Return to Glory (Hqn) (11 page)

A low sound rumbled from his throat. “You can’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“You can have anything you want, Bets. You always could.”

She shed her dress with trembling fingers. Both times they’d been together, it had been amazing—until afterward. Then it had all turned to crap. Betsy hoped this time would be different because her heart couldn’t stand to break again. She’d heard something somewhere, maybe a bit of prose, and it said that you had to keep breaking your heart until it opened. Her heart was so open it would never fit back together again.

“Can we not do the regret-and-guilt after party, though? If you don’t want me to stay, I can go home, but—”

He pulled back the curtain and met her stare. What she saw in his eyes cut her off. “No more guilt. I’m done with it.”

Betsy knew she should’ve found it comforting, but there was something in the way he said it. Not even his tone, but maybe it was the set to his shoulders...Not that she could pick it to death anyway while she was staring at them. Water sluiced down his hard body and she found her line of sight drawn down every contour, every plane of granite-carved muscle.

She’d thought he was handsome and well made when he left the first time. After BUDs he was leaner, stronger, but now? After the world had had its way with him, it hadn’t worn him down like a pebble in a stream. His experience, his pain, had cut straight through him like the glaciers that had formed in the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone. It was stark, harsh and beautiful.

Most of all she liked this comparison because the canyon was still standing. It had persevered while the the glaciers had inevitably melted away under the sun.

Betsy wanted to be his sun, in every sense of the word.

She stepped into the shower with him, the hot water beading on her skin, causing her hair to cling to her face. Betsy was thankful she’d opted for fresh-faced today, so her makeup wasn’t streaking down her face making her look like some kind of demented clown.

Although the intensity on Jack’s face made her wonder if it would have mattered. If she could be made up like a circus freak, but he’d still be intent and aroused because it was her, that was a good feeling. Even better than the first time she’d made a successful soufflé.

She stepped close to him, the smell of his body wash strong in her nose. It was comforting and familiar. His hands were hot and slick on her skin. Rough, but still pleasing, like raw velvet.

Just being in his arms like this was an intimacy that bespoke things words and even making love couldn’t.

I love you, Jack.
It was on the tip of her tongue, welling up like some great fountain, but he already knew. She didn’t have to say it. In fact, she knew it was best if she didn’t. He wouldn’t understand that she was speaking her heart, not asking for a return declaration.

She wanted him to feel it, to be sure. She definitely wanted to hear it, but she knew he wasn’t ready. The confession would be hollow and empty because it wouldn’t be real. Betsy knew he had to love himself before he was ready to love her. Jack hadn’t even asked himself out yet, much less fallen in love. He’d never spent any time in his own head.

While patience was a virtue that she didn’t possess, Betsy could be content with this for a time. After all, she had to get to know him all over again, too. She loved him, felt the emotion well in her heart so strong and sure, but she didn’t know if she was
in
love with him. Her little girl heart was still in love with the boy who left, but she knew they weren’t the same people. She’d changed and so had he. Everyone made sure to drive that point home with a Louisville Slugger. Betsy had been so caught up in her fantasy of him and saving him that she realized she might have forgotten there was a real person beneath that.

And he knew it. It was why he’d fought this so hard, pushed her away. Maybe she hadn’t changed so much after all, because it seemed he knew her better than she knew herself.

Of course, the revelation didn’t change anything. She still wanted to be here with him, wanted him to touch her. No matter what had transpired or how long they’d been apart, the chemistry still sizzled between them.

She hated it when he was right, though.

For all of his strength, touching him was like holding a baby bird with a broken wing. He clung to her as if his very breath was dependent on hers.

Betsy wanted to make him feel something else good. They both needed it.

She kissed his neck, his sternum, down the hard lines of his pecs, and she journeyed lower still until she was on her knees. Betsy held eye contact as she leaned down toward the place on his thigh that he hadn’t wanted her to see. The place where flesh turned to metal. She thought it was amazing that the titanium was part of him.

In fact, she thought it was beautiful. His sacrifice for something larger than himself, his nobility—yes, even tonight when he’d drowned himself in whiskey.

She traced the pads of her fingers over flesh, over metal, all the time holding his gaze so he could see her reaction and know it didn’t matter to her. She pressed her lips to his thigh, and his eyes fluttered closed and he tilted his head back in ecstasy. “I feel.”

So she did it again, her hands mapping him, loving him. She wanted him to feel everything, to fill his senses up with all things good, all things right.

His gaze locked on her face and she wrapped her hand around him and took his length into the hot cavern of her mouth. The intensity on his face was as sharp as a knife, disbelief hanging around him like a shroud. As if he thought she couldn’t possibly want to do this, want to be here.

Yet she did.

Marcel always wanted her to do this, and it hadn’t done anything for her one way or another. It hadn’t spurred her arousal and it hadn’t even made her happy to bring him pleasure.

But just like everything else with Jack, this was different, too. She felt like a supplicant at the altar of a god. His pleasure was hers. So many feelings roiled through her, and the way he looked at her was as if he thought she was Aphrodite herself.

This was how it was supposed to be.

His fingers threaded through her hair and cupped the back of her skull, but he didn’t try to guide her, or set the pace for her caress. This was all as she wanted. He was a blank canvas before her and she could paint her desire with any brush she chose.

Their eyes were still locked when she pushed him over the edge and he found culmination.

But if she thought he was finished, she was mistaken.

After drying them both and wrapping her in a towel, he carried her to the bedroom. She loved it when he picked her up. It wasn’t only that it made her feel delicate and feminine; it made her feel cherished.

Betsy loved how his muscles felt while he held her, taut, but it wasn’t any great strain on him to carry her.

“You should always be naked,” he said against her ear.

“I’ll always be naked if you always carry me.” In fact, Betsy would swear that a man who could pick her up, especially if his name happened to be Jack McConnell, made all her clothes fall off like magic.

“We’ll never get anything done.”

“Being productive is overrated.”

After easing her down onto the bed, he worshipped her with his tongue, his lips and his hands. In only minutes, he had her screaming and clawing at his back as bliss took her.

When she settled into his arms afterward, she knew something had changed. She hoped it was for the better and that if nothing else, he could sleep through the night.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

J
ACK AWOKE TO
a cold, gray fall morning with a soft bundle of warmth pressed against his side. Betsy burrowed against him like some small, hibernating mammal. Her cloud of hair was a mess over her face, and the sight was endearing. It reminded him of when they were kids and she’d want to come to the backyard campouts with him and Caleb. Many a night after telling ghost stories, she’d climb into the tent with them because she was afraid to sleep in her room alone.

Only they weren’t kids anymore. Betsy was very much a grown woman, as evidenced by the night previous.

His eyes fluttered closed as if that could hide him from his actions. He’d been so pathetic, so weak, and Betsy, she just didn’t give up. She pushed so hard, no matter the cost to herself. He remembered her lips on that bottle as she tried to drink herself into a stupor with him.

The storm. Christ, what kind of man was afraid of a storm?

Then it occurred to him that it was Saturday.

He had a standing date with fate.

Jack eased out of bed and grabbed his .357. Even though it was gloomy and overcast, he could still see daylight streaking through the windows. He was late. It was usually still dark, still quiet. Yet he could hear the sounds of the world outside. Birds, cars and the neighbor’s dog.

He sat on the couch, the metal cool in his hand, a familiar and welcome texture.

He hadn’t donned his whites; he couldn’t risk waking Betsy.

As if the sound of a gunshot in the living room wouldn’t.

Looking at the gun, he thought about what that would do to her. If she had to find his body. She’d be stuck with another one of his messes to clean up. She’d wonder if it was something she’d done. If there was something else she could have done to help him.

The comforting weight of the weapon in his hand was suddenly wrong. Thinking about last night, and the way he felt—the way everything felt—he wanted more of that. Not just the sex, but the feeling.

The living.

He was tired of pain, tired of feeling useless.

Betsy didn’t think he was useless; she didn’t pity him. She loved him.

He remembered what India had said about love. That if he was worth loving, his life was worth living.

And to do it wholeheartedly.

He didn’t want to play roulette with his mistress this morning.

Jack didn’t want to die.

He didn’t know how to live, but it was quite something for him to realize that he wasn’t ready to die.

“Jack? What are you doing?” Betsy whispered.

He looked up to see her standing next to the couch, a look of horror on her face.

She knew. He could see it in her eyes.

“Nothing. Just need to clean my weapon, but I didn’t want to wake you up. My kit is still in the bedroom.”

“Do you swear?”

“I swear. Do it every Saturday.”

“I think that’s the first time you’ve ever lied to me, Jack.” She turned and stuffed her feet into her shoes. “I’ll put up with a lot of things from you, but lying isn’t one of them.”

“Betsy,” he called out. “Don’t go, okay?”

She just shook her head.

“Come here.” He stood and held his hand out to her.

“No. Tell me. Say it out loud. What were you doing?”

Jack closed his eyes, trying to shield himself against everything he would see in her eyes. “Deciding to live.”

“Is that going to change as soon as I leave?” Her voice was small, quiet, as if she didn’t want to ask the question because she was afraid of the answer.

“No.”

“You need help, Jack. More than what I can do for you.”

He nodded. She was right. He hadn’t been ready to see it, not until she showed him that he could still taste, still feel, and most important, that he still wanted to.

“There’s a support group at the V.A.—”

“I’ll go.”

“Really? You don’t have to say you will just to appease me. It won’t work unless it’s really what you want for yourself.”

He pulled her against him and she came, hesitantly. “I do. And I know it’s going to be hard and I know I don’t have any right to ask, but I need you, Bets. I didn’t even know I wanted to live until you showed me it can still be good.”

Her arms tightened around him. “Let’s go try that out.”

“How do you propose we do that?” Jack was ready to indulge any whim she had. He never wanted to see that look of pain and disappointment on her face again. He wanted her to forget what she’d seen, because that part was over. It had taken him a long time to come to that decision.

“Let’s go to the Corner Pharmacy for breakfast. I want a chocolate Italian soda and you can have a Green River.”

“I haven’t thought about that place in years. It’s still open?” He thought about the soda fountain specialty he hadn’t had in years—the carbonated lime drink that had always shocked and pleased his tongue in his youth.

“Of course. It’s an institution. Plus, breakfast is cheap. I’ll treat.”

“You certainly will not.” He was offended.

“You’re such a caveman.”

“And that’s bad because...”

Betsy grinned. “I have been stuffing you full of sweets. I guess it’s a fair trade.”

“Betsy, there will be no trading. I’m a simple man at heart, and while I believe you can do anything you set your mind to do, I still believe the guy should pay on a date.”

“Is this a date?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” She blushed.

“Sweetheart, I’ve seen parts of you that your doctor hasn’t seen and you’re blushing because I asked you out?”

“Sometimes I do things a little backward.” She looked down at her feet.

“Unless you don’t want it to be a date, then I guess it doesn’t have to be. This is what I should have done to start with. I should have asked you to dinner, rather than have you come to my house in the middle of the night like some booty call.”

“It wasn’t like that, Jack. I know that.”

“Caleb was right to call me out. You know that, right?”

“We will not discuss that right now. I’m mad at you both for that display of stupidity.”

“Brush your hair, woman. You look like you just tumbled out of my bed.”

“I did.”

“I know. You’re going to be right back in it with no breakfast if you don’t hurry up.”

A wistful expression crossed her face and she smiled. “Yes, sir.”

“Oh I like that.” He smirked.

“Don’t get used to it.” She pulled a brush out of her bag and started yanking it through the mass.

He closed his fingers around the hand that held the brush and guided her to sit on the couch with him, back turned. She’d taken care of him; he could do the same for her.

And he wanted to touch her hair.

With the whiskey out of his system, he wanted to see what it smelled like. Or if he’d lost the vanilla and sugar forever.

He leaned forward, gliding the brush gently through her tresses, and he was mollified to discover she still smelled so very sweet.

“Jack, you don’t have to do that,” she said, wiggling with a little shiver.

“I want to. I’ve always loved your hair.” Each stroke down through the mass soothed something in him that he didn’t know needed soothing.

“Does it smell like your shampoo and soap after last night?”

“No, it still smells like sugar.” He leaned against her and inhaled deeply. She shivered again, but settled back into him so that he could continue as he wished.

Jack drew the brush through her hair a few more times after it lay smooth and neat, just for the pleasure of touching it and being close to her. He liked the way it clung to his fingers, the way she leaned against him.

“You know, we don’t have to go out. We could stay in.” She shifted against him.

“We could.” Part of him wanted to. It would be easier to hide, easier to lose himself inside her, but India was right. He had to do this wholeheartedly. And that meant going out; it meant being seen and not being afraid to be on display.

It meant treating Betsy the way she deserved.

“But you can’t get an Italian chocolate soda at Chez Jack, so it’s off to the Pharmacy we go.”

“Jack, I know I shouldn’t look a gift horse—” she began.

“So don’t.” He used her own reasoning against her. She’d said the very thing when he told her he didn’t want to hurt her.

“You’re not funny.”

“Okay, fine.” He caved. “What?”

“You seem a million times different than last night. You can’t just flip a switch and fix everything.”

“I didn’t. Bets, I don’t even know if I can stop drinking on my own. I don’t know if I’m an alcoholic or if I’m just self-medicating. Especially with what happened to my father. I know I’m going to fall and stumble. I know it’s going to be hard, but India said something that really hit home for me, except I didn’t realize it until this morning. That’s all I’m ready to talk about, and I hope that can be good enough.”

She smiled and as always, it was like turning on the sun. “Yes. Of course.”

The short drive to the Corner Pharmacy was traveled in a contemplative silence. He found a place to park and really took in the scenery. He hadn’t paid attention to the details since he’d come home.

As much as things changed, they stayed the same. Some of the shops he’d grown up with were gone, making way for other things. New restaurants—he saw the bar his father used to go to all the time...part of him had hoped the last time the Missouri flooded its banks the water would have washed it away. He hated the sight of it.

That wasn’t the case for all of the quaint downtown. He had so many good memories from the Corner Pharmacy. Green Rivers were an institution. He had no idea what they put in them—they were almost like a mad scientist’s experiment—but he remembered many Saturday mornings spent drinking one and wandering around downtown with his friends looking for trouble.

It hadn’t been the thing to sit inside, unless you could get a seat at the lunch counter and swing around on the old-fashioned soda fountain stools. Only old people sat in the booths, which was why Betsy headed for the counter.

But Jack couldn’t sit with his back to the masses of people. He had to have something solid against him.

“Can we do a booth?” He hated asking.

“Sure.” She didn’t balk, or tease him. Just accepted it as something that he needed.

They sat down and he looked at the menu.

“Hey, Betsy-boo.” One of the waitresses came over. “How are you, sugar? Haven’t seen you in here in a while.”

“I know, Connie. I’ve just been busy with the shop and my mom. I’ve got some help now on the weekends, so it’s been a little easier. You remember Jack?”

The old waitress smiled. “I do. Have you been to see Scott?”

Connie Meyer, he remembered her now, and her son, Scott. “No, ma’am. Bets has been keeping me busy.”

“As well she should. Let’s see if I can remember. Our Betsy will have a chocolate soda, but you used to drink Green Rivers, right?”

Jack found himself smiling. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Anything else this morning? Eggs, bacon, toast?”

“All of it times two,” Jack said.

“I’ll get that started for you.” She scribbled on the pad.

“Wait, that was just for me.” Jack grinned at her.

“One of everything for me, too. And a couple of coffees. Thanks, Connie.”

“You got it, kid.” Connie winked at her and went back behind the counter.

“I forgot how much I used to love this place.” He glanced up at the decorative tin tiles on the vaulted ceiling.

He’d been worried that the noise would bother him, but the nostalgia seemed to block it out—the din was part of the atmosphere.

“When I came back from New York, I was in here every morning. Even though it’s nothing like the hustle and bustle of the city, it was still comforting. People gathering around food. I’ve discovered I really enjoy people-watching over coffee. I’d just sit in this booth, actually, so I could watch everyone, and I’d make up stories about their lives. At least for the people I didn’t know.”

“It could be fun to make them up about those we do know.”

“Like who?”

“Connie.”

“You better be nice.”

“It’s not mean. She knows everyone. What if she’s actually a spy? What better way to find out what’s going on in a community than the local diner?”

“Oh tell me more.”

Jack eyed her for a minute and something sparked in his imagination. “Glory is crawling with military and government employees. There’s the base and all of the Department of Defense independent contractors. These people are bound to make friends, to frequent local establishments. A kindly, motherly old waitress would be the perfect cover to plant bugs. A pat on the back, a brush of her hand.” Jack shrugged. “Haven’t you ever wondered about some of these companies? These little storefronts that have some inane, generic name like ‘consultants’ or ‘Branwell Solutions.’ What the hell is that? Acme Security? It doesn’t get any more generic than that.”

“Assassins.” Betsy nodded sagely.

“In some cases, that’s true. It has to be. These guys contract out to the CIA, H.S. and all the other little initialed agencies.”

Betsy grinned and shifted in her seat as if digging in for something really good. “What if her name is really Katrina and she was a plant here in the Cold War? She had a son and decided to Americanize him so no one would ever know. He was part of her cover.”

“Exactly.”

Connie brought their coffee to the table with a smile. “You sure are cheerful on this dreary morning. What’s so funny?”

“We decided that your name is Katrina.”

“Ekatarina, actually.” She winked at them. “Cream?” She set the tiny carafe down on the table.

Betsy’s eyes widened and they laughed again. “See, that was much more fun than someone you don’t know.”

“You should write this stuff down, Jack.”

“And then what?”

“Get published, of course,” Connie said. “You two can write spying cookbooks together. It’ll be a big hit.”

“Spying cookbooks?” Betsy arched a perfect eyebrow.

“Yeah. She’s a chef and he’s a spy and...and wait. This is my book.”

“You write?” Jack asked.

“Yeah, for VS Books. Really, write that story you were talking about and I’ll give you the name of my agent.”