Run To You (9 page)

Sniper? “Ah, that sounds kind of spy-ish.”

“Snipers aren’t tasked with gathering that sort of intel.”

She guessed she didn’t have to ask what he was “tasked with.” She looked across the table at him; at the faint candlelight flickering across the contours of his handsome face and shining in his blond hair like a saint’s halo. Saint. Superhero. Marine sniper. Security specialist. “How long were you in the Marines?”

“Seventeen years. I entered the corps at eighteen. Right out of high school.”

The more she knew of Beau, the more she realized she didn’t know him at all. “When I was young I wanted to be a ballerina one year and a nurse the next.” After high school, she’d still not had a clear idea of what she wanted to do when she grew up. Still didn’t. Two couples dressed for dinner were shown into the next booth. Stella waited for them to pass before she asked, “Did you always want to be a Marine?”

“No. I always thought I would be a Navy SEAL like my father.” He took a drink, and a drop of water fell from the bottom of the glass onto his black shirt. He set the glass down and said, “I joined the corps to piss him off.”

“Did it work?”

“Oh yeah. He wanted his sons to be SEALs like him. He hates the Marines and is still pissed at me about it.”

“Do you talk to him?”

“When I have to.” He shook his head and sliced his meat. “We never did get along.”

She looked at his big shoulders and thick neck and square jaw while they ate. There was a scar on the back of one big hand. “Maybe you should have been an accountant.”

He actually laughed at her little joke. Okay, not a real laugh. More like an amused ha! “By the time Blake and I were fourteen, we were already expert marksmen and first-class swimmers. It just made sense that I join Marine RECON and apply to scout sniper school.”

Of course it did. “So is Batman a SEAL?”

“Blake?” He nodded and took a bite from a big roll. “He was a SEAL sniper. Served his full twenty.”

Two snipers? Which begged the question, “Who’s the better shot?”

Beau pointed the roll at his chest. “I’m the HOG.”

His mother had called him that the night before, and while he ate like each meal was his last, she wouldn’t go that far. “You’re a healthy eater.” She looked up at the booth wall just above his head and thought a moment. If he was worried about it, a gentle critique might help. She returned her gaze to his and said as diplomatically as possible, “You do eat kind of fast, and I’d hate to get in your way if you’re truly starving, but I wouldn’t call you a hog. I mean, you’re not messy and you don’t chew with your mouth open or anything disgusting like that.”

He stared at her as he chewed. “H-O-G,” he spelled out slowly. “Hunter of Gunmen.”

“Oh.”

He reached his free hand inside the collar of his shirt. “My HOG’s tooth.”

He pulled out a bullet on the black cord she’d noticed last night. “It looks like a copper bullet.”

“Copper with a steel core. A seven-six-two boat tail.”

Which meant nothing to her, and she asked what she thought was the obvious question, “Why is a HOG’s tooth a bullet and not a tooth?”

He finished the roll and chewed, again watched her as if he was weighing his words. “I got it when I graduated scout sniper school,” he said after he swallowed. “It represents the one bullet that is meant for me, and as long as I have it, no enemy sniper has a bullet with my name on it.”

“Like you’re invincible?”

“Not invincible. No.” He cut off a piece of steak. “But I’m here. Sitting in this fine restaurant with you instead of laid out in Arlington.”

The thought of him in Arlington disturbed her. A lot. And that confused her. More than it should. “Your luck must have rubbed off on me tonight,” she said, purposely changing the subject. She still couldn’t believe she’d won seventeen thousand dollars.

“You feeling lucky, Boots?”

She smiled. “And it’s about time I got lucky, too.”

He raised a brow, and one corner of his mouth curved up as he chewed.

“Not that kind of lucky.” She laughed and pushed her hair behind her ears. “Which reminds me. I thought you weren’t ever going to kiss me again.”

His chewing slowed and he swallowed. “Are you talking about what happened in the casino?”

“Yeah.”

“That wasn’t really a kiss.”

It had felt like a kiss to her. Not like the other night, but for one brief second, the sound and excitement of the casino ceased to exist. She’d seen him. Only him and his gray eyes looking back at her. Then he set her on her feet and everything came crashing back. “What would you call it?”

“I’d call it a momentary loss of judgment due to Gentleman Jack.”

Blaming it on whiskey irritated her. “You put your lips on mine. I call that a kiss.”

His gaze slid to her mouth. “It was more like a peck.”

“Like you’d give a sister?”

“I don’t have a sister.”

“Your mother?”

He raised his gaze to hers. “I don’t kiss my mother on the mouth.”

“Random women in casinos?”

“Depends on the random woman.” He shrugged a big shoulder and turned his attention to his dinner. “Are you going to get it all twisted and think it meant something?”

Now he’d just irritated her further. “I don’t get things twisted, and I don’t think it meant anything other than you can’t resist me.”
There. Take that, Sergeant.

He scowled at his plate. “I can resist you.”

“Obviously.”

“Jesus.” He glanced up at her. “It isn’t like I put my mouth anywhere interesting or threw you down and laid pipe on the casino floor.”

She cocked a brow, leaned closer, and said just above a whisper, “ ‘Laid pipe’?”

“Go to the bone yard. Ride the baloney pony. Have wild monkey sex.” He waved his fork in her direction. “Whatever.”

“There was never any danger of that happening on the casino floor or anywhere else.” She sat back but kept her voice low. “I’m not going to have sex, monkey or pony or whatever, with you or any man.”

His gaze slid to her lips and throat. “Are you a lesbian, Boots?”

“No. I’m just not having sexual intercourse until I am married.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“No.”

The blond waitress approached and asked if they needed anything. Beau waited for her to walk away before he said, “You’ve never had a boyfriend?”

“Of course I’ve had boyfriends. Doesn’t mean I had sex with any of them.”

His eyes got kind of squinty. “Is this one of those jokes that you think is really funny but isn’t?”

“No.”

He lowered his chin and stared into her eyes. “You’re saying you’re a virgin.”

She glanced about to see if anyone had heard. “That’s what ‘I’m not having sexual intercourse until I am married’ means.”

He looked skeptical. “Maybe.”

She laid down her fork and lifted her hands, palms up. “What else could it possibly mean?”

He ate a few bites before he answered. “It could mean you’ve had way too much sex.”

What? She dropped her hands to the table. “I’m twenty-eight.”

“Could mean you’ve had so much sex that it’s just meaningless now. It could mean you’ve had sex on every continent, and faces and names are just a blur.”

She’d never been out of North America and was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about her anymore. “That would make me a raging slut.”

“I don’t know about ‘raging.’ ” He glanced up, then back at his steak. “I wouldn’t say ‘raging.’ ”

“What would you say?”

“That you need to sit on the bench for a while until sex means something.”

Now it was her turn to be skeptical and she pushed her half-eaten dinner aside. “Are you saying you’re on the bench?”

He didn’t answer.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“And I find it hard to believe that you’ve had boyfriends but you’re still a virgin.”

Again she glanced about to see if anyone heard him. “It’s true.”

“Are you a tease, then?”

She shook her head. “When I get into a relationship, that’s one of the first things I let him know.”

He continued to eat and asked between bites, “How many relationships have you been in?”

“Three.” She thought a moment. “Well, there was that horrible one, so three and a half.” He’d been a real player and a jerk. He’d worn biker boots and ski goggles in the summer, and for some reason, she’d thought he was cool. “We didn’t go out very long.”

He took a drink of water and sucked a drop from his bottom lip. “Probably didn’t like permanent blue balls.”

“There are things people can do that don’t involve intercourse, you know.”

“Yes.
I
do know. There are a lot of things.” He cocked his head to one side and set the glass on the table. “What specifically are
you
talking about?”

She’d never before talked about sex with a man she had no intention of having sex with. “Touching and kissing.” But what the heck. She checked to make sure the waitress was across the restaurant and said just loud enough for him to hear, “All over.”

Slowly he straightened his head. “Oral sex?”

“Yes.”

He sat still for several seconds before he resumed eating. “Oral sex is still sex.”

She shrugged. “It’s not intercourse.”

“Someone could argue that a man’s mouth between your legs is more intimate.”

Her eyes widened and she felt a tight knot pull low in her abdomen. “Maybe.” She resisted the urge to look around again. “I don’t know. All I do know is that it’s mine to give a man, and I want that man to be someone I love and who loves me, too.”

A crooked smile tugged at one corner of his lips. “Love and marriage?”

“Yes.”

“How long did you end up dating those three and a half boyfriends?”

“Not all that long.” If he wasn’t embarrassed by the turn in conversation, neither was she. Of course, he always had the excuse that he was drunk and she wasn’t. “Men like to get but don’t like to return the favor. If you know what I mean.”

He paused long enough in his eating to ask, “Says who?”

“Me.” She reached for glass of water and took a drink. “Men are more eager at get than give.” She set the glass back on the table and brushed the red lipstick near the rim.

“You’ve obviously been with the wrong men,” Beau said as he watched her thumb wipe the lip print.

“One of my boyfriends was okay at it.”

“Okay?” He glanced up and his eyes looked a deeper gray than before. “A man can be okay at basketball or matching his pants and shirts. He should never be ‘okay’ at oral sex. Sex is pretty much our most important job. It’s the one thing we have to nail—so to speak—so we get invited back for more. It’s pretty much the reason we take a shower and brush our hair.”

She fought the urge to squirm in her seat, but the hot little knot in her stomach slid lower. While she was getting all hot and tingly, he didn’t appear all that affected by their conversation. He actually picked up the pace and ate faster. God, did he go at sex like he did mealtime? All intense and ravenous? “Well, ah . . .” And why did she find it so hot, and why was she thinking of sex with Beau at all? Definitely not a good idea. “That hasn’t been my experience.”

“Then you’ve been with boys not men. I like everything about women. The smell of a woman’s neck and hair and where you all put perfume on your wrists. I like the weight of a woman’s breasts in my hands and the softness of her skin against mine. I like a woman’s moan in my ears.” He shoved the last bite of his steak into his mouth, then lifted one hip and pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “I love a pair of warm thighs and the taste of a woman in my mouth. Especially if the woman is as into it as I am.” He stood and threw a hundred-dollar bill on the table. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I got a date with a cold shower or the porn channel. I haven’t decided which. Maybe both.”

Chapter Nine

B
eau took off his beige ball cap and reached for a discarded T-shirt on the downed cypress tree. The New Orleans temperature hung at eighty-five while the humidity had dropped from that morning’s high of ninety percent to a livable sixty-four. Beau wiped sweat and sawdust from his face and the back of his neck. “I should have known this was your work proposition,” he said to the man with the chain saw.

Gunnery Sergeant Kasper Pennington laughed and cut the small engine. He set the chain saw on the cypress stump and reached inside a cooler. “You probably wouldn’t have come.” He grabbed two bottles of ice-cold water and tossed one to Beau.

Beau caught it mid-air and unscrewed the top. His friend and fellow HOG was likely right. For the past few years, he’d been too busy building his business to take time and hang out with buddies. Being with Kasper reminded him that he needed to make the time. Even if it was just cutting down trees. “I finally got to see this house of yours,” he said before he raised the bottle to his lips and guzzled half. Beau had logged a lot of hours tipping back whiskey or holed up in a shelled-out building waiting for action, with nothing to do but listen to Kasper go on about home. The two-hundred-year-old plantation house that had been in Kasper’s family since before the Civil War. The place had been one of the South’s leading sugar producers, but now the big home sat on five acres of mostly overgrown cypress and kudzu. Kasper talked about it more than either of his wives or his string of girlfriends.

“Esterbrook isn’t my house. It’s my home.” Kasper took a drink and looked at Beau over the bottom of the bottle. His brown eyes squinted against the bright afternoon sun, and sawdust and bark chips covered his Cooter Brown’s Tavern T-shirt. “You don’t understand,” he continued after he’d swallowed, “because you were brought up a Navy brat and moved around.”

The Jungers had moved around, but even if Beau had been raised in one place all his life, he doubted he’d look at the old house with its massive columns and wraparound galleries as anything but a dinosaur around his neck. “All I can say is that it’s lucky for you that you own your own construction company and can afford this money pit.”

Kasper raised several fingers off his water bottle. “Three,” he said. “Three construction companies. Commercial, new home, and remodel and restoration.” He swatted at an insect buzzing around his head. “You’re right about the money pit part.” Earlier Kasper had shown him around the ten-thousand-square-foot house, parts of it restored while the other parts needed attention. “But worth every cent. Growing up at Esterbrook was amazing. I crawled under acres of kudzu and shot a lot of squirrels around here.” Later, he’d crawled in a ghillie suit and shot enemy combatants. He pointed to an overgrown field behind the house. “Some of the old slave quarters are over there. Just dangerous piles of wood now days, but I crawled all over them as a kid,” he continued, and pointed out lumps and piles of brick here and there that had once been part of the working plantation. He sounded all nostalgic and shit, which might have been embarrassing for the guy if he wasn’t a six-foot-four-inch solid wall of hardened Marine muscle. “Esterbrook survived wars and hurricanes, although we did have some flood damage from Katrina.”

The sun’s rays cut through the humidity and toasted Beau’s face and bare shoulders, and he upended the bottle over his head while Kasper talked about other restoration projects he’d taken on after the storm. The cold water ran down Beau’s face and shoulder before flowing down his bare back and chest. The icy water raised bumps on his arms. A lot like the shower he’d taken the night before.
After
he’d watched porn.

As if he’d read his mind, Kasper said, “Tell me more about this little gal you’re traveling with.”

She was a virgin. Beau raised his free hand shoulder level. “About this tall. Dark hair. Blue eyes.” He told Kasper about Back Door Betty Night, Ricky De Luca, and Stella’s exfiltration amid the chaos of flashbang. They had a good chuckle over Stella smashing a mobster’s hand in her door, because that was funny shit, and they did have an appropriate sense of humor. Unlike Stella.

“How old is this gal?”

“Twenty-eight.”

Kasper lifted one black brow. “Young.”

“Too young.”

“Nah.”

She was a virgin. How was that possible? She wasn’t ugly or stupid. Although ugly and stupid never stopped some men. The guy in front of him was a perfect example.

“Pretty?”

Beau reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head. “Yeah.” Beautiful. Beautiful and young. And a virgin. Technically. Although a case could be made that oral sex was sex. Having a man’s penis in a woman’s mouth was as intimate as having it in her vagina. Having her red lips wrapped tight around— Beau stopped that train of thought and where it was leading him, but not before desire tugged at his belly. He looked off in the distance at a paddleboat slowly chugging up the Mississippi River. Tourists crammed the decks, and he picked out a spot of red on the port side. Probably a man’s hat. If he had his scope, he could sight in the lettering, dial in the dope, and decide where to put the crosshairs above center mass.

“Have you charmed her pants off yet?”

Beau frowned and tossed the empty bottle back into the cooler. So much for calculating MOS. “No. She’s a buddy’s future sister-in-law.” He’d tried
not
to charm her pants off. He’d tried to be stone cold. Except for those two times. When he’d kissed her. “It’s not like that.”

“You’re a man. She’s a woman. It’s always like that.” Kasper reached for the chain saw. “The Quarter is very romantic.
Laissez les bon temps rouler
,” rolled off his Cajun tongue just before he fired up the small engine.

No, there would be no good times rolling with Stella. In the Quarter or anywhere else. Earlier, he’d checked them into the Bourbon Orleans and headed out to Kasper’s. He’d left her in the middle of the lobby with her duffel at her feet and a room key in her hand. After last night’s conversation, he’d had to get the hell away from her.

No, there would be no good times. Rolling or lying or standing up. Not in a pool or on a casino floor. No good times with her mouth on him and his mouth eating her up. That was not going to happen, but he did wonder what kind of idiots she’d dated in the past. What kind of idiot failed at his job? Making women moan and call out to Jesus wasn’t that hard.

Beau shoved his work gloves onto his hands and motioned for Kasper to give over the saw. It was his turn to chew up some Louisiana cypress and keep his mind focused on something other than a certain dark-haired virgin. Focused on his first cut to make sure the tree fell precisely forward. Focused on the danger at hand rather than the danger that waited for him at the Bourbon Orleans later.

Beau pulled the starter rope and set his feet against the tug of the saw’s teeth biting into the tree. God, he needed to dump Stella off in Texas, ASAP. Before he doubled over due to relentless blue balls.

T
he first thing Stella did with some of her Lucky Seven winnings was shop for clothes and a pair of jeweled flip-flops. For a few insane moments, she actually thought of buying cowgirl gear: Wranglers, fringe, boots, and a belt with a huge sparkly buckle. But none of it felt like her, and she went mostly bohemian instead. Boho was kind of cowgirl. Okay, more country than cowgirl, and she did buy a blue plaid shirt to wear with a jeans skirt, but her favorite purchase of the day was a paisley dress she’d found at Saks on Canal Street. It was made of thin gauzy material with a white slip underneath. It was delicate and made her feel pretty.

She bought panties and two bras, and she caught herself looking through lingerie. Slinky, sexy nighties with sheer lace. The kind of nighties no one actually wore long enough to sleep in, and while she looked at the tiny panties and snappy garters, she thought of Beau. Of his mouth and the things he’d said last night. About the things he liked about women. She’d been thinking about the things she’d like him to do to her.

Which of course was ridiculous and embarrassing. She’d known the guy for only four days, counting the night he knocked out Ricky.

Stella opened the door to the third floor suite and stepped inside. A bellman followed and set her shopping bags on the couch. She tipped him ten dollars and slipped her backpack into a gold-and-black striped chair. Except for double doors leading to the intricate wrought-iron balcony, the suite was surprisingly modern. Especially considering the age and the French Creole architecture of the rest of the hotel.

As soon as the door shut behind the bellman, she moved to center of the main floor and glanced up to the loft.

“Hello?” she called up. “Beau?” She listened but didn’t hear anyone. She hadn’t seen him since he dumped her with a bellman that morning, and it was after six now. He’d mentioned something about visiting a military buddy and apparently hadn’t returned.

She moved past the wet bar to the couch and gathered her six bags. She headed up the stairs with six corded handles on each arm. The upper level had a narrow bathroom with black granite and tile and a glass-enclosed shower, and a bedroom with two queen beds. She set the bags on the bed with her duffel and eyed the other. She wondered if Beau knew the suite’s sleeping arrangement. She thought of looking over at him during the night and felt a little stitch in her stomach. Too intimate, and someone was going to have to sleep on the couch. Since Beau was big and the couch wasn’t, she figured that someone was going to be she.

Stella stepped out of her flip-flops and reached into her duffel. She pulled out a clean pair of white panties and a wrinkled pink sundress and laid them on the bed. She’d certainly slept in worse places than on a couch inside a five-star, luxury hotel. A sleeping bag in a van or a sleazy motel came to mind.

Stella checked her cell phone. She’d had calls from her mother, Ricky, and her dentist’s office reminding her she had an appointment tomorrow. She left a message with the dentist’s voice mail canceling her appointment and dialed her mom.

“Hi Mom. What’s up?” she asked, and sat on the end of the bed.

“Abuela got a jump in her left eye.”

Stella got a pain in her forehead. She couldn’t keep track of all her grandmother’s superstitions. “Maybe it’s old age.”

“She said you’re in trouble. Are you?”

“Well, not really . . . but . . . I’m meeting with Sadie.” It still sounded weird to say it out loud.

“Your sister? When? How did that happen? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m meeting her tomorrow or the next day.” She got more comfortable on the bed and started at the beginning. Well, kind of the beginning. She left out Ricky and the Gallo brothers. She didn’t want her mother to worry or Abuela’s eye to jump out of her head. “So I’m just chilling in New Orleans tonight and heading to Texas in the morning. It’s a little over seven hundred miles so I don’t know if we’ll make it all the way.”

“Who is this man you’re with? I don’t like you traveling with a man you don’t know.”

“I told you. His name is Beau and he’s a friend of Sadie’s fiancé. We stay in different rooms when we stop.” Except for tonight. “He’s fine, Mom.” In more ways than one.

“You don’t know him to say that. Only four days.”

It felt like longer. Maybe because they’d spent so much time together, but it felt like she’d known him weeks, months, maybe longer. How long did it take to know a man well enough to know the way he walked and talked or sat in stony silence? How long to know that his rare smiles reached the corners of his eyes? How long to know the way he ate? Like he had so little time and so much to chow. How long to know the touch of his hand and the way his shoulder felt beneath her palm? How long to know his eyes turned a deeper shade of gray when he looked at your mouth? How long to know the touch of his mouth made your insides feel all squishy? “He’s a retired Marine sergeant, Mom. He’s safe.” How long before you knew you wanted to feel more?

“Give me his phone number in case something happens and I can’t contact you.”

Right. “He’s not here right now. I haven’t seen him all day.” She failed to mention she had his business card and his number saved in her phone.

“Did he leave you stranded in New Orleans?”

“No.” He hadn’t left her stranded at her apartment or at MIA or dumped her at his mother’s or at the Hard Rock. “He’s helping out a friend. He’ll be back.” She glanced at the clock. It was almost seven. “I’ll call you when I get to Texas.”

“Are you worried?”

For all that her mother had her faults and certainly drove Stella crazy, she also knew her. “About Sadie?”

“Yes. She will love you, Estella.”

She swallowed and said through forced laugher, “Of course she will. To know me is to love me.”

“Don’t joke. I think this is all a sign.”

The pain in Stella’s forehead spread. “What sign?”

“We’ll have to wait and see. It’s Father’s Day.”

It was Father’s Day? Shopping today, she’d seen the Father’s Day signs in stores but hadn’t paid enough attention to make the connection.

“Perhaps it’s a sign from Clive that he finally wants his girls to meet.”

Doubtful. “I’ll call you.”

“Soon.”

“Okay.” Father’s Day was just another day to her. “I love you, Mom.”

“
Te quiero, Estella
.”

Stella hung up the phone and tossed it on her bed. She grabbed her shampoo and conditioner and headed for the bathroom down a short hall. Today was just another Sunday. Like all the other Father’s Days in her twenty-eight years. It was nothing to her.

She stripped off her clothes and jumped into the shower. Warm water ran down the sides of her head and back and she closed her eyes. When she’d been told that her father was dead, she’d had little reaction. A man who didn’t want to know her didn’t deserve a reaction.

Behind her closed lids, the backs of her eyes stung like she was going to cry or something. Cry for a man who never cried for her? For a father who never wanted to be her father?

Why now? Why was she suddenly feeling all weepy and emotional? Why today instead of the day she’d learned of his death? Maybe because hearing from Sadie had dug at the old hurt in her soul. The hurt she’d patched over long ago, but after four days of relentless picking, she suddenly ached with old and familiar “what ifs” and “if onlys.” With childish hopes and forgotten dreams. Hopes and dreams of a warm and fuzzy future that would never happen. Especially now. Now that her father was dead.