Rolling off her, Brandon lay on his back and stared up at the stars. Time passed and he wasn’t sure how much. But since he already looked like an idiot, why not go all out? Besides, he wasn’t sure his legs would hold him yet anyway. At least they were between cars and apparently not attracting any attention.
Eventually his heart stopped jackhammering in his ears so loud and he could hear the world around him. He could hear Catriona. Her even breaths, not the least bit disturbed. And then the scent of honeysuckle filled him, engulfed him, until he wanted to curl up and sleep for a decade.
He felt the cold muzzle of his dog against his hand. His palm curved over Harley’s head, stroking, bringing him the rest of the way back into the moment.
Jacking one knee up, he turned his head sideways to look at Catriona for the first time. She sat cross-legged on the concrete beside him, not showing any other signs that she’d been body-slammed by someone nearly double her weight just minutes before. Only her shirt was askew and showing her bra strap—
His eyes hitched on the pale pink strip of satin, and hell if he didn’t get an erection. Right then. Right there. At the most unexpected and worst time, he got his first case of wood since he’d returned from the Middle East.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
He sat up sharply, dropping his arm in his lap to hide the evidence. “Are you okay? Did I break anything when I wigged out?”
“I’m fine,” she said simply.
“Aren’t you going to ask if I’m all right?”
“Obviously, you’re not.”
“And you’re okay with that? You aren’t worried I’m going to go postal on you?”
“Should I worry?”
He shook his head. “I’m okay now.”
“Good.” She shoved to her feet and straightened her shirt. “How about I drive us back and you sleep on my sofa? You may think you’re okay, but you look tapped out to me. Why risk driving?”
Pushing to his feet, he drew in deep honeysuckle-scented breaths and didn’t even bother arguing.
***
Who the hell was General Sullivan, and why was he here?
Rachel was officially freaked out to have warranted a general’s attention. Except then, he hadn’t bothered to come in and interview her. He’d been called away on some emergency. She’d merely heard his gravelly voice speaking with Special Agent Cramer just beyond the opening doors, issuing orders before he was called away.
And then she’d been shuttled off to what Liam had called “some place safe.”
For now.
She hadn’t felt this claustrophobic since she’d been trapped in a mine after she and Disco once located a lost hiker. They’d waited for three hours underground, trapped by a rotten beam that had given way. Those three hours had seemed shorter than the three minutes she’d spent inside this “safe” location.
After her interview with Special Agent Sylvia Cramer had concluded, two official-looking cars had escorted them to base housing packed with rows of tan stucco homes. On the outer edges of the community, they’d actually pulled into the driveway of one of those homes.
She’d been surprised, expecting they would be sent to one of the temporary lodging facilities, more like a hotel or condo. Or housed in some vault in Sylvia Cramer’s top-secret bat cave. But this was a no-kidding three-bedroom house.
Not that it appeared anyone actually lived here.
It carried more of a model-home look and smell, with lots of cherrywood furniture that still sported a highly polished new sheen. The matchy-matchy blue and green striped sofa and wingbacks completed the decor. No personal photos. Stock framed images of beach sunsets and airplanes hung on the walls. Disco sniffed the dried moss around a potted silk palm tree.
Apparently General Sullivan had made special arrangements for them to use temporary lodgings on base with security guards outside, offering her protection until Brandon Harris could be located and his story looked into more deeply. As far as she was concerned, here was as good as anywhere else.
And Liam was here. They were linked in this now, and while she was still as afraid on base as off, she did trust Liam.
Which was strange, considering she’d known him for all of three weeks, six months ago.
She turned slowly in the living room. “So these are distinguished visitors’ quarters.”
“All the basics you could need are here—food, sodas,” he announced, pulling open a drawer on a sideboard. Except rather than place mats, he revealed, “They’ve even got shoulder boards and rank paraphernalia for any general in any branch of the services. Pick a star.”