The One Worth Waiting For (15 page)

Behind him, the first man fell to his knees and began to moan.

Like a man in a nightmare, Garret walked into the ruins of the camp that had once been formed by the survivors of a small rural village. Though the village had been mostly Croatian, there had been Serbs, as well, people who had married into the village or simply settled there. Before the war, no one had really cared. And even after the war had begun, they had still stuck together, drawing upon ties of marriage and community once politics had gone insane. Now the Serb and Croatian women lay abandoned with equal disregard.

He walked through the remains, and soundless tears traced through his soot-covered cheeks.

To the last tent he walked, the toppled canvas already smoldering with flames of despair. There, he came to the final unbearable sight, and his eyes would not look away.

Zenaisa. Oh, God, not Zenaisa.

Garret closed his eyes, but it didn’t help.

He heard the footsteps behind him, and even as he moved to shield her from Zlatko’s sight, he knew he was too late. The lumbering man behind him staggered, then like a giant oak, he toppled to his knees. His massive, scarred hands rose to his head and he gripped his temples as he fought to block out the sight. And he began to rock back and forth on his knees, wailing the pure, keening cry of a man’s anguish, the howl of the desert wind and the baying wolf, the cry of toppling mountains and receding seas.

Garret tried to reach out a hand to his friend, but his muscles would no longer move.

“Garret. Garret, sweetheart.” Suzanne cupped his cheeks, tilting his head up until he looked at her with shocked, horrified eyes. Then he caught her hands on his face, clutching her wrists as if she was his last anchor in a violent storm. “Garret?” she whispered shakily. “Garret, are you all right?”

He relinquished his grip abruptly, turning his head away because he couldn’t stand the sight of so much compassion in her eyes. He fought to breathe, he fought to function and he fought to pull himself back to reality and away from the scene he could no longer salvage.

“I need to be alone,” he said hoarsely.

“Garret—”

She reached out again, but he batted her hand away.

“No!” His body was racked by a deep, shuddering breath, then he looked at her, his eyes pleading. “Please,” he whispered. “Please just give me some time.”

He started walking for the shed and didn’t look back.

Suzanne and Cagney let him go, standing behind him in the sun and exchanging worried glances.

“I’m scared,” Suzanne murmured softly, turning to Cagney with pensive eyes.

“Yeah,” he told her honestly, still staring at the retreating figure of his older brother, “so am I.”

Chapter 7

W
hen Suzanne returned from her parade committee meeting late that afternoon, Garret still had not returned, to the house from the shed. With pursed lips, she set down the pile of mailings she was now in charge of getting out, and contemplated what to do.

Cagney had tried to talk to Garret before going and had met nothing but angry resistance. In the end, Cagney had stormed out of the shed muttering uncomplimentary things under his breath, and Suzanne had decided maybe it was best just to leave Garret alone.

But it was four now. And seven hours in that shed should be too much for a man still recovering from a bullet wound. With a resolute set of her shoulders, she poured two glasses of iced tea as a peace offering and walked outside.

She could hear the sharp buzzing of the table saw as she approached, the high-pitched squeal sending shivers down her spine. There was something about the noise she’d never learned to like. Taking a deep breath, she waited for a moment of intermission, then banged on the weathered door with one of the glasses.

“Garret. It’s Suzanne. I thought you might like something to drink.” There was another moment of silence, and she found herself holding her breath. Then slowly, the old wooden door creaked open. She had to blink several times to adjust to the darker interior, then her eyes focused on the man before her.

He had stripped to the waist, his chest sweaty from the un-air-conditioned room and dusted with fresh, tangy sawdust. An old white rag was tied around his forehead, giving him a renegade look that suited the grim, unrelenting lines of his face. She managed to keep her hand from shaking as she held out the tall, wet glass.

“Iced tea?”

He took it from her with just a nod, his eyes, completely unreadable, scouring her face. After the past week in his presence, however, she could read his tension in the corded muscles of his neck, the stiff set of his shoulders and the renewed forcefulness of his stance. As she watched, he arched his head back and drank down the entire glass of rosecinnamon tea in one gulp. Moisture beaded at the bottom of the glass, one cold drop jumping boldly onto his chest and sliding recklessly down his washboard stomach. He didn’t seem to notice.

“May I come in?” she finally asked, her voice slightly breathless. “Just for a minute or two,” she thought to add.

He studied her with dark eyes. Then finally, he stepped aside. Even so, her shoulders brushed his bare chest as she stepped into the cramped corners of what was meant to be a storage shed.

Given the short notice, he and Cagney had done a good job. The table saw rested in the middle of the shed, while the walls held the additional tools. Overhead, they’d strung three extension lights up on nails. While they didn’t give off the strongest illumination, they could easily be moved to focus on whatever particular tool he’d selected. Everything was powered through heavy-duty extension cords running to the outside outlets of the house.

At the moment, Garret appeared to be edging two semicircles. With a nervous hand, Suzanne ran one finger along the first circle’s smooth, beveled edge.

“A table?” she guessed. Behind her, he nodded, setting the empty glass down on the nearest surface. As she turned, he hefted up the semicircle and clamped it onto a side table. Almost as a secondary thought, he replaced the yellowed goggles over his eyes.

“Stand back,” he said tersely. She obliged quickly, holding one hand over her glass of iced tea. Still, she jumped when he flipped the router on. For the first time, she noticed the penciled line curving a two-inch border along the wood. He followed the line now with the router, moving with a slow and steady patience she wouldn’t have associated with him.

Wood shavings curled up and around the thin router blade, filling the air with the sharp hot odor of fresh-cut wood. Garret’s right arm bulged as he steadied and guided the tool along the groove, sweat beading up and trickling down his back, staining the white patch of his bandage. Her eyes followed every shimmering drop, the scent of sawdust and sweat filling her nose and tightening her stomach. She had to curl her hands around her slippery glass to keep from reaching out and following one of those tracks with her finger.

Garret snapped off the router and examined his work with a critical eye.

“Did…did you help your dad out in the shop often?” she finally asked. He didn’t even turn and look at her.

“Some.”

“What’s the groove for?” she tried asking again.

“Decoration. I thought I’d hammer in beading, maybe a black walnut.”

“That sounds nice.”

Again, only the nod.

“Garret? What’s wrong?”

His hand stilled on the wood, then slowly resumed its tracing of the quarter-inch groove. “Why, Suzanne? Looking for another soul to save?”

“Maybe.” She kept her chin up, refusing to be put off by his apparent surliness. Every time she offered, his answer was the same. Seemed like after all these years, Garret still liked to play the lone rebel.

“Well, don’t worry about mine,” he said expressionlessly. “I’m sure there’s a special place reserved just for SEALs, one filled with guns and booze and big-breasted women.” He could almost feel her lips thinning into that disapproving line behind his back, but he didn’t retract his words. The more she understood the type of man he was, he thought grimly, the better. He kept his eyes on his work and his concentration on keeping his hands steady. His back hurt like bloody hell, and if he wasn’t careful, more stray memories flashed through his mind like stark black-and-white news photos. He could almost imagine reading the captions.

Innocent woman brutally slain.

Women and children killed in senseless slaughter.

In Sarajevo, the savagery continues…

“Garret—”

“Get out, Suzanne.”

“No, darn it, I won’t. Garret, I’m your friend.”

He turned swiftly, slamming the wood down and causing her to jump at the sharp, ringing noise. He pinned her with eyes that were suddenly filled with a black, unholy rage.

“Friend? Why, Suzanne, why the hell be my friend? What the hell is in it for you?”

She swallowed hard, the glass of tea trembling in her hands. “Friendship isn’t about that,” she whispered.

He gave her a look of disgust. “You really are so provincial,” he sneered. “You still think you can take care of everyone, don’t you? Don’t you, Suzanne?”

“No.”

But he didn’t seem to hear her quiet denial. “You can’t, you know. You can’t save anyone, and you can’t save me. You women are all caught up on redemption. The worse the man, the more you want him. Well, I’m not looking for redemption, Suzanne, and I’m not one more of your little pet projects. Stick to your students and your sister. Leave me the hell alone.”

“What did you remember?”

“Damn it, I didn’t remember a thing!”

“What did you remember, Garret?”

Suddenly, he grabbed her glass and threw it against the door. Crystal shards and amber pearls of tea sprayed across the wall, streaking over her skirt. “Nothing. Get out.”

“Garret—”

“I remembered nothing!”

“You remembered something!”

“Damn you, Suzanne. Damn you.” And without warning, before she could move, he grabbed her trembling arm and wrenched her against his granite form. His mouth came down, fierce and bold and angry. He crushed her lips, splitting their tender fullness with his power. She pushed against the solid wall of his chest, but it was like arguing with concrete. His sweat mixed with her blood, stinging her lips and bringing tears of fright and pain to her eyes.

Then just as abruptly, he drew back and practically pushed her from him. She barely caught the wall to hold herself up, then slid down trembling from shock.

“Just stay away from me, okay?” he grated, his breath ragged, his eyes hard. “I leave in the morning, okay? Just give me until then.”

Slowly, she pulled herself up using the wall. Her legs felt weak and watery, and her hair was tumbling down around her face. She looked at him with wary eyes and dragged in a deep, shuddering breath. Tentatively, she touched one finger to her lip and brought it away to see the blood. His eyes followed the movement, his hands clenching at his side when he saw the damage he’d done.

Her round hazel eyes met his dark, condemned gaze. This was Garret, who never liked to see girls cry, she reminded herself. This was Garret, who took on Tank Nemeth for her and her sister. This was Garret, who never liked to admit to needing anyone.

She pushed herself away from the wall. And before he could stop her, she stood on tiptoe and wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing herself fully against his hot, sweaty length. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” she whispered into his ear. “It’s all okay now.”

And then he was trembling in her arms, his large hands clutching her back as if she was the only shelter from the storm. He pressed his head against her hair, and she felt another shudder rack his granite frame.

With soft, soothing words, she rocked him in her arms, her hands combing through the ends of his hair. She felt beads of moisture fall against her cheek, tangy and salty. And from somewhere low in his throat came the soft, lonely cry of a man’s anguish.

He tipped her head up, seeking to find her lips with his own. The kiss was no longer harsh or forceful; instead, his tongue plundered her mouth with aching need and desperate hunger. He soothed her cracked lip with his tongue, then delved deep into her mouth once more. She arched back, clinging to his shoulders and returning his kiss just as passionately. The slow, skillful seduction was gone, and she responded far more wildly to his raw, shuddering need.

He hoisted her up onto the saw table, and she let him, her mouth still pressed against his own. He pushed her crushedsilk skirt up to her thighs, then wrapped her legs around his waist. It positioned her hips intimately against the hot bulge of his jeans, and she rubbed against him instinctively.

He kissed her deeper, streaking her cheeks with sweat and tears. And still she didn’t protest, only held him tighter. Her hair fell completely free, his large hands burying themselves in the fine strands. He combed through them as if they were as thick and luxurious as sable, and she felt her throat burn. He needed her. Garret Guiness needed her.

She wrapped her tongue around his own, drawing him into her mouth and reveling in the tangy taste of salt and sawdust. His hands clutched her shoulders, and he rotated his hips suggestively. She thought she might spontaneously combust.

He trailed kisses down her throat, and now he was the one whispering soft words of encouragement. His head slipped down, his silky, damp hair brushing against her chin as his tongue dipped between the valley of her breasts. She arched her back, knowing already where she wanted his lips, where she needed his touch. He pulled down the scoop neckline of her blouse, freeing her breast. Slowly, almost tenderly, he drew the nipple between his lips and sucked hard.

She cried out, her legs tightening fiercely around his hips as ribbons of desire spiraled all the way down and exploded deep within her. He sucked again, laving the rigid nipple with his tongue and lips until her blood roared wildly in a maelstrom of sensation.