Distinguished Service & Every Move You Make (Uniformly Hot!) (14 page)

It looked like this guy fell solidly into that category.

And he had neither the time nor the patience for it right now.

He only wanted to talk to Geneva.

He checked his cell phone again.

Nothing.

The security guard was talking about having seen the two attempts on Norman’s life on TV when Mace decided to walk to his car. He waved a hand and said, “Sorry, I must be wrong. She’s not home. I’ll try again later. Good night.”

The officer blinked at him then offered a surprised greeting in return, backing up to allow him exit.

Mace took it, trying like hell to figure out what he should do. Or if, in fact, there was anything he could do…

His cell phone rang.

He nearly hit a parked vehicle in his rush to retrieve it from the passenger’s seat where he’d tossed it.

“Hello, Geneva?”

“No. It’s Dari, Mace. I’ve got some information you might be interested in knowing…”

25

6:00
A
.
M
.

Geneva’s cell alarm went off, loud enough to wake her. But she wasn’t asleep. She still lay on the couch, in the dark, dawn still a ways away.

Mace even farther.

Right now he was on his transport out.

She hadn’t heard from him after his final text last night. Those last three words would remain with her always. Words she felt and returned with all her heart.

I love you.

He was gone.

She’d expected the knowledge to somehow make her feel better; now the healing could begin. It didn’t. Instead she felt oddly…numb. Empty. Not just like a gas tank that could be refilled, but hollow, the space gaping wide and exposed to the elements.

She looked down at where she rubbed her belly, issuing a silent apology to the life growing within her. She’d been impulsive and selfish and was now paying the price. It would have been fine had she been the only one affected. But she wasn’t. Not anymore.

She told herself she should get up, eat something, make an effort to rejoin the land of the living. But she couldn’t seem to find the energy to do more than stare at the ceiling and hope the coming sunrise would help her do what she needed to do. Which was go on…

* * *

H
E
HAD
HIS
MAN
…

Mace stood on the other side of the interrogation room watching as Thomas Michael Newsome sat back in the uncomfortable chair, looking a little too comfortable in his handcuffs and leg shackles.

Then again, he should, shouldn’t he? Because this wasn’t the first time Newsome had found himself in such a situation. And he didn’t think it would be the last.

“Attorney,” the twenty-nine-year-old with a covert military-op résumé as thick as Mace’s penis said.

“9/11,” Mace answered, meaning in the wake of the tragic event, local law enforcement could brand a suspect as a possible terrorist and hold him for as long as they wanted.

Despite Dari’s recommendation to leave the Norman incidents behind and allow law enforcement to take it from there, he’d acted on the information he recovered from the motel room. Calls had been returned, more specifically, Lazarus partner and old friend Lincoln Williams had contacted Dari with the information he was looking for. Being connected with military intelligence and the FBI, Linc could tap into resources others couldn’t.

In this case, the reason why Newsome’s prints hadn’t turned up on any nationwide criminal database wasn’t because he’d never been arrested, but because he was a military gun for hire and some powers-that-be intended to keep his misdeeds covered so they could use him at will.

Only neither Newsome nor his contractors had anticipated he’d shoot the wrong gun at the wrong time.

Even if it had been at the right person.

The familiar phone number Mace had found at the motel had been the private contact number to Norman’s head of security.

Meaning Newsome had been directly hired to perform a job. And if Mace was right, and he fully believed he was, Norman’s men had arranged for the attempts against Norman. Why? Most likely to boost his national ratings and perhaps put him on the short list of presidential candidates for the next election.

Hell, for all he knew, Norman himself was behind the ruse.

Unfortunately for them, they’d done it under Mace’s watch and two men were injured; he wasn’t about to let this one slide. While he didn’t expect to pin anything on Norman himself, Newsome’s capture and the gossip that was sure to leak—he’d see to it—would be enough of a damaging bruise to give him a permanent limp when it came to any future political plans.

And Newsome himself would be out of commission. If not literally, figuratively, because he was now solidly on the radar, no longer operating in the shadows. And Mace intended to keep him that way.

He found himself checking his cell phone. Still nothing from Geneva.

He rubbed his face and nodded at where the police detective who’d allowed him access to the suspect held up three fingers, indicating his time was almost up. He hadn’t fooled himself into believing for a second that he’d get Newsome to talk. Men like him were born without tongues. But it was enough for him to know he’d cracked the case, even if he hadn’t been under any obligation to do so.

He was nobody’s fool.

His cell phone vibrated. He took it out and checked it. He knew a spark of hope when he read he had a text from Geneva.

Take care of yourself…

A part of him stung at the obvious goodbye.

But a bigger part of him knew any contact at all was a good thing.

Even if she believed he was on that transport and couldn’t follow up on it.

Especially because she believed he was on that transport.

Without another word, he passed Newsome and rapped on the security door.

He was done here.

* * *

T
HE
ART
OF
MASS
DISTRACTION
.

Geneva hadn’t mastered it. But it was proving to be helpful in at last getting her off the couch and at least appearing to be normal, although she felt anything but.

She’d considered calling in sick for the brunch crowd, but decided engaging in some sort of activity that didn’t include a great deal of thinking would help.

Of course, she’d completely forgotten the smiling part.

That combined with her paleness, due to lack of sleep and eating, had garnered her more than a few unwelcome inquiries regarding her health and that of the baby.

But each had been easily avoided…or maybe it was her uncommunicativeness that had kept people at bay, no matter how well-meaning.

Now, nearly twelve hours later after a long, busy day, she felt sufficiently tired enough to sleep. And she’d forced herself to eat at least a little on two occasions.

The best thing was she hadn’t cried.

Well, except for that one time when Trudy had shown her the photo of Mace accepting his Navy Cross that was featured in the local news section of the newspaper.

She’d rushed to the bathroom and stayed in a stall for fifteen minutes. After ten, Tiffany had surprised her by sticking a box of tissues under the door and asking if there was anything she could do. The demonstration of human kindness from someone who seemed to operate on a deficit of it had been enough to help her rebalance herself and get back to the diner floor.

Now, however, it was after ten and the last customer had finally departed, leaving her and Trudy and Mel. She bussed the final table then went back into the kitchen, saying something to Mel as she went. Only he wasn’t there. And he appeared to have left entirely—his grill jacket hanging neatly on its wall hook—without saying goodbye.

That was odd.

She peered out the window looking for Trudy. “Everything okay with Mel?” she asked.

No answer.

She frowned, not finding Trudy either.

Doubly odd.

She leaned her hands against the counter and closed her eyes. They had probably said goodnight, but she was so out of it, she hadn’t registered it.

She reached behind her to untie her apron when she heard the strains of a familiar song: B17.

She left her apron untied and rushed into the other room.

“Please, no, don’t play that.”

Her words trailed off as she found herself staring at the last person in the world she expected to see.

Mace…

* * *

“S
HOULDN
’
T
THAT
BE
‘Please, mister, please’?”

Mace’s throat was so tight, his mouth so dry at the sight of Geneva looking pale but beautiful, being close enough to touch her again, he was surprised he could think the words much less say them.

She looked like she was caught between fight or flight, a delay likely brought on by her obvious tiredness, which Trudy had mentioned when he’d asked her to empty the place so he could talk to Geneva privately, promising to close up.

“Don’t keep her too long. Girl needs some good, solid rest…and not just for herself,” Trudy had said.

There had been more in her stern stare, but she’d kept any other advice to herself and agreed to do as he asked. He took that as a further good sign he was doing the right thing.

His gaze went to Geneva’s still-flat belly and the way the open apron hung from her, giving the illusion of fullness that hinted at what she might look like in the next few months…which was stunning. In the best possible way.

He was amazed he’d allowed fear to rule his actions, however briefly. But having a child in his life, well, it wasn’t a contingency for which he’d ever prepared.

He only wished he could have muddled through it with Geneva rather than let it chase him away from her, cause her the pain he even now viewed as smudges under her unusually bright eyes.

He knew he only had a few more seconds before she fled. But the words he wanted to say to her scrambled like mice into the corner now that he was standing before her.

“I deserve to be taken to the woodshed and given a few good whacks,” he said quietly even as the song played.

She remained silent.

The song ended and she looked toward the jukebox. He still had two additional selections to make.

“No,” she said quietly. “Both of us are to blame.”

Blame?

His stomach pitched five feet below floor level. Was there no hope of her forgiving him? Of grabbing what they were feeling and seeing where it took them?

Was she determined that they were over?

God, he hoped not.

“I prefer to think we’re both to credit.”

That brought her gaze back to him and he glimpsed a spark of hope in her eyes that nearly knocked him to his knees.

He couldn’t resist going to her, enveloping her in his arms, a place he had feared he’d never have her again, a place he wanted to keep her forever.

“I’ve been so very, very stupid, Geneva,” he whispered into her ear, breathing in the scent of her, absorbing her warmth and sweetness and wanting her so completely he ached with it. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m sorry for ever having hurt you.”

He made out her unwitting, soggy reply and drew back, holding her head still in his hands.

“Please, do you think you can ever find a way to forgive me?”

Thankfully she gazed back into his eyes rather than trying to avoid them.

“You…” he began, searching for words. No, he didn’t have to search. They were all right there. It was choosing the right ones when there were really no wrong ones.

Damn. Why did this have to be so hard?

“You, Geneva, are incredible.” She was that squared. “You’re the most amazing woman, no, person I’ve ever met.” He’d never uttered anything truer. “You’re smart and funny, beautiful and thoughtful…” He swallowed hard. “And sexier than hell. Not a moment goes by that I don’t want to make love with you, bury myself deep inside you…”

She cleared her throat. “That’s sex. It’ll pass…”

He slowly shook his head. “No, that’s not sex. Sex we can get anywhere. This…” He rubbed his thumbs against her soft skin. “This is about so much more. And you know it.”

“Do I? I’m not so sure…”

“If it was just about sex, you would have let me into your apartment last night so we could have some.”

He glimpsed a shadow of a smile. “Maybe I was tired.”

“Maybe you were hurting because of something stupid I said or did, which further demonstrates this is…”

“Shh…” She put her hand over his mouth, effectively hushing him.

When he remained silent, she moved her fingers to trail along his cheek.

“It appears I’m not the only one who got hurt…” she said.

He smiled sadly at that. “Yeah. Call me a coward, but I’d take a full-on assault from an entire enemy battalion over how I’ve felt the past two days. Any time.”

Her eyes softened.

“Tell me, Geneva. Is that just sex?”

She didn’t respond immediately. Finally, she shook her head.

He drew her close again and she sighed against him. He couldn’t help feeling like the luckiest guy ever born. Not only because she was in his arms, but because she was giving him another chance. And he was determined not to blow it this time.

“Shouldn’t you be somewhere in the Middle East right now?” she whispered, her hands trailing up and down his back, her cheek resting on his shoulder.

He took a deep breath. “Probably. But I figured if I had to accept that medal, well, I’d be damned if I didn’t cash it in for something important.”

She drew back to look at him. “What do you mean?”

He smoothed his hands over her hair then held her still as he leaned in for a kiss. She kissed him back.

“It means I’m not going anywhere. Not today…” He kissed her. “Not tomorrow.” He kissed her again. “Not the day after that.” He kissed her again. “I’m going to serve out my remaining six months here. Then I’m going to sign on with Darius at Lazarus…”

She looked confused. “I don’t understand…”

Holding her gaze, he leaned in again for another kiss. “You will, Geneva. You will.” He backed her up toward the jukebox and made his selection while maintaining his hold on her. Elvis’s rendition of “Fools Rush In” began playing.

“Now,” he whispered into her ear. “Tell me you love me.”

He trapped her gasp in her mouth by kissing her.

“Tell me…”

He kissed her again until he felt her shiver and sigh against him.

“I love you…”

Her words were barely audible, but they were enough to make him feel like he’d been propelled into the stratosphere.

He smiled at her and her answering smile caused something monumental to shift within him.

“May I have this dance, Geneva Davis?”

“Yes, Mace Harrison, you may.”

As he gently swayed with her close to him, his mind filling with doing much more, he hoped the dance lasted for a long, long time, indeed….

* * * * *