Breaking Point (40 page)

Tears trickled down Natalie’s cheeks, her heart aching for him. Yes, she’d lost her parents and the man she loved, but she hadn’t been there to watch and hear them die. She couldn’t even bear to imagine that.

“I blacked out. When I came to, I was in the hands of a medevac unit. The rescue I’d called for turned out to be my own. The navy patched me up and shipped me stateside to recover.”

Then Zach’s mask began to crumble. “I arrived the same week as their bodies. I went to their funerals at Arlington. I watched while their wives cried and their kids sat there looking confused and . . . and asking about Daddy.”

His voice broke, and for the first time since he’d started telling Natalie his story, his gaze met hers. “
I
was the one who was supposed to die that day. They were supposed to come home.”

“It’s not your fault, Zach. You did more than most men—”

Ignoring her, he stood, walked over the railing, and looked out over the sleeping city. Natalie followed, unsure what to do or say. And for a time they stood there in silence, his jaw clenched, his body shaking again, a look of raw anguish on his face.

He took another drink. “After Brian’s funeral, his wife, Debbie, came up to me, carrying their youngest. I’d known her since she and Brian met. I was the best man at their wedding. She . . .”

He paused, drew a deep breath. “She called me a coward, told me . . . that I’d left her husband and the others to die, that I’d climbed out of that canyon to save my own ass. ‘You should have died,’ she said, ‘not my husband.’ I tried to explain but . . .”

His voice trailed off.

Natalie watched him, saw the torment on his face, and found herself wanting to smack poor widowed Debbie. Did he actually believe her? Yes, he did. He’d gotten so tangled in his grief that he truly believed he’d failed his friends.

Oh, Zach!

She rested her hand against his arm, the need to comfort him overwhelming. “Debbie didn’t mean what she said. That was her grief talking. She doesn’t really believe that, and neither should you. You know what really happened that day. You know you did all you could to save them. For God’s sake, you almost died!”

But her words didn’t seem to reach him. “A few years later, the White House called. The President told me I’d been awarded the Medal of Honor. I asked him why. I let my team down. They died. I lived. There’s nothing honorable in that.”

He turned, sat back against the railing. “I went to the ceremony anyway. I felt like such a fucking fraud. My old man was there. As a U.S. senator, he’d have been on the guest list anyway, but he was running for reelection. Even though we hadn’t spoken since my mother’s death, he showed up with a media entourage, turning it into a goddamned photo op in hopes of winning votes.”

“I’m sure he was proud of you.” What parent wouldn’t be?

Zach shook his head. “I joined the navy over his objections. I overheard him tell my mother that their son would never have to serve in the military even if the draft were reinstated, because he was a senator. I was disgusted. I signed up the next day. I wanted to show him that being a senator’s son didn’t mean I was entitled to sit on the sidelines in safety while other men’s sons and daughters went to war. At the time, he was furious, but that didn’t stop him from trying to take advantage of the limelight later. I left the medal on the table and walked out.”

“You left the medal there?” How terribly sad to think he’d given up something so precious, something he’d earned through blood and pain. “What happened to it?”

“I have no idea.” He shook his head as if it didn’t matter. “God, I’m such a weak piece of shit. I’m sorry you had to see this.”

She could see the shame on his face, tearstains on his cheeks. “What I saw tonight was a wounded hero, a warrior who served his country when others would have chosen an easier path, who willingly risked his own life to save his men, but who can’t forgive himself for being the one to survive.”

“You don’t understand.” He glared at her, then walked back toward the doors.

“Oh, yes, I do,” she called after him, her voice trembling, that lump back in her throat. “I know what it’s like to be the one left behind. I know what it’s like to lose everyone you love in a single day. I know what it’s like to blame yourself, to wonder if they’d still be alive if only you’d done this instead of that. But you can’t waste your life wishing you’d been the one to die.”

He turned to face her, stopped, anger on his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re confusing your situation with mine.”

“No, I’m not.” She walked over to him, looked up into his eyes. “You told me that when you came back from the war you thought about killing yourself—or is there some other meaning for the phrase ‘eat my gun’?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off, spurred on by a sudden surge of insight. “You didn’t join the marshal service just to drown your demons in adrenaline. You did it because some dark and desperate part of you is
hoping
to die in a hail of bullets like they did so you can prove to yourself that you’re worthy, that you’re
not
a coward. Look me in the eyes and tell me I’m wrong.”

But Zach couldn’t look her in the eyes. Her words had struck hard. He felt the anger leave him, along with breath and will and any defenses he’d had left. He made it inside to the sofa, then sank onto the cushions and buried his face in his hands.

“Zach?” She sounded worried. “Are you okay?”

Hell, no, he wasn’t okay. He’d come close to strangling her, had done some serious damage to a bottle of whiskey, had broken down in front of her and cried like a baby, and had just had the skin peeled off his psyche. How could he be okay?

Welcome to rock bottom, McBride. How does it feel?

Pretty shitty, actually.

She knelt down before him, her hands soft against his shoulders. “Zach, please. Say something. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me to go to hell if you want.”

“Why would I do that?” He raised his head, reached out to smooth a strand of hair off her cheek, looked into her worried eyes. “You’re right. You’re right about all of it. I would fix it if I could, Natalie. I just don’t know how. I don’t know how.”

She gave him a sad little smile. “You don’t have to figure that out alone.”

He shook his head. “I’m done with therapy. I won’t go—”

She pressed her fingers to his lips. “I’m not talking about therapy. I’m talking about you and me.”

It took him a moment to understand. “After tonight, can you really say you want to get involved with me?”

“Oh, Zach, look at us. We’re already involved. You just keep running from it.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, turned his head away. “You deserve better, Natalie.”

“I was right. You
are
a big chicken.” She took his face between her palms, forced him to meet her gaze. “I love you, Zach McBride. You’re not alone in this anymore. You fought the Zetas for me. I’m going to fight for you—even if the one I have to fight is
you
.”

Breath left Zach’s lungs in a rush. He stared at her, wondering if she’d lost her mind. “I’m not worth—”

“We’ll take it slow.” She drew his face down and kissed him. “One day at a time.” She kissed him again. “One hour at a time.” Again she kissed him. “One kiss at a time.”

He closed his eyes, gave himself over to her kisses, fairly certain he was too dead inside, too empty, too wrung out for what she seemed to have in mind. But her mouth was sweet, her tongue insistent.

Heat. A spark. Desire kindled.

He opened his mouth to her, let her shape the kiss, her lips never leaving his, even when her clever hand slid inside his briefs and stroked him to life. Then she hitched her nightgown up to her hips, climbed onto his lap, and settled herself over him, her gaze holding his as she took him inside her.

Mingled moans. Whiskey and pheromone. Burning need.

Zach’s heart pounded, not from the horror of his nightmares this time, but from desire, life surging hot and strong through his veins, his breathing hard and fast, every nerve ending in his body alive.

His tripping pulse. Her cries. A quicksilver rush of bliss.

And Zach was reborn inside her.

She sank against him, out of breath, boneless, and he held her, kissing her hair, stroking the silk of her skin, breathing her scent. Then he lifted her into his arms, carried her upstairs to her bed, lay down beside her—and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

“ WE’VE GOT THEM, sir.”

Arturo’s head came up from the porn video he was watching on his laptop.

One of Wulfe’s men came in, carrying a file, which he set down on the coffee table in front of Wulfe. “Here are the schematics of the building. It will take some time for us to learn which loft they’re in. We’re already working on it, checking to see which units were available last week that are no longer available today.”

Wulfe set down his newspaper, picked up the file, and scanned its pages, his head tilted back to allow him to see through his bifocals. His hair was mostly gray now. He was getting old. They were all getting old. “Excellent work.”

“The building has top-flight security—twenty-four-hour guards, video surveillance, biometric scanners encoded with thumbprints.”

“Figure out who is helping McBride on this case, who besides McBride has access to the building. Then all we’ll need to do is collect a thumb.” Wulfe set the file down, his gaze meeting Arturo’s. “You see the difficulty you’ve caused, Arturo? Now some poor idiot is going to lose his thumb—and his life—because you couldn’t get the job done in Mexico.”

Arturo felt his face burn.

CHAPTER 29

ZACH WOKE THE next morning to find Natalie curled up against him, her head resting on his chest, one of her legs tucked between his. The sheets were tangled around their legs, leaving the creamy curve of her hip bare. He watched her sleep, his body relaxed, his mind blissfully empty.

A part of him hated himself for breaking down like that in front of her again. This time he’d fallen completely the hell apart. He’d cried, for God’s sake, shed actual freaking tears. What kind of man acted like that?

But Natalie hadn’t turned away from him in disgust. She hadn’t been repulsed by him. Just as she’d done in Altar, she’d caught the pieces of him, held them in her arms, then helped him put himself back together.

I love you, Zach McBride. You’re not alone in this anymore. You fought for me. I’m going to fight for you—even if the one I have to fight is you.

He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve that, to deserve love from a woman like Natalie. She was right when she’d called him a chicken. He was afraid of so many things. Losing himself to nightmares and alcohol. Failing at his mission and letting Cárdenas kill again. Being unworthy of the trust his country had placed in him.

But what frightened him most at this moment was the very real possibility that he’d fallen in love with Natalie.

He stroked her hair, made room for her when she snuggled deeper into his chest, cherishing the feel of her soft body against his. And for a moment he let himself imagine that this was how every day of his life began—with her sleeping naked beside him, the scent of sex still lingering on their skin, a feeling of contentment inside him. They’d get up, make love in the shower, have breakfast together, kiss each other good-bye, the promise of home getting them through the day.

And then that night, or one just like it, you’d come home in a body bag—or a pizza box. Great idea, McBride.

God knew he didn’t want to do that to her. She’d already lost everyone she loved. And yet most of the DUSMs he knew had families. Was it so wrong to work a dangerous job and to have a family, too?

Being a deputy U.S. marshal shouldn’t mean you don’t get to have a life.

Isn’t that what Natalie had said to him in Altar?

He tried to imagine himself as a husband, a father. It didn’t seem as impossible as it had even a week ago. Of course, the only condom he’d worn had broken, which meant that he might already be on his way from here to paternity, whether he could imagine being a father or not.

What are you going to do if you’ve gotten her pregnant, buddy?

He wasn’t going to worry about that now.

He looked down at her beautiful face, a tangled knot of emotions swelling inside his chest—longing, protectiveness, doubt, possessiveness, hope. He held her tighter, the feel of her precious. And for a time, he lay there, listening to her breathe, inhaling the stillness, wishing he could stay like this forever.

But, of course, he couldn’t. He needed to check in with Rowan, find out where she planned to transfer Quintana, and get back to interrogating the son of a bitch. He glanced over to check the alarm clock, his gaze falling on Natalie’s photograph of Beau.

A good-looking young guy with dark brown hair, a solid build, and an easy smile, Beau looked into the camera, unaware that his life was about to end, the love he felt for Natalie unmistakable in his eyes,

Zach understood why Beau had braved the flooded, debris-strewn streets of New Orleans to come for her. He knew what Beau must have felt when he’d heard that she’d almost been murdered—shock, seething rage, a bone-deep need to protect and comfort her. And he knew that Beau’s last thought must have been of her.

Zach met Beau’s gaze, found himself whispering to a dead man. “I’d die for her, too.”

 

NATALIE WOKE TO the delicious feeling of kisses trailing down her back, Zach’s big hand caressing the bare curve of her hip. “Mmm.”

“You’re finally awake.” His hand slid in delicious circles upward along her side and around front to cup her breast. His skilled fingers teased her nipple, pinched it, tugged it, his touch sending sparks deep into her belly. “Good.”

She could smell on his minty breath that he’d already been up and had brushed his teeth. She wanted to do the same. Reluctantly, she drew away. “Hold that thought.”