Confessions weren’t her style, especially when they revealed a weakness of some kind. Something was definitely off. He’d been too caught up in his personal hell to even think about the nightmares she must have. She had seen her best friend die, had another friend commit suicide, had watched her husband blown up…had watched him die and be revived on a helicopter in hell. He wanted to touch her, but instead he folded his hands in his lap. Seeing her again confused him even more. He’d been so certain that he wanted to do this alone, but she was messing it all up for him.
“Yeah, it’s all a mess,” he said when she stayed silent. “What do you want? Why are you here?”
She shook her head and looked at the ceiling. “You’re such an ass, I don’t know why I’m here.”
“That makes two of us and, yes, I am an ass. Maybe you should go.”
“I don’t want to go.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder and met his gaze. “Do you think I’m scary? Not the sexy kind of scary but the cold-hearted kind?”
Her question caught him off guard. For a second, he considered being mean. After all, with an opening like that, how could a genuine jerk pass it up? But the fear in her eyes stopped him. Sighing, he shook his head no. She could be menacing, fierce, passionate, but never cold hearted.
“I didn’t know there was a sexy kind of scary,” he said when she remained silent and staring. “What’s going on? Why are you here?”
“Since when does a wife need an excuse to see her husband?”
“Since it’s you and me and we’re not exactly living a conventional life.”
“Screw convention.”
“It’s your story, isn’t it? It’s always about a story.” He edged closer to her without looking away from her face. “You’re not here checking on me, are you? You want to talk to me.”
“That’s what people do, Michael. Talk. Has it really been that long since you’ve had a normal conversation with anyone?” She grinned, but concern shadowed her eyes. “It has, hasn’t it? Didn’t anyone visit you at Walter-Reed?”
“Only to talk to me about this.” He motioned to the chair and his legs, feeling stupid for being shocked that she wanted to have a conversation that didn’t involve his recovery, transition or therapy. She had a life, a big, often messy and chaotic life. “Talk to me then. Tell me what has you so on edge. What is this story about?”
Abruptly, she stood and paced the room. “Yeah, I was there this afternoon, but let’s not make that public knowledge, okay? I saw him get shot. He’d been a source of mine. He gave me something that’s most likely evidence in his murder, yet I walked away with it, didn’t even admit to being a witness. He’d told me earlier that I was cold hearted. I proved him right. And you know what? I’m more upset that he’s right about that than his death. I just went back to the studio and dove into work. There’s something wrong with that, right? A disconnect?” She shoved her hands through her hair and tilted her head toward the ceiling.
“I thought you were avoiding danger these days, playing it safe. I thought that’s why you came to Denver, to do feature stories, avoid being shot at. What’s wrong with you? If you wanted to be in the crossfire, you should have stayed in a war zone.” Damn it, he wanted to yell at her to stay out of danger for once, to tame down, to be a watered down version of the woman he’d fallen in love with. But that would be wrong and he knew it. Weariness weighed him down.
Back to him and hands on her hips, she looked out the window. “You’ve gotten judgmental since I last saw you, Michael. That’s something I didn’t expect.”
He couldn’t deny it. Maybe he’d forgotten all social skills. It’s like he couldn’t even form a thought that wasn’t defensive or hostile these days.
“I just don’t want you to get hurt, that’s all. You don’t have Peter anymore...or me, for that matter. Who has your back?” he asked.
She snorted and shook her head before walking back to the bed. “I thought you had my back. I’m looking right at you. You’re not lost, not dead, not stuck a thousand miles away from me. I simply want to talk to you, is that such a bad thing? You’re my friend, too, aren’t you?”
He reluctantly met her gaze. Yeah, that’s what he’d promised her, that he’d always have her back, always be her confidante, always be her safe place to fall. “I keep disappointing you, don’t I? I’m not that guy you married anymore. I’m not. I can’t have your back...I can’t even take care of myself.”
“You frustrate the hell out of me.” She fisted her hands at her temples as if about to pull her hair out by the roots, but didn’t look away from his face. “Why won’t you let me in? I need you.”
He flinched at the need in her voice. This was new. He didn’t like it. She’d never looked so...alone and sad.
“Don’t. Okay? I don’t want you to need me. Didn’t we already discuss this?” When had he become such a liar? He looked away from her and wished he had enough energy to toss her out on her ass. Yet, at the same time, he wanted to be that guy she’d married, the guy with the promises...the guy who didn’t lie.
“I can’t do this on my own,” she said so quietly he wondered if she’d actually spoken. She sat on the edge of the bed, her face pale and eyes full of unshed tears. “I’m faking it every day. Please, Michael, I don’t know whether I should smack you, scream at you or kiss you to bring you back.”
“Don’t cry for me.” Seeing her like this threw him off. He preferred the irreverent spitfire who would go toe-to-toe with him any day. He’d wanted to spare her pain, but it was obvious he had inflicted more.
“It was never hard for us, not even in a war zone. We met and—wham—that was that. We made it work.”
He leaned back in his chair and stared at her. She wore a black dress that rose up on her thigh when she crossed her legs. Black leather boots went to her knees. Hair cascaded around her shoulders, lush lips frowned and eyes glistened.
“You’re not okay, are you?” he asked. “Despite your badass looks, you haven’t healed, have you? Have you talked to anyone or just stayed in perpetual motion?” “What do you think?” Her lips twisted in a self-deprecating grin.
“I think we’re too much alike.” He grinned despite the circumstances.
“I wouldn’t presume to feel the same as you do.” She dragged the back of her hand across her cheek without meeting his gaze. “Things happened that you don’t know about...and now isn’t the right time...but you’re right that I understand you.”
He nodded slowly, not taking his gaze from her face. Anger long gone, heartache remained. All words sounded inadequate in his brain. He wondered what had happened that she hadn’t written about, wondered if he would ever know. Sorrow clung to her. He had not only failed as a husband, but also as a friend.
They had once been the best of friends.
“What do we know about being married?” she asked, her gaze focused on a distant spot on the tiled floor. “Maybe you’re right. I’m a mess. You’re a disaster. Neither one of us is being honest.” She met his gaze. “We’re just a couple of liars who enjoyed the danger of sneaking around in a war zone. We’re the good story without a happy ending that we’ll think about when we’re old and alone.”
He winced. He deserved that. Hell, he’d been singing the same song. It felt like a boulder crushed his chest as he waited for the final blow.
“I understand,” he said. “You don’t need to make any apologies. I’m a lot to handle. A disaster, like you said. Just give me the divorce papers and that will be that. End of our story.”
“You never really loved me, did you? Look how easily you’ve discarded us, everything we were.”
“I’m sure you weren’t lonely. A woman like you doesn’t stay alone for long. If you need someone’s shoulder to cry on, I’m sure you’ll find a willing guy in a few hours.”
Nothing he said anymore made sense, even to himself. Frustrated, he left her alone in the bedroom. All those months--after all of those notes postmarked from around the world--all o
f those images of her on television--he’d imagined the men drawn to her. He had imagined her lonely and hurt by his silence seeking comfort from another lover. Hell, maybe it had been easier to imagine that instead of believing his actions hurt her.
“You don’t have any faith in me at all, do you?” She stood behind him. “Not one ounce.”
He flinched. Needing more space, he moved to the kitchen and preoccupied himself with looking into the refrigerator. What to eat, what to eat...
Arms folded across her chest, she stared at her feet. “God, I’m an idiot. A big fool, that’s what I am.”
“I have faith in you. It’s me that I’m not so sure about these days,” he said to the orange in his hand. He peeled the orange without looking at her but knew she paced next to him in the small kitchen. He chanced a glance up at her and winced at the distant expression on her face. He hated looking up at her. Hated it. He had once been able to lift her up and screw her against the wall if he wanted, but now...now he peeled an orange and wondered what the hell to say next.
It would be easy to let her back in, as easy as breathing. Talking to her felt like a much needed shot of normalcy. He dropped the orange to the counter. “You said we don’t know anything about being married and you’re right. We don’t. So what do you want?”
She perched on the counter, her dress rising up her thighs again. “I’d like to eat the Chinese I brought. Devon’s picking me up in a few hours. We’re meeting a source in the park at midnight. There’s someone we need to find...anyway, I needed a break and, for some reason, I thought you’d be a nice change of pace.”
He grinned without looking away from the skin exposed between the hem of her skirt and the top of her boots. “You dress like this for a source?”
“I dress like this for you.” Her fingers touched his forehead. “I never really got to dress sexy for you, except in Greece.”
He dragged his gaze over her body before looking in her eyes. He had no idea what to do with her. “Who’s Devon?”
“My producer slash photographer. She’s good...I like her.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth and stared at him.
“Meeting a source at midnight sounds dangerous.” He smiled because he knew it probably was and that she’d always tempt Fate. People like her ran in when others ran out. His smile faded at the memory of her running back into the line of fire to save him. “I thought we were fighting a minute ago, now you want to eat Chinese with me?”
“Yeah, well, I’m unpredictable like that.” She broke the gaze and reached for the bags he hadn’t noticed sitting next to her hip.
His hand slid up her thigh. Her skin felt like heaven beneath his hands. His thumbs pressed against her inner thigh. Both hands moved up her leg. He wanted to undress her. Taste her.
She opened her knees...just a little...enough. He pulled her close and kissed her knee. His hand caressed her thigh beneath the hem of the dress. His fingers skimmed across red silk panties.
“I don’t want to hurt you and am afraid I might. PTSD, they tell me in all this therapy they make me do. I hear stories of men turning on their wives in the middle of the night, being lost in a nightmare and I’m capable of that, Hope. I am,” he said against her skin.
“I can handle you.” She pulled his hair. “Have a little faith.”
“Do you really want to deal with me? Isn’t your life complicated enough?” Damn, she felt good. His hands curved over her hips.
“Not really. I’ve been a little bored.” She slid toward the edge of the counter.
He didn’t know what he was doing. Stay. Go. Fight. Flee. But he did know that this felt right. Being with her was the only thing in months that felt real, that felt natural.
His fingers slid beneath the panties and pulled them down. He met her gaze, thumbs pressed against her wetness.
She bit her lip, eyes alive with a dare.
“This is crazy,” he whispered without looking away from her. “You and me together again. It’s not realistic.”
“We’re unconventional, remember? A colonel and a reporter falling in love in a war zone was pretty unrealistic, too, yet we did it. We couldn’t get enough of each other, that’s what I remember.” She slithered her hips closer to the edge of the counter, the heels of her boots resting on the arms of his wheelchair. “You want to touch me and guess what? I want you to touch me, too.”
Oh, yeah, he wanted to touch her. Taste her. Bite her. Fuck her. But if he did any of the things he wanted to do, that would seal the deal, reunite them, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to be anyone’s husband.
“You’re bad for me.” He bit her knee while his fingers slid down the zipper of the boot. “You’re gonna send me over the deep end. Is that your plan? To have me committed?”
“I never tell my plans.” She drank from the bottle of ouzo and he briefly wondered when she’d grabbed it.
He removed first one boot and then the other until her legs were bared and open in front of him. He’d always loved her shapely legs, the way the muscles curved, the way her skin felt beneath his fingers. He ran his hands over them, always so smooth, and cherished her compliance.
She held the bottle down to him and he took a drink without looking away from her face. He loved that she was equal parts naughty and nice, half badass and half angel. The liquor burned his throat, reminded him that he had most definitely survived.
“I can’t make you any promises,” he said before licking the inside of her thigh.
“I wouldn’t believe them anyway.”
He grinned against her skin and inhaled the heady scent of her. His fingers slid inside of her as he closed his eyes, relishing the feel of her closing around him. Her hands were in his hair, her ankles linked behind his neck. He pushed the skirt up higher with his free hand before grabbing the liquor bottle and pouring ouzo between her legs. He licked her, sucked, delighting in the combination of tastes. His fingers moved in and out, faster and faster. She poured more alcohol for him as if feeding him from above. He sucked it up, unable to get enough.
She wiggled her hips closer, hands gripping his hair, feet pressing against the backs of his shoulders. When her thighs pressed against his ears and her buttocks clenched, she moaned, “I’ve missed you so much.”
And then she was sliding down and over him until their mouths were clinging to each other like two people long starved for the other. He pushed the dress up even farther, the palms of his hands molding her breasts over her bra.
“You’re the best medicine a guy could ever dream of having,” he said when she broke away to breathe.
“You’re the same guy I married, never doubt that.” Hands framing his face, she stared into his eyes. “You’re still that guy.”
He buried his face into the hair tangled around her shoulders. He wished it were true.
A knock on the door had her abruptly leaping from his lap and yanking the dress down. He felt cold with the absence of her hot body against his. He blinked at the sudden change, hand going to his mouth still wet from her.
“Michael?” Becky’s voice. The door slammed open after another brief knock. “Warren and I are here to go over the custody papers.”
“Ever hear of privacy?” Hope met his gaze, disappointment in her eyes. “A closed door means wait to be asked in, at least that’s how I was raised.”
“You again. Damn, it smells like a liquor store in here, what’s going on?” Becky stood, hands on hips. Her husband, Warren, stood behind her looking like the over-worked lawyer he was with his tie askew and black hair a mess. “I thought you’d be out stirring up some trouble.”
“I came here to cause trouble instead.” She shrugged before grabbing her boots from the floor. “I didn’t know you were meeting with Warren tonight. I should let you go.”
He nodded and fisted her panties in his lap, effectively hiding them from view. His gaze drifted down to her thighs. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.”
“I’ll call Dev...tell her to meet me at my
place instead.” She lingered in front of him. “At least you’ve got Chinese food.”
“Well, I’m glad we...got that out of the way, you know...talked and stuff,” he said, ignoring Becky and Warren who watched them.
“Me, too. Progress.” She met his gaze with a grin on her swollen lips.
“We can wait outside?” Warren asked, obviously conscious of the tension.
“I’m leaving. You should probably change, you’ve got alcohol all over your shirt.” She scooped up her messenger bag, already reaching for her cell phone. “Enjoy the Chinese food, beer and good luck with everything.”
He wanted to call her back, ask her to stay, talk to her about why she’d been sad before, ask her to be a part of this custody fight, to stand with him, pull some strings, rattle some cages and take him home. But that would be selfish so he said nothing, simply let her walk away again while he tightened his hold on the panties in his palm.
“Menace,” Becky muttered, lifting up the ouzo bottle. “What were you two doing anyway? Shots?”
“Something like that.” He grinned. “I’d better change. She’s right. I reek like a bar at closing time.”
“I could go for a shot.” Warren said.
“Help yourself.” He laughed as he made his way into the bedroom.
He had to admit that he was tired of pushing Hope away. He’d been in Denver less than a week and already felt more like his old self. Maybe the doctors were wrong, maybe he didn’t have PTSD, maybe he could handle it. Maybe Hope could handle him. Maybe her kind of trouble was exactly what he needed and this self-sacrificing bullshit needed to come to an end.
He yanked a fresh shirt over his head and thought about the source she was meeting with at midnight. Yeah, he’d missed her kind of recklessness.
Chapter Eight
She needed to force herself to concentrate on the photographs of chained women in front of her on the granite countertop. Her day had been nothing if not nerve rattling between seeing Rourke murdered and oral sex with her estranged husband. Damn, she craved just one thing in her life that wasn’t complicated. One thing. Was that really such an impossible task?