Authors: Kallypso Masters
The confusion on her face was evident. "Adam and Karla's is…someone's home?"
Either she hadn't noticed the leather, or was too polite to point it out. "Yeah. This is my adopted dad's place—Adam Montague. Do you remember meeting him and his now wife, Karla, at Rosa's house last month?"
"Oh, yeah."
"They were married the day you…arrived, but are still on their honeymoon right now. Angelina made dinner for me and some of…some friends so we wouldn't have to fend for ourselves this Christmas." Damián looked down at Marisol and back at Savi. The original plan was for Angelina to cook for those who didn't have family to spend the day with—but it turned out he was with his family—his new family, and his adopted family at the club.
"Now you're included. I know Dad…Adam will love seeing you again, Savi, when he gets back next week."
"Maman, why does it smell like horses in here?"
"Shhh, Mari," she whispered, bending down to Marisol to whisper, "That's not polite." Still, Damián hadn't missed the question in Savi's eyes.
Okay. How to explain this?
"Hope I didn't smell the place up too bad." Luke came down the hall drying his light brown hair with a towel. He wore a western-cut plaid shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots. "Been on a mustang filly all morning and didn't have a chance to change."
Horse leather. Damián grinned, relaxing his guard a bit.
"Haven't gotten the water hooked up at my new ranch house yet, so I just came up here a little early to take advantage of the facilities."
Marisol leaned a little closer to Damián's leg, reminding him that introductions were in order. "Savi and Marisol Baker, I'd like you to meet Luke Denton. He's a…friend of mine. He does search-and-rescue with Marc."
Luke had just bought a little place in Fairchance, near Aspen Corners, where he was setting up a workshop for his carpentry, but also a training facility to turn rescued mustangs into SAR horses.
Luke shook Savi's hand, smiling, then hunkered down to Marisol's level and extended his hand to her, as well. "Hello, darlin'. You're cute as a button."
Marisol still seemed reluctant to warm up to this stranger. Good girl. Damián put a protective hand on his little doll's shoulder to reassure her that she was safe. She released her grip on his leg, not as scared, and drew herself up a little taller.
"Buttons aren't cute."
"Hmmm. Well, maybe that's true." He grinned. "But you are. Pleased to meet you, Marisol."
Luke waited for her to become comfortable enough to make the next move. Damián's thumb stroked her shoulder and she stretched her tiny hand out to be swallowed up in Luke's much bigger one.
The back door opened and a blast of cold air swooped through the room as Grant came inside. "Merry Christmas, everyone!" Grant's blond hair was pulled into a Marine-style, above-the-collar bun the way she'd worn it in the Corps. At the club, she wore it loose or in a ponytail when in full Domme mode. Dark circles under her eyes told him something was up. The fact that she wore mock-desert digital pants like what they'd worn for physical training, along with a black, long-sleeved shirt, made her look like she was ready for a mission. A glint of something almost bitter showed in her eyes, though her smile tried to mask it. Maybe he could lift her spirits.
"Cute PT duds you've got on there, sweetheart."
Grant pounded him in the bicep with a mean hook, then laughed. Better. But they wouldn't be able to talk around Savi and Marisol. Maybe later.
Damián made quick introductions.
Grant looked over at the kitchen area. "Something smells great. Angelina's a lifesaver. I'd be at a fast-food restaurant, otherwise."
Damián figured he was serving as host today, so he crossed the room and approached the stove. Inside the oven, he found a hot pan of lasagna.
Luke headed to the fridge. "Angel said there's a salad and some other sides in here."
"I'll get the drinks." Grant tended bar in the club, as well, and had soon poured drinks for everyone, including a glass of milk for Marisol.
"Mari, why don't you help Maman set the table?"
Within minutes, they were sitting down to a feast—traditional Italian and American Christmas dishes. Marisol said a simple grace that did something to his heart, and they began passing platters and bowls until everyone's plate was filled.
Angelina had cooked up a storm. Marc's girl had a big heart, making sure the unattached members in this community of lost souls—Damián, Luke, and Grant—celebrated the day in style with each other, while Angelina was with her family in Aspen Corners. Even though Dad and Karla were away, this was the best place for a gathering.
Marc was a lucky man.
Now, Damián had Savi and Marisol with him, too.
Family. Nothing was more important to Damián.
* * *
Savi listened to the three friends catch up on their lives. They were all so different that she wondered what tied them together, but they did seem to genuinely enjoy each other's company. She especially felt the undeniable connection between Damián and Grant. He'd called her sweetheart, but it seemed more like that of a brother-and-sister rapport—not a sexual or romantic one. A strong bond, nonetheless. Then she learned Grant—an odd name for a woman—was a Marine who had served with Damián's unit for a short time in Iraq. That explained why Damián called her by her last name. But Savi wasn't military.
"I feel funny calling you Grant. Is there a first name your non-Marine friends call you?"
The woman's hand froze in midair and she looked at Savi. Surely she'd been asked the question before. "No, ma'am. Just Grant."
The "ma'am" made Savi feel old, even though the two women were about the same age. Grant had the demeanor of someone who never left the military behind, even though she'd apparently been discharged.
"Good try, Savi," Damián said with a grin. "I thought you were going to be the first person to pull it out of her. I've known her almost seven years and have never heard anything but Grant."
Grant grinned. "Adam knows."
"Yeah, well, he's our master sergeant, too. He knows a lot of things he'd never share with a grunt like me."
As the talk at the table went on, Savi felt Mari's head lean against her arm and looked down to see her daughter had cleaned her plate and now was nodding off. She'd gotten up awfully early to see what Santa had brought her.
Damián leaned across the table toward Savi. "I'll carry her upstairs to bed so she can take a nap." He always seemed so in tune with hers and Mari's needs, without her having to ask.
Savi nodded. "A sofa downstairs will be fine. I don't want her to wake up scared in a strange place."
Damián's expression grew shuttered. "The bed will be more comfortable. I can stay with her until she wakes up."
Savi didn't really have much in common with Luke and Grant and was feeling a need for some quiet time herself. She'd much rather escape than try to be social. "Actually, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to lie down with her for a while. All this food has made me really sleepy."
She let Mari's sleeping form lean against her until Damián came around the table and gently pulled her chair out. Suddenly, it hit her.
Wow
. For the first time ever, she hadn't automatically worried about leaving Mari alone with a man. Of course, Damián wasn't just any man. But his relationship to Mari should have sent up even more warning bells, and it hadn't.
The realization that she'd come to trust him alone with Mari, even in a bedroom, surprised the hell out of her. Once, she might have used taking a nap as a ruse to keep Damián away from her daughter. But this time she genuinely wanted to take a nap. She smiled.
Damián frowned. "What's so funny?"
"Nothing."
He paused a moment, then his attention turned to Mari. He was so gentle with her. Savi yearned to have him hold her with such tenderness, too.
Where had that thought come from?
She turned to Luke and Grant. "In case you aren't here when we wake up, I just wanted to say how nice it was to meet you both." After saying their goodbyes, Savi followed Damián down a brick-lined hallway. The house was huge and very old. She imagined the furniture in the front rooms would be period pieces, possibly Georgian or even Victorian. Formal. She could understand why Damián would suggest a comfortable bed instead.
Damián seemed to be favoring his right foot or ankle again. She wished she'd thought to ask Marc to take a look at it this morning, but with all the Christmas commotion and her meltdown, it had slipped her mind completely.
Damián preceded her into a room near the end of the hall. "It's quiet in here. I slept here when I first…when I moved to Denver."
Warm brickwork along the outer wall, a beautiful walnut bureau that matched the cannonball bed, and a log-cabin quilt on the bed made her feel instantly at home in the room. The scent of lavender enveloped her as she turned down the quilt and sheet. She grabbed Mari's legs as Damián eased her body onto the mattress. Her baby didn't even whimper.
Damián brushed the hair back from their daughter's face and looked at the sleeping child a moment, then turned to Savi to whisper, "I'll be down in the kitchen cleaning up if you need anything. Think you can find your way back down there?"
Savi met Damián's gaze. "Sure. Thank you."
"No problem." He left the room, not limping as much now. Maybe it was just lifting Mari that aggravated whatever was bothering his foot.
A sudden lethargy came over Savi. She slipped out of her shoes and walked around the bed to the side near the window, then slid between the sheets and curled onto her right side facing Mari. Sleep claimed her immediately.
* * *
While Savi and Marisol rested, it was just Damián and Grant left in the kitchen. Damián poured two mugs of coffee. "Why the PTs?"
Grant looked across the kitchen at him. "Just missing the good old days, I guess. The holidays make me all sentimental." She smirked to lighten the mood, but her left leg shook involuntarily. She seemed more restless than nostalgic.
Was she dealing with some shit from Fallujah? Not many women Marines were placed into a combat situation, but her expert communications skills had been needed on that rooftop in the waning days of the Second Battle of Fallujah. She'd gotten a glimpse into the bowels of hell up there, something every man in the unit deeply regretted—well, those who had survived, anyway.
Yet, after her discharge, she'd hooked up with some defense contractor—or worse—and gone back to that shithole. Said she had unfinished business at the time. Didn't sound like she was with an agency publicly sanctioned by the government, as far as Damián could surmise from the bits and pieces she'd shared with him over the years. He wondered if she'd gotten any satisfaction.
Damián handed Grant a mug and they moved back to the table, sitting across from each other. Lost in thought, she held the dark-blue ceramic between her hands, as if to infuse some warmth into her fingers. Luke had headed back down to Fairchance determined to make more progress this evening with his new mustang.
Damián didn't know anyone who loved the military life more than Grant did—well, except for Dad, maybe. Damián and Grant had kept in touch after Fallujah. Still bugged him that only Grant and Dad had gone on to finish the mission during that deployment; Damián and Marc and been sent stateside and medically discharged. He wondered if she'd been more forthcoming with Dad about that part of her life. The man had a way of worming secrets out of a person.
Damián could use some practice with mining a few secrets himself. Savi sure as hell had been harboring a shitload of them since she'd shown up here. Hell, he didn't really know much about Savi's background at all. They'd wrapped themselves in a cocoon during that one perfect day at the beach, not letting the world intrude in any way.
Even though he'd known Grant a lot longer, she'd kept her background unknown to him, as well. Maybe she'd talk if she really was in a nostalgic mood.
"What did you get into after you left the Corps?"
"Trouble, mostly." She laughed harshly, then looked back down at the black liquid in her mug. "Made some bad decisions. Connected with the wrong people." She lifted the mug to her mouth, holding on with one hand, two fingers curled through the handle. Setting it down, she looked at him. "Got into contracting."
"You went back to Iraq?"
She nodded. "Mostly Anbar Province. My knowledge of Fallujah was a bonus to our missions."
"Fucking shithole."
"Actually, I got to know some people there who, at first anyway, changed my opinion of the place. A former Army National Guard soldier in my group got me to take a closer look. Learned more about their religion, their economy, their culture. Made locating and dealing with the friendlies a little easier."
"Problem is, you could never tell a hundred percent who the friendlies were."
A shadow passed over her eyes. "Yeah. Sometimes, though, the traitors were right in your own group. Need to watch out who you lowered your guard with, no doubt about it."
Damn. Someone had betrayed her, broken her trust. He hoped she settled the score with the asshole.
"What made you leave?"
The grim set of her mouth told him this conversation was nearing an end. "Bunch of reasons." She stood and picked up their near-empty mugs. "Refill?"
He nodded.
She walked over to the counter. "How about some of these Italian cookies? They're fucking awesome." She poured the Joe and returned to the table carrying the steaming mugs, and then she went back to retrieve the plate of cookies.
Damián wasn't sure why, but he didn't want to let the conversation veer off track. Practice for upcoming talks with Savi, maybe? No, he just wanted to know what had happened to Grant to bring her here to Denver a year ago, looking lost and not a little pissed when she'd shown up here.
"What kinds of missions were you assigned?"
Grant bit into a cookie as she thought, then took a sip from the mug. Finally, she turned her gaze to his. "Counterterrorism. Black ops. We could do things—get in and out of places—that legit personnel, especially female ones, couldn't."