The One Worth Waiting For (9 page)

So now she was back to business and life would return to normal. She’d be her old efficient, practical and busy self.

It seemed to work. Mrs. Alston, sweet but fretful after a week with no company, required sincere attention. Then the kids, with all their exuberance, had forgotten to bring sponges, which Suzanne volunteered to fetch. Accustomed to the summertime car wash by now, plenty of locals stopped by with their pickup trucks and large sedans. She had her hands full trying to exercise quality control and manage the cash. By four, everyone was rosy checked, wet and happy. That left pizza and errands.

With all this activity, the day seemed to just fly by. It wasn’t long before she was walking out of the grocery store, two bags in hand, and noticing the growing dusk. As she got into her car this time, her shoulders were tighter, her stomach tense.

The last of her errands was done. And now she could return home, where Garret had been sitting and waiting all day. Her shoulders set even tighter.

The dusk was thick when she finally turned into her own driveway, but no lights shone from her bay-windowed house. Instead, the three stories yawned gaping black windows, silent and still.

She killed the engine and sat there for a moment.

Maybe he’d already left.

He now had clothes, and a few minor toiletries that Cagney had produced. Except for general weakness and his lack of memory, he wasn’t doing too badly. She imagined it took more than general weakness to stop Garret.

She clambered out of the car and retrieved the groceries.

It didn’t matter, she reminded herself as she climbed the steps of the front porch and began juggling the bags in search of her keys. She wasn’t some sixteen-year-old kid looking for fairy tales anymore. She didn’t lie in bed at night dreaming that this night he would finally come and sweep her away from all the despair.

She’d outgrown all that simply by waking up each morning and finding herself in the same lumpy bed. Night after night, morning after morning, until Garret had been no longer gone for weeks or months, but years. She’d buried her mother and said goodbye to her sister. She’d saved her ancestral home and built herself a new life.

She didn’t believe in rainy promises anymore, and she certainly didn’t believe in white knights. She knew how to take care of herself. Actually, she knew how to take care of everyone.

Which, right now, seemed to include Garret. Or maybe it
had
included Garret.

She finally managed to get her key in the lock, and with another quick adjustment of the grocery bags, she opened the door.

The dark brought back memories, as well. He was gliding along, smooth and easy beneath the heavy, silted depths of the water. They weren’t down that deep, but the river was so thick it choked out the light. He moved with strong, rhythmic kicks, gliding through the water as soundlessly and gracefully as the SEAL name implied. His swim mate, Austin, guided them both with a flat compass that cut through the algae, while Garret kept his eyes focused on the depth gauge and counted kicks. Two people moving as one, they slid through the water effortlessly, the algae glowing as it parted like a thin line of forged steel.

He’d spent a lot of time in water and knew it intimately.

The fire, the rocks, the bodies.

They had nothing to do with water, and over the course of the day he’d nearly come to terms with that. At least, he was trying to. He whirled around and paced the perimeter of the living room once more. It had been like this all day. The tight, cramped feeling of helplessness. The house looked big, but he’d decided sometime around noon that it was still too small for him. He felt like a damn zoo exhibit, roaming the ground floor and waiting for someone to toss him peanuts.

He didn’t want to remain in the damn house. He wanted out. He wanted water and wet gear and a good knife. He wanted to know what was wrong, then to seek and destroy. He’d been trained to evade and escape, to hunt and kill. The SEALs weren’t renowned for their discipline; instead, they were the cowboys of the armed forces, known for their incredibly toned bodies, long hair and new and ingenious methods of accomplishing SpecWar objectives. Garret had fit right in.

He’d never believed in patience.

Yet as much as he probed and prodded his brain, all he could recall were flashes and shards of memory. Every now and then, if he stopped walking, he even felt a sliver of fear.

Fear was not bad, he reminded himself for the tenth time, and switched walking directions yet again. Fear was a matter of basic instinct and primal survival needs. As SEALs, they all faced fear sooner or later. He’d encountered it deep underwater, inhaling through his Draeger a potentially lethal mix of oxygen and carbon dioxide so that no telltale bubbles escaped to mark his progress. As the saying went, “no bubbles, no troubles.” There was, however, one drawback to the highly effective means of infiltration: a prime symptom of overdosing on the lethal inhalation, O2 toxicity, was the extreme fear of imminent death.

It had happened to Garret once. He and Austin were almost upon their target when his mind had blacked out and imploded back in with virtual neon signs of impending danger. Abruptly, he abandoned his hold on Austin’s weight belt and clawed his way back up to the surface. Self-control shut down; logic shut down. All he knew was that if he continued, he would die.

He’d recovered after deep breaths of fresh, sticky air, Austin bobbing up beside him to keep guard. After he pulled himself together, he and Austin had continued. But the incident taught him of fear, the primal reaction to the need for self-preservation. He’d never felt it as sharply as he’d felt it then, but it had pricked his spine a time or two since. And now, if he stopped moving, he could feel the fear creeping up the base of his skull.

In the shadows of falling dusk, he finally halted before the huge expanse of the bay windows. He leaned upon the windowsill, contemplating the deepening night while he reflexively tightened his biceps. He glanced down at his arms, checking out the bulge of muscles, and shook his head. At his physical peak, he’d been able to bench press 450 pounds, slightly above average for his SEAL team. The extreme upper-body strength was necessary for hauling oneself and small arsenals out of the water and up hundreds of feet of rope to the desired deck of the infiltrated ship. Now, he tested his arms and figured if he could manage three hundred pounds, it would be a miracle.

He was fit, but not SEAL fit.

So what the hell kind of fit was he?

His stomach tightened, the fear tingling, and he felt his frustration soar.

Where the hell had he been? And why couldn’t he remember?

He squeezed his head with his hands, but it didn’t help. He could remember his E&E training, the UDT—underwater demolition team—training, and even the six months in spy school. He could remember most of his Spec War assignments and his teammates. He could remember, actually, quite a lot.

Until about a year and a half ago. Then, suddenly, there were just the images of fire and foreign buildings. Austin and the rest of his SEAL team disappeared, leaving another cast of shadowy men he couldn’t bring into focus. They fought the fire with him; later, they all walked together across the river, out of the city, where the terrain grew rocky and birds abruptly appeared to circle overhead.

Ant then, in faint, distorted snapshots, he saw the bodies and felt the tears creep down his soot-covered cheeks.
Zenaisa.

Who was
Zenaisa?
Where had he been?

His hand clenched in a fist, and for one long moment, the frustration and helplessness made his muscles stand out in rigid relief. He swore, low and bitter and harsh, and wondered for the millionth time if he’d truly lost his mind.

Maybe the strain had been too much. Maybe he’d cracked up.

He would give anything for a punching bag right now. Or any kind of distraction at all.

Where the hell was Suzanne anyway?

When Cagney had recommended last night that she return to her normal activities, Garret had agreed. But the woman had been up at dawn and creeping out of the house by eight-thirty in the morning. It was after nine at night now. Was she ever planning on coming back? Maybe he’d scared her away for good.

He at once grinned and grimaced.

He really should just leave. He knew he made her uncomfortable. After the afternoon’s little episode, she hadn’t even been able to look him in the eye. He’d had to ask her to help him with his bandage at night, and she’d skittered around so nervously she’d even made him jumpy. Or maybe his own nerves came from the soft scent of roses that followed her, the gentle touch of her trembling hands on his bare back.

At least his libido still worked.

He shook his head and returned to his pacing. He’d stride around the living room one way until his head seemed to spin, then sharply check himself and go the other direction. Hamsters must feel this way in their constantly rotating wheels.

A car door slammed, breaking the tension, and his sharp eyes riveted abruptly to the door. Suzanne. It was about damn time.

Or was it her?

Immediately, he moved, a silent shadow floating past the bay windows. Right before the entryway, he paused, flattening himself against the wall as his senses strained. The metallic grating of a key finding the lock. The sharp click of a bolt retreating home. The door handle turned, and the door swung inward.

Moonlight followed her through, revealing the golden highlights of her brown hair, accentuating the elegant line of her alabaster neck. He forced his breath out quietly.

“It’s about time,” he said.

She jumped and whirled at once, groceries tumbling from her arm as the very wall disconnected before her eyes and materialized into a man. Her heart leaped into her throat, and for a moment, she was so terrified she couldn’t even breathe.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Garret said.

She opened her mouth, but sound still refused to come out. She struggled for another deep breath, while her round eyes fastened onto his face. He looked dangerous. She lost her grip on the second bag, and produce tumbled across the hardwood floor.

He came forward without a sound, bending down as gracefully as a dancer. His hand was large and callused, swallowing up the first green apple that rolled across the entryway. As his fingers curled, she could see tendons ripple across his forearm, then disappear as he casually dropped the apple back into the sack.

Clean shaven, his chiseled face looked hard and expressionless. Worse, his underfed, hollow cheeks gave him the lean, hungry lines of a predator.

Her gaze dropped back down to the entryway floor, and she focused on trying to retrieve a few apples herself.

“You scared me half to death,” she managed to blurt out at last, her hands latching onto a head of lettuce.

“Old habits die hard,” he said simply.

She nodded, not daring to meet his eyes. She didn’t like to remember who he was, because who he was had nothing in common with her universe. She lived for her children and for her community. He lived to fight wars none of them would even read about.

And soon enough, he would return to them.

“I—I thought you might have left,” she found herself saying, then immediately bit her lip. She quickly shrugged nonchalantly, drawing his eyes to the smooth expanse of her exposed shoulders.

His jaw tightened, his gaze lingering. “Soon.”

She nodded, not able to meet his eyes. “Hungry?”

Wordlessly, he nodded, his eyes drifting to the curve of her neck and the faint pounding of her pulse. He’d followed that curve with his fingers, felt that strong, regular rhythm with his thumb. Just as fifteen years ago, he’d tasted her lips with his own, felt her cling to his shoulders and whisper his name. He rose and shut the door.

She straightened on the spot, the hairs on the back of her neck rising inexplicably. Garret always brought a certain edge with him, a wound-up feeling of crackling electricity. But now the tension had risen a notch above even that. She was no longer on the fringes of an electric storm.

She was in it.

She swallowed hard, her chin rising. Unconsciously, she held the two bags of groceries in front of her as a feeble defense.

“I’m—I’m going to put away the groceries now,” she said nervously.

He nodded, his black eyes never leaving her face. And though he never said a word, never even moved, she knew exactly what he was thinking. Clutched in her arms, the groceries shook slightly.

“I really have to put them away,” she whispered again.

Again he nodded.

With a mild oath, she tore her gaze away, scampering off to the kitchen before she could lose any more of her composure. There, she turned on every light as if that could chase away the impending storm.

Her hands still shook as she began to put away the groceries, her ears attuned to the sound of footsteps in the hall. But minute after minute dragged by without his approach, and she finally allowed herself to draw in a long gasp of air. For one moment, she simply gripped the edge of the counter and allowed the tension to shudder out of her.

Good Lord, she was losing her mind.

She took another deep breath and steeled her defenses. Then with quick, efficient movements, she returned to attack the groceries.

She was a thirty-two-year-old woman, she reminded herself as she loaded the crisper. She did not have fluttering little attacks every time she saw a man. She was a practical, logical woman, she reiterated to herself as she pulled two steaks out of the sack. Her life rotated around the community, her roses and her house. She was very busy and very fulfilled. She was well respected and well liked.

She wasn’t missing anything at all, and the only reason Garret was even around was because Cagney was her best friend, so she was willing to help his brother. That was it.

Logical, efficient, practical. She took care of people; everyone knew that. So she’d helped tend Garret’s wounds and fixed him a meal or two. Any day now, he would be gone, and that would be the end of it.