Chapter 12

Death by a thousand cuts.

That’s what it felt like to sit there, straddling Dagan Zoelner, the man Chelsea had lusted after for years, and hear him admit that all that time he had wanted her too. Especially since there was no way she could act on all the chemistry bubbling between them, not with the Big Bad Secret flying around over her head.

The awful thing was always there. And when she least expected it to, it would dive-bomb her like the seagulls had that time her mom and dad took her to Hilton Head for Labor Day weekend. Back when there had been money for vacations. Back before hardship and struggle and responsibility became the be-all, end-all of life.

So, yup. She was going to have to do one of the hardest things ever. She was going to have to turn down the oh-so-sexy man of her dreams.

Trouble was, she cared about him too much to reject him outright. She didn’t want to hurt him. He’d been hurt enough. So she racked her brain for a way to let him down easy.

There was always It’s not you, it’s me. But that was far too trite. She considered telling him she had an incurable, highly contagious venereal disease. But her pride wouldn’t let her go that far. So, that left her with…what?

The truth, a little voice whispered through her head.

The truth? Well, the truth was that she couldn’t make love to him because she wouldn’t be satisfied with a little bit of afternoon delight when what she’d fantasized about for years was a fairy-tale happily ever after. The truth was that they couldn’t have happily ever after because the minute they started down that path, she’d be forced to come clean about what had really happened in Afghanistan. The truth was that she…loved him.

And there it was.

The ultimate truth.

A long time ago, Chelsea had shoved it down deep, where she had hoped it would either become part of the fabric of her being or else lead to septic shock that would put her out of her misery.

“So what do you say?” Dagan prompted when she had been quiet for too long. “Want to put that condom in my wallet to good use?”

Yes! So much. But I…can’t.

Then the solution to her dilemma suddenly presented itself. She wouldn’t have to reject him if she could get him to reject her. Which should be easy enough, given that she knew his weaknesses, his worries, the responsibilities he had shouldered and refused to unburden himself of. It startled her, actually, how well she knew him.

“And if we act on this…thing”—she waved a hand between them, staunchly ignoring the feel of his erection pulsing between her legs—“what then? Like you said, you’re officially a civilian working at a custom chop shop in Chicago. And I’m back to being a counterintelligence officer at Langley.”

Instead of answering, Dagan grabbed her hand and splayed it against his, measuring the difference in size and texture. His palm was large and hard and callused. Hers was small and soft and unblemished. Threading their fingers together, he tugged her forward.

She could have resisted, she supposed. But if this was the last time she was in his arms, what harm could there be in allowing herself to revel for just a little longer?

With her breasts pillowed against his broad chest and the curve of her lower belly cushioning the steely evidence of his desire, his sweet breath fanned her face. She could have gone on just like that for eternity. Feeling him breathe. Feeling his heart beat in time with hers. Feeling his passion for her.

“Dagan.” Her voice was so scratchy it sounded like she’d been swallowing cockleburs. “I need you to answer me and…”

Any remaining words died quick deaths when he carefully removed her glasses. She blinked at him until he came into focus, then frowned when he folded the earpieces and set her glasses aside.

“Chelsea.” Once more, he settled his big hands on her hips and softly kneaded. When he said her name like that, she nearly had a mini-orgasm on the spot. “Don’t draw a line in the sand you can’t cross later.”

Her brow knitted. “I’m sorry. Did you just pull a Gollum on me? Was that some sort of riddle?”

He laughed. The low, rolling sound made her ovaries explode. If she looked around, she was certain she’d see eggs lying everywhere, just waiting to be fertilized. The flash of his straight, white teeth against the backdrop of the Beard was enough to stop her heart, and in her head, she didn’t hear Gollum’s voice, but Yoda’s saying, The Devastating Grin Game is strong with this one. She was obviously getting her odd, pointy-eared gnomes mixed up.

“I’m saying that for right now, let’s forget about the past, stop thinking about the future, and just live in the moment.”

And there it was. Her plan was falling into place perfectly.

So why does it hurt so much?

“Said every boy in the backseat of his car on prom night,” she told him with a wry twist of her lips.

It was utterly fake, her grin. Because what she really wanted was to curl up in the corner and have a good cry. Just whimper and wail and curse the decision that had brought her here, to this moment, when she was presented with a dream—the dream of him—and forced to turn away from it.

“And like the backseat on prom night, let’s make some sweet memories.”

“I’m saying,” she said, “that if you’ll hold your horses and try thinking with your big head instead of Little Z’s head—”

“Just FYI,” he interrupted, “there’s nothing little about Little Z.”

Don’t I know it, she thought. Because some things were obvious, even covered by a layer of thick denim. What she said was, “My point is that what we start here today is doomed to come to a quick and decisive end once we’re back stateside and hundreds of miles away from each other.”

His brow puckered. “Are you saying you don’t want that, or you do want that?”

“I’m saying I’m thirty-two years old and way past the point of settling for a two-pump chump.”

“Excuse me?” He could not have looked more offended if he’d tried. “I have never been a two-pump chump. Feel free to ask any of the women I’ve been with. They’ll tell you I—”

She shoved a finger over his mouth because the last thing she wanted to talk about was the women he’d had. His whiskers tickled her skin and reminded her of how those same whiskers had tickled her neck and her ear and… “Z, I’m trying to make you understand that what I want and what you want are two entirely different things. So it’s better to stop this crazy train before it has a chance to go off the rails.”

“What happened to Dagan?”

“Huh?”

“Since we came down here, you’ve been calling me Dagan. But just now you went back to calling me Z. Why?”

She sat up and frowned at him. “I didn’t realize I was doing it, I guess. Dagan or Z, it’s all the same to me. Both are you.” Although that wasn’t quite true. Calling him Dagan had always felt so…intimate. Too intimate. “Why? You have a preference?”

“I like the way my name sounds on your lips,” he said. “With just the hint of that Southern drawl.”

The words themselves were innocuous, taken one by one. But put them together and combine them with his deep, moonshine voice, and they were an invitation to sin. Her mouth went bone-dry.

Funny, considering other parts of me are the opposite.

“Stop trying to change the subject,” she scolded him.

“Is that what I’m doing?” She felt his smile in her bones. Deeper. In her soul.

“Yes. You’re doing everything in your power to detour this conversation straight toward Sexy Town.”

“But it’s such a nice destination, don’t you think?”

Oh, how easy it would be to just let him have his way! But…then what?

“Look, I know Little Z is calling the shots right now, but just for a couple of seconds would it be possible for me to talk to Big Z?”

To ensure both their minds were focused on the conversation, she crawled off him. Sitting on the cold floor she immediately missed his fiery warmth. She tried to generate her own heat by pulling her legs up and wrapping her arms around her shins. A glint of purple from her discarded glasses caught her eye and had her reaching for them. Sliding them on, the world around her went from soft, fuzzy shapes to hard, sharp edges—including Dagan.

He was the human equivalent of a hard, sharp edge. And she studiously avoided looking at the fly of his jeans when he sighed and pushed into a seated position. His legs looked a mile long as he stretched them out and crossed them at the ankles. “First of all, I call a permanent moratorium on the phrase Little Z. And second of all, do you realize the expression on your face makes you look like you’re about to give birth to an oversized, ill-tempered hedgehog?”

“Nice.” Chelsea frowned at him. “Very nice.”

He curled a big, warm hand around her ankle, all trace of humor gone. “Okay, babe, I give.” Babe. A simple endearment. But it hit her so hard that she lost her breath. “Say whatever it is you need to say. Big Z is all ears.”