Grimly, he thought about the morning that had changed everything.
Spent and exhausted, he collapsed against Sara, his breathing ragged and his heart full. “I am absolutely, undoubtedly the luckiest man alive.”
She snuggled into his chest and gave a happy little sigh. “I love you.”
“I love you, too. Happy anniversary.”
And then, after the best sex of his life, with the woman of his dreams held close to his
heart, his cellphone vibrated.
As he reached for it, Sara laid a hand on his arm. “Do you have to answer it?”
“You know I do.” He looked at the caller ID and saw it was the admiral’s phone number. “It’s work.”
“But it’s our anniversary. We have plans. Can’t you pretend, just this once, that your phone was off, at least until later?”
“No.” He didn’t like the timing of the call any more than she did, but this was the third time she’d asked in as many months and it hit him the wrong way.
He didn’t understand this. They’d been married for six years and she’d never once, not even when he was under so deep she didn’t know whether he was dead or alive, never had she made him feel like he had to choose between her and his job. Until lately. And it made him wonder if he was doomed to a future of always having to choose. What he’d thought was a win/win scenario had suddenly become a no win situation and it pissed him off. Sara knew how important his job was.
Liar.
She didn’t know. You cheated her out of making her own choices.
She didn’t know how dangerous Sanchez really was. Still is.
Liar, liar, liar.
“Sara, don’t do this.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry. It’s just that I have something to tell--”
“You’re making me choose between you and my job. I can’t.”
“You mean, you won’t.”
She was right, he wouldn’t. And if she really needed to hear him say it-- “Okay, fine. I won’t.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” She looked defeated and her voice was caught somewhere between anger and hopelessness.
And suddenly, right there, at that moment, he’d had all he could take. He needed air, room to breathe, before he told Sara the why. Told her what kind of monster he was working with and scared the shit out of her. He got up off the bed, strode to the closet, and pulled on jeans with quick, angry movements. “My job has to come first, can’t you see that?” He yanked a T-shirt over his head.
“No. Yes. There needs to be some kind of balance. We’re…well, we’re having--” Sara pulled on a robe, cinched the belt in one quick snap. “It feels like there’s no way for us to win. You’re shutting me out. You’ve been shutting me out.”
“If that’s the way things are, if that’s how you really see me, then dear Jesus, I’m sorry I ever married you.” He slipped on shoes, and when he straightened she was watching him with a ferocity of sorrow he’d never seen before.
“Sorry? You’re sorry? My God, Dillon, you’ve become someone I don’t even know anymore.” She jabbed a finger at him. “It’s like you’ve become obsessed with this--this Sanchez! Why? For what?”
“It’s my job.”
“Still? You told me that was over, that he made you. You said you were out.”
And then, because the day that had started so well seemed determined to go to shit, the doorbell rang.
By the time Dillon had pulled himself together, made it into the living room, Sara was back with a baffled look on her face and an armful of pictures. Dozens of them. Of him, Adoña, Dreena. In black and white and color. And when she looked at him, he saw that every last one of them damned him to hell.
He’d been fed up and angry, she’d been suspicious and outraged.
So he’d left.
Not because he didn’t want Sara, not because he didn’t want to fix things, but because he needed some space, some room to breathe, to figure out how the hell to tell her the truth, to tell her that she might be in danger because of his job, because Sanchez was a murdering bastard, and to tell her that the pictures were nothing and that he’d find out who’d sent them and pound him into a bloody pulp.
He’d returned the admiral’s call and had foolishly thought there’d be time to explain later, to try and make things up to her, to finally tell her about Sanchez, their life, and make things right. But later never came. The next thing he knew Sara was dead.
He had what his doctors called survivor guilt. The same damn guilt that cleaved his heart, his guts, that kept him from sleeping, eating, and scorched him with such hatred he almost couldn’t breathe.
He had to get Sanchez.
Cursing softly, he slipped out of bed.
He glanced through the darkness at Sara’s sleeping form and for just a second wondered if maybe, somehow things might--
But no. No maybes. His gaze lingered for a moment longer, and a blade of regret pierced his heart.
Restless, he padded across the threadbare carpet to the window, surreptitiously parted the curtains, and peered out.
No movement, nothing. Half of him had hoped there
was
a bad guy out there. Or at least a drunk he could hassle. Something, anything to do besides lie there and think too much.
Feeling more alone than he’d ever been, he watched the first splashes of daylight color the sky. Flipping up the Velcro cover on his watch, he checked the time.
They had forty hours left.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Journal Entry
While out on a ‘family’ picnic today, I managed to take a bullet. Nothing major, just a punch to the arm. Aches like a bitch, but it’s not the first bullet to find me, and I’m sure not the last. Biggest complaint, loss of new shirt. Raphael has a doctor on call, no ER visit necessary, and therefore, no questions asked. Good for him, good for me. Cover’s intact. It pays, I guess, to be on the ‘in’.
On the upside of all this, since it takes time to earn a suspicious man’s trust, a bullet in the arm helped speed up the process, especially since the shooter was more than likely aiming at one of the brothers, probably Xavier, since I just happened to move past him when the bullet hit. Although Marco, with his big and obnoxious mouth would have been my target.
Bodyguards, security team, spent a good two hours searching the area, never found the shooter. Cartel sniper, most likely, who made the wind.
Adoña and Dreena freaked, took most of the day to calm them down. I have to give thanks, at least, that they’re both safe and sound with the blood and noise behind them. Nothing like a little gunfire to ruin a friggin’ picnic.
“Women and children,” Rafe told me on the way home, “are to be protected and pampered at all costs.” They both have personal bodyguards. Dreena’s chauffeured to and from school. It must feel smothering at times, but I know in my gut that given even half a chance, they’d either be kidnapped or killed out of sheer hatred of the family. Sanchez has a lot of people on his payroll, a lot of enemies, and is mean enough that most would slit his throat for a single peso.
Hell, most of the time I’d do it for free. ~~ D.C.
<><><>
SATURDAY
While the sun was gaining strength, not only was Sara still asleep, she was buck-naked from the waist down and every one of Dillon’s common decency genes pooled and throbbed south of the border. He ground his teeth together, tried to do the noble thing and look away, then figured, screw chivalry, the view was awesome.
The covers had slipped down to her ankles, her jersey had ridden up to her waist, and sweet merciful God, her butt, in all its tight, round, come-hither, feminine glory was completely bare.
A shock of lust zipped straight to the fly of the fatigues he was struggling to button, and his body temperature shot through the ozone. With typical male appreciation, his gaze stayed locked on those womanly curves. Curves he’d touched, kissed, licked, and suddenly all he could think about was how those long, silky legs felt wrapped around his middle.
He looked down and studied the carpet. Until, and unless, something changed between them, he didn’t have the right to expect anything more intimate than a very polite handshake.
Besides, he was supposed to be protecting her, guarding her, keeping her safe--thinking about sex was not on the agenda. If they were going to get out of this alive, he’d do well to remember that.
Be noble.
Hunh. What the hell does being noble have to do with anything? That’s your wife’s naked ass staring you in the face.
Dillon’s gaze drifted back toward the bed.
King Arthur would have looked away. He’d have checked out the cheap artwork on the wall or covered up Guinevere’s butt like a perfect gentleman.
Uh huh, and where did that get him?
Sweat beaded Dillon’s forehead and he wiped it away in annoyance. He could do this.
Reaching down, he yanked on Sara’s toe. “Rise and shine, sleepyhead.”
His erection was still at full speed ahead, and Lord save the King, Lady Guinevere didn’t so much as move.
At first.
Then she muttered something unintelligible and snuggled deeper into her pillow--face down and butt up.
Holy crap.
He didn’t have a saintly bone in his body, he wasn’t noble, and he sure as hell had never actually aspired to be King Arthur. Lancelot, maybe...
But still, a man had to try.
Even if it killed him.
He rummaged in one of the duffel bags until he found a pair of small fatigues and her boots, then walked over, dropped them on the bed, and gave Sara’s naked rear a swat. “While I appreciate the view, we really don’t have the time.”
<><><>
The instant Sara felt a sting on her backside, her head shot up off the pillow. Scrambling to her knees, she looked down, then over at Dillon. He stood at the foot of the bed, fully dressed in black fatigues--obviously showered and shaved and he smelled clean, fresh and all male. Her heart skipped a beat even as a spurt of fear speared through her.
Not Sanchez.
Dillon.
And for the first time in a year, she wasn’t afraid of a man.
Last night he’d asked,
“Why, you suddenly have something I’ve never seen before?”
Yes. Sadly, she did. Not outwardly visible, but inside, deep inside where it hurt the most.
That brought her up short. When had she started caring what he thought?
Yesterday.
Always.
When she’d seen the lost sadness in his eyes. When he’d killed a man to save her life. Shielded her with his own body against a sniper’s bullets. When he’d looked at her, wounded and hurt, she’d realized her words--past and present--might have been just a little bit hasty.
Maybe.
Because, for reasons of his own, he was still being awfully damn remote. He was still putting his job, his vengeance, first.
“I’d like some privacy if you don’t mind,” she said, then quick as a snap, the fog of sleep lifted and she thought of Ellie. “What time is it? How long did I sleep?”
“You slept long enough. You have enough time for a quick shower.”
She nodded and grabbed her clothes, suddenly feeling determined and desperate both.
“Sara?”
“We have to go. I’ll hurry.”
“I’ll put the duffel bags into the SUV, then I’m going out for a minute to get us some breakfast. I’ll be right back. Ten minutes tops.”
“I’ll be ready.” As she rushed through her shower, worry settled high in her chest.
What was Ellie doing this very moment? Did Matt have her? Did Sanchez? Just who was taking care of her, comforting, holding, feeding her?
Was she okay?
For sanity’s sake, Sara had to believe her child was fine. If Matt had been allowed to care for her, Ellie would be just fine. If Sanchez had her, surely he’d have a maid? Sanchez himself had been a father, certainly he wouldn’t hurt her baby. He wasn’t that much of a monster. Was he?
And what would Dillon do once she told him he’d fathered a child? That right this very minute Sanchez could very well be holding her?
Not that what she wanted, or didn’t want, mattered anyway, because Dillon might never forgive her for staying away. Or for keeping Ellie a secret. Well, he could damn Craig to hell for that one. Sara had thought, for an entire year, that Dillon had been told.
Heartsick, she finished her shower and was just buttoning her pants when she heard the outer door close. After yanking an olive green T-shirt down over her head, she opened the bathroom door and stepped out.
Her heart nearly stopped as two things hit her at once.
First, a huge, black gun was pointed directly at her.
Second, the man standing less than ten feet away from her was not Dillon. Tall, Hispanic, and fearsome, he had the greedy eyes of a militant drug runner--the same look as the rest of Sanchez’s men.
No.
Sweat beaded on her forehead as every instinct screamed at her to run.
“Welcome to Mexico, Señora Caldwell.”
His thick Spanish accent coiled around her like a snake. The room shifted in and out of focus.
A way out. There had to be a way out. She glanced around, but the man was blocking the doorway. The window was too far away. If she could back into the bathroom and shut the door--but no, he’d break it down or shoot through it.
She was trapped.
She’d have to face him, try to stall somehow until Dillon returned.
But when she looked into the stranger’s eyes, fear faded and rage took over. She’d had enough. “Go ahead. Shoot me. Sanchez will kill you though, because you won’t get his flash drive from a dead woman.”
The gun remained pointed at the center of her chest. “I will get the drive, Señora. And I’m not going to kill you...yet.” He let the implication set in, and leering, took a predatory step toward her. “That man you are with?”
He jerked his chin toward the closed door. “He is nothing. I am much better,” he whispered, and took another step closer. “Come, let me show you what a real man feels like.”