A figure sat on the steps, caught in shadow. She leaned forward, resting her chin in her hands, staring into the night, lost in her thoughts. Her profile was all soft edges and graceful femininity, her petite frame clad in pink shorts and a scoop-necked, pink lacy shirt. Her bare feet were crossed at the ankles. Her glittery toenail polish popped in the darkness.
Ethan paused, torn between wanting to back up before she saw him and a longing to join her. Their encounters were a strange blend of hostility, humor, and attraction. She was the exact type of woman he'd never involve himself with, but there was something that kept pulling him toward her. Maybe it was the way she refused to back down or how she seemed to be able to make him laugh even when he was mad. Hell, when she ate that damn apple pie, his dick had practically strangled in his jeans. Those golden tigress eyes held him captive, challenging him to drag her across the table, devour her mouth, and make her hungry for more than food. She liked wicked games. The whole time she ate and tried not to let out sounds of pleasure drove him to the sweetest fantasy of all.
Making her scream in bed under his hands, his tongue, his teeth.
Fuck it.
"Couldn't sleep?"
She jerked around, searching for the voice. He moved forward, and the motion light clicked on, making them both blink in the sudden brightness. He braced his foot on the first step, leaning his arm on the column of the railing. For a few seconds, he wondered if she'd ignore him and return to her safe bed. But slowly, her body relaxed and she regarded him thoughtfully.
"I rarely sleep. I have insomnia."
He lifted a brow. "Nightmares?"
"No. My brain doesn't seem to shut down properly. After a few hours, I open my eyes and that's it. I start thinking of the stuff I need to do or the stuff I've done or the stuff that I should change. Part of my high-maintenance personality, I guess."
His lip twitched. "Makes sense."
"What about you?"
"Same."
"Lie." He stared at her for a long time. How could she intrigue and irritate him at the same time? And how the hell did she know his truth? He'd had buddies for years who never realized when he was bluffing or bullshitting them. Ethan opened his mouth, but she waved a hand in the air, cutting him off. "Sorry, forget it. I don't want to fight."
The light clicked off. She turned back to studying the inky blackness of the woods, the majestic shadow lines of mountains thrusting toward sky. His center of gravity shifted, confusing him, but he followed his gut and sat down next to her on the steps.
A comfortable silence settled between them. They sat together for a while, not speaking, their breath and the night creatures the only sounds in the dark. He wondered what she was thinking about, what secrets she buried in the light of day, what was most important to her. The questions whirled in his mind. It had been a very long time since any woman engaged his curiosity.
"Mia?"
"Yeah?"
"What worries you the most at night?"
Her shoulders tensed. She glanced at him with suspicion. "You'd only use it for blackmail."
He grinned. "How about calling an official truce?"
"Why?"
This time, he gave her the truth. "Because I'm tired, too."
She caught his meaning, evident in the widening of her extraordinary eyes and her slow nod. "Okay." She paused and dragged in a breath. "I worry that I'll never be enough."
Her answer puzzled him. Already, she struck him as a powerful, dynamic woman who blazed a path of success in her wake. He bet the men in her life were the same--the type of man he used to be back in Hollywood, with his custom suits and smooth charm and powerful network of friends. Hell, he'd believed he found real love in that world, only to realize that, too, had been a mirage he helped create. Had it ever been real, or had he needed it to be in order to fit his image of what he'd always wanted? More. More than this farm, or the inn, or this small town he'd grown up in.
Maybe Mia had someone in her life already that drove her from the bed to stare out into the night. A man who missed her while she was away.
Jonathan Lake.
And why did the thought make a pang of regret bolt through him?
"For who? Yourself? Your family? Your lover?"
She pushed her hair back, considering. "All of it. I'm driven at work to succeed and make something in my past right again. When I started my business, I struggled just to feed myself and keep afloat. I got lucky with a client who ended up becoming big under my tutelage, and I began growing by word of mouth. Eventually, I moved into the political arena--which was my ultimate goal--and moved my office from the back of a warehouse to a well-known Manhattan address."
"Seems impressive."
"Should be, right?" Her shrug said otherwise. "Yet I still wonder if it was just dumb luck that got me here. Like I'm waiting for people to find out I'm really a fraud and not as impressive as my reputation."
"Sounds like impostor syndrome."
"What's that?"
"A condition where you explain away your success instead of owning it and feeling accomplished. A good majority of women suffer from it." He'd learned about it in college and tried to diagnose his sisters. Harper had practically clocked him, and Ophelia counseled him on minding his own damn business.
"That's me! That's what I have! How do I get rid of it?"
Her razor-sharp focus to fix herself in an evening made him smile. Would she bring all that delicious intensity to the bedroom? Would she be an enthusiastic, assertive partner who told him exactly what she liked and didn't? He'd always loved a bit of a bossy woman. And why did he want to find out? He reined in his disturbing thoughts. No need to complicate the evening by letting his little head rule and ruin their tentative truce. Plus, she was taken. He didn't play around with commitment. "It takes time. Every time you have a success, you have to remind yourself it wasn't luck or coincidence or someone else. You have to own it and be proud. You embark on a brand-new mental habit."
She sighed and waved a hand in the air. "Forget it, I'm too old to retrain my brain now."
"I've done it, and I'm thirty-five."
"I'm thirty and I'll just deal with my insomnia."
He laughed. "Okay, so you worry about your job. What else?" He paused delicately. "Problems with Lake?"
"You mean the election?"
"I mean as your lover."
She frowned, then looked a little guilty. "Jonathan and I aren't involved. Besides my own morals about dating a client, there's nothing between us but business. I respect him, admire him, but I'm sure as hell not sleeping with him."
The pure relief that flooded his body should've worried him, but he didn't analyze it. "Another lover?"
"Nope. I'm single. I don't have good luck with men, so I'm taking a long break."
Oh, he needed more information on that statement. "Broken heart?"
"Broken trust. I've been cheated on twice. And each damn time, the guy denied it right to my face, which pissed me off even more."
He wondered who'd be stupid enough to cheat on her. Most of the time, men cheated because they were bored. Mia could probably spend an entire lifetime throwing out surprises and challenges to keep a man engaged. "I'm sorry, that sucks. Were they long relationships?"
"First one was a year. Second was about six months. Of course, that made me wonder if I just wasn't cut out for love on a permanent scale. Maybe I'm just too wrapped up in my career. Maybe I'm boring."
He laughed out loud, and she swung around to give him a murderous glare. "I thought we were on a truce here," she grit out. "No need to mock me."
"I'm sorry, I laughed because you are the most unboring person I've ever met. Trust me, that's not your problem."
"Oh yeah? Then what is?"
"You dated two complete assholes."
She practically gaped at him. "You just said something nice to me. And you weren't even lying."
He rolled his eyes. "Contrary to your opinion, I'm not in the habit of lying. Or cheating. O
r hurting people I love."
"Just being generally hard-assed?"
"Maybe." They stared at one another. Emotion charged the air. He ached to reach out and touch her hair, trail his finger down her cheek to see if her skin was as silky as it appeared. Tonight, she didn't smell of orange blossoms, but clean and pure, like cucumber soap. Her lips parted slightly, as if waiting for something. He was used to the occasional kick of sexual tension, but this almost tender feeling was completely different. What the hell was going on?
As if she'd gauged his thoughts, she tore her gaze away and wrapped her arms around her knees. "Well, now you know I'm not as fabulous as I pretend. But I'm happy. I have a good life. And maybe one day I'll stop looking for . . ."
She broke off. He waited but she didn't finish her sentence. His heart paused in his chest. "For what?"
He didn't think she'd answer and decided not to ask again. The whisper came from her very soul, half-ragged with truth and want. "More."
The empty place inside reared up, seeking company, twisting in demand for his own secrets to be shared with this woman, on this night, in the dark.
"I got shot."
She looked up. Looked deep. He waited for her to ask a barrage of questions or look shocked, but she just kept staring at him with wide amber eyes, waiting for him to finish.
"I'm Special Forces. Was. I worked as a pararescue trooper. It's a part of the air force where I basically flew in with my team for specific missions and helped with medical aid or rescue. Joined when I graduated from college and went through two years of hell at superman school. Loved every damned minute of it. Always dreamed of doing something big and helping others in a different way. Loved being souped-up on adrenaline and the lure of saving someone that no one else could."
He shook his head, thinking of when he was younger and putting himself through one of the toughest schools in the world. He'd learned about all his hidden demons--his weaknesses and strengths. How relying on a team was the difference between life and death. He'd been broken, stripped down, and annihilated, then built back up to a man he was proud to be. Even with the missions, in his mind he'd been immortal. Superman. Maybe that had been the most dangerous part of all.
"When I wasn't away, I worked as a bodyguard. It was a perfect job to do in between gigs because I could come and go as I pleased, and I had a list of celebrities who wanted the Special Forces guy on their team. I had the best of both worlds."
He paused but she just kept quiet, those Bambi-like eyes giving him what he needed to continue. "I got called away to rescue an important informant. I thought we had enough time to get him to the copter--I was sure it was going to be okay. I swore to him I wouldn't let him die." The scene replayed in his mind, thickening his throat. "I was wrong. Enemy fire broke out before I could get him to safety. He died. I promised to save him and then watched the flare of hope in his eyes twist to death, and every fucking night I see those same eyes in my dreams."
The words bled from his soul, but already he felt cleaner. He'd learned bad shit was like a wound--if you didn't occasionally lance it open and expose it to the light, it slowly got infected from rotting alone in the dark.
"What about you?" she asked softly.
"My team saved me in time. My leg and shoulder got shot up. I was lucky. Besides getting to live, I came close to losing the leg, but they said it was a miracle. The surgery worked, I glided through PT, and all I have to show is a bit of pain and a limp."
A much better deal than Aresh Hammati.
He waited for her apologies and sympathy. He knew the drill well--people didn't know how to handle stories from war. They saw it in the newspapers or on television, clucked their tongue, and moved on to their evening meal or an argument with their spouse over who left the toothpaste cap off. It was almost as if he were split between two worlds--the world of his brothers, who lived to fight and defend, and the world that wanted to forget.
He didn't blame anyone. Hell, he'd deliberately joined the military for exactly that reason: to give citizens the luxury of forgetting. Hollywood had been good for that. He could return from missions and lose himself in the glamour and falsities that offered denial. But after Aresh Hammati, he couldn't seem to get back to that mind-set. He'd felt displaced, with nowhere to go but home.
"I guess we both have syndromes that keep us up at night," she finally said.
Ethan frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"I have impostor syndrome. You have god syndrome."
"What the hell is 'god syndrome'?"
Her face was serious as she spoke. "You graduated from superman school. You trained with the elite. You saved lives for a job. After a while, you must get a god complex, like you have control over everything. That if someone dies on your watch, it's your fault."
"It is. I take the motto serious. 'So others may live.'"
She nodded. "Sounds like you tried to do that with this last mission, too. But God decided to show you something important. You don't get to choose. You can do your very best--your superhuman best--but you can't save everyone. No one can. And now you're learning to live with that. You just have to go through to get to the other side."
The truth of her words struck him arrow straight, pierced his heart, and let sweet, pure air back inside. For a few precious seconds, the ragged void in his soul took a breath and sighed, once again full.
Because of her.
In all the time with his therapist, he'd circled around the realization, but Mia had given it to him straight. She sat a few inches from him, chin tilted up so she could meet his gaze. Shattered, head reeling, he looked deeply into her eyes, ready for her to utter her soft apologetic sayings or squeeze his hand or tell him he'd definitely get to the other side and everything would be okay.
Instead, she gave him a lopsided half smile. "At least I know now why you're such an arrogant ass."
And at that moment, he fell hard for Mia Thrush in a completely unexpected way.
Without thought, he reached over, cupped her cheeks, and lowered his head.
Then he kissed her.
Her lips parted in surprise, and he took full advantage. As if trying to unravel a mystery, he sipped at her lips, learning her taste and texture, nibbling softly, until a low, strangled moan broke from her chest, and he swallowed it whole and took the kiss deeper.
Honeyed sweetness with a little twist of spice. Her nails bit into his shoulders, and she tilted her head to allow him full access. In seconds, she melted against his chest, the rub of her tight nipples whipping hunger through his body. He let out a growl, holding her still while he explored every delicious, slick crevice, reveling in the thrust of her tongue against his as she battled him right back. Heat exploded between them. His dick throbbed, and within seconds, he was in a frenzy to get her naked, get her open, get her to come . . .
"Ethan." She breathed against his lips, her arms sliding around his shoulders to thrust into his hair and pull.
"Yeah?" He sucked on her lower lip, then bit gently. She shuddered in his embrace.
"What are we doing?"
"Don't know. Feels good. Do you want me to stop?"
"No." Her smile only made him hotter, especially when she ripped her mouth from his, dragging her tongue down his neck and sinking her teeth into his flesh. Ah, fuck, she was a little tigress who enjoyed play. He pulled her onto his lap, his hands cupping her ass, and she wrapped her arms tight around him. Those sexy hips began to rock against his hardness, kissing him back with an openness and genuine hunger he couldn't get enough of. She was burning up all around him, dragging him into a tunnel where he couldn't think about anything but how bad he wanted to ravish and please and torment.
Suddenly, the light flooded the porch, blinding in intensity. She jumped out of his arms, her butt landing hard on the porch step, and turned around in horror to see who had caught them.
No one was there.
Ethan gripped the railing and tried to get his head to stop spinning. Holy shit. That was
n't a kiss. That was a damn explosion of epic proportions.
That was big fucking trouble.
"Motion light," he managed to say. "Probably an animal tripped it."
Her expression told him the mood had definitely been broken. Her skin paled, and she raised a trembling hand to press against her now-swollen lips. "What did we do?"
Irritation ruffled his nerve endings. Did she have to look so horrified? He lifted a brow. "We kissed."
"But I called you an ass. Why did you kiss me?"
Raw hunger snapped into temper. "Why'd you kiss me back?"
"I didn't." He cocked his head and studied her. "Okay, fine, I did, but I was surprised. I don't think it's a good idea."
His ego took the hit like a man, but it stung. "Neither do I."
Her hand dropped, and she blew out a breath. "Then why on earth did you kiss me?"
Because in that moment, he'd felt completely connected to her.
Because he'd felt alive again.
Because he'd felt seen for the first time.
He offered her a half shrug. "Felt like a good idea at the time. Didn't know a simple kiss would freak you out so much, princess. It's not like we need to embark on a shotgun wedding."
Her glare made him feel better. This woman he could deal with. This bristly, judgy pain in the ass was easy to banter and amuse himself with. The one who molded himself perfectly to his body, uttered the perfect phrase to a heartfelt confession, and kissed him back with a burning heat and need?
Not so much.
"You are so rude," she muttered, standing up and brushing off her pajama pants. At this angle, her nipples were still hard against her pale-pink shirt. He decided to prove he could be a gentleman when he wanted to be by not pointing out that fact. "Next time you get hit by an impulse, smother it. Or you'll be sporting a black eye, horse man."
Ethan figured the truce was now officially over.
So much better this way.
He stretched lazily and stroked his beard. Her taste lingered on his lips. "Is that before you climb onto my lap or after the breathy moan of my name?"
Her golden eyes turned glassy with rage. Her sparkly nails flashed as she clenched her fists. "You are deplorable," she whispered.
Then she whipped around on her bare heel and slammed the screen door behind her.