Her Reluctant Warrior

PAUL

Each step in the sand causes the muscles in his legs to burn with fatigue even more, but damned if he’s going to stop or slow down.

One foot in front of the other until he reaches the finish line, preferably ahead of Dirk, the twentysomething asswipe racing beside him, fresh from BUD/S.

Old man, my ass.

He reaches his tractor tire first, grabs the edge and flips it end over end, twice. He jumps over it and continues the race on the sand.

From the corner of his eye, he notes Dirk catching up alongside him. Just ahead, the finish line. He pushes it, using the last of his reserve.

Reaching the line, he sits on the awaiting blanket and begins assembling his rifle with Dirk beside him, maybe a half a second behind. Muscle memory takes over from thought.

Weapon assembled, he drops on the blanket almost at the same time as Dirk, takes aim, and fires at the target down the line, hitting it dead in the center.

“Whoo-wee, old man. You almost lost that one. The young’un here almost handed you your ass.”

Paul resists the urge to call Red names. Setting the rifle down, he sits back up. His cool gaze turns to Dirk. “Close, but not close enough.”

“I’ll take second, next to the great Paul Ryan.”

“Ass kisser,” Red laughs. “That won’t get you anywhere in this group.”

“It’ll get him to the next race.” Paul stands and brushes the sand off his knees. “Red, you’re up.”

Red jumps to his feet. “Now you’re in for it, Fish Bait.”

“Hey, Ryan!”

Paul turns around to find Mick running up to him. He stops and takes a deep breath. “You need to get your ass back to the compound. You’ve been called into Commander Evans’s office.”

“What the hell did you do now?” Red asks, hands on his hips.

Damned if he knows. Instead of answering, Paul takes off at a run down the beach. Getting called in is never good. Making the man wait—suicide.

***

No time to change. No time to get the sand off his uniform. No time to think about what the hell he might have done to get called in.

He brushes the sand from his arms as he makes his way down the hall as fast as he can without running.

You don’t get called into the lieutenant commander’s office unless you’ve fucked up big-time. Normally, he just finds you, chews your ass, and gets it over with. No muss, no fuss.

Reaching the office areas, he slows down. The last thing he needs is a reprimand for running through the halls. His anxiety rises with each step.

What the hell did he do? Nothing as far as he knows. Five turns and a million years later, he reaches the door at the end, knocks, and stands at attention while he waits.

“Get in here, Ryan.”

Shit…

He opens the door and steps in. He notes Joe leaning against the wall beside Evans but doesn’t comment. Instead, he salutes. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Yes, Ryan. Have a seat.”

His current tone doesn’t match the one from five seconds ago. Confused, he sits down as instructed and looks between Joe and Evans.

From the expression on Joe’s face, he won’t like whatever the man has to tell him.

Loud throat clearing, then Evans says, “Ryan, we have received a request that we are not in the position to turn down.”

“It’s bullshit,” Joe growls.

“It is bullshit, but we follow orders.”

Paul arches an eyebrow. “Orders, sir?”

Evans pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes.

Paul’s anxiety rises. Whatever it is, it can’t be good.

Evans settles back into his chair and opens his eyes. “Rear Admiral Quinn received a call from Senator O’Connell, one of the men controlling the navy’s budget.

“Apparently, O’Connell is friends with a Mr. Jackson King, whose sister-in-law you hauled out of that shithole a few months back. I believe you babysat her the entire ride back to the base.”

It wasn’t a night he’s going to forget any time soon. He’s thought about it often over the past few months. Paul confirms his guess. “Emily Taylor?”

“Yes. She’s staying with the Kings as she recovers. They have…requested…that you either drive or fly up to Baltimore to meet with her, and they will cover your expenses.”

Speechless, Paul turns his attention to Joe. His teammate shakes his head, his jaw moving as if he’s grinding his teeth, but his lips are clamped shut.

Facing his commanding officer, Paul asks, “Why?”

“You made quite the impression on Miss Taylor. The Kings are insistent on meeting with you, and Admiral Quinn has ordered you to do so. Clear your schedule, Ryan. You’re going to Baltimore.”

***

Yawning, Paul glances at the clock on the dashboard. It’s been over five hours since he left Norfolk. He stopped midway for breakfast, but that was a couple of hours ago.

He picks up his travel mug and takes a sip of cold coffee. He deliberates about stopping at a service station somewhere. Take a quick break and stretch his legs. Maybe get some fresh coffee.

He abandons the idea almost immediately. He needs to get there and get this bullshit assignment over with so he can haul ass back to the base.

He should have taken them up on the offer to fly in. He would have already been there and on his way back home by now.

However, he couldn’t stand the thought of being stuck at their mercy. This way, he has his truck and can take off at any time. Truth to tell, he needed the time to calm down.

A meet and greet. What the fuck? What happened to being invisible? They do their jobs, and they don’t talk about it. They stay out of the public eye, and they don’t do meet and greets.

Fury still burns in his veins at being made a sacrificial lamb. Joe’s last words echo in his brain. “Make the admiral happy. Go make nice. Smile, chitchat, then get the fuck out of there.”

He notes the signs for Interstate 795 coming up. He’s close. Maybe another fifteen to twenty minutes to Lutherville-Timonium and the King estate. Fifteen to twenty minutes too damn long.

He resists the urge to step on the gas pedal to speed it up.

Hell, given his present mood, he better make a pit stop. If he goes into that house the way he’s feeling, he might end up in prison.

He notes a sign for a gas station and takes the exit. Stop, refuel so he can head straight for home when he’s done playing nice, take a walk, and get his ass under control.

***

Anytime now. Paul glances to the left at another large, expensive house. Third or fourth one he’s seen since turning on Hillstead Drive.

The voice from his GPS tells him to turn right, and he finds himself on a long paved driveway lined with evergreen trees.

“You have arrived at your destination.”

Fan-fucking-tastic.

He pulls into the circular drive and stops near the front door. He leans forward to look at the mammoth home through the windshield.

It’s a two-story Victorian-era house of red brick and stone with more windows than one house ever needs and a large double door at the front entry. A large turret to the left draws his gaze.

The thing breathes old money.

Christ, what the hell am I doing here?

Taking a deep breath, he climbs out of his truck. He pauses to check his surroundings and stops when he spots a man near the bushes watching him.

He notes the weapon in his shoulder harness and the walkie-talkie in his hand. He gives the man a nod and heads up the front steps.

Stopping in front of the massive white doors, he leans over and rings the doorbell, then waits. He glances down at his blue button-down oxford shirt and black jeans.

Perhaps he should have dressed a little better. The next minute, his mind rejects it. He’s not here to make a good impression. Hell, he wouldn’t be here at all if he had a say in the matter.

The door opens to reveal a woman in a maid’s uniform.

Figures.

“May I help you?”

“I’m Paul Ryan. I believe Mrs. King is expecting me.”

She pulls the door open wider. “Yes, please come in, Mr. Ryan.”

Paul steps into the entryway, and his discomfort climbs. The place reminds him of a museum.

Expensive pictures on the walls, a Greek statue in the corner, a large round table in the center of the room with a crystal vase filled with fragrant flowers, and a grand staircase that leads up to the second level.

The whole place screams class, charm, and intimidation.

“Follow me, please.”

Walking behind the diminutive woman, he continues to notice his surroundings. Must be nice to have money to burn on such worthless stuff.

He follows the maid down a hallway and across the house until she stops in front of a closed door and knocks.

“Enter.”

The maid nods toward the door, then turns and walks away.

Paul opens the door and walks inside. As he crosses the room, his eyes travel over a large mahogany desk that must have taken four men to move.

A woman’s voice reaches him before he spots Evelyn King standing by a floor-to-ceiling window. An identical face, but that’s where the resemblance to Emily ends.

She’s dressed in a sharp black suit with her red hair up in a style Paul has always associated with power bitches. Some might call her intimidating.

She presses a button on the headset attached to her ear and disconnects her call. She approaches him, her gaze moving over him, “So, you’re the Navy SEAL that saved my sister.”

A cultured tone with distinct enunciation. She even sounds like a power bitch.

Paul crosses his arms. “One of them. It was a team effort.”

“Perhaps. But you’re the only one Emily remembers. Therefore, you’re the only one that matters.” Her head tips to the side as she assesses him. “Which team are you on? Six?”

He doesn’t answer her beyond saying, “Why do I think you already know?”

She gives him an enigmatic smile.

He doesn’t like her already. Trying to keep calm, he demands, “Why am I here?”

Evelyn leans against the front of her desk. “My sister needs help. Emily hasn’t been able to deal with everything that happened.

“Three months with the best therapist money can buy, and she still wakes up every night screaming.”

She looks down at the floor. “I made the mistake of trying to take her out to lunch a week ago. I thought it might help to get her out of the house.

“She had a complete breakdown in the middle of the restaurant. It will be a long time before I can return to Henrik’s.”

He refrains from making a comment about the restaurant outing. “I’m not a therapist.”

She has a glimmer of a sarcastic smile as she looks up. “No, but you have seen things. You can relate to Emily in a way that damn therapist never can.”

“Relate…” Paul shakes his head and drops his arms to his sides. “Beyond that night, I’ve never spoken to your sister. How can I relate to her?”

“At least, she relates to you.”

He finds that hard to believe. “How so?”

“Your name has come up in her therapy sessions.”

“My name?”

“Yes.” She stops and rubs her temples. “She said the only time she felt safe since she was kidnapped was those hours she spent with you.”

He doesn’t even know how to reply to that. He shrugs. “She was surrounded by an entire squad of armed SEALs. That might have had something to do with it.”

Her hand drops away as she glares at him. “Oh, please. She doesn’t talk about your damn squad. Just you.” She stands and walks toward him. “I will do anything to help my sister.”

“Including blackmailing the whole damn navy.”

He shouldn’t have said it, but he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

He receives another smile, this one less sarcastic, but still cool and confident. “I did say anything.”

Something about this woman irritates him in a way he can’t put his finger on. He glares back at her. “Look, I don’t know what you expect me to do. I’m a sailor, not a therapist.”

Her eyebrow arches at him. “Talk to Emily. That is all I ask.”