Heaving an impatient breath, he turned back to face her. “This is supposed to be a romantic getaway—”
“And that won’t change, unless you want it to.”
“Damn it.” He scrubbed his hands over his face and growled, “Leave it alone, Zandra.”
“I can’t.” Her voice softened. “And neither can you.”
He stared at her for a long moment, then pivoted on his heel and stalked from the bedroom.
She followed him through the darkened suite to the kitchen. She turned on the light, wincing at the sudden brightness as she watched him remove a beer from the refrigerator and twist the cap off the bottle.
“Remy—”
He tipped back the beer and drank deep.
“Something is obviously troubling you.” Her voice was gentle and soothing, as if she were trying to calm a wounded but feral animal. “It’s about what happened three years ago, isn’t it?”
He didn’t answer her.
“If it’s confidentiality you’re worried about—”
“No.” His voice was flat. “It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
He remained silent, brushing past her to walk into the living room.
Undeterred, Zandra turned and followed him. He sat in a chair, and she knew it had been deliberate. He didn’t want her sitting close to him.
Her throat tightened at the sting of his rejection.
Ignoring the plush sofa and other chairs, she lowered herself to the floor at his feet, tucking her legs under her. She was determined to get through to him once and for all, even if it took all night.
“Talk to me, Remy,” she said softly.
He sat with his back at an angle to the kitchen. The light cast shadows over his face, making it so impenetrable he might as well have been covered with the camouflage paint he’d once worn.
“I feel like you’re keeping an important part of yourself from me,” Zandra whispered. “And it hurts.”
Something like guilt flickered in the dark eyes that met hers. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to hurt you.”
“I know.” She swallowed tightly and moistened her dry lips. “You were there for me after my mother died. You took leave so you could look after me, and those two weeks you were home meant everything to me. You brought me food and made me eat when no one else could. You comforted me, held me when I needed you to. You kept me from falling completely apart, Remy.”
He leaned his head back against the chair. “Zandra—”
“Ever since you came back I’ve wanted to return the favor, but you haven’t let me.” She shook her head. “It’s not fair.”
He clenched his jaw, his grip tightening on the beer bottle until she thought it might shatter, slicing his hand.
She waited tensely, breath suspended in her lungs. She was surprised at just how badly she wanted him to confide in her, bare his soul.
They were quiet for several moments before he finally spoke, his voice low and remote. “The commander of my SEAL platoon was a guy named Dustin Shaughnessy. He came from a long line of naval officers dating back to his great-grandfather, who’d served in World War One and earned the Medal of Honor. Shaughnessy’s grandfather and father were also decorated war heroes. If ever there was such a thing as navy royalty, Shaughnessy was it. He graduated from the Naval Academy in Annapolis, reported for duty as an ensign and was promoted to lieutenant within a year. But he never acted entitled, never lorded his family pedigree over anyone. He was a good teammate and a damn good SEAL. A frogman’s frogman.”
“Sounds like you had a lot of respect for him,” Zandra observed quietly.
“I did. We all did. Out in the field, rank rarely ever matters. Officers and platoon leaders never have a problem taking advice from their men. We’re a team, working together to achieve the same goal. I was second in charge to Shaughnessy. I was an LTJG—lieutenant junior grade. But even though he outranked me, Shaughnessy never tried to pull rank.” Remy paused, his expression hardening. “Until that night in Fallujah.”
He stared into the distance for several moments, lost in memories that were beyond Zandra’s reach.