SEALs of Summer 2: A Military Romance Superbundle (51 page)

“God’s truth.” Tico made a miniature cross on his chest with his index finger. “In Haiti guys dressed in fancy suits like yours are trouble. Big, ugly trouble that I didn’t want anywhere near Dr. Morno. I owe her my life.”

Luke glanced at Ysabeau. The expression on her face implored him to take the creep at his word. He scrubbed his cheeks with the palms of his hands.

“So chief, we okay?” Tico made a circular movement with his finger. “Not gonna call the cops are you?”

“Your buddies could’ve killed me!”

“Nah.” Tico spread his hands, palms up. “Just scare you. A little. To keep you from the doc, that’s all.” His eyes were as innocent as a lamb’s. “Didn’t work out too well, ’cuz look, here you are.”

“Please, think about it, Luke. Tico has a police record,” Ysabeau said softly.

“Why am I not surprised?”

“He’s not like that anymore. He changed.”

“Are you shitting me?” Luke pointed to his face. “Look what he did to me.”

“Pretty ugly, but I can’t take all the credit,” Tico said. “Your parents get some of the blame.”

Luke lunged until he was glaring into Tico’s eyeballs.

“Tico!” Ysabeau touched Luke’s shoulder, gently pulling him back. “I don’t expect you to forgive him, but can he make amends? They’ll kill him in prison.”

Tico nodded. “Too many rival gang members in the Haitian penal system. Not a safe place for me.”

Luke crossed his arms. “Not my problem.”

“He’s my responsibility. I promised his mother that I’d take care of him. For three years he’s stayed out of trouble. Until now.” Those gorgeous eyes welled with tears. “I can’t have another death on my conscience.”

Ah, hell.
“My things. How long until I get them back?”

“Soon. End of the week, two weeks tops.” Tico nodded like a man possessed. “Everything’s gonna be fine, right chief?”

“Stop calling me that!”

“Whatcha want me to call you?”

He glared at the kid. “Your worst nightmare. I know who you are and where you work. Return my stuff. All of it, in perfect condition, and I won’t call the cops.”

“No
problème
. Just like I said.”

Luke held out his hand. “My watch?”

Tico looked at his arm as if the Rolex had suddenly sprouted there. “Oh, yeah. I was keeping it safe for you. Here.” Slowly, carefully, he took the watch off. He blew hot air on the glass and polished it on his T-shirt.

“Give me that!” Luke snatched it from him. He searched for scratches, dents, anything on the watch to give him just cause to boot Tico into next week. Sadly, the Rolex was clean and running. “You fixed it?”

Tico nodded. “Works perfectly now. We good, chief?” There was just a twinge of fear in his eyes.

Tico afraid of him? That
was
good. “I want the rest before I go home, or you’re jailbait, got it? Two days.”

Tico shot Ysabeau a nervous glance. “Two days?”

“You got it,
chief
.” Luke rubbed his stubbled chin and said to Ysabeau, “All right if I use your shower and clean up? I could use a shave.”

“Of course,” she said softly.

As Luke hobbled off toward the bathroom, he heard Ysabeau’s voice rising behind him. Tico’s whiny responses grated against his spine. He couldn’t understand a single Kreyòl word, but knew an argument when he heard one. He hoped Ysabeau was demoting the creep, or kicking his skinny ass out of the clinic altogether.

Then the realization hit—in a short time no one would be working at the clinic. Not even Ysabeau.

The shower made Luke feel more human. He rewrapped the bandage around his ribs, put his new clothes back on, and went in search of Ysabeau. He found her in the kitchen pulling vegetables out of the refrigerator.

“Wow, you look better,” she said over her shoulder. “A lot. Better.”

“Amazing what a little water and soap can do.”

She gazed at him for an extra-long beat. “You must be tired. Why don’t you take a nap while I make supper?”

He bristled.
And give you the opportunity to slip more painkillers in my soup? No friggin way.
“I’ve got a better idea. Prop me up in a corner and give me a task, like chopping vegetables. I’m a good chopper.”

“I don’t want you to strain yourself.”

“Aw, come on. I’m a manly man, remember? I can chop, fry, and grill with the best of ’em.”

The corners of her lips turned up just a hair. “Much more manly now that you’ve retired my robe. All right. Let’s make supper.”

She set him up at the barstool with a cutting board, a knife, an onion, and a carrot. After rubbing spices into a guinea hen and popping it into the oven, she plopped a bag of red potatoes in the sink to peel them.

“Clearly, you gave me the toughest job, Ysabeau,” he teased.

“Oh, I did. I hate chopping onions.” Ysabeau peeked her head in the refrigerator, moved things all round, and scratched her nose. “Hmm, I thought I had a papaya in here.”

“Yeah.” He grimaced. “I might’ve eaten it. Oh, and the mango too. Sorry. I was starving.”

She looked startled. “I didn’t mean to leave you alone for so long. You could have fallen or hurt yourself.”

“Because of the Vicodin you slipped me?”

Her mouth fell open. “I…how…how did you find out?”

“I don’t take painkillers, Ysabeau. Tylenol, or Advil, sometimes, but not the big guns. You need to be honest about my treatment. Deal?”

She came to him and gently probed the lump on his head. “I can’t get the image out of my head. Your beaten body lying in the alley…”

He flinched when she touched his bruised bump, but held still while her soft fingers trailed his cheek. “I’m better now. Really.”

“Once the Vicodin wears off, you’ll be hurting again.” She gazed deeply into his eyes.

“I’ll deal with it.”

Tipping her head, she studied him. “You must be in a lot of pain. Why won’t you take the pills? Oh.” Something resembling guilt colored her cheeks. “You’re an addict, aren’t you? I wouldn’t have…I didn’t know.”

“I’m not addicted to anything, unless you count fast cars,” he joked.

She didn’t laugh.

Running his fingers through his hair, he wondered how he could explain it to her. Some things were damned hard.

“I’ve been where you are, Ysabeau. Trying to ease someone’s pain. My wife died a few years ago. Cancer. She suffered for many, many years. There was nothing I could do.” His voice cracked. “I desperately wanted to take away her pain, but Soli hated the drugs because of what they stole from her. The Morphine and Vicodin knocked her out and robbed me of the little time I had left with my wife.”

He exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “The simplest answer I can give you is I don’t do drugs because my wife didn’t. Not until the end.”

The simplest answer was the best he could give, even though it wasn’t the whole truth.

“I’m sorry, Luke.” She had the strangest look on her face, as if something that had been worrying her suddenly made sense. Her gaze traveled to the top of his head and slowly around his body. He didn’t know what to make of it.

“It’s okay. I want you to understand,” he said.

“She is always with you. Your wife.” It was a statement, not a question.

He nodded slowly. In his memories, in his dreams, she was there.

“I will take care of him. I promise,” she said to the air around his head.

Luke’s eyebrows shot up.

“No more drugs. But you must stay here until you are better.” She put out her hand. “Deal?”

He sunk his hand in hers and marveled at her velvety skin. It was hard to let go. “Deal.”

She turned back to fixing dinner. He didn’t move. He was still thinking about her warm, soft hands. He wondered how they would feel on other parts of his skin. The thought stunned him. For a second he was frozen in place watching the sleek muscles in her arms working at chopping red potatoes. His gaze traveled over her muscular shoulders and down her back to the firm butt that filled her khaki pants. A man could grab hold of that sweet behind and—

“Music?” She glanced over her shoulder at him.

He cleared his throat and quickly brought his gaze up to her face. “Pardon?”

Wiping her hands on a dishtowel, she explained, “I usually play music while I cook. And eat, and well, everything. It keeps me company.”

He winced. He knew how quiet and lonely an empty house could be. “Sure. Music would be great.”

She reached behind him and pressed the power button on a boom box. He recognized the first cords of a song.

“Van Morrison?” He grinned.

Her chin dropped. “He’s one of my favorites. You’ve heard of him?”

“Are you kidding me?” He joined Van Morrison in singing the words to “Brown-Eyed Girl.”

She laughed. “I guess you have.”

He took her hands in his and led her to the middle of the floor. Pulling her close, he sang softly in her ear and swayed to the beat.

“What are you doing?” She pulled back stiffly.

“That was called
singing
. I’m not the greatest at it.” He spun her away from him and back. “I do know a few moves. Dance with me.” It had been years, maybe a lifetime, since he’d danced. He wasn’t going to let this moment slip through his hands.

“Your ribs. Your injured leg!”

“Relax, woman.”

She gave in and moved to the beat. They locked their fingers together and soon they were both singing about a brown-eyed girl standing in the sunlight. Their voices rose at the chorus until it was a competition to be the loudest to sing “la-la’s.” Ysabeau won. Soon they were laughing like children. His ribs did hurt, terribly. He ignored them. Ysabeau’s laughter was far more important than his bruises. He spun her under his arm one more time, and she landed against his chest, breathing heavily.

He held her there as Van Morrison began to sing another classic—“Have I Told You Lately?”

Luke whispered, “
I love you
?”

She jerked back until she realized he wasn’t making a grand statement, simply singing the words. Resting her cheek on his shoulder, she held on tight as they swayed to the soft beat. He stopped singing. Her breasts pressed into his chest, their knees softly bumped together, and Luke’s heart beat like a race horse’s. It was a great moment.

Van Morrison stopped singing far too soon. The CD was over.

She sighed against him, and he thought it was possibly the most amazing sound he’d ever heard. It killed him. Time slowed, and Luke became acutely aware of his senses. Ysabeau smelled as sweet as a tropical morning. She was warm and soft in his arms. His own pulse thundered in his ears.

Her dark lashes feathered lightly on her cheeks, and her amber eyes were closed when she whispered, “I’ve never danced in my kitchen before.”

“That’s a crime.” When she opened her eyes and looked into his, his breath caught somewhere near his sternum. “A woman like you should never be alone.”

She blinked back a sudden welling of tears. He’d hit a soft spot.

He imagined her spot was similar to his. He’d be damned if he let himself dwell on the hole he carried around inside. Why waste time thinking about things he couldn’t change? His life was full of that shit. But every now and again, when silence slammed around like a poltergeist inside his empty rooms and his bed seemed too big for one man, he admitted the truth. He wanted to fall in love again and not die alone.

“Thank you for the dance.” Her voice was deep and sexy. “Both of them.”

She pulled back from him, exhaling through her parted lips, softly caressing his newly-shaved jawline. Did she know the single act of breathing was turning him on? Need, desire, and want all flooded his senses. A warning shot went off in his head. What he really wanted to do was a very bad idea. Super bad. He ignored everything but the beautiful moist lips so close to his. Very, very close.

He kissed Ysabeau.

‡

I
t was a
gentle kiss that flashed through her senses as warm chocolate on silk. His lips on hers were luxurious and intoxicating. Before she knew what she was doing, she was kissing him back. Heat electrified every nerve ending she owned. How she wanted this heat, craved it. It had been so long since she’d kissed a man. Coiling her arms around his neck, she struggled to keep from begging, crying for more. More heat. More kisses. More everything.

He pressed the small of her back with his warm hands. She wanted those hands all over her skin. And those lips too. Everywhere.
Holy Mother…

Passion pooled in her stomach, between her legs. It would be simple to give in. She’d let him lead her to bed, just as he’d led her around the kitchen—strongly, surely—and they’d perform a different dance. One which she could imagine would be hot and sweet. It would be so simple to make love to him.

So completely impossible.

What was she doing? She didn’t have the luxury of falling in love. Not when her patients were dying.

Her mind snapped to as if she’d been in a deep dream and was finally waking up. She broke the kiss and pushed him back. “I… need…” She struggled to find words. Her thoughts kept drifting to the heartbeat she could feel under her palms as she pressed against his incredibly muscular chest. Maybe he really was
Baron La Croix,
the sexy Spirit of Death. “…to finish dinner.”