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Myla had been cold since she’d left the B&B, so she was shocked at the heat pouring from Sawyer. Her body wanted to snuggle even closer, which wouldn't be possible as there wasn't enough space for a snowflake between them.
Unless they lost the clothing. That'd be closer. Better. She wanted her hands on his skin and his on hers. Even the thought of a man stalking them out in the bush wasn't enough to tone down her thoughts. With the tiniest hint of interest from the man, she'd shred their clothes and jump him.
Everything about him fascinated her. His strength, intelligence, bravery. With shadows in his past. Shadows she wanted to pull apart. Something had hurt him badly. And to hurt a man like Sawyer Banks, it had to be bad. Worse than someone like her could imagine.
What would crack the heart of a SEAL and make him retreat into himself?
He and Darby were both protective of the other. Fiercely protective. Hard to imagine someone caring about another human being that much. Having someone who listened and cared. To know they'd have your back no matter what.
"Any other brothers or sisters out there?" She hadn't meant to ask. Hadn't meant to talk.
"No. Just me and Darby." But his voice told her it was enough. "What about you?"
Damn her tired brain. She never asked questions like that because they always came back at her. "No brothers or sisters."
His hand moved softly on her back. Nothing sexual but offering comfort. Warmth. An almost absent-minded move. Enough to distract her brain from coming up with a new topic of conversation.
Sawyer filled the gap. “Where are you from? Do your parents still live there?”
And that was the sixty-thousand-dollar question. She didn't want to talk about that. She didn't talk about that. Ever.
His hand moved again, stroking her, soothing her. “That’s a tough one? Okay, something easier then. Tell me about your name, Myla, I've never heard it before."
The questions ripped into her. Light, easy questions that tore down to the very heart of her, making it hard to breathe. Instinctively she tried to push away, get some space between her and the questions but Sawyer’s arms held her close. The air thickened and pressed in on her until she had to gulp in a breath.
"Shit, Myla." Sawyer’s hand moved away from her back, leaving it cool. Then he was leaning back, tilting her chin up so she was forced to look at him. The tears that seemed omnipresent over the last few days swam in her eyes for a few seconds before she managed to blink them away.
In the soft firelight, his eyes glowed with compassion. His glove brushed her cheek. "Sorry. I was trying to make polite conversation. Forget it." His hand moved to cup the back of her head and he tucked her into him again. She felt his lips against her hair and blinked back more tears. They lay quietly for long minutes while his hand moved over her.
"I don't know who my parents are. I was found in a dumpster when I was a few days old. Downtown Miami."
At first, Sawyer's only reaction was to press her more closely to him. After a few minutes, his soft voice broke the silence. "Tell me about it, Myla. Talk to me."
She shouldn't. Never had. Not to anyone. But the quiet command in his tone and the warmth of his hand had her considering. And her mouth caved. Along with another piece of her heart. "Apparently a dumpster-diving homeless man found me. Wailing. Scared him half to death but he picked me up, bundled me in some of his clothes, and carted me off to a cop walking his beat. I stayed in the hospital for the first few years because of the operations. My leg was a mess."
And probably the reason she'd been abandoned. Sawyer's hand never stopped its steady rhythm. "Because I didn't have a name, one of the nurses always called me My Lady and it caught on. Irene had immigrated from Scotland and she always said it with this beautiful lilt.” The memory had her smiling in the dark. "They shortened it to Myla for the birth certificate and that stuck, too. Another nurse, Gabriella came up with my last name."
His lips pressed to her hair again and he let out a soft chuckle. "Myla Esperanza. My Lady Hope. You must have made one hell of an impression. It's a beautiful name."
"They're sweet ladies. We still exchange Christmas cards."
He squeezed her briefly, plastering them even more closely together. "So, they're your family."
They were. She nodded into his chest, unable to squeeze the words past the lump in her throat. The only people who knew the truth of her name and her past were the people from the hospital and Irene and Gabriella were probably the only ones who remembered her with any kind of affection.
Still, she didn't regret telling Sawyer. Not yet. Maybe in the morning but not in the quiet night, where they might be the only two in the universe. He'd already figured out more than anyone else ever had. And he hadn't run screaming yet.
But he would walk away unless she did it first. Her stay was for a little more than another week. Then she'd move on to the next story with more than enough material for dozens of blog posts and articles.
And a bruised heart. Every time she tried to harden it, Sawyer did something to melt it a little more. She wasn’t sure if his touches and light kisses were signs of friendly affection or attraction. He might simply be offering comfort. If she wanted more, she had to be brave.
Take a step. See if she could offer him the same kind of comfort he'd offered her. "After being a SEAL and helping people all over the world, how did you end up back in Bloo Moose teaching people to walk around in snowshoes?”
Sawyer’s body froze, right down to his breathing. Complete stillness for long seconds. Like when he’d been searching for the guy who’d killed the wolf.
“What the hell are you really writing about?”
Myla jerked at his harsh words. What?
When she didn’t answer, he asked it again, this time his words barely more than a growl.
“How do you know I’m writing anything at all?”
His snort couldn’t have been more filled with disgust. “Answer the question. What are you writing about?” Gone was the comforting presence, the careless caresses.
Her mind raced. Darby wouldn’t have shared, she was the one suggesting Myla keep it to herself. How had he found out?
“You’ve been booking time with me to get a story. What’s your angle? What spin are you planning on taking?”
Angle? Spin? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Another snort. “Nice non-answer. I have a right to know what you’re writing about me.”
Myla shook her head in confusion. “You? What makes you think I’m writing about you?”
Sawyer’s snort was full of disdain. “Right. You just happened to book me as a snowshoeing guide. And you just happen to be a journalist. Now, you’re digging into my past. I haven’t confirmed that I was in the teams. I never mentioned traveling the world but somehow you know it all. The innocent act is a waste. I know your kind.”
“My kind? My kind of what? What are you insinuating?”
“I’m not insinuating a damn thing. I’m telling you I know you’re a journalist and I want to know what the article’s about.”
His words were sharp enough to slice. “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. I have no interest in writing about you. I write adventure travel stories for magazines.”
The noise he made didn’t have a name but it reeked of disbelief. “Right. You’re such an expert on snowshoeing, I bet all the magazines are clamoring for your work. Try something believable this time.”
Well. That was offensive. Myla worked her fingers free enough to poke him in the chest. “Listen up, Mr. Egomaniac, I have no idea what makes you think you’re so interesting but whatever it is, I don’t care. I write for magazines that cater to two groups of people. First, people who want to try the things I write about as I try them for the first time. Second, people who want to sit in their offices and pretend they’re one day going to try them. Neither group has any interest in you and your ego.”
“Who the hell would want to read about learning to snowshoe but not actually do it?”
“Apparently enough for magazines to pay me to write about it.”
Sawyer’s head shake was tight and she thought she heard his teeth grinding.
“I don’t care if you believe me or not.” Myla hoped the snotty tone kept Sawyer from hearing the lie. “I’ve been traveling and writing about it for years now. There’s a market for what I do. Some people like to hear from the experts but just as many want to hear from beginners. From people like them. Then they can see how it might be if they try it themselves.”
She nodded to emphasize her point and then clamped her lips together. He’d either believe her or not. Up to him. Her silence lasted for almost a minute. “I don’t identify the places I visit. I never photograph people—well, I don’t use their faces—and never without permission.”
His breathing was harsh in the quiet night as if he was on the edge of control.
“My editors like it best when the setting is generic. As if the adventure could happen anywhere. That way, more people can imagine themselves in the middle of it. And more people can plan the same kind of adventure in a place near them. Better for local tourism. They sell more ads that way.”
Her voice wobbled and she pulled in a breath and held it to steady herself. She hadn’t done anything wrong and she had nothing to feel guilty about.
“What makes you so sure I was a SEAL?”
Myla shook her head. “Seriously? Everything about you screams military. You move like a cat being stalked by alligators. You have crazy-extreme control over every part of you from your muscles to your eyes. You’re so hyper-vigilant you notice when the snow starts to fall. If you’re not a former SEAL, I’ll spend my next birthday eating cake with your wolves.”
That surprised a rough laugh out of Sawyer and she felt some of the rigidity melt out of his body. For several moments, they lay wrapped together, huddled in the quiet night. Myla wanted to know his thoughts but didn’t want to ask. She wanted him to believe her. Wanted it badly. He was an honorable man and she couldn’t bear the thought of him thinking so little of her.
“I need to see it.”
The deep rumble of his voice distracted her and it took a few seconds for her to figure out what he meant. “My writing? You want to see my articles? Most aren’t finished yet, they’re notes and bits and pieces.”
“Is that another evasion?”
Myla figured she’d sprain her eyes with all the rolling she was doing. “No. It’s not an evasion. I don’t usually let anyone see my writing before I send it to my editor.” She’d never had anyone to show it to. “But, if it makes you feel better, yes, you can see it.”
“How will I know you’re showing me everything?”
“Not much on trust, are you?”
“Not with writers.”
“Why?” Who had done what to him?
His grunt was the non-answer he’d accused her of earlier but she didn’t push.
“I’ll show you when we get back. I’m sure you know how to check when files were added and edited.”
He nodded his response and she felt herself relax.
“If you’re telling the truth, why do you lie about it in the first place?”
Definitely not big on trust. “I didn’t lie to you.”
“Omission is a lie. A big one.”
“People get weird when they find out I’m a writer. I know you’ll be shocked but some people don’t believe me and it makes them act like idiots.”
In the tight quarters, Sawyer’s growl rumbled through her. His body stiffened again but it wasn’t fear flickering in her belly. “I’m not lying. I wouldn’t do that to you or anyone else.”
Sawyer harrumphed but his hand moved softly on her back again. A soft brush of his fingers, up and down. Slowly. Her skin reacted, her body wanted to lean into his touch.
“But you did it to one sailor. The one with hypothermia. Your explanations aren’t adding up.”
Staying mad required more energy than she possessed. “I’m a freelance writer, Sawyer. I write what they pay me to write. That story was years back, before I started making money and specializing in adventure writing. I wrote his story because he asked me to write it. When we get back, I can find his contact information and you can call him.”
She’d met him during one of her hospital visits. The memories of the sailor and the agony of his story assailed her and Myla swallowed against the emotions. She was too tired, too sore, to deal with this any more. Sawyer could believe what he wanted.
Myla let her eyes drift closed and imagined herself snug in Sawyer’s arms without all the anger and mistrust between them. The two of them wrapped around each because they wanted to be.
Would he undress her slowly, rip off her shirt sending buttons flying everywhere or simply stare at her until her clothing melted under his intensity?
She knew where she’d start. She wanted to shove up his t-shirt and lick every single one of the muscles defining his torso. The man’s body had to be completely delicious and she wanted to indulge her fingers and her mouth.
“Myla?”
Her eyes flew open but it didn’t change anything. The darkness had deepened and she couldn’t see more than Sawyer’s outline against the grey night. Safety enveloped her and she snuggled in even more closely. His erection pushed against her, making him curse although he didn’t shove her away.
Myla flexed her fingers and realized her dream hadn’t actually been all a dream. Her hands had somehow reached beneath the layers of his clothing to touch bare skin. As she moved, the muscles she’d imagined jumped at her touch.
So she did it again.
Sawyer’s growl made her smile and shiver at the same time. God, if he could do that with a wordless sound, it was impossible to imagine what might happen if she ever got him naked.
“You don’t want to keep doing that.”
His gruff order made her grin at how wrong he was. She totally wanted to keep touching him. In their current positions, she didn’t have much room to maneuver but she made the most of it, enjoying the way his hands bunched into fists behind her back, then flexed to grab her jacket and hold on tight. Like he couldn’t bear to let go.
Though she couldn’t see his eyes, she knew they were trained on her. Emboldened by the night and his reactions, Myla tipped her head up and inched closer. When her lips brushed the stubble on his chin, she sighed and Sawyer swore. Using her tongue, she found out he tasted like the outdoors. Woodsy, mysterious.
“Myla.”
A plea or a warning?
Didn’t matter. She flattened her hands on his abs and nibbled along his jawline. So strong. Masculine.
Under her touch, Sawyer tensed and relaxed at the same time. In battle with himself?
Her tongue reached the corner of his lips and he groaned. “To hell with it.” His words rumbled into her body before his mouth crashed onto hers.
Any semblance of control Myla had been entertaining zipped away. And she didn’t care. The raw edge to the kiss told her he might not want to want her but he did.
Their tongues danced and dueled, touched and tasted.
He broke away, only to trail kisses along her lips, her jawline, and to her earlobe. “Christ, Myla, you taste like heaven.”
She couldn’t catch her breath to respond.
With another groan, he returned to capture her mouth in another soul-searing kiss.
The layers between them chafed and irritated. She wanted skin, his skin. She needed to know the variations in taste and texture.
She wanted. She needed.
When Sawyer’s fingers brushed the skin of her belly, she jolted at the unexpected contact but his fingers stroked and soothed until she leaned into his touch.
His hand slipped under the band of the yoga pants she wore beneath her ski pants then traced the edge of her panties. Her body nearly burst into flames. His calluses created delicious sensations as he edged his fingers beneath the cloth. Slowly. Too damn slowly. Myla squirmed, urging him closer and Sawyer groaned into their kiss. His fingers continued their journey southward, taking their sweet time.
When his fingers slipped between her legs, she couldn’t stop the gasp. His chuckle was cocky but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Not when he captured her mouth in another kiss, his tongue mimicking the actions of his fingers.
Slow.
Fast.
Firm.
Feather soft.
The ever-changing patterns had her giving up any pretense at control over the situation. She was drowning. And enjoying every last moment of it.
“Come on, Myla.”
That phrase. The one he was always slinging at her. Except this time, the huskiness of his voice, the tenderness of his touch had her responding in a much happier way.
“That’s it, Myla. Come on. Come for me. Come on.”
And she went.
Muscles clenched and squeezed. Her breath stopped and the perfect moment filled her. Consumed her.
Overwhelmed her.
When her heartbeat and her breathing returned to normal, she wanted to laugh and yell in triumph but all she managed was a whispered, “Wow.”
Sawyer grunted into her hair and eased his hands out of her clothes and straightened them. When Myla recovered enough to move, she shifted her own hands so that she could reach down. Sawyer stopped her with a word and a squeeze.
“Not a chance, Myla.”
“What? No way, it’s your turn.”
His husky laugh sent shivers across her already sensitized skin. “My turn will have to wait.”
His erection pushed into her and she wanted to get her hands on it. When she tried to protest again, he groaned roughly and pulled her in for a tight hug. “Not here. Not tonight.”
Myla mulled that over for a minute. Freezing temperatures and a crazy man on their trail might not be conducive to full-on sex. “But sometime?”
“Go to sleep Myla. We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”
With her body and mind sated, it wasn’t long before Myla’s eyes were drifting shut but it didn’t distract her from the fact that he hadn’t answered her question.
***
SAWYER heaved a sigh of relief when Myla's breathing finally settled into sleep. He wanted to kick his own ass. Again. He didn’t have a clue how she made him lose control so easily. Since he’d spotted her in that ditch, nothing had been normal.
People avoided him because he liked it that way. In the SEALs, where every last man was a badass and tougher than any ten regular men, he’d had a rep for being implacable. Unbreakable.
All this pixie had to do was turn those gorgeous eyes in his direction and his brain cells packed up his good sense along with his training and headed for the hills.
The worst of it was, he didn’t know if she was telling the truth or not. Her words had been earnest. She was pissed he didn’t trust her. Shocked he’d suspected her of deceit. Affronted even.
Which could all be an act.
Jen had been one hell of an actress. Hanging on his every word as if he was some superhero. Laughing in all the right places. Acting interested but not too interested.
His ego had puffed up like a pissed off porcupine. He’d been taken in completely, had never suspected Jen was anything other than a woman out to have some fun.
He’d thought they’d both known the score. A few weeks enjoying each other and then they’d move on. Then he’d found out she’d promised a story about a SEAL scandal to one of the newspapers who had a very loose definition of the term news.
Sawyer had been beyond pissed. Darby had been concerned about him being heartbroken. She’d been right but not in the way she thought. The experience had killed any last vestige of desire to trust a woman, to build a life with one. He didn’t want love and all the trappings that went with it. All he was looking for was a little sex, a little fun.
Now, he found himself stuck with another writer. They needed to tweak journalism school and teach them that SEALs never divulged secrets. Ever.
And they should have added Resisting a Pretty Reporter course to Hell Week.
He hated being an idiot.
Hated doubting himself but he couldn’t trust his gut. First Afghanistan. Then Jen.
After hearing Myla tell her story about her past, he’d wanted to tuck her in and protect her from the world. Which might have been exactly what she was angling for. The whole thing might be an act. Well, not the leg, that was impossible to fake but she could have made up the story to garner the most sympathy and to take the attention off her job.
He’d almost answered her question about how he’d ended up back in Bloo Moose. Almost told her about the disaster in Afghanistan. Almost told her things even Anderson only guessed.
Holding in the words and memories during the mandatory shrink visits hadn’t been as tough as when Myla asked him a simple question. At least he’d discovered her job and had been able to shut himself up. The reality of the deaths in the village was beyond horrific. With a few twists and turns, Myla could turn the story into a sensational one that would earn her accolades. Damage the reputations of some incredible people. Reveal Sawyer as a failure.
He still wasn’t sure how he’d gone from pissed off and suspicious to having his tongue down her throat and his hand in her pants.
His body continued to throb mercilessly. Nothing in his life had affected him like watching Myla build up and crash over the edge. Like everything else he’d seen her do, she’d surrendered with every bit of passion she possessed.
He already wanted to see her go over again.
This time while he was buried deep inside her.
Or while he tasted her.
Ten more scenarios ran through his head before he could shut them down.
The sexy woman in his arms was nothing but trouble. Capital T trouble. Maybe All Caps Trouble.
He wanted to trust her, wanted to believe that she was writing winter adventure stories but it was hard to believe anyone made a living doing that. Especially when the writer didn’t know squat about the subject. He would expect a reporter to come up with a more believable story than that.
When they got home, he’d look her up online and find out exactly how much truth she was telling.
Until then, it was hands off. All the way off.
Myla shifted and let out a gasp of pain but she cut the noise off short. Even in sleep, she was tough. Her body might want to be frail but she didn't let it hold her back.
He had at least seventy-five pounds and almost a foot of height on her, as well as years of experience, yet she'd kept up. Kept going. Pushed herself through pain and exhaustion and a fright with hypothermia. All while evading some crazy asshole who got his kicks killing a wolf and stringing it up.
He wanted to believe her.
Abandoned at birth. Hard to imagine anyone low enough to toss a child in a dumpster. Her leg had been bad from the beginning. Had the injuries been caused by those who dumped her? It made him want to chase them down and shake the truth from them. What had growing up in a hospital been like? The death of Sawyer’s parents had devastated him at eighteen. But he had the warmth of memories, of their love and laughter, to help him through. He had Darby.
Myla had no one. Nurses she exchanged cards with once a year.
Yet, she was happy, outgoing, and strong. So damn strong.
And, while she was likely using him, he was starting not to care.
With his head full of questions and his arms full of warm, sexy, satisfied woman, he wasn't about to sleep anytime soon, so he let his mind work on figuring out what in the hell was going on. Killing a wolf way out here was nuts. It wasn't a farmer protecting his crops. It wasn't a rage killing. It was calm, cold, and calculated.
Designed to grab attention out in one of the loneliest places in Vermont.
It didn't make a lick of sense. Sawyer wasn't an official part of the reintegration program, he only helped out with tracking data when he could. Sawyer basically only talked to a handful of people in town and he doubted most of them knew he was involved with the project.
Locally, the wolves hadn't caused a single problem. No domesticated animals had been harmed. No one had been scared by them while out camping or hiking. No negative press. Absolutely nothing. It might not be about the wolf at all. The wolf might have been a victim in a larger scheme to target him or someone else.
There were no signs for Sawyer to follow. No clues. Even with his instincts set at useless, he knew he wasn’t missing things. There were no signs. Which meant the guy was good. Or so off track, his signs weren’t recognizable. Maybe Sawyer wasn’t the target and he was operating on a false premise.
Myla winced again and his hands moved to soothe her. Because her face was pressed up against his throat, he felt her lips form a pout but no more sounds escaped.
He tightened his grip on her, dropped a kiss on the top of her head. Then cursed himself. He really had to keep his hands off her.
He wasn't sure he was strong enough.