Under Fire (Elite Force #3)(5)
Author: Catherine Mann

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?

Now that fit her more lighthearted image of him. Only Liam McCabe could have lightened her spirits in the middle of the hellish earthquake rubble.

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.

“Rachel? Your new job? Your reason for being here?”

“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.”