Unfaded Glory (11 page)

“Whatever you say, boss.”

The window went back up.

“Can we go see some sights or something? But with the heat on? I'm freezing.”

He knew the proper response was to put his arm around her, but after everything it just didn't seem right.

Except her teeth were chattering.

“Do you have snow in Castallegna?”

“No. Greece gets snow in the mountains, but Castallegna is all spring and summer. We don't have fall or a real winter.”

“Then you might be in for a treat, depending on how Kansas is feeling. The weather here is a little...bipolar.”

“Polar?”

“No, like...emotionally unbalanced,” he corrected.

“Oh.” She laughed. “I see.”

He felt like a pompous ass going through the drive-through in a government car with a driver, but whatever. He ordered, and she seemed fascinated with the whole process.

She ate her fries and she ate
his
fries, leaving him with both burgers.

“Um, those were my fries.”

“Nope. They were mine. Obviously.” She grinned. Damara had some salt on her lips, and the first thing he thought about was licking it off. “What? Do I have some in my teeth?”

“You've got salt on your lips.” He tried to keep his voice steady and even, but it dropped an octave anyway.

She licked her lips and every swipe of her tongue sent a jolt of awareness through him.

“Did I get it?”

He could say all sorts of things—the worst and cheesiest would be, “Let me help you with that”—and then he'd kiss her, taste her, take her in the backseat of this car as though their relationship weren't a ruse. That it was real.

And she belonged to him.

She seemed to feel it, too, because she was suddenly so still. He didn't know if she was frozen, like some small mammal hoping he'd move on to other prey, or if she wanted him, too.

He didn't know why she would, not after the way he'd acted. He couldn't stand himself, so he didn't know how she could.

“It's easy to pretend, isn't it?” she asked without looking up into his eyes.

“It is. But there are parts of this that are more than pretend.” When she didn't answer, he wondered if he'd broken whatever had started to bloom between them. “Aren't there?”

“There doesn't have to be. We're adults. We're capable of controlling ourselves.”

“I'm glad you are.”

“You seem to be doing just fine to me.” She turned her head to look out the window.

“If you knew the thoughts running through my head,” he confessed, looking at her, waiting for her to feel his regard and acknowledge him.

She didn't.

Part of him wanted to grab her and kiss her hard, melt that icy reserve, but then there was that part of him that knew this was how it had to be. How he said he'd wanted it to be.

But his lips moved without his permission. “Damara.”

“What?” she whispered, still not turning toward him. “What do you want from me?”

“You could start by looking at me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

She sighed. “Because I can't hide it, okay? I'll look at you, and you'll see right through me. You'll see everything.”

He didn't realize he affected her so. “Isn't that only fair? You've already seen my wounds laid bare.”

“No, I haven't. I know you've got wounds, but I don't know what caused them. You give me that part of you but hold back the rest. So no, I'm not just going to hand you that power over me.”

He was both intrigued and tormented by the knowledge that he had some kind of power over her. Byron closed the distance between him, pressed his face against her neck and inhaled the scent of her. “You smell so good, Damara.”

She didn't push him off, but she didn't invite more contact, either.

“How is it that you still smell like jasmine?”

“I guess that's just me. It's always been my preferred scent.” This question she answered easily, though her body stiffened when he grabbed her shoulders. “I don't want her.”

“What?” He leaned back.

She turned to look at him then. Her eyes bright and somehow still dark. “I. Don't. Want. Her. It's what you said on the phone.”

“You don't understand.” Byron didn't know how to explain it to her. He was trying to protect her, to keep her safe from everything, including himself.

“I understand perfectly. I don't know if you're just lonely, or you're trying to make the best of a bad deal, but I'm not going to sleep with you just because we're pretending a relationship.”

He didn't understand—it was fine for her before. What had changed? Part of him was sure it was because she'd seen what was beneath the hero's veneer she'd painted over him. “You wanted me in Barcelona.”

“And you wanted me in Barcelona, too.” She shoved him away from her. “You wanted to be with me because...I don't know why. But you did. This? Now?” She shook her head. “This is something else. Maybe you're just lonely. But I'm not something that you can drag out and play with and then throw away when you don't want me anymore. Sonja wants you. If you're that hard up, you should give her a call.”

The idea of anything to do with Sonja did nothing at all for his libido. She wasn't homely or unattractive, but she wasn't Damara. “There was a time when I could have any woman in this town. It's not desperation.” But maybe it was. He was desperate to feel the way that only she made him feel. Desperate to be lost in her skin, her scent, her pleasure. Just her. He'd had one taste of her, and now he needed more.

“Then I suggest you call one of them.” Damara crossed her arms over chest.

“If that's how you want it.” This was probably best. He'd tried to be the good guy, tried to warn her off in Barcelona, but she hadn't listened and neither had he. He kept pushing, kept wanting, kept reaching for her because she was just so damn desirable. She was light when it was dark, sweet when the rest of the world was sour and soft when the world was hard.

“That's how you said
you
wanted it. I'm just trying to keep things in perspective.”

“Do you really think you can go years without touch? That's how long this is going to last. This isn't a temporary thing.” He was hurting her. Why couldn't he just close his mouth?

Because he still wanted her so damn bad; he'd do anything to have her.

She lifted her chin. “I went my whole life without it before you. So, yes, I can.”

He couldn't imagine her sweetness, her bloom, all gone fallow because of him. She was made to be touched, made to be revered and worshipped with hands and lips.

Only she wasn't made for him. That's what he kept forgetting.

Damara turned away from him again, and there was a chill inside him he didn't know how to melt.

CHAPTER NINE

D
O
YOU
REALLY
THINK
you can go years without touch?

Damara had thought so. She hadn't known what she was missing. But now that she did, now that she'd spent the night in his arms, she wanted his touch more than even another order of those French fries. More than anything.

Anything except her duty to Castallegna.

He was so close and smelled so good, so
safe.
The heat from his touch burned through her clothes, and she wanted to surrender to him. In that moment, when he'd talked about his difficulty controlling himself, part of her had hoped he'd just grab her and kiss her until she couldn't think—until all she could do was feel.

Years without touch, bound to him, yet so far apart it was worse than being alone.

How would she ever manage to keep from falling in love with him? She could tell herself it wasn't real, but living with someone, depending on them, it was what formed the bonds of marriage. Not that first spark of attraction, or even bliss in the bedroom. It was surviving each day together.

She couldn't look at him, because if she did, she'd break. She'd shatter, and fall into his arms like none of this mattered.

That would mean accepting he was going to break her heart.

Damara wasn't afraid of pain, but it was stupid to go flinging her heart at someone who didn't want it. So she was determined to keep her distance.

Even when she remembered what it felt like when he made her scream his name and dig her nails into his back.

When the car dropped them off at the house, she didn't want to go inside. He seemed to suck all the air out of the space. His presence filled each room and dominated the whole house. She couldn't breathe, and it was damn cold. Damara wasn't used to the weather.

“Do you think you could start a fire, please?” She nodded to the fireplace.

“Let me change.”

“That's a good idea for me, too.” She waited for him to go upstairs and come back down before she took her turn.

Damara wondered if he was going to sleep in the room with her again, or if he was going to try to sleep in the bed.

The man was putting his life on the line for her, the least she could do was be gracious about their sleeping arrangements. Although, she supposed the same could be said for what he wanted of her body. It was possible he'd die for her. Didn't she owe him?

No,
her brain answered. She didn't. She was trying to rationalize her own body's wants with an excuse. If she decided to sleep with Byron Hawkins again, she'd go into it with her eyes open and a broom and dustpan at the ready for the shattered pieces of her heart.

She changed into a pair of fleece pants and a rangers T-shirt that had been so thoughtfully laid out on the bed. Probably by Sonja. Damara wondered if there'd be paparazzi trying to sneak into her bedroom and catch them in the act or something.

The shirt was much too large on her, but she liked it.

Damara brushed out her hair and went back downstairs.

Byron was working on getting the fire going. He was wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt. She'd never thought that sweatpants were something a man should ever wear in public. They were much too intimate and spoke of a certain lack of care for one's appearance.

Yet Byron in sweatpants was a whole other story.

All she could think about was getting him out of them.

He twisted to grab another log for the fire and his shirt rode up over his hip, giving her an unobstructed view of one of the loveliest parts on a man. She knew men weren't supposed to be beautiful, and she'd had the thought before, but he was. He was a work of art.

That line of muscle, or tendon, or whatever it was that led down from his hip like a beacon to his manhood—her tutor had called it an Adonis line.

The sight of it took her breath away and made her ache in places she didn't want to think about.

Damara told herself again if she wanted him, she should just take him.

I don't want her.

That cooled her ardor quickly enough, and she looked away from him.

“If you want to see something, all you have to do is ask,” he said when he finished, a cocky grin on his face.

“No, I saw everything I wanted to see, thanks.” And she had, clearly. Including her own motivations.

“Are you ever going to forgive me for what I said?” he asked.

“Of course. You're already forgiven, Hawkins. I can't be angry with you for honesty.”

“Will you ever let me explain?” His tone of voice slid over her in a way that made her think of silk and velvet, sheets and...

“No.” She shook her head to emphasize the point. “We don't have to beat it to death. You said it. I heard it. I believed it. It's over.”

“But it's not over, Damara. You won't even—” He seemed to be at a loss for what else to say.

“Sleep with you?” she added in a faux helpful tone.

“It's not even that. There's a distance between us now.”

“That
you
wanted.” She wrapped the blanket around her more tightly. He looked so defeated, and she wasn't trying to hurt him. She was only trying to protect herself. “Fine. You want closeness? You want intimacy?”

“I didn't go that far.”

She made a sour face. “Yes, you did. Maybe you're uncomfortable with the word, but that's what it is. Intimacy. Say it with me.”

He arched a brow in a way that suggested she might as well have asked him to write his name with a very large crayon and she couldn't restrain the laugh that bubbled up inside of her. His irritation amused her to no end.

She managed to control herself. If she let him make her laugh, they'd never get to the core of the problem between them. Or why things couldn't be as he wanted them. “Okay, don't say it with me. Tell me what happened in Uganda.”

“No.”

“See? This is why we can't have what you want.”

His mouth thinned. “You know I bleed. You know I have wounds. Isn't it enough? Why do you have to pick at them?”

She exhaled heavily. “Because
you
won't stop picking at them.” Damara wouldn't bring up what had happened in the bathroom that morning. He'd been so vulnerable then. They both knew it had happened, and she'd show him that she didn't have to tear at his wounds, his pain, if only he'd trust her with their source.

“I can't, Damara.”

“I understand.” She did, more than he knew. But even so, she wasn't going to sign up for a ticket straight to heartbreak station. At least, that's what her brain kept saying. Her heart just wanted to make it better for him. It wanted her to open her arms and welcome him to her embrace yet again.

And her body, well, she couldn't listen to anything it had to say. It had a vested interest in the decision that didn't benefit the rest of her.

“I'll be your friend, Byron. I owe you that, at least.” She licked her lips. Her mouth had gone dry. “But I can't be your lover. It was no strings in Barcelona because I thought we'd never see each other again. I'm not as worldly as you are. I don't know how to do this and not fall in love.”

“Am I so unlovable?” he asked quietly, almost so quietly that the fire flickering behind him was louder.

No, I am,
she wanted to say. But he'd have another argument. “What would make you say that?”

He clammed up again, unwilling to talk.

“See? This is what I mean. You won't tell me anything about yourself.”

He sank down on the couch next to her. “I'll tell you anything you want to know—just don't ask me about Uganda.”

She hadn't expected that. Trepidation flickered over her like bee stings.

“So tell me why you think you're unlovable.”

“You really go for the throat, don't you? I thought being trained as a diplomat, you'd be a little gentler.” He gave a hollow laugh.

“You're an elite soldier. You're going to tell me you're afraid of your feelings?”

“Everyone is. Aren't you?”

He was right. She was afraid. “I suppose you've caught me there.”

For a moment, she thought he was going to avoid answering the question. He was so quiet and still. “I don't know where to start.”

“At the beginning?”

“I guess that would be when I was born. My parents were both part of the country-club set. She got pregnant. They had to get married. My grandfather paid her to marry my father. She never wanted to be a mother, and my father was more concerned about his duty to provide the two point five kids and the respectable facade of family to his law firm so he could eventually make partner.”

She waited for him to continue.

“I got into a lot of trouble as a kid. I got into fights with other kids, and I slowly began to notice that they didn't care what I did. I was never punished for anything. Instead of running with a bad crowd, I ended up
being
the bad crowd. Girls wanted me, but only because I was
that
guy, you know?”

She didn't know. “I didn't have the same educational experience you did. I'm afraid you're going to have to explain it to me.”

“I was like Bender in
The Breakfast Club,
only my dad didn't abuse me.”

“Oh.” She nodded. Damara had seen it, but only because her tutor thought it would be a good insight into American culture. If her brother had known she'd watched it, he would have had a stroke.

“He didn't pay much attention to me at all until I broke into the offices of his law firm. Then they dumped me in Maur Hill, where I stayed until I graduated and joined the army. I was recruited for ranger school right out of Maur Hill because of my delinquencies. All of my tests showed I had an aptitude for the job.”

He said it like it was a bad thing.

“You know, men who do what you do, there's a reason that you're needed. You do make the world a better place. You did for me.”

“Well, that's how I understand what you feel about no one wanting you for you. I felt the same way. Women wanted me for my reputation or my fast car. No one ever wanted to get to know
me.
” He leaned back. “The same is still true. When I was a ranger, it was because I was Special Forces. Then my cover for the DOD, it was because they thought I had money.”

A heavy knock rattled the door and split the quiet camaraderie that had built between them. Neither of them moved.

“It might be important,” he said.

“You should get it.”

“I should.” But still he sat there.

“I see you're in there. Open the damn door,” a woman's muffled voice followed another round of banging.

“India.” He laughed and roused himself.

She turned around on the couch and watched as a female police officer stepped inside. She was carrying a purple box, which she snatched away from Byron when he tried to take it. “Not for you.”

The woman walked over to Damara without invitation. She was statuesque, golden and disgustingly gorgeous. She made Damara feel small and plain by comparison. Part of that might have been all the heat she was packing around her waist.

“Oh, is that a .40?” Damara asked.

The woman flashed her a large smile. “It sure is.” She pulled the weapon out and handed it to Damara, barrel down.

Damara picked it up and curled her fingers around the grip. It was heavy, but she liked it. She hopped off the couch and held it up, lining up the sights and aiming out the window.

“Nice, huh?”

“I love it.”

“Good. It's yours. But don't tell anyone I gave it to you since you don't have a license.” India winked at her. “But being a foreign national, you can get away with stuff like that. Just say you didn't know.”

“Really? For me?” Damara was pleased and found that she adored this other woman.

“These, too, if Sticky Fingers can keep his hands out of them.” She handed her the purple box. “Sweet Thing” was printed on the side in scrolling white letters. “I'm India George, by the way. You met my partner, Caleb Lewis, yesterday. We're patrolling again tonight.”

“Caleb said you were coming with doughnuts last night,” Byron said.

“I was. But I ate them all.” She eyed Byron. “Don't judge. I brought her a .40 to make up for it.”

She flopped on the couch without invitation and took a doughnut out and shoved it into her mouth. “Really, you better try these or I'm going to eat them all again. They're called Better Than Sex doughnuts.”

Damara's eyes widened. “If they're that good...” She took one out of the box and bit off a tiny piece. It melted on her tongue, sweet, then salty, and it occurred to Damara they were a lot like her experience with Byron.

She blushed.

“See what I mean?” India nodded and chomped again.

“Aren't you supposed to be, I don't know,
patrolling?
” Byron said.

“I'm serving and protecting right here. I gave her a .40. That's protection. I brought her Better Than Sex doughnuts from Betsy. That's definitely serving. What's the problem?” India looked very pleased with herself.

Yes, Damara decided that she liked India George very much. Especially when Byron reached for a doughnut and she smacked his hand.

“Nope, you wait until the princess has had her fill.”

“I know three hundred and forty-two ways to kill you with a spork, George. Don't get between me and that doughnut again,” Byron warned.

India laughed and held up her hand in mock surrender. “Fine.” She grabbed another one. “Maybe you guys can wrestle for the last one.” India winked at her and stood to leave.

“It was lovely to meet you. Do come back,” Damara invited.

“Thanks. But, um, fair warning. I don't do the girlie friendship thing. Pedicures and shopping or whatever.” India waved her hand around as if she was swatting a fly.