t ever had to de­al with her.”

  “Don’t sell Pic­kett short. She’s a lot to­ug­her than she lo­oks. She can de­al with an­y­t­hing La­uren can dish out. She’ll pro­tect Tyler if she ne­eds to, but she says it’s best not to pro­tect chil­d­ren from kno­wing the­ir pa­rents and gran­d­pa­rents.”

  Do- Lord la­id a ca­re­ful hand on Em­mie’s go­od sho­ul­der. “You don’t ha­ve to de­fend Pic­kett to Jax. He’s on her si­de. She sho­uldn’t ne­ed to han­d­le La­uren on her wed­ding day. No wor­ri­es, boss,” he ad­ded to Jax. “Not­hing’s go­ing to hap­pen.”

  Jax nod­ded his un­der­s­tan­ding. “Thanks.” He ga­ve Do-Lord and Em­mie a con­si­de­ring lo­ok, his lig­ht-co­lo­red eyes flic­king bet­we­en them. “Whe­re are you two off to?”

  “Emmie’s re­ady to le­ave. I sa­id I’d gi­ve her a ri­de. She can’t dri­ve with her arm in a sling.”

  “Is the­re an­y­t­hing el­se I ne­ed to know?” Jax’s to­ne was bland, di­sin­te­res­ted. Li­ke hell. He knew so­met­hing was up. Do-Lord won­de­red what stray flic­ker of body lan­gu­age had gi­ven them away. Do-Lord wo­uld just as so­on ha­ve sta­yed out of ran­ge of Jax’s ra­dar. It wo­uld be bet­ter if Jax had no fo­rek­now­led­ge of Em­mie’s qu­ixo­tic sche­me or Do-Lord’s re­asons for ag­re­e­ing to help her.

  “Nah. I’ve got ever­y­t­hing han­d­led.” Do-Lord mat­c­hed Jax’s ca­su­al to­ne per­fectly, kno­wing he didn’t ne­ed to add trust me.

  “I got ’em. I got the le­aves.” Tyler ran back to the adults.

  Jax slung his son ac­ross his sho­ul­der in a fi­re­man carry. “I’m go­ing to ta­ke him back to the ho­tel so we can swim for a whi­le. May­be I can dra­in off a few gal­lons of ex­ci­te­ment and get him to nap.”

  Tyler twis­ted aro­und on his fat­her’s sho­ul­ders to re­gard Do-Lord and Em­mie with a lo­ok eerily li­ke his fat­her’s. “Don’t for­get,” ca­uti­oned Tyler. “You got­ta be ex­t­ra spe­ci­al ca­re­ful when you hug Em­mie.”

  Do- Lord grin­ned and no­ogi­ed the kid’s ha­ir. Tyler was go­ing to ne­ed so­me fi­ne-tu­ning be­fo­re he had his fat­her’s ESP. Do-Lord didn’t think any hugs wo­uld be ne­eded. Do­ing a fa­vor wo­uld ac­com­p­lish his go­al. “No prob­lem, big guy. See you la­ter.”

  Chapter 5

  The mus­cu­lar pic­kup, par­ked on the grassy ed­ge of the tree-li­ned dri­ve, had to be the big­gest truck Em­mie had ever se­en. Do-Lord un­loc­ked the do­or on the pas­sen­ger si­de and held it open.

  “This is a new truck, isn’t it?” Em­mie stal­led for ti­me. “What kind is it?” She had no in­te­rest in trucks what­so­ever, but she ne­eded a mi­nu­te to gat­her her co­ura­ge to fa­ce the pa­in of clim­bing in.

  “A Sil­ve­ra­do 250,” His nar­ro­wed eyes tra­ve­led over her in co­ol, de­li­be­ra­te
as­ses­sment. Tho­ugh the­re was not­hing se­xu­al abo­ut the way he si­zed her up, her bre­ath stal­led in her thro­at. She had ne­ver felt so lo­oked at in her li­fe. His lips pur­sed, as if he was fig­h­ting a smug smi­le. “You ne­ed help get­ting in.”

  She stif­fe­ned. “Are you as­king me or tel­ling me?”

  He ig­no­red the qu­es­ti­on. “Do I ne­ed to be ca­re­ful of an­y­t­hing be­si­des yo­ur sho­ul­der?”

  “Ever­y­t­hing el­se works fi­ne. Re­al­ly, I can do it.”

  Aga­in, he ig­no­red her. “Bra­ce yo­ur go­od hand on my sho­ul­der for ba­lan­ce-” When she didn’t comply, he to­ok her hand and set it on his sho­ul­der. “When I pick you up le­an to­ward me slightly. Don’t want to bump yo­ur he­ad.” Not wa­iting for her ag­re­ement, he pla­ced two hard, warm hands on her wa­ist and lif­ted.

  The she­er no­velty of the ex­pe­ri­en­ce stre­aked in a shoc­ked tin­g­le down her legs and up her spi­ne. She wasn’t the kind of da­inty lit­tle thing men pic­ked up, and even if she was, she didn’t hang aro­und the kind of jocks who sho­wed off the­ir mus­c­les by pic­king wo­men up.

  Emmie hardly had ti­me to ab­sorb the fe­eling of his sho­ul­der un­der her hand be­fo­re her butt was in con­tact with the pas­sen­ger se­at, her legs dan­g­ling si­de­ways.

  She shif­ted in the se­at at­tem­p­ting to swing her fe­et in­to the car. Her che­eks tur­ned whi­te. She bit her lip, but she didn’t gro­an.

  “Stop. Don’t twist,” he com­man­ded, an­ti­ci­pa­ting her. “I’ll stra­ig­h­ten you up. If the Car­go is al­re­ady inj­ured, it usu­al­ly works bet­ter if the Car­go lets me do ever­y­t­hing.”

  One arm aro­und her back ste­adi­ed her, whi­le the ot­her went un­der her kne­es to lift her legs. Drag­ging on panty ho­se had be­en out of the qu­es­ti­on this mor­ning. His hand brus­hed the na­ked back of her legs just abo­ve the knee. For one bre­at­h­less se­cond, she tho­ught it lin­ge­red. Then, so smo­othly she tho­ught the tiny hi­atus hadn’t hap­pe­ned, she was fa­cing for­ward.

  She has­tily tug­ged at the hem of her skirt. Tur­ning had twis­ted it, ba­ring her thighs. If she’d ever be­en one to swe­ar, she wo­uld ha­ve sworn now. Co­ve­ring her legs, one-han­ded and with no le­ve­ra­ge, was im­pos­sib­le.

  “Ra­ise up a lit­tle.” His vo­ice, sud­denly de­eper, grit­ti­er, was so clo­se she felt the mo­ist puffs of his bre­ath. “I’ll stra­ig­h­ten yo­ur skirt.”

  Effi­ci­ently, but with no tra­ce of hurry, he ran his hand un­der her but­tocks to free the bun­c­hed ma­te­ri­al. When that was do­ne, he firmly and to­tal­ly un­ne­ces­sa­rily, smo­ot­hed the wrin­k­les from the cot­ton twill.

  “Are you do­ne?” Em­mie tri­ed to snap but wasn’t su­re she suc­ce­eded.

  “Almost.” He ex­ten­ded the se­at­belt, and she re­ali­zed he in­ten­ded to buc­k­le her in.

  “Eno­ugh!” She ca­ught the hand in which he held the me­tal tab. “I’ll do it, thank you.”

  He didn’t re­le­ase the tab. He just lo­oked at her. Pa­ti­ent. Im­p­la­cab­le.

  His he­ad was le­vel with hers, so clo­se she co­uld see the gold and brown flecks in his iri­ses. His eyes we­ren’t cold and hard now.

  She had ne­ver be­en on the re­ce­iving end of a will so fo­cu­sed it was pal­pab­le.

  She gas­ped and drew his scent de­ep in­to her lungs. Wo­ol, starch, spi­ce, and so­me ine­luc­tab­le, mas­cu­li­ne es­sen­ce. She co­uld still fe­el the im­p­res­si­on his hands and arms had ma­de on her body-the smo­oth, ca­su­al strength with which he to­ok con­t­rol.

  With the sa­me stro­be-li­ke in­ten­sity as when she had re­ali­zed one co­uldn’t jud­ge his per­so­na­lity by his go­od-hu­mo­red smi­le, Em­mie sud­denly un­der­s­to­od this man wo­uldn’t gi­ve up. He ne­ver ga­ve up. The know­led­ge shud­de­red thro­ugh her li­ke a gong that had be­en struck. Wit­ho­ut a word spo­ken she knew she had be­en war­ned: let go of the belt or he wo­uld do mo­re.

  One po­in­ted eyeb­row qu­ir­ked. “Are you go­ing to let me do it now?”

  What was he tal­king abo­ut? Stun­ned by in­sights, over­co­me with sen­sory sur­fe­it, Em­mie fo­und the qu­es­ti­on baf­fling. As if she co­uld find the an­s­wer the­re, her at­ten­ti­on fi­xa­ted on his mo­bi­le mo­uth. His lips re­min­ded her of Brad Pitt’s, she tho­ught, too be­mu­sed to no­ti­ce the ir­re­le­van­ce. The up­per cur­ved in a per­fect bow, whi­le the lo­wer po­ked out as if he knew a sec­ret that po­ised his lips at the be­gin­ning of a smi­le-or the be­gin­ning of a kiss. “Do it?”

  “Buc­k­le the se­at belt.” This ti­me the grin was out­right, ge­nu­ine, and so ste­eped in amu­sed ar­ro­gan­ce Em­mie wan­ted to writ­he in mor­ti­fi­ca­ti­on for let­ting him ma­ke her think abo­ut kis­sing, even mo­men­ta­rily.

  He­at flo­oded her fa­ce and spre­ad down her chest in a fi­re that thre­ate­ned to con­su­me her en­ti­re body. Her tor­so tig­h­te­ned in a we­ird ref­lex that in­c­lu­ded her nip­ples.

  He was so pro­ud of his lit­tle dis­p­lay of mas­cu­li­ne do­mi­nan­ce she wan­ted to hit him, and that ma­de her writ­he be­ca­use she didn’t be­li­eve in vi­olen­ce. And she wan­ted to run her fin­ger tips over the short vel­vety-lo­oking ha­ir on his na­pe-and that ma­de her writ­he even mo­re.

  Emmie wasn’t na?ve abo­ut se­xu­al at­trac­ti­on. No one who wor­ked on a col­le­ge cam­pus co­uld be. If the mas­si­ve dis­t­rac­ti­on of sex co­uld be eli­mi­na­ted, the test sco­res of her stu­dents wo­uld ri­se one who­le let­ter gra­de. But she wasn’t the kind of girl who’d ever ne­eded to be war­ned aga­inst bad boys. She wasn’t the kind who lost her he­ad- but mo­re to the po­int, she wasn’t the kind bad boys ga­ve a se­cond glan­ce. Or, for that mat­ter, a first one.

  And bad boy he was. It didn’t show thro­ugh an­y­t­hing as clich?d as a le­at­her jac­ket or a sul­len at­ti­tu­de. He’d be­en all po­li­te, de­fe­rent charm to Pic­kett’s mot­her and sis­ters and aunts. He dres­sed with mi­li­tary po­lish, and his ha­ir was cut shor­ter than Jax’s. And yet she was su­re he ne­ver pla­yed by the ru­les-not un­less he fi­xed them first.

  If she co­uld, she’d get out of the truck right now. She’d had all she ever wan­ted of mas­cu­li­ne dis­da­in for her pla­in­ness. If he knew what she was thin­king, he’d pro­bably la­ugh.

  Thank God, on­ce the se­at belt clic­ked in­to pla­ce, he wit­h­d­rew wit­ho­ut fur­t­her com­ment.

  Do- Lord shut her do­or. His fin­gers left a film of mo­is­tu­re on the chro­me han­d­le. Swe­aty palms. Shit. When was the last ti­me his hands had swe­ated from be­ing clo­se to a girl?

  He’d be­en ple­ased-he’d ad­mit it-when he’d re­ali­zed Em­mie co­uldn’t climb in­to his truck wit­ho­ut his help. It fre­ed him to ta­ke char­ge, and SE­ALs li­ked to be in char­ge.

  For the last two days he’d fo­ught the ur­ge to put him­self bet­we­en her and mo­ve­ment that wo­uld ca­use her pa­in. No mo­re. She wasn’t go­ing to hurt her­self- not on his watch.

  But when he’d go­ne to stra­ig­h­ten her up on the se­at, his hand had en­co­un­te­red the mo­ist, silky smo­ot­h­ness of her thighs and the­ir soft we­ight. Tur­ning her had twis­ted her skirt, ex­po­sing her legs to the top of her thigh, al­lo­wing him a whiff of her warm, sec­ret wo­man es­sen­ce.

  It blin­d­si­ded him. In the way of odors, it bypas­sed his ce­reb­ral cor­tex and zo­omed in­to his most pri­mi­ti­ve in­s­tincts to sur­vi­ve and to ma­te. With cra­ving clo­se to pa­in, he had wan­ted to bury his he­ad in her lap, press his no­se aga­inst the so­ur­ce, and draw it de­ep in­to his lungs.

  If he tho­ught she was the le­ast bit wil­ling, he wo­uld lay her down right her be­si­de the
sandy dri­ve­way. He wo­uld ha­ve her on the gol­den le­aves be­ne­ath the pe­can tre­es in the thin No­vem­ber sun­s­hi­ne.

  His unit had be­en sta­te­si­de not qu­ite three months, and he knew him­self to be still mo­re than half-wild, his sen­ses tu­ned to re­gis­ter every nu­an­ce of his en­vi­ron­ment. In the af­ter­math of com­bat most guys we­re se­xu­al­ly char­ged. He was no ex­cep­ti­on. But God. He hadn’t ex­pec­ted this.

  Appa­rently he ne­eded a lot mo­re R and R than he’d had.

  He’d wil­led him­self to ke­ep his mo­ve­ments slow and non­t­h­re­ate­ning whi­le he’d pul­led down her skirt. He wasn’t go­ing to go ca­ve­man on her. He’d ne­ver for­ced a wo­man and ne­ver wo­uld.

  Still, in­va­ding her spa­ce by re­ac­hing ac­ross her body to buc­k­le her se­at belt had be­en an act of pu­re ma­le do­mi­nan­ce-pri­mi­ti­ve, ata­vis­tic, abo­ri­gi­nal as hell, and damn sa­tis­f­ying. It ma­de get­ting swe­aty hand prints on his new truck al­most worth it.

  Fo­cus. Knee-buc­k­ling lust had thrown him for a mi­nu­te, but the­re was a bright si­de. He drew a de­ep bre­ath and con­s­ci­o­usly ma­de his sho­ul­ders re­lax. At last, he’d fi­gu­red out what ir­ri­ta­ted him abo­ut her, and why he co­uldn’t stop wat­c­hing her. Had they not had the­ir bat­tle of wills over the se­at belt, had he not be­en lo­oking stra­ight in­to tho­se kit­ten-wi­de, blue eyes, he wo­uldn’t ha­ve se­en them fix on his lips or no­ti­ced the fla­re of her de­li­ca­te nos­t­rils. His lit­tle, spin­s­te­rish pro­fes­sor had be­en tur­ned on too. Now that he co­uld see it, he co­uldn’t be­li­eve it had ta­ken him this long to con­nect the dots.

  He ro­un­ded the front of the truck, shrug­ging out of his sport co­at. Sin­ce so­ci­al ti­me was over, he no lon­ger ne­eded it to ma­ke the cor­rect im­p­res­si­on. Now that he knew what was go­ing on, he had anot­her im­p­res­si­on in mind…