Angel's Rest (16 page)

Maybe Gabe wasn’t as upset as she and Celeste had expected.

Nic retrieved the wrapped gift she’d brought him—one of Sarah’s Black Forest cakes—and made her way up the front steps. She rang the doorbell and waited.

The door swung open. A handful of seconds dragged by like hours as Gabe stood watching her and not speaking. He looked … disturbed. Finally he took a step back, gestured for her to enter, then shut the door behind her, all without saying a word.

Nic gazed around the great room, and her hackles
went up. A hidden stereo played instrumental carols. Lights blinked and bubbled on a ten-foot-tall spruce standing before the wall of windows. Flames danced and logs crackled in the huge stone hearth on the back wall of the great room, and from its mantel hung a pair of stockings. Nic read the names. Mom. Matt.

Something hard and brittle glittered in Gabe Callahan’s eyes. He had a drink in his hand and danger oozed from his pores.

Suddenly Nic felt more like Red Riding Hood than one of Santa’s elves. She licked her dry lips, then held out the package. “Merry Christmas.”

When he didn’t move to take the gift, she set it down on the table beside the door and waited.

A muscle jerked at his temple. Finally, just when she thought he’d never speak, he asked, “Why are you here?”

She smelled the alcohol on his breath. She opened her mouth intending to invite him to Christmas Eve services, but as their gazes caught and held, different words emerged. “I didn’t want you to be alone,” she told him. “
I
don’t want to be alone. It’s Christmas.”

“Christmas,” he repeated after a long moment, the word sounding like a curse on his lips. His gaze never left hers as he tossed back the rest of his drink, then set the empty glass on top of the package she’d brought. “What Christmas is, woman, is hell.”

He moved toward her and she instinctively backed away until the door was at her back. His voice sounded low and gruff and a little slurred as he added, “And I’m feeling like the damned devil himself.”

Then he kissed her.

His mouth was hot and savage, and Nic’s senses reeled. Part of her was frightened. He was bigger than her, stronger than her. They were alone, miles away
from anyone, and Gabe Callahan could do whatever he wanted with her. She was totally at his mercy.

Except she wasn’t afraid. She was … excited.

This was the man who’d rescued a wounded dog from a bear trap. The man who’d put himself at risk to save two boys from a fire. The man who had warmed her feet against his bare stomach.

He would not hurt her. He was missing his family and he needed a human connection. He needed her.

So Nic kissed him back. Her hands moved to his shoulders, and she met his thrusting tongue with her own. He tasted of whiskey and loneliness, of anguish and despair. He was another wounded animal, and in this moment, if only for a moment, she had the power to soothe his pain.

His hands gripped her waist, and he lifted her off the floor and back against the door, pressing his body against hers and holding her aloft.

His kiss was carnal and hungry, and when he finally released her mouth, it was to feast at her neck. She felt the scrape of his teeth against her skin, and skitters of pleasure assaulted her. Nic arched her neck, gasped for breath, closed her eyes, and gave herself up to the magic he made.

She needed this, too. She needed to be needed. Greg’s betrayal had damaged her, and she wanted to feel wanted again.

Gabe’s hand cupped her breast, kneading and squeezing, almost too hard, but not quite.

She slipped a little and he yanked her back up, pressing his hips hard against her. His erection felt like steel. His fingers curled around the placket of her oxford shirt and he yanked, sending buttons flying. He ripped her bra, exposing her breast. He lifted it, took her into his mouth, and sucked her hard.

She shuddered. She wrapped her legs around him,
wrapped her arms around him, and held on for dear life. Nic moaned, long and low in her throat. He answered with a growl.

At some point they slid to the floor and lay atop the braided rug that decorated the entry. At some point he stripped them both naked. Cold rose from the floor beneath her. Heat radiated from the man rising above her. When he plunged into her, Nic was on fire.

He took her fast and hard and rough, his hips pumping, his breathing harsh. Tension built within her as she watched him, wild, angry animal that he was. Eyes closed, he threw back his head, cords of muscle in his neck, shoulders, and arms standing out in hard relief as he drove himself into her, again and again and again.

Her own passion swelled and answered his thrusts. The delicious tension stretched. Grew taut.
Almost. Almost. It’s been so long
.

But even as she hung there at the very edge, he plunged one final time and cried out through gritted teeth. Cried out in pain and found release within her.

Heart pounding and aching for completion, Nic held her breath and watched him. The moment felt dangerous somehow. She didn’t dare to move. On the stereo, Frank Sinatra sang “O Holy Night.”

Slowly Gabe lowered his head. He opened his eyes and looked at her, dazed, as if he didn’t know who she was or where they were. Then, slowly, he focused. The dry, empty pools of brown filled first with pain, then with horror, and finally with tears.

Gabe Callahan wrenched himself out of her, away from her, rolling over onto his back. He flung his forearm over his eyes, breathing hard as if he’d run ten miles. His shoulders shook.

His whole body shuddered. The sound that escaped his lips was the most raw, mournful noise she’d ever heard.

It shook her from her stupor. She sat up. She touched him. Scooted beside him. She gathered his head and shoulders to her breast, rocking softly, saying softly, “It’s okay, Gabe. It’s okay.”

He shuddered silently.

She stroked his back and murmured soothingly, repeating over and over again, “It’s okay.”

He turned and wrapped his arms around her, buried his head against her, and cried harsh sobs that tore from his heart and ripped from his soul. Hot, bitter tears flowed from him like poison. Nic cradled him against her, rocking him, cooing soothing sounds, stroking his head and his shoulders. Her own eyes filled and overflowed.

How long they cried together, she would never know. Two minutes? Ten? Two hours? It was a moment out of time. The most intimate moment she had ever experienced. It was the saddest moment she’d ever known.

Until the afternoon got even sadder, when Gabe finally quieted, when he rolled away from her, turned away, and said in a quiet, raspy voice, “Please leave. I’m sorry. But please. Just leave.”

It hurt, but Nic understood his need to be alone. She wiped off her tears, gathered her clothes, and slipped quietly out into the cold.

The first time Gabe had met Jack Davenport was when he’d sauntered up to his isolated prison cell, announced that he was a colleague of Gabe’s brother Matthew at the CIA, and asked if he was really worth the $3 million ransom Jack had just paid his captors. When Gabe responded that he might not be, but the prisoner in the next cell who wanted to renounce his terrorist ways and reveal some particularly valuable secrets most certainly was, Jack did some quick thinking, scheming, and executing—in both a literal and figurative sense.

By “killing” both John G. Callahan and the recalcitrant terrorist and silencing some of their captors with bullets and others with cash, they had managed to protect the information in such a way that enabled the eventual apprehension of four sleeper cells on American soil and the disruption of terror plots that would have cost thousands of American lives.

Jack Davenport was a true unsung American hero. He was also Gabe Callahan’s best friend. Pam knew that, too, so he wasn’t too terribly surprised to hear the
whoop whoop
of helicopter blades on Christmas Day or to see Davenport land the bird on the helipad next to Eagle’s Way.

Just because he wasn’t surprised that his friend had come, however, didn’t mean he was happy to see him.

Gabe was in a full-fledged funk, and it had nothing to do with the fact that today was Christmas Day. Gabe hadn’t managed to get past the events of Christmas Eve.

A whole soup of emotions flavored his mood. Embarrassment. Anger. Guilt. Shame. Mortification. Guilt. Humiliation. Guilt. Guilt, and more guilt.

He couldn’t believe how he’d acted. He’d all but attacked Nic, ripping her clothes right off her body. He recalled the shock in her eyes. Her tears.

He was a sorry son of a bitch. What he’d done to her was unforgivable. It went against everything he believed, and the only saving grace was that she had responded enthusiastically.

He’d picked up the phone half a dozen times to call her and apologize. He’d picked up his car keys more times than that, thinking to do it in person. Each time he’d chickened out.

What could he say to excuse himself? He’d taken her like an animal, then told her to leave. He simply couldn’t find the words to express his sorrow and his shame.

Which meant he could add coward on top of the other charges stacked against him.

As he watched Davenport power down the bird, he tried to banish all thought of Nicole Sullivan from his mind. The last thing he needed was to spill those particular beans to Jack.

Knowing his friend, he went into the kitchen and put a pot of coffee on to brew. Jack strolled inside a few moments later, and as a way of saying hello, asked, “What do you have to eat in this shack?”

“How about a Denver omelet? Appropriate, wouldn’t you say?” Gabe was finally hungry himself.

“Excellent choice. I’ll chop peppers. You do the onions.”

As Gabe handed over bell peppers from the fridge, he
decided that Jack Davenport must have been born giving orders. A tall man with movie-star looks—Jen used to say that he had no choice but to become a spy because he looked so much like a young Sean Connery—Jack was the definition of a leader of men. Brilliant, decisive, cold-blooded when the situation required, and loyal to a fault, Jack earned the respect of everyone who knew him. Gabe would gladly follow him into any battle.

After breakfast, he followed him into the great room, where Jack sat in an overstuffed easy chair, kicked off his shoes, and crossed his feet at the ankles atop an ottoman. He eyed the boxer, who hadn’t bothered to lift his head off the dog bed Gabe had added to the room’s decor. “Looks like I need to charge you a pet deposit. What’s his name? Lazy?”

“He’s a stray who won’t stay away. Not my place to name him.”

Davenport snorted, then sipped his coffee and sighed with satisfaction. “Eagle’s Way is one of my favorite houses. I should spend more time here.”

“How many houses do you have?”

“Four, domestically. If you count internationally, that brings it up to six.”

“That’s obscene.”

“Hey, you don’t have room to talk. You’re no pauper.”

“I don’t have six houses.”

Jack shrugged. “What can I say? It’s the life of an international playboy.”

Now it was Gabe’s turn to snort. Jack Davenport was the most dedicated, hardworking American patriot Gabe had ever known.

He wondered when Jack would get around to telling him why he’d come to Colorado on Christmas Day. He had no intention of asking. Experience had taught him that Jack Davenport did things at his own pace, and that
the fastest way to get the information he wanted was to keep his mouth shut.

“What can you tell me about Celeste Blessing?” Jack asked.

Okay, he’d surprised Gabe with that. “What do you want to know?”

“I read the local rag. I know about the spa venture and that she talked you into some design work. What sort of person is she? Is she a player?”

Gabe considered the question. “She’s unique,” he finally replied. “I like her a lot. I’ve never seen her be anything but kind. I wouldn’t call her a player, but I do think there is more to her than meets the eye. She claims to be a retired schoolteacher, but she apparently has serious cash. There’s no denying that she’s been a force for good in this town.”

“Interesting.” Jack took another sip of his coffee, then his mouth twisted with a rueful grin. “I can definitely tell you there is more to her than meets the eye. I don’t know whom she knows, but she managed to track me down.”

“You’re kidding.” Gabe was shocked. Jack fiercely protected his privacy. “I didn’t tell her anything.”

Jack waved that away. “Never thought you did.”

“What did she want?”

“She asked if my family had any journals, diaries, or other written documents that might contain clues about the town’s big mystery.”

“The Cellar Bride?” Gabe pursed his lips and nodded. “Smart thinking. Did you have anything?”

“Possibly. I found a stack of letters from Daniel Murphy to my great-great-grandfather. One of them told of a runaway bride. I didn’t look into it any further. My plate is plenty full from dealing with contemporary murders—I don’t have time to concern myself with historical
ones. We’ve had a really sticky situation going on of late with some of your old friends in the Balkans.”