Her Lieutenant Protector. Lara Lacombe
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down her throat, using the visceral sensations as a lodestone to help her navigate back to reality.
Her heart fluttered like a panicked bird against her rib cage, the feeling unpleasant and troubling. Mallory took a deep breath, trying to recall the meditation techniques she’d learned over the years in therapy. Clear your mind, her therapist had said. Empty it of all thoughts and just breathe.
“Easier said than done,” she muttered to herself. She pictured a bathtub, imagined herself pulling the plug and watching the water drain. But that reminded her of the aftermath of the rape, when she’d spent what had felt like days in the tub, scrubbing and soaking in a desperate attempt to wash the stain of her violation away...
Nope, don’t go there. She shied away from the memory as if burned, searching for an image that didn’t carry so much emotional baggage.
Her gaze caught on the red numbers of her alarm clock, and she focused on the color. Red was a nice, bright, happy color. The color of apples, of roses.
Of the marks on her body, and the bloodstains on her...
Stop it!
Another deep breath, another attempt to walk back from the cliffs of panic. It was too early to call Avery and Olivia, so she shoved off the bed and began to pace. The carpet was soft under her feet, and she curled her toes into the fibers with every step. There wasn’t a lot of room—it was seven steps from one wall to the other—but she made do.
Fuzz built up under her toes, a testament to the newness of the carpet. Of everything, really. The Abigail Adams was hot off the assembly line and was the most luxurious ship to sail in recent memory. She was also the first ship to have been constructed in the United States in years, which meant she would sail under the US flag, a rarity among cruise ships. It was an honor for Mallory to have been selected to work as the ship’s doctor on the Abigail’s maiden voyage. She closed her eyes, picturing the spacious sick bay with its state-of-the-art equipment, gleaming counters and crisp, white linens. It was a wonderful facility, befitting this crown jewel of cruise ships.
She let her mind wander, reviewing supply lists, protocols, storage locations. It was always a bit of a challenge coming onto a new ship; it took her several days to get familiar with the staff and the facilities. But the people she’d met today had seemed professional and polite, and she knew they were the best of the best. With so many VIPs scheduled to come on board, the company wanted everything to be perfect.
And they picked me.
The reminder filled her with pride and banished the last vestiges of the dream. She was no longer a helpless, scared college student. She was Dr. Mallory Watkins, chief medical officer for the most exclusive ship on the seas. She had overcome the tragedy in her past to rise to the top of her field, and she wasn’t about to let an annoying dream shake her confidence now.
Another glance at the clock told her it was too late—or too early—to go back to bed. She knew from experience she wouldn’t be able to fall asleep easily again, so she might as well start her day. The gym on board was open, and it would be good to get a workout in before the day truly started and she got too busy. Not only did she have a long prelaunch checklist, but her best friends, Olivia Sandoval and Avery Thatcher, were arriving today for the cruise.
Mallory was excited to see them both and to meet the new men in their lives. She was happy her friends had found love, even though it did make her feel a little wistful. In the years since her assault, she’d worked to overcome her fears regarding men and dating, but with limited success. She’d made a few awkward attempts to connect, but it hadn’t worked out. The men she’d tried to date had started out patient and understanding, but they’d all grown tired of her issues with physical intimacy. Her therapist had told her not to stress about it, but that was easier said than done.
“Don’t force yourself to engage in sex until you’re ready,” Dr. Givens had said, her brown eyes warm and kind behind the rims of her tortoiseshell glasses. “Everyone recovers at their own pace, and you can’t judge your progress against artificial benchmarks.”
The logical part of Mallory understood and agreed with Dr. Givens, but her emotional side wondered if she would ever feel safe enough to sleep with a man again.
“Someday,” she muttered, shaking her head as she pulled a T-shirt and yoga pants from the built-in dresser. “I just haven’t met the right man yet.”
It was a juvenile fantasy, the idea that there was some kind of Prince Charming out there for her. Nevertheless, it gave her comfort to think that she wasn’t permanently broken, that she would be able to enjoy intimacy with someone out there.
Avery and Olivia seemed to have found their happily-ever-afters. Maybe it was time Mallory started looking for hers.
* * *
Everest LeBeau slowed his pace for a moment and reached for the water bottle, keeping one hand on the elliptical machine for balance while he twisted off the cap. Once upon a time he wouldn’t have had to throttle back his workout, but thanks to his war injuries those days were behind him.
He replaced the bottle and kicked things up again, gritting his teeth at the ache in his lower right leg. The prosthesis he wore just below his right knee was shifting a little, rubbing the skin of his stump with every step. It was a new prosthesis, and he knew from experience it would take a little time for calluses to build up. Until they did, he was just going to have to deal with the discomfort.
He was used to handling pain. He’d pushed himself to the limit at the army basic officer course, wanting to test his physical capabilities. His classmates had thought he was crazy—everyone knew boot camp was easier for officers, and they thought he should take advantage of the more relaxed standards. They’d laughed at him, right up until the two-week field training exercise when all his extra work had paid off. He’d passed with flying colors and had set a few new records for his efforts. Not bad for a guy from the backwaters of Louisiana. The army had shipped him off to Iraq with a pat on the back and a smile.
The heat of the desert had been uncomfortable, but nothing he couldn’t handle. The dry, oven-like atmosphere had been a novel change from the hot and sticky weather he was used to, but as long as he stayed hydrated, things were bearable, if a mite stifling. The desert wasn’t his favorite place, but it didn’t take him long to settle into a routine with his team. He had this war thing figured out, or so he’d thought.
Until it all came crashing down on a lazy summer day seven years ago.
The IED had done its work with brutal efficiency. The explosion had thrown him clear of the Humvee, and the shock of it had kept him from feeling much of anything at first. It wasn’t until the medics arrived and began to move him that the pain had registered: a white-hot agony radiating from the stump below his right knee... Everest closed his eyes for a second and could almost smell the stale, chalky odor of the desert. He brushed sweat off his forehead, half expecting to feel the fine grit of sand under his fingertips. The stuff had been everywhere, a kind of fine, powdered sugar–like particulate that hung in the air and clung to skin and hair and clothes with ferocious tenacity. Just stepping outside was enough to make a man want a shower, but bathing was a luxury. Even then, Everest hadn’t truly felt clean until he’d been home for a while. Weeks after his return he’d still been sloughing off grains of sand, little reminders of his tour. Of course, it hadn’t helped he’d spent so much time in a hospital bed. Sponge baths were no match for all the layers of desert funk he’d accrued during his tour.
That first real shower, though? Heaven. He could still feel the warm rivulets of water cascading over his shoulders, down his chest and back. It had been so damn amazing to feel clean again, it was almost enough to make him forget about his leg. Or rather, the missing parts of his leg. The strangest part of all was that he had felt the water on the soles of his feet—both of them. In fact, if he’d kept his eyes closed, he’d been able to feel the shower spray on both legs, not just the one he still had. He mentioned it to the doctor, and the man had nodded knowingly, a small, sad smile on his face.
“It’s a phantom sensation,” he’d explained. “We don’t know why it happens,