Night Hush (11 page)

 

Chapter Seventeen

August 29. 11:30
A.M.

Base Hospital, al-­Zadr Air Force Base, Azakistan

“I
'M FINE,”
H
EATHER
said, for the four-­thousandth time. Dr. McGrath merely smiled, drat him. “Look, the bruises are fading. The infection in my shoulder is practically gone. I'm eating, and I'm hydrated. Why can't I go home?”

Dr. McGrath checked the tubes and made a minor adjustment. “I'm concerned about a lot more than your bruises, Lieutenant. Between the surgery, infection, the high fever, and the concussion, I feel we still need to keep you under observation. Add to that the interviews and statements you're giving, I'm not willing to risk a relapse. It's taking more out of you than you realize.”

She didn't want to admit it, but the debriefing two days ago had exhausted her. Since then, she'd been moved to a private room on the medical-­surgical floor, but access to her had been restricted by the base Public Affairs Office. They coached her before each public statement and interview, and wrote press releases on her behalf. She was more than happy to let them take the lead. The sooner they were done with that nonsense, the better. Dr. McGrath supervised it closely, but he was right; it tired her.

“I'm keeping you here for another few days, at least. If you had a roommate or someone who could monitor you, I might be persuaded to release you early.” He waited, kindly and patient, and Heather gave a tiny groan.

“You know I don't.”

“Then ask one of your visitors to bring you some books or magazines to help pass the time. Don't think I don't know what will happen. As soon as I send you home, you'll be pushing to go back to work. They will get along without you for a few weeks.”

Heather gaped at him. “A few
weeks
? What am I supposed to do for a few
weeks
?”

The doctor snorted a laugh. “Rest. Recuperate. Rest some more. Sleep. Watch a soap opera. And then rest again.”

As he left, he turned sideways to avoid a figure leaning against the doorjamb.

Jace.

Once again, the room shrank with his presence. He was all broad shoulders and hard planes and strength. His short hair was curly; she itched to run her fingers through it, to discover if it was soft or wiry. She realized she'd been hoping that he would come, waiting, no matter how foolish the pipe dream was. He glanced her way and caught her gaze trailing over him. His smile held both knowledge and promise.

And that was the problem.

A woman who wanted a career in the Army had to hold herself to the highest standard. And that meant keeping her social life separate from the job. Keeping personal details personal, so nothing could be used against her. Not sharing, not dating, not making friends with the men with whom she worked. She'd learned that the hard way at Fort Campbell, Kentucky, just before she'd come to Azakistan. By dating the brigade's logistics officer, she'd opened herself up to smirks and leers. She hadn't realized until far too late that the louse had spread and embellished the details of their liaison. Taking her for the kind of woman who earned promotions on her back, the brigade commander promised her a glowing performance review in exchange for special favors. She'd managed to extricate herself, but it had taught her an important lesson. Never again would anyone be able to sneer that she'd gotten where she was on her knees. She could and would do it on her own, without help from anybody. Vowing then and there to eliminate even the slightest shred of overlap with her personal life, she threw herself into her career and requested deployment to Iraq or Afghanistan. The Army sent her here instead.

Straight into a situation that made her want to throw all her preventative measures out the door. It wasn't fair that men like Jace could smile like that. She dropped her gaze to the plastic-­wrapped bundle he carried, avoiding his eyes.

Jace stepped over to her hospital bed and handed her the flowers.

“Thank you. They're lovely.” Heather settled the bouquet into her arms. Her room was, in fact, littered with vases of blooms. The al-­Zadr base command, members of her unit, the news media, her coworkers, ­people she didn't even know. Flowers had poured in. She'd sent most of them to other wards. The truth was, with all the hoopla, she'd barely had a moment to herself. But somehow
these
flowers were prettier and smelled sweeter than all the rest.

Good grief, Heather. Get a grip
.

Jace glanced at the tubes still in her arms with a concerned frown. “So, how are you?”

Heather glowered. “Well enough to go home, but Dr. McTorture won't release me unless I have a chaperone.”

Jace grinned. It completely transformed his face, making him look younger and verging on carefree. Heather caught her jaw dropping and snapped it shut, but she couldn't stop the flush that heated her face.

“Bored, huh?” he said.

Shrugging, Heather bent her head to sniff the flowers. The medley of wildflowers smelled heavenly. “I haven't really had time to be bored. The media rigmarole is a nightmare. I'm as famous as Lady Gaga, so they keep telling me. I've been to press conferences, meetings, debriefings. And these newspapers and magazines keep calling for interviews. They're relentless.”

Jace pulled the visitor chair as close as the hospital bed would allow. “You're a hero. A captured female soldier who not only managed to escape, but also gave the Azakistani Air Force enough information that they bombed the terrorist stronghold where they kept you.”

Heather laughed, shaking her head at the same time. “And we both know what a bunch of baloney that is. I did nothing of the sort. That was pure politics.”

“Yeah.” Jace glanced at her and smiled. “But it gave the Azakistanis a decisive victory and wiped out a terrorist training camp. It mollified the Americans who wanted retaliation for the attack on your convoy, and Washington can point to it as progress in the War on Terror. A win all around.”

“It's embarrassing.”

Jace chuckled. “It'll pass. Some politician will be caught cheating on his wife, or another Wall Street company will ask for bailout money, or there'll be a safety recall on power scooters. Give it a week. The sharks will move on.”

Heather folded the blanket between her fingers, then smoothed it out. “Look . . . I never really got the chance to thank you. For saving me. Saving my life. Because whatever the media says, we both know I'd never have made it without you.”

“Mace will be crushed.”

“I meant all of you, of course.” Laughing, Heather glanced up at him. And couldn't tear her eyes away. His warm gaze moved over her features, and in his eyes she caught the glimmer of the banked desire that had been burning inside her for days. Her smile faded, and her breath caught in the back of her throat. She couldn't mistake the heat. She caught herself shifting toward him and managed to stop herself, just barely. Frowning, she stared determinedly out the window. Still, she knew it was too late; he had seen the longing in her eyes.

He rose abruptly, putting the width of the room between them. Two seconds later, he returned to the blue plastic chair, perching on the edge of it. “Heather . . .”

She shifted the wildflowers, intending to set them on the table next to her bed. The long stems and wrapping paper tangled in her IV, flipping the bouquet over and sending it sliding toward the edge of the bed. They both reached for the flowers, hands meeting on the plastic. Faces mere inches apart. She froze, eyes widening. Moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue.

His gaze zeroed in on that small gesture, and Heather's will to resist stuttered along with her heart. Slowly, Jace took the flowers from her unresisting fingers and leaned over her, bracing one hand beside her head and the other near her shoulder. For a moment, he simply stared at her, taking in each nuance of her expression. He seemed to see straight through her skin to what she thought, what she felt. And what she wanted. She might regret it later, but right now, in this moment, what she wanted was Jace.

Jace tilted his head toward the ceiling, groaning and closing his eyes. “Christ,” he muttered. “I can't.”

Heather pulled her knees in to her chest, smoothing the blanket over them. Her heart was pounding overtime, and she wanted to jump out of bed and into his arms. Not good.

You don't date soldiers, Heather. Remember?

Jace captured her hand and pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist. On top of the bandages. “You're still stiff and sore. You're still on pain meds.” He cleared his throat. “And . . . that's ignoring the other . . . injuries.”

Ah.

But he kept going. “And there's the whole Become-­Attached-­to-­My-­Rescuer thing.”

Heather had to laugh. “Is that what this is?”

Jace scratched his nose, looking uncertain. “Well . . . emotions can flare while on a mission. And then, when things settle down . . .” He toyed with her fingers. “You are one tough lady. I admire the hell out of you. And once you heal . . .” There it was again, the heat in his eyes. “But not until you heal, and . . . have time to process what happened. And, you know, get help.”

“Jace,” she said softly. “I wasn't raped.”

His eyes flared with relief. “Thank God. I was . . . I wasn't tiptoeing around it. Well, I was, but not because . . .” He scrubbed both hands down his face. “I can't even imagine what it might be like for a woman, held prisoner and tortured. Because you were tortured. I saw the evidence.”

She turned to look out the window. “Yes. I was slapped around and burned and humiliated. But I wasn't raped.” She shivered. “I would have been if I hadn't escaped. That man . . .” She stopped, embarrassed by the rush of tears. The hospital psychologist had warned her she would be hypersensitive for a while. She took a few deep breaths. “You saved me from that. And I'm grateful. But don't think it's any different for a woman to be captured than a man. You're subject to the same things.”

“Maybe. But I've been trained to handle it.”

She shot him an incredulous look. “No one is trained to handle it. You find out what you can endure. I've done Survival, Escape, Resistance, and Evasion training—­SERE—­and I know you go beyond what you think you can bear. And you also find your breaking point. Because everyone has one. Everyone.”

Jace stared at her for a long moment. “You're right. I'm sorry. That was . . . sexist of me, wasn't it?”

Heather smiled. “Very. But I forgive you. You can't help yourself; it's that Y chromosome.”

Laughing a little, Jace shook his head. “I'd better get going. Let you rest.”

Disappointed, Heather's shoulders drooped as she focused on the television, mounted high on the wall. CNN played in the background, sound muted. “Sure you don't want to stay for lunch? The cart comes by in a few minutes. I think we get green goo today.”

“I'll pass.”

Heather forced herself to meet his gaze. “Well. Thanks for the visit.”

His gaze traveled from her hair down to her mouth and seemed to get caught there. She moistened her lips. Jace swallowed. The voices in her head cautioning her not to let him get close became a purr in her head, urging her to meet him halfway, consequences be damned. He leaned over her again, his head tilted and his eyes closed, and when he captured her mouth, he didn't hesitate. Parting her lips with his tongue, he explored the inside of her mouth. The rough velvet slide electrified her. His mouth tasted of cinnamon and heat. She wanted to stay like this forever, wrapped in his scent of warm-­honey fire. His hand slid down her throat, fingers pressed to the thudding pulse there.

And still he kissed her.

She slid her hand up his arm and around his shoulder, pulling him closer. As he gathered her into his arms, his hand tangled in the tubing, accidentally pulling on the IV needle taped to her arm. He cursed under his breath, freed himself, and straightened, looking down at her with a confused frown.

Silence descended in the room.

Heather broke the awkward silence. “Well . . . thank you for the flowers.”

Thank you for the kiss. Do it again, please.

“I should go. You need your rest.” But Jace didn't move.

Heather nodded. Before she could say anything, a sinewy figure filled the doorway, and her room shrank again.

Jeremy, the lean, muscular man who'd entered, chatted as he came in. “Hey, hey, LT. I figured you'd be about ready to, like, chew your arm off by now . . . oh, hi.” He barely stopped as Jace stepped in front of Heather, craning his neck to look around Jace's impressive stature. He gave her what she thought of as his adorable-­puppy look, devoted and worshipping. But he also noticed her guilty flush and bright eyes, because his brows pulled down. “I brought you some books,” he said, sounding less genial. “I wasn't sure what you dig, so I grabbed some of mine, and, like, looted a ­couple from Stevie. Who are you?”

The once-­over he gave Jace was not altogether friendly. Heather grimaced. That's all she needed. Jeremy was young, still growing into his green beret, and had a crush on her, to boot. Jace gave him a fixed stare, simmering with subdued raw male energy. Jeremy tried and failed to stare him down.

Neither had the right to stake a claim in her room.

She cleared her throat. “Jace, this is Private First Class Jeremy Wahl. Jeremy, this is Jace Reed. He led the team who rescued me.”

Jeremy bobbed his head several times, smiling, though it didn't reach his eyes. “You
totally
have our thanks.”

Jace did not crack a smile. “It's Captain Reed, actually. Good to meet you, Private.”

Jeremy just kept talking as though he had not heard. “We weren't there when the lieutenant needed us. Let me just tell you how pissed we were. Everyone in our unit, they're ours, you know? We protect our own.”