Authors: Mary Margret Daughtridge

SEALed with a Ring (3 page)

BOOK: SEALed with a Ring

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Chapter 4

DAVY WOKE UP PISSED.

Royally pissed.

He'd lain awake until past four-thirty, cursing him self for an idiot.

Even when he finally fell asleep, he kept dream ing he was looking for her. They were in a bazaar in Afghanistan, and she had on one of those blue shuttle cock burqas—so called because the wearers looked like a giant blue badminton birdie had been tossed over their heads—obscuring not only her face but all hint of shape or individuality. All he wanted was to know her name, but without a name, he didn't have a chance of finding her among the other burqa-clad women.

He tossed back the covers. He was pissed at her for running off—as if what they'd had together wasn't spectacular—but he was more pissed at himself.

He'd had lots of time before he finally fell asleep to go over everything that had happened, to remember every word. It galled him that the situation had gotten so far out of control before he even realized something was wrong. His mother had warned him about treating girls as if they were interchangeable. He'd always protested that he didn't. Now he wasn't so sure. He'd been so eager he'd ignored everything else.

Too late, he saw all the signs of agitation he had ignored, the opportunities he'd let go by when he could have gathered intel about who she was, where she lived.

Girls didn't run away from him crying. They didn't threaten to beat him off with shoes.

Part of him knew it wasn't him. She had been upset when he ran into her at the service entrance to the coun try club. But the part of him that was a SEAL wouldn't let him evade responsibility. He had been so willing to assume she was too hot for him to want any preliminar ies that he had ignored even the common decency of learning her name.

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the feelings of self-disgust. The gray light that seeped through the open weave of the curtain hinted at dawn. The red numbers on the bedside clock read six-thirteen. He had time for a run.

He pulled on shorts and a T-shirt and was tying his running shoes when he realized he had no idea where he'd put the key card after unlocking the room. The increasing daylight showed him a room that was a shambles. He righted a lamp that had been knocked over—but not broken, thank God—and pulled his tie from where it draped over the shade.

Images from the night before assaulted him. Underneath a tipped-over chair he found his dress shirt. Oh, yeah, the part about the chair had been
fine. He'
d still had on his shirt when she'd pushed him into the straight wooden chair and straddled him, her long legs reaching the floor easily. Already joined, lodged hot and tight within her, he had pulled the silky material of her dress over her head and unhooked her bra to reveal the perfect roundness of her breasts. The large, velvety brown areolas had been clearly visible even in the shad owy room. In his need to feel them against his mouth, he'd hampered her efforts to unbutton his shirt. They had laughed—
not j
ust him, dammit, they had both laughed— batting hands out of the way, moving together.

He felt the pockets of his slacks when he found them beside the bed. Nothing. His navy sport coat, unbeliev ably, was near the bathroom, and now he remembered standing on it when he'd blocked her way to the bath room door.

And she'd defended herself with a shoe. And warned him not to make her regret it more than she already did. Only at that point had he realized how completely things had gone to shit.

The card wasn't in the sport coat either.

He hung up the coat. It was the only one he had and he didn't want a dry-cleaning bill. The key card wasn't on the dresser or the nightstand; it must have fallen on the floor. He gathered the bedspread from the carpet at the foot of the bed and shook it. The card fluttered to the floor. So did a scrap of brown lace.

Her panties. Thong, actually. He picked it up and spread it over his hand. The tiny flesh-colored triangle of transparent silk sported a running horse bordered by a rounded-off rectangle. Unless he missed his guess, that was a '64 Mustang logo embroidered smack-dab over the crucial spot.

Damn, he wished he'd seen that on her. He wished he'd insisted they turn on the lights and take their time. He wished she hadn't… He shook his head at the futility of the thought. He wished a lot of things. None of them made any difference.

He didn't want to keep the thong, but he didn't want the maids to find it when they came in to clean. If he didn't have any idea who the woman was, they couldn't, and yet he needed to protect her privacy. It was the least he could do.

He crammed the thong in his shorts pocket thinking he would toss it in a public trash can on his run. He wasn't one to collect souvenirs. Despite his Don Juan reputation, he wasn't motivated by the thrill of the chase. He really did just like sex.

Back in his room after his run, he showered and shaved and pulled on clean but worn jeans and a white T-shirt. After only a tiny hesitation, he retrieved the thong from the pocket of his discarded shorts.

He stuffed the silky trifle deep into a pocket of the navy blazer he'd worn the night before. After he'd passed the third trash can, he realized he wasn't going to toss the thong, and he didn't want to leave for the base until he found out the girl's name and at least tried to make sure she was all right.

Davy felt better now that he had a plan.

Davy's improved mood had gone sour again by the time he rendezvoused with Do-Lord in the hotel's coffee shop. Do-Lord was spiffy in new-looking jeans and an open-collared dress shirt topped by a sport coat.

Davy's plan to ask other wedding guests if they knew his mystery woman's identity had been a complete wash out. He had even defied all common sense—an enlisted man didn't draw an officer's attention when it wasn't in his best interests to do so—and approached the bride and groom when he saw them loading their car.

"Sorry." Pickett shook her head when Davy's un known was described to her. "My mother knows every body in a radius of one hundred miles—"

"And is kin to half of them," Jax put in.

"No, if she were a cousin, I'd recognize her, I think. But Mother invited a lot of people she's met through business—people I don't know."

Jax made a restive movement. His tolerance for having his honeymoon interrupted wouldn't last much longer. He put a possessive arm around his bride's shoulder and rested his cheek on the top of her golden curls. Pickett returned the caress by rubbing the back of her head against his shoulder. The movement exposed her throat and a line of tiny pink bite-marks.

If he'd had any doubt (he hadn't), Davy now was sure Jax had had a good time last night—and with a woman who still wanted to be with him this morning.

Davy didn't need the "get lost" look Jax aimed at him over the top of Pickett's head. There was nothing to do but wish them both well.

Do-Lord, looking disgustingly cheerful, slid into the booth where Davy waited for him in the hotel coffee shop. "Before we head back to the base, listen. I just had a call from Pickett's sister. She says a whole tableful of wedding presents got left at the country club last night. She wanted to know if I would go get them and take them to Pickett's mother's house. You up for it?"

Forty-five minutes later, wedding presents retrieved and stowed under a tarp in the back of Do-Lord's big Ford Silverado, Davy and Do-Lord stood at the side door of a large brick colonial surrounded by a wide green lawn and sheltered by tall pines. The morning's earlier overcast had turned to a light drizzle that was bringing down pine needles in a steady brown rain.

A spray of needles landed on Davy's shoulder, prick ing him through his T-shirt. "Are you sure anyone is here?" he asked when Do-Lord pressed the doorbell a second time.

"Even if everyone else has gone out, Emmie is staying here."

A note of eagerness in his voice made Davy glance at him sharply. Do-Lord usually met the world with laid back but distant good humor. "And you would know this, how?"

"I brought her home last night." There was undeni able satisfaction in the smile that lurked in the corners of his mouth.

Sheesh, Do-Lord and Emmie had gotten it on last night, too. It just kept getting better. Lon hadn't said anything about Lauren this morning when Davy had returned his car keys—but then, he wouldn't. Davy bet they had shared more than a room, too.

A particularly nasty blend of chagrin and guilt crawled around in his stomach. SEALs were intensely competitive. Jax, Do-Lord, and Lon had all gotten lucky, and
they all knew where the lady in question wa
s this morning.

He, on the other hand, had had the most awesome sex of his life with a woman whose name he had neglected to learn. He'd had the best one of all and let her get away. If the guys ever learned about it, they'd laugh themselves silly.

"Where the hell is she?" He stamped his feet impa tiently. All he wanted was to get this over with. "Ring the bell again," he told Do-Lord.

"Give the girl a chance. Why are you so itchy?"

"I just want to get on the road, that's all."

"Got another hot date tonight?"

Davy imagined calling one of the girls who'd be glad to hear from him, but he knew a better way to blot out last night's fiasco. "Nah. I've got a rating coming up. I need to study."

Saying the words made Davy feel calmer. As soon as he was immersed again in his life as a SEAL, the river of time would flow over this incident and it would be as if it had never happened.

The sight of Emmie when she at last opened the door restored the rest of his good humor. Her face was puffy. Her not-quite-blond, not-quite-brown hair was stuck to her head on one side and standing up on the other. The shapeless terry bathrobe, a faded shade of blue, all but swallowed her, and it hung haphazardly because the col lar had been pushed up by the cobalt blue sling that was back in evidence.

What a charity case! He rapidly revised the mental picture he had of her and Do-Lord. Come to think of it, he couldn't imagine Lon doing it with anyone as completely drunk as Lauren had been last night. Of the men he'd been comparing his performance to, that left only Jax.

Jax was the obvious winner in the satisfaction depart ment, but hell, he'd had to get married to do it.

His inner equilibrium restored, Davy reverted to his hospital corpsman identity. Taking care of the wounded was what he did. "How's the shoulder this morning?" he asked Emmie.

"Better. You were right when you told me yesterday that taking my pain medicine on a schedule would help. I did sleep better. In fact, I slept so deeply I'm a little groggy this morning." She laughed sheepishly. "I could hear the doorbell ringing, but I couldn't figure out which door you were at."

"The dopey feeling is caused by the meds. Don't worry. It'll go away in a day or two." He pointed to where folds of the bathrobe were caught under the dark blue sling. With all that excess fabric and a shoulder that hurt with every movement, it was probably the best she could do. "That looks uncomfortable. Want me to help you adjust the sling?"

Emmie looked down at the faded robe as if surprised to learn she had it on. She blushed. "I need to get dressed for real."

Her cluelessness about how she looked had a certain dorky charm—but dorkiness wasn't on the list of what Davy looked for in a girl. He doubted if it made Do Lord's list either.

"Be careful not to—"

"Put my hand behind my back, I know," Emmie finished.

Do-Lord clapped Davy on the shoulder—hard enough to make the gesture a friendly warning. He subtly inter posed his body between Davy and Emmie. "Let the girl go, Doc. I know how much you like to take care of the wounded, but—enough!"

Davy simultaneously realized two things. One: Do Lord, whom Davy had always found hard to read, was broadcasting, loud and clear, his interest in Emmie. Davy didn't get it, but there was no accounting for tastes.

And two: what was wrong, really wrong, with last night's debacle was that he had failed.

Despite his reputation, he didn't use women—at least not more than they used him. Because he did care what happened to them, he carefully stayed away from any girl who might mistake his intentions, and especially damsels in distress. They had a bad habit of thinking his willingness to try to help them fix their problems was the equivalent of an engagement ring. And when he had to let them down, he just felt like a jerk.

He had an alpha male's tendency to take charge and believe he was responsible in any situation. On top of this, he had more than his share of nurturance and pro tectiveness. It added up to more than a desire to help oth ers. It was more like "white knight syndrome." He took plenty of teasing designed to remind him he couldn't fix every situation or help every person.

BOOK: SEALed with a Ring

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