A Façade to Shatter. Lynn Harris Raye

and explosives all around him, the thrumming of their bass boom ricocheting into his breastbone, making his body ache with the pressure. He closed his eyes, swallowed hard, his throat full of sand and dust and grit.

      Violence and frustration bloomed inside his gut. He wanted to fight, wanted to surge upright and grab a gun, wanted to help the marines hold off the enemy. But they’d drugged him, because he’d broken his leg, and he couldn’t move.

      He lay helpless, his eyes squeezed tight—and then he felt a soft hand on his arm. The hand moved along his upper arm, ghosted over his cheek. The touch of skin on skin broke his paralysis.

      He reacted with the instincts of a warrior, grabbing the hand and twisting it until the owner cried out. The cry was soft, feminine, not at all that of a terrorist bent on destroying him. Vaguely, he realized the body pressed against his was not rough. It was clad in something satiny that slid against the fabric of his own clothing.

      He forced his eyes open after long moments. The lights still flashed, and his heart still pumped adrenaline into his body. He blinked and shook his head. Was he not in the desert? Was he not the last one alive in the trench?

      The sounds began to separate themselves until he could pick out music, laughter and loud conversation. He focused on the elegant paneled wall in front of him—and realized he held a woman against it, her hand high up behind her back. He could hear her panting softly.

      “Please,” she said, her voice calmer than he expected it to be. “I don’t think I am who you think I am.”

      Who he thought she was? Zach blinked. Who did he think she was?

      A terrorist. Someone bent on killing him.

      But she wasn’t, was she? He was in Sicily, at the infamous Corretti wedding, and this woman was a guest. Her blue-green eyes were set in a pretty face. Dark hair was piled on top of her head, and her breasts strained against the fabric of her gown, threatening to pop free at any moment. He hadn’t spun her around, but instead held her against the wall with his body practically wrapped around hers.

      One hand held hers behind her back, nearly between her shoulder blades, while the other gripped her jaw and forced her head back against the paneling. Her soft curves melded against him, filling all the hard angles of his body in ways he hadn’t experienced in a very long time.

      He’d had no room for softness in his life since returning from the war. He’d viewed it as something of a regret, but a necessary one. Now, he found that he was starving for the contact. His body began to stir, the telltale thrum of blood in his groin taking him by surprise.

      Zach let the woman go as if she’d burned him and took a hasty step backward. What the hell was wrong with him? This was why he didn’t like public appearances anymore—what if he lost his mind the way he just had? What would the media say then?

      Son of a bitch.

      “Forgive me,” he said tightly.

      “Are you all right?” she asked.

      It was such a normal question, in response to an abnormal situation, and yet he couldn’t formulate an answer. He simply wanted to escape. For once, instead of standing stoically and enduring whatever was flung at him, he wanted out.

      There was no one here to stop him, no reporters or cameras, no duty pressing him to remain where he was and endure.

      He turned blindly, seeking an exit. Somehow, he found a door and burst through it, into the cool and quiet hallway. Behind him, he heard movement. He didn’t know why he turned, but he did.

      She was there, watching him. Her hair was dark red and her dress a shocking shade of pink that looked as if it was about to split across her generous breasts.

      “Are you all right?” she asked again.

      “Fine,” he replied in crisp Italian. “I apologize. You startled me.”

      She came forward then, hesitantly, her hands clasped together in front of her. She was lovely, he decided, in spite of the horrible dress. Her shape was imprinted on his mind, her curves still burning into his body. His hands itched to explore her, but he kept them clenched into fists at his sides. He used to take whatever women offered him, as often as they offered it, but that man had ceased to exist in the months after he’d returned from the war.

      At first, he’d indulged in sex because he’d thought it would help him forget. It hadn’t. It had only sharpened the contrast between life and death, only made him feel worse instead of better.

      Now, denying himself was a matter of routine. Not to mention safer for all involved. His dreams were too unpredictable to sleep with a woman at his side.

      Worse, they seemed to be sliding into his waking life if what had just happened was any indication.

      The woman was still looking at him. Blue-green eyes fringed in dark lashes blinked up at him as a line formed on her forehead. “You really don’t look well.”

      He glanced down at her hands, at the way she rubbed the thumb of one hand into her wrist. He’d hurt her, and it sickened him. What kind of man had he become? He was coming unglued inside, and no one could help him.

      “I’m fine,” he clipped out. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

      Her eyes dropped. “You didn’t really. You just surprised me.”

      “You’re lying,” he said, and her head snapped up, her eyes searching his. Something in those eyes called to him, but he shut it off and backed away.

      “You don’t know that,” she replied, her chin lifting. “You don’t know me.”

      He almost believed her. But her lip trembled, ruining her brave façade, and Zach loathed himself. “You should go,” he said. “Walk away. It’s safer.”

      She blinked. “Safer? Are you so dangerous, then?”

      He swallowed. “Perhaps.”

      Her gaze was steady. Penetrating. “I’m not afraid,” she said softly. “And I don’t think you’re dangerous to anyone but yourself.”

      Her words hit him like a punch to the gut. No one had ever said that to him before. The truth of it was sharper than any blade.

      More frightening.

      Anger and despair flowed over him in waves. He wanted to be normal again, wanted to be what he’d once been. But he couldn’t seem to dig out of the morass, and he hated himself for it. He simply didn’t know what normal was anymore.

      “I’m sorry,” he said again, because there was nothing else he could say. And then he turned and strode away.

      Lia Corretti sucked in a disappointed breath as she watched the tall, dark American striding down the hall away from her. Something fell from his hand and bounced on the plush carpet. Lia hurried forward, calling to him.

      He did not turn back. She stooped to pick up the small object on the floor. It was some kind of military medal suspended from a red, white and blue ribbon. She clutched it in her hand and looked down the long corridor at his retreating back. He walked so precisely, so stiffly, with the bearing of a soldier.

      Of course he did.

      She looked at the medal again. He’d dropped it on purpose. She did not doubt that. She’d seen his fingers open, seen the shiny object tumble to the floor, but he hadn’t stopped to retrieve it.

      Why?

      Her wrist still smarted where he’d twisted it behind her back. She didn’t think he’d been aware of what he’d been doing. He’d seemed … distant, as if he were somewhere else. It’s what had made her go to him, what had made her touch him and ask if he was all right. He’d been plastered against that wall, his eyes squeezed tight shut, and she’d thought he’d been ill.

      Lia closed her fingers around the medal. It was warm from his skin, and her heart skipped. She could still see the raw look on his face when he’d