Colton 911: Soldier's Return
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Karen Whiddon
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16,2K
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15
HarlequinChapter 1
The sun shone bright yellow in a blue sky speckled with fluffy white clouds. Happy clouds, Carly Colton thought. The kind she used to imagine were animals and ships when she was a child. All around her, birds were singing cheerful songs and the still-crisp air carried the promise of warmer temperatures to come. Typical spring in Chicago. One minute, cold enough for snow flurries; the next, warm enough to cause trees to start to bud and flowers to bloom. Finally, nice enough weather to enjoy the outdoors, to take more walks, maybe even visit the lakeshore.
Despite being outside, in the warm sunshine, Carly couldn’t stop looking over her shoulder. The beautiful April day did nothing to lessen her unease. For the past six weeks, whether shopping or taking a walk, she’d been certain someone was stalking her, even though she’d never actually been able to catch sight of them.
It was more of a gut feeling, a visceral instinct. She’d be walking along familiar streets and then feel someone’s gaze on her with a tingle of nerves in the back of her neck. Who? Terrified, she’d spin wildly, hoping to catch her stalker in the act. But so far, she’d been completely unsuccessful, unable to locate a single person or even a group of people paying her the slightest bit of untoward attention. Nothing, absolutely nothing, out of the ordinary. Enough to make her wonder if her father’s and uncle’s murders had made her become overly fearful.
These days, she had to make herself venture out of her home, despite craving the fresh air. Her neighborhood had always been perfectly safe, and she loved her street.
Even now, on a perfect spring day, she swore she could feel someone watching her. Unsettled, she managed to force herself to continue on her walk, though every instinct screamed she should run home as fast as she could. As usual, she resisted the urge.
Paranoid? Maybe. But then she had reason to be on edge considering her father and his brother had been murdered a few months ago. The killer had yet to be caught. Even so, she didn’t like feeling uneasy outside her own house in her wonderful Hyde Park neighborhood, the one place she should have felt safe. Until a month and a half ago, despite occasional bouts of bad weather, she’d always enjoyed her early-evening strolls around her block, waving at neighbors and enjoying a bit of fresh air.
Now not so much. In fact, she’d begun to realize she might need to consider stopping them altogether. Which would be a shame, since she considered walking her main stress reliever after working as a pediatric nurse in the NICU—Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. She hated to lose that one little bit of joy in what could sometimes be long, and often painful, days.
Determined to persevere, she’d continued her walks, heart often racing, always alert, looking for proof that the eyes she felt watching her were real. If she saw anything, any tangible evidence to confirm her fears, she’d stop immediately.
Her family would be worried if they knew. Ever since the devastating death of her fiancé, Micha, two years ago, they had a tendency to treat her as if they believed she might break. Plus, with everyone still raw after her father’s and uncle’s murders, she hadn’t wanted to worry them.
Same with the man she’d been dating, though she’d decided to tell him that evening over dinner. Since Harry Cartwright was a police officer, she figured he just might take her seriously. Maybe he’d even offer to help.
Someone had to. Because instead of going away, it was getting worse.
Carly picked up her pace. Once she’d made it around this next corner, she’d be able to see her house. The sight of her tidy little brick bungalow never failed to lift her spirits. Though she wasn’t a runner, if need be she figured she could always sprint for home.
Again, she scanned her surroundings, unease sitting like a lead balloon in the pit of her stomach. She saw nothing out of the ordinary. A man walked his dog on the other side of the street. A woman holding fast to her child’s hand moved at a leisurely pace several houses ahead.
Yet she could not shake the feeling of being watched.
Frustrated, she rounded the corner, still at a brisk walk but on the verge of breaking into a jog. And then she saw him, stepping out into her path from a driveway, his dark sunglasses and longish, wavy brown hair doing nothing to disguise his achingly familiar—and ruggedly beautiful—face.
It couldn’t be. No freaking way.
Shocked, Carly froze. Now she knew she’d officially ventured into the land of needing professional help. Because the man standing less than ten feet in front of her had died two years ago. How could she be looking at a ghost?
He took a step toward her, disturbingly solid. No apparition, but muscle and bone and skin. Real.
“Micha?” she heard herself ask, as if from a distance. Because it couldn’t be and yet... “Micha Harrison, is that really you?”
Of course, this man, whoever he was, with his striking features and stylishly shaggy hair, would now speak and tell her no, she’d made a terrible mistake. Because people just don’t come back from the dead.
“It’s me,” he said instead, his words and the familiar husky voice making her stagger. “Carly, we really need to talk.”
She couldn’t catch her breath. Heart pounding, she stared.
Talk? She wanted to scream, push past him, but she couldn’t seem to make her legs move. How could he be there, this beautiful, rugged, beloved man who’d destroyed her by his absence. Which had all apparently been one huge pack of lies.
“Have you been following me?” she asked, still numb, struggling to make sense of how she was supposed to feel. The man she’d loved, whose ring she just stopped wearing on a chain around her neck, had died. She’d never forget the day she’d opened her front door to find a uniformed soldier standing on her porch with the gut-wrenching news that Micha had been killed.
Had that been fake? Clearly, it must have been. But why? Why would the man who’d promised to love her forever do such a thing to her? How dare they? How dare he?
Suddenly furious, she wrenched herself away from him and broke into a run. Despite her lack of expertise, her anger fueled her and she raced down her street and into her driveway.
To her immense relief, Micha didn’t chase after her.
Once she’d made it safely inside her house, dead bolt locked, she doubled over. Out of breath, in pain, her rage warring with a stunned sense of disbelief. And the grief, oddly enough, resurrected from the dark place she’d shoved it, as surely as the man she’d had to let go.
Micha wasn’t dead. She wasn’t sure how to process this. Dimly aware of the tears streaming down her face, she angrily swiped at them with the back of her hand.
A moment later, the sorry bastard had the nerve to knock on her front door.
She froze, then squared her shoulders, took a deep breath and wiped her eyes once more. On the one hand, she wanted to fling open the door and tell him to get the hell off her porch. On the other, she wanted to throw herself into his arms and hold him tight, as she’d dreamed of doing so many times while aching from his loss.
Alive. The love of her life. He’d ruined her for anyone else. She’d hung on to the memory of him, of their love shining bright and incandescent. She’d mourned him, damn it. He hadn’t died. Alive. And he didn’t bother to show up until two freaking years later.
Pain, fresh and as new as the day she’d learned of his death, slammed into her gut, almost sending her to her knees.
Carly had never been an indecisive person, but she honestly didn’t know what to do.
Micha knocked again. “We need to talk,” he said, the solid wood door muffling his raspy voice. “Please, Carly. Let me in. I promise you I can explain.”
She wanted to. Oh, how much she wanted to. Right now, she warred between a furious need to pummel him with her fists and to haul him up against her and kiss him senseless.
Micha had destroyed her. And now he wanted to tell her how and why.
In the end it was this, curiosity over the explanation, wondering how anyone, anywhere, could possibly rationalize what he’d done, that made her unlock the door and invite him inside.
Stepping back, she said nothing as he moved past her, his shoulders every bit as wide as she remembered. Still silent as she secured the dead bolt and turned to face him in the entryway of the house they’d chosen together. She’d gone ahead and purchased it after his death.
He still wore his sunglasses. The better to hide from her, she supposed, her chest twisting. “Take them off,” she demanded, pointing.
He did, revealing his dark brown eyes and something else she hadn’t expected. Scars. Numerous ones, a network of them around his forehead and right cheek.
Unable to help herself, she moved closer, reached out and traced her finger over the lines. Her touch made him shudder, which brought her back to reality. Shaking her head, she took a hasty step back.
“What happened to you?” she asked softly, trying to infuse a bit of steel in her voice. “I thought you were dead.”
Her question made him swallow hard. She couldn’t keep from following the movement in his damn-him-for-still-being-so-sexy throat.
“Could we sit somewhere and talk?” he rasped. “Please?”
Talk. She struggled to process the word. As if this was an ordinary situation, easily solved with a rational conversation. Except right now, she thought viciously, he should be groveling on his hands and knees, full of abject apologies and recrimination over what he’d done. He’d let her believe him dead for two freaking years. She should show him the door, toss him out on his rear.
Except...she really wanted to know what had happened. His reasons. What would make a man destroy the woman he’d supposedly loved. Just like that, the flare of anger dissipated, leaving her weak.
Usually when stressed, Carly talked. Chattered actually. But this time, she didn’t feel the need to fill the silence with words. No. Not now. That would have to be Micha’s job.
“Sure,” she said, leading the way down the hall into the living room. At the last moment, she reconsidered and veered into the kitchen, indicating her red-and-chrome retro dinette set. “Can I get you something to drink?”
Her polite and distant tone made him flinch. She wanted to shrug and tell him to take what he could get. Civility, no matter how remote, was a far better response than giving in to her tangled emotions.
“No, thank you.” Dropping into a chair, Micha dragged his hands through his shaggy hair. He’d never worn his hair so long, she thought absently. When they’d been together, he’d kept it closely cropped in a military-type cut, fitting since he’d been a soldier.
Still Micha didn’t speak. She waited, but he simply watched her, his achingly familiar features a study in emotion.
Fine. Then she’d start. She had so many questions. She deserved answers.
“You’ve been stalking me,” she said. “Why?”
“I wanted to make sure you were all right,” he admitted. “I hadn’t planned on letting you see me, but...” He shook his head, letting the words trail off.
“It’s been two years, Micha.” The anger came roaring back, though she managed to keep her voice steady. “Not only did you let me believe you were dead, but after all this time, you couldn’t be bothered to get in touch with me and let me know you were all right. Why now?”
She took a step toward him, still trying to rein in her emotions, not entirely sure she was succeeding. Once, the big man sitting at her kitchen table had known her well enough to see right through to the heart that beat erratically inside her chest. If he still could, then he’d understand the complicated mixture of raw pain and sadness, anger and, oddly, defeat.
Since he hadn’t responded, she took a deep breath and continued, as ruthless as she knew she had to be. “I’ve moved on, Micha. I’m finally getting on with my life. I’m dating a very nice guy, Harry, and—”
Micha pushed to his feet, towering over her. “I know, Carly,” he said, his voice rough. “And believe me, I’m well aware I have no right to show up and disrupt your life. I just couldn’t stay away.” His gaze blazed with heat. “I tried, Carly. Believe me, I tried.”
Something—maybe his palpable anguish or the way the heat in his eyes brought back memories of his big hands on her skin—had her taking a half step toward him. Pushing to his feet, he met her halfway, sweeping her up against his broad chest, slanting his mouth over hers in a kiss that was everything it shouldn’t have been.
Two years vanished in a flash. For weeks, months, she’d dreamed of this, yearning for him, aching for his loss, so how could she possibly let him go? She might be full of regrets later, but for now she chose to give in and ride this wave of welcome passion. For the first time since learning of his death, Carly Colton came alive.
She denied him nothing. Greedily, she clung to him, allowing herself to touch his muscular, still-familiar body. Despite the velvet warmth of his tongue alongside hers, part of her still couldn’t help but wonder if she might wake up to learn that this turned out to be yet just another dream.
But the force of his arousal pressing against her had to be real, her own body heavy and warm in response. Her skin tingled and she couldn’t shed her clothes fast enough. Gaze locked on hers, he did the same.
More scars crisscrossed his chest, his stomach, and wound a horrific path down his arm. She noted these, knew she’d ask about them later, but all she cared about now was the man inside his skin.
Unbearable, this craving. She was weak, yet on fire, her heartbeat throbbing in her ears, ecstasy spiraling with each stroke of his tongue against hers.
Naked finally, skin to skin, her flesh on fire. He called her name, a guttural moan, as his lips seared a path to the hollow of her throat.
She arched her back, giving herself over to him even as she tugged him closer, wanting him inside her. Needing him inside her with the heat of a thousand suns.
“Wait,” he managed, grabbing his discarded jeans and removing a condom from his wallet. Watching as he tugged it over his magnificent arousal, her mouth went dry.
Dizzy with desire, she reached for him again the instant he’d finished sheathing himself. His dark eyes smoldered as he swept his gaze over her, even as he murmured her name like it was a prayer.
Somehow, they made it to her bed, falling onto the sheets, their bodies still tangled together.
He took her then, sweeping her beneath him with one simple motion, both familiar and thrillingly new. The engorged tip of him pressed against her. Ready, warm and wet, she opened herself to him. Micha had finally come home.
“I never forgot,” she gasped as he entered her, filling her completely. The feel of his hard body, both familiar and foreign, electrified her, sending her into a kind of pleasure overdrive. Micha. She writhed beneath him, urging him to move, but maddeningly he held himself completely still, tension running through every muscle in his body.
“Hold still,” he managed to order. “Please. If you don’t, this just might be over before it even begins.”
This statement, coming from a man who’d always been able to take his time leisurely bringing her to pleasure, drove her wild. She could scarcely catch her breath, but with her heart pounding, she managed to do as he’d asked and not move. Though she could do nothing to stop the little pulses her body gave at him so deep inside her.
And then he began to move.
Pure and explosive pleasure, sweet agony of the kind she’d never thought she’d experience again. She saw colors, heard music, felt her heart expand even as her body melted. She could no longer control her cries of pleasure, matching his thrusts with wild abandon.
As she gave herself over to her release, she felt him catch his breath as he did the same. This at least hadn’t changed.
They held each other as their shuddering subsided, she clinging to him as if he might vanish in the space of the next gulp of air she allowed into her lungs. And he...he held on to her with a similar sort of desperate possessiveness. She traced her fingers over him, exploring while no longer in the throes of passion. His muscular body bore more scars, a tangled web of jagged lines that surely had something to do with his disappearance. She’d hear the story behind them soon, though not now, not yet. She wasn’t ready.
Neither spoke. She, because she didn’t want to ruin the fragile peace of the moment with reality. He, most likely because if he did he might have to explain. And right now, she really didn’t want to hear it.
Her phone chimed, the calendar alert reminding her she’d agreed to meet Harry for dinner in less than an hour. Just like that, her insides twisted into a knot.
“You should go,” she told Micha, trying not to look at him in all his naked, masculine splendor. “I have plans tonight.”
“With him?” No inflection in his voice, just the question, asked so quietly.
Miserable now, she nodded. “Yes.”
With a sinfully languid movement reminiscent of a big cat stretching in the sun, he got up from her bed and sauntered toward her bathroom, detouring into the hall to scoop up his clothes on the way. “I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.”
Despite everything, she couldn’t tear her gaze away from his naked rear. She’d always loved his body, surprisingly graceful despite his sheer size. Now his skin looked like something she was familiar with from her work as a nurse. She’d spent a few of her clinical rotations in the burn unit. She’d seen skin grafts that looked like this, and horrific burns that had eventually healed, leaving their mark behind.
She ached to run her fingers over those scars, to kiss them to show she still found him beautiful and sexy, and always would.
No. She couldn’t even let her thoughts go there. She needed to shower and get ready to meet Harry.
And probably ruin forever what had been a burgeoning relationship.
Micha emerged from her bathroom a moment later, fully dressed. His shaggy hair even appeared to have fallen back into its former artful disarray. He looked, she thought grimly, both the same and completely different.
She followed him down the hall toward the front door. He reached for the knob to let himself out, but at the last moment he turned.
“Don’t go to meet Harry tonight,” he said, letting her see the naked emotion in his eyes. “Stay here with me and talk. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”
Heaven help her, she caught herself swaying toward him. At the last moment, she caught herself and shook her head. “Like I said earlier, I’ve moved on. I’ve started over, made a life for myself. His name is Harry,” she pointed out. “We bonded over our shared grief. He lost his wife and daughter in a car accident around the same time I lost you. I’m not going to bail on him when he’s been there for me all this time.”
A flash of something—jealousy, maybe—crossed his face. “Are you planning to tell him about this? About...” He swallowed. “What just happened between us?”
She lifted her chin, letting him see some of the bitterness she felt. “I am. I’m not going to lie to him, Micha. All I can do is admit to my mistake and hope he forgives me.”
“Mistake.” Expression anguished, he stared at her. Spotting a pad of paper and a pen on the table near the door, he jotted down his number. “Call me if you change your mind or just want to talk.”
Slowly, she nodded. Then he let himself out the door without another word.
The instant it closed behind him, she instinctively locked the dead bolt. Devastated, she fought the urge to double over and cry. Refusing to allow herself to think, she spun around and marched toward the shower. She needed to wash every last bit of Micha off her body before she told Harry what she had done.
Somehow, she managed to make herself look presentable by the time Harry arrived to pick her up. When he rang the bell, she let him inside. He wore his usual faded jeans and cotton button-down shirt, with a baseball cap on his head. He looked familiar and comfortable and she didn’t know how on earth she could break his heart.
With her own heart hammering, she struggled to make small talk. She knew she should tell him now, instead of in a crowded restaurant, but struggled to find the right words.
“What’s wrong?” Harry finally asked, his sharp gray-green gaze missing nothing.
“Micha’s alive,” she blurted, inwardly wincing as she braced for Harry’s reaction. He simply stared at her for a moment, clearly trying to assess the situation.
“Could you, er, elaborate?” he asked in what she’d come to think of as his professional police officer tone.
She nodded. “Maybe you’d better sit down?”
“Sure.” With a wry smile, he walked into her living room and took a seat on the couch. “Go ahead,” he said, once he’d gotten settled. Gaze watchful, he appeared calm and merely curious. His rock-steadiness had always been one of the things she’d liked about him. Harry would never abandon her and pretend to be dead for two years.
She told him everything, starting with the constant feeling of being watched all the way through ending up in bed with Micha. “He had no explanation for where he’s been these past twenty-four months,” she finished weakly, even though she guessed that detail wouldn’t be what Harry would be focused on.
Instead of the hurt or even anger that she’d expected, Harry continued to regard her soberly. “During the time we’ve been together, we’ve talked a lot about the people we’ve lost,” he said. “I know how much you loved Micha and how deeply you grieved his passing.”
Confused, she frowned. “Yes, but he wasn’t really dead.”
Harry pushed to his feet. “You’ve been given a great gift, Carly. A second chance.”
“What are you saying? That you think I should get back together with him?” Which defied comprehension. “After what he did?”
“Yes.” Expression fierce, Harry swallowed hard. “Do you know what I’d give if Marie and Emily could walk back in my front door?” Anguish twisted his handsome features. “I’d give anything, forgive everything, if I could have a second chance like the one you’ve been given. Give Micha a shot.”
“But—”
“I wish you nothing but the best, Carly.” He kissed her cheek. “I hope the two of you can work things out. You deserve that kind of happiness.”
On that note, Harry left, leaving Carly to stare after him, more bewildered than before.
Harry’s easy acquiescence, while surprising, told her one thing she hadn’t expected. She hadn’t lost him. She’d never had him to begin with.
Micha coming back to life might seem like a miracle, but after two years she wasn’t the same trusting woman she’d been before. Despite her overwhelming physical reaction to him, she couldn’t simply pick up where they’d left off, pretending he hadn’t done something so unquestionably horrible. If only he had been able to see her, doubled over with the pain of his loss. How long she had grieved, how changed her life had become. While he’d done what? Gotten the military to deliver a fake death notice? Or had they, too, actually believed him to be deceased, which seemed much more likely?
Either way, clearly Micha hadn’t been the ordinary soldier he’d pretended to be.
So how many lies had there been? How could she take back a man she couldn’t trust?
Her head began to hurt, almost as much as her heart. While part of what Harry had said rang true, she wasn’t sure she could ever get past what Micha had done. Heck, she wasn’t even sure she wanted to. Because, honestly, if Micha could do something like that to her, she very much doubted he’d ever loved her. At least, not the way she’d loved him.
But then why had he returned? Why now, when she’d thought she might finally be able to settle into some sort of normal existence? Sure, Harry hadn’t made her feel even one tenth of the joy, pleasure and fulfillment she’d experienced with Micha. Music had seemed sweeter, colors brighter, and even food had tasted better. Life had been vibrant then and she’d honestly thought she’d found that once-in-a-lifetime kind of love. Clearly, she’d been wrong.
Now she just needed to figure out how to deal with Micha’s presence back in her life.
