Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty-Four

Marlowe knew the moment Asher fell back asleep. A deep sigh breathed out of him and his entire body went slack. He stopped talking. His voice was so hoarse, she'd had trouble understanding him, so she didn't mind.

She smoothed her palm over his warm belly, loving the brush of crisp curly hairs against her skin. Spreading her fingers, she wondered what he'd taste like. He smelled of soap and clean sheets. Of course, he'd probably been bathed after surgery and maybe earlier today too. Would he taste like that elusive male scent that was uniquely Asher Downey?

Just because she could, she pressed her lips to his neck and planted a kiss there. Then another. Then a lick. Her nostrils flared at the intimate flavor bursting over her tongue. She'd never kissed a man before, certainly not his neck. She hadn't kissed anyone, and she wouldn't take advantage of Asher now. Wouldn't think of going farther. Not while he was asleep. If only he'd open his eyes and then maybe—

Nope. Absolutely not.

Content with the scant mischief she'd accomplished, Marlowe settled her cheek against his chest. Oh, to be brave enough to kiss his lips. To wake him with a kiss. Maybe someday. Not tonight. He needed rest more than her foolish wanderings. Rest and healing.

Her hand was still caught beneath his. Oddly, it felt good there, not caught as much as… connected. That was a better word. She and Asher were inexplicably connected in ways she didn't understand. It was a frightening, wonderfully new feeling, to be wanted.

Not only wanted but—dare she think it?—treasured? Like Kelsey and Libby were treasured. Marlowe was a fool standing at the edge of the life she'd always wanted, but had never been worthy of. Her toes were curled over the edge of that steep cliff. If she was wrong, if she'd misread Asher, she'd never recover. She would fall straight into despair and sink out of sight.

Somehow, she'd have to find the strength to go back to the only life that had given her a reason to get up each morning. Namely, rescuing vulnerable women. Getting them on helicopters and far away from the Taliban. She certainly couldn't work with Alex anymore, not if Asher cast her aside. She wasn't fit for nine-to-five jobs. Society had scraped her off its uppity boot heel and cast her aside a long time ago. She was born trash and, if Asher rejected her, she'd die trash. The only place where she'd ever fit was the last place on earth intelligent people wanted to go. Afghanistan. Maybe she could work for the FBI or CIA, or someone in the same business as Alex. There were other organizations out there that rescued women at risk, weren't there? The TEAM couldn't be the only one.

But what if she didn't fall? What if she flew, if she soared high, like an eagle? What if this uplifting feeling for Asher was real, not her imagination, then…?

Marlowe honestly didn't know what came next.

She'd never entertained these jumbled-up feelings before. Just thinking about that fairy tale myth called true love made her question herself. What Kelsey had with Alex was real. He adored her. Sure, she was beautiful and Marlowe wasn't. Looks mattered, but the gentle way that he'd held his wife…

The warm feelings inside the Stewarts' home…

The way Kelsey melted into Alex when he arrived home…

Those qualities were rare, close to unbelievable. Yet they existed. Marlowe had seen them in action. She knew, she just knew that, even if Kelsey grew warts and had bad breath, Alex would still love her.

Lexie and little Bradley weren't traumatized. They'd probably never been beaten a day in their lives. Probably never went to bed or to school hungry. Of course, they hadn't. The man who'd made it his business to end a wicked creature like Jamah wouldn't mistreat his children. Marlowe hadn't exactly seen how Alex treated his kids, but she couldn't imagine him hurting them or not wanting them. He was a good man, and good men took care of everyone. What he had with Kelsey was real. It just might be time to fly. Marlowe had witnessed true love and of Kelsey, Libby, and Judy could find it, so could she.

Asher groaned in his sleep. His fingers tightened around hers, squeezing them. He arched his back. Marlowe let him hold on as tightly as he needed. Lifting up onto one elbow, she blew gently over his face, hoping to distract him from whatever nightmare was troubling him.

Curiously, he turned his head towards her and drew in a full breath. His eyes were still closed. She blew over his face again, pleased that he seemed to enjoy it, despite the cannula in his nose. He inhaled deeper that time. His belly expanded. Still gripping her fingers, his body went limp again. He hadn't awakened, but he knew she was there.

"I think I might be in love with you," she whispered into his ear. "I've had feelings for you since that day you found me. It's got to be love, right?" She still wasn't sure. Was this feeling what happened when you stepped off the edge? Either you fell or you flew? Was this flying?

She eased back under the blanket alongside Asher. Her fingers were still cradled in his palm. She closed her eyes, intending on dreaming about him. After all, she was in bed with him and—

OOOMPH! She was suddenly pressed beneath the full weight of—

Oh my. Her naughty fingertips danced over a very bare and firm, definitely male, butt. Instinctively, her palms flattened on that backside and her mouth went dry. Was he asleep? Awake? Did she care? She had his ass where she wanted it and—

"C-can't breathe," he huffed into her neck. "Can't reach… her. Too far away. Help me. Help her!"

Her? Her who?

His back arched. His body was strung so tight that his spine bowed. She moved her hands from his backside and cupped his rough, sweaty jaw. "Asher, what's wrong? You need to lay back down. Your shoulder. You shouldn't lean—"

"You don't get it. I can't reach her. Can you? Help her!" He was on his hands and knees, now, nearly straddling Marlowe. The blanket was gone. He'd shoved it aside. Sweat dripped off his nose. He reached his good arm over her head, straining for something she couldn't see. "She's too far away. God, she's dying. I can't save her!"

"Honey, I'm here. I'm right here. Look at me," Marlowe ordered.

"She's dying, gawddamn it. The bomb… We're buried. No time! Save yourself!"

"Asher, no. She didn't die and neither did you. I've got you, honey. You're safe. You're with me and—"

He collapsed on Marlowe, breathing hard, his heartbeat pounding through his body and hers. He couldn't seem to catch his breath. Couldn't stop panting.

"No, God no," he rasped. "Not you, too."

And enough.

Marlowe pushed Asher over, carefully not manhandling his injured arm and shoulder. Mounting him as quickly as she could, she pressed his back flat to the mattress. He didn't need more pain, and panic was killing him. Licking her lips, she did what any red-blooded American woman would do when faced with a suffering war hero.

He believed he was suffocating? Well, Marlowe had a cure for that. Tossing caution and her fear of rejection to the wind, she sank carefully down onto his heaving chest, tilted his chin upward, and she kissed him. Open-mouthed. Her lips covering his, as tightly as she could, given his sweaty condition. When he struggled to inhale again, she forced her breath into him, filling his lungs with air until his chest lifted.

She did it again and again. She knew rescue breathing. She'd learned it during that free Red Cross class she'd taken way back when. There were no obstructions in his throat, and he wasn't choking. He was trapped somewhere in his past. This was a panic attack, and this time, she was going to save him.

As she forced another breath down his throat, she reached for the call button and rang the nurse. With every breath Asher accepted, his body relaxed. Her technique might be risqué, but she didn't give a damn. She'd keep doing what worked until it stopped working, but somebody had better show up to help by then.

All at once, bright light flooded the room. Someone had opened the door. About time. A woman in scrubs came to Asher's side. She didn't say anything to Marlowe, just adjusted one of the machines and leaned over him with a small flashlight.

"Asher," she said with authority, shining that light in his eyes "Snap out of it. You're scaring Marlowe."

Marlowe tipped back on her haunches. "You know who I am?" she huffed.

"Sweetheart, everyone knows who you are, now stop. Take a breath. Relax. He's breathing on his own now. You did good. He's okay."

Marlowe did as she was told. "He was asleep one minute, but the next, he couldn't breathe. He was panicking. I didn't know what else to do."

The nurse or whoever she was, cocked her head, and Marlowe became acutely aware of where she was sitting, and that Asher's hands were still on her hips. He had a good strong grip. His fingertips were dug into her backside. His thumbs were planted inside the crease between her thighs and her belly. Thank heavens, she was dressed. His eyes opened. Oh, my.

Still shaken and sweating now too, she told him. "You scared me."

"Sorry about that." His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. Then swallowed again. "Panic… attack."

"Yes, and a vicious one," the woman in scrubs said. "I wish you'd take that drug we talked about."

"No drugs, Doc Fitz. Got what I need…" He squeezed Marlowe's hips. "Right here."

Aww, that made her want to smile. Instead, Marlowe tipped forward, taking her weight mostly off of him. "You were trying to reach a woman, but you couldn't. You were buried with her, weren't you?"

He nodded, blowing out a breath between pursed lips. "Not a woman… A ten-year-old girl, I think... Alissa… my interpreter… Abdul's daughter…" He huffed between each hoarse explanation. "Bomb… whole building… collapsed… Basement… couldn't breathe… dust… dirt… in my lungs… mouth… nose…" He coughed. "Walls weren't concrete… earthen… just dirt… Lots of dirt."

Dr. Fitz unclipped the oximeter from his finger. "Your stats are close to normal again. Do you know what brought this one on?"

"Never get… warnings… Just hits when… I least expect it."

Marlowe settled back onto his hips. If he wanted her there, then there she'd stay. Dr. Fitz didn't seem to mind.

Asher's eyes welled with tears. "Couldn't reach her, Marlowe. Couldn't move. We were both buried up to our necks. Shit, she was on Abdul's shoulders when the bomb went off. He never stood a chance and neither did she." His tears spilled over. "God, I yelled and yelled but… every little noise only brought more dirt down on us."

Marlowe tipped onto Asher and laid her ear against his chest. "You thought you were going to die."

"Yeah." He coughed. "But Heston… He's a jarhead. I'm Army. He shouldn't've been there. Don't know why he was, but he… but he…"

"He saved you, Asher," Doc Fitz murmured. "Oh, honey, he saved you, didn't he?"

"But not her." Asher choked. "He should've saved her first, but by then… by then… God. He should've saved her and her dad, not me."

Marlowe pushed herself up into Asher's arms and under his chin. She clung to him. Words were useless in the face of tragedy. There weren't enough ‘I'm sorrys' in the universe to change what happened. How well she knew.

The door whooshed shut and she knew Doc Fitz had stepped out, either for something to put in Asher's IV or to give them privacy. Taking a deep breath, Marlowe said, "Life is hard, and it isn't fair. I'm sorry that happened to you and Alissa. Where was it?"

He wiped his face. "Somalia. Three years ago. April seventh. We were hunting the warlord, Ali Akbar."

Marlowe could tell by the taut stretch of muscles in his neck that he was looking at the ceiling. "Ah, the butcher of Kabul. I'd heard he fled to Somalia."

Asher nodded. "Yeah, him. Can't tell you anything else. Sorry. Classified."

She took a deep breath. "It's the same story the whole world over. Evil destroys everything it touches."

"Don't I know it."

Lifting her head, Marlowe crossed her arms over his chest and rested her chin on her arms. "I don't know who sang it, but there was a song with a line in it about one hand reaching out. About saving just one person, and how hopeless we feel because we can't save everyone."

"Garth Brooks. The Change. Yeah, I know it."

"That song changed my life, Asher. I was on my own then, getting by. I worked at a McDonald's and only made minimum wage. But this old guy was a regular. He used to come in real late, just before we locked up. All he ever ordered was two plain hamburgers. Anyway…"

She stopped, the rest of the story harder to tell. Deep breath. Okay then. "I followed him one night after he left. He didn't buy those two plain hamburgers for himself. They were for his dog, a pretty yellow lab mix. It had gotten hit by a car, and he couldn't afford to take it to a vet. He scrounged trash cans just to buy two hamburgers every day. Two cheap, plain hamburgers for his dog."

Asher's hand drifted down her jaw. She liked that. "So the next night, after I cashed my paycheck, I went to where his tent was, and I gave him the money, plus a couple hundred I had saved." She shrugged remembering. "He got mad, said he didn't need charity, but when I told him where I lived, he settled down, and you know what? I didn't see him for a couple weeks, but when he finally showed up, his dog was with him and it was walking just fine."

"Back up a second. Where were you living?"

She winced but admitted, "Two tents from his."

"Marlowe. No."

She nodded. "Yes, and the next day when I went into work, the kids I worked with called me out, said I was stupid for helping an old bum. Guess one of them followed me the night I gave him my paycheck. Shows you I'm not cut out to be a spy, huh?"

Asher took her into his arms and against his heart. He was shaking.

"You're tired. I should go—"

"No. Stay. I mean, please stay."

Marlowe lifted up high enough to look him in the eyes. "You want me to sleep here? With you?"

A tired smile graced his ruggedly handsome face. "It's not how I imagined our first time sleeping together, but yes. I want you to stay. Right here. With me."

Marlowe had no clue how to answer, so she let her heart speak for her. "Okay, Asher. I'd… I'd like to stay with you. Tonight."

He was still pale. His hair was wet with sweat, and the longish ends curled at his nape. One particular curl lay in the middle of his forehead. Out of nowhere, his dimple showed up and—

Marlowe flew.