Lon grin­ned. “If you’re go­ing to get a sam­p­le from him, you’d bet­ter do it right now, whi­le I’m he­re to hold him down.”

  Davy frow­ned. “This is strictly vo­lun­tary. I’m not pres­su­ring an­y­body. It’s a se­ri­o­us com­mit­ment that has not­hing to do with the Navy.”

  “That’s not what Lon me­ant.” Ca­leb hal­ted in the act of pul­ling on his sport co­at. “I ha­te ne­ed­les. Won’t fa­ce one un­less I ab­so­lu­tely ha­ve to. So ye­ah, you’d bet­ter stick me he­re and now, be­fo­re I think abo­ut it.” Ca­leb un­but­to­ned the cuff of the sle­eve he’d just but­to­ned and rol­led up his sle­eve.

  Davy snap­ped on vinyl glo­ves. “I’ll do the blo­od draw now. Then you can fill out the pa­per­work. You know you ha­ve to pay for the test yo­ur­self?”

  “Ye­ah, ye­ah.” Ca­leb to­ok a se­at and stret­c­hed his arm out on a tab­le.

  Davy snap­ped a to­ur­ni­qu­et aro­und Ca­leb’s bi­cep. Ropy ve­ins sto­od out un­der the de­ep gol­den tan of his arms. Davy pal­pa­ted a ve­in in his fo­re­arm. “You’re not go­ing to fa­int on me are you?”

  Ca­leb lo­oked at the ce­iling. “No. But I’m not go­ing to watch, okay?”

  “Be­ca­use if you’re go­ing to fa­int, it wo­uld be easi­er just to put you on the flo­or now.”

  “Shut up, and get it the hell over with.”

  “Do what he says.” Lon wat­c­hed the pro­ce­edings with co­ol in­te­rest, arms cros­sed over his chest. “I had to thre­aten to wri­te him up to get him to ta­ke his last set of vac­ci­na­ti­ons.”

  “What are you do­ing?” Em­mie as­ked, ho­ping to dis­t­ract Ca­leb.

  The men ex­p­la­ined abo­ut Car­mi­ne, a SE­AL re­cently di­ag­no­sed with le­uke­mia.

  “He’s get­ting che­mo, which sho­uld buy him ti­me,” Davy ad­ded, “but his only chan­ce for a cu­re is a bo­ne mar­row tran­s­p­lant. All of his fa­mily ha­ve be­en tes­ted, but no one in his fa­mily is a match.”

  “So you don’t know whet­her you will match or not?”

  “That’s right. It’s an odds thing. The mo­re who vo­lun­te­er to do­na­te, the bet­ter the chan­ces a match will be fo­und. If not for Car­mi­ne, at le­ast for so­me­one. You do­ing okay?” he as­ked Ca­leb who had tur­ned se­ve­ral sha­des pa­ler un­der his tan.

  “Do you ha­ve to be a SE­AL to vo­lun­te­er to be a mar­row do­nor?”

  “The sam­p­les will be sent to the Na­ti­onal Do­nor Re­gistry. Any he­althy per­son bet­we­en eig­h­te­en and fif­ty-fi­ve can do­na­te.”

  “All right. I’ll do­na­te too.”

  Davy smo­othly wit­h­d­rew the vi­al from Ca­leb’s ve­in and fol­ded Ca­leb’s fo­re­arm up. “Don’t you ne­ed to think it over? This is a com­mit­ment. It’s not as se­ri­o­us as do­na­ting a kid­ney, in fact, for a he­althy adult the­re’s lit­tle risk-but not no risk.”

  “No ti­me li­ke the pre­sent.” One-han­ded, Em­mie at­tem­p­ted to pull her bla­zer away from her sho­ul­der and grun­ted in pa­in.

  “Hey, I’ll help you-” Davy sa­id.

  “Sit still!” Ca­leb or­de­red Em­mie. He threw down the cot­ton ball he’d be­en hol­ding to the tiny pun­c­tu­re. “ I’ll help you with yo­ur jac­ket.”

  In two steps he was by her si­de. He fre­ed the jac­ket from her sho­ul­der. “The­re. Now turn si­de­ways and let yo­ur arm dan­g­le be­hind you.” Rat­her than pus­hing the jac­ket down, he gently tug­ged on the cuff to free her arm.

  Emmie knew her pa­le skin was re­ve­aling her blush to all. “It’s ac­tu­al­ly har­der to get off than it is to get on.” She held out her arm. “You’ll ha­ve to roll up the blo­use sle­eve too,” she ad­ded apo­lo­ge­ti­cal­ly.

  The sen­sa­ti­on of his warm fin­gers at her wrist, un­do­ing the but­ton, fol­ding back the cuff, mes­me­ri­zed her. She co­uldn’t te­ar her eyes from the sight of her ba­re fo­re­arm emer­ging un­der his long-fin­ge­red hands. With every roll of the cuff, his thumbs stro­ked the ten­der skin of her in­ner arm.

  “Are you su­re you want to do this?” he as­ked. His thumb la­zily pla­yed ac­ross the cro­ok of her el­bow. “You don’t ha­ve to.”

  “Um, su­re,” Em­mie had to wrench her mind away from his hands to re­mem­ber what he was tal­king abo­ut- and de­vil that he was, he knew it! But his chan­ge­ab­le ha­zel eyes, a gen­t­le brown co­lor right this mi­nu­te, lo­oked sin­ce­re. “I ne­ver re­ali­zed that it was so­met­hing just an­y­body co­uld do. Ne­ed­les don’t bot­her me. Now, if you we­re as­king me to jump out of an air­p­la­ne, that wo­uld be dif­fe­rent.”

  Ca­leb fol­ded her sle­eve one last turn past her el­bow, but his hands didn’t le­ave her arm. “No­body li­kes every part of what we do. Jax ha­tes to jump.”

  “ No! Re­al­ly?” Em­mie la­ug­hed in dis­be­li­ef. “Did you know he ma­de Pic­kett jump off a pi­er?”

  Ca­leb’s mo­bi­le lips tuc­ked si­de­ways, ca­using Em­mie to ca­ta­log yet anot­her smi­le: the un­der­s­ta­te­ment-smi­le. “I he­ard abo­ut that.”

  “She’s ter­ri­fi­ed of he­ights. She sa­id that was when she knew she lo­ved him.”

  “Hey, Do- Lord!” Lon’s amu­sed vo­ice in­ter­rup­ted them. “If Davy’s go­ing to do Em­mie’s blo­od draw, you got­ta let him get clo­se to her.”

  Chapter 9

  Do- Lord rol­led his truck to a stop in the dri­ve­way of Pic­kett’s mot­her’s ho­use whe­re the fe­ma­le half of the wed­ding party as­sem­b­led to get dres­sed for the wed­ding.

  “Uh- oh. Gra­ce and Sa­rah Bea are al­re­ady he­re,” Em­mie sa­id, lo­oking at the cars par­ked the­re. “Fi­xing the ca­ke to­ok lon­ger than I plan­ned. Fin­ding a mi­nu­te out of the­ir ear­s­hot to tell Pic­kett what we’ve do­ne is go­ing to be tricky.”

  “I’ll tell Jax, just in ca­se.”

  Emmie tur­ned to fa­ce Do-Lord, ig­no­ring the pa­in twis­ting her up­per body bro­ught. “Thank you. I co­uldn’t ha­ve do­ne it, even with two go­od arms. On­ce y’all we­re do­ne, no one wo­uld ever gu­ess the ca­ke had be­en… al­te­red.”

  Now that the mis­si­on was ac­com­p­lis­hed, Em­mie sho­wed a play­ful mis­c­hi­evo­us si­de of her per­so­na­lity, and al­t­ho­ugh she didn’t ha­ve much ac­cent, her spe­ech was pep­pe­red with so­ut­hern col­lo­qu­i­alisms. “You and Lon and Davy sa­ved the day. But you know, y’all mustn’t bre­at­he a word to an­yo­ne.”

  “Don’t worry. Not be­ing ab­le to talk abo­ut what we do is a fact of li­fe for a SE­AL.”

  “Pic­kett told me. She sa­id most of the ti­me you can’t say whe­re you’ve be­en or what you did the­re. It must ma­ke you fe­el out of sync with the rest of the world.” Her wi­de eyes grew tho­ug­h­t­ful. “It’s a hard way to li­ve.”

  What she sa­id was true. SE­ALs ten­ded to be in­su­lar, to so­ci­ali­ze only with each ot­her, for that re­ason. Only anot­her SE­AL co­uld un­der­s­tand things they co­uldn’t put in­to words. La­tely, with his ter­rib­le sec­ret we­ig­hing upon him, a sec­ret even anot­her SE­AL wo­uldn’t un­der­s­tand, he had felt out of sync even with them. The re­al world, the world of ope­ra­ti­ons, was harsh and un­for­gi­ving. Any man who wasn’t one hun­d­red per­cent on bo­ard with a mis­si­on en­dan­ge­red them all, and ot­her SE­ALs we­re li­kely to be harsh in de­aling with him. Hell, he ag­re­ed with them. He knew how they wo­uld fe­el abo­ut his lap­se be­ca­use it was how he felt.

  The re­al world was a world clo­sed to wo­men. He’d enj­oyed this af­ter­no­on with her. He’d enj­oyed the res­pi­te of a co­up­le of ho­urs with her in a world out­si­de the re­al one. She wasn’t unat­trac­ti­ve. He on­ce re­ad that to pe­op­le unab­le to per­ce­ive ma­gic, fa­iri­es ap­pe­ared as pla­in, co­lor­less, neg­li­gib­le cre­atu­res. So­me wo­uld say that was Em­mie.

  Not him. He li­ked the way her lo­oks we­re com­po­sed of the sim­p­lest in­g­re­di­en­ts-ma­gic that re­qu­ired no ador­n­ment. Whi­te skin so per­fect it didn’t lo­ok re­al, wi­de blue eyes the co­lor of ho­nesty, and ha­ir that so­me­ti­mes wasn’t a co­lor at all. It se­emed to be ma­de of ske­ins of light. He li­ked to watch tho­ughts flic­ker ac­ross her fa­ce. He was on the po­int of as­king her what she was thin­king when she sig­hed. “Well, I’d bet­ter go in. So­me­one has se­en yo­ur truck by now.”

  “Are you go­ing to be okay?” He un­ho­oked her se­at belt and swung her kne­es aro­und. He didn’t know why he as­ked that. Yes, he did. Tur­ning Pre­ci­o­us Car­go over was so­me­ti­mes hard. Not usu­al­ly, but so­me­ti­mes un­der ex­t­re­me con­di­ti­ons pe­op­le sho­wed how spe­ci­al, ex­t­ra­or­di­nary, and co­ura­ge­o­us they we­re, and it co­uld be hard to yi­eld res­pon­si­bi­lity for ca­ring for them.

  He co­uld get her in and out of a car wit­ho­ut jol­ting or jar­ring her sho­ul­der, but he didn’t trust an­yo­ne el­se wo­uld. She ac­cep­ted his help now wit­ho­ut com­ment. When he spre­ad his hands aro­und her tiny wa­ist, she no lon­ger ten­sed; in­s­te­ad, she le­aned in­to him. He didn’t want to let her go on­ce her fe­et to­uc­hed the gro­und, he wan­ted to pull her clo­ser.

  He didn’t li­ke the com­p­le­xity of his re­ac­ti­ons to this wo­man. He ne­eded to get cle­ar and stay cle­ar abo­ut his obj­ec­ti­ves. Su­re, it was a plus that he fo­und her at­trac­ti­ve. He wo­uldn’t ha­ve to fa­ke his in­te­rest, not at all. He sank his fin­gers de­eper in­to her soft-firm flesh and rub­bed his thumbs ac­ross the fe­mi­ni­ne cur­ve of her sto­mach. But he had to re­mem­ber at all ti­mes he was on a mis­si­on, a pri­va­te mis­si­on that had be­en too long co­ming.

  He won­de­red if it was too so­on to kiss her. She ac­cep­ted his right to to­uch her, a right he was wil­ling to bet she ac­cor­ded few ot­hers. He co­uld tip her he­ad up, and he didn’t think she wo­uld stop him. Out of the cor­ner of his eye he saw a cur­ta­in on an up­s­ta­irs win­dow mo­ve. Re­luc­tantly, he drop­ped his hands from her wa­ist. Not now. He wo­uld wa­it un­til she sho­wed him she wan­ted it.

  Unless she to­ok too long. He wan­ted the signs to be un­mis­ta­kab­le that they be­lon­ged to­get­her and he had ad­mit­tan­ce to the fa­mily cir­c­le when she in­t­ro­du­ced him to Te­ague Cal­ho­un.

  “Whe­re on earth ha­ve you be­en?” On the se­cond flo­or lan­ding, Pic­kett le­aned over the po­lis­hed ba­lus­t­ra­de of her mot­her’s two-story co­lo­ni­al. The sa­me terry bat­h­ro­be Em­mie re­mem­be­red from the­ir col­le­ge days was clas­ped at the thro­at with one hand, but her gol­den curls we­re drawn up in a knot, both ar­t­less and sop­his­ti­ca­ted, and her ma­ke­up had be­en ap­pli­ed by a mas­ter. Em­mie’s bre­ath ca­ught to see her fri­end lo­oking as be­a­uti­ful on the out­si­de as Em­mie al­re­ady knew she was on the in­si­de. “Gra­ce is abo­ut to ha­ve a cow. You didn’t an­s­wer yo­ur cell pho­ne. What hap­pe­ned to you?”

  Still stun­ned by her fri­end’s be­a­uty, her he­art over­f­lo­wed with lo­ve. Be­mu­sed by the tho­ught that Do-Lord had be­en abo­ut to kiss her the­re in the dri­ve­way and con­fu­sed be­ca­use he hadn’t, her mind went blank. Em­mie ne­ver had be­en ab­le to lie worth a damn.

  “We dro­ve aro­und for a whi­le, then Em­mie sho­wed me how to get to the co­untry club,” Do-Lord an­s­we­red, pla­cing a com­ra­dely hand on her sho­ul­der. Now, why hadn’t she tho­ught to say that? It was even the truth, if you didn’t co­unt the parts that we­re left out. “Jax knew whe­re we we­re. Ha­ven’t you tal­ked to him?”

  Pic­kett’s pe­achy skin to­ok on a co­ral tin­ge, then her eyes lit with her ever-re­ady hu­mor. ‘We, um, we didn’t talk abo­ut Em­mie.”

  “Emmie, you’re fi­nal­ly he­re.” Gra­ce, al­so in a bat­h­ro­be (only hers was silky pa­le blue with whi­te pi­ping on the man-ta­ilo­red col­lar and cuffs) ap­pe­ared from one of the bed­ro­oms to stand be­si­de Pic­kett. Her ha­ir and ma­ke­up we­re al­so per­fect, but then Gra­ce al­ways lo­oked per­fect. “Trish has al­re­ady fi­nis­hed ever­yo­ne el­se’s ha­ir and ma­ke­up.” She lif­ted her wrist to check the di­amond en­c­rus­ted watch she wo­re. Gra­ce was well-na­med. Un­mar­red by any tra­ce of jerky im­pa­ti­en­ce, the ges­tu­re was flu­id and ele­gant, and un­mis­ta­kably chi­ding.

  An apo­logy was cle­arly ex­pec­ted, but Em­mie wo­uld cho­ke on the words if she tri­ed. She wasn’t sorry. Fur­t­her­mo­re, it was Gra­ce’s blind spot that had ne­ces­si­ta­ted her ac­ti­ons. Af­ter they had fi­nis­hed with the ca­ke, they’d be­en fur­t­her de­la­yed whi­le Em­mie so­ught out the co­untry club’s chef. A pla­te of glu­ten-free fo­od wo­uld ap­pe­ar at Pic­kett’s pla­ce at the re­cep­ti­on.

  Do- Lord’s fin­gers tig­h­te­ned on Em­mie’s sho­ul­der in a soft squ­e­eze. “Let me be the one to apo­lo­gi­ze,” he ur­ged her, as if he didn’t know hell wo­uld fre­eze over be­fo­re the words pas­sed her lips. Only she co­uld see his eyes dan­cing with de­vil lights. To Gra­ce he sa­id, “We we­re enj­oying our­sel­ves and didn’t think abo­ut the ti­me.”

  He brus­hed a kiss ac­ross her tem­p­le-the se­cond ti­me he’d kis­sed her li­ke that, and she knew no mo­re what to think than the first ti­me. “Go get be­a­uti­ful. I’ll see you la­ter.”

  “You ha­ven’t sa­id a word sin­ce you wal­ked in the do­or,” Pic­kett whis­pe­red as she her­ded Em­mie ahe­ad of her sis­ters to­ward the­ir mot­her’s mas­ter su­ite. They had com­man­de­ered the hu­mon­go­us dres­sing area as the only spa­ce lar­ge eno­ugh to hold them all. “What’s go­ing on?” “Tell you la­ter,” Em­mie whis­pe­red back as the Ses­soms “girls,” Gra­ce, Sa­rah Bea, and Lyle, crow­ded in be­hind her.

  Pic­kett’s mot­her had be­en exa­mi­ning the back of her ha­ir when they en­te­red. She la­id the hand mir­ror down. “I see you’ve lo­ca­ted my pro­di­gal, adop­ted da­ug­h­ter. All my girls to­get­her, and the Baby is get­ting mar­ri­ed. Do you re­ali­ze this is the last ti­me we’ll be to­get­her li­ke this?”

  The­re was one of tho­se lit­tle si­len­ces, no lon­ger than an in­ha­le, in which who­le pa­ges of things go un­sa­id. Whet­her ac­ci­den­tal­ly or de­li­be­ra­tely, Mary Co­le Ses­soms had omit­ted her un­mar­ri­ed da­ug­h­ter, Lyle, from con­si­de­ra­ti­on.

  Lyle had ne­ver of­fi­ci­al­ly co­me out to her fa­mily. It was one of tho­se things ever­yo­ne knew and no one tal­ked abo­ut. Lyle was next in age to Pic­kett, and may­be be­ca­use so many ye­ars se­pa­ra­ted them from the­ir ol­der sis­ters, Gra­ce and Sa­rah Bea, she and Pic­kett we­re clo­ser to each ot­her. As a re­sult, in pri­va­te (and with Em­mie) Lyle and Pic­kett had dis­cus­sed Lyle’s li­fes­t­y­le. Pic­kett had ur­ged Lyle mo­re than on­ce to as­sert her right to be who she was. Lyle, tho­ugh, cho­se to li­ve in New York City rat­her than fa­ce sticky mo­men­ts-li­ke this one- over and over.

  Emmie with her in­si­der-out­si­der po­int of vi­ew co­uld tell that ever­yo­ne did lo­ve Lyle as she was, and in the­ir own way, sho­wed the­ir ac­cep­tan­ce. They po­li­tely in­qu­ired abo­ut Lyle’s sig­ni­fi­cant ot­hers, and had Lyle be­en in­vol­ved with an­yo­ne at pre­sent, wo­uld ha­ve in­vi­ted her to be part of this wed­ding. On the ot­her hand, no one saw Lyle’s re­la­ti­on­s­hips as ca­use for ce­leb­ra­ti­on. Whe­ne­ver Em­mie was in­vi­ted to a fa­mily party, the in­vi­ter al­ways ad­ded, “And isn’t the­re a ni­ce boy you’d li­ke to bring with you?” No­body as­ked Lyle whet­her she wan­ted to bring a ni­ce girl.

  Pic­kett got that I’m ta­king over now lo­ok in her eyes. Uh-oh. When Pic­kett lo­oked li­ke that, she was get­ting re­ady to set pe­op­le stra­ight. Em­mie had se­en it eno­ugh ti­mes to re­ad it easily, but she wasn’t su­re how of­ten her fa­mily had. As she’d told Ca­leb, Pic­kett didn’t as­sert her­self aro­und her fa­mily. When she di­sag­re­ed, she subtly mo­ved away from them.

  “Don’t y’all wish,” she as­ked brightly, “sa­me-sex uni­ons we­re le­gal in North Ca­ro­li­na, and we co­uld all co­me to­get­her li­ke this for Lyle?”

  Emmie didn’t think Pic­kett’s re­la­ti­ves wis­hed an­y­t­hing of the kind. The­ir de­no­mi­na­ti­on was not so vo­cal­ly an­ti-gay as so­me, but con­ser­va­tism in the area ran de­ep. They had co­me to terms with the fact that Lyle wo­uld ne­ver marry, and to the com­mu­nity, they pre­sen­ted a uni­ted front of sup­port. That might be as far as they co­uld go.

  “I wish,” sa­id Mary Co­le in the to­ne of so­me­one set­tling an ar­gu­ment, “for all my da­ug­h­ters to be happy. It isn’t pos­sib­le to tre­at all one’s chil­d­ren the sa­me. Each child is dif­fe­rent and has dif­fe­rent ne­eds.”

  “Then trust me. I’m happy the way I am! I don’t want to get mar­ri­ed to an­yo­ne. Pic­kett’s star­ry-eyed right this mi­nu­te-she do­esn’t know what she’s get­ting in­to.”

  “Yes, I do,” obj­ec­ted Pic­kett.

  As one, all her sis­ters and her mot­her tur­ned to her. “ No, you don’t,” they sa­id in uni­son.

  Ever­yo­ne la­ug­hed lon­ger and har­der than the mo­ment cal­led for. La­ug­hed un­til they had to grab tis­su­es. Mary Co­le ca­uti­o­usly dab­bed un­der her eyes then lo­oked up to catch Pic­kett’s la­ug­hing but slightly af­fron­ted ex­p­res­si­on. “Oh ho­ney, we’re not do­ub­ting yo­ur com­pe­ten­ce.