Chapter 6

The bathroom in the master suite was bigger than Darcie's entire trailer back home.

She filled a bowl with warm water and added a few drops of sandalwood oil. The scent was masculine, earthy.

She looked at herself in the mirror. Dark circles under her eyes. Hair messy.

"Just pretend he's a big, unmoving... tractor," she told her reflection. "You've fixed tractors. You can massage a husband."

She carried the bowl back to the bed.

Darcie rolled up her sleeves. Her arms were deceptively strong-years of hauling water buckets and chopping wood in Appalachia did that to her.

She dipped a towel in the water and wiped down Fleet's arm.

The warm water was a map. The sensation traced the lines of his own body, reminding him of its shape. Left arm. Bicep. Forearm.

Darcie started to knead the muscles in his forearm. They were rock hard.

"Jesus," she grumbled, digging her thumbs into a knot near his elbow. "What are you made of? Granite? Did you eat rocks for breakfast?"

MREs and gravel, sweetheart. Special Forces diet. The thought was a flash of dark humor, a ghost of his former self.

Darcie worked her way up to his shoulder. Her fingers traced the line of his collarbone.

Then she saw it.

A jagged, silvery scar running from the base of his neck, disappearing behind his ear. It looked old, but deep.

Her hands slowed down. She traced the scar with her thumb, gently this time. Not a massage. A caress.

"This must have hurt," she whispered.

It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact.

The simple words struck him with more force than a physical blow. Nobody ever said that. They asked if the mission was successful. They talked about the medal. They never asked if it hurt. Yes. It hurt like hell.

Darcie shook her head, snapping out of it. "Whatever. You have fifty million dollars. Pain is the price of admission, right?"

And there she was again. The gold digger. He felt a surge of disappointment that was sharp and annoying.

Darcie moved to the bottom of the bed and threw back the sheet.

His legs were long, powerful. She started on his calves, pushing the blood back up toward his heart.

Suddenly, a commotion erupted in the hallway.

"I demand to see my sister!"

Floy.

Darcie's blood ran cold.

She stopped massaging. She pulled the sheet back up over Fleet, tucking him in with a protective aggression.

"Stay here," she told him. "I need to take out the trash."

Darcie marched to the door and threw it open.

Floy was trying to push past a security guard. She was holding a basket of fruit wrapped in cellophane.

"Darcie!" She flashed a fake, bright smile. "I brought a wedding gift. Thought I'd see the happy couple."

Darcie stepped into the hall and closed the door behind her.

She snatched the basket from Floy's hands.

"Thanks," she said.

Then Darcie dropped it directly into the metal trash can next to the nurses' station. It landed with a satisfying crash.

"Hey!" Floy squawked. "That cost fifty bucks!"

"This is a sterile environment," Darcie said, crossing her arms. "No contaminants allowed. Especially you."

Darcie stepped into Floy's space. She was taller than her by three inches, and right now, she felt ten feet tall.

"I'm a nurse with signature authority," Darcie said, her voice low. "I control the household budget now, Floy. Hugh's credit cards? I can freeze them with a phone call. Do you want your shopping spree to get declined?"

Floy's face went pale. The money was her oxygen.

"You wouldn't."

"Try me," Darcie said. "Now get out. Before I have security escort you off the property."

Floy stomped her foot, spun around, and marched away, her heels clicking angrily on the linoleum.

Darcie took a deep breath, counting backward from five.

She turned back to the room.

Inside, the muffled sounds of the confrontation had reached Fleet. Her voice, sharp and cold. Protective. A strange sense of... satisfaction settled in the darkness of his mind. She had defended his territory. He decided he liked her.