SEAL Under Siege. Liz JohnsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
even know your first name?”
His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. The last time a woman had tried so hard to get his first name, the first use she’d made of it had been to ask him out on the date that started a one-year-long relationship. She’d said his name so sweetly before she’d kissed him, slow and thorough.
That last time.
Before he’d boarded a transport and left her all by herself.
But Staci wasn’t Robin. And she certainly wouldn’t be kissing him. If there wasn’t a first, then there couldn’t be a last kiss.
“Tristan. But hardly anyone calls me that.”
“Why not?”
He put his hands on his hips, still squinting up at her from the bottom of the steps. “They just don’t. Everyone on the team has a nickname, and we use them.”
“All right.” She took a breath then quickly added, “L.T.,” as if it were an afterthought. And for a split second he wished she’d called him by his real name. “Thank you.”
She waved the envelope again, and he jogged toward his truck, suddenly eager to be away from the woman who made him think about memories that were best forgotten.
* * *
Staci left her cereal bowl on the kitchen counter at the sound of the doorbell, pulling the belt of her robe tighter around her waist as she shuffled toward the front door. Peering through the windows on both sides of the entry, she confirmed that her tiny porch was empty before unlocking the deadbolt and opening the door just enough to look into the morning sun.
The delivery man must have run back to his truck, leaving only a package by the front mat. As she bent to pick it up, every muscle in her body screamed. She groaned against the pain in her ribs and chest as her muscles flexed and tightened.
Wasn’t she supposed to be feeling better? Three days was plenty of time to recover from a car accident that didn’t even break her skin. Right?
She hefted the box, nearly dropping the unexpected weight and falling right alongside it.
Maybe three days wasn’t quite long enough.
Another try boasted better results, and she held the package against her stomach to ease the pressure on her strained back as she pushed the door closed behind her. Setting the brown paper-wrapped package on her counter, she spied the return label.
From Rebecca Meyers.
Why was her sister, Becca, sending her a package when they’d seen each other a week ago? And why had she spelled out her whole name? They’d been calling each other by their first initials since she was ten. Even now, B’s kids called her Auntie S. And even if she were going to use her name instead of her initial, Becca had never actually gone by Rebecca.
Her stomach lurched and she pressed a hand to it, suddenly uninterested in the cereal still floating in its milk.
Staci pushed the package toward the far end of the counter, staring hard at the brown paper bag used to wrap the box. Hadn’t B given up paper and plastic in favor of more environmentally friendly reusable bags?
So many things about this weren’t right.
She grabbed her phone and punched in her sister’s phone number. After four rings, B’s melodic voice singsonged, “This is Becca Meyers. Sorry I missed you. You know what to do, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
“Hey, B. It’s just me. Just...um...” No cause to scare her sister. Nope. She could handle this. “Just wanted to tell you that I love you. Talk to you later.”
As she pressed the end button on her phone, her gaze flicked toward the white envelope stuck to the refrigerator, and her heart skipped a beat at the very thought of calling Tristan—L.T.
What if the box on her counter was nothing? Then she’d look stupid for taking up his time with something ridiculous. But then, what if it was something dangerous?
She backed up until she bumped into the kitchen island and then swung around that. Putting the waist-high counter between her and the package wasn’t enough, so she kept going, hoping she might suddenly get X-ray vision if she tried hard enough.
No such luck.
After a five-minute showdown with the box, she doubled her fists beneath her chin, took a deep breath and stepped back toward the counter. She’d never know what was inside if she didn’t open it.
The paper was thick and coarse as she picked it back up. And set it right back down, her heart thumping and ears ringing.
“You’re being silly.” She meant to encourage herself, but it backfired.
She’d been held hostage, had overheard a plot to blow up something and been run off the road. If being silly meant being cautious about the chance of danger, then this was the time for silliness.
Snatching the envelope from the fridge, she punched the numbers into her phone. On the second ring: “L.T.”
“This is Staci.” She quickly added, “Hayes. Staci Hayes.”
She could almost hear the sigh in his voice and see the sag in his shoulders. “What can I do for you?”
“Someone dropped a box off on my front porch this morning, and it has my sister’s return address. But I don’t think she sent it.”
“Why not?”
“She used her whole name.”
“Her whole name?” His tone clearly asked “Are you serious?” even if his words didn’t.
Of course she was serious. “We’ve always gone by nicknames, but the return address has her whole name on it. And it’s wrapped in a brown paper bag, which she’d never use.”
“How big is the box?” His voice picked up like she had his attention.
She held her hand along the side of the box. “About eight inches by eight inches.”
He must have pressed his hand over his phone, but she could still hear his words as he leaned away from it. “Willie G., get Zig and River and the bomb kit. Meet me at my truck in two minutes.”
Her stomach dropped and she scrambled back, tripping over her own feet to get out of the kitchen and away from the unknown threat. Her phone fell from limp fingers and bounced on the hardwood floor.
It squawked at her as her gaze shifted back and forth between the brown box and her black phone. She didn’t have to pick it up. She could just run. Get out of the house and call the police.
Or she could stick around and figure out who was behind her car accident and the most recent unwelcome gift.
Scooping up her phone was as painful as picking up the bomb had been. Whether from the bruise across her sternum or the rush of blood to her head, every one of her muscles throbbed.
“Staci? Are you still there?” L.T. sounded impatient.
“I dropped my phone.”
“Listen.” His tone turned softer than she’d ever heard it, yet he was still completely in control. “I need you to stay calm. Put as much distance as possible between you and that box. But do not go outside.”
She glanced down at her ratty robe. “Why?”
“Do you remember when I got you out of Lybania, and I told you to do everything I said without question?”
She nodded, her gaze still locked on the special delivery.
“Stay with me. You’ve got to do the same thing now. Trust me. We’ll be there in twenty minutes. Just go into your bathroom, close the door and get into the bathtub.”
“All right.” Her throat refused to swallow, dry and tight. “Twenty minutes?”
“Nineteen.”