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“A lot has happened in the last three months, and I don’t want to talk about it over a phone, Sierra,” he said gruffly.
Her terror amped up. “All right,” she whispered, an ache in her voice. “I understand.” But she didn’t. She could feel Mace waffling over something important. Big. But what was it?
“Have you done anything else to your cabin since you returned?”
Her heart squeezed with such longing for him. If only Mace would give her even just a single breadcrumb of hope. One word. Just—something. But he was talking as if her honesty had been set on a shelf somewhere. Rubbing her brow, she said tonelessly, “I’m starting to get the guest bedroom fixed up. I chose a light lavender paint for it. Lauren and I went to an antique store in the city, and I found an old oak dresser that will go perfect in that room.”
“What about curtains?”
She felt a trickle of warmth go through her heart. “I haven’t figured that out yet. I have the velvet quilt in my master bedroom. I took it off the guest bedroom one because I love it so much, I love the wonderful texture of it, that I did it. I’m not sure what I want in the guest bedroom yet.”
“What about something lacy and frilly? Wasn’t lace a big thing mid-1800s?”
She was amazed at his knowledge. “Why… yes, I was thinking that direction. I have a Sears catalog from that era and I was looking at it the other day. Lauren knows a seamstress and she was saying the woman could choose the material I’d like and she could make a set for me based upon the illustrations from the catalog.”
“Lauren sounds like a go-to woman. I’m glad she’s your friend, Sierra.”
Tears burned in her eyes. Mace couldn’t know how much she was affected by being separated from him. He didn’t want to talk serious stuff. Just keep it light. It was the last thing she wanted to do but Sierra knew operators couldn’t go there. Especially since he was going back into that green hell in two weeks. Mace had to stay focused. Not worried about her. She tried to sound upbeat. “I think I’ll drag Laura to a fabric store. They always have all kinds of lace there. Maybe I could somewhat match the lace to the illustration.”
“There’s a lot of lace made by the Q’ero Indians down here. Too bad we didn’t think about that when you were with the team. The ladies sell it on the plazas of Cusco. Good stuff. All handmade.”
Her heart rose with hope. “Why don’t you snoop around for me? You have a computer at your disposal. Just Google that catalog and you’ll see the lace.” And then she teased, “That is, if you want to be seen buying lace,” and she forced another laugh she didn’t feel. Mace’s laughter, however, was warm and deep. And she desperately needed that sound, needed him. If she could reach through the phone to touch him, she would have.
“That’s a good idea. Think I’ll drag Cale along with me. His mother’s a helluva seamstress. He might know a little more about lace than I do.”
Hope infused her. Mace wouldn’t say something like that if he wasn’t going to do it. “I’d like that—a lot.” Her voice dropped. “Thank you, Mace.”
“I wish I could do more for you, Sweetheart, but I can’t.”
Hope exploded through her. Every time he called her by that endearment, her heart flooded with such love for him it nearly made her speechless. Swallowing, she whispered, “I know…”
“Just keep getting better, Sierra. Okay? Listen to Lauren. Get your weight back. Eat.”
A smile tugged at her mouth. “Now you’re sounding like the mother hen you are, Kilmer.”
“I want you a hundred percent healthy, Chastain. Got it?”
Her heart started thundering at the sudden emotion she heard barely withheld in his growling tone. “Yes, sir, Sergeant. I got it.”
Mace sat in the chair of his hotel room, the burner phone in his hand. His brows moved downward as he wrestled with so many damned escaping emotions. Sierra’s breathy laughter, her smoky voice, the feelings on her every word, made him ache for her in every possible way. Getting up, he turned the phone off. Dropping it on the carpet, he smashed it with the heel of his boot. They could never use a landline for any personal calls. Only these kinds of burner phones were available. And only one call. One time. He wanted to call Sierra back. Just to hear her talk. He could care less what she spoke about, he just needed that voice of hers, that rich tapestry of emotion that was a part of her, to come over the airwaves to feed him. He was starving without her.
Rubbing his chest, he leaned down, scooped up the pieces of the broken phone and put them in a plastic bag, stuffing it into his opened ruck on the bed. For the first time in three years, he wanted the hell out of here. He wanted to be with Sierra. To finish what they’d started. Running his fingers through his neck-length, recently washed hair, Mace scowled around the quiet room. His mind felt like a rabid animal running around inside his skull. If Sierra thought she couldn’t think two thoughts without thinking of him, that meant she was always inside his head. The woman was like fog, stealing through his mind. Mace saw her everywhere. Anywhere. He’d see something in the jungle and then instantly recall a conversation they’d had. And his mind was like a trap; he remembered everything.
Prowling around the room, he felt restless and unsettled. Before he’d met Sierra, coming to Cusco consisted of hot showers, a helluva lot of sleep, getting drunk on pisco sours, chowing down on the best Peruvian food they could find. And then the cycle repeated itself every day, without any changes.
It was so damned easy for him to close his eyes, and picture holding Sierra, feeling her soft breasts pressed to his chest, the smell of her, the texture of her hair, the velvet warmth of her flesh. Shaking his head, Mace wondered if he was going crazy. Maybe he had been down here too long. Been too far away from civilization. From things like lace curtains. Or Sierra’s lean, beautiful body stretched out naked on that velvet quilt of hers. If she knew how many times a day he lapsed back into their short time together, she’d be shocked. But only when things were safe out in the jungle, did he allow those memories, those heart photographs he’d taken of her, to rise in front of him, to be cherished. To be loved.
Pacing, he felt alternately wanting to leap on a plane and head stateside to her, to wanting to run the exact opposite direction. He was scared in a way he never had been before and that was a mystery to Mace. What he felt terrified him. Hell, Kashnir terrified him. But he’d grown so used to that kind of fear it no longer had a hold over him, didn’t stop him from doing his job out in the jungle.
Sierra… even her name was like the sweet whisper of a breeze through him. She was like her namesake mountains in California: tall, tough, beautiful, ever-changing with light and seasons. He sat on the edge of the bed, wondering what she was wearing right now. He’d wanted to ask her. To describe it in detail, so hungry to see her again. Any small piece of information he could build a visual on of her was like gold to Mace. His heart twinged as he replayed her sobbing against him, gripping his t-shirt, as if she was going to be swept away from him. Or maybe she was clinging to him because he was an oak in her storm, solid and steady. She had come to him; he hadn’t pulled her into his arms.
Damn, the woman had a bigger set of balls on her than he did. She’d had the courage to crawl into his arms without asking. Because she’d known. Sierra had known he’d hold her, care for her, love her.
Hell.
Mace couldn’t name a time when he felt so damned agitated inwardly, as if his heart was about to rip out of his chest if he couldn’t at least hear Sierra’s low, timbered voice. Just the tone of it tamed him, soothed him and he’d never told her that. He hadn’t told her hardly anything. Except his heartache. And she’d sat there, her huge cypress-green eyes wide and glistening with unspilled tears as he’d told her everything. Sierra was unable to put on a game face. It wasn’t in her. What you saw, you got. Mace could read her so damned easily. He’d seen her compassion, saw it in the way her lips had parted, heard it in her softened voice. He’d never told anyone about that time in his life. A few of his team members knew, but they were men and it got buried with them. No one knew the grief. The amount he carried.
Until Sierra had dropped into his life. She just had some magical way of loosening up every last, miserable, grief-stricken experience he’d ever had. That’s all she knew about him though. The bad stuff. Nothing about his growing-up years, the fun things he and his brothers had done together. Or anything about his parents, who had doted upon them. Not once had he ever talked to her about something good that had happened in his life. And damn, he wanted to share that part of him with her, too.
