release form, where all she put was a nice big X, he reached inside the ambulance and handed her the blue waterproof bag.
“Thank you.” Avoiding Dillon’s puzzled gaze, she took the bag, clutched it to her chest along with the blanket, and felt the hated fear stealing back over her.
It was all she could do not to run.
<><><>
Dillon saw desperation and a sudden flicker of panic in Sara’s eyes he’d never seen before and it floored him. Sara didn’t spook. Instead of making her fragile, her childhood, what she’d endured from her father, had made her strong. Sturdy. She barreled through life, tough and fearless, gathering facts, reporting the news. And hell to those who got in her way.
Parentless by the age of eight, she’d been raised in an all girl prep school that believed in Latin, sterling decorum, and reaching one’s ‘full human potential’. The learned social graces made her a clever and congenial reporter. The streets made her wise and accomplished. Marriage made her vibrant, sometimes whimsical. But nothing had ever scared her. Not like this. This look, what he’d just now seen in her eyes looked unnerved. Hunted.
As soon as she had the bag and blanket secure, she started off down the beach. Driven. Determined. And nowhere near ready for a hike. She zigged one way and zagged the next. Dillon stared after her, then turned to the paramedic. “You figure she’s going to be all right?”
The medic shrugged. “Should be. Her vitals are stable. You’ll still want to watch her. And put some ice on that shiner.” He handed Dillon a plastic bag containing what appeared to be wet clothes. “She may want these.”
Dillon took the bag and started off after her, tossing a “Thanks” over his shoulder.
He caught up with her in four long strides. “Sara?” When she stumbled sideways, he caught her. The bag of clothes landed in the sand, and as Dillon turned her to face him, his heart stopped. It just completely stopped.
His wife was alive.
Alive and home and in his arms.
So where in God’s name had she been?
<><><>
Other than Matt, no one had called her Sara in twelve months. Not Craig. No one. Her own name sounded foreign to her, but at the same time so very familiar, and wonderful, coming from Dillon.
Her gaze traveled over her husband’s face. He was still too handsome, with dark, almost black hair, a chiseled face, and eyes bluer than a sunlit ocean, but he looked different now. Sure, he still had laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. His chin still wore a slight cleft. And yes, he still had the rough, lined face of a man who’d seen too much, worried and cared too much about the world around him. Which was, of course, what had made her fall in love with him in the first place. She’d never met anyone quite like Dillon and a large part of her mourned what he’d done, what he’d missed, and what might be.
His face was clean shaven now, tanned from the sun, and his long hair was gone. Even with the GQ looks, he looked grittier than he had a year ago. Harder somehow.
Strong arms eased her against a muscled chest, held her gently. He nuzzled her hair. “Sara,” he whispered. “You’re really alive. What happened? Where have you been?”
Her first reaction was hug tightly, to pull him close, to nuzzle. Then immediately on the heels of that was the thought to push him away. To fight off any hands that touched her. But after the day she’d had, her defenses were dull and his words so choked with feeling, that for a moment she surrendered and just let him hold her. Her emotions skidded and whirled in a chaotic blend of the known and purposely forgotten.
He's not like the others. He's kind and gentle. He's not those men. He’s not Sanchez.
He’s not your father.
Dillon won't hurt you.
But he had hurt her.
And because of that hurt, she shoved him off.
“Thank you.” Avoiding Dillon’s puzzled gaze, she took the bag, clutched it to her chest along with the blanket, and felt the hated fear stealing back over her.
It was all she could do not to run.
<><><>
Dillon saw desperation and a sudden flicker of panic in Sara’s eyes he’d never seen before and it floored him. Sara didn’t spook. Instead of making her fragile, her childhood, what she’d endured from her father, had made her strong. Sturdy. She barreled through life, tough and fearless, gathering facts, reporting the news. And hell to those who got in her way.
Parentless by the age of eight, she’d been raised in an all girl prep school that believed in Latin, sterling decorum, and reaching one’s ‘full human potential’. The learned social graces made her a clever and congenial reporter. The streets made her wise and accomplished. Marriage made her vibrant, sometimes whimsical. But nothing had ever scared her. Not like this. This look, what he’d just now seen in her eyes looked unnerved. Hunted.
As soon as she had the bag and blanket secure, she started off down the beach. Driven. Determined. And nowhere near ready for a hike. She zigged one way and zagged the next. Dillon stared after her, then turned to the paramedic. “You figure she’s going to be all right?”
The medic shrugged. “Should be. Her vitals are stable. You’ll still want to watch her. And put some ice on that shiner.” He handed Dillon a plastic bag containing what appeared to be wet clothes. “She may want these.”
Dillon took the bag and started off after her, tossing a “Thanks” over his shoulder.
He caught up with her in four long strides. “Sara?” When she stumbled sideways, he caught her. The bag of clothes landed in the sand, and as Dillon turned her to face him, his heart stopped. It just completely stopped.
His wife was alive.
Alive and home and in his arms.
So where in God’s name had she been?
<><><>
Other than Matt, no one had called her Sara in twelve months. Not Craig. No one. Her own name sounded foreign to her, but at the same time so very familiar, and wonderful, coming from Dillon.
Her gaze traveled over her husband’s face. He was still too handsome, with dark, almost black hair, a chiseled face, and eyes bluer than a sunlit ocean, but he looked different now. Sure, he still had laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. His chin still wore a slight cleft. And yes, he still had the rough, lined face of a man who’d seen too much, worried and cared too much about the world around him. Which was, of course, what had made her fall in love with him in the first place. She’d never met anyone quite like Dillon and a large part of her mourned what he’d done, what he’d missed, and what might be.
His face was clean shaven now, tanned from the sun, and his long hair was gone. Even with the GQ looks, he looked grittier than he had a year ago. Harder somehow.
Strong arms eased her against a muscled chest, held her gently. He nuzzled her hair. “Sara,” he whispered. “You’re really alive. What happened? Where have you been?”
Her first reaction was hug tightly, to pull him close, to nuzzle. Then immediately on the heels of that was the thought to push him away. To fight off any hands that touched her. But after the day she’d had, her defenses were dull and his words so choked with feeling, that for a moment she surrendered and just let him hold her. Her emotions skidded and whirled in a chaotic blend of the known and purposely forgotten.
He's not like the others. He's kind and gentle. He's not those men. He’s not Sanchez.
He’s not your father.
Dillon won't hurt you.
But he had hurt her.
And because of that hurt, she shoved him off.
Similar Books
