"The exciting and intriguing saga of the 'Ghost Ops' continues..."
Reviewed by Rachel Williams
Posted June 16, 2013
Romance Contemporary | Romance Erotica Sensual
In I DREAM OF DANGER, Nick Ross is another one of the three
original Ghost Ops who escaped prison and started the
community of misfits that they call Haven. Taking place
right around 2024, Elle (Thomason) Connelly is a brilliant
scientist who works for Arka, a subsidiary of the
corporation started by Charles Lee to build a super race of
warriors; a feat he means to accomplish by any means
necessary. Elle is part of a group of scientists who all
have varying degrees of psychic talent, and are supposedly
studying psychic phenomena. What she does not realize until
too late is that she, along with her co-workers, are
actually part of the experiments. Late one night, Elle
receives a frantic phone call from one of her fellow
scientists telling her that they are being rounded up by
Charles Lee's goons, and to run and hide. Elle flees, with
the henchmen close on her heels. As they close in on her,
she makes a frantic psychic call to her old friend and love
Nick to come and save her.
The plot of the Ghost Ops series is sound; and this
story
in itself has a lot of potential. I especially liked the
twist, where the viral experiment escapes the laboratory,
and begins to affect the general population of San
Francisco. The pacing of this book, however, is a bit off;
making the story a little slow in several places. The early
part of the story, which serves to establish Nick and Elle's
past and relationship to each other is important and
informative; but takes up too much of the story time in the
book. This leaves too little time to develop the current
story; which winds up rushed and sometimes confusing. There
are still a number of unanswered questions about the
Ghost
Ops and their life mission, and how Haven can manage to
remain a secret. This is one of those times when the author
could spend a little less time having the H/h mooning over
each other, and a little more time explaining just what in
the world is actually going on in the story.
The series shows great potential, however, if Rice can
tighten up her plotting, put some meat into the plotline,
and get her wandering storyline under control. The idea
behind this series is fresh and unique. I DREAM OF DANGER is
a very good book, it not quite up to the quality of what the
reader has come to expect from such an accomplished author
as Lisa Marie Rice. The story is a quite interesting read,
however, leaving the reader anxious and intrigued enough to
want to read more about the Ghost Ops.
SUMMARY
When John disappeared from fifteen–year–old Elle
Thomason's life, she was certain she'd never see him
again–except in vivid dreams too real to ignore. Now,
ten years later, as a test subject for Arka Pharmaceutical's
paranormal research department, she's desperate for him to
come back and save her. Other test subjects are
disappearing...and Elle's convinced she's next.
Former soldier John Ryan never meant to hurt
anyone–least of all Elle. Now, as a member of
Haven–the underground society of Ghost Ops agents
founded by Mac McPherson–he's troubled by some
disturbing dreams. Dreams of Elle in danger. Propelled by
strange visions and his heart's undeniable desire for a
woman he left behind years ago, John and the Haven team set
out to rescue Elle...only to find that the task is much
bigger than any of them imagined.
ExcerptHe came.
She knew he'd come. Somehow she'd known.
She dreamed of him last night. She often dreamed of him,
dreams so vivid she woke with tears on her face, aching for him.
Elle Thomason rose from where she'd thrown dirt onto her
father's coffin, before the two undertaker's assistants
covered it with earth and he would finally, finally be at
peace—and that was when she saw him.
He was outlined against the chilly winter sun on the
small hill where the chapel stood. He was only a dark figure
against the dying sun, but she would recognize him anywhere,
anytime.
Nick Ross. The boy she'd loved so much, now clearly a
man. The dark outline against the pale winter sun was tall
and broad–shouldered He'd been lean as a boy, like a
young panther. Now he was a lion.
He saw her. He didn't wave to her or nod. Neither did
she. She simply watched as he walked down the small hill
toward her, eyeing him hungrily. She'd waited five long
years for this moment.
In all the dead years, the years of caring for her father
as his mind died long before his body, she'd yearned for
this moment. As everything else fell from her life, as she
lost everything, as her life was taken over by the daily
care of a man who no longer controlled anything about
himself, the only thing left to her was her imagination. And
in her mind, she went wild.
In her mind, she and Nick were together.
Her favorite daydream was meeting him in some
sophisticated city. New York, Chicago, San Francisco. Even
better, London or Paris. Of course, she was sophisticated
herself. She'd had a number of love affairs that had taught
her a lot. She was well–groomed, successful, utterly
in control.
Turning around in an expensive restaurant, there he'd be.
In her fantasies she could figure out what she
was—poised and successful and happy. But she could
never figure out what Nick was. What he'd become. She only
knew he'd be handsome and he'd love her. She couldn't get
beyond that point—that he still loved her, after all
these years.
She'd ask why he'd disappeared so suddenly. It was still
unfathomable to her. One night she'd gone to bed teasing him
that he'd grow up to be Commander Adama of Battlestar
Galactica, and the next morning he was gone. Completely
disappeared. His things left in his room. The only articles
missing were two pairs of jeans, some T–shirts, a
winter jacket and his gym bag.
She'd been frantic. She wanted to call the cops, report
him missing, but her father had gently taken the phone from
her hand and flipped it closed. He never answered her
questions and soon, very soon, he became incapable of
answering any questions at all.
Not a phone call, not a letter, not even a postcard. It
was as if Nick had dropped off the face of the earth, taking
with him her entire existence. From a carefree teenager, the
beloved only daughter of a respected and wealthy judge, her
life plunged into the pits of hell. Her father started
losing his mind day by day, darkness descending, and Nick
wasn't there.
How many evenings she stared out the window, pretending
to read, her father having finally exhausted himself enough
to nap in an armchair. Going out on a date was unthinkable.
There wasn't enough money to pay a nurse for evening hours.
She'd had to earn extra credits over the summers to graduate
at seventeen because she could see the day coming when the
money would run out and she'd have to stay home all day to
nurse her father, and she wanted at least a high school
certificate.
Dating was out, going to movies with girlfriends was out,
having friends over was definitely out. What she got was a
nurse coming for a few hours a day in which she could rush
to do the shopping and rush to the library to stock up on
books. What she got was staring out the window, waiting for
Nick.
Hoping for Nick.
Yearning for Nick.
Who never came.
So in her daydreams, when she finally did meet him,
utterly by chance in a big city, she got to choose how it
would be. He was either immensely rich and handsome or
powerful and handsome. He was never a loser, a drunk, or an
addict. That wasn't Nick.
Hello, he'd say, stepping back in admiration. Aren't you
beautiful?
Thank you, she'd answer. I hope you're well. I'd love to
stay and chat, but I need to get back to my—
Here Elle's imagination struggled a little. To what? Get
back to what? What could possibly be more important than Nick?
But it didn't really matter because then he'd say:
—Have a drink with me. Please. Just five minutes.
I'm so glad to see you.
And, well, this was Nick. And so she would. And then he'd
say he loved her and would never leave her again.
It was a fine daydream and it had to be because it
replaced more or less everything a young girl should
have—school, friends, first love, dreams, plans...
The details wavered but the core of it was always the
same. He found her whole and happy and successful. Beautiful
and elegant and self–assured.
Not the miserable creature she was now. Pale and pinched
from the last four nights of watching her father die when
she hadn't slept at all. Wearing a too–thin jacket
that didn't protect in any way against the cold because the
only winter coat she had was ripped along the sleeve.
It wasn't supposed to be this way at all. But it was.
She simply watched as he walked toward her, and
everything about her was numb except her heart. Her
treacherous, treacherous heart, leaping in joy to see him.
He didn't hurry down to her, but his long legs seemed to
carry him quickly. He had on a big down jacket that came
down to midthigh; his gloved hands hung by his side.
Elle was aware of her own hands, gloveless, almost blue
with cold. Embarrassed, she stuck them behind her back.
And that was how they met, Nick towering over her, face
in shadow, looking down at her. The sun was at his back,
huge just before sunset, an enormous pale disk. They stood
and looked at each other. Elle was struck dumb.
He was here, right in front of her.
How she'd longed for this moment and here it was, by the
side of her father's coffin.
She should say something, she should—
"Miss?"
Elle turned. She'd completely forgotten the attendants.
"Yes?"
"You're going to have to stand back, Miss. We're going to
cover the coffin with dirt."
"Oh." She stepped back and Nick stepped with her. "Of
course."
She and Nick watched as dirt covered the coffin of her
only living relative. She didn't cry. She'd shed so many
tears over the years. There were none left. Her father had
gone long before this. What had been left behind was a shell
of a person, human meat.
Her father had been witty, well–read, strongly
opinionated, charming. That man had died years ago.
So she watched as they covered the coffin, quickly and
efficiently. It was cold and they wanted the job over as
fast as possible. When they finished, they put away their
tools and faced her.
There was a gash in the ground now, raw and red. Someday
it would be covered with grass as the other graves were, but
for now it was clear that the earth had recently claimed one
of its own. A tombstone would come, eventually, when she
could afford it.
The funeral home director had quoted figures that made no
sense to her. The cheapest one cost over two thousand
dollars. It might as well have cost a million. She didn't
have it.
She didn't have anything.
One of the gravediggers pulled off his hat. "Real sorry
about the Judge, ma'am. You have our condolences."
Elle dipped her head. "Thank you. Um..." She opened her
purse and peered inside, though she didn't need to look to
see what was in it. One bill. Not a big one, either. She
pulled out the twenty and handed it to the man, well aware
of the fact that it should have been a hundred–dollar
bill, fifty for each.
He picked it up gingerly, looked at his mate in disgust,
stuck it in his pants pocket and glared at her.
Elle understood completely. They had done a hard job. The
ground was frozen and they'd toiled. The funeral director
had let her know clearly that the cheap option she'd chosen
didn't cover the diggers and that she would have to
recompense them herself.
This was so awful. She felt so raw and exposed, reduced
to ashes, to dust. All of this was playing out right in
front of Nick, who was observing everything.
She remembered how observant he was. He always had been.
He was seeing her humiliation in 3D HD, up close and personal.
Elle cleared her throat, reached out a hand toward the
gravedigger, then stuck it in her pocket. "I'm sorry it's
not more," she said quietly. "Perhaps—"
"Here." Nick handed over two bills. Her eyes widened when
she saw Benjamin Franklin's face twice. "Thanks for your help."
The cap came off again, both men thanked him, nodded to
her and walked off.
Elle stared at the ground, breathing through her pain.
Nick had left many years ago, and for all those years, not a
day, not a minute, had gone by in which she hadn't missed
him so fiercely she thought she might explode from it.
All this time she'd yearned for Nick.
And here he was. At her lowest point.
"He loved you very much," she said, looking at the ground.
"I know," he said quietly.
His voice, already deep as a boy, had become deeper,
rougher. The voice of a man.
He was a man. He'd been mature beyond his years when he'd
come into their life, a runaway her father found in their
backyard one winter evening. He was lying in the snow with a
broken, badly infected wrist, dying, so emaciated her father
was able to pick him up and carry him in his arms to the car
to take him to the hospital.
From that moment on, Nick Ross belonged to them.
Until he left them, inexplicably, another cold winter night.
She looked up at him, hungry for the sight of him. How
she'd dreamed of him over these past years! Her dreams had
been so vivid, often unsettling. She'd seen him shooting,
jumping out of planes, fighting.
She'd seen him with other women. That had been so hard
because her dreams had the bite of reality. She'd seen him
naked, making love to women, harsh and demanding, impossibly
sexy.
The Nick standing next to her looked just as he had in
her dreams—hard, tough, fully a man. Dark eyes that
gave nothing away, close–cropped dark hair, broad
shoulders, lean muscles. A formidable man in every way, even
though the last time she'd seen him he'd been just on the
verge of manhood.
"He was...sick?" Nick's voice was hesitant.
"Yes," she replied, looking down at the raw gash in the
frozen earth. "For a long time."
Since you left, she thought to herself. He was never the
same, and then he started his fast decline.
"I'm sorry." The deep voice was low, as if murmuring for
her ears alone, though there was no one else on the cemetery
grounds. There had been about thirty people at the funeral
itself, but they left immediately, as soon as the service
was over. Everyone had jobs, places to be, things to do.
Nobody stayed for the interment. They'd paid their respects
to the man her father had been and left. Her father had been
dead to the town long before his body left this earth.
She nodded, throat tight.
"It's cold. You should have worn something warmer."
Elle huffed out a breath that would have been laughter in
other circumstances. The cloud of steam rose quickly and
dissipated into the frigid air. Yes, she should have worn
something warmer. Of course.
"Yes," she murmured. "I, ahm, I forgot."
Why are we talking about coats? It seemed so surreal.
"Where's your car?" Nick asked in his rough voice. "You
should get home. You're freezing."
Elle looked back up at him in panic. He's leaving
already? That couldn't be!
Her throat tightened even more. He couldn't leave, he
couldn't. He couldn't be that cruel.
The words tumbled out without her thinking. "I don't have
a car. The undertakers were supposed to give me a ride
home." Nolan Cruise, the DA, had driven her to the edge of
the cemetery and dropped her off, apologizing for not being
able to stay.
She looked around, but they'd gone. The cemetery was
utterly deserted. Obviously, the two men had thought she
already had a ride home. With Nick.
Oh God. The first time she saw him in five years and she
needed to beg a ride home from him. She straightened, pulled
her lightweight jacket around her tightly, trying to wrap
her dignity around her too.
"That's okay. I—" Her mind whirred uselessly.
Saying she'd walk would be ridiculous. Nick knew perfectly
well how far home was. At least a two–hour walk. She
was trying to invent someone who could plausibly give her a
ride home when he took her elbow in a firm grip and started
walking toward the exit. "Let's go."
Elle scrambled to keep up. Nick, always tall, had grown
another couple of inches. His long legs ate up the grassy
terrain. In a few minutes they were outside the gates of the
cemetery, walking under the arched stone sign with
Requiescat in Pacem engraved on the front.
Yes, indeed. Rest in peace, Daddy.
His last years, as his mind went, had not been peaceful.
They had been dark and despairing as he felt himself slip
day by day. Even after his mind had gone, she'd sensed the
lingering despair.
He's gone to a better place, the few people who'd come to
the funeral had said. The old truism was right. Wherever he
was now, it couldn't be worse than the life he had left behind.
She and Nick were walking along an empty driveway, which
was always full of cars on Memorial Day and was mainly empty
the other 364 days a year. Nick pulled out a remote and a
big black expensive–looking car lit up, the doors
unlocking with a whomp.
"Nice car," she ventured. There was so much to be said,
but his face was so forbidding, so remote; she could only
make the blandest of comments.
"Rental," he said tersely and held open the passenger
side door for her.
A thousand questions jostled in her head but she simply
sat, holding her jacket tightly around her while he got into
the driver's seat and took off. A minute later, warm air was
washing over her and the trembling she hadn't noticed eased off.
He knew exactly where to go, of course.
He might have forgotten her, he might have forgotten her
father, but he wouldn't have forgotten where they had all
lived together. That was another thing about Nick. His
amazing sense of direction. The last few years before he ran
off, whenever they went on an outing together, her father
had counted on Nick to guide them; and for the last two
years, after he got his learner's license, to drive them all
where they needed to go.
The judge had probably started dementing already, though
there were no signs of it then. He had been, as always,
ramrod straight, with iron gray hair brushed back, always
elegant and collected. The opposite of the shambles of a man
she'd buried.
It helped to think of Daddy and not to concentrate on
Nick, driving with careless expertise. He'd always been
superb behind the wheel, right from the start. The
instructor had told Daddy that he hadn't had to teach Nick
anything. It was as if he'd been born knowing how to drive.
Elle stared straight ahead, doing her best not to take
peeks at Nick. It was almost impossible. He was like a black
hole, pulling in gravity toward him. Impossible to ignore,
yet impossible to look at directly.
A thousand words were on the tip of her tongue. How are
you how have you been where do you live now do you like it
there... Empty words really. Because what she wanted to
know, she couldn't say.
Why did you leave us? Why did you leave me?
The unspoken words choked her. She was afraid to open her
mouth because they would come tumbling out. She had no
filter, no defense mechanism. Plus, she'd lived alone so
long with a father who could neither understand her nor
respond to her, she'd grown used to saying exactly what she
thought.
She wasn't even fit company anymore.
But something should be said. They hadn't seen each other
in five years. Five years, seven months, and two days. Each
minute of which she'd missed him. Even in her sleep.
She concentrated on practicing the words. If she said
them slowly, one at a time, surely nothing else would escape
her mouth. How have you been?
How. Have. You. Been?
There, she could say that. Four simple words. And he'd
answer and she'd try really, really hard not to push. She
could do this. She could—
"We're here," Nick said and swerved so that the vehicle
was parked outside the garage.
She hadn't even noticed that they'd made it home.
She swallowed. The garage had been left open. Her
mistake. She'd rushed in to get slippers for Daddy's last
visit to the hospital, and in her haste hadn't closed it.
There were no cars. Daddy had always kept a Cadillac and a
Toyota, but both had been sold two years ago. She took the
bus to the few places she had to go.
Nick didn't bother putting the rental inside the garage.
He wasn't staying.
Elle swallowed the pain and turned when he opened the
passenger door. He held out a big hand. She didn't need
help. But...this might be her only, her last chance to touch
him.
She put her hand in his, and in a second, he guided her
down to the gravel, dropped her hand, then held it out
again, palm up.
She looked at it blankly, then up at him. He wanted to
hold her hand?
"Keys," he said tersely.
Oh.
Numb with cold and pain, she opened her purse and gave
him the door keys. She didn't have to rummage. Her purse
held a now–empty wallet, a cellphone with very few
minutes left, an old lipstick and the keys.
In a moment, Nick had the door open and was standing
there, waiting for her.
He watched her walk the few short steps to the porch and
up to the portico. Lucky thing he wasn't looking around.
The grounds had always been a showpiece. When Nick
disappeared, Rodrigo was still coming twice a week to take
care of the extensive gardens. The drive had been flanked by
seasonal flowers in large terracotta vases. The vases and
flowers were long gone. There were no flowers anywhere and
the hedges had long since lost their shape.
Elle had received three official notices of "abandonment"
in the past six months.
Nick didn't seem to notice, thank God.
Inside the house, though, it was worse than outside.
The house had always been immaculate. Ever since her
mother had died, when she was five, the house had been ruled
by a benevolent tyrant, Mrs. Gooding, who kept it polished
and fragrant with the help of a maid several times a week.
Mrs. Gooding was long gone, as was the maid.
Elle had done her best, but the house was big and the
last months of her father's life had required
round–the–clock care from her. She napped when
she could, exhausted, and did the best she could to keep a
bare minimum of cleanliness.
Her father had taken ill during the night, and they'd
rushed to the hospital. She kept vigil by his side for four
days and four nights. Then the funeral.
The house was a mess. A freezing cold mess, because she
hadn't turned the heat on, knowing she'd be away all day.
This time Nick noticed.
He stopped inside the foyer and she stopped with him. His
neck bent back as he looked up at the ceiling of the
two–story atrium. Once there had been a magnificent
Murano chandelier with fifty bulbs that had blazed as
brightly as the sun. Now there was simply a
low–wattage lightbulb hanging naked from a cord.
The rest of the foyer was naked too. Watercolors, the
huge Chinese rug, the console with the ornately carved
mirror atop it, the two Viennese Thonet armchairs on either
side of the Art Deco desk with the enormous solid silver
bowl full of potpourri— Gone.
Nick didn't react in any way. His face was calm and
expressionless.
What was he thinking?
Later, after he'd disappeared, one of her high school
classmates said that he'd been earning extra money playing
poker with lowlifes, and that he always won because he had
the best poker face anyone had ever seen.
She was seeing that now. There was no clue to his thoughts.
Perhaps— Perhaps she'd hoped to see some softness
or gentleness when he looked at her. But no.
She gestured awkwardly toward the back of the house.
"Would you... Would you like something to drink?"
He nodded his head briefly without saying anything. She
turned and walked into the kitchen, knowing he didn't need
her direction. He knew the way.
His showing up had scrambled her brains, but now she
forced herself to think, to reason things out. Where had he
come from? Had he traveled a long time? Would he stay the night?
Her heart gave a huge thump in her chest at the thought.
"So"—once in the kitchen Elle turned to face him,
plastering a smile on her face, making a real effort not to
wring her hands—"what can I offer you?"
Oh God.
Too late she realized that there was very little to
offer. If he wanted alcohol, there was none in the house.
Her father had had a fine collection of whiskeys, but they
had gone years ago and she had never bought another bottle.
There was no food, either, she suddenly remembered. Only a
last frozen pizza in the freezer.
"Coffee would be fine." His voice and eyes were so calm.
She tried to cling to that, to calm herself down, but it was
hard. This was Nick. Nick was here, right now, in her kitchen.
"Coffee. Right." There was coffee. Enough for one cup
at least.
She turned and tried to keep her hands steady as she
opened the cupboard to get the coffee. To her horror, except
for the glass canister with an inch of grounds, the cupboard
was bare.
Exactly like in some horrible fable.
She closed the cupboard, making a louder noise than she
wanted, then set about making coffee with trembling hands,
for Nick.
Nick.
Who was here.
Preparing the coffee, setting out the pretty Limoges cup
and saucer, part of a set that she hadn't sold because there
were only four pieces, and setting out a silver spoon and
the Wedgewood sugar canister, calmed her down a little.
He was still standing, and that was another blow to the
heart.
This had been his kitchen once too. He had once been
completely at home here. She remembered the thousands of
evenings Nick had teased her and made her father laugh in
here while Mrs. Gooding prepared dinner.
Now he was standing, needing her permission to sit. Tears
blurred her eyes but she willed them back. She'd had a lot
of experience at that. She could do this.
"Please sit." She pulled out a chair.
He took off his jacket, hung it on the back of the chair,
and sat. Underneath the jacket he had on a heavy flannel shirt.
Oh God. She should do the same, of course. Except she was
still cold, and underneath the jacket she had on only a thin
sweater. She did still have a few thick sweaters, but her
mind had been so befogged by the exhaustion of the last days
of her father's life, and the funeral arrangements, that
she'd simply grabbed the first thing that came to hand. As
luck would have it, it was a thin cotton sweater.
But she could pretend with the best of them. She hung her
own jacket over the chair and sat down across from him.
They looked at each other mutely.
The coffee machine percolated. Elle sprang up and poured
him a cup.
Nick hesitated. "What about you? Still don't like coffee?
You always liked tea. Can I make you some?"
"No!" Elle cleared her throat. "No, thanks." She'd kill
for a cup of tea, but it was in the cupboard above the stove
and that was bare too. Two bare cupboards—it was too
much for Nick to see.
Nick blew on the cup and sipped. As always, the delicate
china looked out of place in his large hand, but she knew
from experience that it was safe. His hands were huge, had
always been huge, but he was far from clumsy.
They sat in silence until he finished half the cup, then
looked up at her. "How long had he been ill?"
Elle didn't sigh, but she wanted to. "Several years. But
his doctor thinks, with hindsight, that the illness started
five years ago, only he managed to hide it."
Something—some faint expression crossed his face.
Oh God. He'd left them five years ago. It sounded like
she was accusing him of precipitating her father's decline.
"Must have been hard. For you."
Elle simply dipped her head. Yes, hard. Very hard.
"So—what will you do now? Go back to college?"
"I wasn't enrolled in college."
That surprised him. It took a lot to surprise Nick, but
she'd done it. "What do you mean you're not in college? You
were a straight–A student, always had been. Or have
you already finished college?"
She had to smile at that. She'd had anything but straight
As while she struggled to deal with her father's
eccentricities. It would be another year before she
understood he was ill. She'd missed almost every other day
her sophomore year.
"No...I, ah—it's complicated."
Nick was frowning. Okay. That was easier to deal with
than that look of pity he'd had.
"Well, now there's nothing holding you back, is there?"
Well, if you didn't count no money and medical debts, and
put like that..." No, there isn't."
The answer seemed to relax him. He looked around again,
then back at her, his dark gaze penetrating.
"You're too thin. And too pale. You need to eat more and
get outside more."
That hurt. Nick had been in her heart always, since he
had first come into their lives. She'd only been seven, but
she loved him the moment she laid eyes on him. She'd been a
girl then, but she was a woman now—and everything
womanly in her was concentrated on him, his handsome face,
those broad shoulders, the outsized hands.
Every female cell in her body was quivering. And he spoke
to her like an elderly aunt would.
Eat more, get out more. Don't be so pasty–faced and
thin.
Yeah.
Next thing, he'd be telling her to bundle up warmly.
"And Christ—what's the matter with you, going out
in this weather dressed like that?"
There you go.
How she'd dreamed of this moment! For years. And now here
he was, sitting across from her, so closely she could touch
him if she simply reached out—and they were talking
about her wardrobe.
"Don't," she said softly. "I had to get dressed in a
hurry. But I don't want to talk about this. I want to hear
how you've been doing. Where you've been."
And why you disappeared without a word.
But she couldn't say that. He was here. Right now she
wanted to fill the empty years with images. She could only
do that if she could imagine where he'd been, what he'd been
doing.
Once upon a time, he'd told her everything.
Nick settled more deeply in the chair, frowning. "I can't
really talk about that."
"Because you're in the military?"
He straightened, shocked. "How did you know that? Who
told you?"
Nick sounded actually angry. It had slipped out of her
mouth without her thinking about it, which went to show how
tired she was. She never let slip things she shouldn't know,
but did. She'd learned that the hard way.
She'd seen him. In her dreams. Not normal
dreams—that floating phantasmagoria of disconnected
images most people had during the night. She had those, too,
like everyone else. But she also had Dreams. She went places
in these Dreams, and it was like being there. Frighteningly,
exactly like being there.
She'd visited Nick, without a clue as to where he was,
but so real she felt she could touch him. He was exercising
with a hundred other men, doing jumping jacks and climbing
ropes and crawling under barbed wire. Shooting. Shooting a
lot. Jumping out of planes.
And with women. That had been the worst of all. She'd
watched, helplessly, as he made love to a series of women,
rarely the same one two nights in a row. Elle would be
looking down from the ceiling, watching the muscles of his
broad back stretch and flex, his buttocks tightening and
releasing as he moved in and out of the woman. Usually, he
held himself above the woman du nuit on stiff arms, touching
her only with his sex.
Those nights, as she watched from the ceiling, she would
wake up with tears on her face.
A part of her thought she was crazy. And another part of
her thought she could somehow travel outside her body.
Whichever it was—and maybe it was both—she'd
said the wrong thing to Nick.
He reached across to clamp his big hand over her wrist.
"Did someone tell you something?" he demanded. "Someone
spying on me?"
His grip was tight. Not painful, but definitely
unbreakable. Nick had always been strong, even as a boy. Now
he was a powerfully built man.
Slowly, unsure if her touch would be welcome, Elle laid
her hand over his.
"No one told me, Nick," she said gently. It wasn't the
first time she had to answer how she knew something she
shouldn't. And it wouldn't be the last. When he lived with
them, Nick had never known. Her father hadn't known. She
hadn't known. "You have the bearing of a soldier, and your
hair is cut military–short. There is a pale patch on
your jacket. Where there would have been an insignia. You
look like you're doing well, but you're not in a suit.
You've got combat boots on. They're sold in stores, too, but
taking all these things together—" She shrugged.
Nick relaxed, smiled. Oh, how she'd missed that smile! It
had taken him almost two years to smile when he first came
to live with them. She'd been only a child, but she
understood instinctively that he'd come from pain and
cruelty and she'd made it her personal challenge to make him
smile.
Once he started, he smiled often. He was breathtaking
when he smiled.
Like now.
He shook his head. "I forgot how smart you are. How
perceptive. So you put all that together and came up with
military, hm?"
It hurt that he forgot anything about her. She hadn't
forgotten anything about him.
"Yes, but I wouldn't want to guess which branch of the
service and how far you've climbed." She tilted her head,
studying him. "So...was I right?"
"Bingo."
Elle relaxed. She'd reasoned her way out of the trap.
"Which branch are you in?"
A cloud moved across his face, but he answered calmly
enough. "Army."
A word flashed across her mind. She didn't even know
she'd had it in her head, but the information she gleaned in
her Dreams had its own agenda. The word came out of her
mouth before she could censor it. "Rangers?"
Nick straightened, frowning. "Now, how the hell would you
know that?" His look was keen, penetrating, impersonal.
There was no sense now that she had a special place in
his heart. None. Ever since Nick had arrived in their lives,
she knew he had a soft spot for her. That she could take
risks with him. Like a puppy that could pull a wolf's tail
with impunity.
Not now. She had no feeling at all that she was allowed
liberties with Nick. His frown was deep and serious, and a
little scary.
She swallowed, and started on the lies. She'd never had
to lie to him before. "Sorry. That was stupid of me. I have
no idea what's going on with you. There was a movie on TV
the other night and the main protagonist was an Army Ranger.
That's what they called him, in fact. Ranger. That's all. I
don't even really understand what it means."
Even if she hadn't Dreamed that he was a Ranger, she'd
have wagered money that if there was a special place in the
army, Nick would have achieved it.
He relaxed slightly. "A movie hero? That's not me."
Oh, but it was. Nick was much more handsome than most of
the actors she saw on TV. Most actors had a softness about
them that was reflected in their faces. They might spend
eight hours a day at the gym, but their faces were puppyish.
Not Nick. Nick had known real tragedy. Wherever he'd
spent the first eleven years of his life before he came to
them—and he never spoke a word about it—they had
been hard, tough years. He'd had the bearing of a man even
when young. As a teenager, he'd been wise and tough beyond
his years. The other kids in high school either worshipped
him or steered clear of him. No one ever tried to bully him.
They wouldn't dare.
There was no actor on earth who could look as tough as
Nick at twenty–three.
He'd had a rough life, which had made him hard. The
military had taken him and made him harder.
He frowned at her. "How come no one was at the graveside?
The judge was well known and respected. I'd have thought
there would be thousands of people."
Elle didn't want to talk about that, about the past. She
wanted to talk about the here and now. But he wanted to
know, and she was hardwired to give Nick what he wanted.
"There were people at the funeral. Some. Not many. They
couldn't stay for the interment." She swallowed.
"Daddy...was sick for a long time."
Nick narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, you said that. So?"
"He also hasn't been a judge for a long time. I think...I
think people sort of forgot about him."
Nick was really frowning now and Elle understood
completely. When he'd left— Wait, use the right term.
When Nick abandoned them, her father, Judge Oren Thomason,
had been one of the most important men in the county. Nick
had felt her father's natural authority firsthand. When she
and her father had found him behind the house, in their
backyard, starving and with a broken wrist, the Judge had
taken care of everything. Within a month, Nick had become
his ward and was regularly enrolled in school.
Nick had often said his real life began the day the Judge
found him. He seemed to forget that Elle had been there too.
A tiny girl, only seven, but it seemed her real life began
that day too.
Nick had lived under the Judge's protective aura. So Elle
could understand that he found it hard to understand his
last years.
"Daddy...declined. Mentally. He was forcibly removed from
the bench via an injunction." She swallowed. Her father had
been beyond understanding exactly what had happened, but he
had understood very well that something important had been
taken away from him. He'd been agitated for an entire year.
"Alzheimer's?" Nick asked
She hung her head.
"Tough," he said.
You have no idea. She lifted her head, nodded.
They sat in silence, looking at each other. Finally, he
gave a sigh and shifted in his chair. Elle panicked.
He was leaving already! He'd just arrived, and she hadn't
seen him in five years. She was still gulping up details
about him every time she dared to look at him. The hard cut
of his jaw, the two wiry white hairs mixed in the thick
black hair of his temples. His hands, bigger than she
remembered. Clean but callused, with a strip of thick yellow
callus on the edges. Judo calluses, or some kind of martial
art. She'd read about that.
The shoulders that stretched beyond the shirt seams.
Nick was unshaven, his stubble thicker than she
remembered. He was now one of those men who should shave
twice a day.
That was new. So many things about him were new.
Including the fact that he was sexy as hell.
That was new, for her. As a child, as a young girl, Nick
was... Nick. The person she loved most in the world after
her father. Always there, always dependable, always fun.
With a natural authority that made her feel safe and
protected. The two men in her life, looking after her. Her
father, with his understanding of the law, his status as a
well–respected judge—nothing in society could
harm her while he was around. And Nick—always strong
and tough, with quick reflexes, always alert for trouble.
Nothing in life could hurt her while he was around.
It was only now, alone, that Elle understood what a
privileged childhood she'd had. And Nick had been a big part
of that.
Nick wasn't her brother. She had no idea what feelings
you could have for a brother because she'd never had one,
but she instinctively understood she never thought of Nick
as one. Nick was her friend, her protector.
She thought he'd always be there. How foolish. It hadn't
even occurred to her that someday he'd fall in love and
leave. She didn't know if he'd fallen in love, but he'd
certainly left.
He'd definitely had women. Tons of them. She'd never seen
male genitalia in person but in her Dreams...Nick was the
epitome of maleness. She'd seen him with women, she'd seen
him in bed pleasuring himself—
She swallowed, hoping she wasn't turning red. She'd
always been an open book to him. Please God, let him not
understand that she was remembering the violently arousing
image of him having sex with other women and with himself.
Sitting across from him, she totally understood why women
fell for him. As a girl, her feelings had already started
turning. But now she was a woman, and what he evoked in her
was sexual desire—of a scale and intensity she didn't
know how to handle.
Nick shifted in his chair, huffed out a breath. "Well,"
he began. "I guess I'd better be—"
"Where did you come from?" she blurted.
"What?"
"Where were you today? Or yesterday? When you decided to
come?"
"Are you asking why I came?"
"No." And she wasn't. Why he came was clear, to her at
least. They were linked by a thread that had become thin and
stretched over time but still held. She'd needed him
desperately and he came. That was bedrock for her. She
didn't even question it.
He wasn't answering her question. She tried another tack.
"I can't let you leave without feeding you. Dad would... Dad
would have been appalled."
His hard look softened. "Honey, it doesn't look like you
have much food in the house."
Elle swallowed, lifted her head. "Dad was very, very ill
the last couple of weeks. I didn't have time to do any food
shopping." She pulled her cell out of her pocket. "I can
call Foodwise, though. Jenny would gladly send us a meal.
Promise you'll stay at least to eat."
There were still a couple hundred dollars left on the
checking account. The undertaker's bill would come later and
plunge her into the red, but for the moment she had more
than enough to cover a meal. Two meals, even. She didn't
even think of ordering a pizza or a burger and fries. Nick
deserved better than that.
He dipped his head. "Okay."
Elle beamed at him. He wasn't leaving right this minute.
She still had time with him. There was so much to memorize.
The lines beside his mouth, brand–new, that
disappeared when he smiled. How the tendons in his neck
stood out when he turned his head. How she could see his
pectorals through his shirt.
How utterly handsome he was.
How he heated her blood.
She had to memorize this effect he had on her, because it
wasn't coming back, not without Nick. She knew herself that
well, at least. This was her one shot at feeling sexual
desire and it would leave when he left.
Everything about her was aroused. Her skin was
supersensitive. The small hairs on her forearms and on the
nape of her neck prickled against her sweater. Even the
lightest touch against her clothes seemed to burn her skin.
It was hard to breathe, as if oxygen had suddenly mutated
into a liquid. She had to concentrate to keep her lungs filled.
The biggies. Her breasts, never large, now felt immense
and heavy. Her nipples brushed against the cotton of her
bra. Between her thighs—that unmistakable feeling of
heaviness and heat and emptiness she had when she woke up
from ordinary dreams of Nick.
The changes in her body excited her and scared her.
Excited her because, well, heat and pleasure were novelties.
She'd been cold and hollow for a long time. These tingling
sensations, as if her body were waking up after a long
sleep—they were wonderful. They also scared her
because as far as she knew, only Nick could make her feel
this way.
But he was staying for dinner, or as much dinner as she
could muster.
Take this second by second, she told herself. Enjoy every
second.
She watched him as she dialed the number. Jenny herself
answered. She had a soft spot for them. Once, when she was a
young girl, long before Elle had been born, the Judge had
kept her out of trouble. Jenny herself had told her; the
Judge had never said a word.
"Hey, hon." Jenny's smoky voice, as always, was warm.
Elle could imagine her leaning against a wall on a cigarette
break, short gray hair brushed back, her long, lean, elegant
frame slightly slouched. "I'm so sorry I couldn't make the
funeral. We had to cater two luncheons. I'm really sorry,
honey. If I'd had advance notice...but that's not the nature
of funerals, is it?"
"No, it's not." Elle smiled. Trust Jenny to say the exact
right thing. No doubt in the days to come she'd have
thousands of people apologizing for not coming, though in
most cases it was simply that the Judge had fallen off their
radar. He wasn't off Jenny's radar. If she'd been free, she
would have come. "That's okay, Jenny. Dad knows you loved him."
"I surely did, hon. So what can I do for you? Can I send
you a dinner over?"
Oh, bless her. "Yes, thank you. Today's special." She
hesitated. "For two people."
Jenny didn't pry. "Two specials, you got it. I'll send
them over around seven, with a nice bottle of wine. All on
the house."
"Thank—" Elle stopped. It was an incredibly
generous offer. Dinner would be at least seventy dollars,
plus the wine and tips. But...that was the beginning of a
long slippery slope straight to hell.
So far, Elle had kept up appearances. No one came to the
house anymore, so they wouldn't notice that almost
everything that could have been sold was gone. But Jenny
knew, or suspected. If Elle started accepting charity now,
it would snowball. The wives of former friends of her father
would start sending over used clothes—Just wore it a
few times, Elle sweetie. You're welcome to it. Maids would
start leaving casseroles on her front doorstep.
It didn't bear thinking about.
Not to mention the fact that Jenny's smoker's voice came
over loud and clear, and Nick had undoubtedly heard every word.
She injected confidence in her voice. "That's kind of
you, Jenny, but not necessary. I'll give the delivery boy my
credit card. But thanks for the offer."
She could barely look away from Nick's dark eyes. It took
her a moment to realize Jenny was taking a long time to answer.
Finally— "Okay, hon. That's fine, then. But the
wine will be on the house."
Yes. That was acceptable. A gesture of solidarity, not
charity. "Thanks, Jenny."
"I loved that old man," Jenny replied and Elle nearly
burst into tears.
That was what her father had been. The kind of man other
people loved because he'd done such good in the world.
"Yeah," she whispered, forcing the word out, and broke
the connection before she broke down.
She raised her eyes to Nick.
"I loved him, too," he said quietly.
And that broke her. It was like a sharp punch straight to
the heart. Reaching past skin and bone in a nearly fatal blow.
"Then why did you leave us?" she whispered as tears began
rolling down her face.
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