The Edge of Courage (Red Team) (8 page)

“It tastes cold.”

She fed him a forkful of lasagna. “And this? How does it taste? It was my grandmother’s recipe.”

“Warm.”

“Those are temperatures, not flavors.”

“Mandy,” he sighed, “food doesn’t taste like anything to me right now. Just temperatures and textures.”

“Oh.” She looked at the plate she held. “I suppose that’s part of your not having an appetite.” She served him another bite.

He took the fork from her. Cutting a small bite, he fed it to her, watching as her lips closed over the tines. He slowly drew the fork from her mouth, feeling the pull of her lips against the thin strips of stainless steel. Again, the warm flush spread across her skin. He swallowed, anticipating the next bite she would feed him. He suddenly realized he’d sit here and eat the whole goddamned lasagna with her if she’d keep looking at him as she was.

Mandy took the fork back and used the side of it to cut another bite. Instead of lifting it to him, she pushed it around on the plate as if she were preoccupied with a thought. He waited, knowing she would broach the topic that was bothering her once she found the right words.

“Rocco, what did you do in the war?” she finally asked.

“I was a linguist.”

She lifted the bite of lasagna to him. “What does a linguist do?”

He watched her as he chewed. How would she judge him if he were to tell her how he’d spent the last decade. Three years in training, then seven in the field? “They do different things. Translate stuff.”

She paused in feeding him another bite. “You were Special Forces, like Kit, weren’t you? A linguist in the Green Berets doesn’t just translate, does he?”

“I wasn’t in the Special Forces.” Nor was Kit, but she didn’t have a need to know that. He considered how to explain to her what he’d been. There wasn’t even a classification for it.

“How long were you over there?”

Rocco met her look. Her questions were making him uncomfortable. “A long time.”

She smiled and lowered her gaze to the lasagna as she cut another piece and fed it to him. “Is it easy for you to learn another language? What did you speak over there?”

“Pashto, Dari, Arabic, Farsi, among others.”

Her eyes widened. “You can speak all of those languages?”

“Fluently. And read and write them.” And know the differences in hundreds of regional variations of each. He sighed. “Kit says I’m a linguistic savant.”

“You’re a Rosetta Stone. Was it always like that for you?”

“I think so. There were only two languages spoken on our ranch when I was a kid—English and Spanish. I grew up bilingual. In high school, I mastered French and German as well.” He looked at her. “Both in my freshman year. That’s when I knew I was different.”

She gasped. “How do you do that?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I was surprised to learn that most people can’t do that. Language to me is simply vocalization of emotions. We all have the same emotions, the same need to communicate. We speak because we desire something or we’re sad or angry or scared. We just use different sounds.”

They’d finished his lasagna by then. She gave him the last bite of salad, then retrieved her meal from the table and sat next to him again, her hip against his thigh. It seemed to him that she sat closer, which he didn’t mind. He took the loaded fork from her and carried it to her mouth. She was so wrapped up in feeding him that she wasn’t eating any herself.

She chewed and swallowed. He cut a piece of lasagna. He figured he could keep her questions to a minimum if he kept her mouth full. It didn’t quite work as planned.

“So you’re a genius.”

A breeze started up, tousling her hair, pulling a wide strand of it against her cheek. What he would give to be able to brush it away, run his fingers across her skin. Instead, he could only watch as she did it.

“More like an idiot. An idiot savant.” He fed her the forkful and cut another.

“But you can read and write those languages, too. That’s amazing. You are a genius. I wish I could do that.”

Rocco closed his eyes as he considered how to explain it to her. “I think it’s just that I don’t tell myself I can’t.” He looked at her. “When I hear a new language or a new dialect, it first registers that whoever’s speaking is communicating as any of us does. I don’t hear them as being different. I hear the sounds of their emotions, and then I can speak those sounds. And once I can speak a language, deciphering its symbology is simple.”

“I think you’re amazing.” He fed her another bite. She chewed and swallowed quickly.

“Do you?” What would she think if she knew what he’d done with his God-given talent, the enemies he’d killed and camps he’d infiltrated? She might see his work in the light of how many lives he’d saved—innocent civilians spared a death in crossfire and coalition troops spared from IEDs and gun battles. Then again, to her it might be merely a count of bodies.

A few minutes later as she gave Rocco the last bight of lasagna, a big drop of sauce landed on his thigh. She jumped, spilling a bit more. Rocco laughed, unable to stop himself when he caught her bemused expression. He took the fork that was still perilously suspended above his leg and finished off the bite on it.

“Oh! Sorry!” She wiped at the first spot with her napkin. She had to draw the material of his jeans taut to get at the second one. Did she notice the growing bulge only a few inches from her hand? The more she wiped, the harder he got.

His fingers dug into the edge of the old floorboards. He couldn’t believe that she was touching him—even in so innocent a way as to dab at a stain—and it wasn’t triggering the usual terrible reaction. Perhaps it was because she touched him through fabric.

And then, it wasn’t just the stain she was touching.

She spread her fingers open on this thigh, looked at her hand on his leg, then slowly dragged her fingers down to his knee. Blood raced to his groin. God, he’d not had a reaction to a woman like this in years.

She rubbed her palm over his big knee, then stroked upward again, over the stain, to the top of his thigh. She moved to kneel next to him without lifting her hand from his body. He remembered seeing her touch Kitano, her hands slowly stroking over him like this. He closed his eyes, feeling like an idiot for thinking there was anything sexual in her leisurely exploration of him. When he opened them again, she was looking at him, waiting. The pink flush had returned to her skin, painting her cheeks.

Jesus. If merely touching him colored her skin, what would she look like when he was in her, thrusting, bringing her to a climax?

She ran her hand up over his hip, over his jeans pocket, to his waist. He could feel the heat of her skin through his shirt. He held her gaze now, daring her to stop, daring her to continue.

She edged closer to him as she ran her hand up his ribs, over his pec, to his collarbone. Her hand moved from his open collar to his neck, now skin to skin. He sucked in a breath, waiting for the smell of the ghost flesh, waiting to feel it sticking to him, drying, moving to her.

But it never happened.

He felt only the soft tips of her fingers on his throat, felt them stop at his jaw. She watched the path her fingers made along his jaw line before pushing them upward, over his chin, to his lips. She flattened three of her fingers and stroked from one side of his mouth to the other.

She was so close to him that he could feel the soft puffs of her breath on his neck. All too soon, far sooner than he wished, she drew her fingers across his cheek, down his neck, across his shoulder, and down his arm. When her hand cleared the cuff of his sleeve and touched his hand, he hesitated only a moment before pulling away.

“Don’t.”

“Why?” she asked.

“I don’t like being touched.”

“Liar.”

He stood up, severing their contact, ending the moment. He’d been wrong. She never touched Kitano the way she touched him.

She came to her feet and met his look, but he was spared further torture by the sound of a car pulling into the driveway far below. A sheriff’s cruiser. It stopped in front of the house, not far from the steps. The deputy got out of his car but did not approach the porch. He looked at Rocco, then the flowered tablecloth, then Mandy.

“Mandy,” he tipped his hat to her.

Rocco disliked him instantly. He felt his head clear in a flash as he became aware of the same animosity rolling off the deputy. He wanted to tell Mandy to go in the house while he dealt with the man, but that was totally whacked. He had no authority—he was only a visitor here. He crossed his arms and glared at the deputy.

“Jerry,” Mandy greeted him from the top step.

“Heard you hired yourself a newsflash ranch hand.”

“Yep. This is Rocco Silas. He served with Ty and Kit. Rocco, this is Deputy Sheriff Jerry Whitcomb.”

Rocco gave a quick nod to the man. He hadn’t missed the look that flashed through his eyes as Mandy mentioned Kit’s name. What had that been about?

“Bobby know?”

“Does he know what, Jerry?”

The deputy looked at Rocco. “You hired yourself a man.”

Rocco uncoiled his arms and took a step forward. Mandy stepped in front him, blocking him. “Are you up here on police business, Jerry?” she asked, ignoring his question.

The deputy made a face. “Curious about how things were going with the construction, if you’d had anymore problems.”

“No. Thank heavens. Things have been quiet.”

Jerry nodded. “That’s good.” He puckered a corner of his mouth as he looked around the place. “That’s real good. It was beginning to look like someone had a grudge against you, but I couldn’t understand why. You never were a troublemaker like your brother.”

He glanced at her and lifted his hat. “Well, you let us know if anything else happens.” He looked at Rocco, a clear warning in his eyes, then got back into his car. Through the lowered window, he pinned Mandy with a look. “Good night to you, now.”

Neither Rocco nor Mandy moved as they watched the cruiser move down her driveway and turn back onto the road. Rocco caught the shiver that passed through Mandy. He wished he could touch her, wrap an arm around her, pull her against his body. Instead, he offered the only comfort he could.

“I can kill him for you.”

Mandy slowly turned to him. There was no humor in her face. “Rocco Silas! That is not acceptable behavior.”

“It’s what I do.” He shrugged. “Don’t worry, it won’t look like murder.”

“It’s what you did.” Well, heck. Where did that come from? she wondered, embarrassed to have implied she thought he was a murderer. “It’s not what you did. I don’t know what you did.” God, she was rambling. “Jerry Whitcomb is not an enemy.”

Rocco did not try to soften the threatening look he gave her. “Who’s Bobby?”

Mandy crossed her arms. “A friend of Jerry’s. We had an on-again off-again thing. We’re off-again at the moment.”

Rocco nodded. “Keep it that way.”

“Bobby’s nothing like Jerry. And I don’t need you to tell me how to manage my personal life.”

“I’ll call Kit,” he warned.

“That’s not fair.”

Rocco grinned. It was not a nice expression. “We’re even then.” He looked at the table. “Want some help with the dishes?”

“No. Thank you.”

He set his hat on his head and jogged down the steps. Once in the drive, he turned around and walked backward, watching as she collected dishes. He felt strangely reluctant to move away from her.

“Em?” he called. She glanced over at him.

He stopped moving and hooked his thumbs in his front pockets. She walked to the edge of the porch, looking sweet and feminine as she leaned against the support beam.

“Thank you.” He told himself not to notice the way the light hit her hair. “For feeding me.” For the sunshine. The work. The place to be. Her eyes met his. “You sure I can’t kill him?” He grinned at her.

Her eyes widened. “I mean it, Rocco! That’s not funny.”

Chapter 7

Rocco stood in the narrow shower stall two days later. Hot water sluiced down his back. It did little to ease the tension gripping his neck and shoulders thanks to the night’s virulent dreams. He lifted his face into the sheeting streams of water.

Despite the sun and the work, the meals with Mandy, he lost a little more of himself every day. What pieces remained of his soul jangled against each other like the unglued shards of a broken pot, more apart than together.

A vision of wispy, gold-red hair sifted through his mind. Big, green eyes. Mandy. He couldn’t see her or think of her without heat slashing through his body. The meals they shared in the evenings were a blessing and a curse. He ate because she would sit with him, chatting about lots of things. Nothing. The wind. Kitano. The progress of the construction. It didn’t matter. Her voice flowed through him like a river. His source.

Thank God she wasn’t a mind reader. His thoughts about her were never pure. He listened to her, watched her, all the while wondering what her voice would sound like as she straddled him. He would feel her laughter, her breathing. Her life would be a jumper cable to his, feeding it energy, strength. Life.

He ached to hold her, to draw her into himself. To pretend for a short while that he was whole. That he could feel something. Anything.

He opened his eyes through the streaming water. His dick stood at a right angle to his body, wide and thick, pointing straight toward the wall. He touched himself, felt his balls tighten even more. He slipped his fist over his rigid cock, slowly, imagining her mouth moving over him, those soft, pink lips parting, taking him deeper, deeper into her throat. He hadn’t been blown in almost a decade. He’d lived the chaste existence of an unmarried Muslim while undercover. And once he was married, oral sex wasn’t an acceptable practice.

Ah, God, Mandy. She would look up at him with those enormous green eyes, her mouth full of his cock. Rocco’s nostrils flared. He shut his eyes, seeing her kneel before him. He pumped into his fist. In his mind’s eye, he was easing deeper into her. Pulling back. He soaped his hand, making his grip slicker, moving faster. Harder.

He’d make her go to all fours, lifting her sweet entrance up toward him. He’d slip into her, easing in deep, feeling her sheath grab him. Then he’d take hold of her hips and slam into her, pumping, pumping until he felt her small muscles grab him, milk him, force him to release.