Terry wanted nothing more. “After you.”
An hour and at least fifty handshakes and congratulations later, Terry found a quiet spot against the wall across from the door to nurse his club soda. He’d made the rounds, had two glasses of champagne, and—hopefully—had convinced a couple of the richest attendees at the shindig to write very large checks.
Could he slip out unnoticed? He was just about to try when a woman in a sapphire blue dress slipped into the room. It wasn’t her outfit that caught his eye, though. It was the mop of black curls piled into a loose bun on the top of her head. The brown eyes darting around the room.
He knew those eyes. Hell, he’d dreamed about them every damn day for over a year after she’d disappeared from Bagram, but he’d never found her. She’d retired from the army, moved out of her apartment in D.C., and vanished.
Setting his drink on the first table he saw, he made a beeline for Dana, weaving among the crowd until he caught up with her trying to get Jim’s attention.
“Mr. Stafford? If I could just have five minutes of your time.” Her desperate tone set every one of Terry’s protective instincts on high alert. “Please. I emptied my savings to be—”
“I’m sorry, but I’m due on stage any minute,” Jim said. “Can I catch you in half an hour or so?”
Dana nodded, crestfallen, and by the slump in her shoulders, she knew Jim wasn’t likely to circle back. Stafford was a good guy, but he was the ultimate salesman. This whole fucking party was designed to draw the rich and powerful, and by admitting she’d emptied her savings to buy a ticket, she’d lost her chance for a personal audience with him.
Terry started to call her name, but his voice deserted him. After a quick cough, he tried again. “Dana.”
She sucked in a sharp breath and spun around but ended up off balance with her heel caught in the hem of her dress.
“Fuck, sweetheart. I’ve got you,” he said as she tumbled into his arms.
“T-Terry? Wh-what are you doing here?” Tears shimmered in Dana’s eyes, and she peered up at him like he was the last person on earth she expected to see.
“Savin’ a beautiful woman from fallin’ on her ass?” He grinned, but Dana didn’t return the gesture. “You disappeared on me. I thought I saw you the day after the surgery, but…hell. I can’t be sure with all the meds I was on. I thought you were comin’ back. You practically promised…”
Terry expected some sort of sharp retort, but instead, his sassy, compassionate, tender nurse dissolved into tears. “I…let me go,” she choked out as she righted herself and shoved at his chest. “Shit. I need to clean myself up or Stafford is going to think I’m an idiot.”
Before he could stop her, she was rushing for the bathrooms at the back corner of the room.
“Wait!” Terry’d run the Boston Marathon with OneFund only a year after he’d lost his leg, but not even Usain Bolt could catch a woman who didn’t want to be caught.
Planting himself against the wall a respectful distance away from the bathroom door, he crossed his arms and waited.
Dana emerged five minutes later. Her cheeks were still splotchy, her eyes bloodshot but dry. She stopped short when she saw him and her lower lip wobbled for a split second.
“I need to talk to Mr. Stafford.”
Applause rang out from behind them, and Terry angled a quick glance toward the stage. “He’s goin’ to be a while. His speeches are never short.”
“You know him?” Hope flared in her brown eyes, piquing Terry’s curiosity even more. “Can you…?”
“I work for Rescue International. Have for almost a year now.”
Dana took a step closer. “Doing what?”
“Outreach.” Fuck. He could smell her perfume. Or shampoo. Whatever it was…he wanted to bathe in it. Live in it. Not fruity, not floral, not…anything he could identify. Other than perfection. With a hint of lavender.
“What does that mean?” She hadn’t relaxed, her shoulders tense, hands still balled into fists at her sides, a small purse tucked under her arm. Up close, the dress showed its age. The hem, frayed in spots, that caused her stumble, a faded patch near her hip, a stain at her waist so small, he never would have noticed had he not been enthralled by her very presence and desperate to memorize everything about her in case he never saw her again.
“It means I make phone calls, meet with potential donors, and convince local law enforcement to allow us to operate unfettered within their jurisdictions.”
Why were they still talking about him? About Rescue International? He ached to ask her why she’d disappeared from Bagram. Why she’d never tried to contact him or let him make good on that promise to help paint her apartment.
Dana’s hands shook as she fumbled for the catch on her purse, and she pulled out a stack of photos secured with a rubber band. “My n-nephew,” she stammered as she thrust the small collection at him.
With a frown, Terry pulled off the tie and started flipping through the grainy images. Most looked like they were from security camera footage. The boy was at most seventeen, the pictures taken in various hotel hallways from the garish patterns on the carpets.
“Fuck me. Dana—”
