through the words.

Who can control his fate?

J.T. reread the line from Shakespeare's Oth.e.l.lo, let it roll around in his head for an extra second. He liked the old Bard's take on life. Human nature stayed the same. Warriors such as Macbeth and Oth.e.l.lo and Mark Anthony faced universal issues still relevant in modern day.

The horrors of war.

Getting screwed over by a woman.

Which brought him right back to Rena. No escape through reading tonight. J.T. let himself look at her, something he used to do for hours on end while she slept. Not so easy to do now that he parked his a.s.s in an apartment at the end of the workday.

Her dark curls splayed over the stark white pillowcase. Odd how he still forgot how short she was until she slept and he realized what a small portion of the bed she occupied. A few more curves than when he'd first met her, but the softness from bearing their children only made him want to lose himself inside her all the more. She was a striking woman.

Age had been kinder to her than he had over the years. He'd taken much and given little back.

Well, he sure as h.e.l.l wouldn't let her down when it came to her safety. Again, he studied the even rise and fall of the hospital blanket, rea.s.sured himself she'd come through the day alive. Albeit, still pale under her normally bronzed Greek complexion inherited from her family.

Her family...

d.a.m.n but they'd been furious that he'd knocked up their little princess Irena. But the minute he'd seen her -so full of energy and fire-he'd felt as if somebody flicked on a light switch. Colors splashed over a world that had been a monochromatic routine of work, eat, sleep, start over again.

For one time in his life, he'd ignored the practical choice and he'd gone after her. Full force. No holds barred, he had to have her.

He braced his boot on the end of her bed. He still wanted her, even when he was so d.a.m.n p.i.s.sed the top of his head felt ready to pop off.

Which p.i.s.sed him off all the more.

Yanking his eyes away from temptation, he opened his pocket-paperback Shakespeare again. Wouldn't the crewdogs have a field day with that? Yeah, he liked Shakespeare, the cla.s.sics, even poetry sometimes. He enjoyed the rhythm of how the words went together.

Reading did for him what meditation likely did for other folks. Relaxed him. But he balked at the point of the whole woo-hoo yoga idea. Not to mention the loss of control.

No need for yoga. Iambic pentameter would get the job done for him tonight.

He'd started reading more when Rena went back to college and he thumbed through a few of her books, paused, enjoyed. When others were around, he still kept to more pop fiction selections, like a Tom Clancy novel. The Bard, however, he saved for moments alone when he needed to quiet the roaring frustration in his head.

After the crash in Rubistan and his final split with Rena, he'd worked his way through Shakespeare's whole d.a.m.n historical canon.

Footsteps sounded outside the door seconds before a soft tap, followed by the door creaking open. A slice of light slanted across the room before Chris tucked his head inside. "Dad?"

J.T. snapped his book shut and held one finger to his mouth. "Your mom's sleeping," he whispered, shoving the book into the thigh pocket of his flight suit. "Come on in, but keep it quiet."

An almost comical request given how deeply Rena slept.

"Oh, sure," Chris whispered in response, shuffling inside, untied laces on his gym shoes dragging as he squeaked across sterile tile.

The door shooshed closed. Ball cap backward over his dark curls, his son slouched against the wall between the rolling tray and window. His clothes hung off his wiry body, which wouldn't in and of itself be annoying except for the fact the boy wore his cargo shorts so low it was a miracle the things stayed up.

And being angry about his teenager's clothes made him wonder how the h.e.l.l he would handle it all over again sixteen years from now. "Hey, pal. Where've you been? Were you working overtime at the restaurant?"

"Nope. Just hanging out with Shelby and Murdoch. Listening to tunes. Eating pizza." His guilty gaze skated to the hospital bed. "Sorry I wasn't around sooner, but Mom's okay, right? Mrs. Dawson wasn't holding anything back when she came home and told me, was she?"

"Your mother's going to be fine. Only a sprain and some st.i.tches. She'll be on bed rest for a couple of weeks, but no long-term problems." Relief still pounded through him, fears giving way and making room for questions. "Why didn't you have your cell phone on?"

"I dunno. Battery ran down, I guess." He swept his ball cap off, adjusted the fit and tugged it on again. "That's probably good for her, huh? Resting."

"Yes."

"So, everything's okay? With everything, I mean."

Suspicion nipped. "Everything what?"

"Uh, you know, the baby. Uh..." He rushed to add a little too quickly, "Mrs. Dawson told me."

He scuffed a gym shoe again just as he'd done at nine years old when lying about dumping his sister's makeup into the sewer system. Squeak. Squeak.

J.T. pinned him with a parental stare and knowledge. "You knew already."

Chris stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Geez, Dad, and Nikki calls me a bonehead. How could you not notice Mom's getting fat?" "Good G.o.d, son. Shh!" J.T. shot a quick glance at Rena to make sure she was still sleeping. "Don't let her hear you say the f word."

"Sorry." Shuffle. Squeak. "I figured it wasn't my place to mention anything and Mom didn't need to be upset in her, you know, condition. Guess this means you're coming home."

He intended to, but no need to raise Chris's hopes. "Your mother and I need to talk first."

Chris slouched, muttering something that sounded like a surly "About d.a.m.n time."

J.T. bit back the urge for a reprimand on a day already full of enough tension. "Son, I'm sorry to say your car's totaled. The van that hit it wiped it out."

Chris paled under the bronzed complexion he'd inherited from his mother along with the head of dark curls. "Totaled?"

"Afraid so. Insurance will cover everything after the deductible, but it may take a while for the check to come through. There isn't money for a replacement until we get the settlement." And didn't that bite a chunk out of his pride, not being able to provide for his family.

"Sure. I understand. It's just good Mom and the baby weren't hurt."

The accident kicked right back to the forefront of his memory. He couldn't let the emotions shake his focus. The cops hadn't been much help and wouldn't be unless he could give them something more to go on. Figuring out what the odd black-and-red emblem on the b.u.mper represented would be a good start.

Once he got his family settled.

J.T. stood, leaned against the opposite side of the window frame as his son. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Sure. Why wouldn't I be?"

Chris's tone and chalky face sent parental antennae on high alert. With deployments keeping him away so

much, time with his son lately was scarce. What might he have missed? "Is there any reason someone would come after you? A gang from school?"

Meeting his father's gaze dead on, no shuffling, Chris answered, "I'm not mixed up in a gang at school." Slowly, J.T. nodded, believed. "Okay, then." Still, he wasn't talking any chances on leaving Chris alone yet. "Bo's been waiting at the house in case we didn't find you first to tell you about your mom's accident. He's going to crash there on the sofa for the night so I can stay up here."

Chris straightened away from the wall. Anger snapped from his eyes, his temper another inherited legacy from his mother. "Geez, Dad, I'm sixteen. I can stay overnight on my own. It's not like I'm gonna throw some drug-flowing orgy while you're gone or anything."

G.o.d forbid.

"Bo will crash on the sofa," J.T. restated, unbending. Arguing never solved anything.

His son slouched back again, layers of clothes rippling over his lean body. "Okay, okay, stupid me

thinking anybody could have an opinion."

While he sure as h.e.l.l didn't intend to justify himself to a teenager, he needed to remember his son wasn't a kid anymore. Some explanation might go a long way for easing tension. "Chris."

"Yeah, what?" He stared at his shoes.

"It's been a c.r.a.ppy day, son. Cut me some slack."

"Sorry," he mumbled without meeting his father's eyes.

No, his son wasn't a kid anymore.

The teen years hadn't seemed as difficult with easygoing Nikki. But there hadn't been a marriage breakup

in the works.

Since he'd be around more helping out while Rena recovered, he also needed to make use of the extra time with Chris. "What do you say when I bring your mom home from the hospital, we take a couple of hours and lift some weights?"

Not a bad suggestion and the only thing he could remember doing with his old man in between double-shift-work hours.

"Lift weights?" Chris shrugged. "Yeah, sure. Whatever."

J.T. fished in his flight-suit pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. "Here, get something to eat on the way home."

"Thanks. See ya." Chris took the money and shuffled across the room, gym shoes squeaking long after the door closed behind him.

Dropping back into the recliner, J.T. snagged his book again, not that he expected to get much reading done, just pa.s.s time while he prepped for battle. As much as Rena might prefer full-out confrontations, he knew gaining ground back into their house would call for a more covert operation.

Rena grappled through layers of sleepy fog, blinked until her eyes adjusted to the spa.r.s.e light in the narrow room that was private only because no other patient occupied the bed beside her. The antiseptic smell churned her stomach, but she welcomed the reminder of a healthy pregnancy.

A pregnancy now out in the open.

Her gaze skipped to J.T. sprawled in the corner chair, reading lamp on, paperback gripped in his broad hands. She couldn't make out the cover, but imagined it was whatever military-action bestseller hit the shelves recently.

J.T. filled her eyes as completely as he filled the chair. Such a large man shouldn't be able to move so silently, yet he did. Always. Magnetically. Until her world narrowed to dark hair, muscles and slow-blinking brooding eyes.

As tempting as it was to stare at his rugged handsomeness instead of dealing with real-life worries, she was through repeating past mistakes. She couldn't hide from the truth any longer. There wouldn't be a more private time than now for their discussion. "Hi, J.T. Good book?"

He glanced up, studied her without speaking for four clicks of the second hand on the inst.i.tutional black-and-white wall clock. Closing his book, he righted the recliner. Both boots thudded on the tile floor. "I hope I didn't disturb you with the light."

"Not at all." She'd slept beside him in bed while he read many a night.

Gulp.

Where was some crushed ice and a water pitcher when a woman needed them? "How long have I been out?"

J.T. flipped his wrist to check his watch, a gift from their daughter, complete with stopwatch and listings of multiple time zones for his flights. "Just an hour and forty minutes. Doc says to wake you up every couple of hours through the night. The nurse will check in, too."

Which gave them twenty more uninterrupted minutes to talk in the quiet intimacy of a bedroom that wasn't packed with memories. The hospital at least made for comforting neutral ground for their discussion. Might as well confront things straight up. "I'm sorry for not telling you about the baby sooner." Guarded eyes almost hid nearly banked anger. He shifted, slow, silent, tucking the book in the thigh pocket of his flight suit. "Why didn't you?"

Why?

The truth blindsided her while her defenses were laid low from the accident. Because she'd wanted J.T.

to come home on his own. For her. Something that, for the first time, she completely accepted would never happen.

The last of her dreams, hope, love died. There was nothing left for her now but to strengthen her resolve

to protect her children and her heart. "I was still reeling from hearing you'd been shot down and whatever happened to you in Rubistan, trying to sort through what happened to us afterward. Pretty difficult to do with so little information from your end."

Rena's words sucker punched him. Leave it to his outspoken wife never to pull punches. She stared back

at him defiantly, daring him to talk about Rubistan.

He didn't need to think about it, much less talk it out. He'd lived it. Dealt with what happened, and wanted to move on, not bring everything up again until the top of his head blew off. He'd walked away before rather than-

Ah, she was pushing him to walk now.