Craving Her Soldier's Touch Read online

  Another one-two punch, this one invisible, knocked the wind from her lungs.

  Ian Eddelton.

  A good friend and, when he was in town, an occasional roommate of Justin’s, making him her on-again, off-again upstairs neighbor. He’d been her good friend, too, or so she’d thought. Until she’d thrown sex and the word ‘marriage’ into the mix and he’d run like she’d asked for a kidney donation then whipped out a salad fork and a steak knife intending to harvest the organ right there on her bed.

  That was the last time she’d seen or spoken to him, supporting her brother’s claim that no man in his right mind would willingly marry her without a monetary incentive. Men wanted her money and/or her body, but no one wanted her.

  Jerk.

  Jaci wiped the rain from her face. “I’m going home,” she said to Carla. “I’ll stop by the center tomorrow to exchange cars.”

  Carla touched her wrist gently. “Are you sure you don’t need an X-ray?”

  “I’m sure.” Even if she did, she wouldn’t go to the hospital now, couldn’t risk anyone recognizing her or associating her name with an actual crisis center rescue. Because anonymity kept her safe. Because socialites on the fundraising circuit didn’t dirty their hands with actual in-the-trenches work. Because Jerald X. Piermont III would have an absolute hissy-fit if his wayward sister wound up in the online gossip blogs. Again.

  Knowing Carla would see to Merlene, and Justin would see to Merlene’s butt of a boyfriend, Jaci headed for the car. Suddenly chilled, she needed to get home to warm up with a hot bath and a cup of tea.

  She wrapped her arms around her middle to contain a shaky, uneasy feeling.

  “Funny,” Ian said from behind her. “I never took you for the type to slink off under the cover of darkness.”

  “No. That’s your M.O.” She picked up her pace.

  “I told Justin I’d drive you home,” he said, ignoring her retort. “He’ll stop by your place tomorrow to take your statement of what happened.”

  She turned on him. “Why are you here?”

  “Justin asked me to bring him some dry clothes down at the station. I was there when your friend called.” He held out his hand. “Give me your keys.”

  Home from Iraq for at least three weeks and it’d taken a coincidence and a call for help to get him to talk to her? “Go to hell.” Jaci turned, took the last few steps to the car, and opened the door.

  Ian stopped her from climbing in with a gentle hand on her waist which he used to ease her back into his chest. “I’ve already been there,” he said just loud enough for her to hear. “I’m sorry I left the way I did.”

  No one was sorrier than Jaci.

  Because Ian Eddelton had turned out to be a slug who’d slimed all over any hope she’d had for a palatable solution to the kiss-her-new-husband-or-kiss-her-trust-fund-goodbye dilemma. And the deadline for ‘I dos’ was fast approaching.

  * * *

  Ian held her close, relieved she was okay, mad as hell she’d come to this area alone, put herself in danger. He’d seen the horrors, the atrocities. Women beaten, raped, and worse.

  “You’re hurting me,” Jaci cried out, trying to twist out of his hold on her.

  Ian turned her to face him. “What the hell were you thinking? Coming here at night. Alone. You could have been—”

  “But I wasn’t. Now let go of me.”

  “What if Justin wasn’t available when your friend called?” He held her tighter. “What if he was miles away from here? What if he had no cell service?”

  She sucked in a breath and winced in pain.

  He’d forgotten how delicate she was. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.” She looked away.

  Rage flowed through his system, the urge to beat that miscreant in Justin’s custody so bad he was incapable of ever raising a hand to a woman again was hard to contain. “Where else did he hit you?”

  She didn’t answer.

  He scooped her into his arms, with the utmost care, and carried her to the passenger door. “When I get you home I’m going to strip off your clothes and examine every inch of you.” Objectively. Impersonally. With complete focus on his mission: To identify injury and evaluate for need of medical treatment. Oh, who the hell was he trying to kid?

  “You’ll have to knock me unconscious to do it.” She struggled to get free.

  “The only place you’re going is from my arms into that car seat. Now hand me the keys because I’m wet and angry and not in the mood to get shot or knifed by any of the scumbags who frequent this neighborhood.”

  She gave him the keys.

  As he slid her into the car he gave into the urge and whispered, “For the record, I’m not a fan of the new look.” If he hadn’t known it was Jaci, he never would have recognized her.

  “Good,” she snapped. “First thing tomorrow I’ll make it permanent.”

  He closed the door and smiled, remembered the stimulating, entertaining banter between them, the companionship, friendship and lust, and felt almost normal. But since his return from Iraq, his life had been anything but.

  After adjusting the driver’s seat to accommodate his six foot, probably down to one hundred and eighty-five-pound frame, Ian turned the key in the ignition and the old car sputtered to life. “This is your choice for a getaway car?” Thing probably wouldn’t reach fifty miles per hour without a good push and the benefit of a downward slope.

  “It’s not like I was robbing a bank.” Jaci turned to look out the window, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “It blends in,” she added quietly.

  Yeah. More than her little red BMW would.

  Ian turned right out of the parking lot. A few more turns and he was on the highway heading home. A tense quiet filled the car broken only by the rapid slap of the windshield wipers. Most definitely not the kind of quiet the shrink at the rehab had recommended. A bomb blast echoed in the deep recesses of his mind.

  Not now.

  He imagined Jaci chatting. The way she spoke so fast and used her hands when she got excited. The melodic fluctuations in her tone. The movement of her sensual lips. Her smile. The way she elbowed him or punched him when he made a snide comment or teased her.

  The yelling of soldiers filled his ears. Chaos. “Medic. I need a medic over here!”

  Deep breath. Keep it together Ice.

  Focus.

  He searched for something to say, to keep him in the present, and homed in on the first thing that came to mind. “Do you have a death wish or something? Showing up at the most dangerous housing complex in the south side of Mount Vernon, in the dark, alone. It was a total rookie move. One that could have gotten you killed.” He tightened his grip on the steering wheel to keep from reaching over to shake some sense into her. Anger boiled deep in his gut. Not good. Convincing wealthy benefactors to part with their cash in support of her crisis center was where she belonged. Not on the front line, dealing with reprobates and confronting danger.

  His heart pounded. A trickle of sweat wove its way down his temple.

  “I’ll have you know I’ve been doing this for three years,” she said, “since I started the Women’s Crisis Center. And I have never run into a problem until tonight.”

  Three years? “Pure dumb luck.” His heart skipped a beat. “At some point your luck will run out.” Just like his had. He wanted to hit something. “Did Justin know?”

  “As of tonight he does,” she said.

  “This woman, the one you set out to rescue tonight. She’s so special her safety is worth putting yours at risk?”

  “You don’t know anything about me, do you?” she asked.

  He knew everything that mattered. She was smart, funny, thoughtful, beautiful, sexy, and there was a time he’d rather spend his time with her than with anyone else.

  She shifted in her seat to face him. “Come on, Ian. Tell the truth. You never looked me up on the Internet? Never gave in to that niggling interest people seem to have about just how much I
’m worth?”

  Eyes focused on the road, he shook his head. “Sorry to disappoint but I prefer to get to know people on my own terms rather than reading what others have to say about them, and I’m more interested in your body than your bank account.” Was interested. Was, as in past tense. He could not allow Jaci to distract him from what he had to do.

  She smiled. “You always tell it like it is, don’t you?”

  He glanced over and smiled right back. “That’s why you love me.”

  Her smile vanished.

  Wrong thing to say. Idiot. Because she didn’t love him. At the moment she barely liked him, her scorn totally justified. It was for the best, for both of them. That didn’t mean he had to like it.

  He waited for her to lay into him.

  Instead she said, “When you get home tonight, go online and keyword Piermont Tragedy, Scarsdale, New York. Then you’ll understand why I will do whatever I can to help women escape abusive relationships. And since I’m of legal age, no one gets a say in how I go about doing it.” She turned back toward the window. “This conversation is over.”

  In the interest of peace between them, he let the topic slide. “I, uh, got your letter.” Perfectly formed cursive written on classy pale pink stationery in purple ink. Five pages front and back, upbeat, with no mention of her proposal of marriage or his rude, hasty retreat. The woman could make the simple act of doing laundry entertaining. And the scent. Her perfume. He’d stored it in a zipper-lock plastic bag to preserve the aroma, carried it in his pocket, slept with it, jerked off to it.

  “If you’d left me a way to contact you before you took off, if you’d put forth the slightest effort by writing me back or e-mailing me or in some way letting me know it got to you, maybe I would have sent you more.” She spoke without moving, still looking out the window. But the emotion in her voice let him know he’d hurt her feelings.

  So much for peace between them.

  He tried to explain. “When I’m in a warzone I can’t be distracted by thoughts of home. I’m there to do a job, to complete the tasks I’m assigned and get out alive.” He glanced at her. “And I thought it’d be easier on you to not feel obligated to write me or think about me.” Or worry or search for lists of dead and wounded every time a bloody battle made the news. Like his mother had each time his father had been deployed overseas.

  “So let me get this straight.” She turned to him and finally took off that ridiculous wig. “For the better part of four months we spent a portion of almost every day together. I ran with you.”

  He’d timed his runs to make sure he’d pass by their parking lot at exactly six o’clock to facilitate their meeting up for the last five miles of his ten mile jog.

  “I cooked for you.”

  His mouth watered at the memory of her chicken with rosemary.

  “We watched movies on my couch.”

  His body ached to feel her cuddled up beside him.

  “Our friendship progressed to the point I invited you into my bed, into my body, into my future. And in that feeble-minded head of yours you came to the conclusion if you fled my condo—in your boxer shorts you were in such a hurry—then scurried off to the base hours before you were scheduled to report and cut off all contact with me I would poof,” she flared out her fingers in front of her beautiful face, “forget all about you?”

  Or hate him. Either way, a clean break.

  “Maybe your attempt would have been more successful,” she went on, “if you hadn’t stolen from me. If each time I looked at the shelves in my living room I wasn’t reminded that the empty space where my favorite picture of Jena and me is supposed to be is empty because of you.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “All you had to do was ask, and I’d have happily given you a picture.”

  But it may not have been the one he’d wanted. Jaci and her identical twin, standing arm in arm by what looked like the family swimming pool, wearing matching string bikinis so skimpy they wouldn’t have passed for bathing suits on most public U.S. beaches.

  And had he asked to take a picture of her with him to war, she would have thought there was more to their relationship than there was. Or than he’d thought there was at the time.

  Would she be less angry if he’d ripped the photo down the center and only taken the half with her in it? Because as much as he’d wanted to make a clean break, he couldn’t get himself to leave without having some piece of her to hold on to, and one glimpse of the snapshot in the light and he could tell the twins apart.

  Jaci’s smile warm and genuine. Her eyes lit with laughter, fun, and mischief. Her sister’s smile shy almost forced. Cautious. Her eyes haunted and sad.

  “Maybe if someone hadn’t e-mailed my brother and a dozen or so other men in our social circle that some soldier in Iraq was bragging about a threesome he’d had with me and Jena. God.” She threw the wig in a bag at her feet. “The thought repulses me. You repulse me.”

  Ian fought for calm as he leaned out the window to punch in his code, waited for the metal gates to open and steered the car into the parking lot of their luxury high rise. “I never said that, Jaci. I swear.”

  “Were we or were we not referred to as Ice melt?” she yelled. “That’s your nickname, isn’t it? Ice?”

  Ian parked the car in Jaci’s spot, turned off the engine, and shifted to face her. “I didn’t tell anyone you, Jena and I had sex together.” He ran a hand over his face. Disgusted. “Guys are pigs. Get a bunch of them together on a military base, add in a picture of two, identical, hot, almost naked women, and it was the twin fantasy run amok.”

  Apparently he was going about this explanation thing all wrong because Jaci thrust open her car door and jumped out like the interior of the vehicle had caught fire.

  “Wait,” he called out, rushing through the rain, his left leg stiff, slowing him down. “I didn’t say it was my fantasy.” Well. Okay. To be perfectly honest the thought had crossed his mind—briefly—when they’d first met. But since honesty didn’t seem to be working out so well for him at the moment, he decided to keep that bit of truth to himself.

  Bottom line, a few days in Jaci’s company and he’d had no desire to share their limited time together with anyone else. Male or female.

  He caught up to her as she was scanning her key card in front of the security sensor. With a buzz the door unlocked and Ian opened it. In the vestibule he pushed on the inner glass door to stop her from entering the lobby. She wouldn’t look at him.

  “In all the years my squad has known me, I have never once tacked up a picture on my locker,” he explained to the back of her head. Or gotten caught staring at one like some homesick teenager, unprepared for how much he’d miss her or how the idea of having a beautiful wife to return home to would start to appeal to him. “They made a big deal of it and things got way out of hand. You have to know I would never disrespect you by discussing anything that went on in private between us. And I would never disparage your or your sister’s reputation by spreading lies. I had no idea the rumors made their way back to the U.S. until I returned home and Justin told me.”

  “My face is in the newspaper at least twice a month. You didn’t consider the possibility someone might recognize me?”

  No. He hadn’t. “It’s a different world over there. I’ll talk to your brother.” Had already left four messages at his office requesting an appointment. “I’ll make a statement to the press.”

  Jaci looked at him like he’d offered to don a pink tutu and tights. “Don’t you dare. All that will do is stir the whole thing up again and bring out the whack-a-dos who corroborated the stories and made up lies about Jena and me dating back to junior high school. Now if you don’t mind, I’m wet and tired and would like to slip into a hot bath and put this night behind me.”

  At the thought of a naked Jaci, her slick body surrounded by bubbles, submerged in a candlelit tub, Ian felt the twinges of life return to Ian junior.

  Ah, yes. Half an hour in Jaci’s presence provided Ian w
ith glimpses of the man he’d been before the explosion, a man capable of feeling more than the anguish of regret, guilt, and loss, something weeks of therapy hadn’t been able to do. He opened the door and followed her through.

  In the elevator she pressed the buttons for the fourth and fifth floors. He broke the uncomfortable silence by offering his most sincere apology, “I’m sorry.” Because he was.

  She let out a breath and looked down at her black rain boots. “I’m glad you made it home safely.” The doors opened on the fourth floor. She took a step forward, and, standing between them she looked back at him and said, “But what’s done is done. It’s over. Leave it alone.”

  He exited the elevator and followed her. God help him, he didn’t want it to be over. Which was why night after night he’d fought the urge to bang on her door, to explain why he’d run, to apologize for what he’d said, and beg her forgiveness.

  But to what end?

  He trailed behind her.

  No matter how much he may have wanted to explore the possibility of a future with Jaci, the bomb blast that’d killed his men obliterated all possibility of a happily ever after for Ian. She’d never understand or accept what he had to do. What woman would? And the last thing he needed was one more person preaching to him about survivor guilt and overreaction due to grief and mourning. Few people understood the bonds formed in battle when soldiers entrusted their lives to the members of their team. The vow—spoken or unspoken—to look after a brother’s family should he be unable to do it himself. There was nothing Ian wouldn’t do for his men—overseas or stateside. And nothing they wouldn’t do for him.

  If they were still alive.

  But they weren’t. So it fell to Ian, the last man standing, to look after their wives and children, so they weren’t left to struggle like Ian, his mother and sisters had after his

  father’s death. To preserve their memory, honor their dedication to their country, and make sure no one tried to suppress, diminish or taint either out of anger, resentment or feelings of abandonment, like his mother had.