TREVOR POURED HIMSELF a bowl of cereal before realizing the refrigerator held no milk. Sighing, he mentally composed a list of groceries as he made do with leftover chicken with snow peas. To his relief, Lark at least had proper coffee beans and a grinder.
He’d eaten, showered, and put back on yesterday’s clothes before either of the ladies stirred. Lark stumbled into the kitchen while Shelby used the bathroom.
“Coffee,” she croaked.
Trevor nodded toward the pot. “It’s rather strong.”
“Thank Christ.”
She poured herself a cup, adding a lot of sugar and half-and-half.
“Maybe I can persuade you to make a run to the market? I’ll pay, of course, but it would be better if Shelby and I stay out of sight.”
“Sure, I can do that. Make me up a list or something. I don’t cook much.”
She brought him a pad of paper, and he thought about what he might need. He jotted notes. When he was done, Lark took the list and scanned it, eyebrows raised.
“Pledge? Tea, eggs, et cetera. But Pledge? Fire extinguisher? What, are you saying something about my housekeeping abilities?”
Trevor glanced around the kitchen pointedly, then let his gaze encompass the rest of the flat. Turning back to her, he arched one eyebrow.
She blew out an annoyed breath. “Whatevs.”
“Actually,” he said, relenting, “they have nothing to do with cleanliness. I need aerosol for a makeshift flamethrower.”
“Seriously? Wicked awesome.” She looked over the rest of the list. “Lighter. Maglite flashlight. Screwdriver. Hair spray?”
“Good morning.”
Trevor turned to Shelby. She wore a spaghetti-strap sundress, the purple on top fading to a white skirt with purple swirls at the hem. It hit her a few inches above her knees. She looked cool and elegant.
“Good morning. There’s coffee.”
“Pretty dress,” Lark said. “I wish we were the same size so I could borrow it.”
Shelby stood next to Lark and eyed her up and down. “You’re what? Five-five? I’m only two inches taller than you.”
“Still.” Lark blew on her coffee and took a sip. “Perfection.”
Shelby poured herself a cup. “Do you work today?”
“I have a class at noon, technically. I usually skip it, though. The prof’s a moron. Anyway, staying here is way more interesting.”
“Your tattoo is beautiful. How come I’ve never seen it before?” Shelby touched Lark’s shoulder, tracing the outline of a beautiful woman with feathers instead of hair.
“They make me cover it up at work,” she groused. She tipped her head out of the way to allow Shelby an unobstructed view, then turned her left wrist over to show the symbol there. “Nothing they can do about my Ohm, though. You got any?”
“No—”
“Not you, Shel. You’re too conservative to have a tattoo. I was asking Hunky Guy.”
Conservative? Yes, Shelby would seem that way to a free spirit like Lark. But clearly the other woman didn’t see the molten lava hidden just under the surface. The passionate woman he knew was there.
“Yeah.” He pulled up the rugby sweatshirt to reveal an intricately detailed tank across his ribs.
Lark traced her fingers over it. “Nice. You were a tanker?”
“My Uncle Alfie. He retired as a Brigadier from the Royal Tank Regiment.”
Lark pulled in her brows, tilting her head to look at him from an angle. “That’s good?”
Trevor grinned. “Very prestigious. He influenced my boyhood more, I think, than even my own parents.”
Shelby disappeared for a moment and came back with her laptop, setting it up on the kitchen table. Trevor couldn’t see what she was looking up, but a moment later she pulled her mobile from her dress pocket and dialed.
“Yes, I’m calling to check the status of one of your patients? Floyd Panderson. Yes, I’ll hold.” She wouldn’t meet his eyes. Perhaps he should have thought to call. “Yes, I’m here . . . I understand. Thank you.”
She set her phone down. “He’s in critical but stable condition. That’s all she’d tell me, since I’m not family.”
“The one who was stabbed? Did you know him? Other than him being one of the hostages, I mean.”
“They were dating,” Trevor said. He kept his tone bland.
Shelby’s chin notched up. “Only for a couple of weeks, and I didn’t know he was married.”
Lark whooped with laughter. “Oh, that’s precious. But you’re still checking up on him?”
Shelby lifted her shoulders and let them drop. “He might be a jerk, but that doesn’t mean I want him to die.”
As though she couldn’t keep still, she pushed her chair back and roamed into the living room, peering out the window. He followed her.
“I’d prefer you stay away from the windows,” he said. “It’s better if we stay out of sight.”
Shelby moved to an armchair without argument.
Lark joined them, curling up in the rose-patterned chair. “So what’s your story, Hunky Guy? Cop? Scotland Yard? MI-5? MI-6?”
He groaned inwardly. Truthfully, Lark had shown amazing restraint waiting this long to grill him.
“Just a patriot. And I thought we agreed on Trevor.”
“Yeah, but you have a military background, right? Special Forces? SEALs?”
“That’s the American military,” he pointed out.
“Yeah, whatever. So what were you?”
Trevor slanted a grin at her. “I was a juvenile delinquent.”
“No way! Join the Army or go to jail?”
He tilted his head. “I beg your pardon?”
Shelby kicked off her shoes and curled her legs under her. “That hasn’t been the case in decades. The military raised their standards years ago. Now it’s mostly college-educated kids, or kids looking to get an education.”
“Oh. So you’re rich and have a secret identity, like Bruce Wayne or Oliver Queen? You party all day and fight crime at night?”
Trevor sent Shelby a bemused look.
“Quite the character, as I said. I warned you. Lark, leave him be. He’s had a tough couple of days.”
Lark stuck out her lower lip, looking all of twelve. “All right, if you won’t tell me about your military training, and you’re not a masked vigilante, tell me something personal. I bet you started young with the girls. How old, and who was your first?”
“Lark!”
Trevor rubbed a hand over his face. Shelby sounded like she didn’t know whether to be outraged or amused by the other woman’s temerity.
“I started at sixteen,” he said. Shelby’s face creased in surprise. Why was he answering such a personal question from the inquisitive little sprite? Damned if he knew. “Rosemary Dane. She was seventeen and very experienced by then. I was a year away from my A-levels at Eton. She studied at Windsor Girls’ School across the Thames. We were together nearly every weekend. When she went on to university, we said we’d stay together. I rang her up one weekend, and a man answered. She was having a bit on the side, but she gave me the cold shoulder, as though I’d done something wrong. That was the end of it.”
“That blows. But it doesn’t make you a juvenile delinquent. That takes wrecking a Beamer, at the very least.”
Shelby groaned. “Lark, for the love of—”
“It was a Jaguar, but yes.”
“No way! Freaking awesome! Unless you were hurt. Were you hurt?”
Trevor sighed, pushing his legs out in front of him. “No. But the lady I was with ended up in hospital. That was the end of my drinking.”
Shelby’s eyes were huge in her face. The very neutrality in his voice had probably told her there was more to the story. He met her eyes.
“Are you sure you want to hear this?”
“Fuck, yeah!”
But he hadn’t been speaking to Lark. His attention remained focused on her. She slowly nodded.
“My father expected me to go into politics or law, as he did. Had no interest in either. I rebelled, as a lot of young men do. The usual—getting tanked up, fights, motorcycles. I was home on holiday from Eton. Went to a bar. Got laggered. Met a woman. Got behind the wheel.” He stopped and cleared his throat. “She, uh, she was, um . . . kissing me. I crashed into a utility pole.”
Lark started to laugh. “No fucking way! You wrapped your car around a pole getting a BJ?”
Trevor wouldn’t meet Shelby’s eyes. “My father had enough influence to get the DUI charge dismissed. But it snapped me out of it. My self-indulgent behavior could have had very serious consequences.”
“Was she all right?” Shelby asked quietly.
“She had a broken arm and was concussed. She also turned out to be married.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry she was hurt because of me. I paid her medical costs against my father’s advice. He was more concerned with inviting a lawsuit, I think.”
“Then you realized the errors of your ways,” Lark said. “And became Batman.”
Trevor snorted. “Hardly. Then I went to law school at Yale.”
Lark pulled her feet in and turned sideways on the sofa. Her toes almost brushed his thigh. “So what’s a freaking lawyer doing with a bunch of mangy terrorists?”
He laid his head against the back of the sofa. “I quit after two semesters. Now, leave off. I need a nap.”
He folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes. He wasn’t really tired. He just didn’t want to see condemnation in Shelby’s eyes.
Lark tapped away on her computer. Shelby flipped though the channels on the telly and eventually settled on an action film. He tried to focus on it, but his mind kept drifting to Shelby. He knew she’d pictured his childhood as privileged, pampered, and perfect. What would she do with the truth?
“That’s stupid,” he said abruptly. Both women looked at him in surprise. His eyes were half lidded as he watched an action scene. “No one would do that in a proper fight.”
Lark bounced on the cushion and clapped her hands together. “Oh! Show me, show me. Teach me how to kick ass.”
That pulled a grin from him. “In one afternoon?”
“Why not? I’ve got my search engines running. There’s not much else to do until they spit out something useful. What else we got to do?”
He stood and stretched. “God forbid everything go pear shaped, but in a dangerous situation, knowing one or two moves might save your life. Let’s do it.”
Shelby settled in to watch.
“Nope. You participate, too.” Trevor crooked a finger at her.
Radiating reluctance, she joined them in moving the furniture back so they had space.
“I teach self-defense courses for military wives on foreign postings,” Trevor said. “When I’m in garrison. Believe it or not, the most important thing isn’t how to throw a punch or kick.” He tapped the side of his head. “The battle is won or lost here first.”
“Like, if you believe it, you can do it?” Lark asked.
“Not precisely. Women are nurturers. Mothers. Wives. A woman’s instinct isn’t to fight; it’s to protect.”
Lark puffed up. “Are you saying women are weaker than men? ’Cause if you are, we’re going to have a problem.”
“Not at all.” Without warning, he transformed into warrior mode, stalking toward Lark with his fist raised. He made hostile intent radiate from every pore. As expected, Lark squeaked and threw her arms over her head, cringing away from him. He stopped, dropped his arm, and relaxed. Both Shelby and Lark’s eyes were huge in their faces.
“I’ve found over and over again that women don’t value themselves as highly as they do others,” he continued, as though nothing had happened. “What they’ll do for a loved one, for example, they won’t necessarily do for themselves. Women can be more fierce and deadly than any man when you rouse their protective instincts. For example, think of the one thing, the one person whom you hold most dear. The one person you love more than any other in the world. The one person you would die for.”
“My baby sister.” Lark’s eyes softened. “I’d do anything for her.”
“Good. Now imagine that you are the only thing—the very last thing—standing between her and the rapist in front of you trying to get at her.” Once again, he morphed into a deadly warrior.
This time, Lark’s eyes narrowed and became ferocious as she raised her fists, clearly prepared to fight. “No way you get past me.”
Trevor nodded and stopped. “That’s what I mean.”
Lark’s jaw dropped and she stared at Trevor in amazement. “I did it! I stood my ground.”
“Well done. It’s that feeling, that instinct I want you to focus on as I teach you some basics. Shelby, your turn.”
Her brows pulled down, she took her place in front of Trevor.
“Same thing. Place the one person you love the most in the world in the forefront of your mind.” He came at her. Her breath left her lungs in a rush and she backed away fast, hands held out in front of her as though to ward him off. He stopped.
“Okay, we’ll go a bit slower. Picture someone important to you. Sister, friend, lover? Pet?”
Her hands started to shake and she shook her head back and forth. She didn’t seem to be able to pull enough air into her lungs. Alarmed, Trevor took her by the arm and pulled her to the sofa, pushing her onto it and bending her head forward between her knees. What the hell had just happened here?
“Easy, Shel,” he said. “Take your time. Catch your breath.” Without warning, she jumped from the sofa and ran from the room.