he was on edge, as if he were being followed. He prowled the edges of the crowd in the darkened ballroom, his headache barely under control as he searched for Taylor. She wasn’t answering his texts, and he was growing concerned. She’d been so worried about this trip, about her return to acting, and about the director’s opinion of her.
But Taylor was tough, and he knew she would have gone into the press event with her head held high. She wanted this film badly, wanted the money and respectability for the veterans’ clinic back in Washington, D.C., where she’d spent so much time working to help others. He thought of the soldiers, sailors, airmen and marines—most suffering the debilitating effects of posttraumatic stress—the clinic helped, thought of the constant need for funding, and knew that Taylor would have entered that room determined to succeed.
What he didn’t know was how it had turned out.
He stepped into a quiet corner—if there was such a thing—and reached into his breast pocket for his phone. A small medal hanging from a ribbon came out with it, and he blinked as he realized what it was. The Distinguished Flying Cross he’d been awarded after returning from the high Afghan desert. Taylor must have put it in there when she’d picked up the tux from the cleaners for him. He fingered the starburst, squeezed it in his palm before putting it back into his pocket.
He hadn’t wanted the medal, but he hadn’t had a choice. There were other medals, too, which his father never failed to mention in his speeches, but Zach just wanted to forget them all.
Taylor insisted he had to realize he deserved them. She meant well, damn her, but she drove him crazier than any sister ever could have.
He dialed Taylor’s number impatiently. No answer. Frustration hammered into him. He wanted to know she was all right, and he wanted to escape this room. The crowd was swelling—never let it be said that Sicilians let a chance to party go to waste—and the noise level was growing louder.
He was in no mood.
He turned toward the exit just as the DJ blared the first track and the crowd cheered. The lights went completely out and strobe lights flashed. Zach’s heart began to thud painfully. Against his will, he shrank into the wall, breathing hard.
It’s just a party, just a party. But the flashes didn’t stop, people started to shout, and he couldn’t fight the panic dragging him down any longer.
No, no, no …
Suddenly he was back in the trench, in the pitch of night, the bursts of gunfire and explosives all around him, the thrumming of their bass boom ricocheting into his breastbone, making his body ache with the pressure. He closed his eyes, swallowed hard, his throat full of sand and dust and grit.
Violence and frustration bloomed inside his gut. He wanted to fight, wanted to surge upright and grab a gun, wanted to help the marines hold off the enemy. But they’d drugged him, because he’d broken his leg, and he couldn’t move.
He lay helpless, his eyes squeezed tight—and then he felt a soft hand on his arm. The hand moved along his upper arm, ghosted over his cheek. The touch of skin on skin broke his paralysis.
He reacted with the instincts of a warrior, grabbing the hand and twisting it until the owner cried out. The cry was soft, feminine, not at all that of a terrorist bent on destroying him. Vaguely, he realized the body pressed against his was not rough. It was clad in something satiny that slid against the fabric of his own clothing.
He forced his eyes open after long moments. The lights still flashed, and his heart still pumped adrenaline into his body. He blinked and shook his head. Was he not in the desert? Was he not the last one alive in the trench?
The sounds began to separate themselves until he could pick out music, laughter and loud conversation. He focused on the elegant paneled wall in front of him—and realized he held a woman against it, her hand high up behind her back. He could hear her panting softly.
“Please,” she said, her voice calmer than he expected it to be. “I don’t think I am who you think I am.”
Who he thought she was? Zach blinked. Who did he think she was?
A terrorist. Someone bent on killing him.
But she wasn’t, was she? He was in Sicily, at the infamous Corretti wedding, and this woman was a guest. Her blue-green eyes were set in a pretty face. Dark hair was piled on top of her head, and her breasts strained against the fabric of her gown, threatening to pop free at any moment. He hadn’t spun her around, but instead held her against the wall with his body practically wrapped around hers.
One hand held hers behind her back, nearly between her shoulder blades, while the other gripped her jaw and forced her head back against the paneling. Her soft curves melded against him, filling all the hard angles of his body in ways he hadn’t experienced in a very long time.
He’d had no room for softness in his life since returning from the war. He’d viewed it as something of a regret, but a necessary one. Now, he found that he was starving for the contact. His body began to stir, the telltale thrum of blood in his groin taking him by surprise.
Zach let the woman go as if she’d burned him and took a hasty step backward. What the hell was wrong with him? This was why he didn’t like public appearances anymore—what if he lost his mind the way he just had? What would the media say then?
Son of a bitch.
“Forgive me,” he said tightly.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
It was such a normal question, in response to an abnormal situation, and yet he couldn’t formulate an answer. He simply wanted to escape. For once, instead of standing stoically and enduring whatever was flung at him, he wanted out.
There was no one here to stop him, no reporters or cameras, no duty pressing him to remain where he was and endure.
He turned blindly, seeking an exit. Somehow, he found a door and burst through it, into the cool and quiet hallway. Behind him, he heard movement. He didn’t know why he turned, but he did.
She was there, watching him. Her hair was dark red and her dress a shocking shade of pink that looked as if it was about to split across her generous breasts.
“Are you all right?” she asked again.
“Fine,” he replied in crisp Italian. “I apologize. You startled me.”
She came forward then, hesitantly, her hands clasped together in front of her. She was lovely, he decided, in spite of the horrible dress. Her shape was imprinted on his mind, her curves still burning into his body. His hands itched to explore her, but he kept them clenched into fists at his sides. He used to take whatever women offered him, as often as they offered it, but that man had ceased to exist in the months after he’d returned from the war.
At first, he’d indulged in sex because he’d thought it would help him forget. It hadn’t. It had only sharpened the contrast between life and death, only made him feel worse instead of better.
Now, denying himself was a matter of routine. Not to mention safer for all involved. His dreams were too unpredictable to sleep with a woman at his side.
Worse, they seemed to be sliding into his waking life if what had just happened was any indication.
The
