Ring of Fire (13 page)

Though she hated to think of the explosion that had so badly injured him, hated to think of the pain he had suffered and still suffered, mostly what she felt for him was respect. And lust. As she caressed him, her arousal grew.

She straddled him. “Can you get another condom?”

“Not so fast.” He caught her by the waist and the next thing she knew, he was in control, using his strength to flip her sideways onto the bed. “Lie back and let me enjoy you.”

“There's an order I'm not about to refuse.” She settled on her back, put her hands behind her head, and offered herself up to him.

His hands were skilled, and so were his lips and tongue as he caressed and tasted her, and when he focused his attention between her legs, he easily drove her to climax. She was still pulsing inside when he sheathed himself and slid into her.

Eric's body was on a slight angle as he balanced on one knee and his stump. She slanted herself to match up with him and hooked one leg around his waist. Catching his head between her hands, she guided him down for a long, thorough kiss, flavored by the taste of her orgasm.

When she freed his head and ran her hands down his back, he kept on kissing her. And when she grabbed his butt, urging him to pump even deeper, his tongue mated with hers.

Soon they weren't kissing as much as gasping against each other's mouths. Need spiraled within her, centered, built to an intensity she couldn't bear any longer. “Now, Eric,” she cried. “Oh, God, now.”

He let himself go, thrusting faster and harder, taking her over the top, and a moment later he exploded inside her with a ragged cry.

She held him as their bodies surged together, and after as they collapsed. Great sex, yes. A barrier crossed, so that hopefully his missing leg would no longer be an issue.

But there was more than that: a sense of intimacy she hadn't felt with another man.

It must be because of his leg. In coping with that together, they'd become close. Closer, maybe, than either of them had intended.

But it didn't mean that their relationship was about anything other than sex.

Chapter Nine

Late Saturday afternoon, Eric ran up the stairs of his apartment building, whistling. He'd stopped at the Golden Dragon, the oldest restaurant in town, which boasted of having been in business since the 1860s gold rush. He had picked up enough Chinese food for dinner tonight plus leftovers. He also carried a plastic-wrapped bunch of flowers. The flowers were because in a few hours Lark would be coming over.

Since Tuesday—that remarkable Tuesday that would go down in history as the night he'd regained his manhood—he'd seen her only once. Wednesday, he'd again been invited to the Cantrell house for dinner. While they'd eaten chicken stew at the kitchen table, he, Jayden, and Mary had told Lark about the morning's riding lesson—which had, due to rain, been in the indoor ring. Sally's fiancé, Ben Traynor, had been there and he'd given them a roping demonstration, which had been pretty impressive.

Unfortunately, before they'd finished dinner, Lark had received a page. “Multicar accident,” she had said, leaping out of her chair and running for the door. As Eric, Jayden, and Mary carried on with the meal, Eric had asked, “Does she get lots of callouts?”

“Some weeks, yes,” Mary had answered. “Other weeks, there are none at all. Weather's a factor.”

After they'd finished eating, Eric had done dishes with Jayden, assisted Mary in coaching the boy through his exercises, and then, after Jayden went to bed, chatted with Mary about her art. By ten, Lark still hadn't returned. Though he'd regretted the loss of private time with her, it had still been a pleasant evening.

The whole week had been pleasant, in part because he'd finally been getting enough sleep. Since the IED, he'd had trouble sleeping. It was another common symptom of PTSD. Eric figured that his instincts warned him against going to sleep because sleep opened a doorway to nightmares. But this week, he'd downloaded a couple of different orchestral performances of “The Lark Ascending,” and had taken to playing one when he went to bed. Incredibly, he'd slept well, without a single nightmare.

So it had been a good week, and tonight it was about to get better. Lark had said she'd come over after Jayden went to bed.

Eric put his key in the lock, already counting the hours. It wasn't quite 1800 hours, and she should arrive just after 2100. He'd have dinner, shower, and tidy up the apartment.

He opened the door, stepped into the living room, and his sister jumped up from his couch. “Eric!”

“Quinn?” His gaze took in her backpack and a huge canvas tote bag sitting by the couch. She was in trouble again. It was the only reason that she'd show up out of the blue. Besides, it was the pattern of Quinn's life. Mess up, then run to big brother to fix it.

She came over and threw her arms around him.

Still holding the takeout bag and flowers, he gave her a one-armed hug. A rather ambivalent one. He loved her and was happy to see her, yet he wondered what had happened to her now, and what he'd need to do to bail her out. Besides, he had the sinking feeling that his intimate time with Lark had just gone down the drain.

Quinn stepped back. “How are you, E? You look really good.” When they were kids, Quinn had, in one of her typical acts of nonconformity, rejected the perfectly good names their parents had given them. Eric had, for whatever reason, gone along. Since then, to each other they were E and Q.

“I'm great,” he told her. “How are you?”

“Oh, fine.”

No, she wasn't. She didn't look ill, thank heavens, not like the time she'd turned up feeling crappy and he'd taken her to the doctor, to find out she'd contracted hepatitis A. But despite her exaggerated eye makeup and the whimsical pink streaks in her dark brown shoulder-length hair, she did look tired and stressed. And she'd packed on a few extra pounds. Quinn ate more when she was unhappy, which to him seemed counterproductive because she then moaned about being fat.

“How did you get in, Q?”

“Charmed the resident manager.” She sauntered back to the couch, and he saw a half-empty wineglass on the coffee table. She'd helped herself to the red wine left over from Tuesday night. “Told her I was your sister, showed her my ID, and she let me in. And welcomed me to Caribou Crossing.” Her lips quirked. “Caribou Crossing? Seriously? I thought you were joking when you told me where you were living. But then, when I decided to come visit, I looked it up on a map and yeah, it really exists.”

“It sure does.”

“It's the backwoods. I never thought of you as the backwoods type.”

He'd never lived anywhere long enough to figure out if he even had a type. “It's a nice town. Picturesque, well managed, and the people are friendly.”

“Huh.” She cocked her head. “Maybe I should move here.” She snapped her fingers. “Hey, that's an excellent idea, don't you think? I could find a job doing, well, something. Whatever. Until I do, I can live with you. Wouldn't that be great?”

Before he could answer, she said, “What smells so good?”

“Chinese takeout. Let me guess, you haven't eaten.”

“I was waiting for you.”

“Okay. I got enough that we can share.”

She hopped off the couch again. “I love Chinese.” She picked up her wineglass and headed for the kitchen. “I'll set the table.”

He followed, and when he put the wrapped flowers on the counter, she noticed them for the first time. “Hey, pretty. What's up with you buying flowers?”

“Trying to make a drab apartment look a little nicer.” For Lark. Which reminded him, he needed to call her. “Excuse me for a sec,” he said to Quinn. “I'll be right back. Go ahead and lay out the food.”

He went into his bedroom, closed the door, and pulled his phone from his pocket.

When Lark answered, he said, “I'm really sorry, but I have to take a rain check tonight.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, but my sister showed up out of the blue. I'm afraid she's going to be staying with me, at least through the weekend.”

“Oh. Well, I'm disappointed about tonight, but maybe it's good that your sister's there. Perhaps you can talk to her, Eric. You know, about what happened to you.”

“I don't think so.”

Lark sighed. “Well, think about it. And miss me a little, will you?”

“More than a little, that's for sure.”

“What about the riding lesson tomorrow? Will you still be able to come?”

“You bet.”

“Good. Jayden would be disappointed if you didn't.”

“How about you, Lark?”

She laughed softly. “I'd miss you. But not as much as I'll miss being with you tonight.”

“That goes double for me.” Just the sound of her sexy voice was turning him on.

They said good night. When he returned to Quinn, the table in the dining alcove at the end of the living room was set. His sister had put the flowers in a tall water glass, poured wine, and placed the wine bottle on the table. She had also peeled the lids off the takeout containers.

“Where's the rice?” Quinn asked.

He'd bought beef with broccoli and ginger, chicken with green beans, and a mixed vegetable stir fry with cashews. “Didn't get any. You know I watch my carbs.” He seated himself at the table.

Quinn took the chair across from him. “Chinese food without rice? That's, like, heresy. Or sacrilege. Something like that.”

“Well, I don't have any, so deal with it.” He started in on his dinner, and after some more grumbling, Quinn did the same.

While they ate, she asked him about Caribou Crossing. But once they'd finished the last scrap of food in the takeout containers, Eric could no longer stand the suspense. When he knew what her problem was, he could formulate a plan of action. “What brings you here this time?”

“Maybe I just want to see my big brother.”

“Since when?”

“Don't be mean, E.”

“No, seriously. When do you ever come visit when there's not some crisis in your life?”

She gave a pouty frown. “Am I really that bad? I'm sorry. If you want me to go, I'll go.”

He sighed. “Don't be silly. Of course I don't want you to go.” He just wanted her to, for once, be okay. To not be in crisis. To sort out her problems by herself. He also really wished she hadn't come on a night when he'd been looking forward to seeing—to having sex with—Lark.

Quinn rose, scooped up the two empty plates, and headed for the sink. Eric stacked the takeout containers. Cleaning up, they moved around easily in the kitchen, having grown up together and shared household chores.

When they were done, Quinn opened the fridge freezer. She turned to him with a pouty face. “You don't have ice cream.”

“Nope. Nice crisp fall apples, though.”

She shook her head. “Virtue's a really boring quality.” She opened the fridge, took out an apple, and tossed it to him.

He caught it and bit into it.

Carrying another apple, Quinn flounced back to the kitchen table and flopped down in her chair. She put the apple down and poured the last few mouthfuls of wine into her glass. Then she shot him a speculative look. “You came home with flowers and you snuck off to the bedroom, I bet to make a phone call. You had a date tonight.”

“Yeah.”

“Jeez, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt. I didn't know you were dating.”

“It's recent. And, you know, casual.” His sister knew that, unlike her, he avoided any relationship that smacked of being serious. He put down his half-finished apple and reached across to take her hand. “It's okay, Q. You came because you need me, right?”

She swallowed and nodded.

“What's gone wrong this time?”

“Oh, you know, nothing major.” She shrugged.

He suppressed an eye roll. “And yet you're here.”

“Okay, fine. I was living with this guy, and we broke up. It was his apartment, so I had to move out and I didn't have anywhere to stay.”

“You hadn't saved enough money to rent a place?” Surely she'd been working. Quinn usually did find a job even if she wasn't on any identifiable career path.

“No. I'd been helping Jonas with the rent. He's an actor, and hasn't worked in a while.”

That was Quinn. Generous to a fault. Had Jonas exploited her generosity? “Your employer wouldn't have fronted you a month's pay, I guess?”

“Uh, well, I was actually working for Jonas's parents. That's how I met him. They have a Starbucks franchise. I got a job as a barista, and he came in every morning for breakfast. He's such a hottie and we hooked up.”

Right. The scuzzball had found an easy mark to pay his rent, courtesy of a paycheck from his own parents. Quinn could be so damned naïve. Eric wanted to think that the jerk would either have to give up his apartment or find himself a real job, but likely he'd just hit on another barista who was willing to pay his rent. Eric was tempted to tell Quinn all of that, but what was the point? He picked up his apple and took another bite.

“And I couldn't go home to the 'rents,” she went on.

He nodded. Their mom would have taken her in or slipped her some money for rent, but it wasn't worth getting the lectures from Dad. Quinn and their father had this bizarre dynamic where he tried to make her shape up, she rebelled, he got mad, she rebelled some more, and both of them got frustrated.

Eric thought about what Lark had said, about kids acting out to get attention even if it pissed off the parent. It still didn't make sense. But then maybe it didn't make sense, either, that he, not only a grown-up but an Armed Forces major, was still trying to win words of praise from his father. “Growing up with our dad wasn't the easiest thing, was it?” he commented.

“Hah. He has, like, no boundaries. Maybe he's supposed to bark orders at the soldiers who serve under him, but that's no way to act at home.”

Eric, who'd also had men serving under him, wasn't a strong believer in barking orders at them. Oh, there were times when the situation demanded it, but mostly he concentrated on training highly effective, motivated soldiers who functioned as individuals and as a team. Who knew to obey orders, but also knew that their opinions were welcome. He also tried to support them. A soldier's life was tough, whether he was overseas or on a base in Canada. Civilian family members and friends could never truly relate.

“To be fair,” he said, “it's hard to shift gears. To give your best to your country and also to your family. Which is why I decided long ago that I wouldn't get married.”

She nodded. “If you love someone, how could you screw up her life the way Dad did to Mom? And how could you have kids, knowing what a fucked-up life army brats live?” She shot him an impish grin that overrode the lines of tiredness and stress on her face. “But hey, look at us. We came out okay. We're only minorly messed up.”

The words
Speak for yourself
were on the tip of his tongue, but he held them back. Quinn might never have stuck with a job or training course for much more than a year, and she might come running to him when she got herself in trouble, but she was a kind, decent person. And—at least as far as he knew—she never abused drugs or alcohol and she hadn't committed any criminal acts.

But how could she call
him
“minorly messed up”? He was in charge of his life, took responsibility for all his actions, walked the straight and narrow, and had a damned good career. Quinn didn't know about his PTSD, so she must be referring to his physical injuries.

Focusing on her again, he asked, “You were living in Calgary. I hate to ask how you got here if you didn't have money for rent.”