Mateo. Bless her mission partner’s kind, deceased soul, but darn him. He’d sent Kiera to the one person who wanted nothing to do with her ever again: Jake. Even though he and Jake had been friends, judging by the fully armed reception up here in the chilly mountains, Mateo must have not warned Jake that she might drop by.
As if she had any other choice.
She scanned the holster straps outlining his chest. Glanced at the gun strapped to his thick leg and shivered. If he was anything like Mateo, there would be more hidden weapons on him.
The cold, hard glare from his gray eyes indicted her, even as her stupid heart fluttered with the proximity to him, reacting like…
She brushed her hand over the baby and winced. The bullet had gone through flesh only, thank God. A little nudge, a foot or a knee, reassured her that Little Bit was safe for the time being.
“I wanted to go to the hospital, but then they would find me. Mateo told me to come here. He said you would know what to do.” She needed to tell him more. Clamping her mouth shut, she couldn’t speak the words past the knot in her throat.
“Do you want some water?” he blurted.
Special Forces guys and their hydration. “I’m okay right now, thanks.”
“How did you know the front door digital combination?” He kept a hand on her elbow, the touch light but steady.
“Mateo told me a few months ago.”
“What?”
“Actually, no. That’s not accurate. A few months ago, he told me how to reach the cache he set up which contained information on how to get here. I read all the information several hours ago, destroyed it, and came here.”
“You remembered from then ’til now?”
She tried not to groan at a twinge in her back muscles. “Eidetic memory. By the way, you shouldn’t use your high school locker combination.”
A brief smile, then his mouth pressed into a hard line, and a muscle along his jaw jumped as he stared at her. Pregnant woman in trouble. Not what he wanted to see at God-knows-what time at night in his quiet mountain cabin. Her head swam as adrenaline seeped out of her body, rendering her boneless. If she didn’t sit soon, she’d be on the floor.
“Mateo?” he repeated, almost to himself.
“Your teammate from the military? Brady’s buddy from your Army team?”
“I know who he is!”
Was. “We’d been living together, and—”
“No personal details. I get the picture.” His thick hand chopped air and cut off her explanation as he glanced toward her abdomen. “What the hell happened?” He barked out the words as he waved toward her bloody calf and side.
If he was angry now, wait until he found out about how she and Mateo freelanced a mission to avenge her brother Brady. Seemed safe enough at the time, or she would never have continued their work.
Seemed safe. In twenty-twenty hindsight, it was more of a nightmare. Speaking of a nightmare, she still had to address the result of that night after Brady’s funeral.
“Long story. But I need to tell you—” A stab of pain threatened to knock her down.
His vise grip under her arm pinched, but at least he kept her upright. He switched hands and stood behind her, lifting the hem of her shirt again. Chilly air on her wounded side grabbed her attention almost as much as his ripe curse.
“We’re going to fix this. Sit down. And you have to hydrate.”
Damn his strong hands, but he supported and steered her from the living room to the kitchen. Collapsing into a spindle-backed seat, she rested her arms on the table and leaned forward until her head lay on her forearms. She groaned in pain and relief as the cramped muscles in her back and legs relaxed.
“Stay put,” he stated, depositing a glass of water in front of her and a damp washcloth.
As if she could go anywhere right now? Halfheartedly cleaning her hands, she stared at him, then wadded the cloth up in a ball. If she had any energy left, she would protest him ordering her around like another soldier.
Sweat beaded his brow as he fumbled in a metal box on the counter and pulled out a syringe filled with yellow liquid like the one she’d seen Mateo use from time to time. No alcohol swab for Jake, oh no, he just jammed the needle into his massive upper arm, bare below the tight short sleeve. His eyes shut and his entire frame went rigid then loosened, like a junkie getting a fix. Except his expression held no indication of euphoria, only tight-lipped resolve. Was he on drugs? He didn’t act like what she’d expect to see if someone was going through withdrawal.
Was he even safe to be wearing weapons? While injecting stuff into his body? She glanced at the solid wood back door and counted the locks she’d have to throw to get out of here. No way could she move faster than Jake. Not right now.
What about when Mateo used a similar-looking syringe? He’d said it was for a medical condition and he had to take medicine every few weeks for his health.
What were the chances Jake had the same condition?
“Jake, what’s that?” she mumbled. No way could she believe he was hooked on drugs. But she didn’t care how exhausted she was. If he was using, then she and her unborn child would get the hell out of this place.
He flicked a tired gaze at her and quickly put away the supplies. “You know how a diabetic needs insulin? There’s a condition, uh, a bunch of us got from … exposure in the Army.”
“You’re not doing drugs?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“I’m too worn out to kid.”
Banging open cabinets, Jake yanked out a first-aid kit and tore open the top of the container. Harsh rips of packages and clanks of metal filled the silence. It took all of her will to remain awake. Her eyelids drifted closed.
She trusted Mateo’s judgment in sending her here. Despite the weird behavior, Jake would take care of her because this was Jake, right? They had a history. He couldn’t turn his back on their one-time … God, she couldn’t give what they had a decade ago a name.
What about the night after Brady’s funeral?
She rubbed her aching chest. What a mess. She was putting her faith and the life of her baby in the hands of a guy who had not once but twice turned his back on her, who had tried to attack her a few minutes ago, and who injected drugs. Okay, fine, treatment for a medical condition. The reality remained: he was still her best option for help.
Her only option.
His voice came from across the room. “Explain to me again why you didn’t go to the hospital with bullet holes in you.”
“Not bullets. A little shrapnel. It’s complicated.” Understatement of the year.
Returning to her, he lifted the back of her shirt and cursed under his breath. The icy fire of alcohol caught her so off-guard, she shrieked and jerked her head up.
“Sorry,” he muttered, pressing her head back down to rest on her arms. He dabbed again, gently this time. “What happened to you?”
“Shrapnel,” she mumbled.
“Could you expand on that statement?” His voice, deeper and harder than she remembered, made her shiver.
She stammered, “Metal exploded. The piece on my side went in and out. It missed the…” Groaning as he probed the wound, she gritted her teeth. “Not sure if the other piece went all the way through my leg.”
“Answer me one question. How the fuck did this happen?”
“Long story.” Her breath hissed between her teeth as he swiped the hellish alcohol swab over the wounds again. “Give me a minute to recover from your nursing skills and then I’ll explain.”
“Fine.” He stalked back over to the counter and rustled through the kit. “I need to probe the wounds, make sure no more metal is in there. If there’s material left behind, you’re at high risk for infection. And you’re right. I agree that it avoided the…”
Baby.
“Okay. Do whatever you have to.” She buried her head in her arms, willing herself to hold still. When he poked the wound on her flank with the metal instrument, imaginary razors sliced through her skin. Couldn’t help it—she flinched. Then she opened her eyes and spied his scowling face a few inches away from her. Disgust twisted his hard features into warped stone as he glanced toward her abdomen.
She swallowed.
Fine, she’d hold still. Anything to limit the time he was forced to touch her.
“Do I need stitches?”
“No. It’s best to let these areas drain. They’re not bleeding much. But if you need stitches, it’s no problem.”
Glancing over, she caught his cocky smirk. “No problem for you. It’s not your skin getting poked with needles.”
A snort. That was all she got for a response, but it was enough to remind her of the old Jake. The one who could laugh.
He smeared ointment on the wound on her back, pressed a gauze pad to the area, and taped it in place. Then he repeated the efficient maneuver on the exit wound on her sensitive abdomen. Her heart sped up.
“How about your leg?” His frown summed up pretty much everything right now.
“Same song, different station.” She pressed her hands to the table. “I can lift it up if it’s easier with all the equipment you’re wearing—”
His warm palm on her shoulder stopped her. “Don’t worry about it. You’re the one with the injury. I’ll work around you.” The sudden mellowing of his baritone voice caught her off-guard, making her eyes burn. “I’m used to working with full gear on. If you want, I’ll put on a Kevlar jacket in case you kick me.”
“Mmph.”
Damn it if he didn’t sit on the floor to examine the calf wound. She peeked at his dark-blond hair and broad back. Wow. She knew he’d bulked up since high school, but she hadn’t exactly performed an in-depth analysis last July. In the dark. But right now, up far too close, he was big. Brady’s Army pictures didn’t do Jake justice. Muscles rippled under his t-shirt as Jake worked the hem of her legging up. Although there was restrained strength in his touch, he remained gentle.
Physical and emotional pain braided tightly together in her chest. She kept her arms crossed on the table and pressed fingers into her upper arms.
The quiet work was interrupted when he tapped her on the leg. “Shit. The metal piece is still in there. I’m going to have to get it out.”
“Do what you have to.”
He shifted to bend her leg and tuck her foot in between his knees as he knelt and cleaned the skin once more. His thigh muscles tensed, then with a sharp poke and a twisting and pulling sensation, a trail of fire burst from her calf. Stiffening, she bit her lip and dug her fingers deeper into the skin of her arms.
“Got it,” he said. “Success.”
Funny, he didn’t sound pleased.
“I need to put stitches in. This one’s bleeding quite a bit.”
A wave of her hand and a mumble were all she could manage with the pulsing pain in her leg and side.
After one more trip back to the counter and rustling for supplies in what she assumed was the first-aid box, he returned.
“Let me numb up with some lidocaine.” His exhaled breath was harsh in the quiet cabin. “This is going to hurt.”
“More than getting metal projectiles embedded in my body?”
“Probably not.”
Another few dabs with the awful alcohol swab, and then the fiery pricks of the needle. Then the pain subsided as she felt only some tugging, drawing sensations followed by more ointment and a dressing.
The wound on her side throbbed. As the last reserves of her strength faded away, all she wanted was to stay here and rest, if only for a few minutes. It would be comfortable enough, sleeping while sitting at the table.
“Kiera? Did you drink?”
“Water?” She made a halfhearted sip at the glass, because knowing Jake, he wouldn’t stop until she floated away.
“Hey?” he said.
“Mm-hmm?”
“Can I get your shirt and pants cleaned up for you? They’re stained with blood.”
Yes, she should clean up. A normal thing to do after escaping death, watching her house blow up, having her friend die, and getting metal embedded in her pregnant body. Oh, and don’t forget coming face-to-face with the man who wanted nothing to do with her. A manic bubble of laughter climbed her throat and stole the air from her lungs. She squeezed her burning eyes shut until she regained control.
When Jake helped her stand, the razor-sharp pain shot through her back and side again. She flattened her palm on the tabletop for a minute.
“Okay,” she said, snagging the jacket from the table and draping it over an arm.
In silence, he preceded her to the bathroom and opened the door. For a big guy, he moved like a living shadow. He left for a moment, then returned with one of his own t-shirts and a pair of sweatpants.
Shrugging, he said, “They’ll work for the short term. Hand me your clothes and I’ll run them through a quick wash,” he said, like they were a regular domestic couple. If regular couples typically fished out projectiles from each other’s flesh and cleaned blood-stained clothing, that was.
After closing the bathroom door, she pulled off her maternity top, socks, and punctured leggings. His sweatpants were five inches too long, but she rolled them up. She unzipped her jacket pocket and removed an envelope and the thumb drive she had stashed before the house in Atlanta exploded. The former she had retrieved from the cache on her way here. Stuffing the items in the sweatpants’ pocket, she patted the pants to make sure everything was securely stowed. As she tugged Jake’s extra-large cotton shirt over her head, she took a deep breath. Oh, God, the soft, worn material smelled like simple detergent, a hint of spicy aftershave, and the faint aroma of hickory woodchips that was uniquely Jake. Flashes of memory, his warm, firm lips against hers, his hands roving over her breasts and lower over her hips and lower still… Her head swam, and not from the injuries.
Stop it. She had no right to feel anything for this man. He’d made his choice clear years ago. She was no longer that high school girl with a heart full of fluttery emotions.
The night together last July had been a mistake, if his fleeing the scene was any indication. Heck, he barely made eye contact with her tonight.
When she opened the door and held the soiled clothes out to him, he stared at her long enough for sweat to form under her armpits. Okay, maybe it was better when he wouldn’t look at her. His posture went ramrod straight, and he leaned forward, rolling his hands into fists. Like he wanted to help but couldn’t bring himself to touch her.
Or maybe he wanted to punch a hole through the drywall.
As much as she should turn away, God help her, she couldn’t stop staring. He always was a solid guy, even in high school. Even though Jake carried much more muscle than she remembered, he moved with a grace unexpected with his big frame. The black t-shirt tucked into denim hugged hard ridges pushing against the fabric, his muscles emphasized by the shoulder harness straps lashed over his chest. Every inch of him vibrated with barely contained lethal power.
With anyone else, the sight of the man and the weapons would be terrifying. Anyone else but Jake.
Same dark-blond hair, although he’d let it grow out a few inches into waves that couldn’t quite be tamed. Waves she’d love to run her fingers through. Nowadays, though, his hair was the only soft thing about him.
His face had matured. Wrapped in her own grief last summer, she hadn’t noticed it then. He had never been typically handsome, but the way he focused on whatever was in front of him always made his appearance compelling. Now, the intense demeanor made him even more damned attractive. He’d been through his fair share of struggles as a kid growing up and since they had dated in high school. His personality had become even harder over time, what with Brady’s death and Jake’s wife leaving him a few years ago.
Wife.
Of course, Kiera had known about Jake’s marriage. When her brother Brady had been recovering from his combat-related head injury, Kiera and her sisters had helped him access photos on his computer. She’d seen pictures of the small wedding where Brady had stood next to his high school friend. Jake had cut an impressive figure back then with his Army dress uniform, and his bride wore a simple and pretty white dress. Every time Kiera clicked on the picture, something twisted in her gut. Not jealousy. Not anger.
Regret.
Stop it. That train had long since left the station.
No, the train didn’t exist anymore.
Today’s harder Jake had fine lines at the corners of his intense steel-gray eyes, lines formed too soon for a twenty-eight-year-old.
What a world of difference the past ten years made.
Still standing in the doorway of the bathroom, he hadn’t moved.
She met his gaze for a split second. Pain and anticipation both flashed through her. She had no right to any feelings for him. None. They’d passed a second chance up many months ago, and the idea of a third chance? Ludicrous.
She closed the bathroom door on the man she no longer knew and turned toward the sink. A haunted, empty expression filled the frame.
In the borrowed sweatpants pocket next to the thumb drive rested the crumpled envelope. Jake’s name was on the front, written in Mateo’s neat hand. A lump clogged her throat. Her friend Mateo was gone.
What about her baby’s safety? This mission had gone from ho-hum to horrendous in a matter of hours. Her hands shook, thinking how close she had come this evening to … not making it here. The explosion, the chase. Now what? Beau Lequire would find her. His information net and desire to silence any threat to his business empire was unstoppable.
No. She would figure out how to keep this child alive and safe, no matter what.
Dealing with feelings about Jake was optional. Protecting her baby was not.
Now, if only she could figure out who could help her without putting their lives at risk. Although her father and sisters knew a bit about the work Kiera and Mateo were doing, no one knew the true extent of the project. It was better that way. Less chance of getting pulled into the morass. She prayed they were all safe for now.
Back to this baby. She needed to figure something out before delivery in, what? Less than six weeks. She braced her hands on the sink edge, too tired to think through a plan.
Incremental decisions. Each one had been driven by good intentions. Now she was homeless, injured, pregnant, on the run, and imposing on the one man who never wanted to see her again. Quite the accomplishment for the past six hours’ worth of work.
After she’d been in the bathroom for fifteen minutes, Jake knocked on the door. “Everything okay in there?”
“Just taking some time to clean up.”
A pause. “Let me know if you need anything.” The tightness in his voice bored through the solid wood door like a hammer-driven nail. Her eyelids stung.
After another head shake, she scrubbed dirt off her face with the cold, damp washcloth and patted the skin dry. Carefully pulling the bottom of the sweatpants up, she tended to her scraped knees, avoiding the bandage on her lower leg. She eased the material back down and cleaned the raw skin on her palms. Then she stared into the mirror at the pale, exhausted woman reflected.