Daniel roused from sleep. Melodie was standing at the sliding glass doors, staring off into space. Silently, he applauded her ability to even stand. After pizza and another vigorous round of lovemaking, he didn't even have the energy to move. He couldn't stop smiling as he thought about how magnificent Melodie looked above him, her breasts swaying freely as she rode him—hard. He refused to think too far ahead, but he damn well liked this woman more than anyone else he'd met in a very long time—if ever.
With her standing there in nothing but his T-shirt and pink, silk boy shorts, Daniel's need for her resurfaced. I may never get enough of this woman.
Not wanting to waste one moment of their time together, he crept quietly out of bed and moved in behind her, his arms circling her waist. "Hey, sexy, you up for another round?"
As he kissed her cheek, instead of the fresh clean scent he'd become accustomed to, there was a hint of salt and dampness. Tears? What the hell? "What's wrong?"
Her hands pulled him closer as she sank into his embrace. "There's something I haven't told you."
Just when he thought it was safe… "Come on. Let's go back to bed. We'll talk. You can tell me anything." Her soft bottom pressed against his groin made talking the last thing he wanted to do, but a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.
He followed her back to bed and tried not to focus on her bare legs sliding under the sheet. Behave! He didn't want her to kick him out and send him skulking back to his room in the wee hours of the morning. He tried not to think of the number of times he'd sent a woman packing from his room in the middle of the night. Turning the light on the nightstand to the lowest level, he slipped in next to her, pulling her close. His arm went around her shoulders to offer comfort. "Tell me, Mel. Whatever it is, it can't be that bad."
"His name was Tom."
She made her statement as if those four words would allow him to decipher and fix whatever was upsetting her. He'd known lots of Toms in his life, none of which he could remember making him cry. He had no clue what to say. "Go on. I'm listening."
"He was my best friend. We understood each other. He always thought Evelyn was too good to be true and stood up for me against my mother. He was a good man." She smiled faintly. "We'd even made a pact to marry at age thirty if we were both still single."
He might not be a librarian or college graduate, but even he recognized the past tense. He ignored the little detail about her marriage plans. "You keep saying was. What happened to him?"
"He made me feel safe, secure, and content. Evelyn says I only chose him because he was away most of the time. Maybe she was right. I don't know. I do know he didn't deserve what happened to him."
The haunted look he'd seen in her eyes numerous times since their first chance meeting on the plane returned. This man, Tom, whatever happened to him, must be responsible for the sadness in her eyes. His protective instincts surged, and he felt compelled, driven even, to make this better. Once she tells me what in the hell happened to him. Did women always take this long to share? Up to this point, he'd only cared about pretending to listen long enough to get into their bed. The clouded green eyes from his sexy librarian changed all of that for him.
"What happened to him?" He felt like a broken record, but maybe if he kept asking, eventually she'd tell him.
"He was killed."
His muscles tightened, and his nostrils flared. He'd seen so much death in Afghanistan—so much senseless death. A war being waged by politicians saddled with the high cost of human life. To think this man had been murdered on American soil, outside of war, fueled his rage at the injustice. "Did they catch the bastard?"
The confusion in her eyes deepened. "What?"
"The person who murdered him."
Tears escaped down her cheeks again before she buried her face in his shoulder. Why did women do that? Didn't they know it rendered the male species unable to think clearly? A few drops of water sliding down rosy cheeks reduced every goal in their lives down to one. Fix whatever's wrong, and make it better so she stops crying.
"He wasn't murdered. He was killed in action in Afghanistan."
Afghanistan brought his mind into sharp focus. He may have not known her Tom, but he knew plenty of men like him. He fought to stop the trembling of his body. Breathe, dammit. Had someone snuck into his little slice of heaven and punched him in the gut? He fought the strong desire to jump out of the warmth of the bed and pace. His questions now expelled in rapid fire. "What happened to Tom? How was he killed?"
If his harsh tone insulted Melodie, she offered no comment. "His convoy was on an errand of mercy, delivering food and supplies to a village hit hard in an attack. The lead vehicle, Tom's vehicle, hit one of those bombs buried in the road…an IBD or something?"
The blows to his gut continued with each innocent word she spoke. Guilt squeezed his heart so tightly radiating pain shot down his left arm. Heart attack? "IED. Improvised explosive device."
"Yes, that's it. Sorry. I couldn't bring myself to do any research on the subject, too upsetting."
He wanted to say something to comfort her, reassure her. Something! But the words wouldn't come. His throat filled with sand, scratching every surface. He squeezed her tighter in reassurance, hoping to God it would be enough.
Her body moved in closer as she slipped farther under the covers. The tension she'd been holding slowly left her limbs, allowing her body to relax. "My heart hurts less now that you're in my life. I know it sounds crazy, but somehow you've eased the pain."
His eyes closed when her face lifted to kiss him. He couldn't open them—couldn't let her see the torment. Couldn't take a chance the guilt in his eyes would prompt the return of the haunted look he'd noticed the first time they met. Instead, he focused on her soft, sweet lips against his. He squeezed his eyes even tighter, concentrating on exactly how she felt in his arms
As her body relaxed against his, the tightness in his chest limited his ability to breathe. Not only had he seen death in Afghanistan, but he'd had a front row seat to the mayhem. Wanting to block the painful memories, he forced the air slowly in and out of his lungs. Her delicate scent calmed the racing of his heart, allowing him to compartmentalize the negative emotions threatening to consume him. In and out. Focus on each breath. It wasn't his fault.
Too bad he couldn't make himself believe that, no matter how hard he tried.