Ricochet (19 page)

“Are you going to play with that or eat it?” Rubi asked.

Ryker looked up and found her watching him as he moved the syrup around on the plate. He grinned, said, “Play with it.” And looked at Rachel as he slid the chocolate-covered fork into his mouth.

Rubi laughed. Rachel massaged her temple.

“Wait a minute,” Marx said. “You can’t expect Rachel to drive a rig three hours along the coast highway. That road is dangerous enough without a trailer. And she’s not qualified to write up an action sequence for an explosion plan. As far as scouting with Ryker, have you
seen
the terrain surrounding that bridge?”

“Okay, enough.” Anger rang clear in Rachel’s voice. “I’m sick of being underestimated.” She looked at Marx. “I grew up on a ranch, which means I’ve been hauling shit since I could drive at thirteen. I’ve also been backpacking every summer in the Sierra Mountains since I was seven. I’ve hiked the Trinity Alps, the Olympic Mountains, the Columbia River Gorge, the Grand Canyon, and the Tetons. And
I’m
the one who created that action-sequence plan for last month’s train blast, so stop telling me what I am or am not qualified to do.”

“Well,” Ryker murmured, “that explains a lot.”

Rachel’s hot eyes cut toward his, and Ryker bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning at her.

“Wait… What…?” Marx’s mouth hung open. “Wes’s signature was—”

“Wes looked it over,” she said. Behind her, Wes shot for a basket into the hoop at the pool’s deep end and scored. “And we consulted with Titan demolition together, but Wes has never created an SOP, and with consistent sixteen-hour workdays, he barely had enough time to tell me what should be in the plan, let alone write the damn thing. I could make the time, and I have an MBA that’s going to waste. It made sense for me to do it, and both you and Cinematic accepted it, so what difference does it make who writes it?”

Ryker had stopped playing with his chocolate. He hadn’t thought he’d been one of the underestimators, but…the ranch, the backpacking, an MBA? Yeah, he’d underestimated her. Ryker enjoyed the chink this information put in Marx’s ego, but what really created this strange sensation in Ryker’s chest was Rachel’s moxie. She definitely had a soft side—the nurturing side Troy wanted around to take care of everyone. But Ryker was loving this tough streak. He admired it. And he admired her for standing up to Marx and Troy. And, yes, even him.

Rubi’s applause filled the brief silence. “You go, girl.”

Rachel’s gaze cut to Rubi’s, and her face flushed pink. On a heavy exhale, she grabbed a lemon bar and turned toward the house with a muttered, “I need a drink.”

Ryker sat in the truck in the parking area on the set and took a sip of coffee, his gaze holding on the Renegades trailer.

This was so fucking stupid. He didn’t need anything about this job—not the money, perks, kudos, visibility, rush, sure as hell not the stress. And he didn’t need to spend time with a woman who made his body tighten like a rubber band ready to snap, knowing she didn’t want him.

She may be attracted to him. But she didn’t want him.

He didn’t blame her. When you took mind-wracking animal sex out of the equation, Ryker came up empty on offerings for a woman.

But Rachel had said she didn’t want either the crazy sex or the relationship, which left…what? Occasional, comfortable, quiet…companionship sex?

No. Ryker didn’t do tame. He put everything he had into every encounter. If he couldn’t, he didn’t do it. He didn’t settle.

Life is way the hell to short.

His gaze traveled over the wide gravel path leading to the set.

So fucking short.

His gaze blurred. Jagged teeth tore a hole beneath his sternum and chewed outward.

Alive one second, dead the next.

In his mind, he saw Tagger and Dekker alive, laughing, throwing a football, tagging each other with spitballs over dinner in the mess hall, as clearly as if it had all been yesterday.

Then he saw the blast. The dust and debris. Their bodies tearing. Flying…

His mind ripped from the horrific memory, and Ryker dragged his focus back to the present. To the hills, the set, the truck. But one memory was all it took to start his heart pounding, his body sweating, his mind racing. To tip his whole reality catawampus.

He sucked deep lungful’s of fresh air, dropped his coffee cup into the cup holder and covered his face with his hands. “Fuck.”

The loss of his team, his men, his friends, still sliced him open every time the memories crept in. He tried like hell not to let that happen, but he had so much time on his hands, that seemed to be getting harder.

He dragged his hands down his face and stared blankly out the windshield. Troy was right. Ryker needed this job. Yet the stress of the job—Rachel, Josh, the responsibility, the risk—could make his anxiety flare. And worrying over it all just made his ribs feel like they would crack from the pressure.

He plucked the rubber band from the console beside his change—the thickest, toughest motherfucker he’d found yet—and pulled it over his hand. He hadn’t had to use this technique in weeks, and the fact that he needed it now only increased his frustration.

Hauling the sucker back, he gritted his teeth and snapped his wrist three, four, five, six… Until he lost count and the sting deepened to a stab and his mind had banished the tendrils clinging to the fear.

Skin red and warm, he threw the band back to the tray and worked on his breathing. On strengthening his will to get through this. He was a Ranger. If he wasn’t dead, he could get through anything.

After a few minutes, his mind had cleared. Enough to fake his way through until he found his next period of balance. Those stretches grew longer and longer, the tormenting flashbacks fewer and fewer. Eventually, they’d be gone. And he’d be solid.

Or so he kept telling himself.

He shook his head and gazed toward the Renegades trailer. “Why the fuck am I here?”

Because Troy needed him. Because Troy’s company needed someone who could blow this job right, and Troy had put his trust in Ryker to get that done. No small show of faith on Troy’s part. And certainly no small sense of responsibility on Ryker’s.

It helped a little to put his purpose in perspective. Helped him get out of the truck. Helped him walk up those stairs. Helped him open the door to the trailer and face the sweet little beauty behind that desk.

The one that didn’t want him.

Or, rather, didn’t
want
to want him.

She darted a split second look over the top of her glasses, then returned her gaze to the paperwork on her desk. “Good morning,” she said, her voice mellow and warm like first light. “Jax said he’s going to be a little bit late, which is good. I want to talk to you about something that happened last night.”

She stood and walked to the filing cabinet. One glance down her body and Ryker’s shoulders went soft, his belly stirred with want. She was wearing jeans that rode low on her hips and went straight down the leg showing every luscious inch he’d been drooling over next to the pool. And, evidently, cowboy boots went with jeans as well as dresses, because they were on her feet again today. The blouse was faded cheetah print, sleeveless, with ruffles along the straps and a deep vee showing a pretty expanse of skin along her back.

Dammit. He’d played her down a hundred different ways in his head last night. Made a dozen different reasonable excuses he shouldn’t find her attractive. Then he stepped in the room, saw those little glasses, heard her sweet voice, got a look at that slim figure, and he went all weird.

What he wouldn’t give to feel her against him right now. Her arms around him. The thought brought a fantasy of such deep relief, Ryker swayed on his feet.

“Hey…”

He looked up at her worried tone and realized she’d been talking and he’d been zoning. “What?”

She was standing just six feet away, glasses in her hand, frown pulling her brows together, chestnut hair falling long in loose waves. She wore just a little makeup, on her eyes, her cheeks…

“I asked if you’re feeling okay. You’re pale. You look clammy.” She turned to the fridge, pulled out two bottles of water and gestured to the sofa. “Sit. Are you nauseous? You ate the rib eye last night, didn’t you? I hope you didn’t get a bad steak. How well was it cooked?”

He moved to the sofa. “I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep well.”

She sat next to him and her scent curled in the air like a breeze, citrus and flowers and sunshine.

“Damn, you smell good.” He leaned away. “You shouldn’t get so close.”

“What’s this?” She turned his hand over and ran her finger across the wrist he’d just snapped the hell out of. “Is this a rash? Do you think you’re contagious?”

“No, but I’m definitely hazardous to your health.”

She put a hand on his forehead, slid it to his neck. Her cool touch made him a little delirious. “No fever.”

“You’re just checking in the wrong place.”

She smirked and uncapped a water bottle. “Drink this. You’re probably dehydrated from the beer last night.”

“I didn’t have enough to—”

“Just drink,” she insisted.

He obeyed, more so he could get his gaze off her face and cool down than because he wanted or needed it. She pressed the other bottle against his neck and he jumped at the cold, spilling water over his lips with a sound of protest.

“I was saying,” she said, repositioning the bottle to his cheek as he lowered his head and wiped his chin with the back of his hand, “that I didn’t like the insinuation Josh made about this job risking your position in the Army. And I’m going to have a talk with him about it the next time I see him.”

“I can fight my own battles, Rachel, but thank you.” He gave her a sidelong look as she rolled the bottle up his temple. “What are you doing?”

“I always feel better with something cold on my face when I’m sick.”

She shifted closer and lifted it to his forehead, exposing the delicate underside of her arm, the full side of her breast pushing against the fabric of her blouse. He could wrap his forearm around her waist and have her underneath him in two seconds. And the memory of how her little body felt beneath his, of his face buried between her breasts, breathing her in, of her hands in his hair, legs around his waist…

“What you do with your career is your choice,” she said, her voice softer now. “I know Troy’s asked you for this favor, and you feel obligated to help out. But I’d feel horrible if the sixteen years you’ve put in were somehow messed up because of this one job. I mean, yeah, it’s really important to us, to the company, but somehow, I don’t know, I got a flash of the bigger picture for you last night and...it worries me.”

“You’re adorable when you worry.”

“Shut up. I’m trying to—“

“Take care of me. The same way you take care of the others.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees, getting closer, to feel her heat, smell her scent. He could tilt his head, ease in and have his lips on hers. Desire slid beneath his skin. “I know. That’s what makes your ramble so sweet.”

“Fine, forget it.” She scowled at him and pulled the bottle from his skin. “Ruin your career and your future if you want. I was going to tell you that if there’s anyway I could help—I don’t know how, because I don’t know how that military shit works—it was worth investigating so you didn’t ruin your future, but that’s obviously not—“

He closed the distance and pressed his lips to hers. At the same time, he lifted his hand to cup her head, knowing she’d immediately pull away—which she tried. But he held her there for an extended moment, just to feel her lips again.

And, yes, they were as supple and full and soft as he remembered.

Then, before she pushed away, he released her.

The stunned look in her eyes was so cute, he wanted to kiss her again. But he didn’t. “I hear you,” he said softly. “And I appreciate the worry. So far, I’m in the clear. If anything changes, I’ll let you know.” He lifted his brows. “Okay?”

She licked her lips slowly, as if trying to drag in the taste of him, and the sight was like an electric current along his skin.

“Don’t do that again,” she said, but there was no punch behind the words. “Anyone could walk in that door, and—“

“I’d hear them before they even got close, sugar.”

“You’re missing the point again—“

“No, I’m not.”

She gave him one of those stern looks that made him grin and changed the subject. “One of the problems with Josh is that he’s with a company where making waves brings success. The more information they uproot, the better their job analysis. The better their analysis, the less risk the insurance company takes, and—“

“I know how it works,” he said. “The bigger problem with Marx is that he doesn’t like me threatening his territory—you.”

“Please don’t refer to me as territory. I’d have to get pissed off, and honestly, I just don’t have the energy.” She pushed the second bottle into his other hand and leaned forward to pick up the laptop off her desk, then sat on the edge of the sofa beside him again, the computer angled so they could both see the screen. “I have all the resumes pulled up here for you to look at, but I wanted you to check out Charlie’s first. I think he’ll make a great foreman for you.”