Regret and sadness, anger and fear collided.
Together, you make the perfect target.
“I can’t stay here.” She sidestepped around him, trying once again to escape.
He caught her arm and said, “Sure you can.” Voice soft. Eyes firm. Both bewildered.
Dammit. She didn’t want this. Couldn’t afford it.
Except… She had no money, no ID, no clothes, not even shoes. The only thing she did have would likely get her killed.
Your fault Dillon. Yours, yours, yours.
And…mine. Dear God, I never should have followed you.
She pulled her arm away. As she did, she stopped, looked hard at her left hand.
Her ring. She didn’t even have her ring. Not that her wedding ring should mean much at this point, but the fact that it was no doubt at the bottom of the Pacific by now, well, hurt. It hurt a lot.
The raw fatigue that had been shadowing finally slammed into her. She felt herself sway.
“Oh hell,” Dillon whispered, “you always did know how to make an entrance.” And before she could decide what to do, where to go, Dillon matter-of-factly swung her up into his arms and carried her over the sand, over the blacktop, into a quiet, cool building.
“I suppose,” she said, and let her head rest against his shoulder. She just needed a minute to rest. Just a minute and then she’d be back on her feet and out of his life.
He didn’t stop until he reached the inner sanctum of his office. After setting her gently in a chair, he closed the door, then in one fluid motion he was kneeling next to her, touching her face, her hair, her arms. “You’re really here.”
The nightmare bled in. Faces shimmered, danced, merged. She pushed him away.
Dillon stood and folded his arms across his chest. Leaned a hip against his desk. “No touching. Okay. You’re hurt and I can see that. But what I can’t seem to figure out is why you seem so bent on dodging me. You going to help me out?”
She inhaled and let her breath out slowly.
Tall and broad shouldered, Dillon wore a green Special Forces T-shirt stretched tightly over thick muscles. His windblown hair, the darkness of it, in contrast with the blue of his eyes, was striking. He looked strong and powerful.
And vulnerable.
But dammit, everything she’d gone through--all thosemonths of hell--the pain, the fear, the isolation and loneliness, the worry for her child, Sanchez…everything…his fault.
Yes, she should not have followed him. She knew that now.
But Dillon had done the unforgivable, the inexcusable. He had broken a sacred vow. He may have broken them all.
To love, honor, cherish, he’d said. To protect he’d promised.
Liar. Liar, liar, liar.
She sat in fear and anguish and confusion, sat and fumed in disdain and resentment, and thought that maybe she hated him....or if not him exactly, then what he’d let happen to her, what he’d done with another woman, and she realized as she sat there, debating an umbrageous departure, that she couldn’t leave because she not only didn’t have clothes, she had no direction.
Her anger lost momentum as a dull ache started behind her eyes and the bravery she'd held on to started to crumble. Find Craig. Get Ellie. Then, she wondered, would she still have to hide? Would the contents in the nylon bag end this nightmare?
“Sara?”
“Wait. Please. I need to think.”
He pushed away from the desk and paced. Scrubbed a hand over his face. “Think? About what? What the hell’s going on? I thought you were dead. I saw it happen with my own eyes. Why haven’t you contacted me? Why didn’t you let me know you were alive?”
Dillon wanted answers she couldn’t give. Not yet. Better to keep him at arm’s length until she knew more. Until they were both safe. “I have to go,” she said, tightening the blanket. “Please. I can’t be here. I need to leave. I’m sorry.”
He
Together, you make the perfect target.
“I can’t stay here.” She sidestepped around him, trying once again to escape.
He caught her arm and said, “Sure you can.” Voice soft. Eyes firm. Both bewildered.
Dammit. She didn’t want this. Couldn’t afford it.
Except… She had no money, no ID, no clothes, not even shoes. The only thing she did have would likely get her killed.
Your fault Dillon. Yours, yours, yours.
And…mine. Dear God, I never should have followed you.
She pulled her arm away. As she did, she stopped, looked hard at her left hand.
Her ring. She didn’t even have her ring. Not that her wedding ring should mean much at this point, but the fact that it was no doubt at the bottom of the Pacific by now, well, hurt. It hurt a lot.
The raw fatigue that had been shadowing finally slammed into her. She felt herself sway.
“Oh hell,” Dillon whispered, “you always did know how to make an entrance.” And before she could decide what to do, where to go, Dillon matter-of-factly swung her up into his arms and carried her over the sand, over the blacktop, into a quiet, cool building.
“I suppose,” she said, and let her head rest against his shoulder. She just needed a minute to rest. Just a minute and then she’d be back on her feet and out of his life.
He didn’t stop until he reached the inner sanctum of his office. After setting her gently in a chair, he closed the door, then in one fluid motion he was kneeling next to her, touching her face, her hair, her arms. “You’re really here.”
The nightmare bled in. Faces shimmered, danced, merged. She pushed him away.
Dillon stood and folded his arms across his chest. Leaned a hip against his desk. “No touching. Okay. You’re hurt and I can see that. But what I can’t seem to figure out is why you seem so bent on dodging me. You going to help me out?”
She inhaled and let her breath out slowly.
Tall and broad shouldered, Dillon wore a green Special Forces T-shirt stretched tightly over thick muscles. His windblown hair, the darkness of it, in contrast with the blue of his eyes, was striking. He looked strong and powerful.
And vulnerable.
But dammit, everything she’d gone through--all thosemonths of hell--the pain, the fear, the isolation and loneliness, the worry for her child, Sanchez…everything…his fault.
Yes, she should not have followed him. She knew that now.
But Dillon had done the unforgivable, the inexcusable. He had broken a sacred vow. He may have broken them all.
To love, honor, cherish, he’d said. To protect he’d promised.
Liar. Liar, liar, liar.
She sat in fear and anguish and confusion, sat and fumed in disdain and resentment, and thought that maybe she hated him....or if not him exactly, then what he’d let happen to her, what he’d done with another woman, and she realized as she sat there, debating an umbrageous departure, that she couldn’t leave because she not only didn’t have clothes, she had no direction.
Her anger lost momentum as a dull ache started behind her eyes and the bravery she'd held on to started to crumble. Find Craig. Get Ellie. Then, she wondered, would she still have to hide? Would the contents in the nylon bag end this nightmare?
“Sara?”
“Wait. Please. I need to think.”
He pushed away from the desk and paced. Scrubbed a hand over his face. “Think? About what? What the hell’s going on? I thought you were dead. I saw it happen with my own eyes. Why haven’t you contacted me? Why didn’t you let me know you were alive?”
Dillon wanted answers she couldn’t give. Not yet. Better to keep him at arm’s length until she knew more. Until they were both safe. “I have to go,” she said, tightening the blanket. “Please. I can’t be here. I need to leave. I’m sorry.”
He
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