Page 19 of Delta: Retribution

“Meaning what?”

“I’m too tired to jump you in bed, and I’m too jumpy to be good company. I need to get out of my house. I just—”

“One eleven Mason Brick Drive.”

She would’ve expected nerves or anxiety. Anything but the calm that made her feel free from her personal demons. “I’ll be there in twenty.”

***

Walking around barefoot and in jeans, Trace drained a beer and stared at his cell phone. The smart move would’ve been to call her and say he couldn’t keep his eyes open. That maybe another time would be better, like when she was raring to go and wanted to strip down naked. But that wasn’t in the cards tonight. They hadn’t been home from South America more than twenty hours. Sure, she said she’d dozed. But after what she went through, she probably needed an Ambien and a few days of sleep.

Headlights hit his driveway, and she was there. Damn, if there wasn’t a stirring in his chest. He opened the door and watched her get out of her car then went outside. “Red car, red hair. Suits you.”

She scoffed but then put too much assurance into her voice. “Absolutely. Power color.”

Something didn’t jibe, but he didn’t care. “Red’s sexy. No idea about power colors. Like I said, it suits you, Cinderella. Come on.” He took her small hand in his and led her up the stairs. “This is it. Looks decent, feels like a jail cell.”

As she took in the room, he took her in. Pajamas. A cotton T-shirt and flannel pants with little water skiing panda bears in Santa hats. If outside in the dark, she’d been sexy, inside… this whole look… it was cute.

She caught him looking. “What’s that half-smile, half-frown thing? If you don’t like my jammies, too bad.” She twirled in a circle. “I’m—hey, are you watching one of thoseBournemovies?” And just that fast, she plopped on his couch, tucking her legs under her butt.

The girl liked thriller spy flicks. Add another point in the cool-chick column. Nothing she did was expected. “Want a beer?”

“It might put me to sleep.”

He tilted his head. “You’re dressed for it.”

Her eyes raked over his bare chest. “I…”

“I’ll get you that beer.” Because for once it felt like he should think of someone besides himself for a change. The woman could barely stand. The clothes she wore served as a sign to stay away. But he just couldn’t. He needed a freakin’ barrier. “A beer and a blanket.”

A minute later, he had a cold one in her hand and a blanket over her legs. He sat in the middle of the couch and pulled her close to him. She smelled like sugar, and it might’ve been his death sentence, sitting there with her all cute and smelling like the first time he’d had her. Mouth watering, he closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on Matt Damon blowing shit up. It didn’t work. Instead, he heard the IED blasts that stole his brother away from him. A growl roared up; his eyes shot open. He was ready to tear the walls down and—Marlena was asleep, nestled between the arm of his couch and his bare chest. Her just-opened beer was balanced loosely in her hand. God, she was beautiful.

Trace set her beer on the coffee table and scooped her up in the blanket. Without thinking, he headed toward the bedroom and laid her in his bed, crawling next to her. Marlena sighed softly but didn’t wake. “I don’t know what to think about you, Cinderella.”

He curled around her sleep-lax body and kissed her sugar-scented hair. If he were ever to be normal, if he didn’t have a wicked fight brewing deep in his chest to retaliate for Michael’s death, then that moment might have been his heaven.

***

Marlena woke surrounded by hard warmth. She wasn’t in Mr. Romatar’s compound, this wasn’t her bed… The night before flashed in her memory. The last thing she remembered was sipping a beer and snuggling next to Trace. Slowly, she turned over, and there he was—rugged, and inches away from her. In his bed. Her stomach surged into her throat.

“Morning,” he whispered.

Unsure of the right thing to say, she sat up. “I should go.”

The heavy weight of his arm flopped over her and pulled her tight. “You should not.”

He couldn’t possibly want her to stay. Right? Instead of voicing that, she lay straight as a spike and stared at his ceiling.

“Marlena.”

“Hmm?”

“Go back to sleep.” His morning, gritty voice raked over her senses.

“I’m really okay. I should get—”

Trace took her face in his hands and leveled her with the softest kiss she could imagine. His full lips brushed over hers; his tongue teased. She melted against him, needing that reassurance and hating that one kiss, and she was a mess.

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