CLAY YEAGER'S REDEMPTION Read online

  Three-time Medal of Valor winner.

  It didn't surprise her. It didn't matter what he thought of himself after his "personal tragedy," it was obvious that others saw things more clearly. Others like Ryan Buckhart and Carny Lang.

  She wondered if Clay would even want to look at the book. Or if it would only upset him, bring back unpleasant memories he'd managed to put behind him. She tucked it back in the bag and started the engine.

  She was out on the highway before she remembered the crucial thing she'd forgotten. She hit the brakes and then looked in the mirror, hoping this wasn't the one day when there was traffic on this road. Thankfully the empty strip of asphalt rolled out behind her until it vanished in shimmering heat waves.

  In a way, she realized, she'd sort of solved her problem. By going only an extra fifteen miles—well, thirty, round-trip—she could go to nicely anonymous Ames, among all the college students there for the start of the new term, where a purchase such as she had to make wouldn't even be blinked at.

  She hesitated another moment, then made the turn. It would take her another hour and delay Clay's work, but she didn't know what else to do.

  As it turned out, when she got back he was only worried at how long she'd been gone. Stammering in the face of his concern, she tried to explain. He noticed the name of the drugstore on the bag and lifted a brow at her.

  "It's not that I'm trying to hide it, really, it's just that they gossip so, and this would set them off like wildfire, and Ames wasn't that far, so I—"

  "Casey," he said with a crooked grin, "I'm not about to complain, considering."

  She blushed, but the joy of last night blossomed again, warming her until she felt a bit giddy with it.

  She completely forgot about the book sitting on the front seat of her car.

  * * *

  Chapter 15

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  Clay lay back, restless tonight. Casey was sleeping peacefully beside him, and as glad as he was to see it, it also made him nervous. She'd been so cheerful for the past few days, and while he rather sheepishly admitted to himself that he'd been feeling pretty good himself, he knew it was more than simply the pleasure they'd found with each other in the night.

  He guessed the something more was the fact that the phone calls had ceased. She'd told him she thought that perhaps his taking the phone that night had been the key, that realizing she wasn't alone had frightened Nesbit into stopping.

  He hadn't had the heart to dissuade her. And it could be true, he thought.

  But deep down in his gut, long-buried instincts were screaming. The long-buried instincts of a cop. A well-trained and experienced cop.

  That voice he'd heard on the phone, reeking with venom, wasn't the voice of a man who was going to just give up and go away. He knew it just like he'd once known when a suspect was lying, or when he'd entered a darkened warehouse and known the burglar was still there.

  As he lay there in the dark, his mind kept trying to wander, and he kept yanking it back to Nesbit. He knew too well where it wanted to go, straight to the woman beside him. Every moment since the first night he'd spent in her bed he'd felt like he was stealing time, stealing pleasure and, above all, stealing a happiness he had no right to.

  And telling himself that it was for Casey's sake, that she deserved what they'd found together even if he didn't, was a cop-out and he knew it. Not that it wasn't true that she deserved it, but he couldn't imagine why she'd picked him, why she wanted him when, with very little effort, she could have any man she set her heart on.

  What scared him was the thought that she might have done just that, set her heart on him. He'd thought nothing could scare him more than being trusted by a woman, but the idea that Casey, sweet, gentle and incredibly courageous Casey, might fall in love with him was terrifying. Because he would hurt her. There was no way he could avoid that.

  And when that happened, he knew he would find out if there was any small piece of his own heart left, because it would die.

  Casey stirred beside him, and he realized he'd once again lost his focus, that he'd let his mind tread on that ground he was trying so hard to avoid.

  And then she reached out for him, murmuring his name sleepily, and none of it mattered.

  He'd never known anything like this. At first he'd credited at least some of the intensity of their passion to his long years of celibacy, but they'd been together every night since, and it hadn't abated in the slightest. And once he'd been sure she was truly all right, that she wasn't frightened—after she'd told him, blushing, that she never even thought of what had happened to her when they came together—once he hadn't been worried about holding back when every part of him was screaming, it had gone from fire to inferno. She had only to touch him, as she did now, and he responded so swiftly it made him groan.

  "You're awake," she murmured.

  "If I hadn't been," he said gruffly as her hand came to rest on his belly, "I would be now."

  She rose up on one elbow to look at him. Her hair was tousled, falling in a red-gold mass almost down to her breasts. Even in the darkness of the night, he could see it gleam, and he remembered tangling his fingers in the heavy silk of it as she lay beneath him, remembered watching it frame her face as she rode him.

  The memory hardened him in a rush. She'd been so tentative, yet at the same time eager, and the wonder of what she was feeling had been reflected so clearly in her face that she'd humbled him completely. He didn't know if it was the shock of being wanted so much, or the pride of being able to bring her such pleasure; he only knew it was something new and undreamed-of.

  And he knew it proved what he'd suspected for a long time now: Casey Scott was a hell of a lot braver than he was. She had overcome her tragedy, had had the courage to try again, to not let it break her, to not let Jon Nesbit win by destroying her. She'd fought the ugliest memories a woman can have, and she'd triumphed.

  He wished he had half her nerve.

  She planted a warm little kiss where her hand had rested on his belly. Then a little lower. Then lower still. Clay held his breath as she hesitated.

  "Clay?" she whispered.

  "You … don't have to. Not just because I did."

  He'd been unable to stop himself last night, had been overcome with the need to taste every inch of her. She'd been as hot and honeyed as he'd imagined. And when it had become clear to him that that kind of intimate kiss was something she'd never experienced, he'd been determined to show her just how spectacular it could be.

  Her lips brushed his distended flesh, and he nearly jumped. "I don't … know much about it, but … would you like it?" she asked.

  Just the thought had him fighting down the boiling tide that threatened to break free.

  "If I survive," he replied through gritted teeth, "I'd adore it."

  "I'll take that as a yes," Casey said, almost teasingly.

  And then her mouth was on him, soft and uncertain at first, but then more confidently, as he showed her by fervent reaction just how good it felt. Her lips, her tongue, stroked him until he thought he wouldn't be able to hold back another instant; then she moved slightly, experimenting, and it began all over again as she found more sensitive, charged spots that he hadn't realized existed.

  Her learning curve was going to kill him, he thought as she took him deeply into her mouth, as if she loved the taste and texture of him.

  Finally, gasping her name on a groan, with trembling hands, he reached for her.

  "Casey, stop." His hands went to her arms to tug her up his clamoring, wire-drawn body.

  "But—"

  "In another minute this lesson is going to go further than a first one should," he growled.

  For a moment he thought she was going to protest, and he doubted if he would have the strength to dissuade her; he'd just used up every ounce of his willpower. But she looked down at him, at the flesh she'd roused so thoroughly he thought he was going to die, and the most erotic smile he'd ever seen slowly curved her soft, full
mouth, the mouth that had just driven him nearly mad with need. He nearly erupted at the sight of it. His hands shook as he fumbled with protection.

  And then she moved, straddling him, and he knew what had caused that expression; she'd been remembering those moments he'd thought of himself just minutes ago. She had the knack of it now, and she took him in a slow, luxurious slide that made him close his eyes and gulp for air as he gasped out her name in the tone of a fervent oath.

  When he was sheathed in her, hard and deep, she stopped. His body screaming, he waited, but she didn't move. He opened his eyes, thinking he would beg her if he had to, but the moment he saw her face, the moment he saw her awed, joyous expression, he knew he would die before he would hurry her, before he would do anything to disrupt what she was feeling. What he wanted, what his body had been demanding mere seconds ago, was nothing compared to the feeling that look on her face gave him.

  And for the first time since that appalling night, he had the brief, flitting thought that maybe he shouldn't wish so hard that he'd died when his family had.

  All the old emotions rose to swamp that flicker of brightness, all the guilt he'd so carefully nurtured all these years. But then Casey began to move, rocking in a motion that drove him deep and hard inside her, until he swore there wasn't a fraction of an inch of him that her hot, slick flesh wasn't clasping, stroking, urging. And in those fiery moments there was room for nothing else in his mind, not even the vicious memories, only the woman who was driving him over the edge.

  He tried to wait, wanted her with him, but it was too late. He felt the hot tide rise in pulsing beats and arched beneath her, wanting every ounce of her weight bearing down on him, wanting to be as near to climbing inside her as he could get. His hands went to her hips, and he held her tight against him as the incredible sensations swamped him, and he cried out, heedless of what he said, if it was even words or simply a scream as he poured himself into her.

  And then he heard her call his name, that cry he'd come to know and treasure, felt the sudden clenching of her body around him, grasping flesh that was already throbbing. He couldn't breathe, he felt his toes curl, and his head felt on the verge of spinning as the moment went on and on, until he thought he was going to get his wish, that he was simply going to pour himself into her until there was nothing left of him.

  When she fell forward on his chest with a heartfelt moan, her breath coming in quick little pants, he didn't have the strength to do anything except lift one hand to rest it on the small of her back.

  He fell into a deep, dreamless, satiated sleep with Casey sprawled atop him like a living, silken cover.

  * * *

  Casey had never felt like this. It was as if she'd somehow recaptured the joy of childhood, before the crash that had ended it. Each day seemed filled with infinite possibilities, each night filled with wonder and a pleasure she'd never even fantasized was possible.

  But her happiness was not absolute. Clay seemed to be getting more tense, more on edge, with every day that passed. More than once she'd awakened to find him staring into the darkness, his expression troubled.

  But he was never less than responsive to her touch. He seemed always hungry for her, in a way that fed that new, wondrous sense of feminine power she was reveling in.

  It would have been puzzling if she hadn't had a fairly good idea what was wrong. She was almost certain he was reacting to their relationship, resisting any happiness of his own. She knew he hadn't let go of the guilt he still felt.

  What she didn't know was what to do about it. Her mind was telling her nothing had really changed with him, that he would still leave when he felt he'd paid her back, though her heart wanted to believe he wouldn't. And no matter how foolish the one called the other, she couldn't quite let go of that hope.

  "Hello, Mud," she said as the Border collie nudged the door open and trotted into the kitchen. "Come for a snack before dinner?"

  She had never been able to resist the dog's gentlemanly approach. He never begged, merely came in and sat down, watching her intently, his ears alert, his head cocked. When she offered him a piece of whatever she was preparing that he might like, he accepted it gravely and thanked her with a quick swipe of his tongue over her fingers.

  "Here," she said, tossing him a bit of the shredded beef she was filling tortillas with for burritos. After he'd gobbled it down, she told him, "These are about ready. Why don't you go get Clay?"

  She knew it was likely that all he understood was "get Clay," but she couldn't seem to stop talking to the dog as if he understood much more. And so far Mud had responded as if he'd comprehended every word. Now was no exception; without hesitation, the dog headed back to the screen door he'd learned to nudge open and scampered down the steps. Casey knew he would return shortly, his master in tow. For now, at least, the routine they'd developed was intact.

  She wondered how long it would remain that way.

  It wasn't just for her sake that she wanted him to stay, she told herself, although she was honest enough to admit she was no altruist when it came to her emotions. But she sensed that if Clay did leave without facing down the memories that haunted him, if he ran again, he would be running forever. And that made her sad in a way she'd never known. It was different from the wrenching grief of death, but she wasn't sure it was any less powerful; the thought of Clay wandering endlessly, forever carrying the burden of his self-imposed guilt, never finding peace, never realize he'd tortured himself far too much and too long, brought stinging tears to her eyes and a painful tightness to her throat.

  But she wasn't fool enough to believe she could make him stay. In the end, he would do what he had to do, and if she tried to force him, tie him, she would only add to his misery. She knew—because he'd made it clear—that he hated the idea of hurting her. It hadn't been a great jump from that to the realization that he knew he would.

  They didn't discuss it. He never brought it up, and she was afraid to broach the subject herself. She selfishly wanted things to continue as they were for a while, and she was superstitiously afraid of planting an idea that might not be in his mind at the moment.

  And in some deep part of her mind, she was aware that she was also collecting. Collecting images, memories, as a hedge against the time when he left, things to draw on to fill the emptiness she already knew she would feel when he was gone. When he would, as he'd said, let her down.

  Don't trust me. I'll only let you down.

  As his words echoed once more in her mind, she stopped in the middle of tearing lettuce for a salad.

  She hadn't thought of those words since he'd told her his awful story. And now that he had, she understood how completely he'd meant them. How completely he believed them.

  "Smells great."

  His voice came from close behind her, and she barely managed not to jump.

  "Thank you. It's almost ready."

  "I'll wash up."

  Her thoughts seemed to have her mind in a jumble, and she was almost afraid to speak, afraid she would blurt out what she'd been thinking. He gave her a curious look that told her he noticed, but he didn't push for conversation.

  The silence wore on her, though, as if all the things they weren't talking about had taken up residence at the table.

  Finally, as she served up the chilled caramel mousse from the new recipe she'd found, she couldn't bear it any longer; she had to do something. So as she passed it on the counter, she grabbed the book she'd found lying forgotten on the seat of her delivery wagon.

  "Jean found this for me," she said, setting it down beside his plate. "After I mentioned Marina Heights, she thought I might be interested."

  She suddenly remembered his reaction to her mentioning Marina Heights to Jean. She supposed that made sense now. If he'd left cops behind, trained investigators, and he didn't want to be found, the less mention of where he was from, the better, from his point of view.

  He was staring down at the book, looking puzzled. He turned it over, glancing at the ph
oto on the back; no sign of recognition. So he didn't know the writer, she thought.

  "It's about a street gang the Marina Heights police broke up last year."

  "Pack of Jackals," he read slowly. Then his eyes widened. "They took down the Pack?"

  He flipped open the cover and began to read the inside blurb.

  "Son of a bitch," he breathed earnestly, closing the cover again and staring at the front. "They did it. They finally did it."

  "You know about that gang?"

  He didn't look up from the book. "They ran for years. Robbery, burglary, car theft, they did it all. And murder, if they had to, or wanted to make a point or send a message. They used the youth gangs as their minor leagues—if a kid survived that, they figured he might be useful to them."

  "They sound … ruthless."

  "And vicious. Unfortunately, they were also clever, or at least their leader was. We tried for years to get enough on them to break them, but we could only get pieces, make single arrests here and there."

  "I didn't read it all, but according to what I did read, a protégé of yours practically did it single-handedly."

  His head came up then, sharply. "Of mine?"

  She nodded. "Named Ryan Buckhart."

  A series of expressions flashed over his face, first shock, then contemplation, and finally what she could only describe as pride.

  "Ryan? Ryan did it?"

  "It says he was undercover as part of the gang for months. Worked his way to the top."

  "And brought them down from the inside," Clay said, almost reverently. "Damn. Ryan. How about that."

  "He says in the book that you saved him."

  Clay looked startled. Then he shrugged off the praise. "I just gave him a hand when he needed one. He was a smart kid, too smart to end up bleeding to death in a gutter. He just needed somebody to believe in him."

  Casey had the feeling there was a lot more to it than that, but it was clear from his tone that Clay wasn't about to accept any accolades for pulling a wild kid off the streets and probably saving his life.