The Captive's Return

They'd found her flight suit and combat boots wadded up in the brush outside of Chavez's compound. They had reason to believe she was on the move with someone else, given markers found along the main road out.



There wasn't a thing he could do to help her. Although he'd been over and over the possibility of tracking her himself.



But reason and logic had gotten him this far in his career, and despite the personal need to account for every member of his squadron, logic told him the best course of action now was to follow the protocol for this kind of situation. Something he damn well wished Seabrook had done in the first place.



Why had she left to search for him? He'd never been the kind of team-player commander that crews embraced. God knows he made it a point never to connect personally with the people in his command. Yet this woman he barely knew beyond her personnel file had taken a foolish risk to bring him back before the compound started exploding.



A humbling thought he didn't quite know how to process.



Search-and-rescue teams had been deployed. They knew their job. In this case, to fix what he'd screwed up. He'd lost one of his people on his watch. It didn't matter where he'd been or what he'd been doing, he was in charge.



And who knew how close Seabrook and her captor had been?



While Lucia snoozed on, he studied the little hand clasped in his. She still didn't look a thing like anyone in his family. In movies or books, the surprise proof of heritage was some bizarre crooked finger or matching birthmark on the butt of both the baby and the dad.



Except he didn't have a birthmark on his ass, and so far as he knew, neither did anybody else in his family. Not that he'd been lurking around in the showers to check.



Uncurling his hand around hers, he counted fingers and the tiniest thumb he'd ever seen. Sara had said Lucia was small because she was a premature baby as well as naturally petite. That made sense.



It should have made sense right from the start, if only he'd listened.



No matter how much they'd changed, Sara knew him well enough to understand he wouldn't turn his back on her or Lucia. She had no reason to lie to him about being Lucia's father.



Lucia.



He looked at those little fingers again, touched his pointer to her palm. Reflexively in her sleep, she closed a fist and held on.



His chest clenched so tight he damn near couldn't breathe. This was his daughter. He didn't need butt birthmarks or preemie proof.



He knew this child was his. God help him, Sara may have thought he couldn't feel his heart, but he could have sworn Lucia's small fist was squeezing it in half right now.



This was scary, scary crap.



Her lashes drifted open, groggy and slow. "Sorry I ate the bug."



So was he. "Next time, call me first and we'll eat them together. Roger?"



"Gotcha."



"In fact, we'll have chocolate-covered ants for your birthday."



She giggled, and wasn't that the cutest sound? Even more so given how close they'd come to losing her.



"Do you know when your birthday is so I can order ahead?" Maybe that was too tough a question for a kid. What did he know?



"I was borned near Easter time. Next birthday I'll be'dis many." She held up five fingers.



Five. The answer had been here all along. Why had he never thought to ask?



Because he hadn't been ready to know. God, he was such a coward. "Get some sleep, kiddo. You're going to fly in a big airplane tomorrow."



Lord willing, Seabrook would have been found by then so they could all leave, because he wasn't setting foot on that plane until he had his squadron complete again.



"How big?"



"As big as a small house. I'll let you come up front and fly with me sometime."



She grinned, her eyes going droopy. "That's better than a horsie ride."



He clicked off the bedside lamp. "Sleep."



She snuggled under the covers. "Gotcha."



Got him? Yeah. She did.



Chapter 10



Sara jolted awake, catching herself just before she fell out of her chair by Lucia's narrow bed—alone except for her sleeping child.



No surprise. Lucas probably didn't want anything to do with her after their argument. Sara braced a steadying hand on the mattress.



She still wanted to kick herself for making the heartless comment. He wasn't heartless at all. The man had a huge heart that for some reason he tried his best to hide behind his "gwumpy" facade.



Saints above, he'd donned that somber face earlier.



After their argument and her shower, she'd gone straight back to her daughter, Lucas predictably silent when she'd entered the room. His steamy eyes, however, had spoken volumes. To think in the past she'd spent hours dressing to dazzle him, and yet his eyes flamed over the sight of her in borrowed running shorts and a T-shirt. She'd been ready to throw her arms around his waist and apologize.



Lucas had wordlessly risen and returned to the computer room with his agent buddies. His silence hadn't fooled her. She'd felt the weight of his intense stare and his thoughts.



Felt that heaviness even now.



She twisted to look over her shoulder. There he was again, silhouetted in the doorway, and likely the reason she'd startled awake. He must have come to send her off to bed for a nap while he sat vigil, when she knew full well he'd barely slept since finding her outside Ramon's walls.



Had Lucas lost sleep before that, wondering if he would find her inside? A bittersweet thought.



Striding into the cubicle, he reached for the second chair and dropped to sit, his eyelids heavy, the dark circles underneath deep purple. Did he ever let anyone take a shift?



Her heart hurt.



Just that fast her frustration and anger disappeared. Didn't they have enough to worry about? Starting with getting Lucas to consider his own needs. "Have you eaten?"



"I'm fine."



Not an answer. She wanted to shake him.



But she also wanted to pull his head down to rest on her chest, soothing a hand along his back as she'd done for Lucia. His weariness seemed deeper than mere exhaustion tonight. She prepped her arguments for why he should sleep instead of her...only to be cut short by another shadow stretching as the spiky-haired agent filled the doorway, a laptop tucked under his arm.



"You two need rest." The agent—wasn't his name Keagan?—stepped deeper into the room, flip-flops slapping the wood floor. "Sir, no disrespect, but you've been up for two nights already."



Lucas didn't move, but he also didn't argue. Maybe Keagan could help with the persuasion. She stayed silent and let him talk.



"You'll have plenty to keep you busy when word comes in tomorrow from the rescue teams. I'm pulling night shift anyway. It's no big deal for me to type up my reports in this room."



Sara watched Lucas's set face and knew if she didn't move, he wouldn't, either, and how strange to realize she actually did have the power to do something for him.



She rose, her achy legs complaining. The trek had taken more of a toll than she'd realized now that adrenaline wasn't fueling her feet. "I confess. I'm human and need to sleep."



Slowly, Lucas stood, resting a hand on Lucia's head. "Keagan? Watch her like she's your own."



"Of course." The agent sprawled into Sara's vacant chair. "I owe you one for slotting Darcy to fly the mission down here."



Lucas shrugged off the thanks. "I wouldn't have scheduled her if she wasn't the best qualified."



"I know, but there are other qualified pilots and we're apart so damn much." A grin kicked a dimple into Keagan's face. "It's mighty tough for Darcy and me to make a munchkin of our own if we're never in the same vicinity."



Right then, Sara envied the man and his wife. The normalcy of their hopes and dreams left her a little weepy, surely a by-product of the intensity of the past few days, today in particular. She had so much to be thankful for. How frivolous, silly—selfish—to wish for more. She had what mattered.



Sara pressed a kiss to her daughter's head before smiling her thanks at the unconventional operative currently firing up his computer. And why was she delaying leaving the room by pondering the contradiction of a driven agent who wore casual flowered shorts and flip-flops?



Because in a few more steps, she and Lucas would be completely alone for the first time since she'd climbed through the stone wall at Chavez's compound. Deep breaths.



They would both be asleep in seconds anyway. She joined Lucas in the dim hall, the quiet of night oddly loud, heavy. Intimate.



What now? "Where do I...? What am I supposed...?"



Exhaustion rolled over her so hard and fast she couldn't string words together.



Lucas guided her to the next door down. "We both stay in here. There's a double bed, and it's the only other bedroom." He held up a hand. "Before you argue about the 'we' part, consider this. If you sleep in a room on your own while I sleep on the damned uncomfortable sofa, then I'll have to tap someone to guard you. Which pulls another agent away from his work."



Ah, the real reason he'd come with her—to guard her while she slept. She was too tired to be disappointed. "Because you and your people do not trust me?"



"Because we want to keep you safe."



"I'm too sleepy to argue."



He must be even more exhausted, and the longer she talked, the longer before he erased those dark circles under his eyes.



She crossed into the room with him, a simple double bed in the corner covered by what looked to be a handwoven blanket with rusty red and gold geometric designs, a reminder of her heritage she would soon leave behind. Shutters on the outside fit over bars and glass on the inside.



Bulletproof? Probably. She shivered.



He jerked a thumb toward the footstool and cane rocker with his survival vest and grimy flight suit hooked over the back. "I'm not offering to sleep in the chair."



"I did not plan to ask." She sat on the edge of the bed, toeing off her shoes. Memories of how hot they'd been for each other, always hungry for more, tingled through her until her br**sts tightened in response. "We've slept together before, many times. It would be ridiculous to claim modesty."



The mattress creaked and dipped on the other side from Lucas's weight, and she realized they'd never slept together as husband and wife. How strange was that? They'd shared a bed and more, even through the night, but somehow this felt different, strange.



Frighteningly wonderful.



He stretched onto his back, on top of the covers, his feet hanging off, his eyes closed and breathing steady. But he wasn't asleep. She couldn't be sure how she knew, yet she did.



His arm extended—the uninjured arm—thumping to rest and reaching across, broadcasting a temporary truce by inviting her to curl against his side. He'd said he was sorry and she believed he meant it. She could even look past his assumption she'd used drugs since he'd never suggested it was her fault. Actually, she could envision her pseudo-uncle resorting to addiction if she hadn't been so easy to manipulate through her child's health.



Yes, she could forgive Lucas for that assumption, but even with her heart softening, she wasn't sure she could forgive him for doubting her about Lucia.



Still, he waited with his arm out, his other arm cradled against his chest. Where she wanted to be, needed to be, in case this was their last chance.



Swinging her feet onto the mattress, she sank down to rest beside him, fit her body to his as his arm curved around and he cupped her shoulder. She let her head rest on his chest, too tired to talk or even cry.



But not too tired to notice the whipcord strength of the hot, honed body against hers.



For five years Sara had haunted his dreams. Sometimes laughing with him while blowing bubbles at his birds. Sometimes crying in shadows where he couldn't reach her.