he’d walked over to her little house in the dead of night. He had stood outside her door more nights than he cared to think about. Oh, yeah, he knew where she lived, his sad-eyed beauty. Charlotte Fitzgerald. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. She’d been watching over him these past two months, willing him to make it. He’d come back to life thanks to her. He’d always been a hard man, and he’d been determined to come back even harder after dying, but he almost gave up, that first day in San Luis. He’d always been so strong, and his weakness had scared the shit out of him.
Then he’d seen this beautiful, sad woman on a terrace, looking down, and he’d felt waves of support coming from her. As if she knew what he was doing because she’d done it herself. As if she was willing him with everything in her to succeed. Dying fucked with a man’s mind. Matt knew in his head he’d been handed a second chance at life in the hospital, but he hadn’t known it deep inside until the woman he’d come to call his Angel watched over him as he put himself back together again, broken piece by broken piece.
“Here,” she whispered, as they reached her terrace. Matt made it to her door, bending slightly to open it with her in his arms. Inside, it was as if he’d spent all his life there. Somehow, he knew exactly which couch to put her on—the one with the brightly colored blanket covering the back. He somehow knew where the bathroom was and in a second he was out with a big thick towel.
Matt knelt in front of the couch and started toweling his Angel dry. The wild shivering continued, and he looked her over carefully, worried, as he rubbed her arms. He was a SEAL, a Navy diver. He’d seen hypothermia before—one of the deadliest dangers a soldier could face—and knew it could be fatal fast.
Frowning, Matt held her wrist for a moment, judging pulse rate and temperature. Pulse weak and slow. Core temperature about 92°. In a hea vy man, the chances of total recovery were good, but she was slender. Thin people lost body heat faster. She needed to get out of her wet clothes, right now. Cold wet clothes are a wick for body heat. He had to get her warm and dry. Then he needed to get some hot liquid and sugar into her.
“Charlotte,” he said, keeping his voice low. It took her half a minute to respond.
“Yes,” she whispered after a moment, as she looked up at him. She didn’t question that he knew her name.
She was focused on him. Good. She seemed alert, though slow to react. She was shaking wildly.
“I need to get you out of your clothes. They’re wet, and they’re keeping your temperature down. It’s dangerous for you to stay in them. Let me help you. I’ll put the blanket around you and go get some dry clothes for you to put on.”
She nodded—more a jerk of the head than an assent—and he bent to grab the bottom of her cotton sweater, tugging upward. She obediently lifted her shaking arms, the wet sleeves falling away from her delicate wrists. Matt pulled her sweater off, turned her slightly to undo her bra. And froze.
He couldn’t move; he could barely breathe as he stared at her shoulder. Hypothermia dulls the senses, slows the mind. Charlotte was only now realizing what had happened, what she’d shown him. He could see her registering his shock. Her face went white, bone white, even her lips. She shuddered once, hard, and cringed away from him.
They stared at each other, her light gray eyes meeting his dark ones. Her pupils were so dilated with shock only a silver-blue rim remained. A shaking hand covered her mouth. She looked utterly terrified, as if he were the symbol of death itself. And he was. Humans are essentially animals and like any animal in the wild, she was picking up on the waves of deadly rage coming off him. Death was in the room. Death for whoever had done this to her.
He was a soldier, he knew what that scar was. He’d seen hundreds of them. He had several himself.
Some
Then he’d seen this beautiful, sad woman on a terrace, looking down, and he’d felt waves of support coming from her. As if she knew what he was doing because she’d done it herself. As if she was willing him with everything in her to succeed. Dying fucked with a man’s mind. Matt knew in his head he’d been handed a second chance at life in the hospital, but he hadn’t known it deep inside until the woman he’d come to call his Angel watched over him as he put himself back together again, broken piece by broken piece.
“Here,” she whispered, as they reached her terrace. Matt made it to her door, bending slightly to open it with her in his arms. Inside, it was as if he’d spent all his life there. Somehow, he knew exactly which couch to put her on—the one with the brightly colored blanket covering the back. He somehow knew where the bathroom was and in a second he was out with a big thick towel.
Matt knelt in front of the couch and started toweling his Angel dry. The wild shivering continued, and he looked her over carefully, worried, as he rubbed her arms. He was a SEAL, a Navy diver. He’d seen hypothermia before—one of the deadliest dangers a soldier could face—and knew it could be fatal fast.
Frowning, Matt held her wrist for a moment, judging pulse rate and temperature. Pulse weak and slow. Core temperature about 92°. In a hea vy man, the chances of total recovery were good, but she was slender. Thin people lost body heat faster. She needed to get out of her wet clothes, right now. Cold wet clothes are a wick for body heat. He had to get her warm and dry. Then he needed to get some hot liquid and sugar into her.
“Charlotte,” he said, keeping his voice low. It took her half a minute to respond.
“Yes,” she whispered after a moment, as she looked up at him. She didn’t question that he knew her name.
She was focused on him. Good. She seemed alert, though slow to react. She was shaking wildly.
“I need to get you out of your clothes. They’re wet, and they’re keeping your temperature down. It’s dangerous for you to stay in them. Let me help you. I’ll put the blanket around you and go get some dry clothes for you to put on.”
She nodded—more a jerk of the head than an assent—and he bent to grab the bottom of her cotton sweater, tugging upward. She obediently lifted her shaking arms, the wet sleeves falling away from her delicate wrists. Matt pulled her sweater off, turned her slightly to undo her bra. And froze.
He couldn’t move; he could barely breathe as he stared at her shoulder. Hypothermia dulls the senses, slows the mind. Charlotte was only now realizing what had happened, what she’d shown him. He could see her registering his shock. Her face went white, bone white, even her lips. She shuddered once, hard, and cringed away from him.
They stared at each other, her light gray eyes meeting his dark ones. Her pupils were so dilated with shock only a silver-blue rim remained. A shaking hand covered her mouth. She looked utterly terrified, as if he were the symbol of death itself. And he was. Humans are essentially animals and like any animal in the wild, she was picking up on the waves of deadly rage coming off him. Death was in the room. Death for whoever had done this to her.
He was a soldier, he knew what that scar was. He’d seen hundreds of them. He had several himself.
Some
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