Hold on Tight (4 page)

His fingertips had itched from the second he’d touched Jamie’s bare skin, from when he’d pressed his lips to the pulse point on her neck and smoothed his palm across her belly.

For fuck’s sake, Jamie was pregnant.

Chris let that news settle into his post-orgasm, still half-sedated brain as he caught a ride back to the base hospital. He would’ve walked, because he needed air, but midnight and Africa, weapon or no weapon, didn’t mix well.

The baby was his—had to be.

Jamie didn’t even know herself. He couldn’t explain how
he
knew, except for the fact that he came from a long line of gypsies and midwives, had been raised around women in labor until it became the most natural thing in the world to him. He’d delivered so many impromptu babies himself it had become a running joke not to let any woman past her eighth month come into contact with him. Add to that the fact that both his momma and his dad were honest-to-goodness psychics, evidenced by the fact that neither he nor his brothers could ever get away with shit growing up, and yeah, he was always right about things like that.

She wasn’t quite glowing yet—no, she looked tired, worn out. Probably didn’t know why she’d been feeling like crap lately.

She still looked fucking beautiful to him. Tough and regal all rolled into one long, lean package. And at that moment he didn’t give a shit that she’d come there to investigate him—her admission outside his door that afternoon told him what he needed to know.

The way she’d let him hold her hand on the way to the elevator told him even more.

Sneaking back into the hospital was easy enough. After he’d stripped down and shoved on the stupid hospital gown so as not to draw any more attention to himself, he thanked the guy who’d lent him the gun and the cammies.

His bag, which had been brought in from the helo, contained only dirty clothing. His weapons were with Saint, who would bring him fresh fatigues in a few hours for the trip, so for now he pulled the hospital garb off, shoved his sweats back on and powered up his cell phone to call his brother.

Jake answered on the first ring. “You’re all right.”

“Yeah, I’m all right.” He paused, throat tight. “But Mark …”

“Fuck, Chris. Just fuck.” Jake’s voice was hoarse.

“Yeah” was the only thing he could say in response, the only thing he needed to say. And for a few minutes there was silence over the line as the two men shared their grief together.

Jake spoke first. “Saint said the FBI came by to see you.”

“I’m sure he said more than that.”

“She still hot?”

“She’s all right.” Chris smiled to himself as he lay against the pillow. His window hadn’t been repaired but someone had taken out the remaining jagged glass, so the sounds of soldiers on night watch on the base floated through, gave him comfort that a civilian hospital wouldn’t.

He’d see Jamie tomorrow. Maybe, when they landed, he could spend some more time with her, figure things out.

Nick had called to reassure him that physically Chris was fine, as did Jake, multiple times, even though neither of his other sons had seen Chris in person yet. And their
He’s all right
rang hollow on both ends, because they all knew Chris was far from all right. None of them were.

His sons had suffered losses, had seen and faced death multiple times, but Mark Kendall’s death, his sacrifice, was something they’d be struggling with for a long time.

“Great comeback, Kenny.” One of the record execs clapped an enthusiastic hand on his shoulder and he nearly jumped out of his skin. “We didn’t think they’d be alive this long, never mind performing.”

Yes, Kenny had brought this particular band back from the dead, so to speak—got them through rehab and divorces and kept them hidden from the paparazzi until they were ready for public consumption.

Now the band was all about the music. The members thanked Kenny over and over again for helping them find their way back to where they’d started—back to the beginning.

“They’re good kids” was all Kenny told the exec before excusing himself. He pushed his way through the front-row crowds, toward backstage, where it was no less loud and chaotic, and finally found a small, empty dressing room to rest and think about his boys.

“It doesn’t make sense, Kenny,” his young wife had whispered twenty-seven years earlier on that snowy Christmas Day morning. “They told me I’d have three boys.”

“I don’t know, Mags.” He’d been lying on her hospital bed, where she’d been rushed after the home birth had gone wrong. He’d almost lost both the small baby they’d named Nicolas Christopher and his wife. The doctors and nurses looked at both of them as if they were too young to have tried any of this; to be sure, he and Maggie had married young—they’d only been seventeen, and she’d gotten pregnant the first month of their marriage, but none of that mattered, none of that had been the cause of this.

“She can’t have any more children,” the doctor told Kenny bluntly, as if Maggie wasn’t in the room, as if she couldn’t hear what he was saying. Kenny didn’t bother to tell the man that Maggie had known the diagnosis from the second she’d given birth—maybe even sooner. Being of gypsy blood, Maggie had been born with the gift of second sight in the same way Kenny had, although her gift was stronger.

Both knew they wouldn’t have an easy path in life because of it; despite often being called a gift, psychic power could easily become a burden, a drain on the soul.

“A reason for everything,” Maggie murmured as she brushed the top of their baby boy’s head. “You’ll explain it, right, Chris?”

And so, in spite of his birth name, their son had always been called Chris, because Maggie deemed that calling their boy Nicolas hadn’t felt right.

Of course, years later, when both Nick and Jake came into Chris’s life—with a literal bang when Nick threw a chair at Chris in the principal’s office and all three boys had gotten suspended—it made perfect sense. Maggie had smiled and brought all three boys back home; together they’d discovered that Jake was being abused by his stepfather, and that Nick was being neglected by his own family. Their decision to take the boys with them to Virginia came right after Jake’s stepfather tried to kill him and, in the process, died himself. Maggie knew the New York foster care system wouldn’t miss having another case to manage.

Nick’s situation was slightly more difficult, but solved when his very wealthy and politically connected family agreed to let Kenny and Maggie take him in exchange for Nick forfeiting any rights to the family fortune. And so, Jake and Nick remained in their lives as their sons and Maggie’s prediction was complete.

Maggie’s death nine months later had been a surprise to everyone but Christopher.

Later, looking back, both Kenny and Chris realized that his momma’s hadn’t been the first death he’d predicted. No, he’d forced his thoughts about his grandparents, an aunt and a neighbor out of his mind efficiently.

Kenny had tried to tell Chris that was normal, but could barely get the words out before Chris was stomping away from him in some kind of teenage haze of angst and rebellion.

Before Maggie died, there had been nothing to rebel against. They’d never set boundaries for the boys, and all three had been content with the new living situation. But after … he’d wanted to rein all three of them in after practically disappearing for months.

None of it had sat well with his boys.

Chris had been described as having clairsentience, or clear-knowing, had told himself after his momma’s death that he’d refuse it if it ever happened again, read extensively on how it happened so he could block it.

He’d never been able to, never would be. And all of it was about to play another role in his life, or had already. Kenny was helpless to do anything—and like all three of his boys, he didn’t do helpless well.

He could almost hear Maggie whispering in his ear, her heavy accent telling him,
It’s Chris’s mountain
, cher.
He has to climb it alone because there’s no way to get around it
.

He sighed and punched the numbers on his phone so he could hear Jake and Nick’s voices again.

Within minutes, Chris and Saint walked out together, an orderly attempting to corral Chris into a wheelchair.

Chris spotted her immediately—his wide smile nearly breaking her. She forced herself to stay strong, even as his long strides brought him face-to-face with her in seconds.

“You didn’t need to meet me here. It’s early,” he murmured. “But I’m glad you did.”

“I did have to meet you here,” she said, but Saint cut her off before she could say anything more.

“Agent Michaels, to what do we owe this pleasure?”

“Chief Petty Officer Waldron, I need to speak with you again,” she said, and his face hardened instantly. He took a step back and waited. “The FBI has decided to continue the investigation.”

His mouth opened and then closed and then opened again. “You’re still investigating me?”

“Yes.”

“Saint, I need to speak with Agent Michaels alone.”

Saint shook his head, as if he didn’t like that idea, but he walked away.

Chris took her by the elbow and led her back toward the building. “Did you know about this last night?”

“Not until after you left.”

“What the hell is it all about?”

“Josiah was killed.”

“I know that, I was there.”

“There’s evidence that he was killed before he ever had a chance to hold cover with you at the embassy.”

“He was a member of my team. What’s my motive, Agent Michaels?”

“That’s what I’m investigating.”

“You think I killed Josiah during the mission?”

“I don’t know what’s true right now, that’s why I need to dig further into exactly what happened that night—step by step. I’m hoping I have your full cooperation.”

He snorted at her. “So what, am I under some kind of surveillance? Am I being arrested?” he asked angrily.

“I need to escort you back home to Virginia. And then you’ll be turned over to the Navy’s jurisdiction.”

“What about Cam?”

“He’s been questioned. His story corroborates yours.”

“So you’re going to keep us separated and see what you can do to change that, right?”

She didn’t comment. Couldn’t, mainly because her throat had tightened, mouth dried. He could have easily turned her in for last night, because even though he’d been the one to approach her, she hadn’t stopped him.

“So much for second chances, Jamie.” He brushed past his CO and headed onto the plane alone.

She had no choice but to follow.

But something he said snapped her away from thinking about his temper. “What are you talking about, me breaking up with him?” she demanded as she stood in the kitchen of Chris’s childhood home, the place he still lived now, with Nick and their other brother, Jake.

Jake sighed loudly and gave her an
Are you fucking
kidding me?
look—that hadn’t changed from high school—and then spoke to her as if she was a small child. “You keep breaking up with him, the way you broke up with him back in January.”

She stared between Nick and Jake, the exhaustion she’d felt earlier quickly fading with the sharp sting of their accusations. “I don’t know what your brother’s been telling you, but you’re wrong. Chris is the one who broke up with me.”

Jake opened his mouth and then closed it, while Nick merely stared at her, and yes, neither of them had an answer for that one.

She crossed her arms and waited for the inevitable response. Because although they could say many things about her, they knew she wasn’t a liar.

“Having her here is not a good idea,” was all Jake could say.

“I’m not leaving until I see him.” Chris’s dad, Kenny, had called to let her know that Chris had been hurt and she’d gotten a private jet in the middle of the night to take her from L.A. to Virginia, back to where she’d grown up. Where she’d fallen in love with Chris Waldron, where she’d left him to pursue first a modeling and then an acting career.

She was twenty-nine years old, rapidly on her way to becoming one of the highest paid actresses—she had her pick of movie roles and of men, and she still couldn’t shake Chris from her mind. “I’m very sorry about your teammate.”

“Thanks, Jules,” Nick said, and Jake just nodded in her direction.

“I have to be here. You don’t understand, when I heard …”

She didn’t say anything further. They did understand. Whether she and Chris were together or not, he was—they all were—too big a part of her life to ever forget.

And being here in this house again, forgetting was next to impossible. It was different inside now though, Maggie’s touch fading through the years as new furniture replaced old, dark paneling a startling contrast to the lighter paint, the leather furniture, pictures of Chris and his brothers from younger days littering the walls.

This was a home for men, not boys, and yet when she’d walked through the front door, she was sixteen years old again on a hot summer night, her skin warm and tan from a day at the beach, her lips bruised from kissing Chris in the backseat of his car.

Even then, his hands held magic. He’d never really been a boy, and he’d been the best thing to walk into the high school cafeteria.

“Jules …”

Nick’s rough voice broke through her reverie. She’d been tracing a picture of Chris and Maggie with her finger—a black-and-white photo, hastily snapped and slightly off center, with a four-year-old Chris running half-naked through the bayou, Maggie standing in the background, watching and smiling. “Please, Nick, I just need to see him.”

“Tomorrow. Give him a day. There’s a lot coming down on him.”

Nick’s green eyes were so serious, had always been so even when he’d been young and carefree. But that had been her own illusion—none of these men had ever been truly carefree. “Please tell him I’m here. For him.”