Make Mine a Marine (25 page)

Not that she didn't love teaching.

Her students were her life. Her work was more than just a job. She was an expedition leader, a tour guide who led her students through life, helping them discover knowledge and learn to love history and geography along the way.

So when the flyer came from the Sinclair Foundation offering female students a hands-on adventure in archeology, Sarah had jumped at the chance. She had a particularly bright group of girls in her sophomore geography and junior world history classes this year. She’d submitted their group essay and they won the Sinclair competition.

Couldn't the town see the honor they'd earned? Not allowing those girls to go would be a slap in the face to their accomplishment. Too many times in Sarah's career, she'd seen girls' programs overshadowed by boys', and sports programs emphasized over academics. This was their chance to shine.

It was
her
chance.

And no big, taciturn Indian growling dire warnings in a voice so soft and low it made her nerve endings tingle was going to spoil that chance for her.

She lifted her shoulders in another deep breath and started across the emptying parking lot, keys in hand. She'd dreamed herself out of Kansas so many times, she'd lost count. Every time she'd had the chance to make those dreams a reality, fate stepped in and forced her to stay.

First it was her mother's terminal illness. Then her father's death. As an only child in her generation of the family, the care of her maiden aunts, Millie and Doris, had become her responsibility. And as they aged, their demands on Sarah's time increased.

Soon she'd be trapped in this town forever.

She'd put her desires and goals aside for others her entire adult life, escaping only through her books. She thought Walter Kensit had offered her a way out, a chance to see the world firsthand. But that, too, had been only a dream. Not a dream, she corrected herself. An all-too-painful reality lesson.

Reason enough to forgo ladylike acquiescence and publicly speak out in support of the trip. More than enough reason to defy Millie and Doris. To turn her back on Walter. To ignore that…that… Mr. Echohawk.

"Sarah."

She stopped in her tracks and cringed at the sight of Walter leaning against the side of her car. He unfolded his arms and straightened, approaching her when she refused to come any closer. Six feet of Ivy League grooming, from the ruffled waves of his wheat blond hair to the polished tips of his leather penny loafers.

He was a handsome man, she thought absently. Chiseled features, trim body. A well-established insurance man with the ability to charm money out of the pocket of a miser. His natural grace and intelligence had charmed her easily enough.

She'd been such a fool. Such a stupid, gullible fool to have risked her heart on him.

"Walter." She crossed her arms in a defensive posture and sidled away when he touched her elbow. He spread his hands, palms-up, in mock surrender.

"Sarah, sweetie, I'm sorry tonight was so rough on you." He flashed her a boyish smile. "I did try to warn you, though. Folks just don't think what you're planning is safe or proper."

How could she ever have been taken in by that slick used-car-salesman expression on his face? Walter didn't exactly lie. But he knew how to skew the truth in such a way that a lie would be preferable.

"We're going, Walter," she said, dismissing him. She scooted around him toward her car. When his fingers closed around her elbow, she jerked her arm away, hating herself for betraying how easily he could make her lose her cool. "You had no right to put a school issue up for a community vote like that. Nonetheless, the people sided with me."

"By a narrow margin."

"It doesn't matter. We're going." She inserted her key into the door lock, but Walter grabbed her wrist and spun her around, backing her up against the door and pinning her there with his body.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Sarah. Stay here and let me take care of you. I can make a few phone calls and this whole thing will be forgotten. Think of your reputation. You may even have put your job on the line with this reckless behavior. You don't want to be known as a rabble-rouser."

"A rabble-rouser?" Sarah flashed back over her thirty-four years and tried to think of one instance when good manners and her natural shyness hadn't kept her from causing trouble. She drew a bland, sterile blank. She didn't know whether to be proud of or embarrassed by such an unremarkable, pristine history.

Shaking aside the internal debate, she argued, "I'm trying to enrich my students' education. I hardly deserve to be branded with a scarlet letter!"

"I know that, sweetie. But your family's good name… “He let the implication hang in the air like a humiliating fact. Walter traced her cheekbone with his index finger, a gesture meant to be tender.

His line was as smooth as his caress. But it was too practiced, she realized now. A show of light and mirrors without any substance to make it real.

How could he think she'd want this now? She'd been so curious when they'd first started dating. So embarrassingly eager to have him teach her about things a man and woman could share. But now...

Sarah slapped his hand away and pushed against his chest. He leaned back, but the angle only thrust his lower body closer to hers. He smiled down at her as if he knew the self-conscious discomfort this intimacy caused her.

But Sarah wouldn't show him that satisfaction. Since physical force hadn't worked, she resorted to a useful old standby—sarcasm.

"How can you stand to even touch me, Wally?" She performed her best bimbo impersonation before getting seriously annoyed with him. "I thought I wasn't woman enough for you."

"I could make you that way. I can teach you everything you need to know to make me happy." Walter rocked his hips against hers in a mocking display of male prowess that disgusted rather than frightened her. "Get over your prudishness and come back to me."

Sarah tilted her chin up in defiance of his mocking seduction. "I'm not leaving to get even with you. Don't flatter yourself and make this personal."

"Those ancient civilizations you keep harping about—they used to make virgin sacrifices, didn't they?" He leaned in and nuzzled her ear with an intimate whisper. "Are you sure you'll be safe there?"

"Damn it, Walter!" She swung her hand up, aiming for his face.

But he caught her wrist before the slap connected and laughed. "That's what I like to see. A little fire."

With that outlet thwarted, she twisted her body, battling to get away from him.

"That's it, sweetie. You fight me. One on one."  Then the charm bled from his voice, stilling her struggles with an unmistakable threat. "But not in public."

He returned his attention to her ear, running his damp tongue around its outer shell. An uncontrollable rush of panic replaced her frustrated irritation. "Walter, don’t." Her voice dropped to a husky plea.

"Miss McCormick, are you all right?" A shadow materialized out of the darkness.

A big shadow.

Walter released her, but retreated only a few inches to glance over his shoulder at the intrusion. Sarah held herself flush against the door, paralyzed by the flood of relief washing through her. That relief was tempered by wariness as the shadow took shape in the pool of light cast by the street lamp next to her car.

Darkness from darkness, she thought.

Mr. Echohawk's voice was polite, conversational, but incredibly deep. More than a low-pitched baritone. The timbre of his voice rang clear and true from the hollows of his deep chest and broad face. Defined by high cheekbones and a powerful jaw, his craggy face revealed no expression beyond casual curiosity.

Yet his presence kept Walter at bay, and for that she was grateful. She brushed at a strand of hair that wasn't really out of place and offered a shaky smile. "Mr. Kensit and I were discussing my field trip to the Caribbean."

Mr. Echohawk looked down the straight line of his nose at her. Sarah squinted, trying to return his gaze. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but his eyes seemed unnaturally dark. Midnight. Obsidian. Coal. None of those seemed to fit the absolute darkness there. It was as if his eyes absorbed the light instead of reflecting it.

Before her staring became rude, she blinked and turned her head. When she glanced up again, he was looking at Walter.

"There's no trouble, Echohawk." Walter flashed a cool smile and inclined his head toward Sarah. "We had a slight disagreement, but I think we worked it out."

The Indian made no comment. He made no reaction whatsoever to Walter's timeless man-to-man, I-can-handle-my-woman wink.

And as much as Echohawk's strange demeanor intrigued her, it infuriated Walter. His smile eroded into a sneering curl of his upper lip. Walter wasn't used to making a concession, but the unbudging presence of her rescuer left him with little choice but to make a graceful exit.

"I'll call you in the morning," said Walter. She turned her head away when he leaned in to kiss her, and, after hovering a brief moment, he settled for a peck on her cheek.

When Walter had pulled back to a respectful distance, he smiled at the Indian again. "Nice try in there. But I'm afraid even your firsthand account of life on Isla Tenebrosa isn't enough to sway Miss Prim and Proper here. Maybe you can talk some sense into her. See if you can keep her here at home, where she belongs."

Walter sauntered off toward his car. Sarah didn't breathe easily until she heard an engine turn over and saw his black Seville drive out of the parking lot. Only then did she take in a complete lungful of air.

"Thank you, Mr. Echohawk," she said as graciously as she could with a delayed set of nerves sweeping through her and making her jittery "That was a bit awkward, wasn't it?"

He shifted on his feet, and the tiny movement seemed to break the tension in the air. He waited until she had unlocked the door, and then he held it open for her. "You have to tell a man like that straight out if you don't want him to touch you, Miss McCormick."

Sarah walked into the vee formed by the open door of the car and tossed her purse onto the passenger seat. "Walter is a gentleman. He wouldn't do anything to hurt me."

"A gentleman doesn't lie in wait and then trap a woman against her car."

Sarah froze before climbing in.
Lie in wait?

How did he know Walter had been waiting for her? Just how long had Mr. Echohawk been lurking in the shadows? How much had he heard?

A shiver of realization trickled down her spine. Maybe her relief had been premature.

The man on the opposite side of the door from her stood three or four inches taller than Walter. And judging by the thickness of his arms and the width of his chest, he outweighed the smaller man by a good fifty pounds. His jeans and chambray shirt lacked the polish of Walter's Brooks Brothers suit, giving a rough edge to his wild appearance.

No. Wild wasn't right. Despite the inky waterfall of black hair that flowed past his shoulders, and the exotic coloring and angles of his face, there was nothing out-of-control with this man. The very atmosphere around him seemed to bend to his will, as if he could somehow draw the protons from the atoms, leaving the air charged with his own electrical energy.

Like those darker-than-midnight eyes that absorbed the light.

Sarah blinked and shook her head, discouraging her fanciful imagination. Mr. Echohawk's comment was nothing more than an observation. With his counseling practice, he must have become very adept at reading people's emotions. Heck, it wouldn't require a Ph.D. to figure out that she'd been uncomfortable with Walter's behavior. Anyone happening by could have interpreted the situation just as he had.

"I appreciate your concern." It struck her then that even though this man was bigger, darker, more enigmatic than Walter, she felt less threatened by him. Whereas Walter had used his size and sex to intimidate her, Mr. Echohawk used his masculinity to offer her a shield of gentle protection.

She hadn't dated much. Her male friends were truly that—friends. Walter had been the only "love" of her life, and that had turned out to be a pitiful lesson in just how different she was—how totally unfeminine, unsexy, unfun and unattractive she was to the opposite sex.

To have a man, especially a mature man with the coiled strength and exotic appeal of Mr. Echohawk, go out of his way to make sure she was safe gave her fragile ego a delicate little stroke of courage. And it reminded her of her manners.

"I don't think we've been formally introduced, Mr.…" What was his first name? She tried to recall. Had she ever actually heard it before?
Curious.
"…Echohawk."  She extended her arm over the top of the door to shake his hand. "I'm Sarah McCormick."

He studied her hand as if he wasn't sure what the gesture meant. Or he didn't trust her sincerity. At the moment she thought he had rejected her overture of friendship and started to withdraw her hand, he captured her fingers in his. He had the callused grip of a working-class man. His touch was firm, warm.

She was mesmerized by the contrast between him and Walter. Her hand looked small and delicate wrapped in his—and as creamy white as a daylily next to the coppery hue of his skin.