Into the Crossfire (22 page)

on waking up and her last thought at night.

Helping him die was eating her alive. And eating up all her financial

resources. She didn't know which would finish first--her father or her money.

She didn't care at all for herself, but she was terrified at the thought of her

father spending the last months of his life without the comforts she killed herself

to provide for him.

She'd already been to the bank to see about taking out a mortgage on the

house and they'd laughed at her. Whatever resources she could use to ease her

father's life had to come from Wordsmith, the company she was struggling to keep

afloat.

The terror that her father would be less than comfortable at the end of his

life was like a sharp nail hammering into her head, hour by hour, minute by

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minute. Each time she saw a medical bill a vise tightened around her heart,

squeezing hard.

Except for last night.

All of that had been utterly wiped from her mind during the hours she'd

spent in Sam's arms, all that worry and darkness replaced by heat so intense it

scorched her. Part of her was ashamed that she'd been able to simply toss her

problems overboard for a couple of hours while drowning in sensuality, and part

of her had reveled in it. She hadn't thought of any of it--sick father, money

problems, trying to get Wordsmith off the ground--all the constant overload of

worry that ate at her every waking moment.

Gone, like smoke. While she had a godzillion orgasms.

Nicole watched the cursor blinking on the screen. She'd translated a

sentence and a half in the past hour. It was eight in the evening and the translation

should have been finished.

This was crazy.

With a sigh, she closed the computer down, extracted the portable hard disk

and went to the dining room that had been converted into a hospital room for her

father.

The night nurse looked up from the magazine she was reading and stood.

Nicole waved her back in her chair.

"How's he doing?" Nicole asked softly, walking to his bedside, avoiding the

IV tree pumping God only knew how many chemicals into him.

"Blood pressure normal, heart rate normal. He's mildly sedated. He'll sleep

through the night." The nurse's voice was low, brisk, objective. Nicole appreciated

that. She was efficient and unemotional, which Nicole needed. Manuela

sometimes broke out in tears at unexpected moments and it didn't help. The nurse's

quiet calm was soothing.

"Good." Nicole gently laid her hand over her father's. The IV line was in

the other hand, where they'd finally found a vein. The backs of both hands were

darkly mottled where the thin veins broke. It was increasingly difficult to find a

strong vein for the IV fluids and medicines that were keeping him alive.

Nicole knew that the next step was a minor operation to open up a

subclavian IV catheter line, which would create its own problems of bloodstream

infection.

Her father's hand was cold and still. He was always cold, no matter what

she did to keep him warm. His body simply no longer had the energy to warm

itself.

She looked down at him, her last living relative on this earth, the person she

loved more than anyone in the world.

He was leaving her, a little each day, and there was nothing she could do

about it. Not all her tears, not all her care could halt the disease's progress. In the

beginning, she'd read up ferociously on brain cancer, joined internet forums, talked

endlessly online with patients, with the doctors. Read everything about brain

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cancer until the words blurred and until finally, she could read no more.

They were past all that. There was nothing science could do for her father,

and the only thing she could do for him was to love him with all her heart and

make sure he was as comfortable as she could possibly make him.

Often, if she held him long enough, she was able to transfer some of her

young warmth to him. It pleased them both. She'd been holding his hand for ten

minutes, but his hand wasn't warming up. So that had been taken from them, too.

"I'm going out," she told the nurse. "I'll be gone a couple of hours, maybe

more."

"That's fine." The nurse settled back in the chair with her magazine. Nicole

knew that she would spring instantly into action at the first sign of distress from

her father. She was a good nurse and had passed many a sleepless night with Dad.

He was in good hands.

Nicole grabbed her briefcase, quietly closed the front door behind her and

headed for her car. She stopped for a moment, breathing in the late evening air.

The extreme heat of the day had dissipated but it was still pleasantly warm. It felt

good to be outside after spending the day working. Trying to work.

It was a quarter to nine--rush hour was long over. Traffic would be light,

she could make it into her office in less than twenty minutes.

Just the thought of her office, so pretty, so ordered, so silent, with no

demands on her other than work, calmed her. She had a Pavlovian response in her

office, focusing on work immediately with no outside distractions.

Four or five hours' solid work there would more than make up for the lost

day. She suddenly yearned for the cool calm of her office the way a desert

straggler yearned for water.

She was in the car, pulling away from the curb, before she realized that

something was missing. That slight edgy feeling in her gut that Creepy and

Creepier would come out and harass her.

But nobody had. The two seemed to live to watch her come and go from

her house but tonight there was silence.

Thanks to Mike.

Thanks to Sam.

Whoa.

No, no. She'd done way too much thinking about Sam. Tomorrow she'd

have to face him, make some kind of decision about him, but today she was going

in circles and had to stop.

Don't think about Sam. Her new mantra.

The next few hours had to be about the job. She resolutely focused on what

needed to be done as she drove into town, making good time on the almost-empty

roads. She had mentally drafted her to-do list, sifted through priorities and decided

which translation went to whom, by the time she pulled into her slot in the

underground garage.

Being good at her job, making Wordsmith a success, had a direct bearing

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on her father's well-being. She had to remember that. Stay focused.

As always, she enjoyed the ride up in the elevator. It was usually full in the

mornings and evenings as the building filled up and emptied out. Tonight it was

empty, a big, wood-and-brass cube with bronze internal doors so polished they

were as reflective as mirrors.

She looked at herself and winced as the elevator smoothly rose. Thank God

it wasn't office hours. She made such a point about meticulous grooming on the

job, it was a good thing no one saw her. Hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, no

makeup, jeans, a white shirt and flats. She looked at her face reflected in the doors.

She looked tired and worried. Which was as it should be, because she was tired

and worried.

The elevator whooshed to a stop and pinged as the doors opened. She

walked down the corridor, itching to get to work. The evening cleanup crew hadn't

arrived yet. The flower arrangements were drooping; there was a streak on the

floor where someone had dragged something heavy.

Tomorrow morning it would be pristine. Nicole loved that, that there was

something in her life that someone else took care of.

She stopped in front of her door, in the middle of the corridor. Though she

ached to reach the sanctuary of her office, she instinctively turned left, as if

compelled by a powerful magnet.

She stood before a door exactly like her own except that the little shiny

brass plaque read Reston Security instead of Wordsmith.

Nicole reached out a hand to touch the cool, smooth wood.

Sam's office. Tomorrow morning he would be behind this door.

She'd ring the doorbell and he'd open the door and...what? The next few

minutes were a complete and utter blank in her mind. What would she say? Sorry?

Sorry, Sam, I just freaked. Couldn't deal with you at all.

Would he forgive her?

She was so tired. Not just from last night and today. She was tired from

wrestling with her problems day in, day out. So tired some barriers in her mind

were coming down, crumbling to the floor, leaving her naked and raw and

defenseless.

She stood, head bowed, hand on the door for a few minutes, coming to

terms with the fact that she was looking forward to seeing Sam Reston again

tomorrow. To absorbing some of the heat and strength that he seemed so happy to

share with her.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow something might change in her life. But for tonight,

she had work to do.

Feeling somehow better, Nicole turned back to her own door, fit her key in

the lock and pushed it, feeling for the light switch as the door swung closed behind

her.

Suddenly, hands grabbed her, slammed her against the wall so brutally it

knocked the breath out of her. A cold steel circle ground so hard against her

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temple, the skin broke. A drop of blood slid down her cheek, dripped off her chin.

She couldn't breathe, couldn't see.

A puff of breath against her ear and a low, vicious voice. "Scream, and I'll

blow your head off."

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Sam knew it was stupid staying late in the office when he wasn't getting

any work done and he had a perfectly good home to go to. But the thought of

walking into his house without Nicole, without having spoken to her, made his

stomach clench. Would the house still smell of her? The sheets would. God, he'd

ground her into his sheets. They would smell of her and taste of her. Shit, if he

went home without her, he'd just wander around his living room with a sad boner

and nowhere to go with it.

He had to go home sometime, though. Harry and Mike were keeping tabs

on him. If he was still here at midnight, they'd come to take him away, probably to

some bar somewhere to get him drunk, then they'd get him home.

It was a thought. Getting shit-faced, oh yeah. Maybe pick up someone in

the bar, fuck her, start getting Nicole out of his head.

Nope, that wouldn't work. The thought had no appeal at all. Zero.

Jesus, this was scary shit. His cock hadn't even stirred at the thought of

fucking another woman. If anything, it shriveled, balls curling up into his groin. If

his dick could talk it'd tell him only Nicole would do, which was bad juju, since

the lady wasn't talking to him.

He'd finally stopped calling her office and her home around midday, when

she'd taken her phone off the hook. Cell phone still off, so he was stymied.

Mike had reported back on his mission to put the fear of God into those two

scumbags but he'd been annoyingly close-mouthed about Nicole. When Sam had

asked him how Nicole looked, he'd answered, "Beautiful."

Yeah, thanks Mike. If there was one thing Sam knew in the world, it was

that Nicole Pearce was beautiful.

Mike also said that Nicole loved her father very much.

After that, Mike just zipped it, leaving Sam hanging.

Sam sat behind his big desk, a big, fat, shiny success symbol that went

nicely with the big, fat, shiny success symbol that was his office, and

contemplated this huge curveball life had thrown at him.

Ever since his eighteenth birthday, when no one had any legal power over

him anymore, he'd gotten everything he wanted out of life. It hadn't been easy,

fuck no, especially becoming a SEAL, but by Christ, if he set his mind to it, if

hard work and intelligence and perseverance could get it, it was his.

He'd never failed a mission he set for himself.

Except right now, when failure was staring him in the face. He'd rarely

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wanted anything in his life the way he wanted Nicole, but she'd slid right out of his

grasp, and he didn't have the faintest idea what it would take to get her back.

He was dying, here. Just sinking down into some black hole, with no clue

to where a handhold would be.

Sam sank further into his extremely comfortable, $6,000 designer chair he'd

been embarrassed to buy but the decorator had insisted on.

Fuck. He was whining. Good thing Mike and Harry couldn't see him now,

because they'd knock all this self-pity right out of him.

But the thing was, in every mission he'd ever had, he knew exactly what it

would take to get what he wanted. Hard work and willpower usually, things he

was capable of in spades.

But Nicole wasn't graduating BUD/S or surviving a firefight or founding a

company. She was a woman, with a woman's totally unfathomable heart, and Sam

simply couldn't see his way clear here. It was like being lost in a fog.

He second-guessed every move. Call, not call? Well, that was blown out of

the water when he spent all morning punching out her home number.

That hadn't worked well.

What would she want? What would help?

Send flowers? What kind? He'd read somewhere while waiting in a

barbershop that roses were over. No one wanted roses, they showed that a man had