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What had surprised him almost as much as the fact that Tatum had chosen Sweetheart was the reason she’d moved here—to buy the only florist shop in town, Petals.
Try as he might, he couldn’t picture Tatum patiently arranging brightly colored flowers. She’d never been the overly romantic type.
But according to the info the Army had given him, she’d been doing it for about two years, using his insurance money to make the purchase.
One of the first things he’d done when he’d finally made contact was ensure no one would be able to come after her for that money. The company had paid out and the Army, who’d eventually known he was alive even if it had been several months later, had let them.
He’d been assured Tatum was protected. Surprisingly, he wasn’t the first soldier to rise from the dead.
The front door squealed, old wood against old wood, and Tatum slipped through the opening. The dress was gone, replaced by a dark pair of jeans, boots with tufts of fuzz shooting from the top and a heavy coat that enveloped her body, hiding everything else from him beneath a wall of shiny, quilted blue.
A plastic bag that most likely held her dress was draped over her arm. Another bag was slung over her shoulder, smacking against her thigh with every second step.
Her steps were deliberate and silent. She stopped several feet away from him. Evan felt the space between them like the gulf of a river, the swirl of their history, her anger and his hope threatening to pull them under if either of them tried to bridge the gap.
Snowflakes clung to her dark lashes, sparkling in the scattered light from the lamppost close by. She stared at him for several seconds before shaking her head. “Where are you staying?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t stop long enough to figure that out, Tatum. The first chance I could, I hopped my bike and rode here.”
She sucked in a deep breath. “The resort isn’t open yet. You could stay at the B and B, but it’s full of guests for Hope and Gage’s wedding. I suppose you could drive back to Charleston.”
“What about staying at your place?”
He watched Tatum’s tongue sneak out and sweep across her parted lips. The vein just beneath her jaw pulsed with tension.
“Dammit,” she muttered, so quiet he almost missed it.
“Tatum, we need to talk. I’ll sleep on the couch if that’s what you want.”
Her mouth thinned. And then trembled. “If that’s what I want? What am I supposed to want, Evan? You’ve been gone for three years.”
Swallowing the huge knot lodged in his throat, he opened his mouth to ask the question he’d been dreading since the moment he knew he was going to make it out of Colombia alive.
It was the one thing he’d tried not to think about at all while he was down there—because any time he lost the battle, it would make him want to throw up. Even now, his stomach churned.
He knew she hadn’t remarried. According to the intel he’d browbeaten a friend into getting him while he spun his wheels in Charleston, he knew no one lived with her. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t moved on.
“Is there someone in your life?”
“What?”
“Are you dating anyone?”
Her head snapped back. Her deep, emerald eyes widened. And then they narrowed.
“I’m not sure you have any right to ask me that, Evan.”
The slimy reptiles slithering through his belly began to quiet. He took a single step toward her, and when she didn’t counter with one backward, he took another and another until he stood right in front of her. Toe to toe, he stared into her upturned face.
Her creamy skin was warm when he reached for her, running the pad of a single finger over the slope of her cheekbone.
“What I want is to kiss my wife. What I want is to pull her into my arms and taste her mouth. Feel the silky, smooth texture of her skin beneath my hands. To finally experience the memories that kept me alive for three long, hellish, frustrating and devastating years.”
Neck bent, straining toward her, waiting for the first sign she wanted the same thing, Evan watched a myriad of emotions flash through her eyes—longing, desperation, love.
But then they were gone, replaced by a blank stare that was worse than even her anger.
She brushed his hand away. “Well, what I want is to not have been lied to. To not have buried the last remaining person who mattered to me. I want to not have been left devastated and broken. So I guess we’re both going to be disappointed.”
2
GOD, SHE WANTED—desperately—to leave him to figure out how to get out of the cold night by himself.
But she couldn’t do it. A heavy weight had settled right in the center of her chest, a ball of emotion and tears and hope and devastation.
Walking away should have made it better. Embracing the anger flickering through her should have given her the strength she needed to protect herself from getting hurt—again.
But less than three paces away from him, instead of relief flooding in, the pain and pressure had become worse.
Evan had lied to her. Or he’d let the government lie to her, let her believe he was dead. She didn’t owe him a damn thing.
The Evan she knew was ruthless and resourceful. If he’d wanted to get in touch with her he would have.
Which should have made her angrier. Not sad.
The sob she’d been holding at bay clawed at the back of her throat. No. She wasn’t letting it out.
Opening the driver’s side door of her Mustang, she tipped the seat forward and shoved her bags into the backseat. Willow would kill her if she saw her crumpling the dress bag this way, but she didn’t have the energy to worry about her friend’s indignation.
Turning, she bent to slip inside, intent on pulling the door closed.
She would not look back at him. She would not look back at him.
The words rang through her head like a litany, but apparently her brain wasn’t keen on actually following the instruction because her rebellious gaze strayed straight back to him.
Oh, Jesus.
And she almost doubled over at the pain lancing through her, an echo of the reaction she’d had when they’d told her he was dead. Why did learning he was alive hurt just as much?
Even across the space of the parking lot, she could feel the heat of his gaze as he watched her. The familiar tingle that blasted across her skin. The physical reaction only he had ever been able to coax from her body.
Damn the man.
His body was strung tight, arms heavy with muscle crossed over his wide chest as his dark gaze probed her. To anyone else who cared to look, he appeared relaxed, but she knew better. She could read the tension whipping through him.
Evan hadn’t followed her, but she knew, instinctively, he wasn’t giving up. Once her husband set his mind to something, he was relentless. Always had been, always would be.
Those qualities had served him well in his work for Special Ops. Once he took on a responsibility, he wouldn’t back down or buckle under until the job was done.
It was always something she’d admired...until that dedication had killed him. Or, at least, she’d thought it had.
Her brain was scrambled. Her emotions bounced all over the place. She’d already been exhausted from a full few days of running Petals, arranging the flowers for the wedding and attending all the wedding activities before this mess had landed in her lap.
What she really wanted to do was go home, climb into a steaming tub of fragrant water and soak away all her cares.
But Evan had come here for a reason and she knew him well enough to realize he wouldn’t leave until he’d accomplished whatever he’d set out to do.
The longer she dragged this out the harder it would be. A part of her wanted to thwart him simply to make him suffer. The rest of her realized that would be heaping punishment on her own head right along with his.
She was happy in Sweetheart. It had taken her months to find the equilibrium she’d lost. All she wanted was to return to the predictable, safe and easy life she’d built here.
Evan showing up threatened that stability. The sooner he left, the sooner her life could return to normal.
Besides, as much as she wanted to pretend it didn’t matter, she needed answers. Maybe with closure, she’d finally be able to move on and find the happiness her friends had all discovered in the last few months.
Tatum realized she’d been staring at him for several minutes, half in and half out of her gaping car door. Long enough for delicate snowflakes to melt into her hair, dampening the ends. A chill seeped under her warm coat, although she wasn’t sure it actually had anything to do with the weather.
The thought of letting Evan back into any part of her life sent panic skittering across her skin.
But she didn’t have a better option.
Gripping the top of the door, she called, “Follow me,” across the empty night before she could change her mind.
He didn’t answer, although she really didn’t give him a chance, slamming the door shut between them. Not that the empty symbolic gesture would save her.
He either followed or he didn’t. Now the choice was his.
* * *
EVAN DROVE BEHIND the sleek, growling, piece of American machinery. It didn’t surprise him to see that Tatum owned a vintage Mustang. That was his girl, always appreciative of the power and precision of a well-made car.
There had been a time, in their younger years, when she’d have opened it up, letting the car eat asphalt. They’d both loved the adrenaline rush of going fast. It was something they shared.
Whether it was the unpredictable weather and slick roads or something else, he wasn’t sure, but tonight Tatum kept the car at a respectable pace as she led him through town, down a quaint little Main Street lined with shops and boutiques and into a neighborhood of cookie-cutter houses.
The entire town looked like a gingerbread house had thrown up all over it. Everywhere he looked, there were candy canes and blinking lights, wreaths and evergreen garlands strung with glittering tinsel.
It was idyllic. The kind of place that should be the setting for a made-for-TV movie about the magic of Christmas. The whole place made the spot right between his shoulder blades itch.
He wondered how Tatum felt about the obvious, in-your-face peace on earth and goodwill toward men theme Sweetheart had going.
This time of year had always been difficult for her. A reminder of everything that had gone wrong and all she’d lost. When they had been together, Evan had always gone out of his way to keep a smile on her face from Thanksgiving to Christmas. Leaving little notes and surprise gifts. Nothing fancy or expensive. Trinkets. Toys. Whatever would lighten her heart just a bit.
He wondered who was helping her keep the grief and guilt that she struggled with at bay.
Tatum turned into a driveway halfway down the street. The door for the garage rose and she maneuvered the Mustang inside. Without stopping to think about it, Evan pulled into the space beside her, which was mostly empty except for a row of plastic bins, a ladder and a mountain bike with a helmet hanging from one handlebar.
Kicking out the stand, he let the weight of his Harley settle beneath him as the engine went silent. Behind him, the garage door whirred shut, plunging them into a murky darkness that was alleviated only by the diffuse light of a single bulb above them.
Tatum sat in her car, hands gripping the steering wheel as she stared straight at the back wall of the garage. For a brief moment, he thought about walking around and pulling her out, but decided it was better to let her set the pace of this conversation.
It was going to be difficult enough.
Evan watched her shoulders rise and fall on a single, deep breath. Her eyes slid shut and the muscles along her shoulders tightened.
He wanted nothing more than to wrap her in his arms and promise her everything would be okay. But she’d made it very clear she didn’t want him to touch her. Yet.
Although he wasn’t entirely certain how long he would be able to deny the need roaring inside him. Three years was a damn long time, especially with drug kingpins constantly thrusting half-naked girls in his face.
He’d gotten a reputation as being cold and indifferent, ignoring all of the female flesh dangled as enticement.
The other men in the cartel had viewed his refusal as a sign of weakness, used it as an excuse to challenge his position within the organization. Even knowing it could cost him his life, he hadn’t touched any of the women. That had been his line in the sand, because what good would living do him if he couldn’t come home to Tatum with a clear conscience?
In the end, having to defend himself against the men who mistook his choice for vulnerability had worked in his favor, even if the price had been bloody and unpleasant. The moment he’d driven a seven-inch knife straight through another man’s hand rather than be forced to lose his principles, his trajectory straight into the heart of the cartel had been assured.
No one questioned him again.
Unfortunately, he’d become something of a challenge to the women who tried to entice him. Not that he’d been tempted.
However, the desire that had lain dormant as scantily clad women paraded around in front of him reared up now to nearly choke him. A primitive, pounding need surged through him, a steady beat through his brain. His hands shook with the instinct to touch Tatum, hold her, finally reclaim her as his.
He needed to get a tight grip on his control or he was going to screw this up totally. He’d been around men who viewed women as commodities way too long, apparently. But at least he was smart enough to realize Tatum would not respond well to that kind of behavior.
Clenching his hands into fists, Evan set them on his thighs and waited.
She finally pushed from the car, juggling a couple of bags and her purse. The slap of her boots against the concrete floor echoed through the cold space of her quiet garage.
She bobbled her bags, shuffling everything around so she could insert her key into the lock. Evan shot forward, trying to take some of the burden from her arms, but she jerked everything out of his reach.
Pushing inside, she dumped it all onto a bench beside the door and kept going. The dress bag slithered to the floor in a heap. Tatum ignored it. Evan couldn’t, reaching down to pick it up and fold it neatly back into place.
She continued through a small kitchen with a pile of dishes in the sink and into a den where she flicked on a single lamp. Warmth flooded the room and he knew immediately this was her sanctuary.
He also knew which chair was her favorite, could envision her curled up, feet tucked beneath her body and a heavy terra-cotta mug cradled between her hands as she stared sightlessly out the long window into the backyard, deep green eyes bleary as she waited for her first cup of coffee to kick in.
Tatum was not a morning person. But he’d always liked that about her. And had shamelessly taken advantage of that fact any chance he could, using her lethargy to convince her another hour in bed was a good idea...especially if they spent it together.
He hadn’t realized the ghost of a smile played across his lips until the snap of Tatum’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
“Stop smirking.”
His gaze whipped to hers, the tug disappearing from his mouth. “I’m not.”
Tatum stood behind a chocolate-brown sofa, her hands curled over the back as if it was the only lifeline keeping her safe.
“Oh, you were. I have no idea why, and I really don’t care.”
He didn’t believe that for a minute. If he told her what had put that expression on his face she’d be spitting mad in seconds. Which might be an improvement from the wariness she watched him with now.
As though part of her expected him to leap across the sofa she’d placed between them and...ravish? Attack?
He had no idea what she thought, but obviously it was nothing good. At least, nothing she wanted.
Which only reinforced his own disquiet.
Could she sense just how far down the dark rabbit hole he’d had to go? That the trip had left marks on his soul he was deathly afraid could never be erased?
“So.” Her single word hung in the air between them, an invitation he wasn’t quite ready to accept. He knew she wanted answers. Deserved them. But...he wasn’t certain what her reaction would be. He hesitated.
“So,” he countered, his head tipping sideways. “You look good.”
“Gee, thanks. So do you, for a ghost.”
Inwardly, Evan cringed at the acid dripping from her words.
“Stop screwing around and just tell me whatever it is you’ve come to say.”
His mouth went dry. His sharp eyes took in the way her knuckles had gone white where she gripped the sofa. They could both use a drink.
Shooting his gaze around the room, he was grateful to find exactly what he’d been looking for. Crossing the room to a buffet set against the far wall, he recognized the crystal bar set his Aunt Bethany had given them after their wedding.
Sitting next to it on a small table was the only homage to the upcoming holiday he’d seen—a small live tree no more than three feet tall and decorated entirely in gold, blue and chocolate ornaments. It was an afterthought. Expected, but not really wanted. And seeing it made his heart ache a little more.
Grabbing a bottle of Maker’s Mark whiskey, he snagged two of the glasses and poured a healthy dose into each.
Walking back to her, Evan was careful to keep the sofa between them as he offered her one. Tatum’s gaze dropped to the cut crystal and the amber liquid glittering in the bottom of it. She hesitated, and for a moment he thought she was going to refuse.
Her hand trembled as she wrapped it around the cool glass. The warmth of her fingers brushed his. The touch blasted straight through his body, burning in his belly almost as sharply as the drink he hadn’t tasted yet.
His knees pressed against the sofa as his body leaned into the space between them. Tatum jerked away, whiskey sloshing over the side of her glass and dripping onto the cushions.
Her mouth opened. Heat flashed through her eyes. But she slammed it shut before any words fell out.
God, he desperately wanted to bridge the space between them, take her in his arms and kiss the hell out of her. He just wasn’t certain the best way to do it.
It was the first time in their entire relationship that Evan had felt uncertain. Which only made his nerves worse. Turning his back on her and the uncomfortable sensation, he paced away.
“Everyone thought I was dead.”
“No shit.”
“No, I mean for weeks, everyone, the Army, my CO, those in charge of our joint operation, thought I’d died along with the rest of our team.”
“But you didn’t.”
He faced her and his lips gave a sarcastic twitch, “Obviously. Our informant, a local who our contacts had been getting information from for eighteen months without any indication of a problem, gave the team up. I’m still not sure why, but after seeing how the cartel operated, I have a good idea.”
But he wasn’t going to tell her about the torture, kidnapping, blackmail and extortion he’d witnessed.
Evan slammed back his whiskey and immediately wanted another. Stalking over to the sideboard, he poured a finger, considered it for a moment and splashed a little more into the glass.
Glancing over his shoulder, he took in Tatum, standing exactly where she’d been moments before, feet glued to the floor, drink untouched, wide eyes blank but watchful, trained straight on him.
“I shouldn’t even be telling you this. The mission is still classified.”
“The Army can kiss my ass.”
“Ha,” he grunted. Tatum had always understood the reasons why he couldn’t share details of his job with her. She’d never pushed or complained. But he supposed, all things considered, some bitterness was to be expected.
“To preserve the illusion that none of us on the team knew each other, we came into the organization at different times and through different avenues. I was pulled in off the streets as a low-level drug dealer who was looking to climb the ranks and be useful. Two more guys received an introduction from our informant. Another used the sister of a mid-level enforcer and a fifth came in as a ‘cousin’ of one of their mules. I was the first one in and more than a week ahead of the others.
“The only time I encountered our informant was while I was under so he had no way of knowing I was part of the team. That’s the only thing that saved my life that night.”
As much as he fought against the memories, just the mention of the events caused ugly images to swirl inside his brain. Evan started to combat them with the alcohol in his hand, but realized what he was doing with it halfway to his mouth and reversed direction, slamming the glass to the table instead.
His skin crawled, not with bitterness and anger, but with frustration and restlessness. It was a familiar sensation, one he’d fought for three long, interminable years. How many nights had he lain in his crappy, filthy bed and fantasized about simply putting a bullet in several heads?
It would have been so easy. No way in hell he’d have made it out of the compound alive, but at least he would have gotten vengeance for his brothers. But he wasn’t that man. Wouldn’t let himself become that man.
Just as he hadn’t drowned out the nasty memories with alcohol...or the abundance of drugs that had been at his fingertips. It would have been a quick release and relief. But he hadn’t—although there were times when that resolve had been touch and go, the darkness yawning with the welcome invitation of reprieve.
He just needed to finish it. Explain to Tatum what had happened and that he’d never wanted to leave her—to let her think he was dead—and then figure out how to rebuild the life they’d once had.
Before he could get the words out, the ring of her doorbell cut him off. Tatum jumped, a tiny sound of surprise falling from her open lips. That moment of vulnerability didn’t last long, though. Her jaw snapped shut.
An unhappy sigh blasted through her rigid lips, fluttering the fringe of her bangs. They were new. He liked them. They made her look a little more innocent than he knew she really was.
Setting her untouched glass onto a table, Tatum cut him a look before heading to the front door. He had no idea what that look was supposed to convey. Was she angry at him for the interruption?
Before she’d gotten the door open more than an inch, it was snatched out of her hands and forced inward. Obviously, neither of them had expected that reaction. Tatum jumped backward with a yelp. Evan reached to the small of his back for a firearm that wasn’t where it should be and cursed. He was already halfway across the room, ready to yank her behind the protective wall of his body when the high-pitched sound of several female voices hit his ears.
“Ohmygod, Tatum, are you okay? Willow told us what happened outside the church. We texted to see if you needed anything.”
“We were going to wait until morning to come by, but when you didn’t respond...”
“We got worried...”
The women ran over each other, one sentence blending seamlessly into the next as if they were one person instead of three speaking.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell us you were married? I wouldn’t have tried so hard to set you up with my cousin Matt.”
“Because that’s why you should have kept Matt away from her, not because he’s a pretentious jerk.”
The three women rushed inside Tatum’s house. They were all clad in the same dress she’d been wearing not an hour ago. A blonde with amazing curves reached for Tatum, setting hands on her shoulders and peering intently into her eyes. “Seriously, are you okay?”
The tall, thin brunette she’d been with earlier reached around them both, running a hand softly down Tatum’s arm to grasp her hand. “What do you need?”