SHE’S NOT SAFE YET

When Staci Hayes is rescued from a Mideast prison by navy SEAL Tristan Sawyer, she thinks the ordeal is over. But back in San Diego, a new threat arises. Staci has information that could prevent a hit on U.S. soil, and the terrorist will stop at nothing to silence her. Tristan insists on being her bodyguard, but his constant presence makes her long for things beyond her reach. Protecting Staci is the second chance Tristan needs to put the past behind him. Yet with a spy on the naval base, anyone could be a threat. Can he offer her safety…and love?

Men of Valor: These navy SEALs were born to excel….

“You said I was safe. You said you’d protect me.”

“I did. You made it safely home, didn’t you?” His words were short but not unkind.

“I made it home, anyway.”

Those blue eyes sliced into hers.

“What does that mean?”

“Someone has been following me, and I think it’s the same man from Lybania.”

His arms crossed over his broad chest, the sleeves of his T-shirt pulling snug around his biceps. He looked so intimidating.

“Did you call the police? Tell them you’re being stalked, and they can look into it for you. They can handle things like that.”

“They wouldn’t help me.” If she had any idea how to face down the man following her on her own, she would. But since she didn’t, she had to convince the lieutenant to help.

Taking a firm step toward him, she pointed her finger toward his chest. “Listen to me. I’m in trouble, but it’s not just me. I don’t know the name of the man who’s after me, but I know what I heard. He’s plotting to blow something up…here in San Diego.”

LIZ JOHNSON

After graduating from Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff with a degree in public relations, Liz Johnson set out to work in the Christian publishing industry, which was her lifelong dream. In 2006 she got her wish when she accepted a publicity position with a major trade book publisher. While working as a publicist in the industry, she decided to pursue her other dream—becoming an author. Along the way to having her novels published, she wrote articles for several magazines and worked as a freelance editorial consultant.

Liz makes her home in Nashville, Tennessee, where she enjoys theater, exploring her new home and making frequent trips to Arizona to dote on her nephew and three nieces. She loves stories of true love with happy endings.

SEAL Under Siege

Liz Johnson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

The Lord hath anointed me to preach good tidings unto the meek; he hath sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to them that are bound.

—Isaiah 61:1

For sweet friends who have encouraged me along this journey and fell for these SEALs right along with me.

Ashley Boyer, Staci Carmichael Havlik, Jessica Barnes, Amy Haddock, Kaye Dacus, Kristi Smith, and Katie Bond, my life is richer for knowing you.

Thanks for the brainstorms, book talk, and belly laughs.

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

EPILOGUE

DEAR READER

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

EXCERPT

ONE

Lt. Tristan Sawyer whispered into the mic that brushed the corner of his mouth. “Rock, are you in position?”

Night hung over him like a blanket, wrapping up all of his senses, except his hearing, as he waited for the sound of his senior chief’s voice. “Affirmative.”

Across the street Petty Officer Will Gumble lurked next to the window of a crumbling single-story home. The house—not even a mile from the Persian Gulf—had been cleaned out, probably weeks ago, and Willie G. had swept it again to make sure there wouldn’t be any surprises when they moved in on their target.

He took two short breaths and lifted his night vision goggles, giving the street another check. It was deserted except for the five stonelike figures hidden along the street. He spotted them only because he knew they were there. He’d scouted and scoped each location in preparation for this moment. He’d studied the maps and floor plans, packed his gear and prepared his mind.

All for this moment.

His blood began to pump harder, picking up speed. He tightened, then loosened his grip on the weapon in his hand, forcing his breath into a steady rhythm and his heart into an even pattern.

He was ready. But he had to wait for the signal that their boats were nearly in place at the extraction point. If they moved too soon, they’d recover the “packages”—three American hostages—but have no place to deliver them. If they waited too long, they left the inflatable boats open to discovery.

Timing was everything, so he schooled his muscles, keeping them alert yet relaxed until the signal.

A double click came through his earpiece.

Time to rock and roll.

“Let’s go.” Just like they’d practiced, he swung around the back of the building where Senior Chief Matt Waterstone, also known as Rock, wrenched open a window on the basement level and slid into the darkness below. Tristan followed suit until his shoulder caught on the frame. He wiggled, his feet still not quite on the floor.

The team was on radio silence for this part of the mission, but he didn’t need to see or hear his best friend to know Matt was laughing at him.

After what felt like an hour suspended by the snagged shoulder of his battle dress uniform, he reached across his body and yanked on it until it let go with a tear.

He dropped to his feet, squatting and squinting into the dark, his weapon at the ready. On the far side of the box of a room, the door cracked open and light filtered in. The weak sliver of a stream made it only halfway across the floor, but it did illuminate Matt’s gloved hand on the edge of the door.

Tristan moved forward, staying low. They’d done this enough to know the drill. He would move first down the hallway, Matt positioned at his six—covering his blind spot. Back-to-back, they’d sweep the basement, looking for the packages. Intel said there were two women and a man. They had been held here for at least three weeks, though word of their captivity had just reached the SEAL teams.

Only God knew what the three had endured. At least two of them were in their sixties. The people of Lybania tended to respect their elders. As for the girl in her twenties...

A shiver ran down his spine. He couldn’t think about that. He had to get her free and secure first. Once they were all safely out of this pit and away from men who kidnapped aid workers for no reason, he’d let the ones trained to deal with her situation handle it.

For now, he’d do what he was trained to.

Matt motioned for them to stop, opening a door with the toe of his boot. He must have encountered less resistance than he expected, since it flung open like a piece of paper on hinges, flapping against the opposite wall.

Tristan shook his head at Matt, who shrugged a shoulder and offered a smirk by way of apology for the unnecessary noise. Luckily, the walls of the building could have been from the biblical era, all crumbling blocks that muffled errant doors and shuffling feet. Matt led the way into the room, clearing it before stepping back into the hallway.

With two fingers, Tristan pointed toward the stairwell at the end of the hall. Matt nodded, taking the rear as they climbed from the dimness of the basement into relative light. It wasn’t much brighter than a full moon, but compared to the inky darkness below, the second floor radiated, removing any possibility of hiding in the shadows.

His earpiece clicked twice, and he swung his fingers in a quick barrel roll at Matt. They had fifteen minutes to get the American prisoners and get them to the extraction point on the gulf. No time to waste.

Matt nodded, held a hand to his ear and motioned to the door on his left. At least two voices carried through the wall, their Arabic words getting louder.

“Cards,” he mouthed. Apparently someone was cheating. If there was no honor among thieves, there was less among kidnapping terrorists.

Tristan motioned that they should pass the door without incident if possible. Their mission wasn’t to take down this cell or alert anyone to their presence. Their only job was to snatch and go.

The door to the room with the card game stood open about three inches, so he held up his hand, waiting for another argument as a diversion. They didn’t disappoint, tempers exploding like one of Matt’s C-4 bricks. In the fray the two SEALs bolted down the hall, passing three closed doors on each side.

An empty chair sat outside the last door on the right, the guard most likely wrapped up in the card game they’d passed.

Tristan jiggled the handle of the door, but it stuck in place. In a flash Matt was there by his side, his lock-picking kit in hand.

Tristan had known Matt since the first day of Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training and in all that time, he had yet to see a lock his friend couldn’t pick. Man, it was a good thing Matt was on the teams. He’d be dangerous on the wrong side of the law.

Tristan held his weapon at the ready, standing guard until the old lock popped and the door swung in. He backed into the room, letting Matt take the first sweep and shutting out most of the noise and light from the hall with the closed door.

The space was empty save for two figures huddled in the corner, hands clasped together. He held a finger to his lips as he squatted in front of the shadowed, grandfatherly man. “I’m with the United States Navy.” He whispered the words, which seemed intent on filling the entire room. “Are you Judith and Hank Timmons?”

The man’s gray hair bobbed into the shard of light coming from the hallway. “Yes.” It seemed to take all his energy just to utter the single syllable, and he slumped against his wife.

Tristan offered them both a reassuring grin and gently squeezed the man’s bony elbow. “We’re going to get you out of here. But I need you to move quickly and quietly and do exactly what I say. Do you understand?”

The couple nodded in unison, their faces drawn and weary but their eyes alight with hope. For good reason.

“This is my teammate.” He motioned to Matt’s towering shadow. “Ma’am, this is the senior chief. He’s going to help you up and out the window.”

She shook her head, holding on to her husband’s arm with both hands. “I won’t leave him.”

“He’ll be right behind you.”

Matt squatted down in front of the woman and held out his hand. “I promise you’ll be okay. There are more of our team outside, waiting for you. You don’t want to make them miss the boat out of here, do you?”

She frowned for a split second before Matt had her on her feet and shuffling toward the window. Mr. Timmons wasn’t going to let his wife out of his sight, so he pushed himself off the dusty floor, following closely behind.

Tristan glanced over his shoulder toward the empty hallway before whispering into his mic, “Second story, northwest corner.”

“Copy that.” Then a short pause before Willie continued, “We see you.”

As Matt slipped a harness around Mrs. Timmons, she clutched at his flak vest, shaking him. “You have to help Staci. They took her last week.”

“Do you know where they took her?”

Mrs. Timmons looked out the window she was about to be lowered through. “No.”

“It’ll be all right. Hang on tight and walk down the wall or you’ll scrape against it. Got it?” Matt scooped the nodding woman into his arms, sliding her feet-first through the window, lowering her on the rope that slipped expertly through his hands.

The rope went slack for a moment, and then it was tugged twice, the signal from Willie G. that the package had arrived to them. Matt pulled it back up and immediately hooked it to a harness under Mr. Timmons’s arms.

Tristan pressed his mic to his lip. “Second package on the way. The third has been moved. We’ll search the rest of the building and meet you at the extraction point.”

Willie clicked his mic twice—roger that—as Mr. Timmons slid through the window with a little help from Tristan and Matt.

Just as the rope went slack again, the door behind them cracked with the force of an angry kick. He and Matt both dove to the darkest parts of the room along opposite walls.

As he rolled, Tristan pulled his knife from his boot. Gunfire would draw unwanted attention from neighbors, which the team on the ground didn’t need as they hustled two dehydrated, malnourished seniors down dark alleys.

The two new occupants swore loudly in Arabic as they ran into the room. They asked over and over where the old man and woman had gone, their words carrying down the hall where several more angry voices joined the fray.

Tristan caught Matt’s eye across the room and didn’t even have to signal. They knew what they were doing, knew what had to happen. Simultaneously, they each aimed for the man closest to them, quickly rendering each harmless with a blow to the neck.

His hand tingled as his Lybanian target—or “tango,” as Tristan had been trained to call them—crumpled to the ground, and he wiggled his fingers. But there wasn’t time to think about it more than that as five more men barreled into the room.

Letting his training and survival instincts take over, he spun to the left and dropped to the floor just as one of the men fired his semiautomatic into the wall. So much for avoiding gunfire. With a sweep of his leg, Tristan took the tango down at his ankles, even as his gun continued to discharge.

Caught by one of the stray bullets, another tango yelped and crashed into the wall, shaking the whole house, as though the ancient mud blocks were just waiting for an excuse to give way.

As he slumped to the floor, the tango yelled at one of the others to go kill the girl. The last to enter the room spun and ran back the way he had come.

“Be right back,” Tristan yelled at Matt, who just grunted in response.

He charged down the narrow corridor toward the stairwell, praying he wouldn’t be too late to save the last package.

* * *

Staci Hayes clutched a scrap of paper to her chest with both hands as the voices in the room below her rose to frantic cries, punctuated with the unmistakable sound of gunfire.

She sucked in a breath, fear making her shiver despite the heat that pushed her to the lowest point in the room.

Dear Lord, help Judy and Hank if that’s where the guards are headed.

Something popped beneath her feet, and she scrambled into a corner, tucking her knees under her chin and staring into the impossible darkness. Always darkness.

A voice screamed a Lybanian curse, but his words were cut off in the middle of his rage. Something banged into one of the walls, shaking the whole house once again.

In the stillness that followed, she held herself together only by a string of prayers, her eyes still searching the thick darkness for any sign. Of what, she wasn’t sure. This was clearly more than just another card game gone wrong. But what was causing such a struggle?

On shaking legs she pushed herself to stand, tucking the piece of paper beneath her collar and into the lining of her undershirt. She ran empty hands along the crumbling wall and turned the corner when she reached it. Silence still prevailed below as she reached the door, jiggling the locked handle for the hundredth time.

But this time when she pulled her hand back, it rattled again. Someone was out there.

Scurrying backward to her safe corner, she tripped on her floor-length robe and fell sprawled on her backside.

Just as she landed, the frame around the door splintered and the panel flew open. She threw her hands over her eyes, protecting them from the sudden glare of light added to her world, but not before she made out the silhouette of a man whose broad shoulders filled the empty frame.

He screamed at her in Arabic as he ran toward her corner, his words drowned out by the ringing in her ears.

And then there were two men, a second silhouette materializing behind the first. Her eyes were stinging from the light, blurring the images, but the second man pushed the first man, who crumpled to the ground.

It was a dream. It had to be. Or maybe her eyes without her contacts or glasses were playing tricks on her.

But no matter how hard she squinted, there were still two men, one on the ground and the other standing over him, looking gigantic and ominous with the backlighting casting his face in shadows. Breath catching in her throat and heart pounding painfully, she pulled her knees even closer, pressing her forehead against them and praying, not for the first time, that she had dreamed the whole ordeal.

She heard the second man cross the room and squat down at her side. “Are you Staci Hayes?” His words were so soft that she looked up to read his lips, but she couldn’t miss her name there or the American accent she had only heard once in the previous week.

She nodded, but words failed her.

His white teeth flashed, and he pointed at himself. “I’m with the United States Navy. I’m here to get you safely back to the States.” His ice-blue eyes flashed with a strength that expected to be obeyed.

She tried again to speak, but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. He put his hand on her arm, gentle yet firm. “Ms. Hayes, I’m going to get you out of here, but I need you to do everything I say quickly and without question.”

“What—what about Judy and Hank?”

“They’re safe.” He looked over his shoulder at the guard he’d taken down, who still lay motionless. “Can you run?”

“Yes.” But the shaking in her knees threatened to make her a liar, and she rubbed her hands up and down her shins.

“We’ve got to rock and roll, L.T.”

She jerked at the deep voice coming from the doorway, but before she could do more than that, he was by her other side, both men tugging her to her feet.

L.T. didn’t waste time with introductions, instead asking his tall friend, “Did you take care of them?”

“Yes. But one got a call-off. Backup is on the way, I think.”

“You think?” L.T.’s eyes flashed.

“Hey, I’m not the language expert on the team.”

She’d been so wrapped up in their rapid back-and-forth that she barely noticed that they’d crossed the room and were propelling her toward the stairway.

“Stay with me and, whatever happens, don’t let go of my hand.” He held her hand up to her eyes and squeezed her fingers until she squeezed his back. “Got it?”

“Yes.” She wrapped her other hand around his wrist as the two navy men sailed down the stairs. Her skirt whipped around her ankles and she stepped on the side of it, nearly sending her tumbling into L.T.’s back. She caught herself by the grip on his arm at the last minute, and he glanced over his shoulder at her, the look in his eyes asking if she was all right. She nodded quickly, and he spun around.

By the time they reached the front door of the building, she was breathing as if she’d climbed Mount Everest, her lungs screaming for air and heart pounding hard.

L.T. paused for a moment, looking down the midnight streets. She took the chance to gulp in deep breaths, sure that they’d be gone just as fast.

Without a word, the second man slipped into the night, his gun lifted to his shoulder in rock-steady hands. Staci and L.T. followed him into the cloak of darkness.

“Hang in there,” he whispered just as a bullet burst in the sand at their feet.

Every thought vanished as her feet pounded the streets, winding between buildings and down alleys until her ragged breaths were louder than her footfalls. Sweat ran down her back and arms, but she refused to loosen her damp grip on L.T.’s hand, even as he tucked her into his side.

Another round flew past them, slamming into a building, as men began shouting at them to stop. “Got to pick it up.” L.T. tugged on her hand, somehow pulling her forward and pushing from behind.

She gasped for a breath and swiped at the sweat rolling from her forehead into her eyes as their pursuers sent out an endless spray of bullets, peppering several nearby buildings in the process. Lights flicked on in the houses, the bright windows spotlighting their position on the streets.

The taller man dropped back, returning fire and telling the curious to get back in their homes.

“We’re almost there,” L.T. assured her.

How could he still talk? Her mouth felt like she was breathing through sand, her feet heavy and aching. As he pulled her around another corner, her foot caught in the hem of her robe, and she flew to the ground, landing hard on her hands and knees.

L.T. didn’t bother telling her to get up, instead lifting her to her feet. As soon as the soles of her shoes hit the ground, something screamed past her, setting her arm on fire. She grunted at the impact, stumbling three steps.

She waited for the feel of the ground against her side, preparing for the impact of another fall. But it never came. Instead, she was suddenly weightless, bouncing on L.T.’s shoulder, one of his arms wrapped around her legs.

“Try to hold still.”

“All right.” Easier said than done. It was quite possibly the most uncomfortable position in the world, each step jabbing her in the stomach. But at least she wasn’t on her own feet anymore.

She let her arms hang down his back, trying to figure out what to do with her hands. Finally she grabbed his belt to give her something to hang on to, but her left arm was useless. She couldn’t make her hand grasp anything.

What was dripping from her fingertips?

She rubbed her left thumb over her fingertips, which were slick and sticky.

It wasn’t sweat.

She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat, refusing to wonder if it was from the awkward position or the blood dripping down her arm.

“ETA thirty seconds.”

It took her a moment to realize he wasn’t speaking to her, but relief washed through her as they rounded one last building, greeted by the gentle crashing of waves against the sandy shore. She couldn’t see or hear them, but somehow she knew there were more soldiers waiting for them. More men like L.T.

L.T.’s steps slowed down as he splashed into the water. It was nearly to his knees by the time he stopped.

“We’ve got company,” he said to one of the others as he swung her to his front, holding her back and under her knees and lifting her into what looked like a black inflated lifeboat. “She’s been hit in the arm, but she hasn’t lost consciousness.”

He set her down on her back, but didn’t let go of her hand. “You’ll be fine now, Ms. Hayes.” The boat floated toward open water, and he walked alongside it.

“Aren’t you coming with us?” Her eyes suddenly filled with tears at the thought of not having her mysterious hero by her side. There hadn’t been a chance before, but she’d thought that once they got away, she could tell him about what she’d seen, what she’d heard while she’d been held captive. Maybe he could help her.

“Not until you’re safely out of range. Then we’ll get out of here.” He bobbed in time with the waves that must have been at least to his waist.

“Please.” Her voice broke, but she pressed on. There wasn’t much time. “Can you help me?” The crashing waves covered her words, but her grip never loosened, even as he relaxed his fingers.

“You’re going to be okay.” He pulled his hand away, his words assuaging none of her fears. “They’ll take good care of you.”

“Please.” Her cry pierced the silent night. Her heart still raced, despite his words of comfort. She might be safe in the moment, but what about when she returned home? “He’ll know that I know.”

She tried to shout the words, but they barely came out as a whisper. The fear, the blood loss and the crashing adrenaline drained her last ounce of energy. Even though she was still in danger, she couldn’t help but give in to exhaustion. Closing her eyes, everything went black.

TWO

Two weeks later

Staci ran her hand over the side of her face in a vain attempt to cover the still-red scar in front of her ear—left by a particularly unpleasant guard the day before her rescue. Forcing her hands back to her lap, she smoothed out the wrinkled lines of her skirt, tugging on the hem. After two years of following Lybanian laws and covering every inch of her body except her face, the skirt that hit below her knees felt too short.

She pulled the sleeves of her cardigan sweater down to her wrists in turn. Anything to keep her mind off the man she was waiting to see.

But he didn’t know she was coming for a visit.

And she didn’t even know his name.

The walls of the brightly lit office were devoid of windows, like the cell she’d endured for weeks. But this wasn’t Lybania. It wasn’t a cell.

She was free to leave.

Except she had to see him. The man who had rescued her. The only one who might agree to help her. She’d tried to talk to the public affairs officer assigned to the mission, a local policeman and even her congressman.

No one would take her seriously.

The public affairs officers hadn’t even listened to her—too busy briefing her about the next interview.

The desk officer at her local precinct had agreed to take her statement but then had stared at her evidence with clear disinterest. To be sure, the foreign words on it probably looked like nothing more than scribbles to him, but she had hoped the map itself would make him take her seriously. It hadn’t. The drawing had been too vague, too imprecise. Too easy to write off. He’d made a dismissive offer to pass the scrap of paper to a detective for review, but she wasn’t about to leave the only evidence of the upcoming danger with a man who seemed more concerned with jaywalkers than terrorists.

As for her congressman... Well, his secretary had expressed appropriate concern for Staci’s recent ordeal, but had made it clear that the congressman’s calendar was full. The unspoken message was that the congressman had no time to deal with delusional constituents.

“It’s normal for rescued hostages to deal with post-traumatic stress disorder,” the PAO had said. “I can recommend a few very good counselors to help you deal with the stress of your ordeal and the ensuing media firestorm.”

It wasn’t stress. She wasn’t hallucinating.

Her last chance was the lieutenant who had carried her to safety. Maybe he’d believe her. Maybe he could help her.

A woman at the commissary on base had told her that some of the SEALs of Team FIFTEEN had offices in this building.

She’d wait until she saw someone familiar. Or until someone realized she’d skipped out on the interview training she was supposed to be attending with the PAO and kick her out.

At the far end of a long hallway lined with offices, a metal door clanged open, rattling the walls of the trailer. A swarm of men entered, laughing and pounding each other on the back, each in matching tan T-shirts and brown camouflage pants.

How could she possibly recognize her rescuer if they all looked alike?

What if he wasn’t as handsome as she remembered? What if his eyes weren’t as blue or his hair as boyishly tousled? Or his smile as kind and his features as perfectly put together as they had seemed to be under that black paint? After all, he’d ridden in like a knight on a white horse at a time when she was almost too afraid to think. He couldn’t possibly be as attractive as her hazy memories of that night recalled.

The group of men drew near, clearly not aware of her presence, so she stood and grabbed on to the bottom of her sweater for support. Suddenly the short man at the front of the group stopped, holding up his hand to signal that all of the dozen or so should do the same. And they did, as if they’d practiced this single move every day for a year. Conversation ceased, and she quivered under the weight of so many eyes.

“How’d you get in here?”

She pointed over her shoulder, half turning toward the trailer’s front door before thinking better of spilling the whole story. It was best to just ask for what she wanted to know. “I’m trying to find a lieutenant.”

The man at the front squinted at her, his scowl growing. “We have a couple of those, but none you’d like very well. What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I’m looking for a specific one. But...well...” She stared at her clasped hands just long enough to build up the courage to look back into the wall of men. “I’m afraid I don’t know his name. I’m Staci, Staci Hayes. And there was a SEAL, a lieutenant, I believe, who rescued me in Lybania.”

“L.T., do you want to take this one?”

Like the Red Sea parting when Moses lifted his staff, the men moved against the walls until a familiar figure walked down the aisle. His gait easy and confident, he squinted at her until he’d reached the front of the pack, his hands resting loosely on his hips.

“Ms. Hayes, what can I do for you?”

She held out her hand, hoping he’d take it, hoping she looked less foolish than she felt.

He glanced down at her hand, and when his eyes rose, they stole her breath. There was no mistaking this was the man who had rescued her. His eyes weren’t friendly, but they hadn’t been two weeks ago, either. Then and now, they were focused and direct—taking in the situation at hand. At least she had his attention.

“I’m Staci.” She pushed her hand farther forward, ignoring the lump in her throat as her fingers passed the halfway point between them.

He nodded to the group still congregated behind him. “They call me L.T.” His eyes searched her face, finally lighting on her right side, on the scar that the doctor had said would probably always be visible.

She pulled back the hand that he obviously wasn’t going to shake, and used it to cover the scar, staring at the floor in front of his feet. Apparently he wasn’t going to give her his name, no matter how hard he stared at her. All right. She didn’t need his name. Just his help.

“May we speak?” She glanced around his muscled shoulder—the same one she’d been slung over—into the faces of his men. “In private.”

His face pinched for a moment, all the air in the trailer suddenly vanishing. Still he stared at her, his eyes roaming from her hair to her feet and back. It wasn’t an obnoxious assessment, or even inappropriate. Clearly he was a man used to knowing what was coming, and her surprise visit didn’t suit him.

The silence dragged on for what felt like hours, but all of the men remained motionless. She didn’t even catch one blinking. Perfectly silent. Perfectly still.

By comparison, she felt like a camel in a crystal store, every straightening of her sweater or twitch of her neck amplified, every shuffle of her foot echoing to the farthest corner of the hall. But she couldn’t seem to stop moving.

A strange habit she’d picked up during her time in captivity. Movement meant she was still alive. It gave her something to focus on in that pit, something to touch when she’d almost forgotten the feel of her own skin.

Now she was a hummingbird among ravens. Why couldn’t she stop drawing attention to herself?

Wrapping her arms around her stomach, she held her breath and pinched her eyes closed until the man responded.

“All right.” Her eyes flew open, and he nodded toward the nearest office with a wide window looking into the hallway.

He held out his hand, and she scurried in the direction he indicated. As she passed him, he cupped a hand under her elbow, and she flinched. Once he’d closed the door behind them, he spun on her, his eyes flashing with an intensity sharper than a sword. “Are you still injured?”

Her hand got to her shoulder before she realized she was going for her scar again. “No. Why do you ask?”

“Out there in the hallway, you flinched when I touched you. Did that hurt? Did the bullet do serious damage?”

“Oh.” She bit her bottom lip. How was she supposed to explain that she still wasn’t used to human touch? After three weeks of only painful interactions, even her mother’s hug felt unnatural. “Um...no. It didn’t hurt. The doctor on the aircraft carrier said it was a clean exit. I’m fine.”

He ran his hand over his face, the sinewy muscles of his forearm bunching and pulling taut as he stared at the ceiling and blew out a slow breath. “Ms. Hayes, what are you doing here? This—” He flicked his finger back and forth between them. “This isn’t allowed. You’re not supposed to be here. We aren’t supposed to communicate once the mission is over. Didn’t the PAO tell you that?”

“I know.”

“Where are you supposed to be right now?” His brows furrowed, compassion transforming his features.

She looked away from the Pacific blue of his eyes, her words caught in her throat.

“How’d you get on the base?”

She wheezed around the lump sitting on top of her airway, hugging her sweater in place. “I was supposed to have an interview prep course with the lieutenant commander in the public affairs office.”

He marched to the far side of the desk, the only significant piece of furniture in the room, glanced at her over his shoulder and began pacing, hands grasped behind his back. “I understand that you’ve been through a serious ordeal, and I’m sorry that you had to go through that. But I’m not allowed any private contact with you.” He scrubbed his face again with an open palm, still not looking in her direction.

It was easier to think and speak when he wasn’t staring her down, so she rushed to tell him everything. “Do you remember the last thing I said to you that night?”

He stopped but kept his head straight forward. “I do.” With the shake of his head, he ran his fingers through his pale brown hair. “You were under a lot of stress, and you’d been imprisoned for weeks. It isn’t unusual to hallucinate under those kinds of conditions.”

“I wasn’t hallucinating.”

He turned back toward her, but she couldn’t meet his gaze. It was too disarming. So she looked around the room, searching for something—anything—to help steer this conversation where it needed to go.

Hugging her arms around her stomach, she took a deep breath. If she didn’t lay it all on the line now, there might not be a later.

“You said I was safe. You said you’d protect me.”

“I did. You made it safely home, didn’t you?” His words were short but not unkind.

“I made it home, anyway.”

Those blue eyes sliced into hers.

“What does that mean?” His lips barely moved.

“Someone has been following me, and I think it’s the same man from Lybania.”

“The one who will know that you know?” His arms crossed over his broad chest, the sleeves of his T-shirt pulling snug around his biceps. He looked so intimidating. If he hadn’t leaned toward her, head cocked in concern, she’d have turned and run.

She nodded slowly. “Yes.”

“Did you call the police? Tell them you’re being stalked, and they can look into it for you. They can handle things like that.”

“I did call the police. They wouldn’t help me. I promise you’re the last person I want to bother with this, but I don’t have anywhere else to turn.”

He sighed, dropping his hands to his side. “So, who is this guy?”

“Um...” She bit her lip and looked down at her sandals. “I don’t know.”

His eyebrows shot up his forehead, which wrinkled in even ripples. She could read the doubt on his face. He probably thought she saw a Middle Eastern man behind her in line for coffee, and that fear made her jump to the conclusion that he was following her. His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “I think you need to talk to someone about this. The PAO could probably recommend a counselor.”

Her blood boiled at his condescension, and her apprehension evaporated. Taking a deep breath in through her nose, she pushed it out through tight lips.

If she had any idea how to face down the man following her on her own, she would. But since she didn’t, she had to convince the lieutenant to help.

Taking a firm step toward him, she pointed her finger toward his chest, but stopped about two feet short of touching him. She wasn’t that brave. “Listen to me. I’m in trouble, but it’s not just me. I don’t know the name of the man who’s after me, but I know that I heard him plotting to blow up something here in San Diego.”

“Do you speak Arabic?”

“Just enough to get by for two years in Lybania.”

He squinted at her, leaning toward her still-outstretched finger. “Then how do you know you didn’t misunderstand what he said?”

“He was speaking English.”

* * *

Tristan snapped his full focus on Staci at her words. “Was he American?”

“Yes.” She didn’t hesitate.

Could she be telling the truth? “How do you know?”

“How would you know an American? He spoke like an American, used words like an American.”

“Did he have an accent?”

She looked toward the ceiling, worrying her lip between her teeth before answering. “Not that I noticed. He wasn’t from the South or Boston or New Jersey. He sounded like a national newscaster, polished and smooth.”

Rats. This girl honestly thought she’d overheard something. Whether she was really being stalked or not, there was no denying she thought she was in trouble.

But he wasn’t the right one to help her. Getting involved in something like this could only spell trouble—mostly with his commanding officer, who had already warned him once about being too friendly with rescued hostages.

He scrubbed his fingers along his scalp, a vain attempt to relieve some of the pressure building there. She wasn’t supposed to be there. He was breaking all the rules already by speaking one-on-one with a rescued hostage. If his CO found out, he’d be knee-deep in a serious mess, and no matter how pretty she was, she wasn’t worth risking being grounded for the next mission or worse.

He didn’t like telling a scared woman that he couldn’t help her, but what other choice did he have? It was highly likely that the danger was all in her mind, even though she’d convinced herself that it was real. It would be wrong to give up the chance to go on missions that made a real difference just to help her fight imaginary enemies.

She flicked a strand of dark hair over her shoulder, blinking huge green eyes up at him. Her full, pink lips pressed together, wrinkling her nose slightly. It took everything inside him not to smile at her, to put her at ease and give her the assurance she craved.

But that wouldn’t do either of them any good.

“Look, Ms. Hayes, I am sorry that you went through that experience. I’m sorry about what happened to you in Lybania, but I already did as much as I can for you. Now you have to keep living your life. Do you have a pastor or priest you could talk with? Maybe he could help you work through this.”

Her shoulders fell, the last remnant of hope in her features vanishing. “All right. Thank you for your time.”

She turned, shuffling toward the office door, and a band around his heart squeezed. He’d done the right thing sending her away. So why did it feel so wrong?

Just as she reached the door, she tucked a hand into the pocket of her colorful skirt. As she spun on the spot, she held out something that she’d pulled from within. “I almost forgot. One of the guards dropped this in my cell after talking to the American man.”

He reached for the scrap of paper and unfolded it to reveal a crude sketch.

“Doesn’t it look kind of like—”

“—the harbor,” he finished for her. There could be no doubt about the docks and shoreline. He’d run along the beaches in the sketch for nearly ten years. He knew every ship and slip.

And apparently someone else did, too.

“But I don’t know what that says.” She pointed toward a line of scrawled symbols.

He squinted at the text. “It’s not Arabic, but it’s not far off, either.” He pointed to the third and fourth word on the page. “This looks like one and two, but it’s not. It’s different.”

“You read Arabic?”

He glanced up from the words written on the map. “Enough.” That was a bit of an understatement. He was actually almost fluent in it and could read nearly anything. But she didn’t need to know that. A few secrets always came in handy.

“I think it’s a dialect from the hill country. I only picked up a few words of the different dialects while I was there, but it would seem to fit.”

He nodded. “Might be right.” So why was someone writing in Lybanese on a map of his harbor? His gut clenched as he realized her story might be true after all. But why would they be after Staci? Who would think her a real threat?

“What did you overhear exactly?”

Her eyes shone for just a moment before she blinked her hope back under control. “One of the guards said something about the pieces needed to build the bomb. He said they had almost everything they needed, and when it went off, everyone would know they wouldn’t be intimidated by America’s military. And then the American said he’d place it, and it would be just like fireworks.”

That wasn’t much to go on. “What else?”

She chewed her lip again, running a finger over the side of her face for the tenth time. “I guess they were talking about this map. I think the American was pointing out landmarks and such.”

“Then what happened?”

“They were still talking when someone else came into my cell.”

His stomach jolted, his hands forming fists completely on their own. He didn’t want to know, but he had to ask. “What did he do?”

“He tried to get me to confess to breaking the law by giving away bibles. When I wouldn’t confess, he left and the other guy, the one who had been talking to the American, came in to take his turn. He was angry I wouldn’t give in, and I don’t think he noticed when he dropped the map. I scooped it up when he had his back turned. After that, everything is kind of fuzzy until you showed up.”

“You mean, this all happened the day of your rescue?”

She nodded.

“Did the Timmonses hear the American, too?”

“No.” She locked her hands in front of her, her skirt swishing like a bell as she swayed. “They had separated us after our second week.”

“Why?”

She looked away, and he felt the gut punch as sure as if one of the other guys on his team had thrown it. That was a stupid question. Pretty girls in Lybania being held by ruthless terrorists...

He’d seen enough of that country to know, and he could only pray that she’d been spared the worst, that her physical scars were deeper than her emotional and spiritual ones.

His pulse pounded in his ears, suddenly ready for a fight. But he’d already taken on the guys responsible for the pink spreading over her cheeks and the bright red scar in front of her ear that she kept trying to cover.

“It wasn’t anything like what...” Her voice trailed off, and she cleared her throat. “That is, they were waiting for someone. For their leader, I think.” The pink in her cheeks turned into flames.

Thank God his team had rescued her when it had.

But even if she’d avoided the physical attack, knowing what was coming had to have left a few emotional scars. It was brave of her to have taken the map in the first place. At a time when she’d been at such high risk herself, she’d thought of others, and had tried to gather evidence she’d hoped to use to keep people safe. That said a lot about her. And it made him even more reluctant to turn her away.

Maybe he could look into this in his free time. He didn’t have any training missions on the schedule for the next few weeks. Could it hurt to at least keep his eyes and ears open for an American placing a bomb somewhere in San Diego that would send a message to America’s military? It was a huge city and highly unlikely he’d see anything, but at least he could put her mind at ease.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“You will?” Her voice skyrocketed, and she plastered a smile into place.

“Yes.” He looked at the door then back at her. “Leave me your phone number, and I’ll call you if I find out anything.”

“And how should I contact you?”

“Through your PAO. She’ll pass any messages to me.”

“And who should I ask her to pass them to?”

She hadn’t missed a beat and was intent on getting his name. “Lieutenant Sawyer.”

“All right.” She scribbled her phone number on a sticky note and handed it to him before opening the office door. “Thank you, Lieutenant Sawyer. For two weeks ago and for today.”

“You’re welcome, Ms. Hayes.”

“Please call me Staci.”

“All right.”

As she flounced out the door, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. Her dark curls bounced with every step, her shoulders in perfect posture. She may have sustained a flesh wound to the arm and a cut on her face, but her three weeks as a hostage hadn’t damaged her backbone.

When the outside door of the trailer clanged shut, he walked back to his office, ignoring the stares of Willie G. and Zach—Zig—McCloud.

Zig whistled low and long, elbowing his teammate in the ribs. “I guess it pays to have rank. I’d go to the academy, too, if I had pretty girls like that coming to thank me.”

“What’d she give you?”

Tristan clutched the scrap of paper in his hand, forcing down the knot in his stomach. It shouldn’t matter that they were teasing him. He’d sure teased them over the past couple years.

But Staci Hayes wasn’t a SEAL groupie. She didn’t hang around the pool hall waiting for a SEAL to show up. She hadn’t gone looking for a warrior.

He’d gone looking for her.

And she deserved better than the speculation of two of his men. “Willie G. and Zig, go clean up the training boats.”

Zig opened his mouth, about ready to argue, then realized that it wasn’t a request but an order.

“Yes, sir.”

They stalked off, leaving him some time alone with the crude map and a head full of questions. As he sank into his desk chair and leaned back until it popped, he replayed Staci’s words over and over. Had there really been an American man consorting with Lybanian terrorists? If so, where on this map were they planning to place the bomb they’d mentioned? And what did the message on the map really mean? Thousands of hours practicing languages were useless if he couldn’t read the one in front of him.

The map didn’t contain a convenient X to mark the spot or even a circle to pinpoint which part of the coast might see the explosion. But it did contain the coastline of Coronado Island. From the airport to the naval stations, Harbor Drive, and even the golf course.

It represented too many people. Too many possible victims.

And he had nowhere to start.

The best he could do was a call to a friend in the FBI’s counterterrorism unit and a former cryptology instructor for the navy.

After leaving messages with just enough information to get him a return call, he shut down his computer and grabbed his bag of workout gear, slinging it over his shoulder as he strolled out of the building and past the two SEALs hosing down a rack of RIBs—Rigid Inflatable Boats.

“Have a good weekend, boys.” He waved, not even trying to hide his smirk as he reached the parking lot. Throwing his bag into the bed of his truck, he jumped up, sliding behind the wheel.

As he pulled onto the main street that ran most of the length of the naval station, he tried to focus on the rare two-day weekend ahead of him.

He’d promised his sister, Ashley, that he’d put together the crib for his soon-to-arrive nephew. And she wanted to do some more shopping for baby clothes before Matt—her husband as well as Tristan’s senior chief—returned from demo training in Chicago.

Maybe she’d let him off the hook for the shopping trip if he put together the crib and matching dresser.

He waved a civilian pedestrian across the walkway. She was halfway to the next parking lot over before he realized she was his afternoon visitor. She was coming from the administrative offices, probably just finished with the interview training to prep her for upcoming media appearances about her ordeal. He’d already seen her picture in the papers, but she’d yet to make a morning show appearance. Lt. Commander del Rey, the PAO, was probably talking Staci through the schedule.

Staci slid into her green sedan and pulled out of her spot, winding between the thinning crowd of other vehicles. She had reached the exit of the parking lot by the time the white delivery van behind Tristan honked.

He laughed at himself for being so easily distracted and waved out the window, pulling up to one of the guardhouses at the front gate of the base.

“Carl, how you doing, man?”

The broad-shouldered Samoan snapped to attention in the door frame of the little hut. “Good. How about you, Lieutenant Sawyer? How’s your sister?”

“Oh, you know. Waterstone took off to Chicago for training, so Ashley moved back in with me in case the kid comes early.”

Carl laughed. “You know any kid of the senior chief’s is going to show up early.”

Tristan’s shoulders shook as he waved at the younger man and pulled off the base, right behind a green four-door with a rusted bumper.

He tried to catch a glimpse of her chestnut hair, just to make sure it was Staci, but from the seat in his truck, he couldn’t confirm. It didn’t stop him from following her over the bridge and into San Diego traffic.

He passed an exit for I-5, which he should have taken to pick up Ashley.

So why was he following someone he wasn’t supposed to have any individual contact with? He didn’t have a good reason, just an instinct telling him to make sure she got home safely.

A glance in his rearview mirror showed the same white van from the base still on his six. It hung back but took every turn he did. Every turn the green car did.

His gut clenched after the third turn.

There was only one way to know for sure who the van was following.

At the next cross street Tristan slowed down and put on his blinker to turn right. The green car pulled almost a block ahead as he turned onto the side street. As soon as he’d cleared the turn, the white van gunned it past Tristan’s truck.

Somehow he’d ended up literally in the middle of something, and now that he was out of the way, that van had a clear shot at the green car. At Staci.

He shoved his gear shift into Reverse and slammed on the gas, spinning the steering wheel and completing a full one-eighty before turning right back onto the main road. In one quick motion he took off after them, joined only by the smell of burning rubber.

He caught up to the van about four blocks later as it maneuvered itself to pin the sedan against the deserted sidewalk in front of the gated entrance of a convenience store.

Air caught in his throat until he schooled it into measured breaths, keeping his hands steady despite the rush of adrenaline that coursed from the top of his head to his fingertips.

Like it or not, he was part of this now. No way was he going to let a fool in a van hurt the girl he’d risked his neck to rescue on the other side of the world.

The van let up for a moment, and Tristan hoped he might be able to get between the two vehicles. But his hopes were in vain. A second later, the van crashed into the side of the green car, sending it careening into a light pole.

THREE

Staci jerked against the shoulder strap of her seat belt, which stole her breath but kept her head from cracking against the steering wheel. The car was too old to have air bags. There was nothing but the seat belt to protect her.

With one eye pinched closed and the other only open partway, she surveyed the white van with tinted windows as it sped away after running her into the light pole. As she clawed at the seat-belt buckle and fought for air, she sank against the steering wheel, every ounce of strength dripping from the bottom of her feet through the floorboard.

Maybe if she held her head between her hands, the world would stop spinning.

And maybe if the world would stop spinning, she could pull her thoughts together.

She pressed her palms harder into her forehead, but the earth still seemed to be whirling out of control. As she fell toward her car door, it suddenly disappeared, replaced by a pair of hands that cradled her against a broad chest.

“Whoa there.”

The voice was deep and strong like the hands, but she couldn’t manage to open her eyes far enough to look into his face.

“Did you hit your head?”

She rubbed it absently, unable to pinpoint if the pain came from the spinning inside or a throbbing outside. “I don’t think so.” The last word came out on a wheeze, and she pushed against the cotton covering his shoulder—his unmovable shoulder—for any ounce of space.

“Careful.” He loosened his grip, but not enough.

She managed a shallow breath. “I’m okay.”

“I’m not so sure about that. Just stay with me for a second.”

Something about his words pricked at her memory. They were familiar like a sweet dream.

“Stay with you.” She swallowed and gasped for air and with it the strength to open her eyes.

The arch of his nose and curve of his mouth were just as surprising—and welcome—as the first time she’d seen them.

“Lieutenant Sawyer?”

He shrugged the shoulder where her hand still rested. “Hello.” His eyes twinkled, and something akin to humor crossed his face. “We’ve got to stop meeting this way.”

“Why are you here?” But it didn’t really matter.

“Well...” His lips puckered to the side, a row of fine lines wrinkling his forehead as he stewed on her question. “Just in the right place at the right time.”

“Guess this means it’s all real, isn’t it?”

For a moment he looked as if he were going to play dumb, pretend he didn’t understand what she meant, but as she blinked up at his face, he nodded. “I guess so. But I wouldn’t worry about it. We’ll find him.”

Any other day, any other situation, she’d have argued with him. He was trying to pacify her, but she didn’t need it. At the moment, though, she just needed to lean into him and let him make sure she got home in one piece.

So she did.

* * *

“Thank you for your help. I don’t know how I’d have gotten home without you.”

Tristan stood two inches inside the front door of Staci’s town house on the hardwood of the entryway, staring into a sea of white. Her carpet, furniture and curtains. All of it gleamed.

Hadn’t she ever had a dog? Or a kid brother? Or a visitor?

Sterile as a hospital room.

“Sure thing. No problem.”

She looked toward the back of the house, crossing her arms over her chest and grabbing her opposite shoulders. “Can I get you a glass of water or a soda?”

“No, thanks. I should get going.” He motioned to the door. “The paramedic said you should try to get some rest. You’ll probably be pretty sore tomorrow.”

Just as his hand connected with the doorknob, she grabbed his other arm—then dropped it as if he burned her fingers. “What do I do if he comes after me again?”

He let go of the door and reached to give her elbow a reassuring squeeze before letting his hand fall to his side. She sure hadn’t appreciated his touch that afternoon. “I doubt he knows where you live. Is your name on this property?”

“No. My parents bought it as an investment property a couple years before I left for Lybania. A friend of mine stayed here while I was gone.”

That was good. Anyone could look up property owners in the county recorder’s office, but Hayes was a common name. “You’ll be safe. And your car will be in the shop for at least a week, so he won’t be able to use it to ID where you live. Do you have someone who can run errands for you, if you need?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re all set.”

“But what if...”

Her tone gouged at his stomach, and he couldn’t walk away. She wasn’t playing the part of a lost little girl nor tempting him with her feminine charm. Fear shook her voice, and those three little words carried a heavy weight of meaning.

She knew the truth as clearly as he did.

Someone was after her. And until he was caught, she wouldn’t be safe.

He closed his eyes, fighting the urge to do what he’d done in Lybania. But he couldn’t just pick her up and carry her to safety. He wasn’t supposed to have any contact with her. And explaining to his CO that he’d watched her get run off the road wasn’t going to change the rule.

She would be safe enough in her home for now. And he could turn this whole thing over to his buddy in the FBI.

But he couldn’t walk away from the tremor in her voice.

“If something happens, call me.” He moved his hand as though he was wielding a pen. “Do you have something to write on?”

She shuffled papers in a mail organizer, finally pulling out a white envelope with a clear, plastic window, shoving the paper and a pencil into his hands. He scribbled his number down and handed it back to her.

She smiled, the light never quite reaching her eyes. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He turned to go but stopped with the door only partially open. “Try to get some rest this weekend.”

She followed him to the cement slab that could hardly be called a porch, despite its overhang. “All right.”

He made it to the last of three steps before her voice stopped him again.

“Wait.”

He glanced over his shoulder, squinting into her soft features, her pink lips glistening in the evening sun.

“If I have to phone, what do I call you?” She held the envelope in front of her.

“L.T. is fine.”

“How can I trust you if I don’t even know your first name?”

His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. The last time a woman had tried so hard to get his first name, the first use she’d made of it had been to ask him out on the date that started a one-year-long relationship. She’d said his name so sweetly before she’d kissed him, slow and thorough.

That last time.

Before he’d boarded a transport and left her all by herself.

But Staci wasn’t Robin. And she certainly wouldn’t be kissing him. If there wasn’t a first, then there couldn’t be a last kiss.

“Tristan. But hardly anyone calls me that.”

“Why not?”

He put his hands on his hips, still squinting up at her from the bottom of the steps. “They just don’t. Everyone on the team has a nickname, and we use them.”

“All right.” She took a breath then quickly added, “L.T.,” as if it were an afterthought. And for a split second he wished she’d called him by his real name. “Thank you.”

She waved the envelope again, and he jogged toward his truck, suddenly eager to be away from the woman who made him think about memories that were best forgotten.

* * *

Staci left her cereal bowl on the kitchen counter at the sound of the doorbell, pulling the belt of her robe tighter around her waist as she shuffled toward the front door. Peering through the windows on both sides of the entry, she confirmed that her tiny porch was empty before unlocking the deadbolt and opening the door just enough to look into the morning sun.

The delivery man must have run back to his truck, leaving only a package by the front mat. As she bent to pick it up, every muscle in her body screamed. She groaned against the pain in her ribs and chest as her muscles flexed and tightened.

Wasn’t she supposed to be feeling better? Three days was plenty of time to recover from a car accident that didn’t even break her skin. Right?

She hefted the box, nearly dropping the unexpected weight and falling right alongside it.

Maybe three days wasn’t quite long enough.

Another try boasted better results, and she held the package against her stomach to ease the pressure on her strained back as she pushed the door closed behind her. Setting the brown paper-wrapped package on her counter, she spied the return label.

From Rebecca Meyers.

Why was her sister, Becca, sending her a package when they’d seen each other a week ago? And why had she spelled out her whole name? They’d been calling each other by their first initials since she was ten. Even now, B’s kids called her Auntie S. And even if she were going to use her name instead of her initial, Becca had never actually gone by Rebecca.

Her stomach lurched and she pressed a hand to it, suddenly uninterested in the cereal still floating in its milk.

Staci pushed the package toward the far end of the counter, staring hard at the brown paper bag used to wrap the box. Hadn’t B given up paper and plastic in favor of more environmentally friendly reusable bags?

So many things about this weren’t right.

She grabbed her phone and punched in her sister’s phone number. After four rings, B’s melodic voice singsonged, “This is Becca Meyers. Sorry I missed you. You know what to do, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

“Hey, B. It’s just me. Just...um...” No cause to scare her sister. Nope. She could handle this. “Just wanted to tell you that I love you. Talk to you later.”

As she pressed the end button on her phone, her gaze flicked toward the white envelope stuck to the refrigerator, and her heart skipped a beat at the very thought of calling Tristan—L.T.

What if the box on her counter was nothing? Then she’d look stupid for taking up his time with something ridiculous. But then, what if it was something dangerous?

She backed up until she bumped into the kitchen island and then swung around that. Putting the waist-high counter between her and the package wasn’t enough, so she kept going, hoping she might suddenly get X-ray vision if she tried hard enough.

No such luck.

After a five-minute showdown with the box, she doubled her fists beneath her chin, took a deep breath and stepped back toward the counter. She’d never know what was inside if she didn’t open it.

The paper was thick and coarse as she picked it back up. And set it right back down, her heart thumping and ears ringing.

“You’re being silly.” She meant to encourage herself, but it backfired.

She’d been held hostage, had overheard a plot to blow up something and been run off the road. If being silly meant being cautious about the chance of danger, then this was the time for silliness.

Snatching the envelope from the fridge, she punched the numbers into her phone. On the second ring: “L.T.”

“This is Staci.” She quickly added, “Hayes. Staci Hayes.”

She could almost hear the sigh in his voice and see the sag in his shoulders. “What can I do for you?”

“Someone dropped a box off on my front porch this morning, and it has my sister’s return address. But I don’t think she sent it.”

“Why not?”

“She used her whole name.”

“Her whole name?” His tone clearly asked “Are you serious?” even if his words didn’t.

Of course she was serious. “We’ve always gone by nicknames, but the return address has her whole name on it. And it’s wrapped in a brown paper bag, which she’d never use.”

“How big is the box?” His voice picked up like she had his attention.

She held her hand along the side of the box. “About eight inches by eight inches.”

He must have pressed his hand over his phone, but she could still hear his words as he leaned away from it. “Willie G., get Zig and River and the bomb kit. Meet me at my truck in two minutes.”

Her stomach dropped and she scrambled back, tripping over her own feet to get out of the kitchen and away from the unknown threat. Her phone fell from limp fingers and bounced on the hardwood floor.

It squawked at her as her gaze shifted back and forth between the brown box and her black phone. She didn’t have to pick it up. She could just run. Get out of the house and call the police.

Or she could stick around and figure out who was behind her car accident and the most recent unwelcome gift.

Scooping up her phone was as painful as picking up the bomb had been. Whether from the bruise across her sternum or the rush of blood to her head, every one of her muscles throbbed.

“Staci? Are you still there?” L.T. sounded impatient.

“I dropped my phone.”

“Listen.” His tone turned softer than she’d ever heard it, yet he was still completely in control. “I need you to stay calm. Put as much distance as possible between you and that box. But do not go outside.”

She glanced down at her ratty robe. “Why?”

“Do you remember when I got you out of Lybania, and I told you to do everything I said without question?”

She nodded, her gaze still locked on the special delivery.

“Stay with me. You’ve got to do the same thing now. Trust me. We’ll be there in twenty minutes. Just go into your bathroom, close the door and get into the bathtub.”

“All right.” Her throat refused to swallow, dry and tight. “Twenty minutes?”

“Nineteen.” Something—probably his truck—roared to life. “Do you want me to stay on the phone with you?”

“I’m okay. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

He hung up without pomp, but her feet refused to move.

What if the box exploded while she stood there, tearing her home and body to shreds?

The police would find her shrouded in bits of ratty bath robe.

That was enough to get her moving, running to her room and slipping into workout pants and a long-sleeved shirt. And then into the tub.

The porcelain was hard against her back as she pulled her knees up to her chin and waited for her world to explode. She’d never get to be the aunt she wanted to be to her nieces. She’d never even have a chance to get married. She’d never know if there was a man willing to marry her despite what she couldn’t give him.

All because of that man. That man who was planning to bomb her in San Diego was also stealing her future.

She smacked her mouth against the bitterness rising in her heart and squeezed her hands into fists.

The sea-foam-green wall above the sink did nothing to calm her boiling ire, so she pinched her eyes closed and pressed her fists over her ears.

“God, don’t let me be this angry so close to meeting You.”

The words hurt her throat, but she whispered them again and again, praying for a release from the fear intent on inciting her deepest-seated resentment.

“Staci, it’s L.T.” Though his voice came from the direction of the front door, it carried to every corner of her house.

“I’m in here. In the bathroom. Like you said.”

A herd of bison ran through the foyer toward the kitchen, but she didn’t hear anyone approach her haven until the doorknob turned and popped open. Like he had the first time she saw him, Tristan filled the doorway. But this time, he leaned against the jamb and crossed his arms, his blue eyes narrow.

As he stood there, not saying a word, she shifted over and over again, the weight of his gaze making the bathtub even more uncomfortable.

She grasped for something to say. Anything.

But words failed in the face of the man who looked completely at ease while she huddled as far away from the package as she could.

Finally he broke the silence, his voice as casual as if they were making small talk in a church foyer. “What time did it arrive?”

“Um...” There was too much going on. How could she be responsible for remembering the details, too? She pinched her eyes closed and tried to remember. “Maybe ten minutes before I called you.”

“All right.”

After the short exchange, the silence physically hurt, pressing on her shoulders as she waited. Even if she had no idea what she was waiting for. “Before, on the phone, you told me not to go outside. Why?”

He glanced behind him before responding. “Any assassin worth his salt would wait around to make sure his delivery did its job. You’d have been a sitting target outside.”

“Oh.” The word had no volume, just wide eyes and an open mouth. “Did you see him when you got here?”

L.T. shook his head. “We did a quick sweep, but didn’t see anything unusual.” He shrugged a shoulder, his brown T-shirt stretching tight around the muscles in his arms. “Who knows? Maybe it’s nothing.”

Maybe he was right. Maybe she was overreacting.

Except he’d rushed over with a team of SEALs.

He didn’t really think it was nothing.

“L.T.,” one of the men called from the kitchen.

L.T. turned his back to her, but didn’t move toward the kitchen. “What is it?”

“A pipe.”

The taut muscles of his back flexed, but his voice didn’t change pitch. “Take care of it.”

“Will do.”

When he turned back toward her, L.T. still wore a Sunday-morning-church expression, calm and easygoing. “Do you want to scoot over?”

Her heart hammered, shaking every part of her. “Why? What’s a pipe?”

“Just move over.” He waved her to the side.

She slid toward the drain and faucet and he stepped into the tub, sinking down and somehow folding his long legs into the cramped space. His face twisted when he was finally in place, his shoulder just three inches from hers.

“Are you scared?” She wrapped her arms around her stomach.

“No.” So nonchalant. So confident. “But I figured you might be getting lonely in here. And if that thing explodes, I want to be right by your side.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.