24
I stared at his reflection. “What?”
“You heard me. It’s over, Lena. He’s under arrest.”
All the adrenaline pulsing through me evaporated and I collapsed against him. “It was him? Martin?”
“Martin Campbell. They got the search warrant and found the evidence they needed.”
I held his gaze in the mirror while I tried to pin down my thoughts. “But will it be enough? Could he get off? I mean, is there anyway a court could—”
“No.”
He said it with such certainty, I frowned.
His pause was barely noticeable. “Don’t ask.”
“What do you mean?” Relief was making me feel shaky. Visions of pacing my bathroom after I’d discovered Martin had been in my house flashed through my mind. Or entering my trailer and noticing it wasn’t how I left it. And the smell of smoke, so acrid, so strong, I could almost taste it . . .
Marc squeezed me gently, silencing my thoughts. “That’s all you need to know.”
Which was his way of saying Campbell’s fixation on me had been worse than he’d thought. I felt a surge of revulsion and swallowed it down. “OK.” He was right. It was probably better I didn’t know.
“OK.”
We continued to look at each other in the mirror. I became painfully aware of our position again. If I focused, I could feel the steady beat of his heart against my back. The arm resting on my stomach was casual, but I sensed a protectiveness to it, like he was worried I might flee at any moment—and he was probably right.
“Thank you,” I said, and meant it.
He nodded, not taking his eyes from mine. My gaze was wary, his was watchful.
“Let me help you with your sling,” he said.
For a split second, I entertained the idea but I closed my eyes, willing myself to think clearly. When I opened them, I forced myself to smile. “No, it’s OK. I’m fine.”
He dropped his arm and stepped back, and I immediately felt a sense of loss. Then he smiled, like he’d expected my response. It was just a curl of the lips—that wry, barely there grin of his—but it undid me.
“Wait.” I reached out for his hand before he walked away. Only our fingertips brushed but it was enough to make him stop. He met my eyes again, but didn’t speak. He just waited, like I’d instructed.
“OK. I trust you.” And I did.
He nodded again and I wondered what he was thinking? But I didn’t have time to reflect on it because he stepped forward and placed his hands on my hips.
“Turn around.”
I nodded and looked down at his hands. They were elegant but strong at the same time. Long fingers, narrow palms, and a few small scars on his olive skin.
I let him lead me back toward the mirror, then watched as his long arms reached around me. He became focused on undoing the buttons of my shirt and his chin almost rested on my good shoulder. He was so close I had the sudden urge to press my cheek against his, but instead I bit my lip.
My reaction didn’t matter. Marc wasn’t looking at me, his gaze was down, still concentrating on the buttons. I could see my chest rising up and down as I forced myself to breathe evenly. But every time I did, I caught the scent of him. Fresh, spicy, minty—and I swore I caught coffee too even though we’d just woken up.
He stepped back. “There.”
My rosy red shirt gaped open in the mirror, a long line of my pale skin looking as though it split me in two.
He shifted to one side and started working on my sling. It came free easily and he caught the material as it fell. He set it on the counter the same way Jay had done, but I hadn’t felt quite so ill at ease when he’d helped me.
I lowered the arm that had been in the sling and winced slightly.
“You taken any painkillers?”
“Not since yesterday.”
He shook his head, flashing me that wry smile again. “Figured as much.”
I rounded my shoulders. Or tried to. “I can handle a little pain.”
“I know you can.” He positioned himself directly behind me. “Let’s start with your good side.”
I shrugged out of the shirt, the vibrant material slipping down my arm.
Marc looked at me in the mirror to make sure I wasn’t in any pain, then averted his eyes. “Now the other side.”
I shifted with him and let him maneuver the fabric down and off my arm. He turned to the side and put it with my sling, not looking at me.
“Marc.”
He didn’t move.
“Can you help me change the dressing?” Jay had helped me apply the vertical strips of tape that ran along the wound to help with the healing. Technically, I was capable of removing them myself, but I had a tendency to look down at them instead of at my reflection, and it proved painful.
Our eyes met in the mirror again, and for a brief second, I saw him take in my reflection. My bra was the same color as the shirt I was no longer wearing. The contrast of the red against my fair skin made me look vulnerable—or maybe that was just the way I felt.
He bent his head and, very slowly, removed each of the strips carefully. “You’ll have a scar.”
“My first.”
“You’re lucky.”
I wasn’t sure if he meant I’d been lucky I wasn’t hurt worse than I had been, or if I was lucky only to have one scar.
His head was still down and his hand hovered above the scar on my shoulder like he wanted to touch it.
“Ironically, I can’t feel any pain there. It’s numb.”
“That’s normal. The sensation will come back when the nerves heal.”
I saw him run his thumb alongside the length of the scar and sucked in a sharp breath.
His head snapped up and he looked at me in the mirror. “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” I said, weakly. How did I explain to him how badly I’d wanted to feel that? And how did I explain that to myself? “I can’t feel anything.”
“You could get a tattoo.”
My mouth dropped open.
“If you wanted,” he added. “When it’s healed. To cover the scar.”
I threw him a superior look and played it up a little. “Do I look like the sort of girl who gets tattoos?” Unlike a lot of people, I’d never felt the need to ink my body.
“I don’t know. I think you’re still figuring out what sort of girl you are.”
The truth of his words hit me and I stepped back into him as though someone had just shoved me. “I’m not a girl, I’m a woman,” I said, trying not to sound breathless. “I’m thirty-two.”
“Yes. You are.”
Now I really couldn’t breathe. He wasn’t hiding it anymore. His hands had slipped to my hips and he was looking at me. The swell of my breasts, the curve of my hips and my bare stomach. And I wanted him to.
“Marc.”
He dropped his hands and stepped away.
“Where are your scars?”
He blinked a few times and frowned. “My scars?”
“Yes.”
A hand automatically went to the deltoid on his left arm.
“Your tattoo?” I asked.
He pushed the sleeve of the T-shirt up to reveal the curls of black ink. I stepped closer to take a better look.
“It’s beautiful.”
“The tattoo or the scar?”
“Both.” And in a strange way it was. His scar was hidden by the ink but it was there. “How did it happen?”
“Enemy fire.”
I nodded. I wasn’t going to push for more details but I couldn’t resist reaching over and tracing a finger along the curl of the S in the word ‘Semper’. Always faithful. I knew it referred to his commitment to the Marines, but the sentiment seemed to fit who he was as a person, too.
He dropped the sleeve of the shirt and I wondered if I’d gone too far, then in one swift movement he pulled the entire T-shirt over his head.
I tried not to gape at him, so I settled for staring. He pointed to a scar on his right pectoral a few inches below his collarbone. I hadn’t seen it when he was half-dressed previously because the towel must have covered it from view. It was quite clearly a gunshot wound.
I raised my hand to touch him, but hesitated. He reached over and caught my fingers and guided them to his chest. Tentatively, I ran my index finger across the mark.
“How?” I asked.
“Afghanistan. When I lost them.”
“The other Marines?”
He didn’t say anything and I took the chance to touch the scar again. It was part of him. Part of his story. I caught myself, embarrassed, and quickly removed my hand.
If he noticed, he didn’t show it and put the T-shirt on again.
“Was it bad?” I asked.
“What?”
I shook myself, realizing I was talking like him and I hadn’t made myself clear. I didn’t need to ask if Afghanistan or losing his fellow Marines was bad. I already knew that. “The wound. Was it bad?”
“I almost bled out.”
A hand flew to my mouth, but he just shrugged.
“I tried to go back in to save them, but my lung was collapsing. Kaden followed me back in and got me out.”
“Kaden?”
“One of the guys I’d already rescued.”
I exhaled and dropped my hand. I wondered if his family knew how close he’d come to dying. I was certain they believed him a hero, but I was sure he’d hate to be called that. “I guess you’re not bulletproof, then?”
His solemn expression softened. “Got the scars to prove it.”
I looked down at the one on my shoulder. “Makes mine seem pretty weak, doesn’t it?”
“You’re not weak, Princess.”
It should have annoyed me that he called me princess. But it didn’t. It meant more to me that he saw my strength. And maybe I was deluding myself, but it had almost sounded like an endearment.
I gestured to the scar. “You know, if it had happened when I was modeling, or even a few years ago, I would have been devastated. I would have been so worried about how it looked. Also, Mom had scars from the surgeries. The funny thing was, she always seemed proud of them, but I just associated them with pain and hurt.”
“She was a survivor.”
I smiled at the memory of my spirited, beautiful mother. “Yes. And so are you.”
“Maybe.”
“You’re standing here in front of me. I’d say that makes you a survivor.”
“Doesn’t always feel like it.”
I could see he was thinking of those men he lost, but I’d been acting enough years to know when a change of scene was needed. “Is that why you’re so grumpy?” I finished it with a grin.
He cocked his head to one side and I prayed I hadn’t misread the moment.
“I’ve always been grumpy.”
He matched my grin and I refrained from grabbing onto the counter to steady myself. I thought of the sunshine that had woken me up. Somehow this felt the same.
“Everyone has scars, don’t they?”
His smile faded and I immediately wished I had kept things light.
He walked over to the door. When he got there, he tapped his fingers on the doorframe then turned back to me. “Yeah. You’re right. But it’s the scars on the inside that take the longest to heal.”