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Cy nodded. He was on special duty, assigned to support troops. We ended up in the same black ops
group. He shook his head. The only person I ve ever known who comes close to him is Cash Grier.
Jake was...gifted. And not in a way you d ever share with civilians.
I heard that from Rourke.
Cy pursed his lips. Make sure you never share that information with Carlie, he cautioned. You
do not want to see Jake Blair lose his temper. Ever.
I m getting that impression, Carson said with a mild chuckle.
It was barely daylight. Carson knew it was early to be visiting, but he was certain Jake would be up,
and he needed to tell him what he thought might be going on. Lanette had, without realizing it, pointed
him in a new direction on the attempted kidnapping.
When he got to Reverend Blair s house, he was surprised to find Carlie there alone. She seemed
equally surprised to find him at her door.
She was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. It was late February and still cold outside. In fact, it was cold
in the house. Heat was expensive, and Carlie was always trying to save money. The cold had become
familiar, so that she hardly noticed it now.
What can I do for you? she asked quietly.
He shrugged. I came to see your father, he told her.
Her eyebrows arched over wide green eyes. He didn t mention anything...
He doesn t know. He smiled slowly, liking the way her face flushed when he did that. Is he
here?
No, but he ll be back...soon, she faltered. She bit her lower lip. You can come in and wait for
him, if you like.
The invitation was reluctant, but at least she made one.
Okay. Thanks.
She opened the door and let him in. Why did she feel as if she were walking into quicksand?
He closed the door behind him and followed her into the living room. On the sofa was a mass of
yarn. Apparently she was making some sort of afghan in soft shades of blue and purple.
You crochet? he asked, surprised.
Yes, she replied. She sat down beside the skeins of yarn and moved them aside. Carson dropped
into the armchair just to her left.
My mother used to do handwork, he murmured. He could remember her sewing quilts when he
was very small. She did it to keep her hands busy. Maybe she did it to stop thinking about how violent
and angry his father was when he drank. And he never seemed to stop drinking...
Carlie toyed with the yarn, but her hands were nervous. The silence grew more tense by the minute.
He didn t speak. He just looked at her.
Would you mind...not doing that, please? she asked in a haunted tone.
Doing what exactly? he asked with a slow, sensuous smile.
Staring at me, she blurted out. I know you think I m ugly. Couldn t you stare at the Oh!
He was sitting beside her the next minute, his hands on her face, cupping it while he looked straight
into her eyes. I don t think you re ugly, he said huskily. He looked at her mouth.
She was confused and nervous. You said once that you liked your women more...physically
perfect, she accused in a throaty voice.
He drew in a breath. Yes. But I didn t mean it.
His thumb rubbed gently over her bow mouth, liking the way it felt. It was swollen and very soft.
She caught his wrist, but not to pull his hand away.
She hadn t felt such sensations. It was new and exciting. He was exciting. She wanted to hide her
reaction from him, but he knew too much about women. She felt like a rabbit walking into a snare.
She should get up right now and go into the kitchen. She should...
His mouth lowered to her lips. He touched them softly, tenderly, smoothing her lips apart so that he
could feel the softness underneath the top one. He traced it delicately with his tongue. His hands on her
face were big and warm. His thumbs stroked her cheekbones while he toyed with her lips in a silence
that accentuated her quick breathing.
He hadn t expected his own reaction to her. This was explosive. Sweet. Dangerous. He opened his
mouth and pushed her lips apart. He let go of her face and lifted her across his lap while he kissed her
as if her mouth was the source of such sweetness that he couldn t bear to let it go.
Helplessly, her arms went around his neck and she kissed him back, with more enthusiasm than
expertise.
He could feel that lack of experience. It made him feel taller, stronger. She had nothing to compare
this with, he could tell. He nibbled her lower lip while one big hand shifted down to her T-shirt and
teased under the sleeve.
She caught his wrist and stayed it. No, she protested weakly.
But it was too late. His long fingers were under the sleeve, and he could feel the scars.
She bit her lip. Don t, she pleaded, turning her face away.
He drew in a harsh breath. Do you think a scar matters? he asked roughly. He turned her face up
to his. It doesn t.
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