Military Romance Collection: Contemporary Soldier Alpha Male Romance (149 page)

Chapter Three             

Jack climbed the stairs to Carrie's Nana's porch and knocked on the door. Her big dog tugged on the leash, but all it took was one good glare and a firm, “Sit!” and she sat, with a yawn.

Carrie had called the shelter earlier in the day to see if the wolfhound been found, and considering where the dog turned up, he doubted she belonged to anyone else.

He knocked again, then began ringing the bell. Bingbongbingbongbingbong…

The dog lay down and sighed.

It was dark—around ten-ish, he figured, but there were lights on in the front window. How many more times should he knock and ring the bell?              He'd be damned if he had to keep that dog overnight. She'd already proven she could open a kennel door. She just lifted the latch with her nose. He could've locked it and just gone home, but—Carrie. Carrie was here, and dog or no dog, he wanted to—needed to—see her.

              He couldn't get her out of his mind. The minute she'd driven off, he'd begun hoping she'd look at that business card and call. He kept checking his messages just to be sure he hadn't missed her. He'd convinced himself that his cell phone was broken, and he'd even called home and asked his daughter if a woman had called for him.

              “A woman, Dad? What woman?” Her voice had been coy. She'd been after him for years to start dating. He wasn't sure why, except he thought she might feel bad leaving him alone in the house after she started college in the fall. A good kid, Samantha. Always very compassionate and thoughtful. Michelle had said Samantha reminded her of him, even though he wasn't her real dad. Not that Samantha knew that. She never would, if he had any choice in the matter.

              Jack banged on the door one more time, this time hard enough to make the horseshoe-shaped brass knocker rise and fall against the door. The dog shifted at the end of her heavy chain leash.

              “Aroow,” she muttered, stood and moved to the steps, peering straight up as if trying to see in the bedroom windows on the second floor. She lifted her snout and barked.

Good idea. When he and Carrie were kids, there'd been many nights when he'd climbed the trellis to the porch roof and then through the window of her bedroom. They'd lie on her bed, talking to each other and holding each other, exploring each other's bodies under pajamas and clothes. Things were different, then. Sex was still a big deal, not taken lightly as it was with the kids from Samantha's generation. They didn't do anything but cuddle and kiss deeply. As time went by, the kisses led to hands roving over bared skin in tremulous exploration, to stifled moans and sighs. Never sex. They'd stopped just short of the actual act, telling themselves they'd wait until they were ready, until they were older.

But never, it seemed, wiser.

Jack shook his head, remembering how it felt to be young and in love, to fall asleep in each other's arms, and wake when the sky turned pink to kiss some more and clutch at one another as if they were to about to be separated for eternity.

If only he'd known, then. He never would have slipped down the trellis and away. He would have managed, somehow, to stay in Carrie's bed—and her arms—forever.

Right.

And his parents would have castrated him.

Though they hadn't when he'd told them Michelle was pregnant.

He sighed and looked toward the once-familiar trellis. “I must be out of my mind,” he told Ellie, hooking the end of her chain over the flagpole holder on one of the porch pillars before moving to stand at the bottom of the aged wooden structure covered with morning glory vines.

Shit. He looked at the dog. “I'll have you know, I'm thirty-six.”

“Woof.” The dog barked. And then barked again, as if urging him to go, go, go!

Right. Here I am, eighteen years older and twenty pounds heavier. And if this freaking thing breaks, how much will the ambulance cost? And the physical therapy?

He put his foot on the first rung and started climbing. And how in the name of God will I explain what the hell I'm doing? The guys at the station will never let me forget this…

The dog started barking louder, and he realized if he didn't hurry, she'd wake the entire neighborhood. Shit.

He moved quickly up the trellis, hoping that if he only stayed a moment on each square, he'd be less likely to break it. Jack practically leaped onto the roof, landing with a thud and a bang. Ellie continued to bark. The lights in Carrie's bedroom window came on, glowing yellow against the black and blue of the nighttime shadows. Jack scrambled up to the sash and knocked on the pane. “Carrie? Open up. It's Jack!”

She appeared in the window, staring out at him with the phone pressed to her ear. Her long, dark hair cascaded down her shoulders in a silken tangle over her peach-colored, un-sashed robe. Beneath, she wore a peachy silk-looking nightgown that clung to her figure. Jack swallowed as a lump rose in his throat and his groin tightened. Carrie was beautiful. Still slender, but with a woman's curves instead of a girl's gauntness; he could even see a hint of a valley between her breasts.

He remembered that her nipples had been the color of raspberry sherbet, and his mouth watered. He'd loved taking them into his mouth and sucking each one until she squirmed. Would she still squirm now?

How many men had done the same thing, since he'd seen her last? He didn't even know if she was involved with someone, or married, or divorced, or even widowed, as he was. All he knew was, if he could climb through the window and lie down on her bed with her again, he'd be the happiest man in the world. But first, he had to get her to open the window.

“Carrie, open up!”

Amazingly, she did. “Why the hell are you on the roof?” She held the phone out. “I was calling the cops, until I realized it was you.”

“Why the hell didn't you answer the door?”

“I was asleep.” She noticed him noticing her nightie, and tied the sash on her robe. “You found it.”

“The door?”

“The dog, you moron. Get in here, before someone sees you.”

Jack slipped through, first one leg, then his head and shoulders, then his other leg. He looked around. The bedroom hadn't changed a bit. The wallpaper was the same. So were the posters on the wall, featuring the boy band she’d loved when she was thirteen and never taken down. He’d teased her unmercifully about them then, and he wished he could now. But he didn’t.

Her bed was in the same spot, the sheets turned down and twisted as if she and he had just left them.

He'd never made love to her on a bed, but if he did…

His groin tightened even more.

Behind him, Carrie slammed the window shut. Then she pushed past him and out of the room, almost as if she were running away.

He left the bedroom with reluctance and followed her down the stairs to the foyer, where Carrie leaned with her eyes wide and her ear pressed against the front door. “She stopped howling. You don't think she got loose…again?”

“I don't think so.” Jack gestured for her to step back, and then he opened the door. Ellie sat on the welcome mat, panting. The leash dangled from her collar. He couldn't believe it; it was strong enough to hold a bear, for crying out loud. “Damn. She snapped her leash!”

“You're kidding,” Carrie muttered behind him. “Really. What a surprise.”

He opened the door and Ellie came in without hesitation, went into the living room and jumped onto the yellow chintz armchair in the corner by the front window, settling her chin on the armrest. She sighed deeply and closed her eyes.

“Well, that's that.” Jack turned to Carrie and looked at her—really looked at her—for the first time in eighteen years. Shock jolted through him—she looked as though she'd been in a prizefight. She had a scrape on her little pointed chin, a welt under her eye, and a mouse on her cheekbone. Her knees were swathed in bandages. One of her feet had a huge purple bruise on it, and there was a bandage around the top of the tall toe. “Holy crap, Carrie-da, you look like hell!”

              “Hello to you, too. And I'm not your querida anymore, so don't call me that.” She pointed to the door. “Thank you for bringing Ellie home. You can leave, now.”

              “I will not. Not until you tell me what happened to you.” Jack turned and went into the kitchen, stopping for a moment to look around.

              Nothing had changed. The house was still the same. Circa 1972. “House needs work.” He opened the olive-drab fridge, pulled out a can of Diet Coke and popped the top. Then he sat down at the table. He wasn't going to leave easily, and the sooner she realized his intention, the better. He took a sip of soda. “I'd start with updating the appliances.”

              “No wonder you're a cop. Nothing gets past you.” She leaned in the doorway. Her body language screamed mistrust and anger. But she wasn't throwing him out. So that was something, anyway.

              “Yeah. Like—those injuries. What the hell happened?” He pushed the chair opposite him out with his toe. An invitation. But he forced himself to look down at the table instead of at her, leaving it up to Carrie whether or not she'd take the chance to sit across from him. After a few moments, she shuffled across the kitchen and gingerly lowered herself onto the chair. He looked up at her and smiled encouragingly, keeping his gaze above her neckline and trying not to inhale the vanilla-sugary scent of her soap or perfume.

              “That—thing my Nana left me. That…dog.” She frowned and looked down at her hands. They were scraped raw, nails broken, the palms red and sore-looking. She told him her harrowing doggie tale. Poor Carrie-da.

              “She doesn't respect you,” he told her. “You're not her pack leader.”

              “Pack…leader. Right. Look, I wasn't even a dog owner until about three-thirty this afternoon. I mean, I buried Nana two days ago. I talked to the lawyer yesterday. And he didn't even tell me about her! I still haven't called him about it. I was too sore.” She shifted on the chair. “I don't think there's a part of me that isn't bruised.”

              Jack decided that offering to look wasn't a good idea. Small steps lead to great success. He would go slowly, earn Carrie's trust again. And, to be honest, he wasn't doing too badly, considering. She was actually speaking to him. Small step number one. He pushed his chair back, finished his drink and stood up. “Before I go, I need to tell you where I found her, today.”

              “Tearing the liner in someone' swimming pool? Digging up a bed of prize-winning heirloom roses? Eating money in a bank vault? Destroying documents in the mayor's office?”

              Jack paused in the doorway and turned to look at her. “You know who the mayor is, now, don't you?” It always made his stomach churn a bit.

              “Do I want to know?” She pushed herself to her feet, slowly. He wished he could offer to rub her sore muscles for her, whisper soft words and eventually make her forget her aches and pains with kisses. Long, hot kisses. Small steps, great success, he reminded himself.

              “Mike O'Hare.”

              “Figures.” Carrie huffed a laugh. “He always did have a sort of…charisma.”

              “Yeah. Charisma.” Jack let her slip by him; her soft body meshed with his momentarily as she brushed against him, enveloping him in a sweet cloud of vanilla and instant lust, the kind he hadn't felt since he was a teenager.

              It was like rising from the dead. Literally. Feelings he'd buried long ago burst forth, pushing and clawing their way to the fore. Love. Longing. Desire. Carrie! He wished he could just reach out, pull her into her arms where she belonged and convince her to stay there. Forever.

              Even his dick thought it was a good idea to rise from the dead. Bad timing. Jack shifted in the doorway and hoped she didn't notice his uniform pants straining across the burgeoning bulge. Now you decide to wake up? Now? Talk about rising from the dead... “Um, Carrie?” Jack watched her walk to the front door, put her hand on the knob and stand there, waiting.

              Her body language couldn't have been any more obvious than if she'd shouted, Get out!

“I need to tell you where I found Ellie.”

              “No you don't. I can just imagine. It's going to cost me a fortune, isn't it?” She closed her eyes and leaned against the door. “I'll never get back to Texas. She's going to break me.”

              Back to Texas? “You're not going to stay here? I thought you were going to live in Rhode Island now.” Jack couldn't stop the words from tumbling from his mouth.

Carrie frowned at him, a line showing between her brows that hadn't been there when they were younger. Ellie groaned and jumped off the chair with a bang; she came and sat down beside Carrie, her fuzzy gray head as high as Carrie's elbow. She whined and nuzzled at her leg. “I want to get out of here as soon as I can. Except...now I've got this dog to deal with, too.” She sighed. “I don't even think she'll fit in my apartment—I don't know what I'm going to do with her.”

If only he could get her to stay. And listen. Small steps, he reminded himself. Not tonight. You can't fix it all in one night. Get her to trust you again, first. “We found her at the cemetery.” Spooky enough. But not as creepy as where they'd found her. “On your grandmother's grave. Howling.”