Under Fire
Page 3God, he was so appealing in a way that went beyond just the camo uniform.
How strange was it to be so attracted to him at a time she was scared to death. Must be adrenaline, like when they’d been in the Bahamas and she’d been so very, very tempted to jump into bed with him, even though they’d only kissed—a wowsa, knock-your-socks-off lip-lock that stayed with her even when they weren’t touching at all.
At times like this, it was tough to remember he was a guy who effortlessly charmed women. He even married them just as easily.
He stroked her hair behind her ear a final time, calluses snagging her skin as he cupped the back of her neck. “Are you ready to go inside and talk?”
“Yes, please.” She looked over her shoulder at her dog. The black Lab tipped his head to the side, confusion stamped in his big chocolate eyes.
She understood the feeling well.
“Come, Disco.” She snapped her fingers. Her Lab bounded effortlessly out to join her in the most organized garage she’d ever seen.
Tools dangled on a Peg-Board in perfect lines over a workbench, only a light hint of oil clinging to the air. Double-timing to keep up with Liam’s long-legged stride, she charged toward the door leading into the house, walking under a mountain bike and a beach cruiser hanging upside down from hooks in the ceiling. She waited by a pristine riding lawn mower as Liam disarmed a security system and unlocked the dead bolt.
“Your garage is tidier than my living room.” She hitched her knapsack over one shoulder, thinking of her rustic home full of well-worn leather furniture and dog toys.
“It’s a temporary rental, since this is a short-term assignment. I’m rarely home anyway,” he shot over his shoulder before pushing inside. “Not much time to mess anything up before I head off to the next base.”
With that kind of moving history, she would have expected stacks of unpacked boxes rather than the top-notch organization. For all his intensity on the job, Liam had a laid-back humor that had made her wonder about what he was like outside of the work world. Still, she needed that analytical perfection now to untangle the mess she’d somehow landed in the middle of.
She walked through the laundry room that had only one basket of clothes on the dryer—presumably already washed, given the superneat state of everything else—and entered the eat-in kitchen. Disco’s nails clicked against the terra-cotta tile floors. She took her time studying the eating area, curious about the man and soaking up clues for how best to share what she knew with him. To win him over, when so many others didn’t believe her.
And yeah, she knew she was stalling, terrified he wouldn’t believe her either. Having the cops disregard her had been frustrating. Having Liam look at her as if she were a loon? Just the possibility shredded her already-ragged nerves, especially with the weight of his curious gaze following her every step. She needed to sound credible, logical.
Sane.
While spit-shine clean, the place still shouted bachelor. Basic white walls, and tile floors with no real rugs to speak of, just a plain brown doormat for wiping off feet on the way in. An archway separated the kitchen from the living area with a black leather couch and a huge recliner.
And a foosball table?
What would it have been like if she’d scrounged up the gumption to call or see him during the past six months, before this crisis? She’d been only a short drive away since she’d moved from Virginia to Southern Florida, just far enough outside of Miami to avoid their pit bull banning laws. So close to him, without making contact. Like holding her hand just shy of the flame. Her skin heating, even blistering, but never daring to plunge right in and accept the fire.
Pretty much the story of her adult social life.
Her nerves kicked up a storm again to match the one pounding away outside. Pivoting toward him, she found Liam leaning against the laminate counter, his concerned eyes stroking over her frazzled nerves.
“Nice kitchen.” She trailed her hand along the counter beside a surprising lineup of top-of-the-line cooking aids—a food processor, blender, and coffee grinder. “Do you actually use these as often as the foosball table?”
“My mom always said a man should know how to feed himself, not to expect a woman will always do the cooking. Although restocking a kitchen after every divorce is pricey. Chicks always get the kitchen stuff in the breakup. Guys get the foosball table. Not fair, but hey, that’s life.” His gemstone eyes went from lighthearted to intense in a flash. “Are we done with the small talk now? Because honestly, I’m worried about you.”
And he had good reason.
“Can we sit down? It’s… complicated.” Under-statement of the year.
He gestured to the simple oak table and pulled out a ladder-back chair for her.
Suddenly exhaustion rolled over her, heavier even than when she’d worked a round-the-clock SAR mission. She dropped into the seat, letting her backpack fall to the floor. Her dog stretched out on the scarred tile beside her.
Pulling up a chair, Liam rested a foot on his other knee, so very close to her without touching. More of that restraint showed on his face while he just waited for her to find the right words, figure out exactly where to start.
“Things have changed for me since the earthquake in the Bahamas. The three weeks there really burned me out.” Her emotions had been tougher to handle around Liam, another reason she’d been scared to contact him until life forced her hand. “I needed a new direction and found it with this group up in the D.C. area. They train therapy dogs for PTSD patients. About three months ago, I accepted the challenge to assist in starting a Southern Florida branch.”
“Three months ago? And you finally decided to stop by and see me.” He clapped a hand to his chest. “I’m touched.”
A blush burned her face and down her neck. “I’m sorry.”
And she meant it. She wished things could be different between them, but she couldn’t change her past and how it had marked her.
He nodded tightly. As if she really had hurt him? But he was the man who fell in and out of love as often as he changed military bases.
“Oh, right.” She toyed with a cardboard salt shaker, fidgeting, edgy. She was running on fumes. “The new branch has been busy, but productive. We train and work with both emotional support animals and psychiatric service dogs.”
“What’s the difference?” he interrupted.
“Huh?” His question, his genuine interest, caught her off guard. “An ESA—emotional support animal—provides companionship, the presence offering a calming effect. But a PSD—psychiatric service dog—performs acts. It’s about more than emotional support. A service dog may remind a person to take medications. Retrieve a medication bag. Nudge the handler during a fear-paralysis stage. Provide deep pressure therapy during a panic attack.”
She rolled the salt shaker between her palms. “But that’s beside the point.”
“And your point is?”
Her gut clenched. The point wiped away the possibility of flirting or attraction or what ifs. “I got a call from a caretaker that one of the veterans I’d been working with was having a breakdown that freaked out even the dog. So I went, helped calm the dog, and before I knew it, the combat vet, Brandon…” Her hands rolled the shaker faster and faster. “He told me things. Scary stuff about someone in his chain of command selling secrets from a satellite defense program. Brandon said no one would listen to him because of his PTSD.”
Liam’s foot slid from his knee, both boots on the floor. “And you believe him? This Brandon—?”
“Brandon Harris.”
“You trust this Brandon Harris dude?” Skepticism and concern warred in his eyes. “In spite of the trauma he must have experienced recently?”
“I do.” She nodded, the shock, the scope of it all, stinging through her veins again. “I encouraged him to speak with the base authorities, and they totally blew him off just as he’d predicted. They think he’s whacked out and delusional even though he’s actually a military cop himself.”
His eyebrows rose at that. “Really?”
“It didn’t seem to make them any more likely to listen to him. If anything, I think Brandon feared losing face in front of them.”
Liam grabbed her wrist and plucked the salt shaker from her hands. He set it beside the pepper while still holding on to her. “What makes you think the security police are wrong? Brandon could be seriously unbalanced. It can happen all too easily after the kind of things soldiers face.”
Clearly, Liam had shifted into protector mode, but at least he was questioning rather than simply dismissing her outright. Hope pawed around inside her, then curled up, solid, real—and scary, as she actually embraced the idea that someone might believe her.
And the warmth of his hand holding hers felt so good after the bone-deep chill of fear that had gripped her for the past two weeks. “At first it was just an instinct thing. So I offered to go with him to speak with someone higher up the chain, out in the civilian world, like the FBI or CIA.”
“A representative from the local branch of both offices took notes and said their people would look into it. We thought maybe things would get moving. They hadn’t called Brandon unbalanced. They seemed to take him seriously. We waited to hear more… and nothing.”
“Maybe they’re investigating still.”
“I would like to think so. Except then I got a threatening phone call that came from a ‘caller unknown’ number telling me to back off and keep my mouth shut or there would be consequences.”
His thumb stopped moving, his eyes narrowing.
Panic bubbled low again as she remembered the disguised voice, the death threats. She gripped Liam’s hand. “I reported it to everyone we’d spoken to. Base security said there was nothing they could do, since I’m a civilian. Local police said they didn’t have enough to investigate, even if they did have enough manpower, which they don’t, thanks to chasing drug lords and human traffickers twenty-four/seven. I went to the CIA again. They were polite, brief, and obviously completely unconcerned. I figured they wouldn’t believe me if I told them I thought I heard clicking sounds on the phone line, like it was being bugged.” She winced. “Are you ready to have me committed yet?”
“I’m still listening, aren’t I?” He squeezed her hand.
She sucked in a bracing breath, the scent of ammonia cleaner hanging in the air. “Two days ago, someone tried to poison my dog.”
“You think the CIA is after your dog?” he asked in a voice too calm, as if he thought she’d gone over the edge.
So much for help and comfort.
“No, I don’t think the CIA went after Disco, but someone did. Someone who didn’t like the questions Brandon and I stirred up.” She tugged her hand free. “You do think I’ve gone bonkers.”
He spread his hands wide. “Come on, Rachel. You have to admit, all of this sounds improbable.”
“I know.” God, did she ever know. And she hadn’t realized until now how very solitary her life had become, completely focused on work, until she’d realized how few people she could turn to for help. She leaned in urgently, grabbing his hand this time. “Still, Liam, I heard what I heard on the phone. Then my dog was suddenly ill in a way that could only be poison. Even the vet said so. The timing couldn’t be coincidental.”
“Have you considered the man who told you that wild conspiracy story could have had a psychotic break? He was unstable to begin with. Could he could be the one threatening you?” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">