Unfaded Glory (12 page)

“Honestly, that's a relief. Those things are part of the job for me. They're part of my image and polish. Maybe we can go shooting and get more of these doughnuts.”

“Betsy is Caleb's sister. She owns Sweet Thing and she'll make
all
the doughnuts you want. You should go see her about your wedding cake. When it's time.” India winked at her again and left.

Byron locked the door behind her and sat back down next to her.

“You like her,” he stated.

“She's wonderful.”

“Mostly.” He shrugged.

“Did you...”

“Sleep with her? No. She would've as soon as handed me my ass on a platter than paid me any kind of attention. She grew up hard, but she's a good woman.”

“She's beautiful,” Damara admitted.

“She is,” he agreed. “But I've never had a thing for blondes.”

“You're only saying that so I'll let you have that doughnut.” She didn't want to talk about what that made her feel.

“Well, I didn't get one.”

“They really are good,” Damara teased. Part of her could see where this was going; they were going to end up in bed again and her heart would end up broken. She was on a collision course.

“Are they better than sex?” He eyed the doughnut and then his gaze slide over her with a languid heat. “I mean, really?”

“I guess you should eat one and see.” She grinned. “Unless I eat it first.” She grabbed at the box, but he was faster.

Damara knew he would be. This was an excuse for touch, for play. It removed the heavy weight of their earlier conversation. For now, she just wanted something to feel good.

And Byron, he felt good.
So good.
Better than the doughnut tasted, truth be told.

His body was so hard and hot—she loved how it felt to be pressed against him, even if they were scrambling to see who got the last doughnut.

She found herself straddling him, reaching for the box he held high above her head. Damara struggled for it, squirming against him.

His body reacted to her nearness. His arousal was nestled intimately against her. But he didn't grab at her or try to kiss her. Instead, he kept playing their game, kept moving the box just out of reach and that somehow made it okay for her to keep looking for more friction.

“That's got to be one damn good doughnut.”

“You won it. You should eat it and see,” she said breathlessly.

“Nah, I like this better.” He gave her a lazy smile.

She did, too, but after all her talk about intimacy and opening up, she couldn't admit it. “We could split the doughnut.”

He seemed to consider it for a moment. “Nope. Still like this better. You're hard-core all or nothing? Well, that's the way it'll be. With the doughnut, too.”

She laughed. “This is dumb.”

“You're the one on top of me, Princess.”

Her breath came in short staccato bursts and that little voice that kept telling her this was a bad idea was getting further and further away—or maybe it was just being drowned out by the thud of her heartbeat and the need that throbbed through her.

Damara reached higher, pressing ever closer to him, her breasts brushing against his shoulders.

He dropped the box a fraction. “I tell you what. I'll give you the doughnut if you promise to eat it right here.”

“In your lap?”

“Exactly as we are.”

“You want to hold your arm above your head like that?” she teased in an effort to avoid answering him. Damara knew where this was going.

“I'll put my hands wherever you want me to.” The corner of his mouth turned up in the beginning of a grin.

“Okay. My doughnut. Your hands on the couch. Palms flat. No touching.”

“You're a cruel mistress.”

“Yes, I suppose I am,” she agreed.

“As you wish.” He handed her the box, and he splayed his hands out on the couch.

She pulled out the doughnut and examined it this way and that. His eyes followed her every action; the weight of his study was intense. She found herself very aware of every action, every breath.

Her tongue darted out to lick at the glaze, and his erection jerked against her. She blushed, but she'd come too far to stop now.

“Oh, really?” she asked him, her face warm.

“Oh, yeah.”

She did it again and got the same reaction, but he held the rest of his body perfectly still and waited for her to do as she wished.

Damara found she liked having him under her command. There was something heady about having control over a man so strong. He could crush her, but he waited for her direction.

Damara licked all the frosting off the top of the doughnut. “It's so good.”

“But is it better than sex?”

“You know, I think this is the part where I'm supposed to make you prove that it isn't, but I can't lie. It's good, but it's nowhere near as good as what happened between us in Barcelona.”

“I wouldn't mind if you asked me to prove it.”

“I'm sure you wouldn't. But we already had this discussion.” She bit her lip and put the doughnut down.

“We did. And I've kept my hands to myself.”

“Which is why you've earned a taste,” her traitorous mouth said before she could stop herself. Damara lowered her mouth to his slowly, taking her time, enjoying the tension as it grew thick between them and their mingling of breath.

For a moment, it was a symbiosis. They breathed for one another, inhaling and exhaling together.

She brushed her lips against his ever so carefully, almost chastely.

“You said I could have a taste,” he whispered against her mouth, and his tongue swept along her bottom lip. “Mmm. Sweet.”

Now was the time for her to pull back, to take herself upstairs to bed and not think of this again.

She supposed what did that little voice in was the part where it said she wouldn't think of this again. She'd think of it all the time and she'd regret not taking what he offered.

What she'd said at the press junket wasn't a total lie. She didn't know what tomorrow would bring. It was a very real possibility that someone would kill her before she could finish what she'd set out to do in Castallegna.

She'd said earlier during the junket that an assassin's bullet could take her out at any time. If she only had this day left, what would she do with it?

Make love with Byron Hawkins.

It was almost as if he sensed her surrender, because he kissed her more thoroughly, even though his hands were still flat on the couch.

She pushed her palms up under his shirt, over his ripped abs, and down to that line she'd enjoyed looking at so much.

But Damara hadn't surrendered; she couldn't. She said she'd make love with him, and she couldn't do that by herself. He had to be making love to her, too. It had to be about their connection, not only physical fulfillment. She refused to pour herself heart and soul into a man who wouldn't do the same for her.

That was a kind of prison, and she wouldn't do that to herself.

“I can't do this.” She scrambled away from him.

“You were doing just fine a second ago.”

She debated whether or not she should tell him, but her mouth decided for her. “I was thinking about what I said at the junket.”

“Which thing?”

“About being assassinated, not knowing when my next moments may be my last.”

His lips thinned, and he clenched his jaw. “If you don't think I can protect you—”

“No.” She shook her head. “It's not that at all. This has actually been a gift. It's helped me to see things more clearly. I know you'll protect me. I know you'd die for me. But you'll never live for me. You'll never give me all of yourself, and half just isn't good enough.”

He scowled. “I told you I wasn't good enough in Barcelona. But you didn't listen.”

“No, I didn't listen and neither did you. I didn't say you weren't good enough. I said half of you isn't good enough. When you're ready to give me everything, then I'll make love to you. Until then...” She shrugged. “I can't do that to myself.”

“I told you it wasn't called making love. It's fucking.” He might as well have been a beast for the snarl he lobbed at her.

“That's where you're wrong. For me, it's making love. And anyone I choose to give my body to, it will be because we are connected. Not just because it feels good and I'm sad or lonely or even afraid.” She straightened. “I deserve better than that, and so do you.”

“That's all I've got to give you, Princess.”

“That's all you
want
to give me.”

He shook his head slowly. “You're so naive.”

“I guess I am.” She'd rather be naive than so used up by the world that she had nothing left to give, not even to herself.

“Maybe you'll believe me now.”

And maybe not.
“I'm going to bed.”

It was some time later, but she was still staring up at the ceiling in the darkness when he came into the room and made his pallet on the floor. He was close enough to touch but still so incredibly far away.

She replayed the memory of the ship in her head.
You can touch me.
It had been a tacit permission, a key to a forbidden door, because it unlocked her fantasies, her needs. There was no shoving them back into some dark unknown corner now that she'd tasted him. Now that she knew what it was like to be in his arms.

It wasn't just the place between her thighs that ached for him, but every piece of her. Her lips yearned for his, her tongue for the taste of his skin, her shoulders for his arms around them, her hips for his, pressing her down into the mattress... She craved the sight of him, the taste of him, the scent of him. It was everything about him.

Going without his touch was a little bit like dying. That descriptor sounded overdramatic even to her, but he'd brought a part of her alive, made her bloom. He was the light that nourished it, the sustenance that fed it, and without that, it withered and died. Although the time it had been given breath had been an experience unlike any other. Beautiful and harsh, soft and sharp, all at once.

He was close enough that she could whisper that she wanted him in her bed, and she knew he'd come. He'd touch her; he'd give her everything her body desired.

Except her pesky heart. That thing was making demands Byron had no way of meeting. She knew better than to expect a person to change into something they weren't. He'd been honest with her from the start.

Barcelona was different. He'd be a memory, something pretty to take out and remember, something to hold on to in the dark when she was alone.

But she wasn't alone now, even though she felt like it.

The part of her that was dying wanted to cry, but the rest of her that had lived without him for so long already was glad because this was safer. Without these feelings, she had confidence in what she was doing, a passion and surety that she could change the world.

Byron made her doubt herself because if she couldn't get one man to forgive the hurts of the past, how could she expect to do that for a country?

CHAPTER TEN

S
LEEPING
ON
THE
FLOOR
was easier than taking the side of the bed she'd initially offered him, not that Byron anticipated he'd actually get to sleep—or if he did, it would be so riddled with nightmares he'd wake up screaming. It was easier to be awake, safer. For him and for her.

He pretended to sleep so he could be in the room with the princess and have a better chance at protecting her.

She was right to deny him her body. He'd been telling her all along that he wasn't good enough for her, that he'd hurt her. So now why was he hurt that she'd listened to him? It was better this way.

Part of him wished he'd denied her in Barcelona. She'd be happier now, and so would he. He wouldn't remember what it was like to touch her hair, the silk of her skin. The cadence of her gentle, even breathing as she curled up next to him in perfect trust. The trust was the most bittersweet of all. No one, except his team, had ever trusted him so implicitly.

From the moment they'd met, she'd had no doubts that he was the one, that he would save her. Even when he told her he hadn't planned on helping her, even when he told her that he didn't want to. It wasn't any sort of royal entitlement; it was just a knowledge that she had that he was the one.

He'd tried to tell her that he couldn't be trusted—this protection gig, it wasn't him. He was a breaker, not a fixer. She'd just smiled in that way of hers, and his pride wouldn't let him do anything but answer the call.

He knew he should try to sleep. He'd do a better job keeping her safe if he was rested. They had a whole team outside watching the house, and they were his brothers in arms. While he didn't deserve their protection, Damara did.

He half expected them to deny the detail. Everyone knew he'd lost his team. As ironic as it was, there were no secrets in the world of covert ops. Not about things like this. He wanted their judgment. More than that, he wanted their punishment. He deserved it.

But he wouldn't get it. They'd serve. They'd do the job they were ordered to do and complete the mission. Because they were rangers. He wanted to tear his skin off whenever they looked at him, as if that would somehow stop the burning. Byron knew it wouldn't, though, because it was a different kind of fire. It was hell.

He pulled himself out of the beginning of the spiral, away from the sounds of the screaming that had risen to a roar in his ears. Byron focused on that sound—her breathing. It lulled him and comforted him like nothing else.

Except now he was dreaming. Byron Hawkins knew he was dreaming because he was no longer in the house with Damara.

He was in the sweltering heat of the jungle, the bites of insects like a thousand needles in his neck, sweat beading on his forehead and the buzzing in his ears.

It was always the same. He was in pursuit of the guerrillas in Uganda, and time stopped right before that moment when he murdered his team.

Because that's what it was—murder. Those men were dead because of him.

Yes, back to that time, that second, that breath before he spoke the words that ended them all.

He couldn't change it. Every time he dreamed, he tried to keep his mouth closed, tried to stop from speaking.

It never worked.

And the screams started again. Screams ripped from the bodies of men who'd walk into hell if it was their duty. Screams from men who didn't know how to scream.

This time, Foxworth didn't go with the rest of them. He held his weapon up against his chest like a baby.

“Recognizing that I volunteered as a Ranger, fully knowing the hazards of my chosen profession, I will always endeavor to uphold the prestige, honor and high esprit de corps of the Rangers.” Austin Foxworth began reciting the Ranger Creed.

The one Byron didn't feel worthy enough to speak. The words were poison on his tongue.

“Say it with me, brother. Speak the words,” Foxworth encouraged. “Acknowledging the fact that a Ranger is a more elite soldier, who arrives at the cutting edge of battle by land, sea or air—”

Byron found his voice and spoke with him. “I accept the fact that as a Ranger, my country expects me to move further, faster, and fight harder than any other soldier.”

“Never shall I—” Foxworth stopped reciting when Byron stopped. “Speak the words, soldier.”

“I'm
sorry.
” His apology spewed from him like a rancid geyser, but it did nothing to change the landscape around him. His sorry didn't bring them back, didn't soothe any hurts, and certainly didn't absolve him of any sin.

* * *

E
XPLOSIONS
RATTLED
THE
GROUND
, sulfur filled the air and all the fires of hell burned around them.

“There's more to life than this, hoss.” Foxworth nodded and his face had melted away, leaving nothing but the grinning rictus.

“I'm so sorry—I'm so fucking sorry.” This time, the screams were Byron's. He was on fire, but he couldn't stop saying he was sorry, over and over, like some kind of benediction, even though he knew it wasn't.

“Say it.
Never shall I fail my comrades,
” Foxworth demanded.

“Never shall I...never shall I...” He roared in frustration. “But I did. I did fail you.”

“Readily will I display the intestinal fortitude required to fight on to the Ranger objective and complete the mission, though I be
the lone survivor.
” The sharp finger bones of the skeleton dug into his wrist. “Never shall I fail my comrades.”

And Byron spoke. Even though they sliced his tongue like razorblades, he spoke the words he did not feel, gave voice to his failure and let it live and breathe outside of him. “Never shall I fail my comrades.”

He awoke sweat-soaked, the scent of jasmine in his nose and soft, cool hands on his face.

Damara.

“It's okay, Byron. You're here. With me. Just breathe.”

The princess with all her strength, her courage and her sweetness cradled him against the dark.

She'd slipped down to his pallet and held him gently. She didn't ask him what he'd dreamed about. She just stroked her fingers through his hair and held his cheek to her breast. The steady thud of her heartbeat soothed him, anchored him into the world so he didn't drift away again back to that land of pain and fire.

He wasn't afraid of his nightmares; they weren't even the beginning of a just punishment for what he'd done. Through them all, no matter how many times he had to relive them, he knew they weren't real, and whatever he endured was nothing like what they'd suffered.

If he could trade places with them, he would've.

At least until Damara.

Byron was still convinced he was going to hurt her, that he was going to screw up and she was going to die. But he'd vowed to protect her with his life, and he would. It would be a good death if he died protecting her. So much better than he deserved.

Would it be so bad?
Foxworth's voice asked in his head.
Would it be so bad to marry her, to take care of her, to love her?

Even the voices in his head wanted her.

Yes, it would be horrible,
he answered them. It would be the worst thing that could happen because even if he exorcised his own demons, they could never be together. She had a country to save, and when it was safe for her to go back to Castallegna, she had to go. Byron's life still belonged to the Department of Defense. He'd signed a contract. But he found himself wondering who'd be in Castallegna to continue protecting her. Who'd oversee the construction of the base, the operations...

He couldn't think about it anymore. Instead, he dressed early and went for a run, checking in with the security detail to make sure she was safe before he left.

He ran past the downtown area, not wanting to look at any of the small-town charm. He'd had enough of it as a kid. The air was cold on his face, chilly as it swirled in his lungs. He ran toward the edges of town. The part of the river that wasn't by the old grande dame Victorians, but the industry. The secret places of his youth. He saw they weren't so secret, or at least the kids there were like him. They were the miscreants, the misfits, the castaways.

They stood in a small group, smoking and laughing, huddled over a bonfire.

The ranger who lived in his head said to tell them to go home, to break it up. The kid that he used to be wanted to go join them. But the sad man he was in between just kept running.

He ran farther still to where the old train station sat abandoned, still waiting for city hall and the historical society to raise enough funds to restore it. Calliope music blared loudly and harshly through the space from the carousel museum.

Dawn had crested over the horizon, and he kept running, working his body as hard as he dared. There was a headspace he found in that kind of exhaustion that was the closest to peace he could get outside of Damara's arms.

Nothing could follow him there. Not guilt, not shame, not sorrow. It was this blessed empty white.

* * *

B
YRON
RAN
UNTIL
HE
VOMITED
, and then he ran some more, but the peace he sought was elusive. Further proof that true peace of any kind was denied him.

He turned his steps back toward the house, back toward his responsibilities and his failures. He hated being so at odds with himself.

He had to shut his brain off. Otherwise, Damara really was going to get hurt and it would be his fault because he couldn't keep his head in the game.

Sonja had given him a schedule, and there were more interviews and appearances on the docket for the day. He wondered when this was going to end. When they were going to get a chance to breathe.

When he got back to the house some hours later, the kitchen was full of smoke, it smelled like something had died and Damara was wearing nothing but the ranger T-shirt and crying.

It was enough to make him want to turn right back around and run. Keep running. He could handle Damara doing almost anything but crying.

That made him want to throttle something, but the only one there was Damara. He didn't know how to help her.

* * *

S
TUPID
TOAST
.

Stupid toaster.

Stupid princess.
Without her crown, she was useless. Without her crown, without a cause, what skills did she have? Damara had never had time to learn how to cook. There'd always been staff to do so. But when she'd woken up hungry, she had tried to make toast. And failed miserably when the toast got stuck in the toaster and burned.

After everything Damara had been through, a stupid piece of toast to her absolute and utter horror had made her cry.

To make matters worse, Byron walked in on the mess she'd made of the kitchen and herself.

“What's wrong? What happened?” His sharp eyes immediately scanned the room for threats. “Are you okay?”

“I...” She sniveled. It was a loud, wet sound. Princesses didn't snivel. She allowed him to pull her against his body. She'd already come to associate his nearness with safety. It occurred to her that no matter how hard she fought this, she'd end up in bed with him again with her heart broken. Right now, she wanted to tell him she'd changed her mind. Maybe her brother was right. Maybe the only thing she could do was breed heirs.

“Whatever it was, it failed miserably,” he teased.

She sobbed harder.

“Whoa, what's this? I was just teasing you a bit, Princess.” His arms tightened around her.

Her comportment teacher was probably sitting up in bed from a dead sleep with the sure knowledge that Damara had snotted on his shirt with her messy, ugly, unprincess-like sobs.

“I can't do anything,” she managed between hitches of breath.

“What is this anything you're talking about?” He handed her a napkin.

“Anything!” He should know exactly what she meant from the wretched carcass of the damn toaster in the sink.

“You mean because you set your toast on fire?” His voice was calm and reassuring.

She nodded into his chest. Even after working out, he still smelled good, like he had on the ship. And she just wanted him to fix everything for her.

Over a stupid piece of toast.

Damara had to get herself together. She really wouldn't be able to do anything or help anyone if she lost her mind over a first attempt at a task she'd never been taught to do.

“Look at me.”

Oh, God, no.
She couldn't. Her eyes were puffy, her face was tearstained and her nose, oh, God, her nose.

“I couldn't give a shit less if you know how to cook or ice-skate.”

She sniffed. “What does ice-skating have to do with it?”

“Exactly. Nothing. Who cares? So you burned the toast. And the toaster.” He shrugged. “So you take a cooking class if you want to. I can't cook. We can eat takeout forever.”

She sniffed again. “But you can do other things.”

“So can you.”

“I can be a princess. No one cares if I know how to plan a seating chart so you can invite a man's wife and his mistress to a fund-raising ball. I never wanted to be a damsel in distress.”

He stroked her back with long, smooth motions. “Damara, I don't know if someone forgot to tell you, but you have
never
been a damsel in distress. There have been times when you've needed a team effort, but that doesn't make you a damsel in distress. Remember how you told me that asking for help doesn't make you weak?”

She had said that, hadn't she? Damara nodded. “It's stupid. I shouldn't have gotten this upset.”

“With the amount of stress you've been under, it's really not a surprise.”

“You've been under the same amount of stress as I have and I don't see you sniveling into my shirt.”