What You See: Sons of the Survivalist: 3

by Cherise Sinclair

* * *

  The deep-throated sound of a big vehicle woke Frankie from sleep—which hadn’t started until dawn. Anxiety could keep a person awake even better than caffeine.

  She couldn’t forget the snapping sound of weapons and Iron Boy’s death.

  Of course, she knew the little drone hadn’t been a person, but he’d seemed alive. He whirred and flew and responded to her orders. At least until those stronzi had killed him.

  What would have happened if they’d caught her?

  She shivered. This isn’t my thing—I’m no warrior. Maybe she practiced aikido, but she’d chosen the martial art because it didn’t revel in violence.

  I’m not Ms. Nature Girl, either. She was a pro at figuring out subway times, at picking up adorable sculptures on Bleecker Street, at laughing at the “you broke my eyeglasses” street scams, and at finding hidden green areas to refresh her spirit.

  A wilderness jungle ninja? So not her.

  I made a little progress, though. She’d narrowed down the location of the children’s barracks. Next step would be to figure out how to get in there. How to get little Aric out.

  Fear slid through her chest because she had no clue how she’d go about that. And they had guns.

  Oh, please, Kit. Manage to sneak out. Please.

  Outside, the truck engine stopped. A car door slammed.

  Right. Outside. Her. Cabin.

  She sat up in a rush, and her head spun. Bad Frankie, too much wine.

  Strained muscles and bruises and scratches from her escape set up a painful clamor all over her body. She whimpered, wanting only to burrow back under the covers.

  Someone was here. Who?

  Up, up, up. The room was still dark—only due to the blackout curtains covering the windows. Because the sun rose crazy early around 5:30 in the morning and didn’t set until after 10.

  The wood floor was cold against her feet. She stopped. Naked. Right. Maybe sleeping in the buff in this wilderness wasn’t smart, but nightgowns and pajamas hated her. Tried to strangle her or wrapped around her waist or breasts.

  She yanked on a pair of jeans, then donned a flannel shirt as she slid on fluffy slippers.

  There, she was dressed. Sort of. Her shirt was buttoned crooked; she was commando and braless. Whoever it was should’ve called first if they wanted a put-together appearance from her.

  She opened the front door a crack.

  No one was in sight.

  A big red pickup had been backed into her gravel drive far enough the truck bed was out of sight around the side of her cabin.

  Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

  Oh, it was Dante. Her landlord had said he’d be over to fill the lean-to with firewood. He was so sweet.

  She started to head around the side, then paused. Her flannel shirt didn’t hide her braless state. Perhaps she should change.

  But Dante had mentioned his back was acting up—and he was moving a bunch of wood? Really bad idea. She could handle unloading the stuff.

  She hurried around the side of the cabin. “Dante, you shouldn’t be lifting—”

  It wasn’t Dante.

  Clad in a tight black T-shirt, Bull was stacking firewood neatly in the shed—and her breath seized in her throat.

  Whoa. Shoulders shouldn’t be that wide, and his biceps and triceps were so pumped up the man could be a model for an anatomy class.

  She sure would’ve enjoyed the subject a lot more.

  Aaand, he noticed she was staring. Cazzo, she was probably drooling.

  Framed by his black goatee, his lips quirked up. “Haven’t had your coffee, yet?”

  Lovely. Her hair probably resembled a rat’s nest. Hopefully, she didn’t have drool marks down her cheek. “Not even close. Your truck woke me up.”

  Even to her own ears, she sounded grumpy.

  His gaze swept over her, and there was no way he’d miss that she was braless—and that the cold had her nipples jutting against the flannel shirt.

  When she crossed her arms over her chest, a dimple appeared in his cheek. “It’s good when you can sleep late,” he said mildly.

  His gaze lingered on her face, reminding her of the vivid red scratches across her cheek and chin. The bruise on the left where she’d bounced off a tree trunk probably showed, too.

  “My job requires late hours.” She added a scowl to keep him from asking about her face.

  He huffed a laugh. “You could complain to your boss—except he knows you were off last night.” Despite her grumbles, he spoke with his usual good nature.

  “I guess that excuse won’t work then.” Pushing away her mood—whatever odd mood she was in—she chuckled. “Sorry for grumping. And thank you for bringing wood. What do I owe you?”

  “No charge. We have plenty and owed Dante a favor.” As he walked past her to the truck for another armload, his big dog bounded over.

  We. Did that mean Bull had a girlfriend? And why was she wondering about that? She bent down to pet the shaggy dog and he leaned against her legs so hard she almost toppled over. “Good morning, dog.”

  “Gryff—that’s his name.”

  “Gryff.” Such a sweetie.

  “Say hi, buddy.” Bull said to the dog. “Bark.”

  Gryff let out a loud woof, then trotted to Bull, obviously expecting a compliment.

  “Good job, boy.” Bull bent and petted the dog until Gryff spun in happy circles.

  Dammit, she didn’t want to like the man. “Well, thank you for the wood. I do appreciate it.” She could enjoy her first cup of coffee by the woodstove. “I never realized how comforting a fire is. The heat is…I don’t know…warmer?”

  “Seems that way to me, too.” His smile tugged at her.

  But a gusting wind blew her hair in her face, again making her aware of her bedhead, unwashed face, sloppy clothes, and lack of underwear.

  Cazzo. She took a step back. “Thank you again. Have a nice—”

  “Frankie.” He leaned a shoulder against the shed’s post and pinned her with a black gaze. “You don’t like me. That’s your prerogative, but if I’m doing something that’s annoying you, it’d be a relief to know what it is.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “What?” She threw her hands into the air, her voice rising. “Were you raised in a barn? If someone dislikes you, you’re not supposed to comment on it. Or question it.”

  That dimple appeared again, so incongruous in such a hard face. “Not a barn—a log cabin. By a Green Beret veteran. Lessons on manners were few and far between.

  A log cabin. That explained sooo much.

  He folded his arms over his wide chest. “I have heard it mentioned that answering a question is considered polite.”

  Her chin lifted. If he wanted the truth, then fine. That’s just what he’d get. She’d tried to be polite—okay, no, she hadn’t, but she hadn’t called him a stronzo to his face. She hesitated and mentally ran through the past few days. No, no, she hadn’t. Whew. “All right then.”

  But how was she supposed to even start explaining?

  After a few seconds, he made a noise low in his throat. “Spit it out, Frankie.”

  “Stronzo,” she muttered. Asshole it is, right to your face.

  He didn’t react.

  Fine. “My first night at your roadhouse, I went outside on my break, and there you were in the parking lot. You and your lover. And, Mr. Alaska man, I watched you gut her feelings like you would a deer. Then you strolled inside like you hadn’t left a woman bawling her eyes out behind you.”

  He stared at her, then ran a hand over his shaved pate. “Fuck.”

  There was an impressive explanation.

  The sharp line of his jaw turned harder than the mountains behind him. “If I have to explain this shit, I could use a cup of coffee.”

  He was inviting himself in for coffee? Che palle. How annoying. She pulled in a breath to refuse, but…she wanted that explanation.

  “All right.” Her aikido workout could wait until later. She inclined her head. “Build m
e a fire, and I’ll make coffee.”

  He nodded, smile totally gone.

  Apparently, he did have a temper after all.

  * * *

  Crouching by the small woodstove, Bull heard the hiss of the coffee maker in the kitchen corner. Gryff had joined Frankie, having discovered that food frequently fell from the sky in kitchens.

  As the fire caught, Bull took a seat on the armchair and scowled. Talk about his marriage. Right. He’d rather roll down a jagged slope and rip up his skin.

  Even now, he couldn’t believe how thoroughly Paisley had snowed him.

  Years ago, the sarge had said that most people concealed their true selves as thoroughly as a mama fox would hide her den. “But, with you, boy, what you see is what you fucking get.” Maybe that was why he could read people well enough but wasn’t inclined to be suspicious— especially of a lover.

  Live and learn.

  With a sigh, he glanced around the one-room cabin. Dante had remodeled last winter, smoothing the log walls and wood floor to a satiny patina. The back half of the room held the kitchen corner with new appliances. A movable divider sectioned off the bedroom corner.

  In the cabin’s front half, a colorful green and brown rug, two brown overstuffed chairs, and a matching couch made up the sitting area. With a fire crackling in the woodstove, the room was nice and cozy.

  The New Yorker had made herself at home. A bright sweater hung over a kitchen chair. There were books and an eReader on the coffee table. The kitchen table had bright wildflowers in a glass jar…and an empty wine bottle.

  “How do you take your coffee?” Frankie asked.

  “Black, please.”

  She walked over and handed him a heavy mug.

  A sip told him she knew how to brew coffee. “Thanks.”

  She tilted her head in acknowledgment, then studied the fire. “You did it differently than what Dante showed me.”

  City girl. “We all have our own techniques to start fires, and each woodstove has its own quirks.”

  “Huh. Who knew?” As she curled up in a corner of the couch in the boneless way shared only by women and cats, her gorgeous breasts wobbled enticingly.

  Fuck, he really was trying not to notice them. Or that her hair looked like she’d just had headboard-slamming sex. But, hell, he was only human.

  Human or not, he wouldn’t act on his urges. That wasn’t why he was here—and even if things were different, he was her boss. He didn’t mess with his employees.

  She took a sip of her coffee, then lifted an eyebrow at him. Her husky voice held a slight taunt as she repeated his order, “Spit it out, Bull.”

  He really did like her sense of humor.

  It still wasn’t easy to talk about Paisley. What had he said in the parking lot that night? He mostly remembered being irritated to hell and back. “You called her my lover.”

  “Well, yes. She talked about you loving her touch, kissing, making love…” Frankie’s face darkened with a flush.

  A modest New Yorker? Oh, he liked that.

  But now he remembered what he’d said. “I can see how you might think we were lovers.” Bull watched the fire gain height as the flames moved from kindling to thicker sticks. “What you’re missing is this: she’s not a current lover. She was my wife. We divorced two years ago.”

  Frankie’s expression changed from surprised to appalled. She lowered her cup. “Two years? But surely… She acted like…” She flushed.

  He knew what she hadn’t asked. “We haven’t been together since the divorce. I saw her in passing a year ago at the symphony. We were both there with other people.”

  “Oh, che stupida che sono.” Frankie tapped her forehead with the palm of her hand. A man did have to enjoy how her emotions played out in her expressions, showed in her big brown eyes, came out in her very Italian gestures. “She played you, and I was the one who fell for it.”

  “So, it seems.” As his tense muscles relaxed, Bull extended his legs. “She wanted to get back together, and I lost my temper.”

  “Um, it’s not my place to say anything, but maybe she misses you? People do reconcile sometimes.”

  “I wouldn’t have her back on a bet,” Bull grated out.

  Frankie blinked, obviously startled at the growl in his voice.

  “Before we married and while we were married, she told me she was all about loyalty and faithfulness. That people who cheated were scum. I believed her until she gave me an STD.”

  Frankie’s mouth dropped open.

  “She was fucking her clients when showing houses.” He felt like a fool. Why the hell had he shared that with—

  “Showing houses?”

  “She’s a realtor.”

  “I hate liars.” Frankie scowled, then her nose wrinkled. “I guess that’s one way to ensure a sale.”

  A snort broke from him, and then he was laughing, roaring, because…yeah. It felt as if sharing—and the humor—had shaken loose a knot that’d been inside for a long time.

  “Sorry, that was rude,” Frankie said to her cup.

  “The truth can be.” Still smiling, Bull lifted his mug to her. “Now you know why I reacted badly when she showed up.”

  “I would say you showed a lot of restraint.” Frankie got up and fetched the coffee pot to refill their cups. “Here, I thought my breakups were bad.”

  Bull spotted the flicker of pain in her liquid dark eyes. She’d been hurt…and he had a wayward notion to find the bastards and teach them the error of their ways. “Breakups. More than one?”

  * * *

  As she resumed her seat, Frankie studied Bull. He was all man—his shoulders wider than the back of the big chair. It was easy to see he was the sort of person who preferred to keep emotional baggage to himself, but he’d shared about his wife and their divorce.

  It was a gift, in a way.

  One that perhaps should be reciprocated.

  She rose. “I’m half-Italian—and my grandmother always cooked when she got upset or unhappy. Can I make you breakfast?”

  “If you let me help.” He stood, dwarfing her.

  When some guys loomed over her, she wanted to punch them. Bull, instead, made her feel like moving…closer. She took a step back. “Sure. In Nonna’s house, everybody pitched in.” Even the men. Sharing the cooking and clean-up had been the only feminist directive her Italian grandmother had embraced.

  In the kitchen area, she set out mushrooms, onions, and bell peppers. “You get to chop.”

  She started on frying the bacon.

  He washed his hands, then diced the onions in a way that said he knew his way around a kitchen. No wonder Audrey had been startled when Frankie’d doubted he could cook anything other than protein shakes.

  A woman could learn a lot about a man by observing him cook. Bull was skillful. Precise. Everything went into tidy piles. When she’d told him what to do, he’d simply agreed. He was a team player.

  Catching her watching, he prompted, “How many breakups have you been through?”

  He was also too good at multi-tasking.

  “A few, I guess. Two were serious. One marriage.”

  He shot her a keen look. “Still hurts?”

  After a moment of checking her emotions, she could tell him, “Not nearly as much as during the divorce period.”

  His smile agreed. “Your ex cheated?”

  “Actually, no.” She could feel her chest tighten around the pain and humiliation. Was this how Bull had felt when he’d told her about his wife? “It’s complicated.”

  “Tell me,” he said softly and pushed the onions over to her to sauté as he started on the peppers.

  “My mother owns a modeling business. My father is a fashion photographer.”

  His expression didn’t change. He’d obviously never heard of the Bocelli.

  That was incredibly freeing. “Modeling is extremely competitive. They fight to get the right photographer, to be picked for the big fashion shoots. Getting into a high-end agency is…
important.”

  Bull had paused to watch her face. As he returned to chopping, he frowned, then shook his head. “I forgot—there are male models, aren’t there? Did your ex play you to get into the business?”

  “You got it.”

  “What a fucking bastard.” Scowling, Bull set a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. That had to have hurt.”

  “Thanks.” Her eyes started to burn with tears. Onions. Really, it was just the onions, and not the understanding gesture or sympathy in the deep voice. More than she’d had from her family. When she’d raged about what he’d done, her mother had told her she shouldn’t swear or speak in Italian—but hadn’t said a word about Jaxson’s deceit. Hadn’t tried to break the contract and get rid of him.

  Needing to move, she dumped the peppers into the bacon grease and laughed at the sizzling sound. “My sisters would be scolding me about how unhealthy this is.”

  Rather than complain about bad fats, Bull chuckled. “Not me. I love bacon.”

  She smiled back and then blinked. No, Frankie. Bad, bad, bad.

  No matter how likable he was. Or lickable—stop it. First, she was here for Kit, not for anything else. Especially not a gorgeous man who could be a real complication.

  She turned her attention to sautéing. Much safer. Cooking always was.

  Bull glanced at her. “I wanted to talk to you about your idea of an Italian theme night. How’d you come up with that?”

  Wait, she’d just tossed that out there to Wylie. “It was just a thought, not anything to really…”

  “Frankie. That wasn’t my question.” He rested a hip against the counter and waited.

  That much self-assurance should be outlawed.

  So, how to explain. She sure wasn’t going to mention that part of her agency job was to come up with inventive ideas in ways for models to present themselves, transform their portfolios, create unique brands. Apparently, that part of her brain didn’t stop, even in Alaska.

  “Fine, it’s like this… In a city, restaurant theme nights aren’t that common since there are tons of specialty restaurants. But here, there’s only your place and McNally’s restaurant. Oh, and the pizza place.”

  “Thank fuck for pizza.” Bull pushed over the mound of mushrooms and started grating pepper jack cheese.