to see snow again.
“Lieutenant,” she said, looking over her shoulder to give Blake a nod to acknowledge all he’d done. Including breaking her heart. “Thank you.”
* * *
“YOU SURE YOU DON’T WANT some chocolate cake? Or maybe ice cream? I can run out and get fresh strawberries to go with it.”
It took all her strength for Alexia to pull her gaze from the view of her parents’ garden. The entire time she’d been doing her hostage routine, as her brother had termed it once he’d stopped crying, she’d fantasized about her own bed. Yet three days after she’d climbed into that Snow Trac and rolled out of hell, she still hadn’t made it there.
At first, it was easier to stay here. Her father’s connections and pull had meant the debriefing team and the navy psychologist made house calls. The admiral’s gruff attitude had meant that Edward, filled with guilt that she’d been kidnapped for research he’d instigated, kept his exhausting visits to a minimum. And her mother’s newly found nurturing streak—and her chef—had meant that Alexia was pampered beyond belief. Margaret had even called in her beauty team and a masseuse that morning to give her daughter some much-needed pampering.
“I’m okay,” she told her worried-looking mother. She’d never realized Margaret had the hovering gene, but for the last couple of days it’d been out in megaforce. “I’m still full from lunch.”
“Lunch was four hours ago. You’re not eating enough.”
“I was only gone five days, Mother. Not nearly enough time to lose weight and need constant feeding,” Alexia said with a teasing look. She patted the belly of her jeans to show it still wasn’t flat.
Her smile faded as her mother’s face crumpled. And not, Alexia knew, because she was horrified at her daughter’s curves.
“Don’t,” she begged, sliding from the bench seat and wrapping her arms around her mother. “Please. You keep crying and I’m going to need a transfusion. You know I’m a sympathy weeper.”
“I was scared,” Margaret admitted. “I’ve never been scared like that before.” Her fingers clutched her daughter for just a second before she sniffed, stepped back and carefully dabbed the dampness from under her eyes.
Alexia dropped back to the window seat and stared in shock.
“You were scared?” But she’d seemed so calm when she’d welcomed Alexia home. Margaret had gotten a little weird, with the hovering and all. But Alexia hadn’t realized that was fear.
“What do you think?” Margaret snapped. “My daughter, kidnapped by a lunatic. Hauled off to some icy hellhole. We didn’t know who, or why. And when we did, it was even worse.”
She paused to take a deep breath, then continued. “I was terrified. Your father was, too, although he tried not to show it. He called in every marker he had, Alexia. He handpicked the SEAL team, he demanded the best to rescue you. Even then, we had no idea...”
Her words trailed off, and she sniffed, but held her hand out to say she was getting control of herself. So Alexia stayed seated. Truthfully, she was too surprised at the idea of her father worrying to have the strength to stand.
“Michael and I waited here, of course. But your father refused to. He insisted on going to Alaska to get you. He even yelled at Daniel Lane.”
“He yelled at the rear admiral?”
Reeling a little and not sure how to deal with it, Alexia absently patted the cushion next to her. To her surprise, her mother took the invitation and sat.
“As I said,” Margaret told her with a quick, uncomfortable pat to the knee, “I’ve never been so scared.”
“You must have been, though. I mean, Father served his entire career in the military. He fought in two wars. How was that not scary?”
Heck, just thinking of Blake doing cleanup at that nasty compound gave her chest palpitations.
“Because that was his job,” Margaret said with a flick of her bejeweled wrist, as if dismissing the question as ridiculous. Alexia waited to feel slighted, stupid, as she would have so often in the past when her curiosity was rebuffed. But her mother didn’t seem to be closing the dialogue. Just responding.
“It’s that easy? Because it’s his job, you weren’t afraid?”
“Darling, he was trained to fight. Trained in strategy. He knew how to use weapons and all of that big scary equipment and had an entire platoon of men just as well trained, just as dedicated, fighting at his side. As I said, it was his job. And he was very, very good at it.”
“But his job put him in constant danger. He had people shooting at him, trying to blow him up. Didn’t that worry you?”
“Did you watch the news yesterday?” Margaret asked.
Shaking her head no, Alexia frowned. What did that have to do with anything?
“I don’t recall what city it was—I just caught the tail end of the newscast. But it was rush-hour traffic and someone became angry. He stopped his car in the middle of gridlocked traffic, pulled out a weapon and started shooting. He killed three people before he was stopped.”
Alexia’s breath caught at the horror. “Those poor people,” she breathed.
“Exactly. They were only trying to get home, living their safe day-to-day lives. And someone tried to kill them.” A combination of anger, disgust and pity creased Margaret’s face. “At least a solider is trained and prepared. Nobody knows when their time is going to come, darling. It could be on a mission, or at the grocery store. So sitting around wringing one’s hands and worrying is a waste of time and energy, don’t you think?”
She nodded, and the little ball of terror that’d knotted in her belly when she realized she was in love with Blake started to unravel. But right next to it was a bigger fear, one that was still tied tight.
Taking a deep breath, she asked, “But what about the rest? The fact that most of his life is dedicated to the service. That he keeps tons of secrets from you. How does that not bother you?”
Her mother looked stunned for a second, as if she’d never considered those questions. Then she shrugged.
“Well, that too is a part of his job, isn’t it? I knew it when I married him, so why would it bother me? As for the secrets...” She glanced at the door, then laughed and lifted both hands as if to say well? “Darling, I have plenty of secrets of my own. Secrets that your father will never find out about.”
Alexia’s eyes rounded with shock.
“Noooo?” she breathed.
“Mine might not be along the lines of military intelligence, but they’re juicy enough. Like the true color of my hair, for instance. Or my real weight and collection of Spanx. Your father thinks I eat half a grapefruit every morning, but has no idea I have a bowl of Cocoa Puffs after he leaves for the day.” Margaret tapped one manicured finger on her lips as she considered what else she might be hiding from her husband. “There are the two credit cards he doesn’t know I have. For my girlie purchases, of course. He has no idea that I love trash-talk
