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Bring Me to Life
Kira Sinclair
Subject: Evan Huntley, Special OpsStatus: Believed to have been killed in action…until now!Three years is a long time. Long enough for Tatum Huntley to leave heartbreak behind for the idyllic town of Sweetheart, South Carolina. Long enough to start over. Yet not long enough to forget the devastation left behind when he died. Her husband. The man whose touch haunts her… And the man who just walked back into her life.All Evan Huntley wants is to get the woman he loves back in his arms…and his bed. While her love for him never died, Tatum can't–and won't–forgive Evan for letting her believe he was dead. For leaving her alone. But can she resist giving in to the exquisite passion that still burns between them?


Subject: Evan Huntley, Special Ops
Status: Believed to have been killed in action…until now!
Three years is a long time. Long enough for Tatum Huntley to leave heartbreak behind for the idyllic town of Sweetheart, South Carolina. Long enough to start over. Yet not long enough to forget the devastation left behind when he died. Her husband. The man whose touch haunts her… And the man who just walked back into her life.
All Evan Huntley wants is to get the woman he loves back in his arms…and his bed. While her love for him never died, Tatum can’t—and won’t—forgive Evan for letting her believe he was dead. For leaving her alone. But can she resist giving in to the exquisite passion that still burns between them?
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Dear Reader (#u20370c52-3cbd-5a7d-82ba-cd236ef590e2),
I’m so excited to be visiting Sweetheart, South Carolina, again! What’s not to love about a small Southern town with quaint charm, great friends…and very hot men? From the moment Tatum Huntley popped onto the pages in The Risk-Taker I knew she was hiding a story behind that sarcastic wit. And like any good writer, I wanted to figure out what made her that way. I wasn’t quite prepared when Evan, a badass on a Harley, showed up after three long years of her thinking him dead. He nearly sent strong, independent Tatum to her knees with hope and fear and longing.
No one escapes life without being touched by grief. We’ve all lost someone we cared deeply for…a grandparent, parent, lover, friend. Heartache is a universal emotion. However, it can help us appreciate the people and time we have on this earth. I don’t know anyone who would balk at having a few more hours—or even minutes—with someone they’ve lost. But the reality isn’t quite so idyllic when Evan roars back into Tatum’s life. Losing him devastated Tatum. And letting him in once more means risking that pain all over again. But how can she resist falling for the man she’s always loved?
Bring Me to Life is all about the power of second chances and seizing those miracles that we’re all blessed with on occasion. I hope you enjoy Tatum and Evan’s story! I’d love to hear from you at kirasinclair.com (http://www.kirasinclair.com), or come chat with me on Twitter.
Best wishes,
Kira
Bring Me to Life
Kira Sinclair


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
KIRA SINCLAIR is an award-winning author who writes emotional, passionate contemporary romances. Double winner of the National Readers’ Choice Award, her first foray into writing fiction was for a high-school English assignment. Nothing could dampen her enthusiasm…not even being forced to read the love story aloud to the class. However, it definitely made her blush. Writing about striking, sexy heroes and passionate, determined women has always excited her. She lives with her two beautiful daughters in North Alabama. Kira loves to hear from readers at
kirasinclair.com (http://kirasinclair.com).
I’d like to dedicate this book to my parents.
My life took an unexpected turn in the middle of writing this book, and I wouldn’t have been able to get through each day without their unconditional love and support. I’ve always known I was blessed with the best parents in the world. Growing up, I didn’t always make life easy, but they never wavered in their support of me and my decisions…even when they didn’t agree with them. They’ve shown me, by example, what a good parent should be, how a good person should live and what a strong relationship should look like.
Love you both!
Contents
Cover (#u778add87-ec2d-597a-80f9-fa67fc5a2cc4)
Back Cover Text (#uce3d0309-0eba-554f-a51b-cd20826b9af2)
Introduction (#uaf866ed1-8272-571a-b3ed-b3600e5d06a5)
Dear Reader
Title Page (#u8521b6ab-d6b7-56db-88d1-b4cd411e8eee)
About the Author (#u9039dd6c-e80b-554d-8360-ac72cd2d7e4b)
Dedication (#ud3f48347-8c09-56c5-a019-44379e9c0f2f)
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Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
1 (#u20370c52-3cbd-5a7d-82ba-cd236ef590e2)
THROUGH THE RAINBOW slivers of colored glass, Tatum Huntley watched soft, fluffy snowflakes drift down from the darkened sky to blanket the dead grass surrounding the church. The scene was beautiful, just like everything else about Hope’s wedding day had been.
She wanted that for her friend, the perfect day to celebrate the love she’d found and fought for with her husband, Gage.
Behind Tatum, the background noise of her friends’ chattering voices was both soothing and a little abrasive. They were helping Hope gather the last of her things so she and Gage could head out on their honeymoon.
Any other time, Tatum would have been right in the middle of the laughter and friendly ribbing, making an inappropriate comment or slipping a sex toy into Hope’s luggage as a joke—anything to have her friend blushing.
But tonight Tatum couldn’t muster the energy to pretend everything was okay.
There was no way for her friends to know how much this day ripped at raw emotions. Hell, she hadn’t realized it would affect her this much.
It wasn’t as if she and Evan had had a perfect, white, church wedding. They’d gone to the courthouse with a handful of their friends gathered around as witnesses. Sure, she’d worn a white dress, but it had been off the rack and nothing like the confection Willow had designed for Hope. And her bouquet had been a simple mix of spring flowers they’d picked up at a local florist on the way.
Far from Hope and Gage’s extravaganza. Although, she probably should have assumed...she’d loved Evan with every single cell in her body, just as Hope loved Gage. Their days definitely shared that.
But Hope, Lexi, Willow, Macey, none of them even knew she’d been married. And that was the way she wanted it.
No one in her current life knew her past—it was the whole reason she’d bought Petals, become a florist and moved to Sweetheart, South Carolina. Here she could pretend her life was okay, that her heart hadn’t been ripped from her body and stomped on by fate and some military mission she didn’t have the clearance to know the details about.
Her floral business gave her a purpose, a reason to get up every morning and keep going.
Tatum’s focus shifted to the reflection of her friends in the window, and she tried to pull her emotions back from the brink of melancholy. Hope didn’t deserve her moping.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed the sad memories deep beneath a layer of false bravado. Later. She could wallow later.
Willow was fussing with Hope’s train, repositioning the long layers of silk she’d pulled up into a bustle. Even now, after the ceremony and a large chunk of the reception were already over, she couldn’t seem to keep her hands off the dress.
Reaching behind her, Hope grasped Willow’s arm and pulled her back onto her feet. With exasperation, she said, “Will you please leave it alone? You aren’t supposed to be working. You’re my bridesmaid not my dress designer.”
A frown tugged Willow’s dark brows. “Can’t I be both?”
“Not if it means you’re on your hands and knees while the rest of us are sipping champagne.”
Willow sighed, looked longingly at the folded edges of the train—that from Tatum’s point of view looked perfect—and then studiously turned her back on it, taking one of the glasses of sparkling wine.
“Hope, are you ready to go?” Gage’s deep voice came from the other side of the closed door.
“Just a minute,” she called, twirling with a swish of material against the floor.
She grabbed the last two glasses of wine, and thrust a cool flute into Tatum’s empty hand.
Flinging an arm around her shoulders, Hope beckoned everyone close. They crowded together, a tight circle of people Tatum hadn’t known existed a few years ago.
Now they were her best friends. Her strength.
Hope’s gaze traveled around the circle, her eyes going misty. “I love you guys. Thank you for being part of my day and making sure it was perfect.”
There were murmurs and answering tears, glasses clinking and gulps of champagne.
And then Hope was gone, folded beneath Gage’s arm and ushered out into the chilly December night.
Tatum trailed slowly behind the other girls as they rushed to watch the newly married couple race for the waiting car ready to drive them into Charleston to catch their flight.
Hope and Gage rushed through a gauntlet of bubbles mixed with snowflakes and ringing good wishes. Tatum stood at the top of the steps, watching the scene below, unable to fight the sensation that she was on the outside looking in.
When she’d first moved to town, that sensation had been pretty much constant. As a transplanted Yankee—from Detroit, no less—arriving in Sweetheart had felt a little like landing on another planet. But that’s what she’d needed. A fresh start. Something completely new.
In the last two years, the out-of-place sensation had faded to little more than an unpleasant memory. Until tonight. Something about tonight had made her feel off-kilter.
Grasping the edges of the black velvet shrug that accompanied her deep burgundy dress, Tatum hugged herself. She thought she was alone, everyone else focused on Hope and Gage’s escape, until a soft hand landed on her hip.
Startled, she gave a little jerk as Willow’s arm settled around her waist.
“Hey, chickie, you’ve been quiet tonight. Wanna tell me what’s up?”
For the briefest moment, Tatum thought about unloading on her friend, telling her every second of anguish and anger she’d dealt with over the last three years. But that wouldn’t exactly be fair.
She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”
Willow squeezed, pulling her in tighter. “You know I’m not buying that lie, right?”
“It isn’t a lie.”
“Oh, it is. But I’ll let you get away with it. For now.”
Below them, Hope folded into the backseat of the car, yanking the voluminous layers of skirt in after her. Willow cringed, making a small, wounded whimper.
Tatum’s mouth twitched. Finding something to smile about was a gift she hadn’t expected, even if it had come at Willow’s sense of affront as the dress’s designer.
It was her turn to wrap a comforting arm around Willow’s shoulders. “Maybe it would be better if you didn’t watch.”
With a resigned sigh, Willow said, “No, I want to see them leave.”
The driver closed the car door and ran around to the front. Trails of steam hit the cold air and billowed from the tailpipe, leaving a hazy cloud behind as he finally pulled away.
The minute the car disappeared, people streamed past Tatum into the reception, rushing for warmth, another slice of cake and a chance to enjoy the DJ waiting to crank the party up another notch and let them dance into the wee hours of the morning.
But Tatum couldn’t move to follow them.
Her body was frozen, her eyes trained on the vision of a ghost, propped against the sleek chrome of a badass bike parked against the curb across the street.
He couldn’t be real. It must be her imagination. Memories. And possibly too much champagne.
Although, that didn’t stop the frantic pace of her heart as it picked up inside her chest. Her body turned hot and then cold. She couldn’t breathe. Tears pricked the back of her eyelids, just as painful as the day she’d learned he was gone.
Why would her imagination play such a cruel joke?
She’d forgotten Willow was beside her, until her arm tightened around Tatum’s waist. “Who is that guy?” her friend asked.
Tatum’s mouth and tongue wouldn’t work.
Willow grasped her hand. “Are you okay? You’ve gone seriously pale.”
Somehow, she found the power to whisper, “You can see him?”
“You mean the guy with the bike staring at you like he wants to throw you on the back and race away? Yeah, I can see him. Why wouldn’t I be able to?”
“Because that’s my husband...and he’s dead.”
* * *
SHE LOOKED AS though she’d seen a ghost, which was pretty much true.
No, she looked amazing, but then Tatum always had. Different, but that was to be expected. It had been three years.
They’d both changed.
Evan watched her, waiting. Beneath the lie of his relaxed posture, his body was strung tight.
There was no way to anticipate her reaction. Although he’d sure as hell tried.
In the dark moments, the ones where he thought it might have been better if he had died on that night three years ago, she had been the only thing that had drawn him back from the brink. When he’d watched men, women and children killed in front of him. Hell, when he’d done the killing, trying to justify his actions by remembering the men dying deserved what they had gotten.
The memory of her had kept him going—her rasping laughter, the rare times when her eyes danced with delight and the feel of her body rubbing against his, reminding him there were good things in the world. And that once, before his life had turned to shit, he’d been a part of them.
Evan desperately needed her now. Needed the connection to what he’d left behind.
Without it, he was afraid the darkness would swallow him for good.
Tatum stared at him, a jumble of emotions melting one into another—shock, relief, anger, resolve.
A woman, wearing the same long burgundy dress and velvet wrap as his wife, stood beside her. Tatum murmured something he couldn’t hear. The other woman rocked back on her heels as if she’d been hit, her eyes going wide. She sputtered, wrapped her arm around Tatum’s waist and pulled her tight into the protective shield of her body.
He had no idea who the woman was, but it was obvious she cared about his wife. He was glad. He’d worried about Tatum so much. Hated that his choices had hurt her. Left her alone. But there was no way he could have prevented it.
In true Tatum fashion, she allowed the comforting embrace only for a moment before pulling out of the hold.
That was his wife. She hid her soft, gooey center beneath a steely hard shell. Life had taught her how to protect herself.
It hurt knowing his “death” had only reinforced the lessons.
Tatum’s feet shuffled. Was she going to head back into the group of buildings behind her and pretend he didn’t exist or walk across the street and deal with him? He wasn’t entirely certain.
Apparently, neither was she. Her body hesitated, moving forward and then pulling back several times before she actually took a step toward him. One led to two and three and then a rush of a handful more. She raced across the pavement, her heels clicking against the ice-slicked asphalt.
Evan straightened, spreading his feet wide and dropping his arms to his sides.
Her long dress spun out around her legs, fluttering in the breeze caused by her flight. He braced, thinking she was going to launch herself at him. His heart stuttered, hope and happiness—the first he’d allowed himself to indulge in for a very long time—bubbled up through his chest.
But she didn’t throw herself into his waiting arms.
Instead, she reached back, put every ounce of power behind her shoulder and slapped the shit out of him.
The ringing crack of palm against cheek broke through the night. His head snapped sideways. Evan groaned, an involuntary sound that tore through his throat.
“Bastard,” she hissed.
Cradling his jaw with a hand, Evan slowly righted his body.
Tatum shook out her fingers as she glared at him through tempting, flashing green eyes. Eyes that had haunted both his nightmares and dreams. The worst had been the nightmares where he was certain the enemy had found her, torturing her as revenge for the lies he’d told.
Evan barely registered the other woman hovering behind them. He knew she was there, but he couldn’t drag his gaze away from Tatum long enough to notice her. He’d hoped not to have an audience for this reunion.
“I buried you,” Tatum said. “I stood beside your sobbing mother and father and buried you. For months, I visited your grave, bringing flowers and talking to you, sharing how hard it was to move on and let you go.”
“I know,” he whispered. The anguish in her voice and eyes killed him. What he wanted to do was hold her close, offer her the comfort of his body. Something told him that wouldn’t go over well.
Her eyes flashed. “Where the hell have you been for the last three years?”
“Colombia.”
“And I don’t suppose they had cell phones, or email or, hell, a post office in Colombia?”
He thought the anguish was bad, but the caustic rage was ten times worse. It made his chest ache with helplessness. He didn’t like to feel helpless.
“Let me explain.”
“Oh, you’re definitely going to do that. But not now. Not here. This is my friend’s wedding and I will not ruin the rest of their party with your drama. You’ve waited this long, one more night won’t hurt.”
Evan wasn’t entirely certain of that. The moment the Army had released him, he’d hightailed it to Sweetheart, not even bothering to stop for a change of clothes.
He’d been in the States for a little over a week, relating the specifics of his deep-cover mission to some arrogant prick who’d never seen a dirty, dangerous day of battle in his life. Not to mention helping tie up the loose ends after single-handedly dismantling one of the most bloodthirsty and ruthless drug cartels in Colombia. And going ape-shit crazy because the bureaucrats in charge were taking their sweet time and wouldn’t flippin’ release him.
His wife had been so close, and he hadn’t been able to get to her. Beyond frustrating.
The other bridesmaid stepped up beside Tatum, her voice soft and soothing as she said, “I’m sure everyone would understand if you needed to leave, Tatum. Hope and Gage are already gone.”
“Maybe, but that’s beside the point, Willow.” His wife’s hands fisted at her sides.
Evan shifted away, putting a little more space between them just in case she decided she needed to use them on him.
It struck him as hilarious that he’d spent the last three years rubbing elbows with some of the most hardened criminals in South America, constantly wondering if today was the day he’d end up with a bullet in the back, and taken the inherent danger in stride.
But a pissed off Tatum? She scared the shit out of him. Always had. She didn’t hesitate to fight dirty. It was one of the things he’d always loved about her. And hated, since life had taught her the need and skills to do it.
Her gaze darted from him to Willow and back again. Her mouth thinned and her eyes snapped. Finally, she growled, “Dammit!” She poked a finger into his chest. “Stay here.” She wrapped a hand around Willow’s arm and dragged the other woman behind her.
Willow didn’t turn, not right away, but let her gaze trail down his entire body as she walked backward. In heels several inches high. Over ice-covered pavement. He might have been impressed, if he hadn’t been so conscious of the fact she was weighing and measuring him while she was doing it.
And her dark, calm eyes gave no indication just how he’d scored.
Evan watched Tatum and Willow disappear inside, heavy doors slamming shut behind them.
It was entirely possible she was screwing with him and had every intention of letting him freeze his ass off waiting on her while she whooped it up at the party.
But he didn’t think so. Tatum was the kind of woman who faced problems head on, always had been. She didn’t hide her head in the sand or pretend something wasn’t happening in the hope the problem would disappear. She made a decision and took action.
It was a trait they shared, something he’d always admired about her.
Crossing his arms over his chest, Evan leaned back against the seat of his bike. His gaze wandered up and down the street. It was quiet, just like the rest of the small southern town.
He had to admit, Sweetheart, South Carolina, was the last place he’d expected to find Tatum. She was a big-city girl. Growing up in Detroit, her family had lived paycheck to paycheck, close enough to the edge of disaster to make life a little unpredictable.
Her senior year of high school, her dad had lost his manufacturing job, sending her family into turmoil. Her dreams of college were crushed, at least for a little while.
Evan had watched her struggle that last year to hold everyone together. She’d been the glue keeping her mother and father moving forward.
He’d joined the Army right out of high school. They’d married a few weeks later, mostly to give Tatum his benefits, although he’d known for years he had wanted to marry her. The timeline had just been bumped up by circumstances.
He’d gone off to basic training and she’d stayed behind, working and trying to keep things going back home with her parents. Her mother being diagnosed with ovarian cancer was just one more blow. Without insurance, they couldn’t afford treatment. She did get some, but it wasn’t enough, and she died a year later. Her father, snowed under beneath the weight of grief and debt, had committed suicide.
Tatum was the one who’d found him, walking into a bloody mess.
Evan would never forget that phone call. By then, he’d been stationed in Iraq, living apart from the wife he loved, unable to comfort or help her the way he had wanted.
She hadn’t been hysterical, not his Tatum. Although, no matter how strong she’d tried to be, she had been unable to hide the pain locked deep inside. Or the relief, guilt and anger. Not from him.
She’d been carrying such a heavy burden at so young an age. And Evan had wanted more than anything to be there for her, to hold her and shoulder some of that weight.
He’d taken leave, come home and helped her deal with the financial mess her father had left behind. And he’d immediately moved her to North Carolina where he was stationed at Fort Bragg.
They had been happy. Sometimes she’d fought the guilt of that, but he could always shake her out of the melancholy.
She had been the perfect military wife, independent, strong, with plans and goals of her own. Unlike some of the wives, she hadn’t struggled when he was gone for long stretches of time. She had missed him, a lot, but they had plenty of experience dealing with separation. She had taken it all in stride, relishing the time they were able to spend together.
She had started college, eventually earning a business degree and going to work for a tech company. Special Ops had recruited him. Things had stabilized. They had been happy, had even started talking about kids.
Then, in the middle of an undercover drug op, their informant screwed his team and any hope of a future had crumbled. Their cover had been blown. Well, everyone’s but his. The resulting shitstorm had descended so quickly there had been no way to prepare.
One minute they had all been fine and the next, several of his buddies lay in pools of blood, with him the only one left standing. He’d thought he was dead, too.
He shivered. This little trip down memory lane wasn’t helping his mental state. He needed to be clearheaded for the conversation that was coming.
Purposely turning his focus back to his surroundings, he surveyed the town Tatum had chosen to call home. He could see the appeal of Sweetheart, even if it wasn’t what either of them had grown up with. The place was like the background for a Norman Rockwell painting—everywhere he looked there were Christmas lights, fragrant garlands of evergreen and shiny red, green and gold hanging balls. With the light layer of snow blanketing everything and the huge flakes drifting slowly from the sky, the town looked perfectly ideal.
What had surprised him almost as much as the fact that Tatum had chosen Sweetheart was the reason she’d moved here—to buy the only florist shop in town, Petals.
Try as he might, he couldn’t picture Tatum patiently arranging brightly colored flowers. She’d never been the overly romantic type.
But according to the info the Army had given him, she’d been doing it for about two years, using his insurance money to make the purchase.
One of the first things he’d done when he’d finally made contact was ensure no one would be able to come after her for that money. The company had paid out and the Army, who’d eventually known he was alive even if it had been several months later, had let them.
He’d been assured Tatum was protected. Surprisingly, he wasn’t the first soldier to rise from the dead.
The front door squealed, old wood against old wood, and Tatum slipped through the opening. The dress was gone, replaced by a dark pair of jeans, boots with tufts of fuzz shooting from the top and a heavy coat that enveloped her body, hiding everything else from him beneath a wall of shiny, quilted blue.
A plastic bag that most likely held her dress was draped over her arm. Another bag was slung over her shoulder, smacking against her thigh with every second step.
Her steps were deliberate and silent. She stopped several feet away from him. Evan felt the space between them like the gulf of a river, the swirl of their history, her anger and his hope threatening to pull them under if either of them tried to bridge the gap.
Snowflakes clung to her dark lashes, sparkling in the scattered light from the lamppost close by. She stared at him for several seconds before shaking her head. “Where are you staying?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t stop long enough to figure that out, Tatum. The first chance I could, I hopped my bike and rode here.”
She sucked in a deep breath. “The resort isn’t open yet. You could stay at the B and B, but it’s full of guests for Hope and Gage’s wedding. I suppose you could drive back to Charleston.”
“What about staying at your place?”
He watched Tatum’s tongue sneak out and sweep across her parted lips. The vein just beneath her jaw pulsed with tension.
“Dammit,” she muttered, so quiet he almost missed it.
“Tatum, we need to talk. I’ll sleep on the couch if that’s what you want.”
Her mouth thinned. And then trembled. “If that’s what I want? What am I supposed to want, Evan? You’ve been gone for three years.”
Swallowing the huge knot lodged in his throat, he opened his mouth to ask the question he’d been dreading since the moment he knew he was going to make it out of Colombia alive.
It was the one thing he’d tried not to think about at all while he was down there—because any time he lost the battle, it would make him want to throw up. Even now, his stomach churned.
He knew she hadn’t remarried. According to the intel he’d browbeaten a friend into getting him while he spun his wheels in Charleston, he knew no one lived with her. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t moved on.
“Is there someone in your life?”
“What?”
“Are you dating anyone?”
Her head snapped back. Her deep, emerald eyes widened. And then they narrowed.
“I’m not sure you have any right to ask me that, Evan.”
The slimy reptiles slithering through his belly began to quiet. He took a single step toward her, and when she didn’t counter with one backward, he took another and another until he stood right in front of her. Toe to toe, he stared into her upturned face.
Her creamy skin was warm when he reached for her, running the pad of a single finger over the slope of her cheekbone.
“What I want is to kiss my wife. What I want is to pull her into my arms and taste her mouth. Feel the silky, smooth texture of her skin beneath my hands. To finally experience the memories that kept me alive for three long, hellish, frustrating and devastating years.”
Neck bent, straining toward her, waiting for the first sign she wanted the same thing, Evan watched a myriad of emotions flash through her eyes—longing, desperation, love.
But then they were gone, replaced by a blank stare that was worse than even her anger.
She brushed his hand away. “Well, what I want is to not have been lied to. To not have buried the last remaining person who mattered to me. I want to not have been left devastated and broken. So I guess we’re both going to be disappointed.”
2 (#u20370c52-3cbd-5a7d-82ba-cd236ef590e2)
GOD, SHE WANTED—desperately—to leave him to figure out how to get out of the cold night by himself.
But she couldn’t do it. A heavy weight had settled right in the center of her chest, a ball of emotion and tears and hope and devastation.
Walking away should have made it better. Embracing the anger flickering through her should have given her the strength she needed to protect herself from getting hurt—again.
But less than three paces away from him, instead of relief flooding in, the pain and pressure had become worse.
Evan had lied to her. Or he’d let the government lie to her, let her believe he was dead. She didn’t owe him a damn thing.
The Evan she knew was ruthless and resourceful. If he’d wanted to get in touch with her he would have.
Which should have made her angrier. Not sad.
The sob she’d been holding at bay clawed at the back of her throat. No. She wasn’t letting it out.
Opening the driver’s side door of her Mustang, she tipped the seat forward and shoved her bags into the backseat. Willow would kill her if she saw her crumpling the dress bag this way, but she didn’t have the energy to worry about her friend’s indignation.
Turning, she bent to slip inside, intent on pulling the door closed.
She would not look back at him. She would not look back at him.
The words rang through her head like a litany, but apparently her brain wasn’t keen on actually following the instruction because her rebellious gaze strayed straight back to him.
Oh, Jesus.
And she almost doubled over at the pain lancing through her, an echo of the reaction she’d had when they’d told her he was dead. Why did learning he was alive hurt just as much?
Even across the space of the parking lot, she could feel the heat of his gaze as he watched her. The familiar tingle that blasted across her skin. The physical reaction only he had ever been able to coax from her body.
Damn the man.
His body was strung tight, arms heavy with muscle crossed over his wide chest as his dark gaze probed her. To anyone else who cared to look, he appeared relaxed, but she knew better. She could read the tension whipping through him.
Evan hadn’t followed her, but she knew, instinctively, he wasn’t giving up. Once her husband set his mind to something, he was relentless. Always had been, always would be.
Those qualities had served him well in his work for Special Ops. Once he took on a responsibility, he wouldn’t back down or buckle under until the job was done.
It was always something she’d admired...until that dedication had killed him. Or, at least, she’d thought it had.
Her brain was scrambled. Her emotions bounced all over the place. She’d already been exhausted from a full few days of running Petals, arranging the flowers for the wedding and attending all the wedding activities before this mess had landed in her lap.
What she really wanted to do was go home, climb into a steaming tub of fragrant water and soak away all her cares.
But Evan had come here for a reason and she knew him well enough to realize he wouldn’t leave until he’d accomplished whatever he’d set out to do.
The longer she dragged this out the harder it would be. A part of her wanted to thwart him simply to make him suffer. The rest of her realized that would be heaping punishment on her own head right along with his.
She was happy in Sweetheart. It had taken her months to find the equilibrium she’d lost. All she wanted was to return to the predictable, safe and easy life she’d built here.
Evan showing up threatened that stability. The sooner he left, the sooner her life could return to normal.
Besides, as much as she wanted to pretend it didn’t matter, she needed answers. Maybe with closure, she’d finally be able to move on and find the happiness her friends had all discovered in the last few months.
Tatum realized she’d been staring at him for several minutes, half in and half out of her gaping car door. Long enough for delicate snowflakes to melt into her hair, dampening the ends. A chill seeped under her warm coat, although she wasn’t sure it actually had anything to do with the weather.
The thought of letting Evan back into any part of her life sent panic skittering across her skin.
But she didn’t have a better option.
Gripping the top of the door, she called, “Follow me,” across the empty night before she could change her mind.
He didn’t answer, although she really didn’t give him a chance, slamming the door shut between them. Not that the empty symbolic gesture would save her.
He either followed or he didn’t. Now the choice was his.
* * *
EVAN DROVE BEHIND the sleek, growling, piece of American machinery. It didn’t surprise him to see that Tatum owned a vintage Mustang. That was his girl, always appreciative of the power and precision of a well-made car.
There had been a time, in their younger years, when she’d have opened it up, letting the car eat asphalt. They’d both loved the adrenaline rush of going fast. It was something they shared.
Whether it was the unpredictable weather and slick roads or something else, he wasn’t sure, but tonight Tatum kept the car at a respectable pace as she led him through town, down a quaint little Main Street lined with shops and boutiques and into a neighborhood of cookie-cutter houses.
The entire town looked like a gingerbread house had thrown up all over it. Everywhere he looked, there were candy canes and blinking lights, wreaths and evergreen garlands strung with glittering tinsel.
It was idyllic. The kind of place that should be the setting for a made-for-TV movie about the magic of Christmas. The whole place made the spot right between his shoulder blades itch.
He wondered how Tatum felt about the obvious, in-your-face peace on earth and goodwill toward men theme Sweetheart had going.
This time of year had always been difficult for her. A reminder of everything that had gone wrong and all she’d lost. When they had been together, Evan had always gone out of his way to keep a smile on her face from Thanksgiving to Christmas. Leaving little notes and surprise gifts. Nothing fancy or expensive. Trinkets. Toys. Whatever would lighten her heart just a bit.
He wondered who was helping her keep the grief and guilt that she struggled with at bay.
Tatum turned into a driveway halfway down the street. The door for the garage rose and she maneuvered the Mustang inside. Without stopping to think about it, Evan pulled into the space beside her, which was mostly empty except for a row of plastic bins, a ladder and a mountain bike with a helmet hanging from one handlebar.
Kicking out the stand, he let the weight of his Harley settle beneath him as the engine went silent. Behind him, the garage door whirred shut, plunging them into a murky darkness that was alleviated only by the diffuse light of a single bulb above them.
Tatum sat in her car, hands gripping the steering wheel as she stared straight at the back wall of the garage. For a brief moment, he thought about walking around and pulling her out, but decided it was better to let her set the pace of this conversation.
It was going to be difficult enough.
Evan watched her shoulders rise and fall on a single, deep breath. Her eyes slid shut and the muscles along her shoulders tightened.
He wanted nothing more than to wrap her in his arms and promise her everything would be okay. But she’d made it very clear she didn’t want him to touch her. Yet.
Although he wasn’t entirely certain how long he would be able to deny the need roaring inside him. Three years was a damn long time, especially with drug kingpins constantly thrusting half-naked girls in his face.
He’d gotten a reputation as being cold and indifferent, ignoring all of the female flesh dangled as enticement.
The other men in the cartel had viewed his refusal as a sign of weakness, used it as an excuse to challenge his position within the organization. Even knowing it could cost him his life, he hadn’t touched any of the women. That had been his line in the sand, because what good would living do him if he couldn’t come home to Tatum with a clear conscience?
In the end, having to defend himself against the men who mistook his choice for vulnerability had worked in his favor, even if the price had been bloody and unpleasant. The moment he’d driven a seven-inch knife straight through another man’s hand rather than be forced to lose his principles, his trajectory straight into the heart of the cartel had been assured.
No one questioned him again.
Unfortunately, he’d become something of a challenge to the women who tried to entice him. Not that he’d been tempted.
However, the desire that had lain dormant as scantily clad women paraded around in front of him reared up now to nearly choke him. A primitive, pounding need surged through him, a steady beat through his brain. His hands shook with the instinct to touch Tatum, hold her, finally reclaim her as his.
He needed to get a tight grip on his control or he was going to screw this up totally. He’d been around men who viewed women as commodities way too long, apparently. But at least he was smart enough to realize Tatum would not respond well to that kind of behavior.
Clenching his hands into fists, Evan set them on his thighs and waited.
She finally pushed from the car, juggling a couple of bags and her purse. The slap of her boots against the concrete floor echoed through the cold space of her quiet garage.
She bobbled her bags, shuffling everything around so she could insert her key into the lock. Evan shot forward, trying to take some of the burden from her arms, but she jerked everything out of his reach.
Pushing inside, she dumped it all onto a bench beside the door and kept going. The dress bag slithered to the floor in a heap. Tatum ignored it. Evan couldn’t, reaching down to pick it up and fold it neatly back into place.
She continued through a small kitchen with a pile of dishes in the sink and into a den where she flicked on a single lamp. Warmth flooded the room and he knew immediately this was her sanctuary.
He also knew which chair was her favorite, could envision her curled up, feet tucked beneath her body and a heavy terra-cotta mug cradled between her hands as she stared sightlessly out the long window into the backyard, deep green eyes bleary as she waited for her first cup of coffee to kick in.
Tatum was not a morning person. But he’d always liked that about her. And had shamelessly taken advantage of that fact any chance he could, using her lethargy to convince her another hour in bed was a good idea...especially if they spent it together.
He hadn’t realized the ghost of a smile played across his lips until the snap of Tatum’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
“Stop smirking.”
His gaze whipped to hers, the tug disappearing from his mouth. “I’m not.”
Tatum stood behind a chocolate-brown sofa, her hands curled over the back as if it was the only lifeline keeping her safe.
“Oh, you were. I have no idea why, and I really don’t care.”
He didn’t believe that for a minute. If he told her what had put that expression on his face she’d be spitting mad in seconds. Which might be an improvement from the wariness she watched him with now.
As though part of her expected him to leap across the sofa she’d placed between them and...ravish? Attack?
He had no idea what she thought, but obviously it was nothing good. At least, nothing she wanted.
Which only reinforced his own disquiet.
Could she sense just how far down the dark rabbit hole he’d had to go? That the trip had left marks on his soul he was deathly afraid could never be erased?
“So.” Her single word hung in the air between them, an invitation he wasn’t quite ready to accept. He knew she wanted answers. Deserved them. But...he wasn’t certain what her reaction would be. He hesitated.
“So,” he countered, his head tipping sideways. “You look good.”
“Gee, thanks. So do you, for a ghost.”
Inwardly, Evan cringed at the acid dripping from her words.
“Stop screwing around and just tell me whatever it is you’ve come to say.”
His mouth went dry. His sharp eyes took in the way her knuckles had gone white where she gripped the sofa. They could both use a drink.
Shooting his gaze around the room, he was grateful to find exactly what he’d been looking for. Crossing the room to a buffet set against the far wall, he recognized the crystal bar set his Aunt Bethany had given them after their wedding.
Sitting next to it on a small table was the only homage to the upcoming holiday he’d seen—a small live tree no more than three feet tall and decorated entirely in gold, blue and chocolate ornaments. It was an afterthought. Expected, but not really wanted. And seeing it made his heart ache a little more.
Grabbing a bottle of Maker’s Mark whiskey, he snagged two of the glasses and poured a healthy dose into each.
Walking back to her, Evan was careful to keep the sofa between them as he offered her one. Tatum’s gaze dropped to the cut crystal and the amber liquid glittering in the bottom of it. She hesitated, and for a moment he thought she was going to refuse.
Her hand trembled as she wrapped it around the cool glass. The warmth of her fingers brushed his. The touch blasted straight through his body, burning in his belly almost as sharply as the drink he hadn’t tasted yet.
His knees pressed against the sofa as his body leaned into the space between them. Tatum jerked away, whiskey sloshing over the side of her glass and dripping onto the cushions.
Her mouth opened. Heat flashed through her eyes. But she slammed it shut before any words fell out.
God, he desperately wanted to bridge the space between them, take her in his arms and kiss the hell out of her. He just wasn’t certain the best way to do it.
It was the first time in their entire relationship that Evan had felt uncertain. Which only made his nerves worse. Turning his back on her and the uncomfortable sensation, he paced away.
“Everyone thought I was dead.”
“No shit.”
“No, I mean for weeks, everyone, the Army, my CO, those in charge of our joint operation, thought I’d died along with the rest of our team.”
“But you didn’t.”
He faced her and his lips gave a sarcastic twitch, “Obviously. Our informant, a local who our contacts had been getting information from for eighteen months without any indication of a problem, gave the team up. I’m still not sure why, but after seeing how the cartel operated, I have a good idea.”
But he wasn’t going to tell her about the torture, kidnapping, blackmail and extortion he’d witnessed.
Evan slammed back his whiskey and immediately wanted another. Stalking over to the sideboard, he poured a finger, considered it for a moment and splashed a little more into the glass.
Glancing over his shoulder, he took in Tatum, standing exactly where she’d been moments before, feet glued to the floor, drink untouched, wide eyes blank but watchful, trained straight on him.
“I shouldn’t even be telling you this. The mission is still classified.”
“The Army can kiss my ass.”
“Ha,” he grunted. Tatum had always understood the reasons why he couldn’t share details of his job with her. She’d never pushed or complained. But he supposed, all things considered, some bitterness was to be expected.
“To preserve the illusion that none of us on the team knew each other, we came into the organization at different times and through different avenues. I was pulled in off the streets as a low-level drug dealer who was looking to climb the ranks and be useful. Two more guys received an introduction from our informant. Another used the sister of a mid-level enforcer and a fifth came in as a ‘cousin’ of one of their mules. I was the first one in and more than a week ahead of the others.
“The only time I encountered our informant was while I was under so he had no way of knowing I was part of the team. That’s the only thing that saved my life that night.”
As much as he fought against the memories, just the mention of the events caused ugly images to swirl inside his brain. Evan started to combat them with the alcohol in his hand, but realized what he was doing with it halfway to his mouth and reversed direction, slamming the glass to the table instead.
His skin crawled, not with bitterness and anger, but with frustration and restlessness. It was a familiar sensation, one he’d fought for three long, interminable years. How many nights had he lain in his crappy, filthy bed and fantasized about simply putting a bullet in several heads?
It would have been so easy. No way in hell he’d have made it out of the compound alive, but at least he would have gotten vengeance for his brothers. But he wasn’t that man. Wouldn’t let himself become that man.
Just as he hadn’t drowned out the nasty memories with alcohol...or the abundance of drugs that had been at his fingertips. It would have been a quick release and relief. But he hadn’t—although there were times when that resolve had been touch and go, the darkness yawning with the welcome invitation of reprieve.
He just needed to finish it. Explain to Tatum what had happened and that he’d never wanted to leave her—to let her think he was dead—and then figure out how to rebuild the life they’d once had.
Before he could get the words out, the ring of her doorbell cut him off. Tatum jumped, a tiny sound of surprise falling from her open lips. That moment of vulnerability didn’t last long, though. Her jaw snapped shut.
An unhappy sigh blasted through her rigid lips, fluttering the fringe of her bangs. They were new. He liked them. They made her look a little more innocent than he knew she really was.
Setting her untouched glass onto a table, Tatum cut him a look before heading to the front door. He had no idea what that look was supposed to convey. Was she angry at him for the interruption?
Before she’d gotten the door open more than an inch, it was snatched out of her hands and forced inward. Obviously, neither of them had expected that reaction. Tatum jumped backward with a yelp. Evan reached to the small of his back for a firearm that wasn’t where it should be and cursed. He was already halfway across the room, ready to yank her behind the protective wall of his body when the high-pitched sound of several female voices hit his ears.
“Ohmygod, Tatum, are you okay? Willow told us what happened outside the church. We texted to see if you needed anything.”
“We were going to wait until morning to come by, but when you didn’t respond...”
“We got worried...”
The women ran over each other, one sentence blending seamlessly into the next as if they were one person instead of three speaking.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell us you were married? I wouldn’t have tried so hard to set you up with my cousin Matt.”
“Because that’s why you should have kept Matt away from her, not because he’s a pretentious jerk.”
The three women rushed inside Tatum’s house. They were all clad in the same dress she’d been wearing not an hour ago. A blonde with amazing curves reached for Tatum, setting hands on her shoulders and peering intently into her eyes. “Seriously, are you okay?”
The tall, thin brunette she’d been with earlier reached around them both, running a hand softly down Tatum’s arm to grasp her hand. “What do you need?”
The other woman pressed in tight, forming a protective knot of femininity with Tatum in the center. Evan fought the urge to wade through them all and pull her out. He didn’t know any of these people and didn’t like having them stand between him and his wife.
Behind the commotion, two men in dark suits hovered. They moved slower, quietly closed the door and stood to the side, observing in a way that told him they were used to these kinds of female displays of excitement and solidarity. He saw acceptance tinged with exasperation and a little bafflement.
None of the women had noticed him yet, but the men sized him up as soon as they walked in.
With silent agreement, they scooted around the cluster of women to present a wall of male power that had his hands preemptively tightening into fists. Instinct drove him to counter with his own display, but something told him Tatum wouldn’t appreciate a testosterone-fueled show.
Frustration kicked through his stomach, but he clamped down hard on it. Lots of practice at that.
“I’m assuming you’re her husband,” the darker of the two men said softly. There was something about him that Evan recognized, appreciated. A dangerous edge that told him he could take care of his own if needed.
The other guy was a bit bigger, but not by much. He seemed...softer wasn’t the right word because neither of them were teddy bears. He didn’t have quite the same edge as the other man, although Evan wouldn’t want to meet either of them in a dark alley alone.
Not that he couldn’t take them—together if necessary.
“Evan Huntley,” he said, stepping forward and offering his hand.
Neither of them took it. They simply stared at him.
The female chatter behind them screeched to a halt. Several pairs of eyes peered around the wall of masculinity, including Tatum’s wide, unhappy green eyes.
“Oh shit,” one of the women breathed.
“You’ve got that right,” another agreed.
“Tatum never mentioned she had a husband,” the bigger guy said, his wide mouth pulled down into a deep frown.
Evan realized what the man was fishing for was an explanation, but considering he hadn’t even given the whole thing to Tatum yet he wasn’t about to spill to a stranger—several strangers.
“Willow said you were dead. Supposed to be dead.”
An unhappy smile tugged at the edges of his lips. “Which would explain why Tatum never mentioned me.”
The curvy blonde poked her head around the tall guy, laying a hand on his arm in a comfortable, possessive gesture that immediately told him they were together. “Not really.”
He pinned his wife with a sharp gaze. “I’m sure she had her reasons for not telling you about her past.” All eyes swung around to her. Any other woman might have squirmed beneath the weight of that scrutiny, but not Tatum. She kept her expression bland and stared back, mouth shut and spine straight.
Apparently realizing they weren’t getting anywhere with her, the focus quickly returned to him.
He’d faced down terrorists, murderers, drug dealers and rapists—singly and in groups larger than this one. But for some reason, his palms began to sweat and a cold trickle of unease whispered down his spine.
Not because he honestly thought they’d do him any harm, but because he was afraid their opinion could sway Tatum, and without knowing anything about them, he couldn’t begin to guess their response to the messy affair.
Shaking her head, Tatum pushed between the two guys. “While I appreciate the chivalry act, I don’t need it. Willow, Lexi, can you please control your men?”
The blonde snorted. “Fat chance.”
Maybe it was time he offered something. “Let me assure everyone Tatum has nothing to fear from me. I’m not here to hurt her.”
Willow frowned. “You already have.”
3 (#u20370c52-3cbd-5a7d-82ba-cd236ef590e2)
TATUM WAS EXHAUSTED, mentally and physically. It had taken quite a while to convince the cavalry she’d be fine with Evan and get them to finally leave. By then it was after midnight and all she wanted was a soft pair of pajamas and her warm bed.
Yes, she still had questions—plenty of them—but just from the little he’d already told her, it was obvious she was going to need a clear head for the answers.
It was awkward, setting Evan up in her guest bedroom, but no matter how he looked at her, she wasn’t letting him back in her bed. Certainly not until they talked. And probably not even then.
He was different. Harder, colder, though she had seen flashes of the honorable, dedicated man she’d fallen in love with at seventeen underneath the new layers. Sighing, Tatum supposed she was different, as well. They were both evidence that a lot could happen in three years.
Deciding their conversation was probably better saved for the morning when her brain would be less fuzzy, she’d convinced him to wait. The sharp set of his mouth had broadcast just how unhappy he’d been about her decision, but at least he hadn’t argued.
Tatum slipped beneath the sheets, fully expecting to drop right to sleep. Exhaustion pulled at her muscles, but her brain wouldn’t shut up. Thoughts, possibilities and fears, spun like an EF-5 tornado, shredding her composure and leaving her just as devastated as any broken landscape.
Maybe she should have just gotten it over with.
Too late now. No doubt Evan was fast asleep. He’d always been the kind of guy who was out the moment his head hit a pillow, and that skill set had only become more pronounced when he had joined Special Ops.
What was she going to do?
She had no idea. Conflicting wants tore her apart—crawling beside him and wrapping her arms around his big, hard body just so she could assure herself he really was alive warred with yanking him up out of her guest bed and shoving him quickly out the front door.
An hour later, Tatum was still staring at the pattern of shadows playing across her ceiling when a loud whimper crashed into the silent night.
Her body responded, an old habit, as she bounded up from the bed. Her naked feet hit the cold hardwood floor, but she barely registered the winter chill seeping into her.
It wasn’t the first time she’d woken to Evan’s nightmares. He’d been having them as long as she knew him, leftovers from a childhood that had been less than ideal. Their crappy history was something they’d shared.
But as she ran into the room next door, one look was all she needed to realize this was something more.
He wasn’t thrashing around under the covers, eyes closed and ragged sounds falling through half-parted lips.
Evan’s gorgeous hazel eyes, more brown than green, were wide open, but completely unfocused. He crouched in the corner of the room, his back pressed tight against the wall. If she hadn’t heard the unintelligible words pouring from his mouth in harsh whispers, she might not have seen him in the shadows. He’d found the darkest spot in the room, and with his black hair, tanned skin and stubble-covered jaw, he nearly blended in. She could just make out the heavy lines of the tattoos covering his chest and ribs in the gloom.
Tatum’s heart clenched at the sight of him. It was wrong to see such a strong, noble man hunkered down in the corner as if defending his very life.
Uncertainty froze her limbs. The harsh sound of his breathing finally galvanized her into motion. She had to do something.
With measured steps, she moved closer, her hands lifted up, palms out to show she meant no harm.
“Evan,” she said cautiously. “Sweetheart.” The word she hadn’t said for so long felt foreign in her mouth. “You’re fine. You’re safe.”
Stopping several feet away, Tatum crouched in front of him, hoping to catch his gaze. But when she did, she realized he was still...asleep. Or caught up in whatever nightmare had ripped into him. Definitely not focused on the here and now.
She shifted, and the world exploded. Or at least it felt that way.
Suddenly, she was on her back, her head cracking against the hard floor, her left shoulder colliding with the edge of the dresser. And all of Evan’s weight drove against her, pushing oxygen from her body.
She let out a soft cry with whatever breath she had left.
His hands dug into her muscles, pinning her in place. Leaning down, he growled into her ear. She realized he wasn’t speaking gibberish, but another language she didn’t understand.
She didn’t need to know the words to realize whatever he was saying wasn’t nice. His menacing tone was more than enough.
The pain that had exploded through her body on impact faded. Tears sprang to her eyes, not from that, but from the realization that there was so much she didn’t know...or understand. Gripping his waist, for the first time in three years, Tatum felt the soft slide of his skin against her fingertips. Need, lust and love exploded through her, a potent combination she didn’t have room for right now.
Pushing her body’s reaction away, she smoothed her hands up his ribs, over his chest to cup his face.
“Evan,” she whispered, pulling him down even as she rose to brush her lips across his mouth in a butterfly kiss.
What she’d meant to be something soothing quickly burst into fully involved flame.
His mouth devoured hers, all hunger and heat and demand. She was helpless to fight off her response to him. His wide palms settled, one at her hip, the other at the curve of her neck, arching her closer. He immobilized her beneath him, the hard length of his body holding her prisoner.
Not that she wanted free. She wanted more. Even as her brain screamed at her to stop, her body simply melted, turning gooey as a marshmallow introduced to heat.
His tongue swept into her mouth, tangling, stroking, teasing. He crowded against her, giving her no place to go, nothing to counter the drowning need.
God, she’d missed this. Missed him. So damn much. No man had ever made her feel the way Evan did. Desired. Alive. Protected. Cherished.
The combination was addictive. And always had been.
But she wasn’t a seventeen-year-old kid anymore.
His hips, clad in loose-fitting sweats, slid against hers, pumping in a slow and deliberate way that caused liquid heat to pool in the center of her body. The length of his erection, caught between them, ground into her, making her own hips pulse in quick, pleading jerks.
What was wrong with her? Where had her resolve gone? At the first touch of his strong body against hers, she was crumbling like an ancient ruin.
Tatum knew the exact moment Evan came back to himself. Pressed so closely together, she felt the jolt of awareness as it slammed into him.
Before she could blink, he ripped away from her. His back collided with the wall, the room practically shaking from the impact. From her vantage point on the floor, she could see long red welts forming across his skin where her nails had torn through him. He didn’t seem to notice the pain that must have come with the scratches.
Horrified, he stared at her for several seconds before finally sliding down the wall. Burying his face in two wide, rough palms, he whispered, “Jesus.”
The sound of the single, broken word sent regret, pain and fear tumbling through her. What the hell had he lived through?
Finally looking up, he peered at her out of hard, dead eyes that did more to scare her than being flung unceremoniously onto her back. “Leave. Now, Tatum.”
And that pissed her off.
“No, Evan. This is my house, my guest room. I’m not going anywhere.”
For the second time tonight, his big body exploded outward in a flurry of movement and muscle. He tore away from the wall, stalking toward her with a menace that was clearly meant to intimidate. And it had probably been very effective on his enemies, but Tatum knew Evan. Possibly better than he knew himself.
Or she used to.
But she trusted her instincts, which were telling her he’d hurt himself before he’d ever hurt her.
At least, physically.
She swallowed. The confidence she’d been shoring up wavered as he got closer. Reaching down, he wrapped heavy hands around her biceps and pulled her up from the floor. His hold didn’t hurt, but it wasn’t soft and easy, either.
He set her on her feet, but didn’t back away. Instead, he continued to press into her personal space, leaving her off-kilter in the way only Evan could.
“Don’t ever do that again. I could have seriously injured you,” he said, his voice full of gravel and self-recrimination.
“You didn’t.”
He snorted, the sound grating. Before she could stop him, his hands speared into her hair, tumbling the strands from the messy knot she’d piled at the crown of her head. He rubbed around the curve of her skull, giving her an “I told you so” look when she couldn’t stop the sharp intake of breath as he found a tender spot.
But he didn’t stop there. Spinning her, he pushed the thin strap on the gown she’d worn to bed off her shoulder and down her arm. Her skin was exposed and she was half-naked before she realized what he was doing.
Cold air brushed across her bared breast and her nipple tightened. Her knees buckled. Why wouldn’t they? Her body was still burning from that damn kiss. If he hadn’t been holding on to her waist, she probably would have collapsed to the floor again.
But Evan was too busy at her shoulder to notice.
Dragging in a breath, Tatum tried to steady her response, get control of her body.
He might have torn at her clothes like a madman, but his touch was gossamer soft and utterly careful. She could barely feel the roughened pads of his fingertips as they smoothed across her shoulder, down the ridge of her scapula and onto the first swell of her ribs.
Goose bumps erupted across her skin. Her nervous system hadn’t gotten the memo that this wasn’t supposed to be a seduction.
He probed, paying special attention to one area that smarted.
Tatum closed her eyes at the unbelievable sensation of him touching her. That kiss, he hadn’t been all there. Tatum knew he’d still been cloudy from whatever nightmare had gripped him and not completely in control of his actions.
He was definitely clearheaded now.
How many times over the last few years had she fantasized about this exact thing? Wished, prayed, begged for one more night with him? A night of caresses and kisses and feeling him move deep inside her.
One more night of the connection she’d only ever found with him.
She’d finally gotten her wish, but she was afraid it was three years too late.
“I don’t think anything’s seriously damaged,” he said, “but you’re going to have a couple of nasty bruises in the morning.”
Crossing an arm to hide her chest, Tatum craned her neck so she could see him. He stared at her shoulder, completely oblivious to the fact that he’d bared her breast without thinking.
Well, if that didn’t burst a girl’s bubble, Tatum wasn’t certain what would.
“It’s fine. I won’t break. I’m tougher than I look.”
His gaze dragged up to hers. He was so close there was no way she could miss the expressions swirling through his haunted eyes—regret, anger, acceptance and, finally, desire.
That single flare of heat blasted through her body, scorching her along the way.
Okay, he did still want her.
Tatum wasn’t sure that was a good thing.
His touch changed, no longer assessing, but with an edge of worship that would be hard for any woman to ignore. As if he’d never felt anything better than the texture of her skin. As if he could stand there, doing nothing but touch her for hours and be perfectly content. As if he couldn’t get enough.
Tatum’s pulse fluttered. Her lips parted and she swiped her tongue across the suddenly dry surface.
Evan’s gaze traveled down her body, taking in the disheveled state of her gown. His fingers dragged across the tiny strap now hanging below her elbow.
She wanted him to take it off. Instead, he gently tugged it back into place. His index finger glided over the ridge of material from her back, over her shoulder and down onto her chest. Her body arched, an involuntary motion that tried to get him close to the aching tip of her breast. But he ignored the offer.
Instead, he stepped back, the chill of the winter night blasting through her.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and then darted from the room, snatching up the shirt he’d draped across a chair.
The reverberation of her front door slamming shut had barely faded before the angry roar of his bike kicked up outside.
Tatum swayed in the middle of her guest bedroom, heart pounding, pulse thrumming, pain, fear, hope and need mixing into a toxic sludge in her belly as she listened to the sound of him leaving.
Would he be back?
Did she want him to come back?
Or would it be better for both of them if he just...disappeared and left her to the life she’d built without him?
* * *
HE COULDN’T REMEMBER the dream, not that it really mattered. Take your pick, he had several, all running with the same theme—blood, nasty behavior and killer choices. Holding a gun to a man’s head and trying desperately to figure out how to keep him alive without blowing his own cover and getting himself killed in the process. Handing drugs to a ten-year-old kid who was just trying to make enough money to care for his mom and sisters in the only way he knew how, when what Evan had really wanted to do was whisk him away from the dangerous life before he got in too deep.
But he hadn’t been able to save the boy. Or his fellow soldiers. He’d watched them all die and had been given one chance for survival.
What really bothered him about tonight was that he could have seriously hurt Tatum. Easily. And it wouldn’t have been anything he hadn’t already done, while defending himself against the scum he’d been wallowing with for the last three years. He’d quickly moved up the ranks of the cartel, which had made walking that thin line between right and wrong more difficult—and the target on his back even bigger.
It was mere luck that had prevented Tatum from getting a concussion, a knife to the throat or a bullet in the brain. In Colombia, Evan had slept with a gun under his pillow, finger already lodged on the trigger, and a knife strapped to his thigh. Just in case.
Days earlier, he had, with difficulty, given up the knife and gun—the two things that had made him feel safe in an environment he had little control over. But he had realized part of coming home was assimilating back into the real world. He no longer lived in the dirty, depraved underworld.
But he’d been immersed in it for so long he wasn’t sure he’d ever get the stench off his skin.
Revving his bike, Evan pushed it a little harder, thrilling to the purr of the powerful motor between his thighs. The sensation did little to assuage the hard-on he’d been sporting since the moment Tatum had walked out of that damn church.
He wanted her. Needed her. With a desperation that was almost as alarming as coming to with her pinned beneath his body, his fingers digging into her tender flesh while he practically violated her.
Hell, he’d been grinding against her like a teenager intent on dry-humping his way to heaven. And kissing her so hard he was surprised the inside of her mouth wasn’t shredded.
Despite the chilly temperatures, a cold sweat broke out across his forehead. God, one night back with her and he’d almost hurt her. Maybe his CO was right and he should have taken some more time to decompress before returning.
But after three, long, miserable years, it had seemed as though seeing her, touching her, feeling her was the only thing that could convince him the nightmare was finally over.
And that there was still a square inch of his soul that hadn’t rotted away with the rest beneath the weight of the things he’d done to survive and complete the mission.
Tatum was holding back. He could feel the walls she put up between them. Walls that had never been there before. But he supposed he couldn’t blame her.
The problem was, he wasn’t entirely certain how to rip them down...at least not without ripping her, too. But he would figure it out. He had to. He needed her to survive.
With the same tenacity and will that had kept him alive when everyone around him was dying, he would find a way to get what he wanted. A way back into her life, her heart and her bed, although he was hoping not necessarily in that order.
The cell phone at his hip buzzed. It was late, or early depending on your definition, and only a handful of people knew his number—none of whom he actually wanted to talk to. But the fact that they were bothering him at all couldn’t be good, especially at this hour.
Pulling over into a small park, Evan kicked out the stand and flung his leg over the chrome and black monster. Moonlight poured across the empty slide and silent merry-go-round. The chains on the swings creaked as a winter breeze blew them gently back and forth, like the ghosts of children past were getting one last ride.
The sight was eerie, but somehow also hopeful. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a playground. And there was no doubt in his mind that in just a few hours this one would be full of laughing, happy children despite the bleak weather.
His phone had stopped vibrating before he could answer, but he knew it would probably start up again any second. Stalking across the park, Evan plopped down into one of the swings and waited.
And he wasn’t wrong. The phone rattled against his hip. He didn’t bother to look at the display before answering, “Huntley.”
“Buddy,” came the low, gruff reply. “Just wanted to see how your first night back in the real world went.”
There was a time in Evan’s life when Locklyn Granger had been a buddy. They’d trained together, served together, had each other’s backs on more occasions than Evan could count. They’d shared even more beers and had a few rambunctious stories—Locklyn’s not his. Evan was always the observer.
But it was difficult to find the same easy camaraderie they’d shared before. It wasn’t that Evan didn’t trust him anymore...it was that he didn’t trust anyone. Too many years of being alone and constantly circled by angry, hungry wolves looking for a reason to drag him down.
It didn’t help that the man was obviously lying to him.
“So you called at—” Evan rolled his wrist to look at the expensive multitasking watch that also happened to tell time “—one-thirty in the morning to see how my day went? I call bullshit, Lock. What’s really going on?”
The heavy sigh at the other end of the line didn’t do anything to help temper the sudden kick of adrenaline through Evan’s heart.
“Nothing. Probably nothing. Just some chatter that came through some reputable channels. Nothing specific or actionable.”
“But enough for you to pick up the phone and wake me up if I’d been asleep.”
Lock snorted, the sound hard and sharp. “Please. I’ve been there, man. Days after returning from what you went through, you’re gonna be lucky to get three hours in a row. Chances were good you’d be awake.”
He wasn’t wrong. And it should have helped center Evan to realize he wasn’t the only guy who’d ever suffered ill effects from a mission.
But it didn’t.
As far as he was aware, Locklyn hadn’t been read in on all the details, so the man had no freakin’ clue what Evan had been through the last three years. And he had no intention of changing that status quo.
“So, what’s the intel?”
“The Carbrera Cartel is scrambling.”
Satisfaction rumbled through Evan’s gut. They were scrambling because he’d taken down almost everyone who held any power, pretty much wiping the entire organization off the map. They could attempt to recover, but it would take a lot of time and money to put their network back into play. Time in which drugs wouldn’t be flooding onto American streets.
“Good.”
“Yeah.” Evan heard the appreciation and pride in the other man’s voice. “Not unexpected, but the chatter is a little more organized than we’d anticipated.”
“What do you mean?”
“We think they already have someone ready to pick up the reins.”
Evan jerked from the swing and began pacing. His feet crunched on the frozen ground as he stomped back and forth in front of the groaning swings. His mind raced, mentally flipping through pictures of men who could possibly step into the leadership role of a major drug organization.
There was no one.
He’d painstakingly assembled the evidence to bring down the entire damn organizational structure. That’s why he had been away for three shitty years. It had taken him time to work his way up to the point where he’d been privy to useful information. He could have turned over one or two guys a year into the assignment and come home earlier.
And the year—and the men he’d lost—would have been useless because those vacancies would have immediately been filled by the next guy down the ladder. So he’d worked hard to build a web that would ensnare everyone and leave the organization floundering, hopefully enough to wither away and die.
Evan supposed someone from another organization could have stepped up to the plate, but the Carbreras weren’t exactly known to play well with others. They had more enemies than options within the other crime syndicates, plenty of people wanted to see them disappear almost as much as the United States government had.
Evan swore under his breath. “Who?”
“We don’t know. We were hoping you’d tell us.”
Evan tipped his head up to the bright sky drenched with moonlight. The stars were gorgeous, so crisp and clear. Not the way they were back home in Detroit, overshadowed by clusters of lights. Maybe that’s what Tatum liked about this place. It was definitely quieter. Calmer.
Calm was good. He could use calm right now, because Lock’s words had dread cramping hard in his belly.
“I have no idea who it is.”
Would this nightmare never be over?
4 (#u20370c52-3cbd-5a7d-82ba-cd236ef590e2)
HE HADN’T COME BACK, at least not by the time Tatum left for work the next morning. She wasn’t sure how to feel—pissed, relieved, disappointed. Some combination that had her thoughts scattered and her fingers fumbling as she tried to put together bouquets and fill orders.
Normally she was closed on Sundays, but because of the wedding, she’d let a few things slide. Her display case was looking pitiful and desperately empty. She hadn’t made a bank deposit in three days, and if she didn’t place an order for flowers from the wholesaler soon, she wasn’t going to have any inventory to sell.
She tried not to make a habit of coming in on Sundays, but there was something soothing about it—no interruptions from the phone or front door. No lost delivery drivers to deal with or shipments with broken stems.
Well, it was usually soothing. Today the quiet made the thoughts revving through her brain race louder.
Grasping a heavy vase full of cream roses, stargazer lilies, snapdragons and salal, Tatum pushed through the door separating her work area from the retail space, but stopped dead in her tracks halfway to the large standing cooler.
Outside, Evan leaned against the large plate-glass window at the front of her store. The S of Petals appeared to curve around his body, almost hugging his hips. Rose petals at the bottom of her logo scattered across the window, large to small, until they faded away into nothing. The evergreen garland she’d hung under the eaves trailed above his head.
His back was to her, his body easy and loose, as if he could wait there all day. She didn’t doubt it; the man had the patience of Job. It had often irritated her, how he could wait out her temper whenever she’d gotten angry.
In the past, she’d been quick to flare and quicker to cool down. Staying angry with him had never been her strong suit.
Not that she was going to fall back into bad patterns. Not this time. This wasn’t him forgetting to call her while he was out playing wingman for Lock. Or trading in his car for a Harley without talking to her about it first.
Taking a deep breath, Tatum finished her trip to the cooler and set the arrangement on the shelf.
The sooner they got this over with...
Cold air swirled in when she flipped the lock and opened the door for him. He didn’t say anything, just straightened from his slouched position and sauntered inside.
Irritation bubbled through her veins. Which was good. She needed it, especially after last night. Otherwise, she was liable to flash back to that damn kiss.
He brushed close to her body. Her nipples tightened. She told herself it was the cold, but she knew that was a lie.
After busying herself with locking up behind him, Tatum bustled into the back and trusted he’d follow.
“Nice to know you’re not in a broken heap on the side of the road,” she threw over her shoulder. The door started to swing shut in his face, but he caught it, the smack of his hands against wood reverberating between them.
“Nice to know you care.”
“Who said I do? You roared off so hot and bothered, any decent human being would be worried. Especially when you didn’t come back.”
And that was another lie—of course she cared. At first, she’d been angry. Obviously. Then she’d gotten worried. And started imagining his body a contorted pile on the side of the highway somewhere.
It had done a number on her head. If he’d died the day he popped back into her life...she might have hired some black magician to raise him from the dead so she could strangle him herself.
Needless to say, she hadn’t slept well.
Tatum reached for another handful of blooms, needing to keep her hands busy. She wasn’t going to ask. She didn’t want to know. It was none of her business. And yet, the words tumbled out anyway. “Where did you stay last night?”
“At that park in the middle of town.”
A rose fell from her hands, bruising its velvety petals as it hit the table. “Dammit,” she muttered under her breath, snatching up the flower to inspect it. “What do you mean you stayed at the park? It was freezing last night.”
“I didn’t notice.”
Tatum stared at him. Did he have a death wish? Was that it? Or were the pain receptors in his brain not working? Sure, he’d always run a little hot, her own personal space heater during cold winters, but that was taking things to the extreme.
“Had things on my mind.”
“What things?”
“Nothing for you to worry about.”
A muffled sound of frustration rumbled through her chest. “Whatever.” His secrets had never bothered her before. Probably since he’d always been open about what he could and couldn’t tell her. It wasn’t like he was lying to her...simply unable to give her all the details.
Now, though, those secrets had taken him from her, so maybe she was resentful.
“We need to finish our conversation.”
Tatum dropped her focus to the flowers spread across her table. Something bright and cheerful, that’s what she’d do next. Completely the opposite of the traditional Christmas green and red that always made her stomach feel as though a pit had opened up and was trying to swallow her insides. Something that would take her mind off whatever revelations and nightmares Evan was about to share.

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