The Colton Marine. Lisa Childs

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       Chapter 4

      The scene played out in slow motion—like it always did. He was just about to make the call—just about to send everyone in—when he felt it. The wrongness of it. The feeling was like a heavy rock lying low in his guts.

      Something wasn’t right.

      But Henry jumped the gun and headed in—and as he did, he tripped the wire stretched across the entrance to the abandoned hotel. The blast knocked River back, lifting him off his feet. His shout rang out—too late—as he flew through the air with the dust, the debris, the shrapnel and the other bodies.

      Before he hit the ground, though, someone caught him, wrapping slender arms around him, holding him down. That had happened that day, as well; someone had held him back from going in—from trying to find the others.

      He’d fought that person. Today he didn’t fight. Instead he jerked awake and stared into a pair of big eyes dark with concern.

      “Are you okay?” Edith asked.

      She was sitting on the edge of his bed, her arms wrapped around his bare chest. She was nearly bare, too, but for an exercise bra and brief shorts. Her skin was as slick with perspiration as his.

      His heart had already been racing from the dream, now it beat even harder and faster as desire rushed through him. His throat thick with passion, he could only nod.

      “I was just getting back from a morning run,” she said, “and I heard you shouting.”

      He cleared his throat. “Dream—it was just a dream.” And maybe so was this—her being here with her arms wrapped around him.

      As if just realizing she held him, she jerked back. “I—I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have...”

      He released a ragged breath. “Guess we’re even now,” he said. “I rushed in last night when I heard you screaming and now...”

      Had he been screaming? Sometimes, when he relived the explosion, he felt the pain all over again. Self-conscious now, he touched his face. At least he hadn’t taken off the patch before he’d fallen asleep. But he had taken off his hat. With the sun shining through the bedroom window, his scars were clearly visible.

      She wasn’t staring at his scars, though. She wasn’t even looking at his face. Her gaze was trained on his chest. The vest had protected that during the explosion. He had no scars beneath the dusting of dark hair. Just his—and Henry’s—dog tags dangled from around his neck.

      Finally, she glanced up and met his gaze. “I’m—I’m sorry,” she stammered again. “I just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

      “I’m fine,” he assured her.

      Now that she was looking at his face again, he could see the doubt in her beautiful dark eyes.

      What the hell had she heard?

      The heat that had rushed through his body with her touch spread up to his face now. He was embarrassed over her catching him in such a weak moment.

      “When are you heading back to La Bonne Vie?” he asked.

      She blinked, breaking their locked gazes. “Right after I shower.”

      New images flashed through his mind, of her standing naked beneath a spray of water. He groaned.

      And she reached out but pulled her hand back just before it touched his face. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

      He nodded. He would have stood up, but the sheet tangled around his hips was all that hid his reaction to her closeness, to her touch. Even all sweaty from her run, she smelled like she had last night. Like fresh air and flowers...

      “What is that smell?” he asked.

      She stood up and stepped back, away from his bed. Then she touched her own face now and wiped away some of the perspiration. “I was running—”

      “Not that,” he said, although even her sweat smelled sweet. “The flowers. What kind of flowers do I smell every time I’m near you?”

      “Gardenias,” she replied as she backed toward the door to the stairwell that led to the stables below.

      “Gardenias,” he repeated as she slipped through that doorway. He smiled as he heard how hard her shoes slapped against the steps.

      She was running again—away from him.

      But she hadn’t looked horrified—like he’d thought she had been last night when she’d first seen him. Instead she’d seemed almost flustered, as if she’d been as affected by his nearness as he had been by hers.

      He pushed his hand over his face, down over his scar. Hell, he must have still been dreaming. She couldn’t have looked at him like he had imagined—like she was at all interested in him.

      For one, just as she must have heard him shouting through the open window of the apartment, he had heard her through it, too—last night when she’d been talking to someone on her cell phone.

      Her boss or her boyfriend?

      The affection in her thick Southern drawl had been apparent, and he wouldn’t have expected someone to have such an affinity for an employer. She had definitely been talking to whoever had bought La Bonne Vie, though. Apparently even she wondered why the man had purchased the estate. Along with the affection, River had also heard frustration in her voice. СКАЧАТЬ