Liz Johnson - SEAL Under Siege

So she did.

* * *

“Thank you for your help. I don’t know how I’d have gotten home without you.”

Tristan stood two inches inside the front door of Staci’s town house on the hardwood of the entryway, staring into a sea of white. Her carpet, furniture and curtains. All of it gleamed.

Hadn’t she ever had a dog? Or a kid brother? Or a visitor?

Sterile as a hospital room.

“Sure thing. No problem.”

She looked toward the back of the house, crossing her arms over her chest and grabbing her opposite shoulders. “Can I get you a glass of water or a soda?”

“No, thanks. I should get going.” He motioned to the door. “The paramedic said you should try to get some rest. You’ll probably be pretty sore tomorrow.”

Just as his hand connected with the doorknob, she grabbed his other arm—then dropped it as if he burned her fingers. “What do I do if he comes after me again?”

He let go of the door and reached to give her elbow a reassuring squeeze before letting his hand fall to his side. She sure hadn’t appreciated his touch that afternoon. “I doubt he knows where you live. Is your name on this property?”

“No. My parents bought it as an investment property a couple years before I left for Lybania. A friend of mine stayed here while I was gone.”

That was good. Anyone could look up property owners in the county recorder’s office, but Hayes was a common name. “You’ll be safe. And your car will be in the shop for at least a week, so he won’t be able to use it to ID where you live. Do you have someone who can run errands for you, if you need?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re all set.”

“But what if...”

Her tone gouged at his stomach, and he couldn’t walk away. She wasn’t playing the part of a lost little girl nor tempting him with her feminine charm. Fear shook her voice, and those three little words carried a heavy weight of meaning.

She knew the truth as clearly as he did.

Someone was after her. And until he was caught, she wouldn’t be safe.

He closed his eyes, fighting the urge to do what he’d done in Lybania. But he couldn’t just pick her up and carry her to safety. He wasn’t supposed to have any contact with her. And explaining to his CO that he’d watched her get run off the road wasn’t going to change the rule.

She would be safe enough in her home for now. And he could turn this whole thing over to his buddy in the FBI.

But he couldn’t walk away from the tremor in her voice.

“If something happens, call me.” He moved his hand as though he was wielding a pen. “Do you have something to write on?”

She shuffled papers in a mail organizer, finally pulling out a white envelope with a clear, plastic window, shoving the paper and a pencil into his hands. He scribbled his number down and handed it back to her.

She smiled, the light never quite reaching her eyes. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He turned to go but stopped with the door only partially open. “Try to get some rest this weekend.”

She followed him to the cement slab that could hardly be called a porch, despite its overhang. “All right.”

He made it to the last of three steps before her voice stopped him again.

“Wait.”

He glanced over his shoulder, squinting into her soft features, her pink lips glistening in the evening sun.

“If I have to phone, what do I call you?” She held the envelope in front of her.

“L.T. is fine.”

“How can I trust you if I don’t even know your first name?”

His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. The last time a woman had tried so hard to get his first name, the first use she’d made of it had been to ask him out on the date that started a one-year-long relationship. She’d said his name so sweetly before she’d kissed him, slow and thorough.

That last time.

Before he’d boarded a transport and left her all by herself.

But Staci wasn’t Robin. And she certainly wouldn’t be kissing him. If there wasn’t a first, then there couldn’t be a last kiss.

“Tristan. But hardly anyone calls me that.”

“Why not?”

He put his hands on his hips, still squinting up at her from the bottom of the steps. “They just don’t. Everyone on the team has a nickname, and we use them.”

“All right.” She took a breath then quickly added, “L.T.,” as if it were an afterthought. And for a split second he wished she’d called him by his real name. “Thank you.”

She waved the envelope again, and he jogged toward his truck, suddenly eager to be away from the woman who made him think about memories that were best forgotten.

* * *

Staci left her cereal bowl on the kitchen counter at the sound of the doorbell, pulling the belt of her robe tighter around her waist as she shuffled toward the front door. Peering through the windows on both sides of the entry, she confirmed that her tiny porch was empty before unlocking the deadbolt and opening the door just enough to look into the morning sun.

The delivery man must have run back to his truck, leaving only a package by the front mat. As she bent to pick it up, every muscle in her body screamed. She groaned against the pain in her ribs and chest as her muscles flexed and tightened.

Wasn’t she supposed to be feeling better? Three days was plenty of time to recover from a car accident that didn’t even break her skin. Right?

She hefted the box, nearly dropping the unexpected weight and falling right alongside it.

Maybe three days wasn’t quite long enough.

Another try boasted better results, and she held the package against her stomach to ease the pressure on her strained back as she pushed the door closed behind her. Setting the brown paper-wrapped package on her counter, she spied the return label.

From Rebecca Meyers.

Why was her sister, Becca, sending her a package when they’d seen each other a week ago? And why had she spelled out her whole name? They’d been calling each other by their first initials since she was ten. Even now, B’s kids called her Auntie S. And even if she were going to use her name instead of her initial, Becca had never actually gone by Rebecca.

Her stomach lurched and she pressed a hand to it, suddenly uninterested in the cereal still floating in its milk.

Staci pushed the package toward the far end of the counter, staring hard at the brown paper bag used to wrap the box. Hadn’t B given up paper and plastic in favor of more environmentally friendly reusable bags?

So many things about this weren’t right.

She grabbed her phone and punched in her sister’s phone number. After four rings, B’s melodic voice singsonged, “This is Becca Meyers. Sorry I missed you. You know what to do, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

“Hey, B. It’s just me. Just...um...” No cause to scare her sister. Nope. She could handle this. “Just wanted to tell you that I love you. Talk to you later.”

As she pressed the end button on her phone, her gaze flicked toward the white envelope stuck to the refrigerator, and her heart skipped a beat at the very thought of calling Tristan—L.T.

What if the box on her counter was nothing? Then she’d look stupid for taking up his time with something ridiculous. But then, what if it was something dangerous?

She backed up until she bumped into the kitchen island and then swung around that. Putting the waist-high counter between her and the package wasn’t enough, so she kept going, hoping she might suddenly get X-ray vision if she tried hard enough.

No such luck.

After a five-minute showdown with the box, she doubled her fists beneath her chin, took a deep breath and stepped back toward the counter. She’d never know what was inside if she didn’t open it.