She tried to think of a way to spin her tale to save Dagan from hurt. But no matter how she rearranged the events in her head, she always ended up in the same place. Total devastation.
By the time she reached the landing, her knees were shaking. When she grabbed the knob on the door to the guest room, she was not surprised to see her fingers trembling.
Hang tough. It became a mantra. Hang tough. Hang tough. Hang tough.
Opening the door, she saw the bedroom was as tastefully decorated as the rest of the house. A big oak four-poster bed took center stage, dressed in a cool cream spread and seafoam throw pillows. The air smell oddly of hibiscus. She assumed that was due to the bowl of potpourri sitting atop the chest of drawers.
She wondered if she would associate the smell of hibiscus with heartbreak for the rest of her life.
“Nice bed,” Dagan said from behind her. “How about we put it to good use and then talk after?”
Before she could turn and answer, he’d booted the door closed and caught her around the waist, pulling her back against him. He used the Beard to nuzzle the juncture of her neck. Goose bumps erupted over her entire body.
For just a second, she allowed herself to lean against him. To feel his heat and strength and unflinching power. She was both lost and found inside his embrace. Torn apart and re-formed into a new whole. It felt wonderful. And awful.
Gently extricating herself from his embrace, she turned to face him. Her voice was a hoarse, strangled-sounding thing. “Z…” She used the nickname intentionally, giving up the intimacy of his name. “We have to talk about Afghanistan.”
Chapter 32
Dagan heard her words, but in a detached sort of way.
He was too distracted by the fact that after he had agreed to her terms, after all they had shared, she was back to calling him Z. And then there was the look on her face. It was one he remembered well. The same look she had worn that awful day he had been told the American people in general, and the Central Intelligence Agency in particular, no longer needed his services.
She had stopped him to say something when he had been escorted from CIA premises—which was just a nice way of saying he’d been booted out on his ass—and he had seen in her face all the things he had felt. Confusion. Sorrow. Regret.
Words hadn’t been necessary that day because her expression had said it all. But words were definitely needed today.
Obviously, he’d been wrong to hope she might want him for the long haul. Obviously, she’d given him that ultimatum as an excuse, never dreaming he would actually take her up on it. Obviously, she had made love to him because… His brain stalled on that one.
Why did she make love to me?
Pity, perhaps? Or maybe it was as simple as wanting to extinguish the fire that burned between them. Because there was no denying their explosive physical chemistry.
Of course, whatever her reasons, there was that look. The look that told him it was over.
But before it was over, he would have his say. He would swallow his pride, bite the bullet, and take out his heart and show it to her. That way, when he walked away, he would never have to wonder, What if?
“Afghanistan.” He sighed. “Sometimes I think the best part of me was killed that day. Other times I think I’ve become a much stronger, much better man since.” He rubbed a hand over his beard and laughed. “Maybe it’s true what they say. The worse things bring out the best in us. Know what I mean?”
She searched his face. “N-not really.”
“Men…died because of me,” he explained as best he could. “Because I got complacent. Because I dulled my own edges when I should have stayed sharp and frosty. And since that day, I’ve tried to live my life with honor and integrity, with virtue and service. I’ve tried to give some small measure of meaning to their sacrifice.” He blew out an unsteady breath. “And for the most part, I think I have. The work I’ve done for the Black Knights has made the world a better place, a safer place.”
“You are a good man, Z,” she whispered. “Under all those scowls and beneath all that macho superiority”—Macho superiority? Emily was right. He really did come off like an ass—“is a truly good man. I knew it the first time we met.”
Even though a deep fissure had formed in his heart, he still found himself smiling. “If memory serves, the first time we met, you ripped me a new asshole so big I could have fit a pizza box into it.”
She shook her head. “As my daddy would have said, you’re lucky I didn’t cream your corn. You were cracking jokes while I was trying to give an Intelligence report. What did you expect?”
“To get you naked at the first available opportunity,” he admitted, surprised that even while they were saying their good-byes—that was what they were doing, wasn’t it?—they could still be friends. It was a testament to all their years together. And even though it would never be enough—he would never be satisfied with anything less than everything when it came to Chelsea—he supposed it was something. Something to hold on to. Something to cherish.
“Really?” She blinked. “Even then?”
“Then and every day since.”
“You’re making this so hard on me. You have no idea.”
With that, the fissure zigzagging through his heart gave way, and the silly organ broke in two. “It’s okay, Chels. You don’t have to say anything more. I understand if you don’t want…” His voice broke on a sharp edge. “Me,” he finally finished.
“Oh, Z. I do want you.” Her voice was thick with emotion. “I’ve wanted you for…forever. I still want you, but—”
“Workin’ nine to five!” The sound of Dolly Parton’s distinctive voice crooned from the cell phone in Chelsea’s back pocket.
Dagan wanted to crush the damned device, especially when Chelsea squeezed her eyes closed and dragged in a deep sigh. She opened them, and there was no mistaking the resignation and pleading in her eyes. “Just…give me a minute, okay?”
What could he say? He knew all about the burden of family, so he nodded his head. But that but at the end of her previous sentence seemed to hang in the air between them.
Chapter 33
Chelsea was obviously in the wrong line the day they distributed guts. Because like a yellow-bellied coward, the sound of her cell phone ringing filled her with relief.
She had known this…confession would be the hardest thing she’d ever done. But Dagan’s earnestness, his bravery and honesty were making it all so much worse. He was killing her with kindness one sweet word at a time.
Pulling her cell from her back pocket, she watched him watching her. His stormy eyes did a number on her already-shattered heart. Maybe because there was resignation there. And she recognized that it wasn’t anything new. Dagan Zoelner could be confident and cocky. He could be provocative and infuriating, but underneath all that, deep in the hot, beating heart of him, was always resignation. It was as if he thought his past shadowed him like a cloud he couldn’t escape.
Well, I’m going to give him a way out soon enough, she thought. She had shot a hole in her own boat all those years ago, and now she was finally sinking. But first, she would take this reprieve. Chicken liver that she was…
“Momma,” she answered without salutation. “This isn’t a good time. Can I—”
“I don’t think so, Chelsea Lynn!” her mother shouted in her ear. Grace Duvall so rarely raised her voice that Chelsea was shocked into silence. “Your face is all over the news over there! They’re sayin’ you stole something from your boss, and now you’re a…a…wanted woman!”
The hysteria and fear in her mother’s voice had Chelsea screwing her eyes closed and pinching the bridge of her nose. Her mother had downloaded the BBC news app the day Chelsea moved to England and had taken it upon herself to follow the British headlines. How could Chelsea have forgotten?
Shit on a shingle!
�
��It’s not what you think, Momma. I promise you that.”
“I’ll tell you what I think, Chelsea Lynn. I think your daddy and I didn’t raise no thief. I think all these years I’ve kept my Lord-lovin’ mouth shut about your job ’cause I knew the only reason you wouldn’t be straight with me was if you couldn’t. I think your telling me you quit and uprooted to London to be some scrawny billionaire’s glorified secretary just to make a little extra cash—cash I swear on your daddy’s grave I don’t need—was a lie. I think you’re still workin’ for the…uh…government.”
Chelsea had never come out and told her mother she worked for the CIA. Not only was it company policy to keep such matters on the DL, but it was also for Grace Duvall’s own good. Her mother couldn’t give information she didn’t have to a foreign power or to one of America’s vast collection of enemies. Still, Chelsea’s momma was one smart cookie. She had added two and two to get four a long time ago. Yet, the truth had remained unspoken between them. Chelsea’s cover with the Bureau of Land Management was the eight-hundred-pound gorilla they had allowed to stay in the room.
“Chelsea, baby, what has the…” Her mother let the sentence dangle. She took a deep breath and then finished more quietly with “What has the CIA gotten you involved with?”
And there it was. Spoken aloud for the first time.
“It’s a mistake,” Chelsea assured her mother as calmly as she could, trying to inject certainty into her tone. A touch difficult considering that right then the only thing she was truly certain of was that she was minutes away from hurting a good man, the best man. “Everything will be cleared up soon. I promise you that when I get home, I’ll explain it all.”
Her mother dragged in a ragged breath, and Chelsea realized her tough-talk, take-no-guff momma was on the verge of crying. Chelsea wouldn’t have thought she was capable of withstanding more pain.
“Momma, don’t cry. Everything will be all right.”
“You have someone there with you, child?” her mother asked. “I hate thinkin’ of you over there all alone. Please tell me you have someone helpin’ you through this.”
Chelsea glanced at Dagan. If there had been any doubt he’d heard both sides of the conversation, that was squashed by the sympathy in his eyes. She wanted to rip her hair out. She wanted to scream. He had no business offering the likes of her sympathy. Yet there it was, all the same. Offered freely because he was Dagan. Because despite his my-way-or-the-highway, high-handed ways, he was the sweetest, most selfless man she had ever known.
“Give me the phone.” He gently pulled the cell from her hand. “Let me talk to her.”
Should she have stopped him?
Probably.
Given all he didn’t know, it was wrong of her to depend on him for anything, even for what comfort he could offer her mother. But the truth of the matter was that if it was wrong, Chelsea didn’t want to be right. When it came to Grace Duvall, she would do anything.
Just like always.
“Ms. Duvall?” Dagan said. “My name is Dagan Zoelner. I’ve known your daughter for many years now, and if there’s one thing about her, it’s that she doesn’t need help from anyone. She’s the smartest, bravest, most capable woman I know.”
Chelsea wanted to die right then and there. If she were in her grave, six feet under and food for the worms, his sweet words wouldn’t be able to hurt her.
“But if it’s any consolation,” he continued, “I’m here with her. And I promise you I’ll help get her home to you just as soon as possible.”
“Dagan Zoelner?” Chelsea heard her mother ask. “You’re the one she calls Z?”
Dagan shot Chelsea a look, eyebrow raised. That eyebrow said, You told your mom about me?
Yup. She sure had. One night over a bottle of wine she had spoken of her heartbreak, of a man she had wronged—she’d left out the specifics—and her fear that she’d never love another as much as she loved him.
Her mother had advised her to come clean, to confess. It’s good for the soul, her mom had said. And even if he can’t forgive you, perhaps you’ll start to forgive yourself.
That was, what? Two years ago? And here she was, still un-confessed.
“Yes ma’am. That’s me,” Dagan said.
“My girl speaks highly of you.” Her mother’s voice was tinny sounding through the connection. “I’m so glad you’re there with her. And Dagan?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Once you get my girl home, why don’t you stop on by and see me. I want to meet the man who’s stolen my Chelsea’s heart.”
Oh, Momma, Chelsea thought. Never had that coffin and two yards of dirt looked better.
When she glanced at Dagan, she saw the skin on his cheeks go so pale it looked almost waxy. His voice was strangled-sounding when he said, “Yes, ma’am,” and passed Chelsea the phone.
“Momma?” she said into the receiver.
“I like him, Chelsea Lynn. Man’s got a good, strong voice. And he obviously thinks the world of you.” Only because Chelsea had yet to take her mother’s advice and reveal the Big Bad Secret. “Bring him ’round once you’re home, you hear? I’m tired of tiptoeing around the perimeter of your life.”
“I love you, Momma. But I need to go now.”
I need to pull up my big-girl panties and finally come clean like you told me to.
“I love you too. And remember what your daddy always said: keep a weather eye out.”
“And hang tough,” they both finished in unison. “I will. I promise,” Chelsea added. With that, her mother said good-bye and the phone went dead.
Chelsea thumbed off the cell and shoved it into her back pocket. Her reprieve was over. Time to face the music.
Blood-thunder. That was the sound in her ears as she took a deep breath. “Z, I—”
“Is it true?” He cut her off. He was doing his eerily still shtick.
“Is what true?” she asked, but she already knew. Her mother had let the cat out of the bag. There was no way to shove the little shit back in.
“Have I stolen your heart?”
She could have lied to him, she supposed. But there were already too many lies between them. So she gave him the truth, as plain and as unvarnished as she could make it. “You didn’t need to steal it. I willingly gave it to you a long time ago.”
Chapter 34
Dagan had spent the last handful of years keeping his heart encased in Kevlar. But Chelsea’s confession blew through the protective armor and pierced deep.
She loves me! Chelsea Duvall loves me! He couldn’t fathom it. And yet, the proof was there in her copper-colored eyes, shining up at him as brightly as a promise, as sweetly as a dream.
Pulling her into his arms, he buried his nose in her hair, loving the way it tickled his cheeks. She wiggled against him, trying to escape, but he just tightened his hold. Now that he had her, really had her, he had no intention of letting go.
She loved him. He loved her. As for anything else? Well, love conquered all, right? They could work it out. Together they could overcome anything.
“Chelsea,” he whispered into her hair. “Babe, if only you could take my heart out and look at it. It’s covered in scars. There are scars from those I’ve lost. Scars from the times I’ve failed. And…a big ol’ scar from you.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. The scar from where you wiggled your way inside.”
He was prepared for a lot of things after that admission. What he wasn’t prepared for was Chelsea falling apart. She’d always been so stubborn, so tough, and seemingly unbreakable. But as she clung to him, her entire body shaking, he realized that what he had long suspected was true. At Chelsea’s core, she was as soft and tender as a butterfly. Someone to be cherished. Someone to be protected.
“You’ve always made me the best version of myself.” He palmed the back of her head, lovi
ng how it was a perfect fit, as if she’d been made just for him. “With you, I can let down my guard. I can’t do that with anyone else. Not even with Avan. Chels, you have always been like…home to me.”
Saying the words out loud made him realize just how true they were. No matter what, he had always run to her, depended on her, relied on her. Wasn’t she the one who had helped him figure out what Senator Aldus had really been up to? Hadn’t she always had his back, even when he hadn’t been worthy of her loyalty?
She loves me! Chelsea Duvall loves me!
“Dagan.” Her voice was muffled by his sweater. But hearing her call him by name had never sounded so sweet. “I—”
“Chels,” he interrupted, scared that she was going to bring up the past or the future again before he had a chance to arrange his thoughts on the subjects. Before he had a chance to think about what he wanted to say. “I believe that love is the strongest force on the planet. I believe that it really can conquer all. Do you?”
“Of course, but—”
“No buts. I know you want to talk about things. I do too. But for right now, would you just let me hold you? Will you stop thinking, stop scrutinizing and analyzing, and just allow us this moment?”
He desperately wanted time to wallow in the knowledge that she loved him, bumps and bruises, scars and warts and all, before reality and the past—or the future—came crashing in.
“Tall order.” She sniffed. “I am an analyst, after all. Thinking and scrutinizing comes with the territory. But, okay. I can give it the ol’ college try. It’s just that… No, no. Never mind. I was about to start analyzing again. Damnit. This is harder than I thought. Maybe we should…but no. That’s more scrutinizing. Please help me stop talking, will you? I can’t do it on my own.” There was genuine pleading in her voice, and something more that he couldn’t put his finger on.
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