Marine for Hire (16 page)

“They’ve both got bottom teeth coming in,” he said as he turned the car off the main road. “They’re starting to look like jack-o’-lanterns.”

“This is where I confess that I’m glad the breastfeeding thing didn’t work out for me. I wasn’t looking forward to losing a nipple to baby teeth.”

“Why didn’t it work out?”

She glanced at him, surprised he’d asked the question. Sam took in her startled expression, then shrugged. “Sorry. I was just curious, but if you’d rather not—”

“No, it’s okay. All the mothering magazines make it sound so easy. The most natural thing in the world, and so healthy for the baby. But for some women, it just doesn’t work right.”

She saw Sam dart a glance at her chest and she couldn’t stop herself from giving a self-conscious laugh. “I know, I have all the necessary equipment. But I didn’t produce enough milk, and the boys just screamed and turned red and refused to latch on. My lactation coach finally suggested—”

“Lactation coach?”

“I know, it sounds weird.”

“Does she make your breasts do calisthenics?”

Sheri laughed. “No. And she finally agreed that it just doesn’t work for some women. I guess that’s me.”

She shrugged and looked out the window, feeling stupidly self-conscious.

“Is that why you’re always making those comments about not being a normal mom?”

“One of dozens of reasons, really. I love the boys to death. Sometimes I just don’t know that I got the right wiring, that’s all. Then when Jonathan shows up and starts making noise about how I’m not enough for them as a single mom…”

She shrugged, trailing off. Sam shook his head as he turned onto the small side road leading to PMRF. She started to point him toward the correct branch of a fork in the road, but he took it without needing her guidance.

“That’s bullshit,” Sam said. “Don’t let Jonathan’s crap get to you. You’re an amazing mom. Just one of you is worth a dozen of your so-called
normal moms
.” He rolled down his window as they approached the entry gate. “Did you ever think that’s the thing that’ll make you a really excellent mother in the long run?”

“What?”

“The fact that you aren’t some absurd Stepford wife of a mother who follows the imaginary rule book to a tee,” he said. “The fact that you’re not afraid to play in the mud or tell crude jokes or catch bugs. The fact that you can be firm and maternal, but you’re fun, too. That’s something the boys are going to appreciate when they’re older.” He hesitated, glancing away as they approached the entry gate. Then he looked at her again, his blue eyes boring into her. “It’s what I appreciate about you.”

Sheri swallowed hard, her throat suddenly tight with emotion. “Sam, I—”

“Morning, sir. Oh, hello.”

The gate guard approached the car and shook Sam’s hand like they were old friends. Then he nodded at Sheri. “Ma’am, good to see you again.”

Sheri leaned across Sam’s lap and handed over her paperwork. “Morning, Thomas. We’re just here to spend the day at the beach.”

“Of course, Ms. Patton-Price. You know the way?”

“I already have my favorite spot on the beach.”

The man nodded and shuffled through the paperwork. “Okay then. Looks like everything’s in order. I’ll see you when you stop back by on your way out. Have a great day.”

“You too, Thomas.”

“Sir,” he said, nodding at Sam.

Sam adjusted his dark glasses and nodded back. “Mahalo.”

They drove through the gate and continued down the road. Sheri pointed out a few buildings, showing Sam where the family housing areas and skateboard park were as they made their way toward her favorite beach spot.

“You like it here, then,” he said, angling the car into a parking spot.

“Very much.”

“Good. It’s good to have a job you love.”

“Do you love your job?”

Sam grinned and stepped out of the car, stooping down to scoop up Jackson while Sheri bustled around to the other side and unlatched Jeffrey’s carrier from the car seat base.

She looked up to see him watching her with a smile that made her toes curl against her flip-flops. “I love my job more than you could possibly imagine.”

Chapter Eighteen

Once they found their spot on the beach, Sam made three trips back to the car to shuttle towels and coolers and enough baby gear to care for three dozen infants. Finally, he sat back in a beach chair to watch the boys fling sand around with the little green shovels. He was ready to grab them away if either baby looked ready to spoon up a mouthful of it.

“Would you mind if I went for a quick dip in the ocean?” Sheri asked.

He turned to look at her and felt a stir of arousal that was growing all too familiar. “Will that require you stripping down to just a bikini?”

She grinned. “If I say yes, are you going to ogle me as I walk to the water?”

“I’m going to ogle you no matter what.”

“I plan to hold you to that.”

“It won’t be hard. Speaking of hard things—”

She swatted him with a towel and stood up. “We were not speaking of hard things. By the way, did I tell you Mac’s coming to visit again soon?”

“He is?”

Christ
, Sam thought.
He’ll take one look at us and know in an instant we’ve slept together.

“I know what you said this morning about putting it all out there for my brothers, but if you’re not ready—” She bit her lip. “Well, I’m not totally sure I’m ready.”

“No, it’s great,” Sam said, ignoring the dread pooling in his chest. “Can’t wait to see him again. Speaking of things I haven’t seen for a while, why are you still wearing a shirt?”

Sheri laughed and pulled off her top. She wore a bright-red bikini top in sports bra style. More conservative than those stringy styles Sam saw everywhere in Hawaii, but somehow even hotter on Sheri.

“You’re beautiful,” he said without thinking.

“Thank you.” She smiled and stood up. “If all you can do is grope me with your eyes at the moment, then I guess I’d better make it worth your while.”

She shucked her cotton shorts and stood there for a moment with her curves silhouetted against the sun. Her hair was loose and wild, and the low-rise red bikini bottoms showed off her fabulous ass in a way that made Sam grateful he’d opted for loose-fitting swim trunks. “That’s worth every second of the excruciating agony my testicles will be experiencing for the next few hours.”

Sheri laughed and tossed her hair. “You’re such a romantic.” She turned and jogged off down the beach toward the water.

He watched her go, feeling an ache that was nowhere near his balls.

When she was out of sight, he glanced down at her beach bag. He’d seen her slip her phone into the front pocket, so he shoved his hand into it, fishing around for the glittery pink case. He pulled the phone out, glancing back toward the beach to see if she was watching him.

All clear.

Sam hit the power button and saw the new message alert from Jonathan.

Must talk to you. Don’t you want to know who Sam really is?

He frowned and looked back down the beach. She was waist-deep in the ocean, laughing as a soft wave splashed up and hit her in the belly. She turned and smiled at him, waving as the wind tousled her curls.

He waved back, doing his best to hide the phone in his lap.

The instant she turned around, he deleted the message.

…

They stayed at the beach all day, stopping to snack when they got hungry and taking turns watching the boys while the other napped or bodysurfed or explored the beach. It was an easy sort of partnership that made Sam ache to savor it for more than just a couple weeks.

The sun was beginning to drop low in the sky as they packed up their gear.

“I had a really nice time today,” she said. “Thanks for being part of it.”

“My pleasure. I had a great day, too. Toss me that towel over there and I’ll make the first run to the car.”

He’d just stood up with both arms full of gear when an older gentleman approached from the side. He tipped his red-and-white-striped derby hat at Sheri as he slung a fishing pole over one shoulder.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” he said to Sheri. “Nice to see you out here when you’re not too dressed up to enjoy the weather.”

She smiled back, warm and friendly, as a jolt of dread knifed through Sam’s gut. Wasn’t this the guy he’d met during his spy mission to PMRF a week ago? Sam pulled his baseball cap lower, trying his damnedest not to be noticed. Would the old guy remember him? They’d only spoken a few words, but Sam had admitted he was a Marine. That he was here doing a favor for a buddy.

He slid his sunglasses on and prayed the guy wouldn’t remember any of it.

“I just started working at PMRF on Monday,” Sheri was saying, “so it was fun to bring the whole family out here to enjoy the area. How’s the fishing today?”

“Can’t complain. Can I give you folks a hand?”

He turned to Sam, reaching out to take one of the beach bags. Sam watched as recognition lit up the old guy’s face.

“Hey there, I almost didn’t recognize you,” he said, sticking out a hand for Sam to shake. “Didn’t get a chance to introduce myself properly last weekend. The name’s Arthur Ziegler. Retired Marine sergeant, living here now with my son and his wife and their boys.”

Sam returned the handshake, glancing at Sheri to see a bewildered look on her face. “Um, pleasure to meet you, sir. I’m just going to run these things up to the car and—”

“I didn’t catch your name, son.” He smiled at Sheri. “Any of your names, actually.”

“I’m so sorry, this is Sam and Jackson and Jeffrey and I’m Sheri,” she said. “Did you say you’d met Sam before?”

“No!” Sam said a little too quickly. “Just now. We’re just now meeting, that is.”

Arthur turned and gave him a curious look. “That so? Maybe I’m confusing you with someone else.” He studied Sam a moment, his expression perplexed. “My memory’s not what it used to be, but I coulda sworn I met you out here last weekend. You’re a Marine here doing a favor for a buddy, right? I swear—”

“Nope, you must be thinking of someone else,” Sam interrupted before Arthur could describe Sam’s tattoo or repeat their conversation or give any further proof Sam had been here scoping out Sheri’s workplace.

His face felt hot and his hands were clammy and he was pretty sure he was going to lose it completely if he didn’t escape. He had to get Arthur away from Sheri. “I sure do appreciate your offer to help though, sir. Would you mind grabbing that cooler right there? The car’s just up here a bit.”

He started walking fast, hoping to God the old man would follow, that he hadn’t already done too much damage, that his whole world wasn’t about to come crashing down around him.

“Sure thing, son,” Arthur said as he picked up the cooler. He fell into step beside Sam, and Sam heaved a silent sigh of relief. When they’d gone about ten paces, he turned back to look at Sheri.

She was staring after them with an odd look on her face and her phone gripped in one hand.

She wasn’t smiling.

Chapter Nineteen

A sour sense of uneasiness settled into Sheri’s gut and wasn’t budging. She hardly spoke to Sam the whole drive home, barely noticing his efforts to draw her out and engage her in conversation about what she wanted for dinner and when she thought the boys might start crawling.

Why had Arthur Ziegler been so sure he recognized Sam? The guard at the gate had seemed pretty friendly, too. Had Sam been to PMRF to check on her?

Or was there something more going on here?

It was the
something more
that niggled at Sheri all evening. She made a simple dinner of pork and beans and pineapple with cut-up hot dogs—another staple of her childhood—but she barely touched it.

“You okay?” Sam asked

She looked up to see him studying her warily. “I’m fine.”

“Is there something you want to talk about?”

“Is there something
you
want to talk about?”

They sat frozen in an awkward stalemate. She wondered how long it might have dragged on if it weren’t for Jeffrey squawking in the other room. Sheri hustled off to tend him, doling out bottles and kisses and all the motherly love she could muster.

By the time she returned to the kitchen, Sam had cleared the table. He looked up as she entered the room, a guarded look on his face.

“Have you heard from Jonathan again?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No, but I left my phone in the other room.” She began loading dishes into the dishwasher, wondering what questions she should be asking. Did she really want to give a voice to her suspicions? Would that just make them real?

It was possible she was being paranoid. Jonathan’s betrayal had done a number on her, after all.

She bit her lip. “Actually, I think I’m going to go find my phone. I want to call Mac.”

“What for?”

She looked at him, trying to decide if he looked guilty or merely curious. “I just have some questions to ask,” she said. “I think I’ll turn in after that. I didn’t sleep much last night.”

They locked eyes, and she felt her cheeks warm up. Was he recalling what they’d been doing instead of sleeping in his bed early that morning?

“Okay.” Sam nodded. “I’ll finish up here. Thanks for the great day at the beach.”

She smiled in spite of her grim mood, allowing him to pull her into an embrace. When his lips found hers, she dissolved into him, almost forgetting her questions, almost forgetting her suspicions, almost forgetting herself—

Almost.

“Good night, Sam,” she said as she drew back.

She felt his gaze follow her down the hall and it took every ounce of strength she had not to sprint back to the kitchen and throw herself into his arms. She closed the bedroom door behind her and picked the phone up off her dresser.

No new messages, which was a relief.

She crawled into bed with all her clothes on, feeling chilled. She gripped the phone and hesitated, finger poised over the speed-dial button for Mac. Maybe she wasn’t ready to confront Sam, but she could get some information from her brother. Of course, she had no idea where he was at the moment, which was nothing new. It could be the middle of the night in some war-torn country with Mac conducting whatever secret government business kept him occupied.

The hell with it. If Mac was crouched on a battlefield or boardroom somewhere, he just wouldn’t answer the damn phone.

He picked up on the second ring, startling Sheri with the quick bark of his voice. “Sheri, what’s up? What’s wrong? Where are you?”

She burrowed into her pillow, soothed by her brother’s low rumble, even if he was being an idiot. “Nice to talk to you, too, dumbass. I’m fine. For crying out loud, can’t I call my brother without there being some crisis?”

“How’s Sam?” Mac asked, ignoring her question. “Treating you and the boys okay?”

“Sure, Sam’s great. Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh?” Mac’s tone was guarded, though that didn’t mean much. Mac’s tone was always guarded.

“What can you tell me about Sam?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I’m getting the sense that there’s more to Sam than just a happy-go-lucky manny who used to be your football teammate.”

“Well, that’s true,” Mac said, drawing the words out slowly. “He’s also an excellent harmonica player.”

“Goddammit, Mac. That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“I have no idea what you meant, Sheri. Sam is a top-notch manny who’s great with kids and extremely competent with domestic tasks. I’d trust him with my life.”

“Oh yeah?” She licked her lips, not sure what she wanted to ask next. “Have you ever had to do that?”

“Do what?”

“Trust Sam with your life?”

“He drove me to the hospital once when I got food poisoning. Then there was the time he helped pull me out of a bar fight in college.”

If Mac had been standing beside her, she would have slugged him in the shoulder. Instead, she tried another tack. “Sam sure seems to have a lot of military knowledge for a civilian.”

“He majored in political science. Had to take all kinds of classes in military history, plus his aunt was an officer in the Coast Guard.”

“Is this aunt married to the uncle who’s the Marine?”

“Uh—no. Different branch of the family. Look, Sheri. Sam’s a great guy. He’s one of my oldest buddies, and a stand-up character.”

Sheri balled her hands into fists. This was getting her nowhere. “If Sam’s so great, why did you tell him not to touch me?”

“Sam touched you?!”

Sheri pulled the phone from her ear, certain Mac’s yelling could be heard on the other end of the house. She put it back in a hurry, eager to do damage control. “That’s not what I said. I just wanted to know if you issued some sort of stupid order like that.”

“Why would I do that?”

“You tell me.”

They were both silent a moment, a sibling standoff that was all too familiar to both of them. At last, Mac cleared his throat. “When does Jonathan leave?”

“Less than a week.”

“You’ve heard from him?”

Sheri couldn’t tell if it was a question or a statement. That was true of nearly every phrase Mac uttered, and it drove her as crazy now as it had when Mac still pulled her pigtails.

“Yes, I’ve heard from him.”

“And you’re going to get better about making sure the door is locked?”

“Dammit!” she snapped, unsure whether to be irritated with Sam or with Mac. She settled for both. “You
have
been talking to Sam.”

“Of course I’ve been talking to Sam. He’s my employee, Sheri, and I have a right to know if my sister is in danger.”

“I’m not in danger,” she muttered.

“Well I’m going to make sure Sam keeps it that way. Is he doing an adequate job looking after you and the boys?”

“Yes,” she admitted a bit grudgingly. “More than adequate.”

“Are you letting him help you, or are you being difficult?”

She rolled her eyes, not sure how the conversation had gone from her interrogating Mac to Mac interrogating her. It wasn’t the first time.

“I’m letting him help me,” Sheri said. “Most of the time, anyway. You know, it wouldn’t be wise for me to become too reliant on a man—any man—at this point in my life.”

“Sheri, there is zero risk of you ever becoming too reliant on anyone because you’re too stubborn.”

Mac’s voice had risen so it was practically a yell, and she felt herself scrunch down a little under the covers.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re the biggest control freak on the planet?” she asked.

“Why do you think I’m not married?”

Sheri smiled, loving her idiot brother in spite of the fact that he was—well, an idiot. “Good night, Mac.”

“Good night, Sheri. Keep your hands off Sam. And let him take care of you.”

She hung up the phone and stared at it a moment. “I can’t do both, you big jerk.”

…

Sam stayed up late that night. He’d hoped Sheri might emerge from her room and tell him about her phone call, but she’d stayed behind closed doors all night. He wished he knew what she’d asked Mac. What Mac had told her in return.

All he knew is that there was a definite chill in the air, and that he was sleeping alone tonight.

Or not sleeping, as the case may be.

You’ve had too many close calls lately
, he chided himself.
You’re on the brink of screwing this whole thing up royally. Of her finding out you’re a lying jerk, just like her ex.

He honestly wasn’t sure which close call bothered him the most. His freak-out over the beets? Limpdick pegging him as a military man? Two different guys recognizing him at PMRF today?

Or the fact that he’d very nearly lunged across the table over dinner, so desperate to have Sheri again that he was willing to give up his job, his honor—not to mention his home-cooked dinner—just to have her warm and lush and laughing beneath him on the dining room table?

He’d settle for a bed. Hell, he’d settle for anyplace at all she named, if he could just touch her again.

Focus,
he ordered himself as he looked down at the Colt .45 in his lap. Her intrusion that morning hadn’t given him a chance to finish cleaning it—not that he was complaining—but he needed to get the job done. He’d even pushed the door shut to afford himself some privacy, though he’d cracked it again when he realized he couldn’t see the front door.

He’d been planning to sleep in the living room to keep watch there, but he’d already checked the lock three dozen times. There’d been no signs of Jonathan, and the lock seemed to be holding.

He wondered if he could get his hands on Sheri’s phone again. Maybe he could figure out how to block messages from Jonathan’s number.

That’s a short-term solution, idiot. What do you plan to do long-term? You can’t go on like this forever.

He couldn’t think about that now.

He fired up his laptop as he ran an oilcloth over his weapon, determined to do a bit of multitasking for the evening. An alert popped up on screen from Mac.

I’m e-mailing you a copy of a report and the location of some personnel files you need to read right now.

Sam frowned at the screen, wondering for the hundredth time how Mac always had access to classified information.

He reached into his desk and pulled out his CAC card reader, along with his military ID. He shoved the ID into the slot and opened his e-mail. The message from Mac sent his heart pounding in his ears.

Here’s the preliminary report on what happened in Kabul. For further details, follow this link.

Sam opened the file and stared at the document. At the top was a date he’d remember for the rest of his life. The day in Kabul when his whole life changed forever. A chill ran up Sam’s spine when he clicked through to the dot-mil page Mac had indicated. His hands felt numb as he stroked the gun with an oilcloth.

He didn’t need to read the report to remember. It was painted on the inside of his brain.

His commanding officer had ordered him to a warehouse in Kabul. It was early morning, but the village had already been bustling with vendors hawking bread and mothers hustling young children into shops and schools and banks. The smell of raw sewage drifted in through an open window, and Sam squinted against the blinding sunlight.

He had only sparse details on his target. White shirt. Slight limp. Gray backpack. Known terrorist who had to be neutralized at once.

That was Sam’s job. As one of the top snipers in the Marines, he’d been called on to perform it countless times. His commanding officer had given the time and place, but no further detail, save one:

Shoot to kill.

Sam had every intention of doing it. He’d done it before, expected he’d be doing it again and again through more tours of duty.

Then he saw the face in his scope. The target.

A boy?

He couldn’t have been more than ten years old, eleven at the most. Sam watched, hesitating, finger on the trigger. The boy looked up, not at Sam, but at a flock of birds fluttering overhead. The kid smiled—the gap-toothed smile of a boy on Christmas morning, and Sam felt something inside him twist.

“Take the shot!” his commanding officer shouted through his earpiece.

Sam watched as the boy took something out of his pocket—candy?—and smiled again.

“Take the shot!”

No!

Sweat beaded on Sam’s forehead, and his finger twitched on the trigger. He hesitated—for seconds? Minutes? He wasn’t sure.

Whatever it was, it was too long.

The blast had come instantly, a blinding shower of hot glass and screaming voices and acrid smoke.

Suicide bomber.

The words had pulsed through Sam’s brain as he covered his head with his arms, blocking pieces of flying glass and the screams of the victims. He still heard the screams now, still smelled the smoke and felt the sharp sting of hot stone shards piercing his skin.

Sam shook his head to clear the memory, forcing himself to study the report Mac had sent. Then he followed the trail to the personnel files, the words coming at him in a fuzzy jumble.