“And what happened to break the two of you up—if you don’t mind my asking something so personal?”
That she would ask meant a lot to him, that she didn’t just assume he was a screwup. By the third divorce, he’d decided it had to be him. Pretty much the consensus. That third hit him the hardest because he’d realized that was it—he wasn’t going to have the gold ring, picket fence, and two-point-two-kids future. “Nothing hugely earth-shattering. She was a nice person. I like to think I’m a decent guy. We just had nothing in common. Zip. Other than both wanting to settle down and have children. I went in with my eyes open. I knew it was a long shot…”
“The breakup still left its mark on you.”
He stayed silent, his eyes locked on John Wayne on the flat-screen TV, kicking ass and taking names—while still winning Maureen O’Hara at the end. Thinking about how hard that last breakup hit him was one thing. Saying it out loud? He swallowed hard.
“You loved her?”
“Yes, I loved her.”
“And now?” she pressed, keeping her voice so low it was barely even a whisper.
“I wasn’t the right guy to make her happy.”
“Or she wasn’t the right person to make you happy.”
He looked over at her sharply. Again, she hadn’t just assumed it was his fault, a three-time loser at happily ever after.
Christ, this woman was drawing him right in, making him want everything all over again even when he knew losing her would leave him gutted in the end. And for him, it always ended. Damn it, he’d gone into this conversation looking for a libido killer, and even after trotting it all out, he still wanted Rachel.
He untangled himself from her and shoved to his feet, away from her and the urge to peel her clothes off, stretch her out on the sofa, and likely propose before the orgasms faded. “You should get some sleep. Take the first bedroom on the right. There’s a guard outside the window. I’ll be out here asleep on the couch.”
***
Rachel wished she could sleep.
She was exhausted all the way to the roots of her hair. But sometime after she’d changed into generic exercise shorts and a T-shirt with an air force logo, she’d found her second wind. All the same, she forced her body to rest, stretching out on the four-poster bed and hugging an itchy, fat pillow sham.>Although his need to keep her at arm’s length and in constant sight made for a serious pain in the libido. He needed help to rein himself in tonight for his sake, for her sake—and for the sake of any listening devices that may have been planted around this place. The television would muffle their voices, but it wasn’t as foolproof a trick as they made it out to be in the movies.
Talking about his ex-wives should be as libido dousing as jumping straight into icy Alaska waters. “Three wives, but not at the same time.”
She rolled her rich brown eyes. “Minor technicality.”
He rested his chin on her head, breathing in the scent of his soap on her body. “I had my burnout time too, a while back. During my Army Ranger days. In those days, though, it wasn’t acceptable to talk about it. PTSD was a career-ender. So most guys drank, quit, or one way or another self-destructed.”
Easing back, she forced him to meet her gaze. “Since you haven’t quit or self-destructed, is this your way of telling me you’re an alcoholic?”
“Not hardly.” He glanced sideways at her, although it would sure be easy to lose himself in the intoxication of raw sex with Rachel. “I managed to get a career change that helped ease up my stress level.”
She snorted, so magnificently natural and without pretense. “You call working search and rescue a stress reducer?” Rachel leaned back against his chest, his arms sliding naturally around until his hands rested on her stomach. “You are seriously screwed up.”
“No argument there.” The echoes of old explosions, images of friends he’d lost, flashed through his mind, setting him more on edge than ever. “Saving on occasion felt good. Although it still didn’t keep me from sabotaging myself in three marriages. So I didn’t get off scot-free. Or as you so eloquently said, I am seriously screwed up. Not very technical, but apt.”
“Liam,” she said softly, but firmly. “You can’t blame yourself for everything. Back in the Bahamas you told me that wife number two was unfaithful.”
Cheated with everything in pants, anytime he was deployed or on base. Or hell, she could sneak in a quickie cheat when he stepped out to pick up pizza.
Disco yawned, stretching and inching forward until he head-butted Liam’s leg. He patted the spot next to them on the sofa and the dog jumped up. He scratched the Labrador’s sleek nose. “I was no picnic to live with.”
“That doesn’t excuse her cheating on you—” Her voice rose sharply, then she touched her lips as if realizing she’d spoken too loud. She continued, softer this time, “If she wanted out, she should have done so honorably.”
“You’re right.” He leaned back to give himself space from the tempting scent of her. “Hey, let’s give this a rest. The day’s sucked enough already. And all the dating websites say it’s bad form to ramble on about the ex. Or in my case, exes.”
“We’re past the initial dating stage… not that we’ve actually had a date.” She touched his hand lightly and she might as well have stroked up his leg for how hot and hard that one simple contact made him. “But we’ve kissed each other and even faced a gunman together. So talking about your ex-wives doesn’t qualify as bad first-date etiquette. And honestly, I want to know.”
Her eyes brimmed with curiosity and something else he couldn’t place but made him certain he needed more of that distance. Fast.
“My first wife—Whitney—and I met in high school.” The words came easier than he’d expected. “We mistook puppy love for the real thing. When I enlisted, we didn’t want to be apart, so we eloped. Of course then I went to basic and ranger training and deployed, so we spent no time together anyway.”