This admission only made her more upset. He said he cared about her, but he wasn’t willing to give the two of them a chance.
“Why won’t it work? Because you saw some terrible things in combat and have nightmares? I have nightmares, too, Zach. I lost everyone I loved in a single day. We all have our demons.”
He shook his head, his gray eyes going hard. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Forgetting her tea, she stood. “I thought you were the bravest man I ever met, but I guess I was wrong. You’re a big chicken, Zach McBride. You can face the scary stuff like torture, killers, and bullets, but when it comes to things that can’t really hurt you, like memories, like the past, you can’t stand your ground.”
Fighting another spell of dizziness, she hurried upstairs to her bedroom, shutting the door behind her.
ZACH WALKED UPSTAIRS toward Natalie’s room to check on her. It had been a good three hours since she’d dropped that bomb in his lap and disappeared. At first he’d been mad as hell and glad for the space. Then suppertime had come and gone without a sound from her, and he’d begun to worry that perhaps she wasn’t sulking.
Head injuries had a bad way of surprising people.
He rapped with a knuckle on her door. “Natalie?”
No response.
He grasped the doorknob and quietly opened the door. And there she was—lying on her side, sound asleep on her bed. He took a few silent steps, moving closer, wanting to see for himself that she was breathing. And she was. Her lips were parted, her breathing deep and even, her dark hair fanned out behind her. He exhaled, relieved, then noticed the tearstains on her cheeks.
Aw, hell.
The angry storm that had roiled around inside him all evening ebbed, and he found himself wanting to lie down beside her and hold her until she woke up. But he couldn’t do that, not if he wanted to be able to live with himself afterward. Instead, he stood there, watching her sleep, an ache in his chest that wouldn’t go away.
ZACH HAD JUST finished his morning briefing with Rowan and was making himself an omelet when he heard Natalie coming down the stairs.
She shuffled into the kitchen, looking tousled and confused, the flannel of her purple plaid pajamas wrinkled. She stared at the clock, then looked at him. “Did I just sleep sixteen hours—or just four?”
“It’s tomorrow.” Surly from lack of sleep—and lack of progress in finding Quintana—he said nothing more.
He’d had another nightmare last night, worse than before. It had started out in Afghanistan like it always did, but then he’d found himself in Mexico, forced to watch while Quintana mauled and tortured Natalie, her screams turning his blood to ice. He’d woken, chilled to the bone and craving a bottle of Jack, but the loft was dry as a nunnery. So he’d made his way to the gym, gone for a punishing uphill run on the treadmill until he’d gotten the dry heaves. Then he’d showered and tried to sleep, but couldn’t.
He found it strange that he was having nightmares while on assignment. Usually, work kept the dreams at bay. Maybe those six days of torture had done a number on his already fucked-up mind. Or maybe being near Natalie was throwing him off balance. Either way, he needed to get a grip.
Natalie made her way past him to the fridge, opened it, looked through the offerings inside. “It looks like someone already made groceries.”
Okay, McBride, you have to admit that was damned adorable.
Hell, yeah, it was. You could take the woman out of New Orleans, but you couldn’t take New Orleans out of the woman.
Some of his dark mood lifted. “You want an omelet?”
She shut the fridge door and peered into the skillet, where sliced ham, green pepper, onion, and mushrooms simmered in a bed of scrambled egg. “That looks yummy. I don’t want to take it if it’s yours.”
“I’ll make another one.” He flipped the omelet in half, then turned it over. “Coffee’s already brewed.”
She poured herself a cup, then added milk and sugar. By the time she’d put the milk away, her omelet was done. He slid it onto a plate, carried it to the little breakfast nook together with a fork, then went back to chopping ham and veggies for his own.
“Toast?” He grabbed a loaf of whole wheat.
“Yes, please. And thanks.”
He popped two slices in the toaster, then grabbed three more eggs from the refrigerator and cracked them into a bowl, tossing the shells into the sink.
“You said you looked through my files.” She hadn’t sat down to eat yet, but stood across the kitchen from him, coffee mug in hand.
“I glanced through them. I didn’t have time to study them.”
“I could go through them with you if you like. They might make better sense that way. I can’t fathom how they could be tied to the Zetas in any way, but if you think it’s important . . .”