by Tawny Weber
“Good yard for working out,” he said with a nod of approval. He moved across the lawn with the same light-footed grace as he’d shown in his martial arts dance. He stopped along the way to grab the ball, then continued until he was a couple of feet from her. There, he simply stood, tossing the ball from hand to hand, staring.
“I should get that to Nathan.” She cleared her throat, tried a smile. It failed but she figured she at least got points for trying. “He’s very attached to it.”
“The kid’s a pistol.” His eyes were much too intense as he watched her face.
Didn’t the man blink?
That’s when she realized what she must look like. She’d tossed an oversize tee claiming Just Say Zen atop her green yoga bra and leggings, so unlike some people, she was decently covered. But her hair was pulled into a sloppy ponytail, and she was sure that whatever makeup she hadn’t sweated off during her workout had washed away during that first, or maybe the second, crying jag.
The only way this could be any worse was if she threw herself on his chest and started licking her way down his body. And given her reaction to simply thinking about it, she decided she’d better hurry up and get out of there before she did exactly that.
From the look on his face, he knew it, too.
“Thanks for finding it.” She held up one hand to indicate that he throw her the ball. But while he tossed it in the air, it was only to catch it again. What was he waiting for? She had to remind herself that this was a friendly neighborhood, and people expected actual conversation from time to time.
“I appreciate you taking the time to fix Nathan’s bike,” she said, wishing she could clear the nerves out of her throat. But that would just give him proof that he had her all stirred up, and one thing Harper had learned young was to never give a man that kind of upper hand.
“Fix his bike?” he repeated, as if surprised. “You mean out front today? We were just talking.”
Despite the shimmying tension in her belly and the tightness in her chest, that attempt at innocence in his voice made Harper laugh.
“Mmm, he’s having trouble with the chain. Probably has something to do with jumping his bike when he’s not supposed to.”
“Wouldn’t know about that. Like I said, we just talked for a few minutes. He’s a friendly kid.”
The compliment smoothed out her frayed nerves just a little. Breathing deep for the first time since he’d stepped through the hedges, Harper glanced up at the second floor of her fancy new house. Nathan’s window glowed with friendly cheer.
“He’s comfortable with people,” she said, half to herself. “Easy with them.”
“How about you?” He waited until her eyes met his again, the shadows dancing in wicked angles over his face. “Are you just as at ease and comfortable with strangers?”
She wasn’t even that comfortable with friends. But that wasn’t any of his business.
“I’m not seven years old, so I see people a little differently than Nathan does” was all she said.
“I guess he gets that easiness with people from his dad, huh?” Even as his lips quirked, that dark gaze seemed to intensify. “Me, all I got from my old man is my height.”
His expression was easy, his demeanor mellow. Still, nerves did an edgy cha-cha through her system. Maybe it was the mention of fathers, or just the pointed reminder of Brandon. Whatever it was, Harper didn’t like it.
“It’s a little soon to tell how tall Nathan will be,” she said, her words a chilly sidestep to his question. “Thank you for the help finding the ball. I’ll take it in to him now.”
His eyes not leaving hers, he moved closer.
Close enough that his scent—fresh male with a hint of earthy sweat and clean soap—wrapped around her.
Close enough to touch. All she had to do was reach out to trail her fingers over that hard flesh. Was he warm and slick after that workout? Or had his skin cooled, sweat sticking like a salty blanket? Her body hummed, nerves shimmering so hard her fingers trembled. She reached for the ball.
What was he looking for? What was he seeing? Finally, he placed the ball in her outstretched hand. Then, as if expecting something more, he stood there, waiting.
For what?
No matter how much her jump-started libido wanted otherwise, she wasn’t actually going to lick him.
“Thanks,” she murmured, gripping it tight. It was stupid for her heart to speed up now that she was only a moment from safe, but race it did. Harper gave the no-longer-smiling neighbor a brief nod, then turned to duck back through the vine-covered gate.
“Hey.”
One hand filled with the soft leaves, the other gripping the ball to her chest, Harper stopped to glance over her shoulder.
“Everything okay?”
No. But since she didn’t know why it wasn’t, she lied. “Fine.” Unable to resist, she added, “Why do you ask?”
Clouds cloaked the moon now, dimming its light so his eyes were cast in night shadows. But Harper could still feel the power of his stare.
“Maybe I just don’t like seeing a beautiful woman in a hurry to get away from me.” The shadows did nothing to hide the wicked charm of his smile or the hint of sexual heat in that shielded gaze.
It was the same heat Harper felt sizzling deep in her belly. An awareness and a whole slew of promises—all of which were as suited to the dark night as the man himself seemed to be.
Who knew she’d want that so desperately?
Oh, boy, there it was, Harper realized in a flash.
The reason for her nerves. All that masculine energy, all that sensual interest, all the impossible possibilities, they crowded her thoughts, filled her body.
Thankfully, the tiny voice in her mind still had enough control to scream danger.
“I’m hurrying because I don’t like to leave my son inside alone,” she managed, hoping her words didn’t sound as breathless to him as they did to her. “Again, thanks for your help.”
And with that, she tossed pride and dignity aside and slipped through the hedge before he could say another word. It wasn’t until she was inside the house that she realized she was holding her breath. Releasing it in a harsh whoosh, Harper leaned against the closed door and focused for a moment on getting the air in and out.
What was she doing? Getting lusty over a man just because he had a sexy smile and a gorgeous body? Just because his eyes promised all sorts of delights and his chest made her fingers tingle to touch? Sure, he looked as if he could’ve posed for Michelangelo’s David with those sculpted muscles and all that smooth skin. And maybe the hint of an accent and flashes of humor were intriguing. But was that an excuse to picture the man naked? To wonder if he had the kind of talent in bed to make her moan with pleasure?
At that point, Harper had enough breath to laugh at herself. Because if those weren’t reasons to get lusty, she couldn’t think of what was. Deciding to give herself a break, she peeled herself off the door and, resisting the urge to peek out the window, flipped the lock and turned off the lights.
Wouldn’t Andi be proud, Harper thought, grinning and tossing the ball from hand to hand as she climbed the stairs. Not that she would tell her. Andi wouldn’t understand. Because as much fun as it was to discover that, yes, indeed, she had a libido, Harper had no intention of doing anything about it.
No matter how lusty the guy made her feel.
* * *
AN HOUR LATER, halfway through her nightly bedtime routine, Harper glanced in the bathroom mirror and frowned. Was that a wrinkle?
She rubbed her finger along the faint line scored between her meticulously arched brows.
Her frown deepened. So did the line. It was a wrinkle. How could she have a wrinkle? She was only twenty-five. Weren’t wrinkles at least a decade away?
What the hell w
as she thinking, wondering if she should get naked with the hottie next door when her face looked like this? She yanked open the bottom drawer of the floor to ceiling corner cabinet and pawed through the array of bottles and jars and tins. Bubble bath, body lotion, tanning cream. Eye shadows, miracle mascaras, blushers by the dozen. Harper shuffled and dug until, a fistful of samples in hand, she rose to spread the tubes and tins over the bathroom counter.
After squinting her way through the tiny print and wondering if bifocals were next, she settled on four antiaging ones that promised to turn back time. A daytime moisturizer with SPF, a hydration-boosting serum, an age-reversing night cream and a mask rich in botanicals.
She’d need to visit one of those skin care counters at the mall, but she figured there wasn’t a moment to lose fighting the affects that that bitch, age, was trying to gash into her face. She’d be damned if she’d let her win.
Twenty minutes later, she’d washed, masked, toned and moisturized. She flexed a little, feeling righteous in her fight. Take that, bitch, she huffed into the mirror.
Hair pulled back in a tight ponytail and her face glistening with a thick layer that promised dewy youth, she caught sight of herself in the cherry-trimmed cheval mirror.
She had to laugh.
She looked like this, and she was worrying about wrinkles keeping her from hitting on the neighbor?
This was the closest thing to seduction wear she owned. The black nightshirt fit just fine, skimming her breasts and hitting midthigh. But it was roomy rather than revealing, and while the cotton was wonderfully soft, Wonder Woman was so wash-worn that she was more a shadow than an actual image.
She was so not the seduce-the-neighbor-into-a-puddle-of-lust type of woman.
Hoping that little taste of reality would put an end to the crazy thoughts that kept trying to take hold, she headed down the hall. She stopped to take a quick peek at Nathan. In the glow of the star-shaped nightlight, her son slept with his usual exuberant abandon. Blankets kicked this way, arms and legs sprawled. His face buried in the pillow, his hair stuck up in little tufts. Her fingers itched to smooth it down, to straighten his blankets and settle him into the center of the bed. But he’d wake at the lightest touch. So she simply listened to the gentle sound of his breath, watched the easy rise and fall of his chest. After a long moment, she pulled the door three-quarters shut again and went to her own room.
The bulk of the furnishings in the house belonged to Andi, including the four-poster bed. But the bedding, oh, that’d been Harper’s single indulgence for herself when they’d moved in. Heavy gold brocade and apricot satin, it was so rich and elegant, it made her feel like a princess. She woke every morning feeling as if she actually belonged in a house this fancy, as if she’d finally earned the right to such sumptuous surroundings. That she’d finally shed the grasping guttersnipe label pinned on her so many years before by Brandon’s mother.
With that thought firmly in mind, knowing she’d put it off long enough, Harper reached under the mound of decorative pillows on her bed and pulled out the envelope that had come with today’s delivery of a box of memories.
She tapped it on her palm a couple of times, then set it on the nightstand. She pulled back the blankets, climbed beneath the cool sheets and fluffed her pillow a couple of times before leaning back.
Then she lifted the envelope again. With a deep breath, she slid her thumb beneath the flap and carefully tore the seal.
Ms. Maclean,
You don’t know me but I served with Brandon Ramsey. He was my mentor, my friend and my roommate. He was a hero who deserves to be honored. But the Navy is tying that honor up in red tape. They are trying to make him a scapegoat for a team too incompetent to retrieve his body. That means they won’t send Brandon’s son the benefits he deserves. Instead they’re destroying the legacy your son’s father left behind. I’m sending a few things so his son can appreciate what a great man he was. But that’s not enough. They need to honor Brandon, to show the world what a hero he was. This is a mess. I hope you can help me fix it.
Keep the Spirit Alive!
Dane Adams
Harper read it again, then one more time, then glanced at the rest of the papers. News clippings, write-ups on Brandon’s deeds, certificates.
She could only sigh.
This poor guy. Of course the situation was a mess. What else would Brandon leave behind? She didn’t understand the part about the Navy making Brandon a scapegoat. More likely it was just red tape and some sort of military rules or regulations that this guy was upset over.
It wasn’t until she saw a tear splash onto the paper that Harper realized she was crying. She didn’t know why. Brandon had destroyed all of her illusions years ago when he’d crushed her heart.
She shoved the unread documents back into the envelope.
This wasn’t her life. It wasn’t her problem.
Whatever Brandon had done, whether he’d died a hero or not, it didn’t matter.
Not to her.
But tears still came, even as she slowly drifted into sleep.
Not for Brandon this time. Or even for Nathan.
But for the girl she’d been, the one who’d believed in heroes.
CHAPTER SIX
SO THAT WAS Ramsey’s ex.
Now that he’d seen her up close and personal, all Diego could think was, Hot damn.
Ramsey might have had a tendency to be an ass, and he might have had serious issues sharing the spotlight. And Diego wasn’t sure if the man had been a good SEAL or a dirty, rotten sonovabitch.
But he had to credit Brandon Ramsey with having good taste in women.
Diego had just finished installing cameras and listening equipment around the exterior of her house when he’d seen her heading out the back door. He’d had his cover handy, jumping right into a tai chi workout. She’d been emotional, but she hadn’t acted suspicious. He’d have thought she’d act a little warier if she were dirty. But maybe she was cucumber cool. Maybe Ramsey hadn’t shared the extent of how bad his actions were.
Or maybe Ramsey was alive, and she knew just how deep in the ugly her ex swam.
As Diego headed inside his temporary quarters, he brought her image to mind.
Her eyes were a work of art under strongly arched dark brows. Lushly lashed, they were large in her delicate face. Probably because they’d been a little puffy and red.
What had she been crying about? Ramsey?
What little intel they had so far on her showed that she’d lived within her means until about six months ago when she’d moved into the fancy house next door, that her kid attended a pricey private school and that she had a pretty high credit card limit that she charged up and paid in full each month.
None of that, or his own limited observations, pegged her as the overly emotional type. So he doubted an evening of popcorn and chick flicks had leveled her like that.
Alive or dead, he’d figured she was crying over Ramsey. The guy had to be in her head right now. If he was alive and dirty, did she struggle with her part in treason? If he was dead and dirty, was she upset to be holding the bag?
And if he was innocent? Maybe she had simply loved the asshole.
Diego rubbed his hand over his hair, then shook his head.
God, what a thought.
Then again, maybe it wasn’t Ramsey who’d put that upset look on her face.
Maybe it had been Diego himself?
He’d kept it friendly, totally nonconfrontational, and the woman had left looking as if he’d punched her in the gut. No accusations, no grilling, not a hint that he was wondering if she was maybe harboring a supposed-to-be-dead, treasonous, backstabbing bastard.
Maybe he’d been too focused on doing all that to hide the fact that he thought she was hot, but he figured she was used to that. She had
to be. The woman looked like a cross between a centerfold, a society princess and a sexy Betty Crocker. The kind of woman who’d wear diamonds and one of those cute white aprons while baking homemade cookies...naked.
A man would have to be a month dead and incredibly stupid to ignore a woman like that.
Diego was neither.
He just had to figure out which one Ramsey was.
An hour later, his skin cool from his shower and his stomach comfortably full thanks to a freezer full of take and bake, Diego glanced out the window at the house next door. The lights were off downstairs and faint enough upstairs to give the impression that she and the kid had both hit the sack. Turning away, he flipped through his notes, hoping to find something new that would spark an opening. They had to find Ramsey. Had to confirm dead or alive, then go from there.
And he had jack diddly toward that end. He’d had eyes on the blonde for fifty-six hours now, but he didn’t have much to add to his notes. At least, not much that was relevant.
Frustration dogging his mood, Diego tossed the file onto the little table next to the window. Papers slid across the dark wood, a mocking reminder that he had nothing.
Probably because there was nothing to have, dammit.
It was crazy to think Ramsey was alive.
If he was, it meant that the guy had betrayed his country, his vows, his team.
Diego dropped onto the bed, almost sinking into the cloud-soft mattress as he covered his eyes with his forearm. As if shading the light would dim the headache brewing behind them while he tried to shove through his tangled thoughts.
The facts were clear enough. The mission had been compromised, confidential information had been sold and someone was a traitor. Lansky was sure that was Ramsey. Diego still wasn’t sure if that belief was fueled by certainty or by Lansky’s hate for the guy.
