He shifted his gaze to the little girl. Stacy was a perfect copy of her mother. She had the same long dark hair and graceful walk. At the moment she clung to her mother and stared at the ground, obviously scared. Damien thought of his own two children, then banished the ALWAYS A WARRIOR Patricia Bruening
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accompanying ache in his heart. He glanced at the house then back at Laurie Crawford standing in front of him, shaking her head. She shivered in the cool autumn air and her face turned red.
His gaze dropped involuntarily to her hardened nipples, prominent beneath the flimsy T-shirt. He blinked and lifted his gaze to hers.
“Neal! Get a blanket!” he called to his second in command without looking away from her.
“Let’s have it.” She lifted her chin and faced him squarely, her hand fisted on her hip.
“What the hell is going on here?”
“Not now,” he muttered and deliberately focused on the house. Six of his men carried three bodies, all in black, out the door. One squirmed slightly and moaned. The other two remained still. The ski masks had been removed. Out the corner of his eye, Damien noted that she stared at them without even a flicker of recognition.
“A-are those two men d-dead?”
“Yes,” Damien replied coldly, meeting her curious stare without hesitation.
“What are you going to do with us?” she demanded and her eyes went wide with fright as she pulled Stacy closer.
“Nothing,” he shot back, startled. Why would she think he intended her harm? Was the woman stupid? Or was she just shaken up? He shook his head in disgust.
Abruptly pulling the blanket closer around her, she turned to lead Stacy back into the house. Damien halted her with a firm grasp of her upper arm. He deliberately ignored the soft warmth under his fingers but it took some effort. She merely looked at the ground.
“You can’t go inside yet,” he told her, his voice low but firm. “My men are still searching.”
She shot him a puzzled glance of protest. “But they carried everyone out.”
“Bombs,” he answered calmly. “Or anything else they might have left behind.”
He fixed his steady stare on her. Her expression went from shocked confusion to fury in the blink of an eye. Her emerald eyes flashed fire.
“Bombs!” The word exploded from her, followed by rapid questions. “What is going on here? Why would there be a bomb in my house? Who were those men? Why are you here?”
Ignoring her furious battery of questions, Damien only looked around the area. Neighbors and a few media representatives formed a half-circle in the street. The low buzz of scattered voices hummed in the night air. Damien shifted his gaze back to Laurie. She appeared unaware of the speculative glances and outright stares, the people around her, as two of his men kept the crowd under control. She only stared at her house.
Two men fastened a huge sheet of sturdy rigid plastic over the window and another replaced the door on its hinges. Only minutes passed before two men exited the house and declared it clean. Damien nodded acknowledgement but heard Laurie’s sigh of relief as she led her daughter inside.
Damien followed her, listening. The neighbors gossiped in loud whispers as they wandered back to their homes. The truck roared off into the night. Finally, all was silent. She stumbled into the house and Damien shook his head. Now came the hard part—telling her what was going on without telling her what he was really doing.
* * * *
Laurie stopped abruptly in the living room, gripping Stacy’s hand, and stared dejectedly at the destruction. The explosion had ripped through the room. Bullets punctured walls.
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Everything had to be replaced, though most were priceless—the value sentimental rather than financial. This is unreal, she thought desperately. It can’t be happening.
“I’m securing this door.” The soldier’s voice startled her and she spun around, gaping at him.
He locked the door, checked the hinges, and stood and faced her, his expression unreadable. “Put the child to bed. This will take a while to explain.”
Rather than waste time defying his order, Laurie did as she was told. Once Stacy was safely tucked into bed, clutching her stuffed dog for comfort, Laurie detoured to her bedroom.
Anxious for answers, she pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt then dragged a brush through her hair before twisting it into a ponytail. A glance at the clock drew a groan from her. It was three thirty in the morning. She wanted coffee.
The huge mess in the kitchen almost put her on her knees. While the coffee brewed, she cleaned. Her frenzied efforts soon had the kitchen presentable if not perfect. Rinsing the rag, she glanced up from the sink. The soldier watched her from the doorway. She busied herself putting cream and sugar on the table.