Page 2 of Love and Forgiveness
Looking down in horror, I watch the water transform thefront of my shirt nearly translucent, giving Private Ormsby a perfect view of my lacy ivory bra, ample breasts, and pebbled nipples.God help me!I gasp, putting the cap back on the bottle and buttoning my black business coat to cover most of the water stain.
Still, the fabric clings wantonly to my cleavage above the plunging neckline of the jacket. I can tell the security guard’s gotten an eyeful from the direction of his gaze. He swallows loudly. I clear my throat, and his eyes snap back up to mine.
Shaking my head, I try to ignore the whole thing.What else can I do? Crawl under a rock?
“The name’s Isadora, but you can call me Izzie.” I reach out to shake his hand with my free one, and he hesitates. I don’t know if he’s unused to shaking hands in his line of work or if there’s some other reason he doesn’t want to touch me.
Finally, he takes my cue. Like every other part of this beastly man, his hand is gigantic, making mine look miniature. I’m a plus-sized woman standing nearly six feet tall, so the feeling is unusual to me. Being dwarfed by this sexy giant is surprisingly refreshing and a total turn-on.
When the soft flesh of my palm touches the rough flesh of his, I hold my breath as if an electric shock passes through me. Searing sparks zing from his hand to mine and back again, co-mingling trails of fire and desire between us.
At least, that’s how it feels to me as waves of delicious lust travel between my hand and heart. I stifle a gasp at the strange and unprecedented sensations. I can tell by how his nostrils flare, and his shadowed eyes grow even darker that he notices it, too.
Despite the brutish look of the man, something else catches my attention. His cheeks turn ruddy. If I had to find one word to describe him, it would be bashful.
It’s the sexiest dichotomy I’ve ever seen—a bashfulwarrior. My breath can’t keep up with my wildly beating heart, which leaves me panting in front of him. It’s intolerable.
He’s still holding my hand, and I feel my full attention captured in the few inches of flesh he touches.
“Izzie,” he repeats in a softer tone, like a whispered prayer. “You can count on me to keep you safe, protected. I won’t ever let anything happen to you.”
Chapter One
WOLFE
NINE YEARS LATER
Ican’t sign the divorce papers in front of me. Even though I know I should be a bigger man and let her move on. I can’t. Some would call it stubborn and others toxic or possessive. Izzie’s even thrown out the word “obsessive,” but none of those terms really fit. Yes, I know all that’s required of me is a squiggle in black ink. The same squiggle I use to sign a check or finalize a holiday card. But I can’t make myself do it.
Because that black ink squiggle would mean killing the only forever I’ve ever believed in. It’s like cutting a piece of myself off. Maybe the best part of myself. The sharp ache in my chest reminds me of what I’m losing but don’t know how to reclaim. That ache has burrowed so deeply into my chest that it feels like a permanent part of my soul.
God, I miss that gorgeous, sexy nerd girl. I miss her honey-colored hair in a messy bun held by a pencil. I miss her curvy body wrapped in vintage sweaters with impossibly tiny buttons I long to unfasten. I even miss the clumsy way shedaydreams through life, more interested in deep thoughts than where to put her feet. Of course, I never minded catching her. Anything to get my big, brutish hands on her.
She’s the only woman I ever loved and probably ever will. I wonder if she knows that? Or even cares? I shake my head. Our son Matt is seven, and our daughter Anastasia is five, which means it wasn’t that long ago Izzie was all mine.
Yet, the thought of her silky skin and ample curves beneath my hands feels remote, like it happened lifetimes ago. Now, her hostile gaze meets mine if I steal too long a look in her direction. It’s a fucking impossible existence, and yet it’s one I can’t deny my part in creating through stupidity, arrogance, ego, and stubbornness. I don’t know how to do relationships. It’s a fault I recognize but can’t change, although the consequences are unbearable.
Placing the divorce papers back in the manila envelope they came in, I shut them in the drawer at the bottom of my draftsman wood desk. They can wait.
However, another set of papers requires my immediate attention—the signature making my company’s contract with the state to manage security at the California Historical Society in Ophir City legal and binding. Izzie has worked as director there for three months now, and I can’t imagine she’s going to be happy my company secured the job. But no matter how much it pisses her off, it’ll be worth it, knowing I’ve found a way to keep one of my promises to her. The promise I made all those years ago in Afghanistan.
Rutger pokes his dark blond head into my office, headquartered in a single-story building two blocks from Main Street in Ophir City, thirty minutes from Hollister where my cabin is. “Boss, you about ready?”
The boys and I are heading to Lucky’s Saloon, a decent watering hole down the street from the historical society, to celebrate scoring this considerable contract. If things go well,we could become a favorite at museum facilities across the state, which would be huge for us. I’ve got seven employees, all former military men and two Army Ranger buddies. We’re a long way from the 75thBatt’s base in Georgia, but that’s okay because guys like Rutger are among my most loyal comrades. They’ll always have my back and follow me to the ends of the earth, qualities you can’t buy with all the money in the world.
“Yep, tell the boys I’m buying.” Not only is this a celebration, but it’s Friday night. I hope by controlling the liquor train, hopefully, I can keep some of the more unruly guys, like McGregor and Alonso, from coming off their rockers in town. They’re train wrecks with enough shots, not the respectable vibe I’m going for.
Twenty minutes later, I sit at a corner table as far from the saloon door as possible. My back’s against the wall where I like to keep it. McGregor’s half Scottish and half Mexican. He’s already doing tequila shots, and Rutger, Alonso, and the other guys are sticking to what’s on tap, spiced up with occasional shots of Jack. I’m nursing a shot of Hennessy and a beer, ready to punch anyone out of line.
The guys are playing darts, and I’ve got the table piled with happy hour favorites, like nachos and fried potato skins, to keep everyone sane and satisfied. I stare at the door, ready to attack any threat that comes through it. It’s a force of habit from so many years in security. Izzie always said I looked miserable with my face like this. But I don’t feel that way. Instead, I’ve got a calm inner energy and a desire to keep the peace. That’s all.
But I think Izzie often misread my feelings, and I can’t blame her. I’ve got a severe face with a square jaw that I have the habit of clenching. It makes me look like an asshole. An angry one. Between that and my massive build, I look more like a linebacker or a bull in a china shop than an entrepreneurabout to establish a statewide footprint. I know better than anybody that appearances can be deceiving.
Most of my life has been about intimidation, which makes me a good security provider. My philosophy? Cut off trouble at the head. Don’t even let the thought cross somebody’s mind. That’s why I employ some of the toughest and meanest-looking sons of bitches in the world. Of course, so much rough, masculine energy inevitably attracts plenty of barflies, even in Ophir City.
Selma Butterfield sits beside me, resting her hand on my shoulder. My initial reaction is to shake it off. I don’t want her or any other woman touching me. Just Izzie. Of course, I know this is a stupid-ass thought, especially since I’m the only thing holding back our divorce. If I ever want to get laid again, I’ll have to let this rule go eventually. But all I want to do is make love to my wife. Dumb and unrealistic, I know. But hot damn, when we were good together, Izzie and I were so fucking good. It’s hard to willingly settle for scraps after savoring countless five-course, five-star meals.
Selma’s buddy, Laurie Westman, sits on my other side. Between the two of them, they’ve piled all of the makeup sold at the local mercantile on each of their faces. It’s fascinating in a horrible sort of way. I went to high school with both of them, but they never paid me attention. And I don’t blame them. When I showed up my freshman year, I was a weirdo by Hollister’s standards.
