Full Throttle(108)
“So am I.” He was still grinning.
“Stop it, Carlos,” she said. But he continued to stand there, killing her with that smile, with that dimple. “I mean it,” she stressed. “Stop it.” And maybe it was habit—because she had no right to touch him, much less slug him—but she used her free hand to swipe at his arm.
“You stop it,” he told her, tapping her shoulder in retaliation.
And, oh, God! It was so wonderful and so…so awful! She buried her face in her hands and that was all she wrote. The waterworks had totally and irreversibly burst the dam.
* * *
Steady looked down at the bowed head and trembling shoulders of the woman he loved. His heart felt too huge and too hot for the confines of his chest. She was just so sweet. Too sweet. Taking on the responsibility and guilt of…Jesús Cristo…it seemed like the whole frackin’ world. Well, that stopped. Now.
He pulled her into his arms and, delight that she was, she struggled. For an instant. Which caused him to tighten his hold. Then, surrendering as only Abby could, so softly, so gently, she wrapped her arms around his waist, squeezing him tight, sobbing into the cotton of his T-shirt.
“Shh, cariño,” he murmured, laying his cheek atop her head, breathing deep the smell of Downy dryer sheets and Palmer’s cocoa butter lotion. His dick twitched with interest at both her nearness and those ever-captivating smells, but he told the stupid prick—literal prick; ha!—that now was not the time. Now was the time to prove to her, once and for all, that she was not the one to blame for his sister’s death.
Being careful to keep his voice low, soothing, he recounted the details her father had given him. “I know the bombing of the coffee shop wasn’t coincidental, that the explosion was really meant for you.” Her arms loosened slightly, and he pressed her closer in response. “I know the terrorists knew you’d be at the coffee shop because they hacked into your cell phone and intercepted a text message you sent to my sister, telling her the time and the place to meet you. I know they targeted you specifically to try to make a point to your father, because he’d always been so vocal in his vow to go after extremists with the full might of the American military should he ever become president.” Her trembling had softened, her sobs reduced to sniffles as she listened. “And I know your father and his party decided to keep the truth of all of that under wraps, out of the press, because they thought it would hurt his chances of winning the election. Because they thought the American public, in light of the incident, would view his outspokenness as a giant come and get me to terrorists the world over.” Her little fingers bunched the material of his shirt into fists. “I know the only reason you were saved from sharing Rosa’s fate was because you were running late. And I know”—he ran a hand over her ponytail, reveling in the silkiness of her hair—“that your father made you promise to tell me none of this.”
She pushed back from him, her face a soggy, beautiful mess. “Did you also know that my Secret Service agents had warned me about sending specifics in my text messages?” she demanded. “And that I just…forgot and did it anyway?”
He cupped her jaw in both hands and used his thumbs to brush the tears from her soft cheeks. “You were a busy college student doing what every busy college student does. It wasn’t your fault, Abby. It just wasn’t.”
“How can you say that?” she implored on a harsh whisper. “If only I’d—”
Poor little neña. Poor little wrong-headed neña. “Do you blame your father for speaking out so harshly against extremism?” he interrupted.
She swallowed, drawing his attention to the lovely length of her neck. Even red and splotchy, it still tempted him, made his lips itch to bend down and taste her sweet flesh. “N-no,” she said. “Of course not.”
“Do you blame Rosa for not catching the fact that you’d forgotten about not sending out personal info by text?” he asked, moving his hands along her jaw until he could softly massage the back of her neck with the tips of his fingers. She was wound tight as the tough little stainless steel springs used in craniofacial reconstruction surgery. “Your security detail debriefed her, debriefed us both, about what protocols to use when corresponding with you. So…is it her fault?”
“No.” She shook her head jerkily, her voice barely a whisper. Then, more forcefully, she said, “No. Of course it wasn’t Rosa’s fault. How could you—”
“Then whose fault was it?” he asked gently, still holding her lovely jaw in his hands. “Where does the buck stop, Abby? Who is ultimately responsible for Rosa’s death that day?”