Hard to Hold Read online

  “And you didn’t let it get that far?”

  “Right.” He stretched his body tentatively, arms over his head but still conscious of his side. “I never would’ve made it that far.”

  “You mean, in jail.”

  “No, I never would’ve made it to jail.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t want to understand,” he said. “I was wild, Isabelle. I didn’t give a shit about anyone, beyond myself or Nick or Chris, and that wasn’t enough to keep me out of trouble in the end. In my world, I didn’t owe anyone anything. Not even the people who were good to me, or loyal.”

  She wasn’t saying anything.

  “I would’ve been dead if I hadn’t enlisted. I would’ve been dead and I didn’t care. For about the first five years I was in, I didn’t care much either. It wasn’t a good way to live.”

  “And now you care?”

  “Yes.”

  “So the military did that for you? Gave you back what you were missing?”

  “It didn’t hurt.” He shrugged. “But that’s me, not you. Going back to a third world country as military personnel will be a lot different,” he said. “You won’t be treating the locals.”

  “I know. Did Cal tell you to talk me out of this?”

  “No. But you have to get how worried he is.”

  She gave him a small smile and pushed her plate away. She took a deep breath, as if full and sated. Her fingers played along the blade of the dull knife and she kept her eyes focused on it when she spoke again. “Uncle Cal’s my biological father.”

  His head jerked up in surprise, and there were very few things these days that could surprise him. “He never said—”

  She shook her head. “He doesn’t know I know. Neither does my mother.”

  “How long have you known?”

  “Feels like forever. I was eight when my dad was killed—I still consider him my dad. Always will, I guess.” She sat back against the red fake leather seat and stretched her legs out so her feet rested on the seat next to him.

  “Do you think Cal knows?”

  “He knows,” she said quietly. “I was listening, the night he told my mom that my dad was killed. Uncle Cal said, I tried, Jeannie, but I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t save him, and I owed him so much for the way I betrayed him, for Isabelle. It didn’t take a genius to figure it all out.” She drew a deep sigh. “It’s pretty obvious, anyway. Uncle Cal and I are an awful lot alike.”

  “Does it bother you that they never told you?”

  “No. It only bothers me when I see the way my mom looks at him sometimes. She still loves him.”

  “You’ve never brought it up to her … in all these years?”

  “We don’t talk about things in my family,” she said. There wasn’t any trace of bitterness in her voice—more of a vague acceptance of the way things were. “Well, we didn’t, although my whole Doctors Without Borders thing has certainly gotten the dialogue moving.”

  She paused for a few minutes and he knew, just knew, what she wanted to ask him.

  He gave her what she wanted. “I didn’t know my real father.”

  “Did you ever think about finding him?”

  He stared at her for a long minute, her hazel eyes matching his gaze. “What would it change?”

  “Right. What would it change?” She reached across the table—his hand met hers halfway and held it tight for a few seconds, until he was sure he could speak.

  “Come on, let’s go get you settled in.”

  CHAPTER

  11

  It was happening again. Gunfire shattered the quiet, the sound a sharp relief against the eerie silence that always preceded a rebel attack.

  Screams plus the steady fire of machine guns came together in a rapid staccato against the pre-dawn calm and Sarah couldn’t bring herself to move this time, stood frozen against the back wall of one of the main clinic buildings. There was nothing she could do for these people as the flash of lights and sounds reached a dizzying climax, and still the quiet didn’t return.

  She stood there, frozen, one person with a weapon against the soldiers would do nothing, but even so, she flashed back to when she was sixteen and the soldiers were breaking in and taking everything—everything she’d always known. In the fury to take back land from white owners, resentment bubbled to an overwhelming blind rage.

  She’d wanted to stay, to argue—to beg for her family’s farm, but instead pulled her mother and sister hard by the arms, out the back door, to hide in the tobacco crops until the riots died down. She remained in Zimbabwe until she couldn’t stand one more set of borrowed clothes and look of pity and she’d stolen a car and driven away.

  Now these soldiers were coming closer, and still she was rooted, the boots she wore like lead weights attached to her legs, and every breath felt heavy, almost not worth the effort.

  It would be very easy to give up. So much easier, because she’d had nothing to give her family two months before last, and now nothing again.

  Sarah had tried to get her family to leave Zimbabwe with her, but they knew no other country. Their grief was still too fresh, too deep. And so they waited, as if their land and their status were going to be restored.

  She knew better. Violence mounted around them every day, as did their poverty. Sarah was standing knee-deep in poverty herself, and it was dark and hot and she was not supposed to break down like this. Not here and not now. If she wanted her money, she’d have to get out of here and meet Rafe.

  She turned to peer back inside the small house that served as guest quarters for visiting doctors. Empty. A thin trickle of sweat ran between her breasts, between her shoulder blades, and the smell of gunpowder was thick in her nose as she took a hesitant step inside to grab her things.

  The hand slapped over her mouth and another strong arm wrapped around her, didn’t give her a chance to react before she was lifted off the ground by a brute strength she was helpless against. With her arms pinned solidly to her sides so she couldn’t use the gun strapped to her calf, she struggled, until she heard the low American voice whisper in her ear.

  “You’re coming with me, Sarah.”

  She nodded to show she understood and the grip around her body tightened even as the hand came off her mouth. He wasn’t going to let her go but he’d get her away from the rebels. It was the lesser of two evils, and she was without any choice.

  He dragged her away from the camp, through the start of the dense jungles that ran along the back side of the clinic and into a small clearing where she’d parked her car earlier.

  He’d been watching her.

  Instead of pulling her inside and driving away from the madness that was still too close, he pushed her against the side of the ancient white Land Rover.

  His hand wrapped around her throat as his voice came as a low growl directly into her ear. “Where’s your friend Rafe? He’s supposed to be here with you.”

  Clutch still maintained a semblance of military bearing—the short hair, nearly white blond, and eyebrows that matched, all standing out in stark contrast to his tanned skin. His eyes were somewhere in between pale blue and green, but closer to a colorless marble that she’d once had in her collection—her pride and joy, the shooter that won her more candy than any other kid in her small school.

  So no, Clutch didn’t blend here, not by a long shot, but he didn’t have to. He’d told her that if he was seen, it was because he wanted people to know exactly who he was—and if he needed the element of surprise, he was good enough that they never saw him coming.

  She certainly hadn’t. And his hand was far too gentle on her windpipe, as if he knew just the right places to press to make her uncomfortable without actually hurting her. He’d done this before—he could snap her neck easily, if he wanted to.

  “I don’t know where Rafe is,” she managed in a ragged whisper. Shots rang out behind him, but he remained unmoved, didn’t flinch as the whoosh from an explosion flashed in the nigh
t sky and shook the ground.

  “Then I guess you want to stay here—with the rebels. I’m sure they’ll find … work for you.” His eyes dropped to travel her body and she jerked as if she could free herself from him. “Don’t fuck with me, Sarah. I know you were working with him.”

  “He’s one of the few who’s shown me any kindness,” she said, wondered why her heart ached when Clutch looked as though she’d slapped him. Wondered if it was too late for them both.

  “If you’re looking for kindness, you were born in the wrong country,” he said. “If you were looking to get it from Rafe, you definitely went to the wrong man.”

  “What? Suddenly there’s honor among thieves?”

  “Do you know what that kind man did to the woman who thinks you’re her friend?” Clutch asked, and no, she didn’t want to know, squeezed her eyes tight and railed against the hand on her throat. If she didn’t know, it wouldn’t be real—she could keep lying to herself, keep taking the blood money that Isabelle paid for in the way a woman never should have to pay.

  But Clutch wasn’t letting up, leaned close and whispered in her ear, told the story over and over, the same one she’d heard whispered rumors of in the bars where other men like Rafe and Clutch gathered, looking for work and company and drink.

  Her knees buckled as his grip tightened and she knew for sure that she couldn’t take the easy way out.

  A rustle came from the bushes behind him and he let go of her and turned his gun on the soldier stepping out into the clearing. Clutch had him down in two shots, but before he could turn back to her, she’d cocked her weapon and had it pointed straight at his broad back.

  He froze when he heard the click. “Don’t do this, Sarah.”

  “Drop your weapon,” she said quietly, surprised when he did so. She took a few tentative steps toward him, used her free hand to check him for the other weapons she knew he carried. She’d seen him strap up more often than she cared to remember—in order to do this right, she’d have to strip him.

  They didn’t have the time for that right now.

  “Are you going to shoot me or leave me for the rebels?” he asked calmly as she pocketed the gun he’d laid on the grass, along with the one he carried strapped to his ankle. If there were others, she wasn’t going in for them now.

  If she left him here, he would surely die.

  There’s no honor among thieves, Sarah.

  “I’ll get you out of here, leave you off far enough away where you’ve got a shot at escape.”

  “I don’t want a shot at escape—I want a shot at Rafe.”

  After what Clutch had whispered to her, he wasn’t the only one.

  “Your side does hurt.”

  Jake caught Isabelle rubbing the sore flesh over her rib cage as she stood in the middle of her new bedroom.

  “It just aches sometimes,” she said. “Probably from the cold.”

  “Try eight hundred milligrams of Motrin. It’s the standard military dose. Solves anything.”

  “Short of a bullet wound.”

  “The military claims it covers that too,” he said as he put her last bag down in the corner by the large closets.

  “Is that what they gave you when you got shot?”

  “I didn’t need anything.”

  “Bullshit.” The word slipped out before she could stop herself.

  “Is that your best bedside manner?” he asked.

  “You’ve seen my best bedside manner.”

  “I hope you weren’t talking about earlier at the scene of the accident.”

  “Why? Didn’t like what you saw?”

  “You were yelling. It was obnoxious. It turned me on,” he said. Deadpan.

  She bit back a smile. “Didn’t think I had it in me, did you?”

  “I kind of knew you did. You might just make it in the military after all.” He maneuvered his body in front of hers, one hand reaching forward to brush back some of the hair that had fallen forward across her cheek. Just that touch alone was enough to make her belly clench, and he knew it.

  Up until this morning, she hadn’t seen much of that wildman the world proclaimed him to be. Although the grab-the-guy-by-the-throat maneuver in the bar was impressive, watching him head up the rescue, without being asked, watching everyone follow his direction … now, that was something to see.

  Nothing about him was overtly pushy or blatant or cocky. He didn’t have to be. He moved with the quiet confidence other men envied, tried to emulate and failed. His commanding presence wasn’t something to be copied, it was something to be earned. And she’d never been so aware of her own sexuality, the way it pulled her, unrelentingly, toward Jake.

  Yes, you’re definitely on your way toward healing.

  “Remind me to teach you some self-defense moves,” he said.

  “I know a few—they taught us some before my first trip to Africa. After they took us out to the woods and left us there with a compass and some water and told us to find our way out.”

  He snorted. “That must’ve gone well.”

  “I did better than some of the men.” She played with the strings on her scrub pants, stared down at them. “I could probably use a refresher course, though.”

  “Okay, here’s one.” He held up his hand, pointed to the butt of his palm. “This can take a man down—here.” He held his hand by her nose. “Hard and up. You’ve got the angle, because you’re shorter. Also, here.” He put his hand by her sternum. “Slam as hard as you can—take the wind out of them.”

  He hooked his foot behind her knee and tugged lightly, caught her before she stumbled forward. “Do that and push at the same time—they’ll go flat on their ass.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, scream as loud as you can. I suggest always carrying too.”

  “Do you?”

  “Always.”

  “Then how about I just hang around with you?” she asked, and watched his mouth tug to the side, the way it always did when she asked something of him. As if he knew how damned hard it was for her to ask for help from anyone.

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” he said, before he turned to haul another bag out of the middle of the room and place it against a far wall.

  Yes, he was here, and somehow, she still couldn’t quite believe that he was going to stick it out despite the fact he hadn’t given up on her yet.

  “I know you think I don’t watch my … what is it, my six enough,” she said, and he cocked one eyebrow at her. “And maybe I should. But the thing is, I’m not afraid of random people who are out to hurt me. The person who hurt me is someone I let in. So how am I supposed to be wary of strangers when it’s the people you trust who can hurt you the most?”

  His gaze never wavered from her face.

  “Can he escape? I mean, he’s so highly trained … Could a jail hold you?” she asked and then shook her head. “You know what, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.”

  She noticed that he didn’t protest—probably hadn’t planned on answering anyway.

  She avoided his gaze by glancing around the room and noted that there were fresh sheets on the bed. And fresh towels piled there as well. Things she hadn’t even thought about needing. “You made my bed?”

  He rolled his eyes, like she was making too big a deal of it. “Yeah, well, don’t get too used to that. It’s like a onetime-only thing. Besides, the stuff is Nick’s.”

  “You stole your brother’s sheets and towels?”

  He shrugged. “They were just lying around. In his closet.”

  “I’ll buy my own this week and then I’ll wash and return them to him.”

  “Sounds good. You can throw my stuff in with that load too,” he said. And he was completely serious.

  “You can’t do your own laundry?”

  “I’m not really allowed to do it,” he admitted. “I’ve broken a few machines. And I tend to turn clothes the wrong color.”

  “You do realize that I’m a doctor, right? Working full ti
me.”

  “What’s your point?” he asked as he strode toward her. She straightened from where she was putting a few things into the nightstand by the bed as he approached and leaned her back against the wall, just watching him, the way his strong frame moved toward her.

  “Being your on-call doctor isn’t enough?”

  “That’s a job you don’t want.”

  “You don’t get to tell me what I want,” she said, wondered why it was so easy to say things like that to him, why it made him smile when she did. “Do you ask all your women to cook and do your laundry for you?”

  “I didn’t realize you were my woman,” he said, his voice a low, husky timbre that made her want to tell him that yes, a big part of her already was his woman, wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less.

  He saved her from making a complete fool of herself.

  “There haven’t been a lot of women in my life,” he said, then corrected himself when he saw her smirk. “There hasn’t been anyone significant.”

  “I’m sure a lot of women have tried.”

  He shook his head slowly as he braced his arms against the wall on either side of her. “Whatever you’re thinking is wrong. I’m a moody pain in the ass, Isabelle. Trust me on that.”

  With that, he leaned down and kissed her—a long, hard kiss that went deeper, further than the one last night on so many levels.

  This one went on long enough to make her grab at his hair, his shoulders, all while his palms remained flat against the wall, and no, she wasn’t wrong. Nothing about this—about him—could be wrong.

  He smelled good, like fresh air and salt water, tasted even better and she drew him closer to her, so his body brushed hers. Hers hummed with just that slight contact and he hadn’t even touched her yet.

  She’d put him in charge of that, but somehow she found her hands wandering down his chest, winding her fingers through the belt loops of his jeans to pull his pelvis close to hers. She wondered what he’d do if she just stripped him down, right here, wondered if he’d lie still under her inspection.