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In other words, until they’d determined once and for all if Ramsey was dead or not, every member of Poseidon was on alert. “Is there something you want me working on while I’m away?”
Savino tapped his fingers on the desk once. Twice. After a third rat-a-tat-tat, he opened a drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Codes, log-ins to access certain files that need to be decrypted. You going to have access to a secured computer where you’re going?”
“I’ll make sure of it,” Elijah promised, knowing as he reached for the paper that Savino was giving him more than an assignment.
He was handing over his trust. A show of faith that damn near changed Elijah’s mind about getting away.
Damn near. But not quite.
“Where will you go?”
Elijah hesitated, then shrugged. “Not sure yet. Just... Away.”
“You need somewhere to chill? My place in Monterey is sitting there empty.”
God. Elijah gritted his teeth against the wave of guilt pounding over him. “Thanks, but I think your castle is a little out of my league.” Trying on a grin, Elijah rolled his eyes at the idea of a middle-class guy like him chugging beer in that glass tower of a place that Savino called his home away from base.
“I expect you back here in three weeks. Excuses won’t be tolerated.”
“Yes, sir.” No problem. He could figure out the rest of his life in three weeks. Elijah headed for the door.
“Rembrandt?”
Hand on the knob and escape just a twist away, Elijah looked over his shoulder.
“You need anything, you let me know.” Savino’s brow creased for a moment, the shield dropping to show his concern. “Anything. We’re a team. We’re here for you.”
Not trusting his voice, Elijah nodded on his way out the door. Maybe that was the problem. They were a team. They were there for him. But did they trust him to be there for them?
Did he—could he—trust himself? No.
That was the bottom line.
Elijah couldn’t trust himself—or ask anyone else to—when his entire world was crashing down around him. His life—starting with his mind—was simply falling apart.
Until he figured it out, until he fixed whatever in the hell was going on, he simply had to accept the hard truth.
His life sucked.
CHAPTER FOUR (#uf63ac0cd-5c08-5192-8be1-c50ba8d263db)
JEREMY PRESCOTT HAD been a man of great responsibility, deep pride and a quirky sense of humor. When he’d died, he’d left behind a devastated family, a tidy nest egg and a few special bequests to his only son, Elijah. Among them were sage bits of advice, mostly in the form of clichés handed down with a wink and a smile; the responsibility for an emotionally fragile widow with a propensity for drama outmatched only by her gift for nagging; and a cherry ’53 Corvette.
Chevrolet’s first attempt at what would become an icon. The red body was a rough testament to fiberglass, the white leather interior almost flawless with some wear and tear along the edges of the driver’s seat. Granted, at ten years old, Elijah had been too young to drive—hell, his feet had barely reached the pedals—but nobody challenged his right to the car. For a while, especially when he’d been deployed overseas, he’d kept the vehicle garaged at his mother’s. But two years ago a friend had convinced him to live a little, to bring it down to Coronado, take it out for a ride once in a while.
Given the cost of gas, he’d often joked that cruising the car was his guilty pleasure. The pleasure was dimming as he was cruising past hour seven on the drive from Coronado to his hometown of Yountville. Nestled in the heart of the gorgeous Napa Valley, the charming town was known for its fine dining, with restaurants like the French Laundry pulling in locals and tourists alike. Less well-known was the meddling prowess of the Prescott women. Elijah’s mother and sisters specialized in forming, sharing and debating their opinions on the lives of others. He loved them all, but damn, the idea of facing that after a long drive while his body ached was a lot to take.
So when he came up on the exit to Napa, he debated for all of two seconds whether to continue another handful of miles to his mom’s before pulling off the freeway and heading to his cousin’s instead. He’d rather bunk on Mack’s couch, eat wheat germ and drink lemongrass. Parking the ’Vette in the gravel lot behind a three-story building, he leaned one arm on the steering wheel and contemplated the gym his cousin had built.
Scarred gray stucco walls were framed in crisp white. Through the wall of plate glass fronting the building chrome flashed, highlighting row after row of cardio equipment. Treadmills, ellipticals, rowers and spin bikes were filled with bodies.
He knew they were positioned there to give the exercisers a view as much as they were to advertise the gym, and he wondered if Mack still seeded the machines with ringers. A handful of men and women who sweated for free and made it look as if they’d built those perfectly sculpted bodies on those machines, luring in the gullible to think that three twenty-minute sessions each week would give them the same.
Mack Prescott was a canny businessman.
When Elijah stepped into the gym, he could see that canniness was paying off. Hard rock pumped out a heavy beat and instead of the sweat he was used to at the base gym, the air was fresh with something that smelled like clean air.
About thirty of the forty cardio machines were occupied, with the same number of people on strength equipment or using free weights. There were two more rooms enclosed in glass, one filled with women in spandex and the other empty.
Even through the milling, sweating and grunting bodies—and the temptation of those spandex-draped babes, Elijah only had eyes for one person. He grinned when he saw the guy manning the desk next to what appeared to be locker rooms.
At six-two and SEAL fit, Elijah wasn’t a small man. Standing tall at six-four and a comfortable 230 of muscle, Mack Prescott lived by the motto that fitness was king. And it ruled his body with an iron fist. Bald as an eight ball and just as crazy, Mack had spent his early twenties on the fitness circuit, competing and collecting trophies that paid ode to his ripped body. Seven years ago, he’d decided to turn his expertise to training others and opened a gym. Something Elijah appreciated on so many levels.
A wide grin spread over his homely face when Mack saw Elijah weaving his way through the gym rats.
“Well, if it ain’t my favorite sailor. Elijah, how the hell are you doing, man?” Not waiting for an answer, Mack grabbed Elijah close and smothered him tight enough to make a man grateful for good deodorant. “You just passing through?”
“I’m on leave,” Elijah mumbled into Mack’s armpit. “Needed some time to rest and recoup.”
As if testing that assessment, Mack gripped Elijah’s shoulders and pushed him out arm’s distance for an inspection. If his scowl was any indication, he didn’t much like what he saw.
“You said the injury was minor,” Mack growled, accusation clear in the deep rumble.
“It was.” Compared to death. But Elijah didn’t figure sharing his yardstick was going to do much to wipe that look of worry from his cousin’s eyes. He shrugged. “I was cleared for active duty. That means a US of A doctor said I was in good enough shape to serve my country. That should be good enough for you.”
From the slow shake of his head, Mack wasn’t buying it. But while his eyes took another inventory up and down Elijah’s frame, the bigger man didn’t argue. He tilted his head toward the car visible through the windows fronting the gym.
“You staying with your mom?”
“Only if I have to.”
“She know you’re here?”
“You telling her?”
Elijah’s two sisters were still in Yountville with his mom, while most of Mack’s family was scattered over the Napa Valley. So unless one of them had recently gottten into the fitness craze, there was no reason for any of them to notice he was here.
“Should I keep your company a secret?”
Elijah puffed out a breath. He could evade. He could even lie. He was trained to do both. But he was tired. So damned tired. “I could use a break, some downtime,” he murmured, rubbing a hand over his hair with a worn sigh.
“How long you got?”
“Three weeks, thereabouts.” Or forever. “Long enough to rest up, get in fighting shape and show you up in the gym and the bar.” A worthy challenge, actually, and one Elijah figured would be fun.
Apparently Mack agreed. “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” he said, slapping Elijah on the back and damned near sending his face through the chest-high service desk. “You’ll stay at my place.”
“Thanks, man.” That was just what he’d hoped for. “I won’t be any trouble.”
As if he’d heard something Elijah hadn’t intended to let slip, Mack’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t say anything, though. Just gave a long hum, then inclined his head toward the elevator.
“You’ve had a long drive. Bet that leg is stiff. We’ll go up this way—save the stairs for tomorrow. Better yet, I’ll set you up for a massage in the morning. I’ve got a couple of solid massage and rehab therapists attached to the place now.”
As if his body knew it was finally home—or as close to a home as Elijah had—it gave up all pretense of energy and drooped like a used condom. In a fog of exhaustion, he followed his cousin through the gym, vaguely aware of Mack pointing out his new weight-lifting equipment before they settled into a glass tube for the ride to the third floor.
“That’s the dojo,” Mack said as they slid past the second floor, a study of white on white with rich wood accents. Diamond tuck padded walls were visible beyond two groups of students following the instructors and a dozen or so others practicing kicks and punches solos.
One stood out. Slender yet curvy in the white gi, a woman with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail performed a series of running jump kicks. There was something familiar about the move, but Elijah couldn’t pinpoint it. His eyes narrowed. But before he could focus, the elevator’s ascent blocked his view.
“Guest room is all yours for as long as you want it. I’m busy tomorrow, but I’ll book you a massage first thing. Then we’ll spend some time getting that leg back into shape,” his cousin promised as he opened the door to his third-floor apartment and waved Elijah inside.
“You’ve redecorated,” Elijah noted, looking around.
Mack’s living space reflected the man. Big, intense and comfortable. A television covered a wall opposite a deep purple leather sectional. There was art, most of it nudes, and a chrome-and-glass table plus leather chairs straight out of the 1970s. Instead of the slew of trophies that had once crowded the far wall, there were now a trio of abstracts that, if Elijah tilted his head to one side, appeared to be a ménage à trois.
“Sit, be comfortable. I’ll get us a beer, and you can catch me up. Start with your sex life,” Mack instructed, heading for the kitchen as Elijah dropped onto the couch, sinking into the soft leather.
“Nothing there to catch up on. Between the hospital time, recovery and my regular duties I’ve been pretty busy.”
To say nothing of the random flashback onslaught, the nightly retrospectives through the terrors of his subconscious and the nagging feeling that after sacrificing everything that mattered for his career, that career was spinning wildly out of control.
“Too busy for sex?” Mack had a pitying expression when he returned with a tray carrying two chilled pilsners of beer, a bowl of mixed nuts and a plate of what looked like a cross between potato chips and green beans. “Sounds like your leg isn’t the only thing we need to work on while you’re here.”
Call it exhaustion. Call it instinct that had the little hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Whatever it was, Elijah vowed then and there to step carefully. Because that matchmaking gleam in Mack’s eyes could mean only one thing.
Trouble.
And the last thing Elijah needed right now was more trouble. Even if it came in the form of a naked woman. He didn’t care how hot she was. He didn’t care how willing. He didn’t even care if she came wrapped in a bow holding a list of kinky preferences.
“No work necessary. I’m here to rest and recuperate, nothing more,” he said, taking his beer. As he swallowed down a healthy gulp and shifted the conversation into safer realms, Elijah changed that vow.
Not about avoiding trouble or needing to rest. That vow was rock solid. But the naked woman part? No point making any hasty decisions on that subject until he saw what Mack came up with.
Because, after all, who could resist a bow?
* * *
MY LIFE ROCKS.
My life is right on track.
My life kicks serious butt, and I love every minute of it.
Ava repeated the affirmations on each exhalation, the soothing tones of bells and chimes ringing softly in time with the words. The gentle scents of sandalwood, vetiver and neroli wrapped around her bare shoulders, as soft as the raw-silk fabric of the lush, oversize pillow she sat on.
As the music slowly faded, so did her words. But her breath stayed even, slow and easy. After a few seconds of silence, she scanned her body for any tension, but she found no tightness, no stress. She felt great.
She let herself grin as she opened her eyes. She knew from experience to give herself a few moments to find her balance before pushing to her feet.
It never failed to make her smile that she felt as if she were opening her eyes to a rainbow. Colors glinted from every corner. The walls were a soothing teal, the low-slung couch sapphire blue. Drapes framed the floor-to-ceiling window in shimmering shades of emerald and amethyst. Pillows in a myriad of shapes, sizes and colors scattered like jewels over the couch, pouring onto the floor. A couple of topaz beanbags rounded out the seating around the low, surfboard-shaped ebony table.
On the far side of the room, partitioned off by a curtain of beads, was a hanging bed covered in white, with more pillows strewn over the surface so it looked like a fluffy cloud amid all the rest of the color. She had a few antique pieces here and there, a tiny kitchenette opposite the bed, with the only door other than the front one opening to a dollhouse-size bath.
The studio was unquestionably small. Cozy, she liked to call the space. It was actually the attic level of a renovated three-story Victorian. The polished wood floors creaked, and the plaster walls tended to let in the cold in the winter and the heat of summer.
Ava loved it.
Her mother hated it. It’d taken Ava a year or so to decide whether she loved it out of spite, a bit of rebellion against a domineering mother who considered her own opinions pure gold. Eventually, though, Ava had come to accept that the space simply suited her, and the whys didn’t matter. She considered that a sign of maturity.
Rising with a lithe move, Ava stretched her arms high overhead. Grasping each hand around the opposite wrist, she twisted from one side, then the other, pulling air all the way into her toes and greeting the sun rising outside her window.
She prepared for her day with Mack’s offer playing through her now-clear mind. It was tempting—so tempting—to say nope, she didn’t want commitments and responsibilities cluttering up her life. But the fact that she was automatically angling for the easy route told her that she shouldn’t.
She needed to consider the partnership seriously. Beyond the money, what it would cost? Was it worth the risk? How big of a difference would it make in her life, and could she be just as happy without it?
Ava gathered her gear for the day. Her duffel, with street clothes and a change of workout gear. Her iPhone, earbuds, charger, wallet. A new bottle of shampoo to replace the almost-empty one in her locker. Car keys, although she walked to work in good weather.
She capped the protein smoothie in her insulated mug and added it to the duffel, then crossed to the door. Hanging there on the wall by the heavy polished oak was a oval silver beveled frame, not more than three inches tall.
It didn’t hold a photo, but instead a swatch of pale blue fabric and a tiny lock of hair, shades deeper than her own nutmeg brown.
Ava kept most of her previous life exactly where it belonged—in the past. She’d locked away the memories, buried the emotions, let go of the reminders.
Except for this.
Her talisman. To remind her that while things might be simple now, she’d once held a life that made every complication worthwhile.
Dominic Prescott.
Her darling baby.
There was no buffer that could dim the pain of waking up one morning, surprised that the four-month-old had slept through the night. Riding high on her first full night’s sleep since his birth, breasts full to aching, she’d all but danced into the nursery to nurse her baby.
But he wouldn’t wake. He wasn’t breathing. He’d never opened those gorgeous eyes again. Other than the hysteria, Ava didn’t remember much after that. Not her husband finally coming home after three frantic days of trying to reach him. Not the doctor’s pronouncement. Not the funeral. Not the multiple people who’d tried to comfort her through a pain that couldn’t be assuaged.
SIDS. Sudden infant death syndrome. A clean, tidy term for the end of her world. A hideous loss that had blown her already-fractured marriage all to hell.
The only way she’d been able to survive was to leave it all behind. The perfect home she hadn’t chosen. The smothering attention of her controlling parents. Her charming prince of a husband who’d been too busy battling the world’s dragons to give a damn.
It had taken months of therapy to pull her out of the depths of depression enough to function, and another year to work through the guilt and hatred and self-blame. But, eventually, she’d accepted that her old life was over. Gone in a blaze of misery.
From those ashes, her new life had formed. The only thing she allowed herself to bring was her love for Dominic. Her sweet boy.
Ava pressed her fingers to her lips, transferred the kiss to the frame.
Then, chin high, she pulled her bright mood around her once again, grabbed the bag of granola she’d made the night before and headed out the door.
Five minutes later she stepped through a rustic grapevine arch into the lush bounty of greens and golds. Not as big as the Napa Community Garden, this plot served Chloe’s small neighborhood.
