Thin Ice (14 page)

A flicker of panic sent a spurt of adrenaline racing through him.

“Do you take cream and sugar?” She called the question through the open shelves that separated the kitchen and dining area.

He looked over. A rectangular ceramic plaque on one of the shelves occupied the spot beside her face, the border design representing spring, summer, fall, and winter. He hadn't noticed it while they ate, but now the six words in the center jumped out at him.

To everything there is a season.

It was a quote from the Bible, that much he knew, though the name of the book eluded him.

“Lance?”

He shifted his attention back to her. “Black.”

While she retreated to the kitchen, he reread the words.
Wasn't there a line in that passage about a time to kill and a time to heal? About mourning and weeping giving way to joy?

Odd that such a quotation would cross his path tonight, just as he was struggling to decide whether to make the leap that could launch a new season in his life.

Could God's hand be in this . . . or was that a stretch?

His heart said the former; his mind, the latter.

Which should he trust?

Lance leaned slightly sideways to watch while Christy poured their coffee. She added a generous portion of cream and a spoonful of sugar to hers. Cutting the blackness. Tempering the bitterness.

The very thing he needed to do with his past.

But if he took the leap, if he trusted her with his secret, would that lead to healing . . . or more regret?

He had no idea.

She opened a tin of cookies and began to arrange them on a plate. Soon she'd rejoin him. He needed to make a decision. Fast.

All at once, her earlier advice echoed in his mind.

“Maybe you should recultivate that habit of
prayer you had growing up.”

He'd dismissed that notion at the time. With all his baggage, it would surely take more than a few words to reconnect with the God he'd abandoned long ago on some distant battlefield.

On the other hand, what did he have to lose by attempting to reopen the conversation?

For tonight, though, a simple plea would have to suffice.

Lord, please help me
with this decision. And if I end up sharing my
story with Christy, I ask that you let her listen
with an open and compassionate heart.

C
hristy added the last cookie to the plate, replaced the lid on the tin, and blew out a breath. The dinner had gone so well after those first few awkward minutes—why had she ruined it by dwelling on Lance's combat experience, which he obviously didn't want to discuss?

She risked a peek at him. He was checking messages, brow puckered. He hadn't said a word since she'd come into the kitchen.

Not a positive sign.

Maybe he'd down his coffee in a couple of swigs, grab a cookie or two, and hightail it out of here. Why hang around someone who'd put him on the spot twice tonight, first with her prayer before the meal and then by bringing up the Middle East?

The prayer, she didn't regret.

The other . . . big mistake. She'd read enough about the situation in that part of the world to know it left lasting scars on soldiers—physical, psychological . . . or both.

And it was clear Lance bore his share.

Perhaps the best way to salvage the situation would be to in
troduce some lighter subjects and hope he hung around through dessert.

Balancing the plate of cookies in one hand, she grabbed his mug with the other and rejoined him.

He slid the phone back on his belt as she approached and inspected the cookies. “Are those really homemade?”

“Yes. My mom's secret recipe. They may not be too healthy, but they're great comfort food.”

“I'm all for comfort food.” He reached for one.

“Let me grab my coffee and some dessert plates and we'll dive in.”

“Would you mind bringing the cream too? I'd like to tone down the black tonight after all.”

“Coming right up.”

She retrieved the items from the kitchen, keeping tabs on him through the shelving. He hadn't bolted—yet—but his posture was tense.

Because you blew
it, Christy. Now see if you can fix the damage.

Pasting on a smile, she set the cream and a plate in front of him and took her seat. Time to introduce a safe and innocuous topic, see if she could get those broad shoulders to relax. “So tell me about your furniture shopping expedition tonight. Sounds like you were having loads of fun.”

He took a sip of his lightened brew. “Not. In fact, it bumped winter nighttime surveillance down a notch on my top-ten list of least favorite civilian activities.”

Interesting how he'd included the word
civilian
.

But no way was she touching that.

“I bet your future sister-in-law wasn't happy about being deserted.”

“Lisa's a peach—though if you saw her on the job, you'd never know that. She is one tough lady in uniform. You don't
get to be a detective with the Chicago PD or a police chief by being soft.” He took a sip of coffee, but his cookie lay untouched on the plate. “You don't get to be a Delta Force operator by being soft, either.”

She looked at him over the rim of her mug. Did he
want
to talk about his military career now?

“Is that a warning about your character?” She tried for a teasing tone.

“Only if you're a bad guy—and you're neither.” He gave her a quick grin and took a small bite of his cookie.

She sipped in silence. Better to let him take the lead. If he wanted to talk about his military career, fine—but she wasn't about to bring it up again.

After a few moments, he set his half-eaten cookie on the plate and wrapped his fingers around his mug. A thread of tension snaked toward her, and she braced for whatever was coming.

“I noticed your plaque.” He indicated the shelves behind her.

She blinked.

He wanted to talk about a plaque?

Not what she'd expected, but hey—at least he was talking, not leaving.

“Thanks. My minister gave it to me after my accident. I wasn't very receptive to his message at first, but in the end I accepted the truth of it. We do have many seasons in our lives—some happier than others. The important thing to remember on winter days is that spring always comes . . . unless we choose to miss it by hibernating in the darkness. Sometimes we have to make the effort to step into the sunshine.”

Some indefinable emotion flared in his eyes. “I wouldn't mind letting some sunshine back into my life.”

In the silence that followed, the coffeepot sputtered. The automatic ice maker rattled. The heat kicked on with a subtle hum. All everyday, ordinary sounds.

Yet Christy had a feeling his revelation was anything but ordinary or everyday.

Doing her best to maintain a placid expression, she broke off a bite of her cookie. “It sounds like there's a story there.”

“There is. One I've never shared with anyone, except in a formal debrief.”

Her heart skipped a beat.

Was he suggesting he wanted to share it with her?

He locked gazes with her and answered that unspoken question. “Would you like to hear it?”

She searched those intense blue irises, seeking—and finding—his motivation.

The attraction between them wasn't one way. He liked her too. A lot, if he was planning to trust her with his biggest secret, despite their short acquaintance.

Cold, blustery wind might be whistling around the corners of her condo, but warmth overflowed in her heart. “I'd be honored.”

He pushed his dessert aside and folded his hands on the table. “There's one other thing you need to know first. I've been thinking a lot lately about an incident that happened a year and a half ago, during a mission. I've always known I'd have to deal with that unfinished business before I could move on with my life, but the need never felt urgent—until I met you. I'm sure you can guess why that is.”

Whoa.

Lance McGregor's singular focus and let's-get-the-facts-on-the-table-and-deal-with-them style must apply to his personal as well as his professional life.

Could she be as honest?

Gripping her napkin in her lap, she took a deep breath. “I'm thinking it might have something to do with electricity.”

One side of his mouth quirked up. “It has everything to do
with electricity. The high-voltage kind.” The warmth in his eyes added a few degrees to the heat in the room.

Whew.

With an effort, she restrained the urge to fan herself. “Since we're being candid . . . you know how I implied to Bob Harris that I'd met a new man? I wasn't lying. He's sitting across from me.”

“Nice to know.” Then he leaned back, his demeanor sobering. “However, I don't mix business and pleasure. It's not only bad policy, it's dangerous. But I'd like to start laying some groundwork for when this is all over, beginning with the incident in my past. You need to know about it before either of us gets too carried away.”

A tingle of apprehension vibrated through her fingertips. “That sounds a little ominous.”

“It could be. I'm taking a risk by sharing this . . . but you might as well know about the skeletons in my closet up front and decide now whether they change your feelings about me.”

She played with the edge of her napkin. From everything she'd observed, Lance McGregor was the real deal—smart, intuitive, honorable, dedicated. But a person's public persona didn't always match their private face. She'd seen plenty of examples of that in the figure skating world.

Still . . . it was hard to believe there was anything this man could tell her that would be a deal breaker.

“I don't expect that to happen, but I appreciate your honesty and consideration.” She knitted her fingers together on the table and gave him her full attention.

“I have to warn you, this isn't pretty.”

“I didn't think it would be. But I've seen my share of ugly.”

“Not like this.”

“I think it's too late to back out, don't you?”

He conceded her point with a dip of his head and stared
into his mug. “As I told you, most of my military work was classified—including this mission. I can't give you details on dates or locations, but suffice it to say we did a lot of counterterrorism work all over the world that involved snatching insurgency leaders. This particular situation, like most of our missions, was dicey, but it wasn't one of our more dangerous assignments. The guy wasn't all that important and shouldn't have been heavily guarded. Plus, the person on the inside who'd provided the intel was supposed to be an ally.”

Shouldn't have been.

Supposed to be.

Those were telling words.

Christy tightened her clasped fingers.

“I was heading up a four-man team. My second-in-command was a buddy from my original training class. Taz. We'd been on a lot of missions together, and over the years we became as close as brothers. I was the best man at his wedding.” Lance stopped, and his Adam's apple bobbed. “Our mission that night proceeded according to plan until we got within sight of the walled compound where our target was supposed to be holed up. Then all at once, Taz got cold feet. That had never happened before.”

She leaned forward. “What do you mean, cold feet?”

The parallel crevices imbedded in his brow deepened. “He said he had a bad feeling about the mission. No real specifics, other than the place seemed too quiet. There weren't even any barking dogs—and there were always barking dogs. I agreed the silence was suspicious . . . but he also had a pregnant wife at home. I suspected he was overreacting, maybe starting to worry about not being there for his kid.”

“That seems like a logical assumption.”

“Yeah. Except I didn't have a warm and fuzzy feeling about the situation, either. But I wasn't certain if he'd planted a seed
of doubt or if my own instincts were kicking in. Plus, I'd done back-to-back missions and hadn't slept in twenty-four hours. Usually I trusted my gut, but for the first time in my career, I wavered over a command decision.”

“Fatigue can muddle thinking.”

He dismissed her comment with an impatient wave. “I'd pulled off plenty of missions with less sleep. It shouldn't have made a difference. I did get a read from the two other guys on the team. Neither had any qualms. They just wanted to get in and out ASAP so we'd be back on base for breakfast.”

Christy didn't know what was coming, but she had a feeling none of them got their breakfast.

“In the end, I was spooked enough to radio our commander. He assured me the inside source was trustworthy, that the guy was solid and had come through for us on other occasions. Armed with that validation, I dismissed Taz's qualms—and my own—and gave the order to move in.”

The coffeepot hissed in the charged silence, and Christy's hand jerked.

Lance didn't seem to notice.

“At first, everything went according to plan. We got into the compound with no resistance—but once we were inside the walls, chaos erupted. Turns out the guy we were after knew all about our plan and had some serious firepower waiting to welcome us. Instead of the guard or two we were expecting, a dozen armed zealots met us. If we hadn't been so well trained and equipped, none of us would have gotten out alive. As it was, one of my guys took a bullet in the leg in the first few seconds.”

“What did you do?” Her question came out in a whisper.

“What we were trained to do.” His jaw hardened. “We returned fire. Fortunately, the injured guy was able to function, but it was touch and go. We were operating in the dark—literally. And NVGs don't offer much peripheral vision.”

Christy ran the acronym through her brain. Came up blank. “What's an NVG?”

“Night vision goggles. We were all wearing them. In the chaos, everyone but Taz missed the guy sneaking up on us. Just as the insurgent lifted his AK-47, Taz put himself between me and the gun and started firing. He took the guy out . . . and got sprayed in the process.”

An AK-47 was a machine gun, wasn't it?

And no one survived a head-on assault from a machine gun. Even someone wearing body armor.

A bead of sweat broke out on Lance's forehead, and she was tempted to gently wipe it away. Instead she watched her clenched knuckles turn white.

“As you probably figured out, he didn't make it.” Lance's words rasped, and he cleared his throat. “Taz died saving the life of the friend who ignored his reservations and gave the order that sent him to his death.”

This time her hand refused to be restrained. It broke free and came to rest on his taut forearm. Yet words failed her. What was there to say in the face of such tragedy?

He turned to her, and the bleakness in his eyes twisted her stomach. “I should have listened to him—and my gut. As the team leader, I had the authority to override command and call off the raid. I chose not to.” A spasm tightened his features, and he stopped.

Christy waited, knowing there was more, giving him a chance to regain his composure.

When he continued, the words were scored with self-recrimination. “Here's the worst of it—my mission earlier in the day had been a bust. The guy we were after slipped out right under our noses . . . and I didn't want to come back empty-handed again. I was caught up in that whole macho, elite warrior image. I wanted to redeem myself and return the conquering
hero.” He blew out a breath, nostrils flaring. “I swore when I got into The Unit I'd never let my ego get out of control, but it happened. And Taz paid the price with his life while I escaped with six stitches.” He brushed his fingers over the small jagged scar on his temple.

As his confession hung in the air between them, Christy tried to think of some response. But before she could come up with one, Lance continued in a flat, cold voice. “Those bullets were meant for me, and I should have been the one to die, not him. At least I wouldn't have left behind a pregnant wife and a son who would never know his father.”

As his words echoed in the hushed room, she closed her eyes. Lance was right. The story was ugly—and tragic. She couldn't begin to imagine what that young wife must have gone through.