Hard to Hold Page 2

  “We’re all right,” he said.

  “Have you killed a lot of people?” she asked.

  “Enough.”

  “And you have enough ammo to kill more?”

  She thinks we’re going to die. And hell, she might be right, but it wasn’t a possibility he allowed himself to dwell on once he’d written his letter and got on the helo. Death was always a stark and sobering reality and he’d be a fool—and dead long before this—if he didn’t acknowledge that reality every single time he took a trip.

  “The gunfire sounds a lot closer than it really is,” he said.

  “Liar.”

  “Normally, a good one.” That got a small smile out of her, but it faded quickly. “The rebels are more interested in one another than us.”

  “I’m not worried about the rebels. I’m just not sure … he said he was coming back to get me.”

  He’d assumed that the rebel soldiers did this to her, took her from the village she’d been working in and dragged her to this remote hut. But something in her voice told him that wasn’t true, and coupled with his earlier suspicion of just where the intel of her location originated from, the warning bells in his head rang louder than ever.

  “Who did this to you, Isabelle?” he asked. She shook her head and he wondered if he should press further. She’d be questioned by the FBI and CIA and various other agencies because of who her mother was anyway, and she didn’t owe him any kind of true confession. It would be enough for him if he could get her out of here safely.

  “He wouldn’t be stupid enough to come back here,” she whispered. “If he does, you won’t let him near me, right?”

  “He won’t even get close. Tell me who did this to you.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Sometimes admitting it the first time’s the hardest,” he said.

  “And sometimes it’s the worst thing you can ever do,” she shot back.

  He didn’t argue, because he couldn’t. Admissions had never been high on his list of priorities and he’d always been more of an It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission but I’m not planning on asking for either kind of guy.

  A small sob caught in her throat. Her face contorted in pain and she held her side and winced.

  “It’s okay. Just try to relax. You don’t have to tell me anything,” he said, stroked her cheek with his thumb. “I’ll give you some more morphine.”

  She didn’t argue as he sent another dose through the IV line. In a few minutes, her eyes got that hazy look again and her breathing was better, but she still wasn’t content.

  He realized why almost immediately, as smoke and dust rose in his nostrils. The rebels were burning down this part of the jungle, cutting a swath so refugees and the opposing army couldn’t hide from them.

  He and Isabelle were directly in that path.

  “Rebels are smoking out the survivors,” she whispered, and damn, he wished she didn’t know that. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  He was backed into an impossible situation—moving Isabelle now, at the rate he’d have to evac her …

  “I know the risks,” she said, and he didn’t have time to second-guess either of their decisions. Instead, he cut a piece of the blanket away and tied it over her mouth and nose, stopped the IV for the time being and tucked it against her. Then he marked the floor so Nick would know his next position, if his team was able to make it close to the hut at all.

  Bag slung over his chest, he picked Isabelle up and he ran, a different route than the one he and Nick had taken an hour earlier. The foliage was thick, and he tried to stay on the main path as much as he could, prayed that no one would come running from the opposite direction.

  He ran until the smoke wasn’t heavy, until the shots sounded more distant, until he knew he couldn’t risk jostling her any longer than he already had.

  “How … far?” she asked when he laid her down between some overgrown brush that held just enough coverage from both the road and the field to camouflage them.

  “Two miles,” he said.

  She opened her eyes and stared at him steadily. “I thought you’d be faster.”

  He fought a smile. “Stop talking. Just breathe.”

  They were out of the way for now, maybe a mile west of what was being burned. If no one came for them in the next half hour, he’d move them again.

  He got down low, lay on his side parallel to her body and put his face close to hers. “Just try to relax. My team will find us soon. They’ve never let me down. And I’m not going to let you down.”

  She nodded, like she wanted to believe him.

  “Are you going to keep fighting, Isabelle? Or am I in this alone?” he asked, and the way she answered caught him off guard.

  “Tell me the worst thing you’ve ever done,” she said suddenly. “It doesn’t matter what you say. You can’t top me.”

  “Somehow, I really doubt that.”

  She stared at him, and for just a second her face was illuminated by the overhead flares set off by the local soldiers—a cry for help. From anyone. She looked beautiful, despite the cuts and bruises. Beautiful and strong, and he wondered why the hell he would notice that now.

  “I slept with the man who held me hostage. Willingly. I seduced him, because I wasn’t about to be a victim. I stayed in control. I made my own choices,” she said, her teeth gritted at the memory of what she’d done. “I wasn’t forced. They’re going to say that I was and I’m going to have to agree. But that’s a lie.”

  What she’d just told him was something she’d never reveal to anyone else. And now she needed the same thing from him. She was daring him really, and he’d never been one to back down from a dare in his life.

  She’s not going to remember any of this, so just tell her.

  “I killed my stepfather,” he told her. “Self-defense. He tried to kill me first.” Nothing more than the rules of engagement.

  “How old?”

  He paused. “I was fourteen,” he said, was about to tell her he didn’t want to talk about this anymore—couldn’t, really. She was asking so much of him, things he’d never willingly give away. He didn’t do submission well, and she was nearly tearing his heart right out of his chest with every question.

  And when she took his hand in hers, he wondered what the hell to do next. “Tell me what else I can do for you,” he said.

  “Kiss me,” she whispered, and he figured she must be zoned out on the morphine and the pain and there was no way she realized what she asked him.

  But his own eyes had finally adjusted to the dark, and one look in her eyes, clearer now than they’d been minutes earlier, told him that she was in full control of her senses.

  “Isabelle, I—”

  “I don’t want to die knowing that the last man who touched me hurt me.”

  “We’re not going to die.”

  “Can you promise me that?”

  “I don’t make promises. But I know what my gut tells me.”

  “Please, Jake. Don’t make me beg for this,” she whispered and, ah shit, he’d already leaned down toward her involuntarily.

  He put his mouth on hers, the taste a welcome relief from the dust and stifling heat. How she could taste so sweet in the middle of all this hell was a mystery.

  Her arm curled around his neck, holding him there in a sudden burst of fierce protectiveness and passion that bonded them more strongly than he would’ve thought possible.

  When he pulled back, her breathing was faster. He couldn’t tell if it was her injury or the kiss or both, but she murmured, “Put your hands on me,” in his ear. And he did, lightly through the jacket, the way a man would touch a woman he wanted—caressed her arm, her breast, her belly, let his hand linger on her hip and thigh as if his touch could heal everything.

  He watched her face carefully while he caressed her, in case it was too much, but she didn’t stop him. And when he finished, he brought a hand to her cheek and rubbed a thumb over the bruise on her forehe
ad.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice tight. “I know, after what I told you—I know that couldn’t have been easy.”

  “I don’t do things out of pity. Never did,” he said, pressed his lower body against hers carefully, so she’d know the effect she’d had on him. Because the most important thing right now was to make her smile.

  And when she did smile, he forgot about her injuries and the fire and the gunshots. He was going to have to run with her again, and soon, because he refused to let this be the end of the line. And he couldn’t help but kiss her again, a long deep kiss that wasn’t ever going to be enough. His hand rested on her hip and her hand closed around his for the second time that night.

  He pulled back when he heard the low hum of a motor over the riot of gunshots.

  Saved. Fucking finally.

  “Is that for us?” she asked. He turned to her to tell her yes, but she’d already drifted off to sleep. Actually looked peaceful, her fingers still twined through his.

  He knew it would be a long while until he found peace again.

  CHAPTER

  1

  two months later

  Isabelle Markham knocked lightly on the heavy metal door, heard the sharp What? come from the other side and thought briefly about turning away.

  “The SEALs who rescued you are stationed here. I’m sure you’ll run into them at some point. Will that be a problem for you?” The admiral—and the man she knew simply as Uncle Cal—eyed her sharply across the desk, his words a final test.

  “That’s not a problem,” she said, right before she signed the final papers that declared her commitment to the U.S. Navy as a civilian consultant for the next three months.

  She’d meant it. It was not a problem. She needed closure on this situation. She’d start working on base tomorrow and didn’t want any surprises to throw her off the finely honed balance she’d fought for over the past two months.

  She pushed her way inside the office and found herself face-to-face with the man who’d saved her life.

  Jake Hansen stood well over six feet tall, dressed in full jungle camouflage BDUs. In Africa, his hair had been completely covered by a dark green bandanna. His whole face, except for his eyes, which were somewhere between the color of steel and smoke, had been camouflaged with paint—most of which had begun to fade. As the hours had worn on, she’d been able to get glimpses of what lay behind the SEAL’s mask.

  She remembered the medic wiping the greasepaint off her own face during the transport to the hospital.

  His hair was longer, blonder than she’d have guessed, but the rest of her instinct had served correct. He was one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen—rugged good looks really, made even better by the way he didn’t seem to notice it.

  He just stared at her, like if he looked at her hard enough, she might disappear.

  “Lieutenant … Jake … I’m Isabelle Markham.” Her voice seemed to echo in the small room and she forced herself to breathe.

  “I know who you are,” he said, and she tried to hold back a smile at hearing his voice again. The tone was low, rough, just like she’d remembered, a voice that had forced its way into her dreams.

  When she’d been stuck in the hospital, right after the rescue, she’d wake up in the middle of the night reaching for his hand, sure he was right there next to her.

  She still found herself seeking out his touch, but now it was from the comfort of her own bed.

  “I really wanted to see you—to thank you. For saving my life,” she said. She wondered how such an important sentiment could sound so completely lame, but it was nothing less than the truth.

  He walked toward her and for a second she wondered if he was going to … hug her or something. But he only shut the door behind her.

  “How did you find me?” he asked, and no, it wasn’t exactly the type of reunion she’d been hoping for.

  “I … Admiral Callahan told me where you might be. He knows my mother,” she said, and maybe she could sound more like she was in high school. Jake didn’t make her feel any better, because he just sighed, shook his head and mumbled stuff under his breath.

  He’d done that a lot in Africa. She’d found it comforting then. Now, not so much.

  “I don’t remember much about the rescue,” she said quickly, because she saw the partial horror in his eyes. Obviously sharing secrets in the dark when their lives were in danger was one thing, but the cold stark reality of daylight was a different story entirely. “I mean, they told me what had happened to me—what you did for me, but I was really out of it. It’s all one big blur.”

  He relaxed slightly, but his guard was still up.

  When the FBI and CIA questioned her, she’d just kept thinking about Jake, focusing on his gray eyes, pretended she was telling him the story. Because he was the only one who knew the truth—her truth—the only person besides her who ever would.

  And he’d understood. If he hadn’t, he never would’ve bared his soul to her. She hadn’t been sure if he’d topped her story, but she had to admit they were neck and neck.

  “You shouldn’t have come here,” he said finally.

  “You’re welcome would’ve sufficed and been a much nicer response.”

  “If you’re looking for nice, you really did come to the wrong place. I don’t need thanks for doing my job. And besides, it wasn’t a one-man mission,” he said.

  “But you stayed with me. Stayed behind when you didn’t have to.”

  “That’s my job,” he said tightly and she wondered if he was going to ask her to leave his office.

  “I know. But it still meant a lot to me,” she said quietly. He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked up at the ceiling for a second, as though the sentiment caught him off guard. She knew that didn’t happen often.

  “Do you want some coffee or something?” he asked finally.

  “Coffee would be great.”

  “I’ll be right back.” He motioned for her to sit in one of the chairs that flanked his desk, which was piled impossibly high with files.

  She heard the door close behind her and she sat in the hard wooden chair and tried to take in as much as she could of his office, as though this room could give her more of a glimpse into the soul and psyche of a man who routinely risked his own life to save people he didn’t even know, and most likely would never see again.

  He really seemed to prefer that last part.

  A recruiting poster for the Navy hung to the left of the desk and, she discovered on further inspection, covered a large hole in the wall. A broken chair, the likely culprit for the hole, lay in pieces underneath the poster.

  On his desk, on top of the piles was a book on policy and procedure, an iPod and an empty box of donuts. A uniform hung from a dart in the wall behind the desk—dress whites with an impossible array of medals across the chest.

  It was the space of a man who wasn’t around much to care about what his office looked like.

  The door opened behind her sooner than she’d expected, and Jake handed her a Styrofoam cup of steaming liquid. He hadn’t asked how she liked her coffee and she took a tentative sip. It was light and sweet, just the way she liked.

  “How did you know how I take my coffee?” she asked.

  He sat across from her and gave a small shrug. “Because that’s how I take mine.”

  “So everyone who drinks coffee with you has to take it the way you do?”

  “Yes,” he said simply. He sat behind his desk, stretched his legs out so his feet rested near hers.

  “Are you all right?” he asked finally.

  “Yes. I’m fine,” she said firmly, and for a second she swore she saw the hint of a smile on his mouth. “What?”

  “You’ve answered that question a lot. Too much, probably.”

  “You’re right but—”

  “You’re fine, right?”

  “I am.”

  “I’m not arguing.”

  “I want to go back there. To Afr
ica,” she said.

  “I’m sure I’ll be back there too,” he said. “And don’t take this the wrong way, but I really hope I don’t see you there again.”

  “You think I’d be putting myself at risk unnecessarily.”

  “What I think at this point doesn’t matter. Shouldn’t.”

  “Why can’t you have an opinion on my life? Everyone else does,” she muttered.

  “That’s exactly why I don’t.”

  He was just the way she’d remembered—the way she’d figured he’d be in an everyday, normal situation. He was not handling her with kid gloves, didn’t look at her like she was a victim, and she knew she wanted to do more than just thank him.

  “I’d like to see you again,” she said before she could stop herself. These days, more so than before, it was all about taking chances, about really living and not letting fear win. She’d come out of this stronger. She was just having a problem finding someone who could deal with her strength, who could see through to her softer side.

  “Are you asking me out? Because I’m more than capable of asking you out if I wanted to.”

  Yeah, she hadn’t wanted to be treated with kid gloves. “So you’re saying you don’t want to?”

  “I didn’t say that, Isabelle.” He leaned forward on his elbows, his strong hands flexing on the desk between them. “It’s just that I don’t like doctors. I mean, as a general rule.”

  God, those eyes … they could be a weapon all on their own, and she was sure she wasn’t the first woman to fall for him.

  And he wanted nothing to do with her.

  Dr. Isabelle Markham was thirty-one years old, had been to Brown undergrad and Harvard Medical. Top of her class. Area of specialty—reconstructive plastic surgery.

  She could’ve gone anywhere.

  She’d chosen to volunteer with Doctors Without Borders, aka Médecins Sans Frontières, and she’d been doing stints four months at a time for three years. Working in local clinics on her off time. There had never been any trouble until her mother ran for the Senate last year—and won. The threats started soon after.

  In Africa, she’d been betrayed by her own bodyguard, an ex–Special Forces soldier who’d been kicked out of the Army years earlier, turned merc and, finally, turned on his own country. Jake just couldn’t figure out why and the FBI agents who’d debriefed him hadn’t been interested in sharing.