You Were Always Mine (7 Brides for 7 SEALs Book 1)

by Cerise DeLand

  Chapter Two

  “Lieutenant!” He was easy to track in the white uniform, but he was striding so quickly that he was almost to the outside doors. “Lieutenant, wait, please!”

  He turned his head. Eyes narrowed on her, he came to a stop and stood impassive.

  Huffing and puffing, she halted in front of him. He didn’t look mad, but she had to try to thank him. Praising name tags on military uniforms, she read his in time to salvage her dignity. “Lieutenant Reardon, I’m so sorry. I was rude. I want to apologize.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “No, it isn’t.” From the thinning of his lips, she could see that indeed, nothing was fine. She’d insulted him. “I gave you my seat, and you were being a gentleman.”

  “It’s okay, miss.”

  “It will be if you’ll let me buy you dinner.”

  Those aqua eyes sparkled in delight. “Not much open this time of night.”

  “Maybe a fast food joint?”

  “If nothing else is possible. Where are you headed?” He tipped his head toward the row of taxis.

  Right. Getting together might be impossible depending on where he was staying. But that zipped through her mind in a blur. Hearing him talk was like walking through a wet dream, all that soft cotton batting and dark seduction. “I’m downtown at the Menger. If you’re—”

  “Great.” He grinned, and the effect was like a blast of sunshine in a gray world. “I am, too. Teddy Roosevelt’s old stomping grounds, here we come. Dinner’ll be an easy choice. I’ll make a call, and we’ll go to the River Walk.”

  “You have a place you like?”

  “I do.”

  She was skeptical. “It’ll be ten by the time we’re checked in, and I wonder what would be open so late.”

  He beamed at her. “I know one.”

  His air of command was such a rush. She appreciated men like that and found so few who weren’t also on a testosterone high. She grinned. “Have friends in high places, do you?”

  “One chef in a great kitchen.”

  She clamped her hand over her chest. “A man after my heart. Ugh. I can’t believe I just said that.”

  He hooted. “Not a problem. So. You like to eat?”

  “I do.” I’d like to nibble on you. She swallowed hard on desire. Make that me and any other woman with eyes.

  “Well, then—” His voice had dropped to a rasp while his gaze danced all over her face. “Shall we share a cab?”

  “Yes.” Taken aback by her ready agreement, she checked her reasoning. But, yes, she did feel so safe with him that she could get into a car with him. This man was a SEAL for god’s sake, not about to commit any crime, not for a man who had struggled so long and hard to become the best of the best.

  He glanced at her carryon. “Do you have checked luggage? Should we go back in to the carousel?” His vibrant voice was going to melt her down into little puddles of goo.

  She caught her breath. “No. This is all I brought.”

  “Wonderful.” He gave her another smile that entranced her and extended a hand toward the exit. “After you.”

  She preceded him out the door across the pickup lane to the taxi lineup.

  “Good lord, it’s hot here.” She put down her bag and dug in her suit coat pocket for her hair band.

  He watched her closely while she put her hair in a ponytail. His attentiveness was a compliment—and a turn-on.

  “July in south Texas,” he said as if he were memorizing her movements. “Cool is ninety-five in the shade.”

  She stripped off her jacket. “Can’t wait to get out of this getup and take a shower.”

  Wonderful. Making innuendos? Not wise.

  But looking up at him, she smiled. Her body gushed with appreciation for his dynamite good looks. He was incomparable. Square jaw, hard cheekbones, iridescent eyes reminiscent of those painted by Renaissance artists, he was a specimen for a superhero action movie. Or a recruiting poster. But more than his drool-worthy features, he walked and talked Mr. Good Guy. And what was so funny, so endearing was that gazing at him, she felt secure. As if he could surround her and protect her from any harm. And of course, given his job, he could.

  She chuckled.

  His blue-green eyes met hers and then drifted—oh boy—over her cheeks and lips. His gaze touched her like a fond caress. Not having had one of those from a man in ages, she wanted to revel in it. But that would make her into a fan girl of the hunky sailor. Not cool.

  “Time I introduced myself.” She put out her hand.

  He took it, and the electricity between them crackled the air.

  She startled.

  He didn’t. Nor did he let go of her hand. “A hot summer night.”

  Was that what it was? She’d never experienced anything so riveting before. Her every cell sang with excitement. “That was wild.”

  “And you’re even grounded in your jogging shoes.” His thumb stroked the back of her hand.

  “What do you suppose that really was then?” She was joking.

  He cocked a brow, dead serious. “Lightning striking.”

  She gave a little laugh, pulling her hand from his. “Okay.”

  “See. Over to the left.” He nodded in that direction, never taking his gaze from her face. “A storm’s coming.”

  Of course it is. Out there. Inside me, too. Why?

  She examined him. He was so present, magnetic, alive, as if he seeped inside her skin, her mind. But because she’d been with him only minutes, that was foolish, impossible, and glorious.

  She had to break this spell. “It hardly ever rains in San Antonio. Not in July.”

  She tipped her head to look up at him more fully. He was so much taller than she, eight or more inches, a mountain of a man, extraordinary in his height and breadth and golden handsomeness. Standing near him, she could get lost in the aura of him. A new experience for her. And very dangerous to her practical mind.

  He widened his eyes, aware she stared but allowing it. Enjoying it. “It’s just the heavens declaring a party.”

  She couldn’t stop herself from flirting with him. “Do you believe in that?”

  “I believe in all things in Heaven and Hell,” he said in earnest. “I see them everywhere I go.”

  “I’m certain you do.”

  “This one’s our cab.” When the car zoomed forward, he pulled open the door for her. “Give me your bag. I’ll give it to the driver.”

  Clutching her laptop and purse, she crawled inside and slid across the back seat. The taxi bobbled as the driver slammed shut the trunk. Suddenly, the door nearest her was open and Lieutenant Reardon was sliding in. Their hips touched, their thighs next, and the heat radiated like a furnace up and down her body. She hid her surprise by jumping to the right.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Thought you’d stay on that side.”

  “Right. Not a problem.”

  “Yeah. Except that we’d better figure out what to do about how we burn each other every time we touch.”

  She locked her eyes to his. “Weird, isn’t it?”

  “Not as shocking as the first time.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “See?”

  “Just warm.”

  “Sure it is,” he said with sarcasm. “Like a blast furnace.”

  She wanted to be funny to deflect the intensity that made it tough to breathe. “So you’re telling me you don’t go around setting women ablaze on a regular basis?”

  He chuckled. “No time.”

  “Pardon me, folks.” The driver turned an inquisitive face to them from over the front seat. “But where are we going?”

  “Sorry,” Reardon said. “The Menger.”

  Reardon had a first name. What was it? Damn if she could remember. Time to get hold of this situation. Start acting like an adult and do the polite thing here. “Shall we start over?”

  “Do we have to? I rather like the way we’re getting on,” he said with a twinkle in those fathomless blue-green eyes.

  “I
mean that I introduce myself. I’m Abby Stuart.” She put her hand out. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Abby,” he said as if he were tasting the sound of her name. “Abby Stuart?”

  “Yes. I’m—”

  “Terry Stuart’s sister?”

  She nodded, but his words didn’t sound like a question. More like an affirmation. “You know him?”

  Mr. Gorgeous grinned ear to ear. “I do. We’re in the same team.”

  She sat, riveted. Reardon. Reardon.

  “I’m the medic who got to him first. I’m here to visit him.”

  Abby beamed at him, her smile filled with appreciation for how he’d helped Terry. “He’ll love that you’ve come. He was grateful for what you did. I’m here to see him, too.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Saturday, too. And if they’ll let me in on Sunday before I have to catch my plane. He’s not allowed visitors all day long, only at certain times.”

  “I know.” He reached across the seat again and covered her hand. This time he did not let go. The heat between them was like a steadily burning flame warming every inch of her. “When did you see him last?”

  “A few weeks ago. He’s my priority. My grandfather can’t take time often to fly down and I—”

  “I can imagine. The Chairman of Joint Chiefs tends not to sleep too much. And your parents are gone. Recently, too, right?”

  She nodded, keeping grief at bay by turning her face into the shadows for a second. Reardon knew a lot about her and her family, from Terry she guessed. “Four months ago.”

  “A small plane crash in the Caribbean?”

  She pressed her lips together. “Yes. Just before Terry got hit.”

  “But the general keeps in touch with Terry’s medical team by phone every day.”

  “My grandfather makes it his first act every morning.” She allowed herself the pleasure of admiring Reardon’s perfect profile. “Sounds like you and Terry were close.”

  “We are. Still.”

  She glanced down at their entwined hands. “Thanks for that.”

  “None needed.”

  “I’m sure Terry values you coming to see him.”

  “It’s what friends do. Plus—” He slid his gaze toward the window.

  “What?” What was wrong?

  “We know how important friendship is among us. I’m here to represent twenty other guys who value your brother as much as I do.”

  She sighed. “He’ll love that you’re here. There was nothing in this world my brother wanted more than to pass BUD/s training and earn his Trident. Ever since he was ten years old, he talked about nothing but becoming a SEAL.”

  “Yeah, he told me he joined the Army first because your grandfather would’ve felt betrayed if any of his grandsons joined any other service.”

  She smiled. “Terry qualified as quickly as he could to try out for BUD/s.”

  “The Army didn’t hold him back.”

  She chuckled. “Never say that to my grandfather. The Stuarts have been in the U.S. Army since the Revolution.”

  “Terry gave it his all.”

  At his use of the past tense, she inhaled. All Terry’s hopes, his work, his dedication were probably gone for naught. His burns were so extensive on his jaw and chest, he might not be able to use his arm to full capacity again. And none of the doctors had yet predicted if Terry would speak distinctly without impediment. “Didn’t he, though?”

  “The life is all-consuming. He knew it when he volunteered.”

  “Everyone did. Grandpa, my parents.” She sniffed. “We’re a family who serves the public. Still, it’s tough to come to terms with Terry being bed-ridden.”

  “He’ll get up from this. He’s strong. Fit.”

  She pressed her quivering lips together. She would not cry. “But he’ll never be able to go out on a mission again.”

  “We’ll see. He has a few skin grafts, Abby. He has his eyes, his ears, his faculties.”

  She pressed two fingers over her mouth. Wild, how the grief for her brother washed over her at the oddest times, like a tsunami she hadn’t seen coming.

  He slid over and wrapped her in his arms. His lips in her hair, his hands stroking her shoulder, his warm torso radiating comfort to her, she sagged against him. The cab sped out of the airport and along the highway to the center of town while she sat in a haze. To sit embracing so easily, as if they had done this a hundred times before was illogical, bizarre. But it seemed oh, so right.

  Still, she pulled away.

  He let her go slowly, almost reluctantly, his arms loosening inch by inch, even his fingers trailing away as if he hated to part from her touch.

  She yearned to have him back. Instead, she looked for small talk. “How long have you been in the Navy?”

  “Six years.” He gazed out at the passing scenery. “Transferred through the Army, just like Terry. Wanted the SEALs, just like him.”

  “And you love it?”

  “I do. I got banged up a couple of times. Took a bullet two years ago. Broke an arm last year on a mission. Had a tough time in rehab but recovered full capacity. The physical demands are high, and once you feel it, you have to acknowledge it. Even…change direction.” He went silent, pensive.

  She hated to see him sad. “You don’t look old, Lieutenant.”

  “Nick, please. I’m a feeble thirty-three,” he told her, smiling briefly, then watching the scenery, attracted by the passing buildings. “Sorry. I grew up here. Taking a look at the old neighborhood.”

  She noted the modest one-story houses. He came from a working class background, so different from her own with her bevy of senators and governors and generals galore. He remained quiet so long that any inclination she had to inquire about his family drifted away.

  Inhaling, he faced her with a look of one who had seen the past and moved on. “I got an appointment to West Point after I graduated high school. Loved the Army. Wanted the SEALs more. You know the drill.”

  “I do.”

  “And you?” He nailed her with those sexy blue eyes. “What defines Abby Stuart?”

  “Ah. She’s an archivist at the National Portrait Gallery in Washington.”

  “Which means she does exactly what?”

  “She analyzes old pictures. For authenticity. For provenance. Where they’ve been, who owned them, who produced them, who bought and sold them.”

  “Why?”

  “By tracking all that, you can learn if the picture is the real McCoy or a fake.”

  “I get that. But I mean, why does Abby Stuart analyze old portraits?”

  “If you’re digging for some ethical reason, I don’t have one. Not anything to equal yours for being in the SEALs, I can tell you that.”

  “So tell me what it is,” he urged her, looking like he really was interested in her motivation.

  “I fell into it, to be honest. I love the study of history. The stuff runs in the Stuart blood, you could say. I liked art, too. I’d paint if I had the time and could sell a few pieces and support myself. My mother was a very good oil painter. And I dabble at sketching. Dabble, being the operative word.”

  “That’s unusual.”

  “It is. Sketching used to be an art every well-educated child was taught. Useful for recording scenes and people before the invention of cameras. But I doodled as a child and my mother hired a tutor. I still do it when I’m intrigued by someone.” Like you. “I’d like to draw you.”

  “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  She drew back, honored. “Really? You’ll be pleased. I guarantee it.”

  “Proud of yourself. Good for you.”

  She laughed. “Nope. Proud of my subject. It’s not every day I get to draw Hercules.” Study you. See what makes you tick beneath all that perfect bronze skin.

  He threw her a pained smile. “You’ll do a sketch of yourself, too, I hope. For me.”

  “Oh. Sure. If you like.”

  “I do.” He sat forward, slipping his wallet from h
is trouser pocket. “We’re here.”

  The cab pulled under the valet portico. In minutes, they were out and headed for the front desk.

  So late at night, most guests had checked in, and the grand old Victorian lobby was empty. The receptionist on duty had no problem with Nick’s reservation, handing over his key card right away.

  “For some reason, Miss Stuart, your credit card isn’t taking. Do you have another one?”

  “I have my debit card.” Abby dug it from her purse.

  “Okay, thanks,” the young redhead told her. “Could you just wait a minute please? I need to get my supervisor.”

  Abby watched the girl disappear with her bank card.

  “Hmm. I don’t understand why my plastic doesn’t work,” she told Nick.

  “The machines stick sometimes.”

  “Okay! Here we are.” An older dark-haired woman appeared from the back room and examined Abby as if she were a specimen under a microscope. “Oh, yes, you are Miss Stuart, aren’t you?”

  “I am,” she attested. “I’ve been here before.”

  “I remember you, of course, I do, Miss Stuart.”

  The young redhead was staring at Abby with wide mascara-laden eyes.

  “Here is your bank card and your credit card. All good now.” The older woman issued Abby her key card. “Both of you are on the second floor, front. You can take the elevator to my right. Enjoy your stay.”

  The older woman spun away, a hand on the shoulder of her younger colleague. Head down, she muttered something to the girl.

  Abby frowned. “I wonder what that was all about.”

  “Come on, don’t worry about it. Just check your bank statement online tomorrow that you haven’t been charged more than you should.”

  “Right.”

  They got into the tiny elevator and took the short ride up one floor.

  “I’m room two-twenty,” he told her holding up his key card. “We’re right next door to each other.”

  “Cool.”

  They got to Nick’s door first. He turned to her. “What do you need? Five minutes? Ten?”

  She chuckled. “Men! I need to peel out of my clothes and take a shower. Twenty minutes.”

  He sighed theatrically. “Whatever. Make it snappy, kid. Come knock when you’re ready. I’ll make a phone call.”