Return of a Hero (6 page)

“What do you mean?”

“You pick up nuances in people.”

“Does it make you uncomfortable?”

“Yes.”

She chuckled. “Why? Because you have something to hide?”

He winced. She was close to the truth. “There isn’t a human being alive who doesn’t have some secret,” he parried.

Laura warmed to their conversation. He was so easy to talk to. “And how many secrets are you carrying, Morgan Ramsey?” she teased.

The china cup looked small in comparison to Morgan’s darkly tanned hands. “More than I’d like,” he admitted hesitantly.

Sobering, Laura leaned forward. “I’m a great secret keeper, Morgan. Lord knows, when I interview the generals and admirals over at the Pentagon, they sometimes slip and tell me things that could never go into print.”

He eyed her. “You’re just a regular Pandora’s Box, huh?”

“You could say that. I’ve been rubbing shoulders with the Pentagon people for the past seven years, and they’ve come to trust me. I hold what they say in confidence.” Laura straightened and grinned. “And those things go to the grave with me.”

Frowning, he muttered, “Well, you came too damn close to the grave the other day by saving my neck.”

“I wouldn’t have had it any other way, Morgan.”

The sudden quaver in Laura’s voice sent a wave of yearning through him. He stared hard at her. There was an underlying strength to her, despite her innate femininity. “I believe you,” he whispered.

Laura detected an opening in the wall that so thoroughly protected Morgan Ramsey. “When I first came here after graduating from college, I rented this house.” She gestured around the room with her hand. “I fell in love with it. At the time my dad was over in Vietnam, and I sent him pictures of every room.” Her voice grew warm with love. “He was so excited for me. We traded letters for six months on how I was going to decorate each room. Of course, Mom got in on it, too. We’d send him swatches of material, wallpaper samples and photos from magazines of the furniture I someday wanted to be able to afford.” She picked up the cup, sipping the cooling coffee. “I think my letters and dreams for this house helped my dad. It was a piece of reality from a world other than the one he fought in daily.” Laura shook her head. “I still have all his letters….”

A lump formed in Morgan’s throat. “Letters from home meant everything to me—” He caught himself. Damn!

“You were in Vietnam?” Of course, he would have been the right age.

A frown furrowed his brow. “Yeah, I was over there.” The words came out harsh and clipped.

Biding time because she heard his anger and pain, Laura drank her coffee. She’d met many veterans who didn’t want to discuss what had happened to them over there, and she felt Morgan was like that, too. Gently she steered the conversation back to her father. “The living room was Dad’s idea—the colors and the fabric. And so was the kitchen.” Fondly she laughed. “At the time we were playing this silly game, I really didn’t have any money for redecorating. But that didn’t matter. At least it offered Dad some sanity while he was over there. And Mom didn’t worry as much, because she had something to do, too.”

Morgan could no longer sit still. The ghosts were rising in his memory again—the anger and frustration along with them. He paced slowly around the kitchen. “So how did you manage to get this house bought and decorated?”

Leaning back, Laura sensed he’d moved away from the table. There was a new and different energy around him, and she felt his tension. “Dad was killed in a rocket attack in the seventh month of his tour. What I didn’t realize was that he’d taken out nearly half a million dollars in insurance before he left for Vietnam, just in case he did get killed. My mother and I found out about it when the lawyer read his will to us three weeks later.” She rose, picking up her cup and saucer and moved carefully to the drainboard. “So I bought this house instead of renting it, and Mom and I took each room, just as we’d planned it in our letters to Dad, and decorated.”

Morgan stood in the center of the kitchen, staring at Laura. There was a sad smile on her lips. “It must have been hard,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“No, just the opposite really. I cried a lot, because he was a wonderful father and friend to me. So did Mom. But wallpapering and painting each room, then buying the furniture helped us expend our grief and get over his passing.” She patted the drainboard. “This home reflects the love we had as a family. That’s why I love it so much.” She gave him a shy look. “Maybe now you can understand why I wanted to come home from the hospital. I work through trauma better here than anywhere else.”

Morgan tried to fight his need to hold her, but he walked up to her. Gently placing his hands on her shoulders, he looked down at her. “You’re like this home,” he told her, his voice rough with emotion, “warm, caring and beautiful. Your parents gave you a lot of love, and it shows in many ways.”

It felt so natural to lean her head against his chest and rest for just a moment. Laura sighed as Morgan’s arms slid around her shoulders, drawing her gently against him. “Right now, I don’t feel very strong, Morgan.”

She fitted against his tall frame, Morgan thought, a willow in comparison to an oak. The fragrance that was hers alone filled his nostrils. He fought to keep his touch light and comforting, not intimate, as he wanted. “You’re stronger than you think,” he told Laura gruffly, his mouth near her ear. Caressing her back with his hands, he felt the firm softness of her flesh beneath the silk blouse. If he didn’t step back, he’d kiss her, and that wouldn’t be right. The timing was all wrong—as usual.

Laura felt bereft as Morgan gently disengaged himself. “I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“Shh,” Morgan remonstrated, keeping one hand on her upper arm as she swayed. “That’s one of many things I like about you, Laura Bennett—your ability to show your feelings. If you’re feeling weak, you lean. If you’re feeling strong, you get feisty.” He grinned. “You’re one hell of a woman, did you know that?”

She shook her head, forcing herself to retreat from him. Shaken by the unexpected contact, Laura found herself wanting more. “No, you’re wrong,” she whispered, her voice strained, “you’re the one who’s special.”

Snorting vehemently, Morgan got busy and cleared the rest of the dishes from the table. “I’m special all right,” he growled.
Just ask the press or the Pentagon. They’ll tell you all about me.
He glanced at her after setting the dishes in the sink. Her lips were pursed, as if she were deep in thought. All this seemed like a fevered dream. This house that throbbed with life, the beauty and generosity of Laura, were all baubles being dangled cruelly in front of him and his harsh existence. If she found out he was Morgan Trayhern, the traitor, she’d scorn him. Sadness flowed through him, effectively squelching the fires of longing for her. Morgan hadn’t fully realized just how tough it would be to stay around Laura. Somehow he’d have to contain his unraveling emotions. Maybe by tonight things would settle into a routine, and he’d be able to control the feelings that Laura brought to brilliant, yearning life within him. Maybe…

“The fire feels wonderful,” Laura murmured, sitting with her back to the fireplace. “April nights are always chilly in D.C.” Sasha lay directly in front of the fire, snoring fitfully.

Morgan sat nearby in an overstuffed chair. He marveled at Laura’s hair, golden threads highlighted by the fire. She had dressed for bed and was wearing a long white cotton gown, her lavender chenille robe wrapped about her slender body. “You give April nights a new meaning,” he admitted, his voice deeper than usual.

She drew her knees up, resting her cheek on them, a soft smile on her lips. “It sounds as if in your business you spend a lot of time outdoors. I imagine a quiet night like this
is
different for you.”

The magazine in Morgan’s lap was a poor substitute for staring like a starving wolf at Laura. He was disgusted with himself, taking advantage of her blindness by watching her for minutes at a time. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t have a woman if he wanted. That wasn’t the issue at all. The issue was Laura and her Dresden doll delicacy, her graceful motions with her hands, that heart-grabbing laughter that made him want to drag her into his arms and crush her against him, never letting her go.

Morgan cleared his throat. “I do spend a lot of time outside,” he admitted. Did she hear the longing in his voice? God, he hoped not. She trusted him completely, and he wouldn’t reward that trust by letting her know of his insatiable need for her.

Lulled by the peace swirling gently between them, Laura confessed, “When I saw you standing there in the rain at the airport, I sensed this terrible tragedy and loneliness in you, Morgan. That scar on your face…”

Uncomfortable, he placed the magazine on the coffee table. “I’d just gotten some bad news that morning,” he said gruffly.

“That scar…did you get it in Vietnam?” Somehow Laura sensed that the suffering surrounding Morgan stemmed from that time in his life. The need to get to the real him, the man she sensed beneath all that weight he carried on his powerful shoulders, was forcing her to ask deeply personal questions.

Automatically Morgan’s fingers went to the ridge of the scar, and he scowled. “Yeah, I got it there.”

“Tell me how?”

His stomach knotted. If Laura had been pushy or curious, it would have been easy to tell her to mind her own business, but the quaver in her voice unstrung him, and he leaned back, closing his eyes. “I got it in hand-to-hand combat. My company and I were led into a trap and we had to defend a hill,” he said in a low, hard voice.

“My God,” she whispered. Slowly she got up from her spot near the fireplace. Hand outstretched, she took small steps in the direction of where Morgan sat. Her lips parted as his fingers wrapped strongly around her arm and he guided her to the chair near him. She sat back down on the floor, nestled at his feet, her back against the chair. “I didn’t mean to pry,” she told him softly. “But you wear sadness around you like a good friend, Morgan.” She took a deep breath and dove in. “We barely know each other, and I know your personal life isn’t any of my business, but I just can’t seem to help myself. If I’m being nosy, tell me to quit asking questions.”

He lifted his hand, and noticed it was trembling. Laura’s face was tilted in his direction, her lips parted, pleading. Stroking her hair, Morgan managed a tortured smile. “Sweet Laura,” he said thickly, “your heart is pure, so you can see straight through a person.” Her hair was clean, and the strands flowed like molten gold between his scarred fingers.

Her breath caught in her throat as his fingers trembled across her hair, again and again. “I don’t need eyes to hear the pain in your voice, Morgan,” Laura whispered. “I—there’s something special we share. I can’t define it, but it’s there.” She placed her hand on his knee, lifting her face more in his direction. “Something tragic happened to you yesterday morning. That’s why you stepped off that curb without looking. Please, let me help, if I can….” She moistened her lips. “If nothing else, I’m a good listener, Morgan. And I care…”

Pain, like a volcano inside his chest, exploded violently within him. It seared his heart, soaring up into his throat, and he leaned forward, resting his cheek against the top of Laura’s head ever so lightly, needing the comfort she offered. Without a word, he gripped her shoulders, simply holding her, his breathing ragged.

A little cry escaped Laura’s lips, and she placed her arm around his shoulder. “Morgan, what is it? You’re shaking.”

Shutting his eyes tightly, he fought to find his voice. “This isn’t real,” he said gruffly. “None of this is real, especially you….”

His hands were splayed across her back, and Laura relaxed within them. Something was terribly wrong. Blindly she groped with her hand, her fingers coming in contact with his face. She could feel the thick welt of the scar that ran the length of his face. “You’re wrong,” she said, her voice quavering. “This is all real, Morgan. Especially me. I can feel your pain…. Talk to me about it. Whatever it is, I can deal with it.”

The desire to spill the horrible facts surrounding his life dealt him an almost lethal blow. Her fingers were warm against his chilled flesh. He fought the overpowering urge to tilt her face upward and crush those pleading lips beneath his mouth. His heart pounded erratically in his chest, and his breathing was harsh. “N-no,” he whispered, “I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?” Laura asked, gently running her fingers across the scar.

If he didn’t push her away, he’d take her, and Laura didn’t deserve that. He released her slender form, keeping his hands on her shoulders as he drew away. “Both,” he said thickly.

He’d been so close to allowing that awful load he carried to slide into her waiting arms. Laura swallowed her disappointment. She managed a small smile and lifted her hands so that they came to rest on his forearms. The tightly muscled power in them fairly vibrated through her fingertips. “From the moment I saw you, I knew you were special, Morgan.”

A startled laugh broke from him. He gave her a gentle shake. “Special? You’ve got your priorities skewed, sweet swan.”

She laughed softly. “Swan? Is that how you see me? Tall and skinny with my bird-size bones?”

Her laughter melted the wall of pain that threatened to engulf him. It was a miracle in itself, and Morgan stared down at her. “Yeah, you’re a beautiful, graceful swan.” He released her shoulders and picked up one of her wrists, turning it over carefully in his large hands. “You’re tiny but mighty.”

His touch was evocative, sending warming threads of yearning up Laura’s arm, the heat flowing through her like an awakening river of molten lava. “So, you see my backbone of steel?” She ached to lean upward, find his mouth and kiss him.

“A beautiful spine and a set of small, but very strong shoulders,” he murmured. All he had to do was lean forward—mere inches—to kiss her. He shut his eyes, fighting the overwhelming urge.

“Make me a promise, Morgan?”

He felt her hands tighten on his arms. “What?”

“You know I’m strong enough to hear anything you might tell me. Promise me that if you want to talk, you’ll unload your burden on me?”