Too Hot to Hold (8 page)

Her sister and her parents had been dead for years, since Sarah was sixteen, and she had no idea if the old porch was still standing. Today, she hated ghost stories and she’d been about to leave the circle of people around the fire when the liquor came out and the young doctor who’d been flirting with her had challenged her to a shot contest.

He was so young and yet she had to remind herself that he was years older than she was. But sixteen and the family porch were another lifetime ago and these days the years faded like the sunsets.

Now she lowered the man onto his cot and pulled the blanket over him before leaving the tent. She took advantage of the outside shower available by the doctor’s quarters of this French-run refugee camp. As oneA.M. approached, the air was still warm, the water almost more so, but good enough to wash the long day of traveling away. She stepped out of the small enclosure holding a small towel against her body.

She dressed quickly, skin still slightly damp as she pulled the black tank top on and scrambled into cargoes. She walked back to her car, where she planned to spend the night, mapping out tomorrow’s route for Vince. Going over the pictures she’d taken for him.

She grabbed her camera from her bag and watched through the backlit viewfinder as she thumbed through the day’s pictures.

She didn’t remember walking through the frantic refugees who’d gathered for food and shelter and medical attention. Looking back at the photos she’d taken, she vaguely recalled the afternoon spent there while Vince interviewed survivors of the most recent violence in the DRC. She’d walked through so many—as a guide and a photographer—and she didn’t like to think of herself as immune to the heartache that was all too apparent to an outsider.

But when she photographed the atrocities, it was as if all her pent-up emotion, her anger and shame and wish to help came through the lens.

She’d captured a few children running, laughing. A mother nursed her infant in some sparse shade and she could almost fool herself that the scene was serene.

But the reminders of where these had been taken came quickly—the image of a young man missing both legs below the knees, an old man who kept repeating
Karibu
at the top of his lungs to no one in particular.

He’d lost the worst thing of all, although some would say it was better to be stripped of your senses if you lived here.

Lately, her pictures had been getting better—more focused. Tighter.

These days, photography was all she had to concentrate on and she was grateful for the distraction.

Vince walked up next to her and she silently handed him the camera. This trip, he’d been her biggest supporter and she’d sold more pictures to his paper than she ever had during a single job.

She didn’t need the money, but for now work was about
her
survival, putting one foot in front of the other.

“Why don’t you work outside of Africa? You’re good—really good,” he asked finally.

“I like it here.”

“My paper wants to hire you full time. You just have to say the word. You’d get to take pictures, have health benefits. Security.”

Right now, her jobs consisted of meeting the American reporters who traveled in country, taking them around, giving them protection and getting them in and out of where they needed to be. They came too few and far between.

She’d be a fool to refuse, and yet, for her, there was no other answer. “This is the place I know. That’s what makes me such an asset.”

“Your talent is what makes you an asset.” He was still looking at the pictures. “You’re wasting yourself with this part-time guide crap.”

If he only knew what she was really capable of—what she’d learned over the years. Then again, he was aware she traveled with automatic weapons, so maybe he did know. Maybe he wanted to save her from herself. “What do you care?”

Vince was mid-forties. Fit and handsome. He’d never married.

Married to the job
, she’d expected him to joke, but he hadn’t. Hadn’t hit on her, hadn’t made stupid comments about her country… hadn’t done anything she’d expected.

“What are you so scared of, Sarah?”

She wanted to say that nothing scared her … and she wanted it to be true.

These days, there was so much that frightened her. She was invested in things in a way she’d hadn’t been before. She hated that. Or at least she wished she could. But hating that would mean she was still denying her feelings for a man who’d wanted her more than any man ever had. And that was something—someplace—she never wanted to go back to.

It had been nearly three months since Clutch left her behind in the hotel room in Uganda. Three months since he’d held her in his arms and promised not to leave.

Three months since he’d saved her life by doing so. He was into something so deep that she’d begun to fear he’d never get out of it.

“I love it here—this is my country. I grew up here.”

“It’s all you know. You could learn to love other places too. Or else you’ve got to do more with your gift, Sarah. You’ve got to get serious, not just dabble.”

He’d looked through her portfolio, the one she’d put together last year. She’d updated it recently, found herself wishing she’d been able to sneak some pictures of Clutch. She wanted nothing more than to set Clutch down in a field and just snap away, map his body, every single part, with film. Black and white, she’d decided, for the shades and shadows. It would work with his blond hair and eyes, would work with who he was—light fighting to stay in the shadows and never succeeding. At least not when he was with her.

She’d met Clutch two years earlier, when she’d been trying to get a picture of the famed mercenary. At the time, she had no idea that she would become his lover for a year.

The first time they’d made love had been fast—hot—up against the door of the office.

She’d been attempting to capture him on film, had been lucky he didn’t break her camera. Instead, he’d lowered them to the ground and took her like a man possessed.

“Long time for me, Sarah,” he’d said fiercely. “Tired of my own hand.”

She’d been tired of hers as well.

They’d broken up when Clutch refused to train her as a mercenary—reunited when Clutch helped to save her life when she’d gotten herself involved with another mercenary, who’d meant to kill her.

But Clutch had gotten called back into service by his government nearly three months ago and was involved in something really bad, over which he had no control. Since he’d left her in the hotel, she’d done nothing—barely surviving. Crying. She’d gotten sick of that, sick of herself, had finally pulled herself together, even if it was only a temporary patch job, and she’d gone back on the road.

She still looked over her shoulder, around every corner, waiting to feel Clutch’s presence, but there had been nothing. Only stone-cold silence. Loneliness. And most of the time, she hated him for forcing her to feel again, only to take himself away from her, leaving her right back where she’d been.

You’re not the same person
.

She looked the same as she did last month—last year, even—her hair was still short, her tattoos still there, ink bright against her tanned skin. Yes, flesh and bone were the same, but the insides, the hot blood through her veins, that was changed.

“Think about the offer, Sarah. From here, I go to Nepal for three months to live with an indigenous tribe. You’d be perfect for the assignment.” Vince pushed away from her car, leaving her by the abandoned fire and all alone in the hot night.

As much as she didn’t want to think about her past and her future, both were right there in front of her, their paths too divergent to ever cross and the choice between the two inextricably bound.

When he was young and handsome and had visions of taking over the world, Walter Winfield had women of all ages after him. And at eighteen, nineteen and twenty, his life had been a string of formal parties, college studies and secret affairs with women, all of whom expected to be the next Winfield wife.

Deidre hadn’t wanted to be a Winfield at all. And certainly, she’d never wanted to be attached to him or the legacy of fame, fortune and pain that abounded.

No, she’d wanted Walter’s brother, Billy, instead. At that time, when Walter turned twenty-five and became serious about being a Winfield and all that entailed, Billy was the black sheep of the family, only eighteen when he’d been sent to the military to get himself straightened out.

Billy had served a tour, was visiting the family estate in Nantucket on leave when Deidre came to the house for the first time. She’d been escorted by her mother and father. Walter had been struck from the first moment the blond beauty had walked through the door.

Billy had been mesmerized as well. And as they lunched on the patio in the spring warmth, Deidre’s attention was subtly pulled in his brother’s direction. They talked books and art with a passion Walter remembered well—his own hobbies were not in that area, varying instead from golf to polo, his reading mainly history and politics.

Deidre was going to be a teacher. She would head to school in the fall. Later, Walter’s father told him that Deidre’s parents disapproved of that career for their daughter. They were of the mind-set that she should be focused on settling down and starting a family.

They said she’d always been too absorbed with the needs of others.

Billy wasn’t even close to marrying anyone, not even a girl like Deidre, who came with a large fortune, class and political power in the form of her very Republican family—all of which would help to bring more stature to the Winfield name. And so when Billy was away on his second tour of duty, Walter asked for Deidre’s hand in marriage.

Pressured by her family, told that Billy was already engaged to another woman, a heartbroken Deidre gave up her career and the idea of marrying Billy.

She would be the perfect wife of a potential president. She was perfect—beautiful, fashionable, kind. She was also well read, passionate about children’s rights and the American public adored her. The press couldn’t get enough of her, and although she never complained once about life in the fishbowl, it took its toll on her.

Walter’s own father had told him early on,
You’re never going to find true love, Walter. It doesn’t exist for people with the money and background we have. The best you can hope for is a companion who’ll support your political career and give you children
.

Walter had convinced himself that Deidre was shy. Demure. That once they married, things would be different. That she was merely nervous about the responsibilities she was about to take on.

He’d been very, very wrong.

Deidre had spent their wedding night in bed, alone, sobbing in her sleep. Walter sat in the chair until the sun came up, the weight of the Winfield legacy planted firmly and irrevocably on his chest.

Deidre had only enough love in her heart for one man. She’d finally consummated that love, had ended up in Billy’s bed time and time again, until Walter finally confronted his brother. Threatened him.

Billy, who’d been planning on leaving the service and then New York, and taking Deidre with him, had reenlisted.

A month before Cutter’s birth, Billy was killed in combat. The press reported it as friendly fire, but Walter and the Winfield family knew the truth—Billy had been targeted by the foreign militia, kidnapped and killed before he could be rescued by Special Forces. Deidre had never forgiven Walter.

Walter had never forgiven himself for driving his brother away and into that final tour of duty. And now that decision weighed heavily on his mind in light of what Deidre had done.

Immediately after her death, Walter was given a private letter penned by his wife before her death. He’d burned it in the fireplace in his office at the family estate, but not before he’d committed the contents to memory, elegant handwriting that told him Cutter was his son and not Billy’s as Walter had always been led to believe by Deidre herself.

Walter remembered that every time he had looked at Cutter while the boy was still living as a Winfield, Deidre’s betrayal had stung. He’d assumed the same held true for her, given she couldn’t bear to be near the preemie after she’d given birth, much too early.

He was ashamed to admit that there were many nights he himself prayed the tiny infant wouldn’t make it through until morning. But against all odds, Cutter Winfield did.

Walter used to try to force himself to see his brother in Cutter. In truth, the boy looked far more like Deidre’s side of the family than anyone else.

All those years, Walter had let his pride and guilt get in the way of so many things. It was time to set things right.

Nick stepped on the SITREP Max had slipped underneath the back door as he came in from the garage. He’d spent hours on the highways from New York back home, letting the radio and the road distract him.

Now, well into the evening, he’d finally relaxed enough to come home. And still, he wanted to kick the file aside and not deal with it.

But that had never been his style.

He scooped up the folder and scanned the familiar report as he headed to the shower to wash the chill of the dank day off him. What he found—or didn’t find—in that report, written six years earlier, and two days after he’d met Aaron Smith, stopped him dead in his tracks, shirt dangling from his right arm and pants unbuttoned.

This SITREP had most definitely been altered. Not to the naked eye—nothing had been blacked out. No, the changes were more sophisticated. The report had been retyped so as not to include a single mention of Aaron Smith.

The report had Nick being a hero and completely saving himself, just the way Aaron had reported it back to Kaylee.

And yes, his own signature remained intact and on the bottom of the page.

Shit
.

He stared at the report until the words blurred, until his memories got clearer and he could see what he hadn’t told Kaylee about—saw the dead men lying on the ground behind Aaron and the lifeless look in Aaron’s eyes.

Maybe none of this was a big deal, maybe it was all magnified because of Deidre’s death and the great, ongoing search for Cutter.

And maybe this was something worth looking into further. He’d need to get the list of the other men from Kaylee, contact them. Ask Kaylee exactly what they’d told her about their time with Aaron, the exact locations. Everything.

The knock on the door, two sharp raps, made him jump first and then curse as he yanked his clothes back on and shoved the papers aside. Letting his guard down when he was home with his brothers was fine—home alone, he needed to be more on guard.

From what, he wasn’t exactly sure, until he looked out the window and caught sight of the big black car with the New York license plates in the driveway. His breath caught and for a brief second, he thought about not answering the door.

Instead, without bothering to look through the peephole, he opened the front door and planted himself firmly in place.

The man Nick had vowed never to call
Father
again stood on the other side of the door. Alone. Not even a chauffeur in the car, as evidenced by the half-rolled-down driver’s-side window.

“May I come in, Cutter?”

Nick stepped aside and let the man into the house that had sheltered him from harm for all these years, watched as Walter moved stiffly across the threshold as if he knew what an invasion his presence was.

Nick shut the door behind them and cleared his throat before he spoke. “I’m sorry about Deidre.”

“She didn’t ask for you before she died,” Walter told him and for a second Nick felt the familiar one-two punch that came with his biological family. But when Walter continued, the blow softened slightly. “I wish she had, for both our sakes.”

“Why’s that?” This time, he was unable to keep the bitterness from his tone.

“I understand your anger. But it should be directed at your mother, not at me. She lied to both of us.”

“I know I’m Billy’s son. I knew that before I left your house for good.” It was the first time he’d ever said the words out loud to anyone, although they’d been in his mind for as long as he could remember.

There was a pause as he waited for confirmation from Walter. “No, you’re not my brother’s son, Cutter. You’re mine. My biological son.”

For a moment, it was as if someone held his windpipe closed. When he was finally able to take a breath, it came out in a long, whistling wheeze.

All this time … all this time he’d thought he understood why neither parent wanted him—he was an embarrassment, a reminder of an indiscretion. A real live bastard.

To hear that he was legitimate broke his heart more than he ever thought it could. “You’re lying.”

“If I had known…” Walter trailed off.

None of it made sense anymore. It had always been nothing more than a slight comfort as to why Deidre had hated him—he’d figured that she saw him as a living, breathing reminder of her affair. “I don’t understand… when did she find this out?”

Walter hesitated, and Nick saw a pity in his eyes that he never, ever wanted to see from anyone. “She knew the whole time, Cutter.”

“I’m not Cutter. Stop calling me that.”

“I know this can’t be easy to understand.”

Understand? He closed his eyes and sagged against the wall and wondered how the hell anyone was supposed to understand that their own mother couldn’t bear the sight of them.

“By the time Billy reenlisted, it was too late to think about repairing our marriage,” Walter admitted.

“She hated you, that much I know. I might not have spoken much, but I sure as hell was never as stupid as you thought.”

“Your mother and I grew apart for many different reasons.”

“She loved Billy. So why the hell didn’t she just save everyone the trouble and divorce you?”

“We’re a public family, Cutter. The world expects different things from us. Our own happiness can’t come first.”

Nick’s chest felt tight and he fought for breath. His ulcer burned. “What kind of way is that to live?”

Walter’s face told the strain of the past days. Although Deidre hadn’t loved Walter, it was apparent that Walter had never been able to stop loving his wife. “I don’t have the strength for a philosophical discussion with you.”

“Then why, after all this time, are you here? I’m dead, remember? So you’ve said what you had to say—I hope it made you feel better, because it sure as shit didn’t do anything for me.”

Walter looked pained at Nick’s words. “I lost my brother before I had a chance to make peace with him. I won’t let that happen again.”

Nick ran both hands through his hair, muttered to himself that he needed to stay calm and focused, and
fuck
, he wished his brothers were with him now. “You can’t walk in here and expect me to give up my life.”

“I don’t expect that.”

“If I’d turned out to be Billy’s son, then what? I’m assuming you wouldn’t be at my doorstep.”

“I don’t know,” Walter answered honestly. “Finding out you are my son was a wake-up call for me. You were a child and I punished you for no reason. A father should never do that to his own flesh and blood.”

Nick felt the lump rise in his throat, pushed it down with a hard, silent swallow and told himself that this was all bullshit. He fought the urge to tell Walter that no, he wasn’t his father. And then he thought about Kenny, how he’d pounded it into him to always be respectful. How sometimes it was better not to argue, especially if you knew the truth inside your own heart. “I really don’t know what you expect now… why you suddenly care.”

“Your job is dangerous. Like your uncle’s was. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t reach out to you. But I can’t expect your forgiveness.”

“No, you can’t,” Nick said firmly.

Walter nodded in his direction and moved toward the front door. He stopped before he exited. “I’ve followed your career. I know you’re a hero.”

Nick didn’t bother to ask him why, didn’t want to know any more than he already did. His mind couldn’t process this information—not now with Walter standing in front of him. “I do my job.”

“Better than most. One of your most recent missions to stop an assasination saved an African country from potential economic ruin.”

“Details of that mission are classified.”

“Not to a senator.” With those words, Walter was gone, shutting the door softly behind him.

How much of Nick’s life Walter Winfield knew about or cared to know was something Nick had never really stopped to consider. The man had written him off as dead, discarded him—Nick never thought further contact would be an issue. But Kenny Waldron wasn’t a hard man to find and Nick still lived at the house that Kenny had signed over to his boys, the one Nick and Jake and Chris spent the better part of their teenage years in. The one he and Jake had continued to live in while their teams were stationed in Virginia. The one Chris recently moved back into when he’d been transferred back East from a West Coast team.