Rose pushed back a wave of memories of those hard days of fear and grief last April. “He was recovering at Landstuhl. I could get there faster than Sean or A.J.”
“Sean said Elijah was shot in the femoral artery. If you don’t bleed to death in the first few minutes, you can make a full recovery.”
“Which he did.”
“You told him about your father’s death.”
“Yes.”
She could see Elijah in his hospital bed, her tough, impossible-to-hurt soldier brother bandaged and in pain. The doctors and nurses had been as helpful to her as they could be, but she’d insisted on being the one to tell him that their father had died of exposure on the mountain he loved.
“A.J. had to tell Sean and me,” she said.
She saw that Nick’s eyes were shut. He wasn’t asleep, but, she thought, he didn’t need to sit there and listen to her. She felt the strains of the past two days catching up with her. “You can keep the fire going overnight or just let it go out. Up to you.”
She thought he was at least half-asleep, but he eased out from under the afghan and got up, standing close to her. He took her hand into his kissed her softly on the cheek. “Sleep, Rose,” he said. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
She squeezed his hand. “I can do heels and sequins, you know.”
“Baby, you’re sexy in those wool socks of yours.”
She laughed. “I think you might have a concussion after all.”
“Not a chance.” He slipped his arms around her waist and kissed her on the lips this time, again softly, as if he wanted to prove he could restrain himself after their mad, wild encounter last June. “No concussion.”
She let herself lean into him, put her arms around him and feel his warmth, his strength—and her undeniable, uncontrollable physical reaction to him. She forced herself to pull back and stand up straight. She smiled. “Go on and get back under your afghan,” she said. “You’re in no shape to figure out what’s going on between us. I’m not sure I am, either.”
“Rose—”
She saw car headlights on her driveway and dropped her hands from Nick’s hard middle. “That must be your stuff from the lodge.” How fortuitous, she thought.
While Nick went outside, Rose fetched sheets and a proper pillow and blanket from the linen closet. She dumped them on the couch as he returned with a small suitcase and set it on the floor.
She watched him put another log on the fire. As a smoke jumper, he had a different relationship with fire than most people. He reached for the poker and she made her exit. She locked the front and back doors and ducked into her bedroom.
She pulled off her clothes, still able to feel Nick’s solid chest and abdomen, taste his lips on hers. She sank into her bed, her sheets cold.
Ranger looked at her from the threshold, then lay down just out in the hall. Rose smiled. Her own d’Artagnan—her own Musketeer.
Who needed a multimillionaire smoke jumper?
Eleven
Washington, D.C.
G rit Taylor thought he was free and clear of the U.S. Secret Service when he got through security at Reagan National Airport and arrived at the gate for his late-evening flight to Los Angeles.
Except Jo Harper was there.
No Elijah. Just Jo standing by a floor-to-ceiling window with her Special Agent badge and look.
Grit sat on a vinyl chair with his carry-on bag. He was in his dress blues. On his way through the airport, people had thanked him for his service. He’d responded the same every time: “It’s a privilege to serve.”
Jo just glared at him. “What’re you doing, Grit?”
“Getting ready to board a flight to California.”
“I like how you say ‘California.’ You’re obfuscating the issue.”
He grinned at her. “Obfuscate, Jo?”
“You know what it means.” She dropped her arms to her sides. She was pretty with her dark copper hair and turquoise eyes, but she was all federal agent right now. “You’re flying to Los Angeles. You’re supposed to be flying to San Diego.”
“Cheaper to fly to L.A. I’m saving the taxpayers.” It was the truth, he thought, as far as it went.
Jo continued to glare at him.
“You do that to Elijah?” Grit stretched out his legs, not really noticing his prosthetic. “What does he do, throw you over his shoulder and—”
“Has Charlie Neal been in touch with you?”
Grit wasn’t surprised by her question. He’d anticipated it the moment he’d spotted her at his gate. “I’m his new role model.”
“He’s called you on the sly with one of his theories, hasn’t he?”
“Why, is he missing?”
“I’m asking the questions.”
“Sit down, Agent Harper. We’re good. All’s well. No worries. Charlie likes to share theories with me. I listen. Sometimes I indulge him. I have a number of reasons to go to California, including navy business. They all coalesced and now I’m going. Coalesced,” he added, “is one of those words like obfuscate. It sounds like what it means.”
“Onomatopoeia.” She seemed more relaxed and sat down, if on the edge of the seat. “Charlie’s going to get me fired yet.”
“That’s not what he’s after.”
“The fire in the Shenandoah Mountains in October…” She paused, clearly not eager to discuss the matter with Grit. “It wasn’t bad but we got it out fast. If it’d spread, it could have killed Marissa. But we went over everything. We brought in all the pros. The ATF. The best people, Grit. Nothing points to a deliberate fire.”
“What about the ex-boyfriend in California?”
Jo showed no reaction to his question. “Trent Stevens is an actor and an aspiring screenwriter and director. He didn’t want the distraction of dating the daughter of a vice president. He thought it would affect his brand, as well as his work.” Jo was silent a moment. “Trent’s very serious about his work.”
“You keep tabs on him since the breakup?”
“You know I’m not going to answer that.”
Grit shrugged. “Have you ever been to Sean Cameron’s place in Beverly Hills?”
“I stopped in once when I was out there on assignment.”
“Checking out Marissa’s ex-boyfriend?”
“You’re relentless, Grit. Did you interrogate Taliban and Al-Qaeda fighters?”
“That’s classified.”
She gave him a grudging smile. “Have a safe flight. Don’t encourage Charlie. Say hi to Sean and Hannah. My sister Beth’s out there, too. Say hi to her.”
“Should I tell them when the wedding is?”
She unconsciously fingered the engagement ring on her finger that Elijah had bought for her at nineteen. She narrowed her turquoise eyes on Grit. “You do know how to cut to the heart of things.”
“You can move into Myrtle’s place while I’m in California.”
“If that’s one of the things that had to ‘coalesce’…”
“Three’s a crowd. I was in one of your cabins at the lake, right under your noses. Now I’m in D.C., down the hall. It’s awkward.”
“I have my own apartment, Grit. It’s not awkward.”
“Myrtle’s stuck in Vermont. I think she’s suffering from Stockholm syndrome or something up there. We might have to mount a rescue mission.”
“Maybe she likes Vermont.”
“This is what I’m saying. She’s identifying with her captors.”
Jo scowled and shot to her feet, then glared at him again. “Is obtuse one of those words that sounds like what it means? Because you’re being obtuse, Grit.”
He crossed his real ankle over his prosthetic ankle and wondered if anyone in the waiting area had guessed he was an injured SEAL, but he realized he didn’t care one way or the other. He grinned up at Jo. “We all want to hear wedding bells.”