Lisa Marie Rice - [Ghost Ops] Page 6

  “Okay,” she said, but he was already walking out the door.

  He had to do this. There was no way she could get dressed and walk down the stairs in less than half an hour. Her legs felt like mush. She was uncoordinated, slightly punch-drunk.

  And even if the delivery boy could wait half an hour for her to get her act together, she would scream from every pore of her body—I just had wild monkey sex! She knew of no way she could hide it. Not to mention she’d be helplessly grinning like a loon.

  So let him take care of it.

  Male voices downstairs, the door closing. The clatter of kitchen sounds.

  Elle lay there listening, every muscle lax. Someone else was doing something in her house. Someone else was doing things. Company and warm food were waiting for her downstairs and it seemed like such a miracle, something so heartening after long years of silence in her home, and feeling alone every second of every day.

  A tear welled and slipped down her cheek, and she dashed it away. This wasn’t a moment for tears, it was a moment for smiles.

  A deep breath and she threw back the covers, heading for the bathroom on shaky legs, completely, utterly happy.

  Chapter 3

  Nick paid for the delivery. Jesus. His heart had clenched when Elle told Jenny to put it on her credit card. If she had any money on her card, he’d eat his shorts. Elle had no money at all.

  The judge’s illness had pared them down to the bone. The happy, luxurious home he’d known was no more. Now it was this cold, empty shell. Most of the furniture and artwork gone. The once-glorious gardens abandoned and full of weeds.

  And Elle—Christ. Thin, drawn, dressed in rags.

  Still amazingly beautiful.

  He remembered her as a beautiful girl who was heading into glorious womanhood. When he left, he knew that was her trajectory. She didn’t worry him at all. Pampered daughter of a wealthy, well-respected man, smart as hell, good in school, gorgeous. He was leaving, but she was moving straight into the best possible life.

  Nothing had prepared him for the reality—poor, abandoned. But still stunning. If anything, she was more appealing now. The Elle he knew was happy in the way of people whose lives had shown them nothing but the best of the world. Her looks were spectacular, but on top of that had been all the trappings of coming from a wealthy family—healthy diet, lots of tennis, expensive orthodontics, not a care in the world. That Elle had been a magnet.

  But this Elle—this tragic waif—she’d grabbed his heart.

  His nuts, too, by the look of it.

  Because who could resist this girl—no, this woman—whose gaze was deep with the knowledge of pain and suffering. The fall of the family was all around them, but Elle hadn’t complained once about what had happened. It was clear that she’d put her life on hold to look after the judge, but not once had she put it that way. An A-student all the way, she wasn’t even in college. From the looks of their finances, college was probably out of the question.

  She hadn’t had anything resembling a life, let alone the life she should have had.

  She’d been a virgin. That had surprised him more than anything, though if he’d stopped to think about it, there wasn’t any space in her life for play.

  He should have stopped when he found out he was her first. Christ, she deserved better than a mongrel dog on his way out the door. What was the matter with him? He’d long ago learned to control his dick, why hadn’t he just now?

  Well, there was the fact that she’d looked like some kind of movie star on the bed, long, pale blond hair around her head like a halo but not an angel. Not with that look in her gorgeous light blue eyes, not with her arms up to hold him, not with her legs apart in invitation, puffy pink folds of her sex peeping through the ash brown hair of her mound.

  That Elle was pure temptation, impossible to resist. He was no hero. Who was he to turn something like that down?

  This Elle was completely different from the girl who visited his dreams. Time and again, he’d had the sense of her being there, with him. Usually at night. More times than he cared to think about while he was fucking.

  He’d be with a woman, lost in the sex, and there she was. In his head.

  He’d had to learn how to get her out of there, like picking a burr out of your coat. “Nick?” He whirled, saw her in the doorway, and his heart nearly stopped.

  Jesus, this double vision he had. The lovely, laughing girl of his memory and this—the stunning woman who’d known tragedy. She’d put on blue sweats—clearly old but clean and ironed. Probably dark blue once, now faded to a streaky light blue that matched her eyes.

  Nick manfully kept his gaze locked on her face, but he was pretty sure she wasn’t wearing a bra. The feel of her under his hands, the taste of her in his mouth—the memory swamped him.

  She walked in barefoot—and fuck him if her feet weren’t gorgeous too. Slim, high-arched, with very pretty toes. He nearly sighed because he was fully erect again. He had to feed her before he did anything else. He had to keep his mind on that, not on his dick.

  Shit.

  Everyone in the Rangers and the guys he’d talked to in Delta knew him as serious and utterly focused. No one would believe he couldn’t control himself, keep his dick down. But it was already up, very, very happy to see her. Elle smiled. “Did Jenny have you sign? I’ll call her later with my credit card info.”

  Well, that made him angry. It was better being mad at her than unable to resist her. Easier.

  “Fuck that,” he said, his voice harsher than he wanted. “Did you think I’d let you pay for this meal?” He looked out over the huge dinner table. She hadn’t managed to sell the table, obviously. Not too many people nowadays needed tables that could fit dinner parties of eighteen. The food filled half of it. Jenny had gone overboard and the bill Nick had paid wouldn’t cover half of it. Jenny’s way of helping Elle while salvaging her pride.

  Elle’s head tilted to the side, pale blond hair covering one shoulder. She frowned. “Why are you mad? Why shouldn’t I pay for it?”

  “Because you don’t have any fucking money, is why!” He had trouble keeping his voice down, keeping his emotions in check. “I’m not going to have you pay for my fucking meal!”

  Elle just watched him, head still tilted, as if he were some kind of scientific specimen. Her expression didn’t change at his vehemence. She lifted her hands, patted the air, calming down the lunatic.

  “Okay, okay. You probably don’t believe this, but I actually have the money to cover the meal, but I’ll accept your gift. Thank you.”

  Well, hell. He was all ready to fight it, fight her, dissipate some of this tension. And then she turned reasonable on him.

  Fuck.

  He drew in a deep breath. Grabbed for some control. “The food is still warm. We should set the table and eat. Unless you want to just eat out of the containers?”

  “No. We’ll eat like normal human beings.” Elle smiled and walked to a huge glass-fronted cabinet, which he remembered from when he lived here. They hadn’t sold that either. It was enormous and elaborate and he imagined it wouldn’t fit the life of modern families. It was the kind of piece of furniture people had a century ago when families were huge. The breakfront was still filled with the plates he remembered—fine bone china with a rose pattern and gilt edges. The service was probably not easily salable either—there were hundreds of pieces.

  Elle set the table as the maid used to—with a huge platter serving as a mat, plate, bowl, tons of forks and knives and spoons. Two glasses each. The wine her friend sent went on a silver wine-bottle thingy.

  She’d grown up with good wines. The judge had enjoyed his wine and had a famous wine cellar. That would be gone, he imagined.

  Elle sighed as she sat down. Nick poured a finger of wine in her crystal glass and some in his. He swirled and smelled and tasted. The judge had taught him about wine and this one was superb.

  “Merlot. French. 2011, which was a very good year.” Elle smiled happily a
t him as she put down the glass and attacked the food. “Bon appétit.”

  The family equivalent of grace. Elle’s mother had been half French.

  “Bon appétit.” Nick smiled back, his earlier edginess and bad temper gone. It was absolutely impossible not to smile at Elle. From the pale, lost waif he’d seen at the cemetery, she’d changed into a woman with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes.

  That was him. It made him uneasy to realize that he was the one who’d made her happy. Good sex did that, he knew. And though it was her first time, she seemed to have enjoyed it. It was physiological. Sex raised blood pressure, got the circulation moving. If nothing else it was a great physical and psychological release.

  Sex was good for you, made you smile.

  So that was it. That was all it was. Decent sex on a sad day for her. For him, too. The judge had saved his life. He’d been a good man and now he was dead.

  Elle tackled the food like she’d been starving. Nick shifted uneasily in his seat. Had she been starving? The idea made his skin prickle with horror. Elle not having enough to eat. The very idea was awful. She said she had the money to pay for this meal, but what if that wasn’t true? He was going to prowl around until he found her bank account and find out what the situation was.

  He’d also find out her bank account number. He had thirty thousand saved up. He had no expenses in the military. He was Special Ops and they were either on a mission or on a training cycle and were fed and lodged. He’d just applied for Delta, a year or two early. If he made Delta his pay would go up. What was he going to do with the money? He didn’t want to buy a house, didn’t even want to buy a car.

  The instant he got back on base he was going to transfer everything he had into her account.

  “Oh man,” Elle moaned, twirling her fork. “Carbonara. My favorite. Carbs and cream and cheese and bacon. Bliss.”

  A huge forkful disappeared into her mouth.

  Nick frowned, a horrible thought occurring to him. “You weren’t dieting were you?” She was way too thin. Christ, if she’d reduced herself to this willingly …

  “No, Nick.” Elle shook her head, swallowed, twirled another strand of creamy spaghetti around her fork. “I, um, lost weight because looking after Daddy was hard and I sometimes forgot to eat. I really look forward to putting the weight back on.”

  He grunted. “Good.” And attacked the food himself, appeased. The first bite had him narrowing his eyes.

  “Fabulous stuff, eh?” She was grinning at him. “And Jenny sent enough for a platoon. I’ll bet you don’t eat like this in the military.”

  “Absolutely not.” Christ no. His last op, a three-week training cycle in the Everglades, had been wall-to-wall gummy MREs, where the chicken couldn’t be distinguished from the pork or the beef. He’d shat hard little rubbery pellets for the duration. He’d only been back two days when he’d … what? Heard her call? Dreamed of her? Whatever, he’d had an irresistible urge to check Lawrenceonline and had immediately found the judge’s obituary. “When they feed us hot meals, it’s pretty basic. Steak and chicken and pork and potatoes. And watery salad no one eats.”

  “Speaking of chicken …” Elle poked her pretty nose in another container and breathed in deeply. “Hmmm. Roast rosemary chicken.” She looked up at him. “White meat or dark?”

  Your meat. The words were right there on his lips, as a vision blossomed in his head of him eating her. Head between her legs, lapping and nibbling.

  Oh, ouch. His hard on just got harder.

  Elle stopped, fork in the air, obviously tuned into the sudden change of atmosphere. Nick could swear that the molecules had suddenly become charged.

  Dial it down, dickhead.

  Elle was probably having her first decent meal in weeks, maybe months. She was smiling and there was color in her face. He was not going to ruin that for her because he had a sudden surge of hormones that were shaking his body.

  Because, fuck, that’s what was happening.

  If any of his Ranger teammates realized that he shook when he was next to this girl—now a woman—they’d shit their pants, because a good part of Ranger shooting training was using live bullets, sometimes at very close range.

  Nick was known as one of the coolest shooters, almost mechanical in his ability to put the bullet where he wanted it to go, and the way you did that was to be in control of your body.

  Not sitting at a table, afraid to get up because you’d hobble with the blue steeler in your pants. Not putting down your fork because your hand was shaking so much it fucking clattered against the plate. Not being unable to look away from a woman’s face.

  Any of his teammates seeing him now would report him to the XO.

  “Nick, aren’t you eating?” she asked. She’d demolished the carbonara and set the bowl aside, and was now demolishing an entire chicken breast with jacket potato. A salad of cherry tomatoes and feta cheese was in a crystal bowl next to her. She’d stopped eating to look at him quizzically. “It’s really good stuff.”

  He pasted a smile on his face, kicking himself for being an asshole. Way to go, douche bag, keeping Elle from her food because you can’t keep it in your pants.

  “Great stuff,” he agreed, pointing with his fork at her. “Now eat.”

  “Yessir,” she said, rolling her eyes, digging in.

  Damn straight.

  God, it was good to see her, rosy and smiling, so different from the ice white young woman at the cemetery who’d looked as if a truck had run over her. And, well, it was really good to see her, period.

  Had he been planning on staying away forever? As the years rolled by, maybe his subconscious had been starting to think of coming back. Briefly. Just a day. He’d stayed away out of respect for the judge, but she was nearly twenty. It’s just that he’d been so goddamned busy. To his surprise, he’d taken to soldiering as if born to it. He’d been singled out for Ranger almost right from the start and had barely been folded into the unit when he’d been called in to ask if he wanted to apply to Delta.

  Fucking A he wanted to try out for Delta. The shooters. Of all the special forces, Deltas were shooters first and foremost and that was Nick. To his surprise, he’d also had a knack for languages and he’d been seconded to cross-train with France’s GIGN and Germany’s GSG–9.

  He’d been kept busy thirty-four hours a day, totally focused on the job. No room for romance with other women, either. Sex, yeah. There were always women in the bars around the bases, but he didn’t have time for anything other than sex. Two fucks in a row was the norm. Three on occasion. Four was a borderline relationship and that was off the cards.

  It turned out he didn’t have to deal with the judge, after all, and for that he was ashamed of himself. Men didn’t wimp out. He’d had no idea the judge had been so sick.

  Coming home. When he ran through the scenarios in his head, there’d been various outcomes. The judge kicking him out on his ass, just like last time, only without the money. The judge welcoming him back because, after all, Elle was an adult. The judge inviting him in for coffee, letting him know Elle was studying nuclear physics at Harvard or MIT and didn’t have time for a lowlife like him. The judge saying someone had snapped Elle up and she was married with a kid.

  That one hurt.

  The truth was the one thing he hadn’t planned on—Elle still here and the judge clocking out mentally before he did physically.

  “Stop thinking that, Nick. Right now.” Elle’s voice was low, very serious.

  Nick’s fork clattered to the plate. What the fuck? “Are you a mind reader?”

  Jesus. Maybe all those weird dreams he’d had of her were real. Maybe Elle could fuck with his head.

  “You wouldn’t let me think sad thoughts, so this is payback. And no, I’m not a mind reader. Don’t worry about that.” She leaned forward on her elbows, tucking a strand of pale hair behind one small ear. “You don’t have to be a mind reader to know that you were thinking dark thoughts. Sad thoughts. This house has kn
own nothing but sadness for years now. Sadness and darkness and despair. Daddy was frightened to death when they diagnosed him with Alzheimer’s because he knew exactly what was coming, both for him and for me—and it took all my energy, every ounce of it, to keep him cheerful for as long as there was a person inside him that could feel cheer. Daddy left a long time ago. I did my mourning a long time ago. I’ve had about as much sadness as a person can bear and I don’t want long sad faces around me. Now—” She slapped the surface of the table and made the water glass slosh over. “Smile, damn it!”

  Nick was so startled he did smile. Showing all his teeth, too.

  She smiled back at him, pleased with herself. “That’s right, Nick. I knew you could do it.”

  Oh God, look at her, he thought. Just like his nickname for her when she was a child. Pixie. A beautiful little pixie, slightly careworn, perched on the edge of her chair, surrounded by a cloud of blond hair, pale eyes like shards of summer sky, smiling at him.

  Irresistible. And he didn’t have to resist, did he? Because though by God she’d had a worse time of it than he had these past five years, his life hadn’t been all shits and giggles either.

  He’d chosen the hardest military training possible, probably the hardest on earth. These past years had been day after day of grueling physical and intellectual training, the only breaks actual field ops, getting shot at, which was marginally better than the rest of it. Lying in swamps in Indonesia for days waiting for a shot at the man who’d planted the Indianapolis bomb. Indonesia had 450 venomous insect species and he’d been bitten by every single one. The bare, arid plains of Tibet, helping train local fighters for the successful coup and breakaway from China. Four months spent fifteen thousand feet up on the Pakistani side of the Himalayas with only goats and four other Rangers for company, fires forbidden, trying to contain the situation, then scrambling to get out when Pakistan blew up.

  No, like his little Pixie, he felt it was smiling time. Pleasure time. God knows they both deserved it.