Marooned with a Marine

by Maureen Child

  “Really?” she said, and her tone clearly told him what she thought of that statement.

  He took a long, deep breath, fought to keep his voice calm and even, and said, “We fight when we’re told. We go where we’re sent. It’s our job to defend. Not destroy.”

  She laughed outright and he bristled right down to the soles of his feet.

  “What’s so damn funny?”

  She waved one hand at him. “You’re wearing the wrong shirt to be making that argument.”

  He scowled. “Like I said, it’s just a shirt.”

  “Yeah? Think that package-delivery company appreciates your little joke?”

  “Look, Karen—”

  “No,” she said quickly, coming up onto her knees, clutching the sheet and blanket to her naked body like a shield, “you’ve been wanting to talk, so we’re talking.”

  “You’re not talking, you’re attacking. There’s a difference.” Beneath his anger was more than a kernel of curiosity. Why, he wondered. Why all of a sudden was she so concerned about his being a Marine? She’d never made a fuss about it before. And it wasn’t just one particular Marine. She was down on the whole damn Corps. Why?

  “You’re a Marine,” she quipped. “Defend yourself.”

  “Oh, I plan to,” he told her, easing into a casual pose that had nothing to do with how he was feeling.

  “See, I don’t think you can,” she said, tugging at the blanket to keep it around her. “You’re in the business of death. You train young men and women—some of whom have never held a gun before—how to be marksmen. How to kill.”

  He could hear his back teeth grinding together and wouldn’t have been surprised to find out his molars had been reduced to dust. “You’re right. I do teach ’em. I teach them how to defend themselves and their fellow Marines. I teach them how to go into a hostile situation and come out alive.”

  “But that’s my point,” she countered quickly. “Why would you want the kind of job that’s so life and death?”

  “Because it’s important,” he snapped, patience coming to an end. “What I do—hell, what the Marines do, is important. To this country. To you. To everyone who gets to sleep peacefully in their beds each night.” He came around the side of the bed, stopped when he was no more than a foot or two from her and stared down into the pale blue eyes that haunted him, waking and sleeping.

  “God, Karen,” he said, his voice strained and raw, “you know me. Do you really think I became a Marine so I could blow things up?”

  Color filled her cheeks and her gaze lowered briefly. But he went on, fuming now and determined to get through to her.

  “You think all we do is fight? What about the relief missions…Somalia. Panama. And so many others it’d be ridiculous to try to list ’em all. Marines risk their lives to try to help people.” He scraped one hand across the top of his head, took a long, calming breath and said, “So, yeah. I think what I do is important.”

  A long moment or two passed and the only sound in the room came from the storm outside and the small, static-smudged voice of the radio announcer in the background.

  Finally though, she said softly, “Fine. It’s important. But why you?”

  “Why not me?” he countered.

  He watched her as she came up higher on her knees, still clutching the blanket to her and meeting his gaze with a directness that allowed him to see the shadows of old pain lurking in her eyes.

  “My God, Sam. You could have done anything you wanted. Heck, your father owns one of the biggest computer businesses in the country. Yet you turn your back on a regular life in favor of being John Wayne. Why?”

  Hell, his own father asked him that very question regularly. The elder Paretti had been a career Marine until he’d started up a fledgling business that had taken off like it was shot out of a cannon. Then he’d retired from the Corps and was constantly trying to get his sons to do the same and go to work with him.

  But if Sam knew his brothers as well as he thought he did, their father didn’t stand a chance at prying any of them out of the Corps.

  “Because sitting behind a desk fiddling with a computer isn’t my idea of an interesting job.”

  “Oh!” she said with a snort of laughter. “But teaching young kids how to be marksmen is?”

  “Damn right,” he snapped, and reached out to grab her shoulders in a firm, tight grip. “What I do matters. I teach those kids how to shoot straight. How to keep their heads down. How to remain calm. What I teach them will keep ’em alive.” He was good at his job, damn it, and he wasn’t going to apologize for it to her or anyone else. “And I happen to think that’s a bit more important than teaching ’em how to send e-mail.”

  She nodded, looking up at him. “It doesn’t matter, though, does it?”

  “What?”

  “What you teach them. Even if they know everything, remember everything, do everything right…they’ll still go out there and some of them will die.”

  “Everybody dies, Karen,” he reminded her. “Marine or not, nobody lives forever.”

  “Not everybody gets shot,” she muttered, and pulled free of his grasp.

  “True,” he said shortly. “Not all Marines do, either.”

  “Maybe not,” she allowed. “But their chances are a lot higher than most, don’t you think?”

  She sniffed, pushed her hair back from her face and dropped back onto the bed, sitting against the pillows and keeping her gaze averted from his.

  But her movement was too late to keep him from seeing the emotion crowding those eyes of hers. He’d seen passion glimmering in those pale blue depths. He’d seen joy and tears and temper. But until this moment, he’d never seen fear there before and seeing it now shook him. Was this the reason she’d left him then? Her own fears?

  And if so, how could he fight that?

  Speaking softly, carefully, he said, “It can be a dangerous job.” Hell, he’d seen enough to be sure of that. Lying facedown on a sand dune squinting into the desert sun, trying to find your enemy behind a shimmering wave of heat, would convince you fast enough that there were easier ways to make a living. Though not many more rewarding. “But it’s a meaningful job, too.”

  She sighed heavily. The window rattled ominously and thunder rolled overhead. But, Sam thought, the storm raging outside had nothing on what was happening right here, in this little room.

  “What is it with you guys, anyway?”

  “Us guys?” he repeated. “Who else are we talking about here besides me?” Okay, now they were getting somewhere.

  “All of you,” she muttered, waving one hand at him dismissively. “Your whole stupid gender. If the world was run by women we wouldn’t need the military. We’d talk things out. We wouldn’t be sending our sons off to fight.”

  “Is that a fact?” he asked, insulted on behalf of his sex. “Does the name Margaret Thatcher mean anything to you? Golda Meir? Those were two tough women, Karen. They didn’t let anybody walk on their countries. And they weren’t afraid to back up their words with a little action.”

  She opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off.

  “And,” he continued, “there’re a few thousand female Marines I’d like you to meet, too. They’re every bit as tough and dedicated as the men, so maybe your gender isn’t exactly filled with pussycats, either, huh?”

  A flush stained her cheeks as she nodded abruptly. “Okay, fine. Granted. It’s not just a male thing. It’s a military thing.”

  “Where’s all this coming from, Karen?” he asked. “Why all of a sudden are you so down on the Corps?”

  She laughed shortly, harshly. “It’s not all of a sudden.”

  “My job didn’t seem to bother you when we first started going out.” He kept his gaze locked on her, trying to understand. Trying to see past the walls she was already erecting between them. Was it really just his job that had sent her packing?

  “It didn’t. But that was because I never expected—” she broke off, lifted both h
ands and pushed her hair back from her face, holding it tightly at the nape of her neck.

  His gaze dropped to the drooping blanket and the tops of her breasts, exposed to his view. Then resolutely, he looked into her eyes. “Didn’t expect what? To care?”

  “I didn’t want to,” she whispered, her voice strained with tightly leashed emotion.

  Something inside him twisted hard and Sam’s anger slid into oblivion, overshadowed by a surge of compassion for the woman so obviously tormented by something she hadn’t been able to bring herself to share with him.

  “You kind of sneaked up on me, too,” he said, and kept his voice soft and low, sensing that at last, they were going to get to what had her so frightened. So willing to walk away from what they’d found in each other.

  “I won’t do this again,”

  she whispered. “Do what?” He eased down onto the bed, within an arm’s reach of her.

  She lifted her head, looked him square in the eye and said quietly, “I won’t go to another military funeral. I won’t accept another flag and the condolences of my country.”

  Eight

  “What the hell does that mean?” he asked, his stunned expression reflecting his confusion.

  “It means,” Karen said, swallowing hard against the knot of emotion clogging her throat, “that I’ve already done that once. I won’t love you. I won’t go to your funeral and listen to rifles being fired over your grave.”

  “Okay, tell me,” he said simply. “Who was he?”

  “My fiancé,” she said, then told him all about Dave. Like a dam bursting beneath the tremendous pressure of an ocean of water, words poured from her mouth, stumbling over each other in their quest to at last be heard. “He was a Gunnery Sergeant, too,” she finished, her mind drifting back until it drew up a now-hazy image of Dave Kendrick. His smile, his walk, his booming laugh. She hated that her memories were fading, yet at the same time, she was almost grateful. At least now when she thought of him, there was only a soft, sweet ache around her heart, not the crippling pain that had so nearly devastated her three years ago. “Good at his job. He loved it as much as you do,” she said, and wondered if her voice sounded as accusing to him as it did to her.

  “What happened?”

  “An accident,” she said. “Just a stupid accident. A gun malfunctioned on the range. Dave died.” And in the space of a few moments, her entire world had shifted. She’d mourned him and tried to rebuild her life. But there had been too many memories in California. So she’d come here. To South Carolina. To her grandmother’s house. And here she’d found another Marine.

  Fate really had a sick sense of humor.

  Rubbing both hands across her face, Karen took in a gulp of air and swallowed it like she would a medicinal shot of brandy. At least it was out, she told herself. Now Sam would know. He would understand why this thing between them had to be stopped. Why she couldn’t let it grow.

  “Let me get this straight,” he said softly, too softly, and Karen dropped her hands and lifted her gaze to meet his. “You’re gonna walk away from what we have because a Marine you loved three years ago died in an accident?”

  She stiffened slightly in response to his tone. He didn’t sound the least bit understanding. “That’s right,” she said.

  Pushing off the bed, Sam stood up and stared down at her. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it again, then shook his head and muttered, “That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard.”

  “What?” She’d finally told him. Finally confessed the hurt she’d been carrying around, and this was his response?

  “It’s not only dumb,” he continued, throwing his hands high in the air, “it’s damn selfish.”

  “Selfish?” she countered, and leaped off the bed, dragging the sheet with her and wrapping it around her body like a pitiful representation of a toga. “I’m selfish?”

  “You’re damned right,” Sam snapped, and leaned in, looming over her. “You gave up, Karen. Without giving me and how I felt a single thought. You picked up, packed up and walked out on me because I might die?”

  Why did that sound so stupid when he said it? Karen banished that thought instantly and defended herself. “Dave was every bit as good a Marine as you are. And he died, anyway. Can you guarantee me you won’t?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “There you go,” she said, pleased to have made her point so easily.

  “That’s your reasoning?”

  She folded her arms beneath her breasts, lifted her chin and nodded defiantly.

  Shaking his head again, Sam set his hands at his hips and asked, “So, if you were married to an accountant and he dropped dead at his desk from a heart attack, you’d never date another accountant?”

  “It’s not the same thing.”

  “Where’s it different?”

  “You’re in an inherently more dangerous profession than an accountant.”

  “And I’m trained to deal with it,” he pointed out.

  “So was Dave.”

  “Just because one Marine died doesn’t mean I will, too.”

  “I know that,” she muttered, feeling the fire inside her drain away to be replaced by a sad, hollow sensation. None of this would change anything. “But how do you expect me to deal with loving a man in the same profession that killed my fiancé?”

  He reached for her and laid both hands on her shoulders. The warmth of his touch skittered through her, and Karen tried not to think about how much she would miss him. But the coming years stretched out ahead of her like a yawning black chasm and she knew that her life would never be the same without Sam Paretti in it.

  “If I thought it would be enough to ease your fears—” she looked into those whiskey-colored eyes of his as he continued “—maybe I would consider leaving the Corps.”

  A flicker of hope sparkled to life inside her and just as quickly winked out when he went on.

  “But it wouldn’t change anything. You don’t fear the Corps, Karen. You fear pain.”

  “Doesn’t everybody?” she muttered.

  “Yeah, I guess,” he said. “The difference between everybody else and you is most people go ahead and live their lives. You’d rather hide out.”

  “That’s not fair,” she protested.

  “Isn’t it?” His hands slid up from her shoulders to cup her face. “You’d rather turn your back on something incredible than risk losing it. The only trouble is, you lose it, anyway, and you get none of the joy this way.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “No, honey,” he said sadly, “it’s you who doesn’t get it. Life’s a gamble at best, Karen. Every day you run the risk that this might be your last day. But if you live your whole life worrying about dying, then you never really live. And you’d be better off just jumping into a grave now and pulling the dirt in after you.”

  Maybe some of what he said made sense, but fear was a formidable enemy and she’d been hiding too long to come out now and face it. There was comfort in the shadows. Safety. Facing her fear and living, anyway, meant taking the risk of being hurt again.

  Dave’s death had crippled her. But what she felt now for Sam was so much bigger, deeper—his death would probably kill her.

  “I can’t,” she said. “I just can’t do this, Sam.”

  He felt like he’d just been kicked in the stomach. Sick and sore all over. Fear glittered in her eyes and the knot in his guts twisted tighter. How in the hell could he combat her fears? How could he make her see that by hiding from them, she only gave them more power over her?

  He released her, letting his hands fall to his sides. Regret simmered inside him and mingled with the frustration he’d been feeling since she’d finally admitted why she’d ended things between them.

  “You know what, Karen?” he said. “You were probably right to walk out.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah.” He scrubbed one hand across his face and said, “I’m a lifer. Being a Marine isn’t just what I do. It’s who I a
m. And if you can’t deal with that, then it’s just as well you ended it when you did.”

  “I—”

  “I’m serious,” he said, interrupting her as words crowded his throat. “I can’t give you guarantees that I’ll live to be an old man—no one could. But a Marine spouse is strong enough to handle the fear. See, the men and women married to Marines understand what’s needed and do what they have to do so their Marines can get their job done.”

  “I know that and that’s why—”

  “You walked away,” he said, finishing for her, and turned toward the pile of clothing stacked at the edge of his makeshift encampment at the foot of the bed. Yanking his shorts off, he pulled on a pair of jeans and kept talking as he dressed. “Like I said. You did the right thing. I don’t need a woman to worry about me. Then I’ll be spending my time worrying about you and how you’re handling all of the fears that haunt you, and that kind of thinking will only distract me and maybe get me killed.”

  He pulled on his boots, tied them, then reached for his jacket. Staring at her, he said, “So if you’re not the woman I thought you were, then it’s better this way. For both of us. I get that now.”

  Her stricken expression made Sam feel like a right bastard, but damn it, what the hell else could he do? He could fight an enemy. But how could he fight the ghost of a dead Marine?

  “Sam…”

  “Let’s quit beating this particular dead horse, all right?” he said, and rummaged through his belongings before standing up again.

  “You’re leaving?” Karen asked, shifting her gaze to the coat he held in one tight fist.

  Damn right. He needed to get out of that little room. He needed some breathing space. Some time alone.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Thought I’d go out and scout around. Maybe recon you up that burger you wanted before.”