The Heart Has Reasons (18 page)

Replacements
arrived, of course, to take the places of the men they’d lost.  But for
the old-timers, things would never be the same, and Chase could see he wasn’t
the only one battling depression.

Roach
was the first to come up for reenlistment, and the big Native American
surprised everyone by declining.  “I’ve seen too many friends die. 
I’m outta here.”

Travis
was the next to turn in his uniform.

Three
of the new guys died and, when it was time for Chase to re-up, he declined as
well, and joined Roach and Travis in Los Angeles.

Six
months later, Mad Dog had shown up on their doorsteps.

He
missed that life terribly at times, but he knew that, had he stayed in
Afghanistan, he’d now be dead.  Or, like Spider, worse than dead. 
Disturbed by the path his thoughts had taken, he said, “You’re very quiet,
Larissa.  Are you all right back there?”

“If
you’ll recall, you told me to ‘shut the fuck up’.”

“I
meant on that one particular subject.”

A
light rain began to fall.  Far ahead of the vehicle, lightning scarred the
bellies of purplish-black clouds that loomed like great, malevolent
beasts.  Great peals of thunder rolled across the sky, and the wind had
picked up until its fury now battered the vehicle with gusts that rocked it
from side to side.  It whipped the branches of the trees lining the
highway into such a frenzy that flying debris kept clogging the windshield
wipers.

“Do
you intend to keep driving in this weather?”

“I’m
looking for a suitable motel as we speak.”

Ten
miles outside of Amarillo, he found one.  There were more cars in the
parking lot than he would have preferred, and many — too many — curtained
windows glowed warm and golden with light from within but, with the storm
rapidly approaching, that was to be expected.  He parked a short distance
from the office, and climbed into the back where Larissa allowed him to gag her
without protest, then jogged to the office, squinting against the grit churned
up by the gale.  Violent gusts whipped at his clothing, while the
electricity in the air crackled along the hair on his arms.

The
clerk had a portable radio tuned to the local weather report and, as if Chase
might not have noticed, solemnly informed him, “We got us a bad storm rollin’
in.”

None
of the rooms had kitchenettes but, at his request, the clerk allotted him the
room farthest from the office.  He pulled to a stop before their room,
avoiding the evenly spaced pockets of illumination thrown by the overhead
halogen lamps.  Fortunately, the room directly adjacent to theirs was
vacant.  For now, at least.

Overhead,
thunder broke violently and the sky suddenly ruptured, turning the light rain
into a steady downpour.  Within seconds the blacktopped parking lot
glistened like a serpent’s scales and, on the highway beyond, passing cars
spewed up plumes of water.  He was thoroughly drenched by the time he got
the vehicle unloaded. 

Climbing
into the cargo compartment with Larissa, he removed the hobble and the
blindfold, but left the gag in place.  Draping the blanket over both their
heads and letting it hang down far enough to conceal the gag, he helped her out
of the van.  With one arm clutched tightly about her shoulders and the
other holding up the front edge of the blanket, he led her into the room.

The
hard, leaden downpour beat a fierce tattoo on the roof while the wind howled
and blustered at the window.  Thunder rolled across the sky with the sound
of giant boulders.  Dropping the drenched blanket by the door, he turned
to Larissa.  Spangles of rain sparkled in the lush ebony hair that cascaded
to her shoulders.  He removed the gag and, once they’d both toweled off
and changed into dry clothes — her into blue stretch pants and sport bra, and
him into pajamas — they had a brief but unheated argument in which she disputed
any need for the hobble.  He refused to relent and, once he’d finished
tying the rope around her ankles, he pulled her to her feet and into a close
embrace.

She
immediately stiffened.  “Let go of me.”

“No.”

She
struggled to free herself from his pinioning embrace.  “Let go, asshole!”

He
held her until she finally gave up.  Cupping her chin in his palm, he
lifted her face to his and traced the fullness of her lower lip with his
thumb.  “I want to thank you for not forcing me to kill that man.”

Finally,
she relaxed against him, arms hanging at her sides.  He inhaled the
delicious feminine scent of her and the feel of the hard nipples poking him in
the chest made him want her with an urgency that once again surprised
him.  When his erection began insistently nudging her, he reluctantly
released her.

She
grabbed her bag of toiletries and hobbled into the bathroom, where she stood
before the mirror, running a comb through her damp locks.

The
room was small, accommodating only a double bed that sagged in the middle, a
single nightstand, a dresser with a cracked mirror, and a small table with two
chairs.  He set the portable hot plate on the dresser’s battered top and
plugged it in.  Larissa hobbled out of the bathroom and paused to watch
him pour canned soup into a pan.  A smile dimpled the corners of her
mouth, and her voice had a teasing, sexy quality to it as she asked, “Honey,
what’s for dinner?”

He
might have fallen for it had he not noticed the way her eyes flicked first to
the door and then to the solitary window, measuring the distance to each as she
calculated the odds.  He had to hand it to her, she was nothing if not
determined.  “Chicken-noodle soup and peanut butter sandwiches.”

He
halfway expected her to complain about having peanut butter again, but all she
said was, “Mmmm.  Fancy.”

For
a trophy wife, the woman never complained about anything other than the gag,
and he certainly couldn’t fault her for that.  There was never a word
about the fleabag motel rooms, the endless sandwiches, or spending her days
tied up in the back of the vehicle.  He suspected she was the kind of
woman one could take camping far from civilization and that, not only would she
not mind roughing it, she’d actually enjoy it.

Cheyenne’s
idea of roughing it was no room service after 10:00 p.m.

She
hobbled over to him.  “Want me to make the sandwiches?”

“Be
my guest.”

She
stood beside him at the dresser, spreading peanut butter on whole wheat as he
stirred the soup.  The cracked mirror reflected a cozy little tableau of
homey domesticity that made him yearn for something he’d long ago convinced
himself he neither wanted nor needed.  Being constantly inundated by her
beauty, strength, and femininity was instilling in him a growing
dissatisfaction, a sense that something crucial missing was from his
life.  Furthermore, the chemistry between them had utterly blindsided
him.  Although, to be honest, the chemistry was probably all
one-sided.  Still, there was an undeniable sexual component in the
dynamics between them.

The
sooner they got to California, the better.

He
had just poured the hot soup into bowls when a deafening clap of thunder
exploded directly overhead.  Beside him, Larissa jumped and shrieked, and
then the electricity went out, plunging them into an absolute blackness.

Chase
was between her and the door but, alerted by a whisper of movement, he shot one
hand out into the darkness, groping the space where she’d been standing only
seconds before.

She
was no longer there.

CHAPTER
12

Three long strides brought Chase to the
door just as it started to open, letting in a gust of wind and rain.  A
blinding flash of lightning backlighted Larissa in the narrow gap, and he
clamped one hand firmly over her mouth and banged the door shut with the
other.  There was a brief flurry of ineffectual punches before she
conceded defeat with a resigned sigh.  Fumbling one-handed in the dark, he
relocked the door.  “Did you remove the hobble?”

“No.”

Squatting
down beside her in the darkness, he wrapped one arm around her calves to guard
against kicks, and walked the fingers of his free hand along the rope from
ankle to ankle.  Surprisingly, the hobble hadn’t been tampered with. 
“How the hell did you get past me so quickly?”  As he stood, the answer
came to him.  “You conned me into putting more play in it.”

“I
did no such thing.  I genuinely fell.”

“Liar.”

Ignoring
her muttered aspersions, he circled an arm about her shoulders and turned her
away from the door to lead her unerringly through the dark to the window.

No
matter how much she protested her innocence, he knew she’d tricked him, and he
had no one to blame but himself.  Her husband had adamantly cautioned him
not to trust her, and yet he continually fell for her machinations.

They
each pushed back one side of the drapes and peered out at the rain-lashed
night, relinquished by the power failure to a primeval blackness.  He kept
his arm draped about her shoulders as they stood side-by-side at the window,
watching the sizzling bolts of lightning streaking to the ground.  In the
bright flashes, he could see there were now several additional vehicles in the
parking lot.

The
dark window glass reflected their images in a flawless mirror, and when his
eyes caught hers, she said, “I don’t suppose you brought candles.”

“Actually,
I did.”  He reluctantly released her, moved through the dark to his duffle
bag and fumbled around inside it until he located the box containing nine
votive candles in glass holders.

While
thunder crashed outside, he lit several and they sat down to eat.  He’d
placed one candle in the center of the table, and the small flame cast an
aureate shimmer on her face that gave her a nearly preternatural glow. 
Those green eyes watched him intently as she nibbled her peanut butter
sandwich.  As the memory of yesterday’s kiss kept intruding into his
consciousness, he found himself unable to take his eyes off her.

After
they’d finished, he washed their few dishes in the bathroom sink. 
Standing at his side holding a candle aloft, she asked, “Are you always so neat
and efficient?”

“Yeah. 
Why do you ask?”

She
jerked as a thunderclap went off directly overhead, making the candlelight
flicker and waver.  “It just seems weird to see a man washing dishes when
there’s a woman around to do it for him.”

“I’m
used to doing things for myself.”

“Then
you must not be married.”

“No.”

When
he’d dried the dishes, she hobbled out of the bathroom after him, to hover
nearby with the candle as he put them away.  Now what?  Jesus, this
was not good.  With no power, and without the distraction of the television,
there was absolutely nothing to do.  Making matters worse, the lack of air
conditioning was making the room uncomfortably warm.  She looked away as
he peeled out of his pajama shirt.  The silence between them grew
oppressive.

“I
don’t suppose you brought a deck of cards.”

“No.”

“I
thought you Boy Scouts were supposed to be prepared for every contingency.”

“For
lack of anything better to do, maybe you wouldn’t mind teaching me some yoga
poses.”

She
looked grateful at the suggestion.  “I could teach you
Surya Namaskar
,
which is Sanskrit for Sun Salutations.  You’ll have to unhobble me.”

After
he’d done so, he placed his heavy duffle bag on the floor against the door, to
slow her down in case she decided to bolt.  Together they pushed the bed
into the corner to provide more floor space.  She pulled her tee shirt
off, so that she was wearing only the sport bra and pant.  He concentrated
on not looking at her while he positioned several candles.

“Before
we begin, I need to explain a few things.  First, don’t expect to be as
flexible as me.  Men are normally less limber than women, and muscular men
like you are usually even less so, although you’ll find yourself becoming more
flexible as your muscles warm up.

“You’re
forgetting I’m a martial artist.  I’m limber.”

 “We’ll
see.  Second, people tend to breathe too shallowly, inflating only the
upper part of their lungs.  Breathe deeply through your nose, so that your
belly expands, and stretch each breath as far as you can.

“Third,
don’t try to force any pose.  Do only what you can do comfortably. 
You should
never
feel any pain.

“And
fourth, always keep your spine stretched long, especially while doing back
bends.  You don’t want to compress your disks.  I’ll go through the
asanas
first, while you watch.”  She turned sideways to him and moved with fluid,
catlike poise through the series of poses, naming each one as the candle flames
sent multiples of her shadow writhing over the walls of the room.

Once
she was back in a standing position, she said, “We start in
Tadasana
—Mountain
Pose.  He copied her posture.  She eyed him appreciatively, then
stepped next to him.  “On an inhale, your arms circle out and back and up,
to meet over your head as you gaze upward.”  He did as directed. 
“That’s good, but slow your breathing to match your movements.  Now, while
exhaling fold at the waist into
Uttanasana
— Standing Forward
Bend.”  With straightened knees, he placed his palms flat on the
floor.  “Wow, you really
are
limber.”