A Broken Christmas (6 page)

Perfect.

Her hands dipped around his waist, up his chest, down his abdomen. His belly jumped beneath the scrape of the washcloth, his breath catching as she came dangerously close to making contact with his throbbing erection. Then her hands disappeared, plinking into the water…and staying there.

Kyle opened his eyes to find her hands on his thigh, her fingertips kneading at the atrophied muscle. One manicured nail traced the length of his ugly scar to his knee, and her delicate brow puckered with a frown. How he wished he could feel the sweep of her hands, the way her fingers kneaded into his skin—anything but this exasperating sense of pressure.

He pushed her hands away. The magic of the encounter dissolved into the reality of circumstance. “Please don’t.”

She lifted her head, her ale-brown eyes locking with his. “It will help. Your scars don’t bother me, Kyle.”

Staring into her tender gaze, Kyle forgot everything but the woman in front of him, the way she made him feel. He lifted his hand, tucked her hair behind her ear, and cupped the side of her face in his palm. Water dripped down his fingers to trickle over her cheek. Brushing the droplets away with his thumb, he leaned forward and drew her into a gentle kiss.

Time stood still as Aimee parted her lips and her tongue glided over his. He savored the faint taste of peppermint, inhaled the scent of fruit that lingered in her thick hair. Just this once he’d take all he could get, even if he didn’t deserve it. He’d divorced her, a dozen reasons would keep them apart, but this kiss he needed more than he’d needed the doctors in Germany. It balmed something so deep inside him he couldn’t name it. Soothed the demons that kept him awake at night.

He couldn’t hang on to this, but for one brief instant in time, he could forget the last year and a half of his life.

****

Though her eyes were closed, tears gathered beneath Aimee’s lowered lashes. She’d waited so long—too long—for Kyle to give her some small sign he still loved her. If the stroke of his tongue had held more demand, if his mouth had pressed harder, she would have dismissed this tidbit of ecstasy to base desire. But the reverence in his kiss, the slight tremble of his fingertips against her cheek, reminded her of the only other similar moment they’d shared—the kiss he’d given her right after they were pronounced man and wife.

Kyle Garland still loved her, and if she could tap into that emotion, if she could bring it to the surface, they might be able to put the past behind them. But he had to discover that as well. She couldn’t rush him to the truth between them when he’d tried so hard to sever the ties that bound them together.

He eased the kiss to a lingering close and rested his damp forehead against hers. “I’d like to get out now,” he whispered.

Drawing in an unsteady breath, Aimee nodded. She swiveled on the bathtub edge and dried off her legs. Then she stood, straddling the tub as she’d done earlier, her knee bent to offer him support.

He steadied himself with one hand on her thigh and the other on the wall. A sturdy push brought him surging out of the water to his feet. He made no attempt to hide the way his erection bobbed against his abdomen—evidence he not only felt love but the same desire that left her damp and uncomfortable.

She took his elbow, helping him out onto the bathmat, then handed him the towel. “You want me to get your sweats?”

He hesitated a second before giving her a curt nod. “Please.”

A thrill shot down her spine. Finally, he’d accepted her help. No small feat for Kyle.

Giving him a soft smile, she donned her pajama pants and slipped out of the room. The hallway gave her opportunity to pull in deep lungfuls of much-needed air. She’d broken through his protective shell. Now, if she could just get him to open up, to tell her why he’d forced her away, why he’d begun to keep everything to himself.

Aimee forced down building hope. True, she had accomplished a milestone without really intending anything other than genuine assistance. Still, she had mountains to climb, and the odds of making it to the other side weren’t in her favor. As Kyle had proved with the divorce, when he set his mind to something, for better or worse, he didn’t budge.

Not to mention, she still had Christmas to navigate, and Conner’s mother who wanted to see Kyle. None of which would go over well.

She hurried up to their room to grab clean sweats and a loose T-shirt from his dresser. Well past midnight, the house was chilly, and she tossed his heavy robe over her shoulder as well. Though she would make it clear she wouldn’t turn him away if he wanted to share their bed, she doubted he’d accept the offer. He would want the robe on the couch.

Downstairs once more, Aimee found Kyle sitting at the dining room table wearing only the towel around his waist. The scrapbooks she’d slaved over since the first year of their married life were scattered in front of him, boxes of photographs sitting to his left. He accepted his clothes with a faint smile and wasted no time in changing.

Kyle lowered himself back into the chair and tapped an open page. “Remember this?”

Aimee peered over his shoulder. She grinned at a picture of the two of them on the beach in front of a ginormous sand castle. Italy—where she’d met him and his team for a brief period of leave before he returned to Iraq. The castle had been the creative efforts of five Delta Force operatives and one recently retired, veteran nurse. “Yeah I remember that. Shortly after, you tried to drown me.”

He gave her a false scowl. “I did not. I didn’t know you were trying to get out of the surf.”

“Uh huh.” Aimee leaned down and brushed his cheek with a kiss. “That’s what you said then too.” Opening a more recent scrapbook, she slid into the seat beside him. “What prompted this?”

“I haven’t looked at them in forever.”

She glanced up at him through her eyelashes. “You do know it’s going on one, right?”

“Yeah,” he answered quietly. “I don’t sleep so well anymore.”

Because of his injury? Or because of all the things he wouldn’t tell her—like what happened over in Afghanistan?

Aimee dismissed the questions and tapped a photograph of the last military formal they’d attended, where Kyle’s commander had been awarded for his dedicated service. The picture was of all five of Kyle’s team and Major Renfield. They had confirmed her pregnancy the night before, and Kyle celebrated in excess. He’d been so drunk when they got home that he passed out on the stairs, still wearing his dress uniform and shoes. Aimee laughed at the memory. “How about this?”

“That was a fun night.” Kyle grinned, but good humor slowly morphed into faint frown.

“It was.”

He pulled the book beneath his nose, his frown deepening with every page he turned. His silence signaled his retreat into that place he never shared with her, and regret pulled through Aimee’s veins. If she hadn’t said anything, he might still be laughing. Might still be engaging her in conversation.

She pushed away from the table. “Do you want me to make some coffee?”

“Yeah,” he answered distantly.

Was it the picture of his team? Or the memory of their far more personal loss? Aimee debated the answers as she entered the kitchen. Denton, Parker, and Jones weren’t the first teammates Kyle had buried. Two others—Racine and Starks—fell in Iraq, shortly after she’d met Kyle. She’d had to dig, but he hadn’t totally clammed up inside himself then. While things hadn’t been easy after her miscarriage, he hadn’t cinched himself up tight until significantly later. Once she’d accepted the fact she needed a bit of outside, professional help and had finally stopped grieving.

So what happened? And what happened nine months ago that he wouldn’t speak to Walsh? Conner’s voice echoed in her head as she pulled down coffee and filter.
It was bad, Aims. Real bad.

Even Conner refused to offer so much as a hint. When she’d pressed him for more, he had shaken his head and suggested they go get Starbucks—his way of diverting conversation. Entirely strange behavior for Conner.

Going one step beyond that, when she’d hit the end of her rope during the divorce and contacted Major Renfield, he’d given her the party-line of
Classified.
When the Major
could
talk, he would.

Something had happened over there. Something unrelated to her divorce that was slowly tearing Kyle apart—she’d stake her life on that.

While the coffee pot brewed, she smoothed her hands down the front of her pajamas. “I’m beat, Kyle. I’m going to bed. If you can manage the stairs, you’re welcome to your side of the bed.”

He didn’t even look up as he replied, “Good night.”

Chapter Five

Aimee awakened to the sound of sleet on the windowpane. The pillow beside hers was empty, as she’d expected it would be. Still, she’d hoped to wake up beside Kyle, and the barren mattress filled her with disappointment. She longingly ran her hand over his untouched pillow.

Six years. Four of which had been the happiest of her life.

She shook off the rising despair with a slight shake of her head and tossed her legs over the side of the bed. No moping. With Christmas fast approaching, she had things to do. She hadn’t finished her shopping—frankly, Kyle’s impending return took precedence over ticking off items on a list. Conner’s mother wanted to join them for Christmas dinner, which meant including Conner as well. While Kyle would fight that idea, Aimee intended to plan a menu she could adapt at the last minute if he changed his mind.

Not that Kyle changing his mind was likely. He’d spent nine months avoiding Conner. Chances of him suddenly welcoming him with open arms were slim to none.

All of which spelled disaster. Add in Kyle’s attitude, and Christmas felt more like a night with Scrooge than any joyful dinner with Tiny Tim.

Deciding a shower could wait until after breakfast, Aimee pulled on her robe and trudged barefoot down the stairs. Kyle lay on the couch, half tucked beneath the cushions for warmth. The pitiful way he’d crunched himself away from the chilly overnight temperature in their house had Aimee returning up the stairs for the heavy quilt she’d made last summer. When she’d realized he would be awake a good deal longer last night, she should have turned the heat up. But habit, coupled with their mutual preference to sleep in colder temperatures, overrode common sense.

She lugged the quilt back downstairs, carefully pulled the cushions off his legs, and tucked him in. Normally a light sleeper, the fact he didn’t wake, told her he hadn’t been asleep long. She ran her fingers affectionately through his cropped dark hair, then smiling, wandered to the kitchen where she pulled six eggs and a package of sausage from the fridge.

Taking great care not to make too much noise, Aimee cracked the eggs and dumped them into a bowl. Scrambled were his favorite. The comfort food ought to tame his inner bear when he awakened. If not, fresh coffee would.

She poured out last night’s half-empty pot and carried the used filter to the trash. There, a handful of torn up photographs in the top of the can gave her pause. Curious, she fished the pieces out before dropping the filter in.

As she sifted through the tattered images of his team, a frown tugged at her forehead. His team—why would he throw these out? Why tear them up? She shuffled through the colorful stack once again, suspicion growing that he’d pulled some of them out of the scrapbooks. The bright blue sky in several pieces distinctly reminded her of the last batch he’d sent home.

Her frown deepened, and she went to the table to confirm her memory hadn’t failed her—she had, indeed, put several of these in the last book. Other photos of his team he let remain. What was it about these specifically?

Bewildered, Aimee dropped into the chair and laid the pieces out side by side. She chewed on her lower lip as she fit them together, aligning backgrounds, postures, and clothing differences. Slowly, the pictures took shape. Seven in total. All of his team. They spanned the years. Captured moments from the two tours before his last in Afghanistan.