Soldier's Redemption (8 page)

This time, Skylar shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s hard to imagine how. I hardly think you chased a middle-aged woman down the fire escape and mistook her for a guy.”

“No, it was a man, I’m sure of that. What kind of car does Banderas drive?”

“I have no idea, but really, Cole, don’t be absurd. My uncle is a very astute man. If Ian was doing something shady, he would know.”

“Why else would that woman be hell-bent on bonking him?”

“I don’t know, but just because she’s under the impression Ian has something to do with her daughter’s apparent disappearance doesn’t mean it’s true.”

“Yeah,” he said, but he didn’t sound convinced.

“Did my uncle tell you about the police lead he mentioned at dinner?”

“Banderas arrived before he could say anything. Do you know what he was alluding to?”

“No clue.” She was silent for a moment and then commented, “Your hotel is up ahead.”

“You can let me off at the front.”

“No, I’m going to make sure you get tucked in all safe and sound,” she said.

She could feel him gazing at her. She guessed he wasn’t particularly fond of needing help, but that was too bad. She’d let him get away without seeing the nurse, but she wasn’t dropping him off at the hotel entrance.

It was still relatively early, and their wet, disheveled state raised eyebrows from the parking valet to the lobby staff. Cole’s limp was more pronounced than ever as they made their way down the long hallway to his room.

Once inside, she shooed him into the bathroom with directions to take a hot shower. He handed her out his suit, and she deposited it and his overcoat into dry cleaning bags and called housekeeping to pick them up outside the room. Then she called through the bathroom door, asking Cole if he had aspirin, and he told her he’d already used a glass of tap water to take two from the bottle he carried in his shaving kit.

As he bathed, she used the brush in her purse to comb out her damp hair, then started opening drawers, looking for pajamas for him. The first drawer she opened revealed the box she’d given him the night before and also a colorful figurine of a clown that looked old and worn. She picked up the figurine, too curious to mind her own business.

Why did a guy like Cole Bennett carry around a child’s toy? It added an unexpected dimension to him, another little puzzling thing that she couldn’t identify or stick with a label, just as his watchful demeanor that night had made her wonder if he was there for a reason he wasn’t sharing.

“Please put that down,” he said, and she whirled around guiltily, the clown still in her hand. He stood just inside the room, a white towel wrapped around his waist. His exposed skin glistened with dampness, the muscles beneath chiseled and defined. She’d known he was put together better than your average male, but the true extent of his fitness left her shaky.

She turned back around and replaced the clown. Raising her gaze, she saw in the mirror that he was now standing right behind her, his reflected image intent on what she was doing. The man moved like a cat, limp and all.

She closed the drawer and turned again, ending up right against him. She was as aware of the towel knotted at his waist as she was the clean, fresh scent of his newly washed skin.

“I wasn’t prying,” she said. “I was looking for your pajamas.”

He smiled that way he had. “I don’t wear pajamas.”

Of course he didn’t.

He took her hand and led her toward the bed.

“How’s your head?” she asked.

“Nothing an old soldier can’t handle,” he said and sat down. As the towel rode up his muscular thighs, she got a glimpse of his left knee and swallowed a gasp.

His gaze followed the direction of her own. “Sit down,” he said gently.

She sat down beside him. “Does it hurt?”

“My knee? Yeah, at times. I must have fallen on it tonight.”

It was obvious he’d had more than one operation and also that it was relatively new as the scars hadn’t entirely healed. She touched the surrounding skin, and he flinched. She got the feeling it wasn’t because she’d hurt him but because she’d actually touched him.

He raised her chin with his fingertips. “I took a piece of shrapnel in Afghanistan.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I got out alive. The others weren’t so lucky, so all and all, a limp is a small price to pay.”

“And it cut your career short?”

“I could have stayed on and done other kinds of work, but that wasn’t what I wanted. By the time I got out of rehab, I was finished with that part of my life. Now you know the whole story.”

She doubted it. He was glossing over the physical and emotional pain he must have experienced, but she understood his instinct to protect himself.

“I’ll turn my back, and you can get under the covers,” she said, trying not to imagine what he would look like when that towel fell to the floor.

“You don’t have to turn your back,” he said, his mouth very close to hers.

“You have a head injury,” she whispered.

He glanced down at his lap, and her gaze followed. It was obvious his body was responding with a mind of its own, and she yearned to touch the growing shape, strip away the towel, feast her eyes on him, feel her against him and inside of her. She licked her lips.

“You smell wonderful,” he said, nuzzling her neck. His breath was hot against her skin as his hands slid around her back. She leaned into him. His mouth closed over hers, and she felt like she was drowning, sensations coming over her like waves she couldn’t climb. The kisses grew deeper, one hand buried in her hair, the other caressing her neck.

Her uncle never would have admitted Cole into his home if Cole hadn’t checked out to be who and what he said he was. But that kind of check didn’t address a person’s character directly; only time and experience would reveal those traits.

Did she care? Right this second? Um, no.

He pulled her back on the bed and half covered her with his hard, lean body. As he kissed her over and over, deeper and harder, his hands roamed her chest, and though no buttons were undone or straps removed, her flesh felt almost naked under the heat of his fingers. He pulled her against him and delivered the granddaddy of kisses while his hand caught the bare flesh of her thigh, and she knew it was time to shed her clothes. Instead, he caught her shoulders and sat up, pulling her with him, holding her so tight against his chest she couldn’t breathe and she didn’t care. When he looked down at her, she stared back, lips parted, eyes half closed. He looked as frazzled as she felt.

“Skylar? This isn’t a good idea,” he whispered.

She wanted only to wrap her arms around his solid torso. She was hot and moist and feeling almost drunk with desire. What was his problem? “But—”

“No,” he said, gently, settling a fingertip against her lips. She could feel a tremor in his hand as though he was fighting a great battle.

“Is it your head?” she said, coming back to her senses.

He continued to stare at her, and then he nodded. “Yes. It’s my head.”

“Of course,” she said. “I should have thought of that. Let me look.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“Lower your head,” she demanded, and he finally did.

She carefully parted his soft dark hair. The skin was a little swollen and red but not broken. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re sure about not seeing a doctor?”

“Absolutely.” He got to his feet and so did she, demurely turning her back while he dropped the towel and slid between the sheets. He yawned and settled into his pillow. “I just need to sleep,” he said.

She’d never known it was possible for a guy to go from hot and breathing heavy to sleepy that fast. Either she was the most boring lover the world had ever known or he truly did hurt.

“Good night,” she said. She took a card from her wallet and set it beside his lamp. “That’s my phone number. Don’t hesitate to call if you need something.”

“Will I see you tomorrow?” he asked, gazing up at her as she switched off his lamp.

She leaned down and kissed his forehead. “That’s up to you. Call me.”

He caught her hand, then released it. Using the light from the bathroom to navigate, she let herself out of his room.

* * *

H
E LAY THERE FOR QUITE A WHILE
thinking he’d never get to sleep, trying to figure out the identity and significance of the woman who had hit him and what her problem was. Skylar hadn’t said much, and what she had said was kind of lost in the quicksand of his near concussion. Something about Banderas taking her daughter.

Was it possible Futura was involved in some kind of human trafficking? Look at what he’d done decades earlier; this wasn’t such a big stretch for a man who forged passports and adoption papers.

Maybe Ian was Futura’s partner in crime. Maybe the woman was trying to bash the wrong man.

If this was true, where did it leave Skylar? Now his thoughts flew back to her, and he took a deep breath. He had won a few medals for bravery and things like that, but the real medals should come for doing the decent thing and not making love to a woman who (a) he wanted and (b) wanted him. She’d been his for the taking, and instead, he’d put her back on the shelf, neat as a pin and undamaged to boot.

He must have slept because eventually he awoke to a ringing phone. He sat up too fast, and the room took a spin. He grasped his forehead with both hands. As he sat there contemplating moving again, the hotel phone went silent. He eventually managed to get both feet on the floor and shuffle into the bathroom where he took another shower and two more aspirin. A new towel fastened around his waist, he was in the process of leaving the bathroom when the phone rang again and he snagged the receiver.

“This is Cole,” he said, expecting to hear Skylar’s warm voice.

Instead he heard the crisp words of a woman he didn’t recognize. Her English was excellent but accented. “I am Irina Churo. Your brother gave me your number.”

His brother
.

The concept still amazed him. And not just one brother—two. After growing up an only child, he found it a pretty incredible experience to suddenly have a family. Not that he could mention their existence to anyone, not until this mess in Kanistan was cleared up, but the knowledge they were back home waiting for him was like the promise of a fire in the hearth when you’re slogging through the snow. “You’re talking about John?” he said. His other brother, Tyler, had never been to Kanistan.

“Yes. He mentioned me, perhaps?”

“Yes, Irina, he did. You’re a policewoman in Slovo. John met you months ago when he came to Kanistan to investigate his memory loss.”

“Yes, and again when he was trying to find his brothers. I called him recently with news, and he asked that I contact you because you are here in Kanistan. Would it be possible for you to travel to Slovo, say tomorrow?”

“Is it important?” he asked and then regretted it. John wouldn’t have given this woman his number if he didn’t trust her and if what she’d told him hadn’t struck him that her information would help. Before she could answer, he inserted, “Never mind. Should I call this number when I get there or drop in at the police station?”

“Oh, no,” she said quickly, her voice dropping in volume. “No. Before you get to town, there’s a bridge with green turrets. You can’t miss it. There’s a building on the bridge. I will meet you there after work, say, four o’clock in the afternoon.”

“All right,” he said. “How will I know you?”

“I’ll wear a black coat over my uniform and a green scarf. Perhaps you could carry something.”

He felt as though he’d just wandered into an old spy thriller! “Not necessary,” he said. “Just look for a man with a limp.”

“I see. Until tomorrow, then.”

He hung up the phone and called Skylar, disappointed when it went to her voice mail. Headache now superseded by hunger, he went downstairs and ate a light breakfast and then, following a gut instinct he had that the woman from the night before and Aneta’s murder were somehow related, decided to go find Skylar and convince her to come with him to see the police and ferret out this lead her uncle mentioned.

Frankly, he wasn’t sure what else to do. If Luca Futura was the murdering son of a bitch Cole’s brothers were convinced he was, Cole had to find some way to prove it. Either that, or exact revenge. Any which way, it was obvious Skylar wouldn’t want a thing to do with him before this was over.

* * *

H
E DROVE TO THE GALLERY
in his rental car and parked on the street. The gallery had a closed look to it although it was almost noon. Sure enough, when he got to the door he found a sign he knew translated into “not open.” But there was a light coming from the back where the office was located, so he rapped his knuckles against the wooden door and waited, knocking again when his first attempt brought no response.

Eventually he could see movement coming through the gallery, but it didn’t appear to be Skylar. The door opened, and he was suddenly face-to-face with a gray-haired man in his late fifties with round black glasses and a hook nose that made him look like a hungry eagle.

Doubting the guy spoke English, Cole gave it a shot anyway. “I’m looking for Skylar Pope.”

The man furrowed his brow, then nodded quickly as he touched his balding head. “You mean girl with purple stripe? No, no, she leave gallery.”

“When?”

The man shrugged. “I don’t look at clock. Not long. Five, ten minutes? She get call and rush out.”

“Did she say where she was going?”

“She say nothing. Okay, she say something about painting and then run out of here like feet on fire.”

“Did she go toward the bus?”

He waved his hand down the block. “That way.”

The opposite direction from the bus. “And who exactly are you, sir?” Cole asked.

“I give audit for Ms. Ables,” he said, his voice impatient. “You to come back next week.” And then the door closed and that was that.

Skylar had told him the night they went to dinner that she didn’t drive to work because of the downtown traffic. She preferred to take the bus, but that didn’t mean she didn’t occasionally drive herself. However, if she had driven, wouldn’t she have parked in the alley instead of the street? The fact she’d left through the front door and hurried away from the bus station seemed significant to him. Wherever she went was probably within walking distance, but that could cover a lot of possibilities.