Four
arrived gracefully over the lake.
Ellie had a perfect view of the show from couch. Curled up on one end, she toyed with the locket around her neck. The night sky awoke with gradient tones of purple and pink. Within minutes, hues of purple melted into blue, pink into orange and gold until the lake glittered like it was covered in diamonds.
Beautiful. I could live here forever.
Wherever here was.
She’d come out of her medicated nap to find herself alone in a bedroom she didn’t recognize. She’d been stretched out on the bed on top of the comforter with a throw blanket covering her legs. Her duffel bag was perched on a chair in the corner. Still dressed in the clothes she’d worn to the hospital, Ellie changed into her usual sleep attire of yoga shorts and a sports bra and crawled back into the bed, hoping for more sleep.
When sleep refused to come, she went in search of Booker, only to realize she hadn’t just been alone in the bedroom. The cottage was empty. She might’ve gotten nervous if Brandon’s truck hadn’t still been parked beyond the dilapidated porch out front.
The cottage was small, so it didn’t take long to snoop around. There were two bedrooms and a living area. The bathroom was on the other side of the large kitchen. There were dirty dishes in the sink, and a laptop and computer monitor on the kitchen table. The latter appeared to be video feed of the exterior of the cottage and what she assumed was the surrounding area. The place held the faint scent of stale fish and lake water. She surmised she was in the cottage Booker had mentioned, but that’s where the knowledge of her location ended.
Booker.
God. He could’ve at least had the decency to add some body fat over the years instead of all those…those muscles.
Her body hadn’t fared quite so well. Her curves had thinned to within an inch of being dainty—a look her five-feet-six frame couldn’t pull off as healthy. For the last eight years, she’d been her mom’s full time caregiver. With her focus on her mom, she hadn’t done a great job taking care of herself. She lost enough weight over the years to make her hipbones visible. Her stomach wasn’t ripped, more … soft and flat. She’d gone down one whole bra cup size, which she didn’t necessarily mind since it meant her breasts were perkier than before. Not that anyone ever saw them. The only decision Ellie had consciously made about her appearance involved her hair. She had her long waves cut into a short pixie to save time and energy.
She didn’t look horrible. Nothing a few more cheeseburgers and calorie-laden meals wouldn’t take care of.
Low maintenance had been her self-proclaimed motto for herself while her mother had been sick.
Ellie winced as she ran a hand over her rib cage; lest she forget about the other ways her body hadn’t improved. The discoloration of the bruise covering the left side of her torso had turned into a sickly purple. The bruise matched the one on her thigh.
Could Owen have been responsible for her attack? The trouble at the hospital?
She slid the locket back and forth on the chain.
If he was, the bigger question became … why?
Booker thought she and Owen—Ellie almost gagged. No and no. She and Owen weren’t involved—had never been involved. Not romantically anyway.
Owen was her boss. He’d been kind after her mom died. Owen wasn’t an estate attorney, so when he offered to help her navigate the legalities surrounding her mom’s estate at no charge, Ellie had been touched by the sentiment. She should’ve seen his support for what it was. A strategic play to have her indebted to him.
Owen overestimated her affection. She overestimated Owen’s sanity.
I always get what I want, Elizabeth. Darling. There’s no need to resist. I know you want me as much as I want you.
She didn’t want him, but she needed her job. She indulged Owen with occasional dinners, drinks, and phone calls, but she shut him down flat whenever he tried to get physical. She hadn’t been with a man in more years than she wanted to count. She wasn’t going to end her drought with a pompous ass like Owen Jennings.
Owen hadn’t given up. If anything, he’d become more aggressive. Worried Owen would stop taking no for an answer, she begged off his invitations and started looking for a new job.
Needing to move, Ellie slid from the loveseat and walked to the back door. Glittery dew covered the trees, making them sparkle in the morning light. A fine mist hovered close to the ground, giving the yard a tranquil, almost ethereal quality.
The peacefulness of it beckoned her. After the chaos of the last year, she wanted—no, needed—to be a part of it. To breathe it in. To create a memory she could take with her and recall long after she left this place.
She opened the door and stepped into the spacious screened-in porch. Her body immediately revolted in a head-to-toe shiver-burst when the morning chill hit her skin. She should’ve put a shirt on over her sports bra before going out. And maybe some pants to cover her legs, but damn. The chill was … invigorating.
The painted concrete floor was slick with dew. Carefully, she padded over to the screen wall. She leaned into the morning and drew in a breath. Crisp air filled her lungs. Somewhere in the distance, a bird chirped a cheerful good morning.
She had died and gone to heaven.
“What’re you doing out here?”
Ellie whirled around. Booker leaned in the doorway, holding a coffee mug in each hand. He’d traded his military pants for jeans and he wasn’t wearing a shirt. And holy sexy tattoo, Booker’s left pec sported ink that hadn’t been there the last time she’d seen his chest. An eagle done in black. Its talons were extended, the wings spread. It appeared to be coming in for a landing over his heart. One wing spanned his shoulder. There were single feathers trailing down and around his biceps, as if the eagle had shed them.
She couldn’t take her eyes off him. His torso was solid from the bulk of his shoulders to his corrugated abs. Built like that, he should never wear a shirt.
Shirt. Damn it, he wasn’t the only one not wearing one.
Snapping out of her tattoo trance, Ellie slapped her arms over her middle. Too late. Booker’s lazy smile vanished when his gaze dipped down. A rush of Spanish tumbled from his lips. He dropped the mugs. They fell to the floor with a fractured clank as he stormed toward her.
Okay, so she’d missed a few meals during her mom’s eight-year illness, but she didn’t look that bad.
Ellie stumbled back, back, back, matching his forward movement step for step until she found herself wedged against the far corner of the porch with Booker looming over her. Despite the chill, her body heated.
“W-what are you doing?”
“You said you weren’t hurt.” Booker reached out, his hand hovering next to her cheek as though wanting to touch, but unsure if he should. When they’d been together he wouldn’t have thought twice about taking what he wanted from her. And she wouldn’t have thought twice about letting him.
Her stomach dropped and rolled as the muscles in her core clenched. It had been so long since she’d been touched with any semblance of tenderness, Ellie suddenly felt starved for the feeling.
Please. Touch me.
She missed him, damn it. She could deny it later, when her emotions weren’t raw, but God, the concern crinkling his beautiful eyes right now … it was too much.
Ellie’s hand shook as she cupped his knuckles. Holding him in place, she leaned in to his touch. Her eyelids fluttered closed with the contact.
Warm. Calloused. Perfect.
If she thought she was in heaven before, Booker’s touch had upgraded her to the VIP section. She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. She just … felt.
Booker’s thumb brushed her cheek. “Did he do this?”
Despite the caress, his tone had bite. Ellie came back to earth in a sudden crash. She opened her eyes and glanced up into the face of a stranger. All hard-edged and ready for battle.
What would it be like to wrap herself around him now? To channel all that menace into something more pleasurable?
Keep dreaming. He left you, remember?
Yeah. She remembered.
Ellie tilted her head away from his hand and ignored the deepening crease between his brows. Booker reacted to the bruises because he was a decent guy who wouldn’t want to see anyone hurt. She could’ve been anyone and his reaction would’ve been the same. He was a champion. That’s why he’d joined the military. And it was why he was helping her now.
She was a job.
“If you’re asking whether the guy who broke into my house gave me these bruises, then yes. Although the one on my face was the only direct hit. The others came from the subsequent fall.”
Using her palms, Ellie nudged Booker’s chest, hoping he would take the hint and give her some breathing room. He backed off with a grunt of disapproval.
She shivered with the loss of his heat.
“Damn it. Come on.” Booker grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the door. He took two steps before he turned to look at her. Ellie had no idea what that scowl meant. It wasn’t her fault she was bruised.
He released her hand.
“Vas a acabar conmigo,” he said to the ceiling. Before she took another breath he bent down, hooked an arm behind her knees, and lifted her into his arms.
#
to God, Booker had planned for a fresh start with Ellie this morning. Beyond the shock of seeing her again and the trouble she was potentially in, he was determined to start over. This time, his emotions wouldn’t get the better of him. He’d be calm—they would talk. He’d be cool—he would absolutely not think about seeing her tight little body naked. He’d be collected—and finally get some answers.
A perfectly executable plan blown to shit the minute he laid eyes on those bruises. Calm, cool, and collected flew the fucking coop, leaving him with a whole mess of pissed off and a fiery need to make someone pay for marring her beautiful skin.
“What do you think you’re doing?” She struggled against him. “Put me down.”
Not if his life depended on it. Not yet. “There are pieces of broken coffee mug all over the porch. I don’t want you to get cut.” Maybe it was the broken shards of ceramic on the concrete. Maybe he needed reassurance that she was okay. Whatever the reason, it felt too good to have her in his arms again.
Where she belonged.
Ellie huffed in a sexy little protest, but she stopped squirming. And then she did the most amazing thing. She looped an arm around him, her fingers dancing along the back of his neck on their way to his shoulder. Her gaze locked onto his tattoo and fuck him, she wet her lips. “And I suppose your feet are made of iron?”
His feet? No. But if she kept that shit up his cock would make a fine simulation.
“I was smart enough to put on shoes before stepping out onto the cold porch.” And pants. Another item she’d forgotten that he was having a hard time being annoyed about when it meant he had an unobstructed view of her long legs.
“How was I supposed to know your morning ritual included sacrifices to the coffee gods? I hope one of those mugs was for me. I’d hate to get on the wrong side of that particular deity so soon after my arrival.”
Booker rolled his eyes, but her joke eased the tension in his chest. Gave him the strength to set her back on her feet once they reached the door.
“Go put on some clothes,” he said, ushering her inside. Those bruises were making him twitchy as hell. “I’ll pour you a fresh sacrifice and then we’re going to talk.”
Ellie disappeared into the bedroom. Booker grabbed a broom and dustpan and headed back outside. By the time he’d cleaned and disposed of the mess, Ellie sat at the kitchen table waiting for him. Her feet were still bare, but she added a pair of jeans and another tank top. Pink, this time. Her fingers were laced together in her lap. Her thumb was busy circling the opposite palm, a clear sign she was nervous. She’d picked up the habit when they were kids.
Booker pulled on a T-shirt and filled the last two coffee mugs from the cabinet. He left his black. To Ellie’s he added a healthy amount of cream and a splash of the maple syrup Roman had put in the fridge for the frozen waffles the guy consumed by the dozen.
He crossed to the table and set the mug down in front of her. He’d gone out before daybreak to check the perimeter alarms he and Roman had set in preparation for Ketcher’s stay at the cottage. While out, he called Brandon, who had already thought about the possible Cuban connection to last night’s shit storm. The SUV and the men had gotten away, but Brandon was looking into it. In the meantime, Booker needed to work the other angle.
“Owen,” he ground out, hating the taste of the asshole’s name. “Start talking.”
Ellie wrapped her hands around the mug. “You first. What did you mean when you said I was going to be the death of you?”
“What?”
“Before you picked me up on the porch, you basically said I was going to be the death of you. Why?”
Because this will end, and I don’t know how I’ll survive letting you go again.
“When did you learn Spanish?”
She smiled a little, like she knew he was deflecting but wouldn’t press the issue. Good thing, since he had no interest in cracking his chest for her inspection.
“I decided to take classes right before we got married.” She winced at the word married, as though being attached to him had been less than desirable. “I wanted it to be a surprise. Then, when you decided to leave…” She shrugged. “I needed something to do that first year.”
When he decided to leave? As though he wanted to be apart from her? Fuck that. Her choice of phrase crawled all over him, like an army of hungry fire ants.
He wasn’t the one who left.
“Other than file divorce papers, you mean?”