Gabe (In the Company of Snipers, #8)(44)

Silly woman must not have heard the shower running.

“I, umm... ah...” she muttered without saying anything intelligent—or rude.

He grinned at her flustered confusion while those violet-blue lasers of hers zipped down to his feet and back up to his eyes in about two seconds flat. Crazier yet, she finger-stabbed her glasses back up on her nose.

There he was, standing at the sink without so much as a stitch on and she wanted better visibility? Violet-blue settled on his chest and then his stomach, slowly drifting downward, her mouth open in a silent O.

He turned to face her. There was no sense hiding what she’d already taken a gander at. “Care to join me?”

Her mouth finally closed, but a lovely shade of rose blossomed up her neck, spilling onto her cheeks. An embarrassed young woman replaced the cool, professional and very stuffy Nurse Sullivan, who’d probably seen it all in her line of work. She took her glasses off, blinking like crazy and shaking her head. This shy girl took a step back and blurted out a squeaky, “No, umm... no.”

Her glance dropped to his feet. His prosthetic foot. She shook those blond tresses, glanced at his cock, which by now had stood up and noticed her, too. One more time her eyeballs scrolled up and over his bare chest. She bit her lip right before she blew out an adorably embarrassed sigh and slammed the door behind her.

He chuckled. It had been a long time since any female had seen him in the raw. Women tended to steer clear of guys with fake limbs. He’d learned the hard way. War hero or not, once he let the cat out of the bag that he’d left a part of himself in Afghanistan, the romantic dinner was over. The night was done. They’d taken off. Every damned time.

He’d stopped looking for Mrs. Right months ago and bought a house. Less stress. More equity. As far as his feelings toward his missing foot? He’d dealt with it long ago.

Wasn’t much choice, was there?

Modern technology had provided a rugged substitute that would’ve allowed him to stay in the Corps if he’d wanted, but hell no. The molded plastic served its purpose. It kept him mobile, functioning, and able to stay productive. He had others, like his paddle foot for running, but it drew too much attention. He preferred to look like other guys. Normal on the outside.

It ached when the weather changed, which was really funny, considering the foot wasn’t there anymore. Phantom pains, his rehab therapist called them. Ha. Nothing phantom about those aches. Otherwise, a foot was a foot, mechanical or not. It held him upright. He stuck it in his boot and forgot about it. Other things hurt a helluva lot worse. Like losing friends and brothers. Just ask Maverick, why don’t cha?

But the look on Sullivan’s face? Priceless.

He wiped the last of the lather off his grinning mouth and chuckled loud enough that she surely heard it from wherever she’d run off to. Everyone else must have, too.

The steam in her eyes had been unexpected, though. Dark violet—a very enticing color. Simmering. Hmm. Yet another side to the beast.

Well, now she knew. A twinge of regret shifted over the face of the man staring back from the mirror. He’d been down this road before. Never ended well.

Gabe focused on shaving instead of that—silly girl.




And I had to push my glasses up? Like I needed to get a better look? At him? Naked? Am I that stupid!

Shelby fled toward Kelsey’s room, blood humming so loud in her head she couldn’t think. Not only had she embarrassed herself by intruding on his privacy, but the man had a prosthetic foot attached to the bottom of his right leg. Agent Cartwright was a tibular amputee. How had she not noticed that before?

Her flustered mind raced over the last two days. He didn’t limp. He didn’t even favor the leg. Nothing. But she should’ve detected the difference, especially when she’d seen him lying on the floor this morning. She should’ve noticed the difference in his gait yesterday when he’d played with the dogs. She should’ve noticed something. Anything.

Why didn’t I? Am I really that stupid?


No. Simply focused on job number one, Kelsey, like you should be.

Other things bothered her about these two guys. Like their need to always wear those darned holsters, guns included. And their boots. And those dogs. Had she been so irritated with all that stuff that she’d missed really seeing them? That she’d never really looked at the men behind the whole professional bodyguard persona?

But wow, a transtibial amputation. Most orthopedic surgeons opted for less of a residual limb, taking a damaged leg off closer to the knee joint and leaving just enough of a stump to attach a longer prosthetic leg instead of a prosthetic ankle and foot. Why had this doctor elected to leave more of Agent Cartwright’s leg? Was that what Army doctors did?

Oh, wait. He’s not Army. What was that rank he’d tossed at her? USMC, something or other. She hadn’t cared enough to listen, but wished she had now. Agent Cartwright might act like any other guy, but he wasn’t.

Agent Lennox treated him like he had two normal legs. Surely he knew, didn’t he? Or was Agent Cartwright just that good at hiding his... his what? His handicap?

The word didn’t fit. Not one bit. Not him. No. The man wasn’t handicapped in any sense of the word. Those were oftentimes more of a mental condition anyway. People who’d suffered acute trauma tended to label themselves as handicapped, crippled or divorced, as if that label truly identified who they were. The problem was that once labeled, they’d effectively pigeonholed themselves for the rest of their lives. They accepted less. They believed they were less than whole.