Deadly Promises (18 page)

Fourteen

“Hey, sugar. Got a cup of coffee for a thirsty man?”

Carrie looked around her computer monitor to see Wyatt Savage standing in her office doorway. During the past two weeks she’d gotten used to his impromptu visits. Since Sophie was a patient here, Wyatt spent most of every day at the hospital with her, but he often popped in to say hello.

“Pot’s on. Help yourself.”

She’d been home from Jakarta for fourteen days now, and life had remained as gray and dismal as the weather. As fate would have it, the rain had followed her from Jakarta to Georgia and hadn’t let up yet. She hadn’t seen the sunshine since she’d been back.

“How’s Sophie doing today?” she asked as Wyatt helped himself to coffee from the fresh pot she kept on the credenza beside her desk.

Carrie had been shocked to learn that Sophie had been admitted to the hospital the same day she’d left for Myanmar. While it had been touch and go for a while, as of yesterday both Sophie and the baby were in stable condition.

“She’s doing great.” Wyatt sat on the leather easy chair across from her desk. “So’s the baby. The doctors are thinking she’ll make it to full term now. They may even release her by the end of the week.”

“Oh, Wyatt, that’s wonderful news.” Carrie smiled at her friend. Between worrying about Sophie and the baby and concern over her, he’d been a wreck when she’d returned. It had taken him a couple of days to tune in to her somber mood, and he’d chalked it up to her harrowing ordeal. But it hadn’t taken long for him to put two and two together and realize there was something more going on.

“So how are
you
doing?” he asked over the steam rising from the cup.

“I’m good,” she said meaningfully. “And I don’t want to talk about it.” Her face flushed with embarrassment as she thought about the way she’d fallen apart yesterday.

She’d had a long, grueling day, a “poor me” moment, and Wyatt had caught her with her defenses down. She’d sniveled all over his shoulder about her heartbreak over David Cavanaugh. It had not been her finest hour.

“I’m
good
,” she repeated when he gave her a look that telegraphed concern, skepticism, and pity. Then she glanced out the window. “I’d be a lot better if the sun would come back out.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. “He’s a complicated man.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “Who’s half a world away with a life to live. I’ve got a life, too. A good one, so stop looking at me like my dog died. Go back to your wife and give her a hug for me. I’ve got to tie up this report, then I’m heading home. It’s been a long day.”

“Fine. I get it. I’ll butt out.” He rose, his kind eyes assessing. “But if you ever want to talk…”

“I did enough of that yesterday. Now go. I’m fine.”

She was still trying to convince herself of that when she pulled into her driveway an hour later. The drizzle had transitioned to a steady rain, so she gathered her purse and laptop and sprinted for the door.

“Come on, come on,” she muttered as she dug into the bowels of her purse for her house keys, trying to keep from dropping her laptop.

“Can I help you with that?”

Her head flew up.

And there he was.

The man who had haunted her days and kept her awake at night.

She simply stared incapable of speech as he relieved her of the laptop.

“I don’t know about you” he said with a trademark David Cavanaugh smile, “but I’m getting a little wet.”

Yeah. He was. So was she. She didn’t care. “What… what are you doing here?”

He smiled. “Getting wet. But we already covered that.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry. Hold on.” Her hands were shaking as she dug back into her purse and finally came up with the elusive keys.

“Damn it!” she swore, almost dropping them when she couldn’t make her fingers work.

A big hand covered hers. “Let me help.”

She let him take the keys. Then she just stood there, staring at his beautiful, hard, amazing face, trying to come to grips with the fact that he was here, in Georgia, on her porch.

He calmly inserted the key in the lock, turned it, and swung the door open.

“Carrie?”

She blinked. Lifted a hand. “Go on in.”

He motioned for her to lead the way.

Her legs felt wooden as she stepped into the small foyer. Her heart beat like crazy. And though it was a muggy eighty degrees outside, she shivered in her wet clothes as the door closed behind her.

“Pretty dress,” he said from behind her.

“I… um… thanks.” It
was
a pretty dress. It was a sleeveless, summery yellow linen, and why they were talking about it was beyond her.

Apparently
any
semblance of rational thought was beyond her, because she couldn’t come up with a single thing to say to him that didn’t start and end with her begging him to stay. Only pride kept her from doing that.

“How are you, Carrie?”

She walked across the foyer, set her purse on a small table, and after drawing a steadying breath, turned back to him. He looked so big standing there in her little house. Big and imposing and uncomfortable as he held out her laptop. And wet. His hair was wet. His shirt was wet and plastered to his skin. And why, oh why, was he here?

“I’m okay.” She took the laptop, then set it down beside her purse. “You… you look good.”

He looked fantastic in dark dress pants and a pale blue silk shirt that was open at the throat. She could see his pulse beating there, and suddenly she was swamped by a memory of her lips pressed there, where he’d been hot and salty and vital.

“Let me get you a towel.” She took off like a shot, because if she stood there one moment longer she was going to do something stupid. Like fly into his arms. Like kiss him until they were both senseless and show him exactly how desperate she was to keep him here. Right here, where he couldn’t possibly want to stay.

In the hallway that separated the living area from the bedrooms, she flattened her palms against the wall and leaned back against it. She closed her eyes, made herself draw a deep breath, willed herself to get it the hell together.

“Carrie.”

Her eyes flew open. He stood right in front of her, his dark eyes steady and unblinking on her face. His big body close and moving closer. “I don’t need a towel.”

His mouth was a shallow breath away. Heat pulsed off of him like a heartbeat.

“N-no towel?”

He shook his head, brushed his nose against hers. “No. What I need is you.”

“Oh, God,” she sobbed and flew into his arms.

She didn’t care anymore that she should exercise caution. And when his mouth slammed over hers in a kiss of desperation and desire, she knew he felt the same way.

He lifted his head long enough to murmur, “Bedroom,” against her lips before taking her under again with a blistering kiss that stole what was left of her breath.

They managed to stumble down the hall, fumbling with buttons and zippers before falling onto her bed. Naked. Hungry. Beyond greedy for the feel of skin on skin, his mouth on her breast, his hands in her hair, his body pressing hers into the bed.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against her breast, his breath hot and damp on her nipple. “I’m sorry I let you go. I’m sorry I hurt you.”

She choked out a sob, a memory of the pain of losing him, and embraced the reality of now. He was here now. He was hers now. And there wasn’t any pain. Only deep, penetrating pleasure.

She arched against him, reveling in his weight and his heat and his passion as he parted her thighs and entered her on a long, deep stroke.

She cried out with wonder as he led her to a rich orgasm that shot through her like a fire that an entire year of rain could never douse.

Trembling, clinging, crying, she rode the stunning wave while he pumped into her one last time, then collapsed as his own release ripped through him.

I
T WAS DARK
by the time Cav roused himself enough to realize he was alone in the bed. A dim light glowed from the top of a chest of drawers across the room.

He rolled over to his back, willed the fatigue away, and indulged himself in his surroundings. Soft greens, pale, pale blues. Cloud whites. The woman knew how to create a serene, peaceful haven.

Ultimately, that’s what he’d come here searching for. A safe haven in the arms of this woman he loved.

“You’re awake.”

He glanced toward the doorway and felt both arousal and gratitude when he saw her standing there. Her pretty blond hair was a mess and he felt a swell of pride that he’d been the one to mess it up. To mess
her
up. Her lips were swollen. Her eyes were slumberous and dark.

She was wearing his shirt. One button buttoned, falling off her left shoulder. It had never looked better.

He held out a hand. She crossed the room, took it, and sat on the mattress by his hip. He lifted their linked hands and studied the fit of their entwined fingers before shifting his gaze and searching her face.

Her beautiful, open face.

She was uncertain about what would happen next. And she was edgy with it.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, because she needed to hear it, he needed to say it, and because it was true.

She closed her eyes and lowered her head, but not before he saw a tear trail down her cheek.

“Come ’ere,” he whispered and tugged her down beside him.

He wrapped her in his arms and held her while she cried.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured against the silk of her hair.

“I don’t know why I’m doing this.” She sounded embarrassed and angry at herself.

He knew why. And it broke his heart.

“I’m not usually such a weenie.”

“Sweetheart.” He squeezed her hard. “I know what you’re made of. You don’t have to apologize for anything. But I do.”

She sat up and wiped her eyes. He scooted over so she could sit cross-legged beside him, the tails of his shirt tucked between her legs.

“I didn’t think I was ever going to see you again.” She looked down at the cuff of his shirt, which hung well past her fingertips.

“That was the original plan.” He reached for an extra pillow and propped it behind his head.

“But you changed your mind.”

Hands crossed behind his head, he stared at the ceiling. “I’m not sure I’m going to be any good at this,” he admitted. “At being the man you need. At being the man I need to be. For you. And for me.”

“Cav—”

He cut her off with a shake of his head. “You need to know up front what you’re getting into, Carrie.”

More than that, he needed to tell her.

“My old man was career military,” he said after the long moment it took for him to decide to just tell it like it was. “Loved the army, his booze, and his family, in that order. He was a good man. Just didn’t always have his priorities straight, you know? He always figured he’d die in action, but in the end it was the booze that got him.”

He glanced at her, then away, and went on before he lost his nerve.

“Look, I don’t want this to come out like the ramblings of a poor, neglected army-brat son of an alcoholic. It wasn’t that way. I admired him. Even though I knew where I stood on his food chain. And it was okay. It set my career course.”

He glanced at her again, half expecting her to ask, but she didn’t. Another measure of her intelligence and sensitivity. She knew instinctively that he had to tell this in his own time, his own way.

“I was CIA,” he said, knowing those three little letters were right now painting a picture in her mind of shadowy warriors pushing the envelope of diplomacy and international law.

“We’re not everything the novelists and journalists would have you believe we are. We don’t do all the things you might have been led to believe we’ve done.”

“You save lives,” she said simply. “You serve your country.”

He swallowed, humbled by her absolute, unquestioning belief in his motives and integrity.

“Yeah,” he said. “All that.”

He looked at her then. “It… it takes a toll after a while.”

“How could it not?”

He firmed his lips, looked away. This was the hard part. “Service to country isn’t all I inherited from the old man,” he finally admitted.

She was quiet for a while. “You said he was an alcoholic.”

“Yeah.” He looked back at her. She watched him with quiet eyes, no judgment. “And I don’t want to be.”

Her gaze held his, steady and unwavering in the face of what he hadn’t said. That he had a problem. That he wanted to fix it.

“That’s why I resigned,” he clarified, and even now he felt the weight of that decision and the shock wave that had rippled through the chain of command. “I’ve developed an unhealthy relationship with scotch over the years.”

“To help you cope.”

And to help him forget. “I don’t want to use that crutch anymore. I
can’t
use that crutch anymore.”

“Then you won’t,” she said simply.

He smiled, feeling cynical and weary. “You don’t know me well enough to know that. And I don’t deserve that much credit.”

“This is what I know.” She reached for his hand and folded it between both of hers. “I know that I love you. I know that for you to open up to me this way, you love me, too.”

“I do.” He reached for her and pulled her down until her mouth was a breath away from his. “I do love you. More than life.”

“Damn,” she whispered against his mouth. “I’m going to cry again.”

And he was going to spend the rest of his life making sure she didn’t ever have a reason to cry again.

“S
O WHAT TOOK
you so long?” Carrie teased as she wiped her hands on a napkin.

They were naked in the middle of her bed. Still working on slaking their desire for each other, refortifying their energy with a bucket of take-out chicken.

“To come for you? The guys and I had a little unfinished business to tend to.” Cav set the bucket aside.

She settled into his arms like he’d had a place for her there forever. “The guys?”

“Reed, Green, Colter, and Black.”

Her eyes went all soft and adoring. “You went back to the mines.”

“I told you I wouldn’t forget about those people.”