Hard to Hold Page 18

  “I’m up to it.”

  “So you’re just pretending to be into her to keep her close?” Nick asked.

  He wished he could say yes, but there was no point in lying about anything now. None at all. “No. Not really.”

  “Fuck,” Nick muttered. “Are you sleeping with her?”

  “Nick …” Chris sent a warning with his eyes and then turned his attention to Jake. “Then you’ll at least keep your distance from her for now. You like her, but this isn’t the time for that. Get your head on straight. Think about protecting her, not—”

  “Don’t say it,” Jake said, his tone low and dangerous, even to his own ears. Chris gave a small smile, as if his thoughts had been completely confirmed, and Nick drained the last of his milk before he spoke.

  “Go talk to Cal, Jake. We need everyone in this loop.”

  CHAPTER

  14

  Isabelle had been quiet that morning when Jake drove her to the clinic, wrapped in her own thoughts, barely saying good-bye to him as she got out of the car. Once again, he’d hung around the clinic without being noticed, watched her take her near daily run down the beach. She’d made it farther this time before she’d been forced to stop.

  He’d almost gone over when she’d bent forward, holding her side.

  The pace he’d kept to stay far enough behind her wasn’t enough to get his heart rate going. Between not being able to work out as hard as he wanted and having no barriers, except mental ones, between himself and Isabelle, Jake was about ready to blow. Hard.

  Doing so to the admiral wouldn’t be the smartest move, but waiting for the past hour in Cal’s office for him to return from a meeting had done little to improve his patience.

  Every time he closed his eyes in an attempt to rest, he heard Isabelle crying. Saw Clutch’s text message. Eyes opened, he saw all too clearly what was coming down the pike.

  The other alternative was the paperwork Saint shoved at him when he’d seen Jake that morning. He paged through the reports, only to realize that even paperwork reminded him of Isabelle now.

  He’d had to put down his feelings for the world—or at least the DoD—to see when he wrote the report about the trip out of Djibouti. Not that they would see, but Christ, every time he looked at that particular file—before he’d been ordered to destroy it—he was sure they could.

  0200

  Hostage found. Medical performed.

  0230

  Held hostage’s hand.

  0300

  Lost my fucking mind and kissed the hostage. Repeatedly.

  He threw the folder down on the empty chair next to him and stood to stretch. His side ached less today—the stitches looked good, and despite Isabelle’s insistence he hadn’t put the heavy bandage on again. The rough scrape of the stitches against his T-shirt was a good reminder of the healing.

  He turned the picture Cal kept facing himself on his desk. Jake had actually seen it before, hundreds of times, probably, but it was the first time he looked at it knowing the full story behind the smiling trio of men in their jungle greens.

  Callahan. Markham. March. He’d never looked at their names on the small patch on the uniforms. They were standing by the old O-course on the north side of the base, the one closed for repairs. Permanently.

  “He’s already inside your office, Admiral.”

  Jake put the picture back where he’d found it as the door opened behind him and finally the admiral strode inside.

  “Hansen.”

  “Sir.” Jake nodded, waited until Cal sat and then did so as well.

  “I was going to ask you to come in and see me today—you saved me the trouble,” Cal started. He clasped his hands together on the desk—never a good sign—and leaned forward on his elbows. “Are you involved with Isabelle?”

  “I don’t know how to answer that, Admiral. I don’t know what we’re doing. I’m watching out for her, like you’d asked.”

  “I don’t want you pushing her. She’s healing.”

  “I know that, sir.”

  “You’re going to confuse her. She doesn’t know what she wants. Her mother’s hoping she goes back with her ex-fiancé when this is all over.”

  Jake’s gut tugged in a way he did not like. It was time to end this part of the conversation. “Rafe was last seen in Burundi.”

  From the way Cal’s neck snapped to attention, Jake knew the intel wasn’t off. “How did you come upon that information?”

  “I have sources.”

  “I told you that you weren’t to involve yourself in this aspect of Isabelle’s situation.”

  “I know what you told me. I also know my limits. Having inferior information pushes my limits to their breaking point.”

  “You are defying my direct order. I had my own men on it.”

  Jake ran his hands through his hair and prayed for the answer he wanted. “What did your men find?”

  Cal paused, a pained expression on his face. When he spoke, his voice was colder than Jake ever remembered hearing. “I haven’t heard from either of them in two days.”

  “My source said he found two men at Rafe’s last known address. No ID. Necks broken.”

  “Did he find Rafe?’ Cal demanded, stood, knocking over the coffee mug and spilling the liquid all over his desk.

  Jake closed his eyes briefly. “He almost had him.”

  Cal turned to face the small window on the far side of his office.

  “Who were those men, Admiral?”

  “Former CIA. I hired them to hunt Rafe—they could get in places other men couldn’t,” Cal said.

  “Who was tailing her when she started working again in Washington?” Jake demanded.

  “There wasn’t a need at that time.”

  “Why not? You knew Rafe was still loose then.”

  Cal closed his eyes for a second. “Because Isabelle’s mother was paying him to stay away. Just like he’d demanded. He refused the last payment—said he’d much rather have Isabelle instead.”

  “Dammit, Admiral—you’re taking her life in your hands and you’re tying mine behind my back,” Jake said in a voice he had to fight hard to control, because he really wanted to yell as loudly as he could and possibly take the man in front of him down hard.

  “You remember who you’re talking to,” Cal told him.

  Jake took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. He turned away from Cal, faced the wall and envisioned how good it would feel to punch his fist through it. But he didn’t. Instead, he did that fucking count-to-ten thing, and knew it wasn’t going to do shit. “Paying him in the first place was not a good idea.”

  “He was threatening to go to the press … I couldn’t let that happen. Not to the senator and not to Isabelle.”

  “How did the FBI feel about that?” Jake faltered for a second at the expression on Cal’s normally unreadable face. “You never had them in on this, did you?”

  “The longer the FBI was in the loop, the more of a chance this story had of leaking to the press. The senator and I decided it would be best to call them off when they’d completed their initial investigation.”

  “Best for whom? Isabelle’s life is at stake—I’d think you’d let everyone who could help get Rafe off the market do so. Do you know this guy’s rep? Do you know they call him the shadow, that they say he’s impossible to track and capture? That he’s broken into the goddamned Pentagon for fucking fun?”

  Rafe, who could be everywhere, and nowhere, all at the same time.

  He waited for Cal to tell him to get the hell out of his office, out of Isabelle’s life, but he didn’t. Cal stared at him, and for the first time Jake noted how tired the admiral looked. Worn down, almost. Shit.

  “I’m on this, Admiral. I’m going to do everything I can to get information on this guy, everything I can to keep Isabelle safe.”

  There was no breeze, and still Sarah wasn’t sure if it was minutes or hours that she’d been collapsed to her knees as if in silent prayer. She remaine
d unmoving, until strong arms wrapped themselves around her and hauled her to her feet. Only then did she let herself open her eyes to look up at Clutch.

  She’d lost everything—her cameras, the film, next month’s board and food … and there was nothing to send home to her family. But somehow, by the grace of God, she hadn’t lost this man.

  So no, she hadn’t lost everything—not even her soul, no matter how many times she’d tried to give that away.

  “I’ve got a car,” was all he said. “Are you coming?”

  Yes, she would go with him. “Clutch, I …”

  “I’ve got your things from the clinic,” he said quietly, his arms tightening around her waist. “Your cameras. Clothes. You weren’t back in your room when the rebels started their burn and slash today, so I took them out for you.”

  He wouldn’t have left her there for the rebels. Looking back, she wasn’t sure if she could say the same thing about herself had the roles been reversed. “You’re still watching out for me.”

  “I couldn’t stop. I tried—you have no idea how hard I tried …” His voice hitched and he closed his eyes for a second.

  She traced his left eyebrow, the way she used to do, the eyebrow with the small white scar that was nearly invisible against the white-blond hairs, and then she cupped her other hand around the back of his neck, the short hairs tickling her palm as she pulled his face down toward hers. His mouth took hers, hungrily, a kiss without the promise of a future, and still, she wouldn’t let go.

  When he pulled his mouth away from hers, he continued to hold her close, but his words sent a chill through her. “Sarah, who are you sending money to?”

  “My family. So they can buy back their farm.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “They were left with nothing.”

  “No, you were left with nothing,” he said. “Your family’s gone, Sarah. They didn’t survive when their farm was taken over. You were the only one who did—and only because you ran.”

  “Stop it, Clutch. Just stop it. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” She struggled against him, but this time he was not letting go.

  “I checked … I wanted to help. They’re dead.”

  “No!”

  “They died the day the land was taken from them. I understand the lies you’ve been telling yourself, I understand that’s the way you’ve been surviving. But they’re gone. Let them go.”

  Let them go …

  “I tried … tried to pull my mother and sister away, but they wouldn’t listen to me. They thought they could explain …” She faltered, her voice cracking, and the earth seemed to sway beneath her feet.

  “You knew better.”

  “The crowds were beyond talk.”

  “It’s not your fault that you ran, that you survived.” His voice was fierce, and if she could only believe what he said. If she could only believe.

  “What have you been doing with the money?” he asked again.

  The money—all that money. “I put it into a joint bank account—one my parents could have accessed. I kept hoping that, someday, it would be enough.”

  He pulled back from her, forced her to look into his eyes—and she saw nothing there but compassion. Understanding. Not a trace of pity or anger. Maybe she even saw love there too.

  “It’s someday, Sarah. And it’s enough. It’s always been enough.”

  Sarah stood in Clutch’s arms long enough for the sun to move overhead and throw new shadows on them, letting the strength of his body ease her confusion.

  Five years and her secret had finally been revealed. The crushing weight of responsibility lightened, actually made her dizzy as it rose off her shoulders.

  “Why did you check on them?” she asked, lifted her head from his chest to look into his eyes.

  “I thought, if they were taken care of, you’d give up on your idea of becoming what I am.”

  “You must think I’m crazy.”

  “No. Not any more than I am,” he said, then pulled her closer, murmured against her cheek, “Sarah, please, you’re going to be okay. You have to be.”

  “Why is it so important to you?”

  He brought his mouth down on hers gently, just long enough for the heat to flare in her belly. “You’re important to me. From the first time I saw you, I knew you were.”

  “I was breaking into your house,” she reminded him as she reached up to run her fingers through his short hair. “I wanted a shot of the famous American merc.”

  No pictures … ever, he’d told her that night. For a man who didn’t bother to blend in, it had seemed a strange statement.

  “Funny, that’s not how I remember it. One minute, we were fighting … the next, we were naked.”

  “You didn’t even take your pants off.”

  “That’s because you were so impatient. Let’s see what the big-time American soldier boy can do.” He smiled, something she hadn’t seen him do in the past twenty-four hours. “Did I meet your expectations?”

  She thought about the way he’d cradled her that night, taken her slow and hot against the wall in a way that had shattered her expectations of men—American men … any men.

  Clutch had ruined her for anyone else. She dared to wonder if she’d done the same for him in the months they’d been separated.

  From the way he was looking at her, she had her answer.

  “It’s going to be all right now, Sarah.”

  So much truth, admitting her wrongs about so many things. “What I’ve done …”

  “What we’ve both done. What’s been done to us,” he said, and she wanted to know what had happened in his past to lead him down this path, something he’d never spoken of during the year they’d been together. She’d searched his house, had attempted to search his soul for clues, but came up empty, except for the woman he cried out for in his sleep.

  But he was distracting her the way he’d always done, with soft words and warm hands. Her pulse beat everywhere—her breasts, fingertips, the wet flesh between her legs that had yearned for him every single night she lay alone in her bed and sometimes during the day when someone would say a word a certain way or a man would strut just a little and she would think, Clutch does that so much better than you …

  He was going to lay her on the soft ground by the car in minutes, and even though her head was swimming, she still had the presence of mind to ask him, “Who’s Fay?”

  He started, tried to pull away from her. She didn’t let him. “Just tell me. Was she your wife?”

  “She almost was,” he said. “She was killed the night we’d planned to elope.”

  He wasn’t going to tell her anything more now. And when he laid her on the soft ground, murmuring, I can’t wait, she’d known her memory about how good they were together wasn’t faulty.

  He’d already reached inside his bag for a condom.

  “Hurry, Clutch.”

  He did, ripped the packet and rolled the rubber on, was inside her within seconds of getting on top of her.

  She groaned, grabbed his shoulders at the intrusion—so tight.

  He paused, looked at her with a question in his eyes.

  “There’s been no one since you,” she said shyly, right before his heavy body took hers, primal and fierce and swift, just the way she needed it.

  CHAPTER

  15

  Jake didn’t come in until sometime after two in the morning—oh-whatever-hundred—and slammed through the kitchen door as if it were two in the afternoon. He wore jeans, a black leather jacket, a black T-shirt underneath, complete with a pair of heavy, black biker boots—he took Isabelle’s breath away, nearly made her forget the anger that had grown, irrationally, as the hours passed.

  Nearly, but not all the way.

  She’d worked a fourteen-hour shift, was already on edge because the phone kept ringing with no one on the other end, and she’d found Chris waiting for her outside the clinic around ten P.M.

  “I’ve got to get a car so
on,” she’d told the man wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt with his green camouflage BDUs.

  Chris had given her his wide smile. “It’s not a problem. Jake’s out for a while. He asked me to give you a lift home.”

  On a Saturday night. At least Jake had been nice enough to arrange a ride for her before going out to get laid.

  He’d driven her to work this morning, both of them avoiding any discussion of what happened the night before. At the time, she’d convinced herself that was the way she wanted things, but when he hadn’t stopped by the clinic at all, she’d regretted that decision.

  Maybe he’s just giving you space.

  Or maybe he was just busy finding a woman who could give him what he needed. All of what he needed.

  According to the younger nurses she’d worked with today, they were expecting to see Jake and his brothers out tonight at the bar called The Den.

  Still, she wasn’t a teenager—far from it—and she shouldn’t be behaving this way. She’d fought the urge to ask Chris why he wasn’t out tonight as well.

  Jake stopped short when he saw her. “You really don’t sleep.”

  “Neither do you.” Isabelle tossed the book she’d been attempting to read onto the kitchen table. It had been foolish for her to wait up for him. The only purpose it served was to make her miserable, make her think about the way Jake hadn’t been there in the morning when she’d awakened.

  Granted, she’d been the one to have a meltdown last night, but he seemed like he’d be able to deal with worse than that.

  Still, Jake owed her nothing, not even everything he’d already done.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. He’d gone straight for the fridge, downed half a container of juice straight from the bottle before capping it and putting it back.

  She fought the urge to lecture him on the spread of bacteria, pushed away from the table instead and prepared to go to her room. “Nothing.”

  He shook his head as he moved in tandem with her, ended up blocking her path to the swinging door separating the kitchen from the living room area. “I know when a woman’s pissed at me.”