Saving Joe (U.S. Marshals, Born And Bred Book 1)

by Laura Marie Altom

  “Yes, please,” she murmured, drawing the door closed, trying to ignore the contentment his simple, sweet caring sent shimmering through her body.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Joe, nothing happened last night.” The next morning, Gillian begrudgingly followed Joe along a trail so heavily wooded, it almost felt as if they were marching through a cave. And make no mistake, they were marching. Joe seemed driven by an invisible wolf pack nipping at his heels. If she had her way, they wouldn’t have left the house. Her unease was back, along with a queasy, prickly sensation that something far more than Joe’s grumpy mood wasn’t right. “We didn’t even kiss, if that’s what has you so upset.”

  “I’m not upset,” he said, not even remotely out of breath. “You’re right. Nothing happened.” He’d out-paced her by a good five yards.

  She jogged to catch up. “She died two years ago, Joe. The statute of limitations for cheating on your dead wife is long past.”

  “Dammit,” he barked, stopping so abruptly on the trail they almost collided. “Would you mind your own business and just stay out of it?”

  “I find you hot, all right?” She looked away. “There. I said it. It’s unprofessional as all get-out, but there it is. Out there on the table. If you want to be mad at someone for breaking your wedding vows, it’s me, okay? I started whatever didn’t happen between us.”

  “The hell you did,” he growled from between clenched teeth.

  “Great.” Hands on her hips, she said, “Now that we’re both to blame, what do you want to do about it?”

  He drank her in a tick longer than eternity, then pulled her hard against him, grinding his lips to hers, moaning from somewhere deep in his throat. By unspoken mutual consent, their lips parted, deepening wild sensations with bold strokes of their tongues.

  With fingers shaky and uncertain, and a heart hammering with both fear and exhilaration, Gillian slid her hands under Joe’s T-shirt. Up his smooth back.

  He did the same to her, only took a different course over her right breast, never breaching the sanctity of her silky bra no matter how much her nipple swelled and ached in invitation.

  All around them, the dark forest breathed, bearing silent witness as each trespass unfolded.

  And yet the kiss went on and on, until Gillian was sinking to her knees, taking Joe along with her. “Oh, God,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Me, too,” he said, kissing her deeper still. His arousal pulsed against her. “This changes everything.”

  She nodded. Shook her head. “It’s my job to protect you. How can I do that when I’m seducing you?”

  “No,” he said against her forehead. “It’s the other way around.”

  “Do you think it’s possible no one’s at fault? You know, just that it’s been a long time since…Well, you know, for both of us, and that this is just a chemistry kind of thing?”

  Nodding against her, he said, “Yeah. Chemistry.” In a move that somehow felt more intimate than their kiss, Joe took her hands, easing his fingers between hers. “Wanna resume that walk?”

  “We weren’t walking. We were marching.”

  “Sorry.” With the faintest grin, he said, “I have issues. Walking—marching—helps.”

  “H—how about strolling?”

  “We could do that.”

  “Any sign of Bud?” Gillian glanced over her shoulder to see the dog stretched out on a pillow of pine needles with his head resting on his front paws. He looked at them sleepily.

  “Guess we had an audience, huh?” Joe closed his eyes and groaned. “Good grief, what a mess.” Looking back at her, squeezing her hands, he added, “But it doesn’t have to be. From here on out, if you promise to look a little less appealing, I promise to keep my hands to myself.”

  “Oh, so now that kiss was all my fault?”

  He winked. “Sure beats keeping all the blame for myself.”

  HE WAS NO EXPERT, but to Joe, the glade they napped in felt straight out of Disney.

  Spongy green moss, glassy spring-fed pond. Soaring pines and a sprinkling of early spring grasses and flowers. Sun rays punched through the pine bough roof, heating the air, supercharging rich scents of soil and water and Gillian’s hair.

  While Bud napped in the sun, Joe kissed the top of Gillian’s head, where she lay using the crook of his shoulder for a pillow. She softly snored. Were her allergies bothering her again? Was she hungry? He should’ve insist she bring more to eat.

  Geez, listen to him.

  He sounded like her father, not her…what? What had he become to her? What did he want to be?

  They were friends. That was it. It was her job to protect him. Friends were all they could ever be.

  Kissing friends?

  Sighing, he sliced his fingers through his hair before settling beside her, indulging in a nap himself.

  GILLIAN’S HEART THUNDERED. Joe. Tsun-Chung held him in a headlock, his left arm wrapped so tight around Joe’s throat that his face was turning red.

  “Kindly put down your gun or I’ll kill him.” The look in the man’s eyes said he’d kill both of them—no matter what Gillian did with her piece. “Need me to say please?” He smiled. “All right, then, please put down your gun or I’ll place my own weapon in his mouth and shoot off his blabbering tongue.”

  “Get out of here,” Joe said to her, past blueing lips. “Save yourself.”

  “No,” she said with a violent shake of her head. “It’s my job to protect you. I won’t—”

  “Gillian? You all right?”

  She woke with a start.

  Joe? She had to save him.

  Only there he was, resting on his elbow, staring down at her as if he was concerned. Pulse still racing, drenched in sweat, Gillian followed her first instinct, which was to reach up and touch his dear face.

  She couldn’t be sure when it’d happened, maybe the first time she’d seen his sad eyes in the photos in his files, but he had become dear to her. She’d never push him for more than friendship. By his own admission, he wasn’t capable of more. She was on assignment, forbidden to give more.

  So what was she doing, lying here in a fairy tale glade, napping in his arms, when for all she knew, her nightmare could at any time turn real?

  “If it’s not too personal,” Joe asked, fingering strands of her hair, “what were you dreaming about? Didn’t sound pleasant.”

  “Nothing.” She shook her head. Swallowed hard before flashing a smile. “Just one of those college dreams where it’s exam day, only I’ve never been to class.”

  “Guilty conscience, huh?” He winked.

  “About not keeping a better eye on you?”

  “No. Hell, no. Where could I be that’s safer than right here? I was talking about college. You know, like were you one of those who skipped a lot of classes?”

  She reached into her backpack for bottled water.

  Even lukewarm, it felt good going down, but unfortunately didn’t do a thing to calm her nerves.

  Behind them, a good twenty feet to their left, a twig snapped.

  She jerked her head that direction, only to see a rabbit bolt, soon followed by a slow-moving Bud.

  Joe was right. She needed to relax.

  It had just been a dream.

  “Well?” he asked, reaching for the bottle and taking a swig. To see him drinking after her, curving his lips around the same plastic where hers had just touched, implied an intimacy her heart couldn’t bear. “Did you skip a lot?”

  “Nah,” she said, struggling to act as if she wasn’t deeply affected by the man’s every move, touch and expression. “Going back to my whole beef with my dad and brothers, I always felt like I had to do better than them in all of my courses.”

  “Did you?”

  “Heck, yeah. Graduated second in my college class. First at the training academy in Glynco.”

  “Way to go.” He whistled. “My grades sucked. I was always more of a doer than a thinker. Couldn’t stand ha
ving my head in a book on business when I could be out there doing the real thing.”

  “That’s cool. And look where you are in the world versus me—barely able to afford my own apartment, and here you own an island.”

  He shrugged. “Money isn’t everything. What you do, Gillian—protecting people—it’s important.”

  “Thank you.” Coming from him, oddly, the compliment felt better than it might’ve from someone else.

  Laughing, shaking his head, he said, “Can’t believe with these kinds of academic credentials behind you that I’m your first field case. You could be a real life Charlie’s Angel.” He winked.

  She made a face.

  “HELLO, SUNSHINE,” Wesson said with a slow grin. “Have a nice nap?”

  For a second there, right after Logue first woke, she’d stared right at him. Good thing she was so pathetic she didn’t know the difference between a tree and a man. Good thing he’d set out that drugged piece of meat for that stupid dog. Dumb mutt was moving slow, and likely, his senses were all messed up.

  Watching Logue like this, slowly building appetites he couldn’t wait to fulfill, the only way he kept sane was by thinking of good times yet to come. Like planning an intricate dinner party, he wanted everything about her death to be just right. The pain—lots. The mess—even more. He hated women. He hated her above all the others.

  They’d dated once.

  Bitch didn’t even remember.

  He’d remind her.

  Nice and slow, with the same kind of steak knife she’d used to plow through their hundred-dollar meal. And while she was still enjoying that little trip down memory lane, how she’d oh-so-politely pushed him away when he’d tried kissing her good-night, he’d take good care of her new boyfriend. Real good care.

  Wesson laughed—but not too loud. Not loudly enough to wake the dead. For that’s what Logue and Morgan were.

  AFTER DINNER, Joe stoked the fire while Gillian read a spy novel she’d found stashed among the classics on his shelves. He never brought anything with him to the island but his dog and a few clothes. Before Gil’s arrival, he hadn’t paid much attention to the items left behind by the island’s previous owners, but she’d unearthed everything from tablecloths to games to extra blankets.

  She sat in his roomy armchair, bare feet tucked beside her. She’d changed from jeans and a navy T-shirt into gray sweats. Her ponytail was messier than usual, and every so often she’d twirl escaped strands of hair.

  With the fire crackling, Bud curled on his hearth bed and the light of two oil lamps asking the shadows to dance, it was hard to fathom why Gillian felt she had to protect him.

  She curled her fingers over her bare toes.

  “Cold feet?” he asked.

  She glanced up and smiled. “A little, but it’s no big deal.”

  Lost again in her book, she didn’t notice him slipping to his dresser for a pair of thick, white socks.

  Back again, he said, “Stick out your feet.”

  “What?” Setting her book on her lap, she looked up at him and scrunched her nose.

  He held up her prize.

  She stuck out her feet, wriggled red-tipped toes. “How sweet. Thanks.”

  Down on one knee in front of her, he shrugged, trying to pretend he wasn’t fascinated by the cute foot, slim ankle and gently curved calf she’d rested on his thigh. Her toes were icy to the touch, reminding him why he was putting himself through the torture of skimming his hands along her smooth legs—because she was cold. Not because he was all of a sudden uncomfortably hot.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Can’t sleep?” Joe asked, rubbing his eyes in the intrusive bathroom light.

  Gillian sat hunched over the tub, scrubbing grout with a ratty toothbrush. The harsh scent of Comet did even more to bring him wide-awake.

  “Isn’t it pretty obvious?”

  He scratched his head. “All right, then, maybe the better question is how come?”

  “When I’m nervous, I clean.”

  “Why?” He sat on the closed toilet lid.

  “You mean why do I clean instead of biting my nails or eating?”

  “Why are you nervous?”

  She scrubbed harder. “As a field marshal, I’m a joke. This afternoon I actually fell sleep in your arms. Then tonight, I’m letting you put on my socks. Not cool. My dad and brothers were right. I should’ve just settled down. Gotten married and popped out a few babies—only gee, I couldn’t even hold on to the only man I ever even considered marrying.”

  What about me? Would you marry me, Gil?

  The thought hit hard and fast, shocking Joe to his core. It was the late hour and the cleanser’s fumes making him irrational. Not the sight of Gillian’s crazy-messy hair or ragged blue sweats she’d cut into shorts. Shorts baring far too much of her tanned legs. Shorts with a hole on her left hip, through which a patch of pale skin peeked through. Just looking at that skin, wondering about its feel and taste, quickened his pulse.

  These kinds of thoughts were wrong. Gillian was here to do a job. He was for all practical purposes married.

  So why was he taking the toothbrush from her, laying it on the side of the tub, then easing his hands under her elbows, urging her to her feet?

  When she stood facing him with the top of her head reaching his chin, he took her left hand, leading her into the dark breakfast nook.

  He swished open the drapes he kept closed at night more for insulation than privacy.

  Beyond the picture window, far out on the restless sea, moonlight glinted off the windshield of a cabin cruiser. “Look,” he said, pulling her closer, pointing toward her co-workers.

  “It’s supposed to make me feel better that because I’m a total screwup, my boss thoughtfully provided backup?”

  “Knock it off, Gillian.” Joe sighed. “What you do is too dangerous to handle alone. Like it or not, you’re part of a team. Truth is, your boss was right in sending you. Those guys out there probably wouldn’t have had a chance at bringing me in for the trial. I’d have bolted.

  Fast. But you…” He laughed, scratched the new crop of stubble on his jaw. “You are a true force to contend with.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “What do you think?” At the gas-powered fridge, he took out leftovers of the potato casserole she had made for dinner. From the rack hanging above the stove, he grabbed a small, copper-bottomed pan, set it on a front burner, then dumped the cheesy mixture in before turning on the stove. “I never even had a chance at holding on to my old way of life. Sharing this place with you—it’s changed…”

  Everything.

  To a degree he was terrified to explore.

  “Great,” she said, taking a bag of pizza-flavored Goldfish from the cabinet beside the sink. Days earlier, she’d merged her food with his. Her shampoo and toothpaste and perfumed soap. Joe’s stomach tightened just thinking of the way the soft, pretty scent emanated from her after she’d worked up a good sweat. “So I’ve changed you, even though all I’m supposed to be doing is protecting you. God.” She brushed stray hair back from her forehead. “I never should’ve taken down my tent. I should’ve stayed in there. Much safer—for both of us.”

  He wanted to argue the point, but how could he when he agreed?

  She stepped past him to the stove, pulled out a serving spoon from the pottery crock where she’d stowed all of his big utensils. “Your snack’s burning,” she said, reaching to stir the hissing, crackling cheese and canned milk.

  “Let me do that,” he said. “You’ve still got Comet on your hands.”

  With a sad laugh, she looked down. “Great. I’m no good at man jobs or woman jobs. I can’t even remember to wash my hands before cooking.”

  “You weren’t cooking. I was. And for the record, before you started preparing meals around here, never once did I have the urge for a late-night snack. Bud got all the leftovers. So see? If you’re implying cooking is a woman’s job, you’re not just good at it, but great.” />
  She stood at the sink, staring at the faucet, her small hands gripping the counter’s edge.

  He wanted so badly to hug her. So why had his arms turned to lead?

  He hadn’t just kissed her on more than one occasion, but devoured her, so why now, when she so clearly needed some kind of warmth, did he just stand there like a goon, not sure what to say or do?

  The only thing he did know for sure was that he was no good for her. She needed a man who still had feelings and sensitivity and—screw that.

  After taking the pan off the stove, then turning off the burner, he yanked her hard by her upper arm over to the bed.

  “What the—”

  “Take it from an expert on self-pity, Gil, it’s time for you—hell, both of us—to start seeing our glasses as half-full. As you love reminding me, I’ve got a daughter out there needing a dad.”

  “Right. And what do I have after botching your case? Nothing.”

  “Bull.” He sat her down on the edge of the bed, then reached to the nightstand for the silver star glinting in pale moonlight. He took her clenched hand, forced her fingers open and pressed the star into her palm. “The day you first got here, you flashed me this badge with a look so fierce I knew I’d met my match. Yeah, I can be stubborn, but you, woman, are a friggin’ full-force gale. Remember how you trailed after me? Never giving me a moment’s peace until you finally wore me down to the point where I no longer wanted peace?” All I wanted was you. The sound of your voice. Your laugh. He softened his tone. “I’m your first field case, Gil. Cut yourself some slack.”

  “Oh, that’s rich.” Closing her fingers around her badge, she half sniffled, half laughed. “Coming from a guy who’s spent the past two years running from something that wasn’t even his fault.”

  “Don’t you dare bring Willow’s death into this. If I’d just kept my mouth shut, none of this would’ve ever happened. I never should’ve gone to the cops in the first place. I should’ve—”

  “Let hundreds, maybe thousands more people be hurt by this guy’s ever-growing web? Yes, it was horrible that Willow died, but how is that any more your fault than it’s my fault—” She put her free hand over her mouth.