Freefall (13 page)

Telling himself that it still beat being in the middle of a firefight in the streets of Ramadi, Nate decided to drive out to Cleo's house again. Just to get a feel for the scene and to see if there might be something he'd missed the first time.

Because what the Honeycutts might consider casual had always been more formal than the definition used by most of the population, especially here on the island, Sabrina chose a simple sleeveless peach silk shift that belted low on the hip and, as an outward show of exuberance that she was a long way from feeling, put on a dangly pair of earrings.

She frowned as she studied her reflection in the dressing table mirror.

"Too sharp."

The French braid that had appeared both tidy and sophisticated in Florence only served to accentuate the prominent angles in her face, drawing attention to her recent weight loss. She brushed her hair loose, allowing it to fall over her shoulders, softening her features.

Still with time to spare, she walked from room to room, weaving around tables cluttered with Lucie's collectibles and yet more open cardboard boxes, experiencing a flood of memories.

The library was crowded floor to ceiling with books. And not just for show, either. Sabrina knew for a fact that Lucie had read every book in this room. At least once.

She'd always had an open mind, been an eclectic reader. Best-selling thrillers shared space with leather-bound first editions and stacks of well-read paperback romance novels that had given Sabrina her first insight into how love might be between a man and a woman.

Her parents' marriage had certainly been filled with explosive passion, but from what she'd seen, it leaned more toward shouting and door slamming than the long, lingering kisses described in the paperbacks. Just reading about them could curl a teenage girl's toes.

And obviously her grandfather hadn't felt any of that grand, forever-after devotion shared by the couples between those glossy covers, or he wouldn't have deserted his wife.

Not wanting to dwell on negative thoughts, she moved through the double pocket doors at the far end of the library and into the music room.

The gleaming Steinway grand was, as it had been for as long as Sabrina could remember, topped with silver-framed family photos. It was also too, too silent.

How many hours had she spent practicing her scales and finger exercises while Lucie had sat by the Palladian window in a flowered wing chair, offering enthusiastic encouragement although it was obvious to both pianist and listener that Sabrina's talent for music was several levels sub par.

Looking back on it now, she realized that in her continued efforts to discover an artistic talent, she'd been attempting to find some way to connect with her mother and father. To earn their attention. And, more importantly, their approval.

Unfortunately, while she'd been able to play some simple tunes, her left and right hands had refused to cooperate, which always had her bass notes running a quarter beat behind her treble ones.

Totally tone-deaf, she sang off-key, and while she'd grown up to be able to dash off an articulate e-mail or memo, she obviously hadn't inherited the writing talent that had garnered Lucie a successful career not only as a journalist but as the author of half a dozen nonfiction books about Lowcountry life.

She'd taken drama class in the eighth grade with high hopes, and had even won a speaking role in Thornton Wilder's
Our Town
, but on opening night she got stage fright and forgot her lines. Both of them. Which resulted in her getting replaced by her understudy, an orthodontist's daughter from Greenwich, Connecticut.

As for art, well, a chimpanzee with a fistful of crayons could probably do a better landscape.

At fifteen, she'd been in despair of ever finding a talent when Lucie had pointed out that she simply wasn't opening her eyes.

She was organized to a fault. Dependable. Intelligent, with an almost eidetic memory and an affinity for detail. She easily adapted to new situations and was able to get along with all sorts of disparate personalities, talents that had served her well as she'd moved from school to school, skipping both the second and fourth grades.

Later, as she studied both business and hospitality, Sabrina discovered she was also pretty damn good at getting others to follow her lead. Which was how she'd ended up as the general manager of Paradiso Angeli.

For all of an hour before the bombing.

Shaking off the dark memories that had haunted her sleep last night, she went outside to sit on the veranda swing and wait for the driver Lillian was sending for her.

Her first thought, as the car approached, was he was going awfully fast for a limo driver, leaving a rooster tail of dust behind him.

Her second thought was how many red limos had she seen?

No. Not a limo. A convertible. A very red, very mean-looking convertible.

Driven by—and here was no surprise—Swann Island's very own Navy SEAL.

His hair was windblown, and his arms in the short-sleeved polo shirt he was wearing looked about as massive as the limbs of the ancient oak trees lining the drive-way. His eyes were shielded by lenses the color of black ice.

As he pulled to an amazingly fast stop, considering the fact that he appeared to be driving just short of the speed of sound, her hormones hiked.

"Hey, New York." His smile was slow, easy, meant to charm females from eight to eighty. "Don't you look as cool as an ice cream parfait."

The fire-engine-red driver's door opened. Long legs, wearing creased jeans swiveled out. "And just as tasty."

The rich baritone flowing over her like honey was even more seductive than the smile, making Sabrina realize that if she did decide to pursue Lucie's plan, she was either going to have to insist on Zach's father acting as contractor—which, of course, would only reveal how strongly he affected her—or bring her rebellious hormones under control.

"I thought we'd agreed you'd bring the plans over in the morning."

"I intend to." He was walking toward her in a loose-hipped predatory stride that reminded her of a wolf.

No. Not a wolf. A panther.

For God's sake, get a grip on yourself. He's a man. No different from any other.

And if you believe that, next thing you know, you'll be buying that steel suspension bridge soaring over the Somerset! River.

"Then what are you doing here?"

"Didn't Miss Lillian tell you she'd be sending a driver?"

"Yes, but—" Comprehension came like a lightning bolt from a clear blue sky. "You're working for her, too?"

"I've done some handyman work. Planed a door for her last week that swelled up in all this humidity. But as it happens, she invited me to dinner tonight, too. So, since poor old George's lumbago kicked in again, I volunteered to play chauffeur."

"What a coincidence," she said dryly.

"A lucky one," he agreed, his grin deepening the cleft in his firm, hero's chin.

Although it was ridiculous, Sabrina didn't want to be alone in a car with him. Even more unsettling was the fact that she couldn't decide which of them she didn't quite trust. Zach? Or herself?

"I assured Aunt Lillian that I'm perfectly capable of driving myself to dinner."

"Of course you are," he agreed easily. "But after what happened to you in Italy, it'd only make sense that she'd worry about you."

"I suppose so." She glanced past him at that outrageous car. "What happened to the truck?"

"I save that for work. This is for fun."

"I'd think that the color red would get you more speeding tickets."

"Probably would, in some places. But down in San Diego, cops pretty much gave me a pass. Especially those who were former military. Besides, most guys secretly lust after a Viper, so I think it's a kick for them to get an up-close-and-personal view of one. As for Nate, well, he's got bigger fish to fry right now."

"So Aunt Lillian told me." She picked up her bag from the wicker table beside the swing, along with the bouquet of Stargazer lilies she'd gathered for Lillian from the garden. "It's hard to think of a murder happening here on the island."

He put a hand on the small of her back as they walked toward the car. Since the touch seemed more casual than seductive, she didn't want to draw attention to another hormonal jolt by moving away.

"Harder still to think of three."

That stopped her. She turned and looked up at him, damning the dark glasses that kept her from seeing his eyes. "Are you serious?"

"Murder's nothing to joke about."

"No." Wasn't that what she'd said to herself when Lillian had told her about that poor young woman?

Three murders? How was that possible?

"Are they all women?"

"Two women, if today's news is accurate. And one man."

"Are they connected?"

"I haven't spoken with Nate since the third body was found. But it sounds as if they might be."

"That's so impossible to believe." She shuddered as gooseflesh rose on her arms. Began walking again. "Poor Nate. When this gets out, the press from the mainland is going to be all over this place."

"Like white on rice." He opened the passenger door.

Her espadrille wedges made it even more difficult to slide into the low-slung seat without flashing him.

"You know what I said this morning about your bones being too thin?" he asked after he'd come around the front of the vented hood and climbed into the car's cockpit.

"I seem to recall something about that." And it still irked.

"I was wrong. You've got some pair of pins on you, New York."

Unlike the throaty purr of the European sports cars she was used to hearing, this one had the deep, low dangerous growl of a hungry lion.

"Thank you." She hoped her coolly polite tone belied the renewed tangle of nerves.

"And the way they go all the way up to your neck." He punched the gas. "Gives a guy ideas."

As she wondered exactly how much of her lace panties he'd seen, a mighty surge of acceleration pushed her back against the seat. "A Southern gentleman wouldn't bring that up."

"That may be." He turned his head and skimmed a provocative look over her. "But he'd sure as hell be thinking it. And in the interest of fair warning, I'm no Southern gentleman."

"Gracious." It felt as if they were approaching the speed of sound; wind whipped at her hair. "I never would have noticed that little fact if you hadn't pointed it out to me."

"The lady has an edge after all." A chuckle rumbled from deep in his broad chest. "This could be an interesting summer. You and me working together."

"That hasn't been decided yet."

"Well, I guess I'm going to have to convince you."

"The key word is
working
," she pointed out. "So you may as well quit hitting on me."

"I'm not hitting on you."

"Then what do you call it?" And why, if she didn't want him to, was she disappointed that she might have misread his signals?

His lips quirked as he shot her another quick look.

"Like I said, I'm
thinking
about hitting on you."

"Then I might as well warn you right out, I've never been interested in mindless sex."

Damn. Had that prim, stick-up-her-ass tone come out of her mouth?

"Neither have I."

She snorted at that outrageous claim. He'd been a Navy SEAL, for Pete's sake.

"Believe me, New York, if we do end up in bed, I'm going to want your mind fully engaged." He caught her left hand, laced their fingers together, and squeezed lightly. "At least in the beginning."

Deciding that to pull her hand away would make her seem even more uptight, Sabrina left it where it was. But as they raced through the alley of Spanish moss-draped oaks, turning them into a green blur, she reminded herself, yet again, that she was no longer the naive teenage girl she once had been.

She'd traveled the world. Had sex with lots of men. Well, okay, maybe she could count her lovers on one hand, but still, dealing with all those hot-blooded Italians in Florence had given her a great deal of experience in fending off amorous males.

This former bad boy turned SEAL turned construction worker shouldn't make her stomach flutter and her pulse skip.

He shouldn't.

But, dammit, he did.

Which was one more thing she was going to have to think about.

While Swannsea reflected the eclectic and eccentric tastes of its former owner, Whispering Pines possessed all the ambience of a baronial manor.

Gilt-framed paintings of what Zach supposed were ancestors hung on silk-draped walls. Ornate satin-upholstered furniture rested on a carpet that looked a lot like Zach had seen in one of Saddam Hussein's many palaces. Except the carpet in the Honeycutt library was twice as large.

"Darling! It's so lovely to finally have you back home again where you belong!" Lillian Honeycutt beamed her pleasure from her wheelchair as an elderly African American man clad in a white dinner jacket led Zach and Sabrina into a room paneled in glossy bird's-eye maple.

"It's good to be home," Sabrina said as she bent down and kissed her aunt's cheek. Zach suspected that their hostess's long double string of pearls had cost more than his first car.

"And I'm so glad you could join us as well, Zachariah."

"It was a pleasure to be invited, Miss Lillian," he responded, taking the woman's extended hand and lifting it to his lips in his best Southern gentlemanly manner.

Which caused Sabrina to roll her eyes.

"Well, I, for one, certainly feel better knowing that our Sabrina is in good hands." The older woman turned her smile from Zach to her husband, who was standing next to a wet bar across the room. "Don't you, Harlan?"

"Absolutely," the doctor said. "Any would-be killer foolish enough to tangle with a U.S. Navy SEAL would find himself in serious trouble."

"Former SEAL," Zach felt obliged to point out.

"Doesn't matter. Having served myself, I can say there's no such thing as a former Marine. Which, I suspect, is the same way SEALs view themselves."

"That's pretty much the case," Zach agreed.

"I thought so. What can I get you two to drink?"

"White wine would be fine for me," Sabrina said.

"We've a lovely Sauvignon Blanc that Eugenia and I discovered while shopping along Somersett Harbor the other day," Lillian said.

Sabrina nodded. "That'd be great."

"And for you, Tremayne?"

"Bourbon, if you have it." He hadn't had hard liquor since returning home, but doubting the doctor would have an O'Doul's on tap, Zach decided one glass wouldn't hurt.

"Of course we do." Of course. It was, after all, the South. "Got a fine sipping Jim Beam's Choice, if that's all right?"

"Absolutely, sir."

The Cadillac of bourbons. Zach had paid forty-nine thousand afghanis on the black market for a bottle once the surviving members of the team had made it back to Kabul. Which, at the time, he'd figured was still a bargain for a whiskey that retailed for three hundred bucks back in the States.

After handing Sabrina and his wife their wine, the doctor used a set of sterling silver tongs to take some ice from a silver bucket, put the cubes in a heavy glass, added bitters, and poured the whiskey from a decanter whose cut-crystal pattern matched the old-fashioned glass.

"To having our dear Sabrina back home again," Lillian said, raising her glass in a toast.

"I'll drink to that," Zach said.

The twenty-year-old whiskey was rich and smooth from the wine casks it had been finished in. Unfortunately, the first sip sent an avalanche of memories crashing down on him.

Plan A
—
which had been to land safely, climb the mountain, and call in the bombers to blow up the tango stronghold
—
was shot. Plan B would have been to stay inside, using the helo as shelter, but that wasn't an option, given the flames, because the fuel tank could end up blowing them all sky-high. There were now so many holes in the metal side, Zach figured the helo looked like a giant camouflage-painted colander
.

Which left them with Plan C.

Evacuate the bird before she blew.

The bitch was, things weren't all that much better outside. There were Rangers and Marines scattered about on the ground. Through his goggles, their blood, spattered across the snow, took on an eerie green fluorescent tint.

Too many were not moving. A Marine was sprawled with his boots still on the ramp, his torso in the snow, blood pooling beneath his helmet.

A pair of Rangers huddled beneath the ramp, which made more sense than the strategy of their teammates who were getting picked off like flies as they ran
—
make that waded
—
through the snow. With all the fire, there was no time to dig foxholes
.

If the enemy is in range, so are you.

There is no second place in a gunfight. Winners kill, losers get killed.

With those maxims from SEAL training ringing in his head, Zach stepped over the fallen Marine, then leaped off the ramp.

And
—
damn
—
landed in a drift up to his crotch
.

One of their problems was that Shane had, by necessity, crash-landed the Chinook in a clearing. The good news was that the enemy seemed to be shooting not from a nearby grove of trees but from a hidden bunker dug into the mountain.

Hell, the day his team couldn't take out one enemy bunker was the day Zach would trade his kick-ass cammies for a school crossing guard's uniform back home on Swann Island.

The air was filled with the fruity aroma of cordite and the overwhelming scent of pine oil from the bullet-shredded trees as he charged through the snow, unloading the magazine of his M4 in a continuous burst…

"Are you all right?" murmured a voice that managed to make itself heard through the gunfire and screams of the wounded.

Dragging himself out of the all-too-vivid memory, Zach found himself looking down into a pair of concerned green eyes looking back up at him from beneath furrowed brows.

"Sure. Why?"

"Because you seemed to sort of space out."

He rotated his shoulders, which felt as hard as boulders. Shit. He was royally screwed. Not knowing exactly what had happened, he figured there was no point in lying.

He rubbed the heel of his hand against his chaotic heart. "For how long?"

"Don't worry." Her voice was gentle. Her hand was on his bare arm, her light touch soothing. "It was only a second. And since Uncle Harlan received a phone call at the same time, no one noticed."

Across the room the doctor was talking on a cell phone while his wife looked on, her expression resigned.

"You noticed."

He might be in the library of a Southern mansion, but his blood was still as cold as if he were back in the Afghan mountains. Where, as he continued to hear gunfire, Zach realized a part of him still was.

You. Will. Not. Disintegrate.

"True," she admitted.

He looked for fear in her soulful gaze. Or worse yet, pity. What he thought he saw was, amazingly, understanding.

"But I'm not telling."

Zach considered tossing back the rest of the whiskey he never should have tasted in the first place. Instead, he put the glass down on the inlaid wood table beside the sofa.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

Wouldn't it be cool if it were that easy?

If the entire incident could be dropped.

Gone.

Forgotten.

But Zach knew the chances of that happening were about, oh, a gazillion to one. Because, first of all, Sabrina Swann was a woman, and he'd never met one of her kind yet who didn't want to talk a subject to death.

And second, if he was going to end up working on Swannsea, she had the right to know that sure, he had some problems. But he was getting help for them. And she didn't have to worry about him going postal and shooting everyone on the island.

"Do you have to leave?" Lillian Honeycutt was asking her husband. Her plaintive tone drew Zach's attention back to his host and hostess.

"We've some time," Harlan said soothingly. "This is Becky Wainright's first child, so she and her husband are a little unnerved by the prospect of her giving birth. Her contractions are, so far, very weak and irregular, so I suspect they're merely Braxton Hicks."

"I imagine it's difficult for an inexperienced mother to be able to tell the difference between false labor and the real thing," Lillian said sympathetically.

"Absolutely." Harlan nodded. "I suggested she put something in her stomach—tea and toast—and take a walk. Moving around will often stop the contractions.

"Meanwhile, in the event they are the real deal, or if, as so often happens, the parents panic and go to the hospital, I'll call St. Camillus and let them know they may have a patient showing up tonight."

He turned toward Zach. "If you wouldn't mind escorting my wife into the dining room, I'll join you as soon as I take care of this."

"It would be my pleasure, sir," Zach said.

Catching Sabrina's knowing look, he had the feeling she knew he'd rather take on an entire terrorist cell than have to sit through an evening of politely inane dinner conversation after that flashback.

"Don't worry," she murmured as he pushed the wheelchair into the dining room. "It'll be over before you know it."

"Yeah," Zach muttered back. "I hear that's what they say about firing squads."