More Than Friends (The Warriors) Read online

  He joined her at the table, unfolded his napkin, and placed it across his lap. "I’d call it encouraging."

  "Perhaps." The single word was her only concession as she ran her fingertip across the backs of the photos she’d placed facedown on the table beside her plate. "Even though I didn’t recognize anything in my luggage, I felt like I knew what I was looking for as I got dressed this morning."

  He reached out and clasped her free hand, his need to reassure her intensifying the darkness of his gaze and tightening his jaw. He saw her surprise in her widening eyes and the flush that tinted her cheeks. When he felt the faint tremors that shook her fingers, he sensed that she, too, was remembering what they’d shared just before dawn.

  "Your instincts are taking over. That’s the first step, Leah. Don’t fight the process. Just let yourself roll with it."

  She withdrew her hand from his grasp and picked up her knife and fork. "I’m trying."

  He watched her, his gaze steady. Tension rose up inside him when she suddenly let her silverware fall from her fingers. Leah sank back in her chair, her expressive features troubled.

  "Talk to me," he urged.

  She studied him for a long moment. "You’re very protective of me. When someone knocks on the door, you tell me to stay put. Last night I thought it was funny, but now I get the oddest feeling that you’re trying to shield me from something or someone. Why?"

  "I care about you. If our positions were reversed, I’d like to think you’d feel protective of me."

  "As a friend?"

  He heard the edge in her voice, not just her disbelief. "As a friend," he agreed calmly. "Let’s declare a truce, why don’t we? I’m not the enemy."

  "Is a friendship all you want from me?"

  "That’s an unfair question right now."

  "I don’t think it is, but I can’t force you to say things you don’t want to say. Fair warning, though, because I intend to keep asking that particular question until I get a decent answer."

  Sighing in obvious frustration, she straightened in her chair and reached for a blueberry muffin from the basket in the center of the table.

  "Leah…" he began.

  She shook her head. "Don’t! Do not say a word. Just listen." When he nodded, she continued. "I apologize for trying to back you into a corner. The stress of not remembering anything about our relationship or my life is really getting to me. I know I sound suspicious and paranoid. I don’t mean to, but I can’t help it."

  "Apology accepted." Aware that she had every right in the world to be suspicious of him, Brett picked up the carafe and refilled both coffee cups.

  As if by mutual agreement, they concentrated on their food. Brett silently applauded Leah’s enthusiastic consumption of her meal as he grew relaxed enough to enjoy the companionable calm they shared while they ate.

  "Perfection," she announced twenty minutes later. After blotting her lips with her napkin, she poured herself a cup of coffee. "Absolute perfection. So, do I always eat like a farmer about to spend the day doing hard labor in his fields, or is this something new?"

  Brett smiled. For such a petite woman, Leah had the appetite of a prize fighter four times her size. "It’s definitely not new. The scientific community would probably love to study your metabolism. You’ve been like this for as long as I’ve known you." He reached for the last muffin in the basket.

  Leah met his gaze, curiosity lighting her eyes. "And how long is that?"

  "About eight years. Your brother introduced us."

  "My brother?"

  "Micah Holbrook."

  "One of the Vikings?" she asked, her tone speculative.

  His smile faded, surprised that she’d chosen the call–sign Micah used when sending classified message traffic to the Pentagon brass or to the various intel teams. "That’s a pretty good description of Micah, Jake, and Gavin, as well as your father."

  She grinned. "I actually have three brothers?"

  He smiled back at her when he saw her delight. "And two sisters. Carrie and Diana. Micah’s the oldest of the Holbrook tribe, and you’re fourth in line."

  She extracted one of the pictures from the stack beside her plate and handed it to Brett. "When did this wedding take place?"

  When we were still together, he remembered, his smile departing as he glanced at the photo. When we were happy. He managed to bite back the words.

  "Quite a long time ago. Diana, the bride, has five–year–old twin boys now. You and Carrie were her bridesmaids. Your brothers were ushers." He returned the photograph to her, aware of how precious family memorabilia of any kind had always been to her.

  "You’re wearing a tux in the picture, so I assume you were in the wedding party, too."

  "That’s right. Your parents always made me feel like part of the family."

  "Are they alive?"

  "Your folks? Yes, of course."

  "And all those brothers and sisters I don’t remember?"

  "Absolutely. No worries, alright? I’d tell you."

  "Thank you," she whispered.

  After a long moment, she handed a second photograph to Brett. Their fingertips brushed. Leah sucked in a breath, her gaze shifting to his face. He peered back at her, pretending he hadn’t felt the hot spark that had just passed between them.

  "My parents?" she confirmed, her voice sounding very nearly breathless.

  Brett recalled that unique sound more clearly than he wanted. He ached just thinking about what it would be like to hear her whispered words of pleasure as their bodies merged and she wrapped her arms and legs around him.

  "Yes, your parents."

  He returned the photograph to Leah. She resumed her study of their faces, preoccupied enough, he hoped, not to notice that his hunger for her was close to disabling him.

  "Their names are Helene and Martin Holbrook," he told her.

  She looked up from the photo. "Are they as nice as they look?"

  "Even more so. They’re still in love with each other, and it shows. They adore their children and grandchildren. They’ve always reminded me of two sides of the same coin. Unique individuals, but permanently mated."

  "I look like my mother, don’t I?"

  "All the girls in the family resemble Helene." Brett grinned. "But she’s a very even tempered woman."

  "And I’m not?" she asked, bristling a little.

  "No, you’re not. But then, neither are your sisters."

  She glared at him.

  He smiled and then dealt with her annoyance. "You tend to be self–contained until you’re pushed too hard. Then, you do a pretty good imitation of an explosive device."

  "Lovely," she muttered.

  "It doesn’t happen that often." He chuckled. "What do you think of yourself so far?"

  "I honestly don’t know what to think, especially since you’ve just told me I have the temperament of a grenade."

  Leaning forward, he rested his forearms on the edge of the table. "Shall I tell you what I think of you, Leah Holbrook?" He knew the instant the words passed his lips that he was tempting fate.

  Leah frowned, but then her curiosity got the best of her. "Bring it on."

  "You’re one of the most unique women I’ve ever known. You’re sensitive and loving and fiercely loyal. You may have a temper, but you control it. I doubt that you’ve ever intentionally hurt anyone in your entire life. You just don’t have it in you to be cruel to people."

  "And I’m being nominated for sainthood when?"

  He grinned.

  "You look way too satisfied with yourself right now." She tossed her napkin at him.

  He caught the square of fabric and set it aside.

  "One more," she said, using the tip of a fingernail to nudge the last photograph in his direction.

  His expression sobered as he caught sight of the shot of several children gathered around Leah as they all sat atop a picnic table. "This one must be from the Yellowstone camping trip."

  He couldn’t drag his eyes from the face of his
son. Several moments passed before he met Leah’s gaze.

  "Why do you look so sad?" she asked.

  He wanted to say, I’m sad because I’m missing my son’s life. Instead, he offered, "This was taken last summer at the official Holbrook family reunion. Everyone except Micah…" and yours truly, he amended silently. "…managed to attend."

  "The children. Do I know them all?"

  Yellow caution flags waved in his mind. "Of course, although there are a few strays in the group, but most are Holbrook grandchildren," he confirmed.

  She looked at him, frustration and hope in her expression. "They look like good kids."

  He nodded. "They are."

  She admitted, "When I studied this particular photo earlier, I thought I recognized one of them."

  "What about now?" He took care to keep his voice even and his emotions under wraps. He wasn’t ready to talk about their son, and he knew it would serve no purpose other than to cause Leah additional anxiety.

  She shook her head. "It wasn’t a clear memory… just the nagging feeling that I should know them, especially the little boy with the dark hair and eyes."

  Brett felt his heart stop beating for a moment. "It won’t be long before you’re able to put names to all of their faces, so don’t torture yourself."

  "I have every intention of figuring it all out," she informed him before she made a tidy stack of the photographs and reclaimed her coffee cup. "What do I do?"

  Relieved to be off the subject of children, Brett answered, "You’re the co–owner of a flower shop in Monterey, you do volunteer work with a veterans group, and you own an old Victorian house that you’ve spent the last four years restoring."

  She looked startled. "All that? When do I sleep?"

  He smiled. "I’ve often asked myself the same question. You’ve always had more energy than any ten people I know."

  "Is the flower shop successful? Who’s my partner?"

  "Very successful. Sarah Kelly’s your partner. She was your roommate at college. She’s a widow. Her husband was an Army Ranger. He died on a mission six months after their wedding. You and Sarah have made quite a success of the business, even in spite of the downturn in the economy in recent years. You have contracts with some of the major hotels, resorts, and restaurants in the Monterey area, in addition to the normal walk–in business any flower shop does."

  Brett spoke with the ease of a man who’d devoured and memorized every detail about the life of the woman he loved. Thanks to Micah’s close relationship with his younger sister, he read the emails she frequently sent to her big brother. He also saw every photograph and video of their son, and he listened to recordings of the weekly conversation the two siblings routinely shared whenever Micah wasn’t involved in a covert mission.

  He knew Micah’s loyalty was primarily to Leah and her child. Despite the temporary rift caused between the two men when he’d learned of her pregnancy, Micah had accepted Brett’s decision to remain apart from her, and he had become the conduit that allowed Brett to know his son and to assure Leah’s ability to raise him without any financial worries. Not the ideal situation, by any means, but it helped him to feel like less of a bastard.

  "I don’t remember Sarah Kelly," she admitted.

  "Give it time. You will."

  She sighed. "Let’s hope so."

  "What else?" he prompted.

  She focused on his face. "I assume I have a cell phone. Do you have it?"

  "No."

  "It’s not in my purse."

  "Probably misplaced somewhere between your house and the clinic last night." He tried to sound casual when he asked, "Any address or email contact data in your phone?"

  She shrugged. "I don’t have a clue."

  He made mental note to have one of his people check her property. With luck, her cell phone might still be in the house.

  "Is there a man in my life? I mean, a man in Monterey?" she clarified.

  "No, there isn’t."

  "I wonder why." She pinned him with a probing stare. "Do you know why?"

  He shifted in his chair, trying to figure out a way in which to answer her. He knew better than to say, I hurt you when I walked out on you. You haven’t trusted anyone with your emotions since then. Part of me’s glad, because maybe I’ll get another chance with you, but another part of me’s sad that you’ve had to face so much on your own.

  "Do you, Brett?"

  "That’s not a question I can answer. You’ve never said why you don’t date, and I’ve never asked because I felt I’d be intruding on your privacy." He paused for a moment, carefully considering his next comment. "You’re very independent, Leah. You always have been. You also have a lot of responsibilities. I can only assume you’ve chosen not to complicate your life with a personal relationship."

  "Perhaps it’s something simpler. Maybe I got burned and decided to swear off the opposite sex altogether," she speculated.

  "Maybe," he conceded, his voice tighter than an over–wound spring and his expression closed.

  Leah frowned. "Your voice has gone flat, and you look kind of gray. Why?"

  He mustered a tense smile. "You’re mistaken."

  She suddenly went very still, an expression of disbelief on her face. Her tone gentle and nonjudgmental, she asked, "Are you gay?"

  Brett laughed. "No, I’m not gay."

  "Oh. Good. Glad to hear it. Do you like me?"

  He suspected that she actually meant, do you want me the way a man wants a woman? "Very much."

  "You said we aren’t lovers. Not now, anyway."

  He groaned inwardly, because her curiosity was justified and he loathed lying to her. "Leah, that’s not an experience a man would forget, especially with you. You’re a beautiful and desirable woman."

  She jumped to her feet, declaring in the process, "Well, I’m obviously a very frustrated one, too! I feel like I’m on fire when you touch me. Just being knee–to–knee at this table makes me want you. You keep telling me we’re just friends, but I do not believe you. I think we’re much more than friends." She stopped her pacing as abruptly as she’d begun it and whirled to face him. "I’m losing my damn mind. My God, do you think I’ll want to jump every man I trip over until I get my memory back?"

  In the process of taking a sip of coffee, Brett swallowed wrong and choked. He grabbed his napkin, covering his mouth as he struggled to contain his laughter. His humor burst free in spite of his effort to smother it.

  "This isn’t funny!" she exclaimed. "There’s obviously something very wrong with me, aside from my headache and bruises that make me look as though I have a second career as a punching bag."

  Concerned about her agitation, his humor faded. When she returned to her chair and sank down onto it, he leaned forward and covered her hand. "Relax. There’s nothing wrong with you that a few days of rest and relaxation and some patience won’t solve. Besides, your headache’s sure to get worse if you don’t settle down."

  She shot him a baleful look as she took a calming breath. Brett gently stroked the back of her hand before he wove their fingers together.

  A few minutes later, he asked, "Better now?"

  Leah nodded. "I like it when you touch me. I like it a lot."

  He missed neither her belligerent tone nor her mutinous facial expression. And he savored her comment, because he was certain she would never have made such an admission under normal circumstances. The look on her face also informed him that she expected him to contradict her. But he didn’t correct or chastise her. He couldn’t.

  "For the record, you’re right about the chemistry between us. It’s always been there."

  "Then I’m not crazy?"

  "No crazier than I am, because I’ve always felt the pull between us," he admitted, glad for the chance to speak the truth.

  "Can’t we do something about it?" she whispered.

  He shook his head, his denial of the hunger for her he’d felt for so many years automatic. "Your job right now is to reclaim your memories and yo
ur life. My job is to help you. There’s no time or space for anything else, Leah. If you’re honest with yourself, you’ll admit I’m right." He clasped her hand more securely when she tried to draw back from him. "We both know you’re reaching out to me for the wrong reasons. If you want me when you have your identity back, I’m yours, but not until then. If I take you into my bed and we make love, I don’t want to be remembered as a mistake in judgment. That happened to me once, a long time ago. I won’t allow it to happen again."

  Leah nodded, eased free of his grasp, and got up from her chair.

  Brett watched her slowly walk to the bedroom door, pause, and then glance over her shoulder. After staring at him for a long moment, she disappeared from sight. He remained seated at the table, the food in his stomach turning to lumps of stone as the sound of Leah’s bedroom door being closed echoed in the now too quiet sitting room of their suite.

  And, yet again, he felt shut out of her life. He loathed the all too familiar feeling.

  5

  Leah retreated to the privacy of her bedroom, her thoughts and emotions in turmoil. She spent the ensuing hours searching the dark corners of her mind for her past, studying the photographs she’d found in her wallet, and reflecting on her attraction to Brett.

  Unable to sit still, she alternated between bursts of pacing and short naps, but she found neither comfort nor answers in either endeavor. Leah stayed in her bedroom for the rest of the day, throughout the night, and well into the next day, emerging only once to share a silent evening meal with Brett in the sitting room. His patience with her self–imposed isolation surprised her.

  Grateful that he didn’t seem to expect an explanation of her behavior during their meal or when he periodically checked on her, Leah concentrated on summoning the strength to accept the reality that she might have to face the future without ever regaining any knowledge of her past. She knew that people the world over faced greater tragedies on a daily basis, but that knowledge didn’t lessen her fear. Praying that she wasn’t deluding herself, she lost count of the number of times she assured herself that she possessed the ability to confront the unknown.

  Her longing for Brett also refused to remain at bay. If anything, it escalated with each passing hour. She both appreciated and resented his restraint. He was, she realized almost grudgingly, a man of conscience—a man who refused to use a woman simply to satisfy a sexual need, a man honest enough to admit that he didn’t want to be used, either.