Sometimes n**ed and very much within his reach.
Those last dreams too often woke him with a raging erection and no relief in sight. But right now, wide awake after his two-hour power nap, he wasn't dreaming and relief was in his arms for the taking, soft Sara asleep against his side, her head on his chest, her hair teasing his along his neck.
She needed her sleep and she certainly didn't need him hitting on her with some kind of lame-ass, hey I know you're pissed at me and I accused you of being a drug addict, then capped it off by denying my own kid...but would you mind if we took a time-out for a quickie?
Yeah, it would most definitely be a quickie. Because after five years without her—hell, without anybody— he was sure to be one trigger-happy dude in the sack. He'd be lucky to make it inside her, and ah crap, if he started thinking about being inside her again while they were already conveniently in a bed, then he'd lose it here and now.
He inched away, easing his pillow under her head. He spread the edge of the covers over her before ducking into the hall to Lucia's room where Keagan sat vigil with a laptop on his legs. Even though Lucia had been given a clean bill of health and he had only been asleep for a couple of hours, he would feel better after seeing for himself that she still rested peacefully.
The agent gave him a quick thumbs-up and waved him away. Lucas nodded silently and padded back to the other bedroom, locking the door behind him.
Locking him inside with Sara. Freudian slip? Not hardly.
He should pivot his ass right out of the room again and scavenge for food instead of staring at her like some lovesick adolescent. Except, damn. She still took his breath away.
What a hokey phrase—taking his breath away. Yet it fit, because his chest went tight whenever he saw her. Always had, from the first time he'd checked out her luscious-mouthed smile and even more luscious behind that he'd later found fit perfectly in his hands.
She'd changed in subtle but unmistakable ways. She wasn't as lighthearted, and overall she appeared smaller, more angular than before, either from stress or the constraints of her diabetic diet.
He didn't like his inability to stay levelheaded around her. He didn't want anyone to have that much power over him, and he couldn't even let himself think about losing her again.
So why should he lose her?
They were married. She was his wife. They even had a child together. Her brother was the closest thing to a sibling he'd ever had. She would have a tough transition in the coming months, Lucia, too, after her strange, secluded start in life. They needed him. He was good at taking care of people's basic needs—protection, shelter, providing for them.
Finally he could see his role and their future.
He would take it slow with her, of course. He didn't expect to pick up where they'd left off. Since they'd been fighting then, it was probably best not to start there.
But he could slide in bed next to her, hold her while she slept, let himself forget about the mess with Seabrook, a mess he couldn't do a thing about, and how he hated feeling helpless.
He knelt on the edge of the bed, lowering himself slowly until he stretched beside Sara. Sighing, she shifted, her head on his chest again as if by instinct. Where she belonged.
Where she fit so damn well.
How could a two-hour nap have left him so wideawake? Very awake and aware of the woman beside him. As if he wasn't ready to snap with frustration over his life and job, now his body had gone traitorously hard.
Her hand slipped under his T-shirt, fingers splaying over his chest. The touch seemed benign enough, but she may as well have grabbed him a little farther south because the simple brush over his chest had him battling back a groan.
Patience, he reminded himself. This wasn't five years ago.
His body disagreed.
He stayed motionless, waiting for her to settle again. Her lashes fluttered open, confusion fogging her eyes, slowly clearing with fast blinks.
She bolted upright from her pillow. "Lucas?" She jerked her hand from under his shirt, clasping it in her other. "How long did we rest? Is Lucia all right? What time is it?"
"You were only out for a couple of hours." He angled up on an elbow. "She's fine, still sleeping when I checked. And it's two o'clock in the morning."
"It's difficult to believe everything will be fine after so long fearing the worst." She swept a twist of jet-black hair from her face, longer hair now.
Perfect for tangling his hands through during sex.
Perfect for draping over his chest as she draped herself over him.
Damn.
"We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow, driving to the base, debriefing, prepping to leave. You should go back to sleep."
"I thought I was so tired, and now I'm wide-awake."
Ditto. A part of him was far more awake than the rest of him. Still, he kept himself reined in, only looking, his hands flat on the scratchy spread. "We could scrounge through the kitchen for something to eat."
"Honestly, if you don't mind I'd really like to talk to you. I've missed our talks out in the garden."
Hang out in bed and talk? Spending another night in the jungle sounded less dangerous.
Not that he could bring himself to roll his sorry butt off the mattress and out the door. "I missed our talks, too."
She sagged back on her pillow, her head turning toward him. "You were good with Lucia this morning in the jungle, keeping her calm and discovering details about the spider."
"I'm pretty much winging it, but I'm trying." While he was trying, he needed to clear up the ungodly mess he'd made when he'd stumbled on that syringe. "I know Lucia is my daughter."
Stilling, she stopped blinking even, before looking away to pick at the wooly pills on the blanket. "You couldn't have had time to run a paternity test, so what changed your mind?"
This answer would be important for the rest of their lives. He had to get it right this time, because he sensed there wouldn't be another do-over. "It wasn't one thing in particular. I just stopped being a first-class ass long enough to think it through and realize you wouldn't lie to me about something so important. And I am so damn sorry for taking this long to figure it out."
He waited for her verdict—and waited longer while she plucked at the fuzz balls on the cover. Her face went so sweet-sad it poured more guilt over him like alcohol over his stitched skin.
She shifted her hand from the bed to just below his bandage. "You had less than three days to absorb everything in the middle of a shoot-out and race through the jungle. I also stabbed you, so I can see where trust issues could get muddled."
He should have known Sara would be fair. Her innate goodness was one of the things that had drawn him to her in the first place. Her glow still drew him. She'd deserved more from him then. She deserved better from him now, as well.
"There's no excuse for what I said. I don't allow my people to make excuses and I'm not going to make them, either."
"Excuses and reasons are different."
"Not in my book."
She sat upright, crossing her legs and leaning forward on her knees. "Linguistically, there are nuances to the words. An excuse implies you're justifying guilt by shifting the blame to someone else."
Her hair swung forward, a lock brushing the top of his hand now digging into the mattress to keep from reaching for her, peeling her clothes away and tucking her underneath him.
"Lucas?"
"Uh, yeah. Convince me. I'm listening." As well as enjoying the sound of her voice as much as the feel of her hair on his skin. He'd been too long without both.
"About six months ago, Lucia snuck a cookie out of the kitchen. When I caught her stuffing it into her mouth, she said Teresa shouldn't have left the cookie jar out on the table where a kid could reach it if she didn't want those cookies eaten."
He gave up the fight and flipped his hand over to tug the strand of hair lightly. "Reasons still sound like excuses to me."
"Reasons don't necessarily make it right, either, but they help us understand. Such as how I didn't tell you about the diabetes because I was afraid you would insist on carrying the backpack, too, and reopen your arm wound. I already felt so, so guilty for cutting you."
"You were protecting your—our—child." He half smiled, understanding. "Reasons."
"Reasons." She tapped his temple. "Now please tell me your reasons for not trusting that Lucia could be your daughter."
"I told you already. I'm a first-class ass." He continued to stroke the lock of hair between two fingers, stirring memories of her hair teasing down his chest as she kissed her way south.
"An ass, huh? I'm not buying your brush-off answer. Since you aren't going to volunteer, perhaps I could suggest some reasons why I suspect you have difficulty trusting. Then you can tell me if I am right or wrong."
"I've never been any good at games." He wrapped her hair around his hand, his wrist, until he cupped her head.
She didn't object or even acknowledge the touch beyond a glance at his arm, a quick nibble on her bottom lip before looking back into his eyes again. "Because you don't play games?"
"Never have." So what was he doing playing with her hair?
"Never?"
Suddenly they were talking about a lot more than his approach to life, and he wasn't sure he liked that digging much at all. Except he did owe her for what he'd said in the jungle, for denying his own daughter.
He freed his hand from her silken hair before he did something stupid, like gather her against his chest and bury his face in her neck. "Even when I was little, I wasn't much of a kick-the-can kinda kid."
"You told me once your parents weren't well off."
"We had food and a roof over our heads."
"I've learned during the past five years that a full life is about a lot more than financial security."
He wanted better for Lucia than he'd had and already her start had been so far from normal. Something they would have to deal with once they set up housekeeping, a thought that popped a cold sweat. What did he know about building a family?
"My parents were good folk, Irish descent. Dad was a cop shot in the line of duty. He lived through the injury, but twenty-percent disability didn't cover much and he didn't have any other skills. So they both worked minimum wage jobs."
"Worked? Past tense? Are they dead?"
"Dad is. The depression from the shooting finally took its toll. Mom went into a nursing home a few years ago."
"You're only thirty-nine so she can't be old."
Sara was only twenty-nine. So damn young. And hot. And in his bed.
Talk, damn it.
"She's seventy-four, but her health's not great, emphysema..." God, he hadn't strung this many words together at once since...ever. Or the last time Sara picked around inside his brain. At least conversation would offer a distraction from thinking about Seabrook out there somewhere. "Where are you going with this?"
"Trying to figure you out since you don't give excuses or reasons." She reached to cover his hand with hers. "You're a tough man to get to know, Lucas Quade."
O-kay. He could see where this was going. If he wanted to get back in her good graces, he would have to spill his guts as a peace offering.
"I grew up in a rough inner-city neighborhood. People didn't trust cops—or a cop's kid—even an ex-cop."
She skimmed her fingers along his chest, right where the scar rested under his T-shirt. "So you didn't fall out of a tree."
"No." His pecs contracted beneath her featherlight caress, her touch searing.
Sara drew circles on his chest, her eyes trained on her spiral path rather than his face. "Was a woman involved?"
