Free Fall (Elite Force #4)(27)
Author: Catherine Mann

He eyed the scratch along her neck from the guard’s blade. A blade that had come too close to taking her life. Even a bit more pressure, a second’s hesitation on either of their parts would have left her dead. He willed his heart to stay steady. Careful not to wake her, he thumbed just beside the cut, along the place he’d discovered when he’d first kissed her at Queen Elizabeth National Park. Right over the freckle on her neck where he’d kissed dozens of times during the five months they’d dated.

Every protective urge inside him flamed to life. No matter how many times his brain insisted it was over between them, his body argued otherwise. She was his. And maybe that wasn’t cool or PC, but damn it, that’s just how it was for him. On some primal level, a connection linked them that he didn’t begin to understand. That he didn’t have a clue how to sever.

Sometimes he wondered if they’d met on a regular day in an ordinary kind of place if things might have been different. They’d played out their affair in a remote corner of the earth, in places with deep-rooted history. They’d made love for the first time with the sound of the flowing Nile waters echoing through their window.

Every minute of his time with her was branded in his brain. Not just having sex, but their whole weekend in Egypt, one of the handful of times they’d been able to sneak more than a few hours together. He’d been determined to make the most of a whole weekend with Stella, to sweep the incredibly practical woman off her feet with the most luxurious, impractical getaway he could plan.

So he’d taken her to Aswan with tropical palm trees and the Tombs of Nobles cut in the high west bank of the Nile. They’d gone on a camel ride to the Monastery of St. Simeon. She had an adventurous spirit, but that day he’d discovered a romantic heart underneath. He’d seen it when she heard the story of the Mausoleum of Aga Khan and how his wife laid a rose on his tomb every day, a tradition still carried on by the village even after her death.

Jose had made a mental note to cover Stella’s bed in roses one day. He’d never had the chance to fulfill that vow. Damn, regrets were a bite in the ass.

Holding her against him, he let the sound of the whooshing air conditioner echo in his ears like the sound of the Nile during that date five months ago…

***

The Nile River flowed by as it had done for thousands of years for millions of couples, but for Jose, there was only this woman. Only Stella sitting across the table from him.

Parked on the restaurant terrace, he leaned on an elbow and watched her savor the Egyptian stew served in a clay pot. The road below was clogged with cars and bicyclists, horns and shouts drifting up. From inside, Nubian folk music echoed with people clapping along to the drum and lyre.

Stella swayed ever so slightly. A lock of her thick red hair slid out from under the silk scarf she’d draped over her head in keeping with local dress. He didn’t have to reach across to remember the feel of her hair gliding across his fingers when he kissed her.

Which he intended to do again. Soon.

For now, though, he indulged himself by simply listening to her talk between bites. He periodically dipped his bread into his soup, the spices exploding through his senses already on hyperaware around Stella.

She reached for the pewter goblet of juice from local fruits. “My mother would have loved this place, the paintings.”

“Your mom was an artist?” he asked, wanting to know everything about her.

“More of a stylist.” She set down her drink, her nose flaring as a whiff of incense carried on the night breeze. “She created works of art from pieces of earth, mud smears, berry juices. Every art project was a science project too. She was the ultimate recycler even before it was in vogue.”

“Sounds like my buddy Wade’s wife.” He reached across the tablecloth and stroked the top of her hand.

A smile flickered across her face when he touched her. “I enjoyed the time she and I spent together on projects. I sent her pictures when she traveled here—”

She paused as the waitress refilled their goblets and placed a pot of mint tea to go with a dessert of cookies and candied figs. His mouth watered and it had nothing to do with the food and everything to do with a certain lady agent.

Once the server turned away, he tapped Stella’s hand. “Tell me about one of the paintings.”

“The summer before she died, we vacationed at the Outer Banks in North Carolina.” She looked down and away, picking up a fig with fidgety fingers. “I think my parents were trying to work on their marriage. Her absences strained their relationship.”

“Like in military marriages.” He’d seen more than his fair share crumble, relationships that had appeared rock solid.

Couples who didn’t have the added stress of alcoholism lurking every damn day.

“My dad didn’t see it quite that way at all. He couldn’t find anything noble in what she did. He just wanted his wife back, an everyday normal life where he came home from driving his UPS route and had dinner with his whole family.” She blinked back a hint of tears. “But he loved her, so he tried. She tried.”

She shook her head.

He squeezed her hand. “You were telling me about a piece of art you made together.”

A couple at the next table looked at their clasped hands with a disapproving eye. The last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to them by dissing local customs. So he let her go and poured them both a cup of tea.

She tucked the loose strand of hair back under the scarf, her composure sliding just as neatly into place again. “My mother and I were on the beach collecting seashells, sand dollars, and bits of seaweed. I used a piece of driftwood as my canvas. I made a portrait of her, my seashell mama. I still have it, actually.”

“She sounds fascinating.” Like her daughter.

“I wanted to go with her. I begged her to take me with her since I was in high school. She said no.”

“It probably wasn’t safe for you.” If he had a wife and kids… But he didn’t. He wouldn’t. Any thoughts of being with a woman forever ended when Stella walked away from him.

Stella spooned sugar into her tea—three spoonfuls. “She said the same thing, but I reminded her that sometimes entire families went on mission trips. I had looked it up in the library. I showed her all my research and suggested we should all go with her, or if the others didn’t want to go, I would. I had it all worked out how I could take care of myself…” She stirred, clinking the spoon against the cup in time with the music. “And she still said no.”