staring into his coffee cup. “We’re leaving in the morning.”
Just a few hours later, morning dawned bright and clear but the morning air carried a distinct October chill. Laurie stretched wearily under the thick blue comforter and shut off the annoying buzz of her alarm clock. Resisting the urge to roll over and go back to sleep, she slid out of bed to stand barefoot on the plush gray carpet. Bleary-eyed, she wondered why she felt as though she had not slept long enough. She had gone to bed at her usual time. She frowned, brief images of gun fights, terrorists, and soldiers flitting through her mind.
“What a weird dream.” She yawned and stretched away the lingering effects of sleep but could not chase the weariness. After Stacy left for school, she would catch a nap.
ALWAYS A WARRIOR Patricia Bruening
10
She dressed quickly in a gray sweatshirt and faded jeans as she shrugged off the vague memories of the odd dream. But she could not forget those compelling dark brown eyes. Just the memory of him looking at her, of that gentle finger on her face, his strong arms around her, sent pleasant tingles along her spine.
“Too bad he was just a dream,” she murmured as she tugged on socks and shoes. “A product of your vivid imagination.”
She dragged a brush through her hair, twisted the length into a ponytail, and dashed down the stairs. Stacy would be up soon wanting breakfast. Her foot hit the bottom step. Her casual glance swept the living room, and then jerked back and she stumbled to a halt.
The room was a disaster, the picture window and furnishings destroyed. Various holes yawned in the walls. Laurie clutched the corner of the wall and gaped at the destruction. Every vivid detail of the night before rushed back into her head. Her heart pounded in her throat and she swallowed hard.
“Shit,” she groaned, devastated, and looked around the room.
Her glance landed on a framed eight-by-ten picture that had fallen off the wall. Dazed, she deftly picked her way through the rubble to retrieve the photograph of her and Stacy on Stacy’s fifth birthday. Holding it in trembling hands, she gently blew off dust and glass fragments. Why? Who?
She knew. McAllister had told her. She did not want to believe it. Ordinary people in ordinary places did not have to deal with terrorists. The situation had all the earmarks of a movie-of-the-week. But it was real, and it was happening to her. Laurie frowned and, illogically, hung the picture on the wall and turned away. Damien McAllister stood in the living room entrance.
“It wasn’t just a dream,” she murmured, breathless, referring to the soldier as well as the destruction.
He said nothing, his gaze locked with hers. His eyes were as dark, as compelling, as she remembered. Her nerves tingled, sizzled. He made her very aware of being a woman as she took a step toward him. Glass crunched under her foot, snapped her back to reality. She stepped over what used to be a glass-topped coffee table and all but ran past him to the kitchen.
“Want some coffee?” she offered, keeping her voice carefully neutral as she passed him.
“I need some.”
McAllister stepped aside, not touching her. But her stomach fluttered in sensual awareness. His piercing stare seemed to bore into her skull as he followed her. He seated himself in the same chair he had used a few hours earlier, facing the kitchen and back doors. Of course, she realized. He wanted advance warning of intruders. A steaming cup of coffee sat in front of him.
Laurie poured herself a cup from the pot he had already made, lit a cigarette, and joined him at the table. Glancing at her ‘bodyguard’, she wondered idly if he had bothered to sleep at hall. He needed a shave and a shower, though the dark stubble made him sexy rather than scruffy. Unruly black hair was tousled around his head in a mass of waves her fingers itched to slide through. He still wore the same rumpled uniform but her mouth
Just a few hours later, morning dawned bright and clear but the morning air carried a distinct October chill. Laurie stretched wearily under the thick blue comforter and shut off the annoying buzz of her alarm clock. Resisting the urge to roll over and go back to sleep, she slid out of bed to stand barefoot on the plush gray carpet. Bleary-eyed, she wondered why she felt as though she had not slept long enough. She had gone to bed at her usual time. She frowned, brief images of gun fights, terrorists, and soldiers flitting through her mind.
“What a weird dream.” She yawned and stretched away the lingering effects of sleep but could not chase the weariness. After Stacy left for school, she would catch a nap.
ALWAYS A WARRIOR Patricia Bruening
10
She dressed quickly in a gray sweatshirt and faded jeans as she shrugged off the vague memories of the odd dream. But she could not forget those compelling dark brown eyes. Just the memory of him looking at her, of that gentle finger on her face, his strong arms around her, sent pleasant tingles along her spine.
“Too bad he was just a dream,” she murmured as she tugged on socks and shoes. “A product of your vivid imagination.”
She dragged a brush through her hair, twisted the length into a ponytail, and dashed down the stairs. Stacy would be up soon wanting breakfast. Her foot hit the bottom step. Her casual glance swept the living room, and then jerked back and she stumbled to a halt.
The room was a disaster, the picture window and furnishings destroyed. Various holes yawned in the walls. Laurie clutched the corner of the wall and gaped at the destruction. Every vivid detail of the night before rushed back into her head. Her heart pounded in her throat and she swallowed hard.
“Shit,” she groaned, devastated, and looked around the room.
Her glance landed on a framed eight-by-ten picture that had fallen off the wall. Dazed, she deftly picked her way through the rubble to retrieve the photograph of her and Stacy on Stacy’s fifth birthday. Holding it in trembling hands, she gently blew off dust and glass fragments. Why? Who?
She knew. McAllister had told her. She did not want to believe it. Ordinary people in ordinary places did not have to deal with terrorists. The situation had all the earmarks of a movie-of-the-week. But it was real, and it was happening to her. Laurie frowned and, illogically, hung the picture on the wall and turned away. Damien McAllister stood in the living room entrance.
“It wasn’t just a dream,” she murmured, breathless, referring to the soldier as well as the destruction.
He said nothing, his gaze locked with hers. His eyes were as dark, as compelling, as she remembered. Her nerves tingled, sizzled. He made her very aware of being a woman as she took a step toward him. Glass crunched under her foot, snapped her back to reality. She stepped over what used to be a glass-topped coffee table and all but ran past him to the kitchen.
“Want some coffee?” she offered, keeping her voice carefully neutral as she passed him.
“I need some.”
McAllister stepped aside, not touching her. But her stomach fluttered in sensual awareness. His piercing stare seemed to bore into her skull as he followed her. He seated himself in the same chair he had used a few hours earlier, facing the kitchen and back doors. Of course, she realized. He wanted advance warning of intruders. A steaming cup of coffee sat in front of him.
Laurie poured herself a cup from the pot he had already made, lit a cigarette, and joined him at the table. Glancing at her ‘bodyguard’, she wondered idly if he had bothered to sleep at hall. He needed a shave and a shower, though the dark stubble made him sexy rather than scruffy. Unruly black hair was tousled around his head in a mass of waves her fingers itched to slide through. He still wore the same rumpled uniform but her mouth
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