“Yeah, you’re something all right, but ‘hero’ is not the word.”
“How about ‘trainer’ then, Saturday morning at the gym on base? I’ll come by your place at eight.”
His vertebrae wanted to say hell no to another waltz with agony conducted by sadistic Dr. Dane Anderson, complete with unending circuits of pelvic tilts, lumbar flexion, upper back extensions, and partial sit-ups, but, frankly, the exercises felt more likely to yield progress than something as passive as lying on a table while someone poked and pounded his muscles. “Eight works.”
“Try not to sound so enthusiastic. Listen, you need to get your mind off your shit for a night. Want me to call the stacked, blonde receptionist and see if she’d got a friend?”
The notion of dragging his aching body downstairs, sitting in a bar or restaurant for three hours, and then dragging his sorry ass back up the stairs sounded like a level of hell he preferred to leave unexplored.
“Absolutely not.” Then, realizing he sounded exactly like the whiny little bitch Dane accused him of being, he added, “But thanks. I appreciate the offer, and I appreciate you keeping alive my shot at getting back into the cockpit. You’re my hero. Good luck with the blonde.”
“Luck’s got nothing to do with it. I have unique insight into the—”
Michael laughed and disconnected.
He took the last step and then paused on the landing to let his protesting back settle. His arm shook a little as he wiped the sweat off his forehead. Shit, he might have to break down and take a pain pill tonight. He’d avoided using the Vicoprofen because, while the anti-inflammatory might help reduce the swelling in his herniated disc, and the narcotic might help him get some sleep, he definitely wouldn’t be cleared to fly while he took the drug.
Still, the prospect of a few pain-free hours and some actual sleep tempted—
“Help!”
He jolted upright, which necessitated stifling a cry of his own, and turned in the direction of the very loud, very female distress call. What the hell? The call sounded as if it came from the apartment across the hall from his. Mrs. W had mentioned an incoming tenant, but he’d yet to set eyes on Casa Clemente’s newest resident. The cry for help sounded again—not the raw, strained voice of someone in pain, but clearly someone in need of assistance. He hurried to the door.
“Hello,” he yelled, and then, thinking a woman, alone in an apartment, calling for help might appreciate some reassurance, he added, “This is Marine Corps Major Michael McCade from 2B. Do you need assistance?”
“Um…yes. I don’t suppose the lady who lives in 2C is around?”
Was it embarrassment or calculation he heard in her hesitation? He frowned. 2C’s husband was on a six-month float. According to Mrs. W, 2C spent most of her time at her boyfriend’s place in Oceanside.
“No. I’m the only one here. Look, did you need help or—”
“Yes! Yes…I do.”
He waited for her to say something more or to open the door. Neither happened. Somehow, he resisted the urge to smack his forehead against the doorframe in an attempt to knock some sense into himself for getting involved with what appeared to be a crazy neighbor, when all he really wanted was a double bourbon, dinner, and bed…in that order.
“Okay, then. This is just a suggestion, but I’m thinking a good place to start would be for you to answer the door so we don’t have to continue yelling through it.”
“That’s part of the problem. I can’t. I’m a bit…limited…at the moment.”
Well, shit. Casa Clemente was no fortress, but the thought of kicking the door in made his eyes want to roll back in his head. His sciatic nerve promptly vetoed the idea. “Ma’am, would you like me to call 9-1-1 for you?”
Her, “No!” practically ruptured his eardrums. “No, no,” she added in a calmer voice, and then laughed nervously. “That would cause a scene and be really…um…unnecessary. The door is unlocked. If you wouldn’t mind coming in, I promise, it’s completely safe.”
Now his eyes narrowed. This sounded weird. The last time something had sounded weird to him, his chopper’s rotor had failed, he’d managed a bumpy emergency landing and hauled a bunch of banged-up infantry troops to safety. The only lasting injury, thankfully, appeared to have been his back. Still, lesson learned. Avoid weird. “What’s your situation, ma’am?”
“My name’s Chloe Kincaid, and my situation, as you put it, is a little hard to explain. Can you just come in?” A note of desperation crept into her voice. “Please?”
The “please” got to him. “All right. I’m coming.” He turned the knob and pushed the door open.
“Great. And, ah…ignore all the—”
“Candles?” It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dark interior, illuminated only by candles burning in little groups throughout the living room. He got a vague impression of colorful throw pillows and a fuzzy burgundy blanket on the back of the standard-issue, Casa Clemente “leather” sofa. He took a step into the apartment and something crunched under his boots. What the…? He squinted at the speckled brown Berber. A trail of small, foil squares led from the front door, across the living room, and down the hall toward what he presumed to be the bedroom. “Or is it the condoms you want me to ignore?”
“Both,” replied the slightly breathless, slightly exasperated, and—maybe this was his imagination working overtime—incredibly sexy voice. Was the voice coming from the bedroom?
“I’m back here.”
Oh yeah, definitely the bedroom. He revised his earlier assessment from “weird” to “intriguing.” A wedge of light shone through a not-quite-closed door at the end of the hall. He pushed it open, walked in, and found…holy shit…Victoria’s Secret handcuffed to the bed, under a Happy Birthday banner.
“I hate to tell you this, but it’s not my birthday. Do I still get the present?”
Chapter Two
“I’m kind of hoping you’ll settle for a beer,” the husky-voiced strawberry-blonde temptation replied. In addition to the handcuffs and two wisps of black lace not very well concealed by the pillow she hugged to herself, she wore a bright pink blush and a pained expression. Sky-wide gray eyes looked at him with a combination of relief and wariness. The vulnerability of her position hit him like a two-by-four. He could be anyone, and his intentions could be far from noble. Under the circumstances, he was glad to be wearing his fatigues, which had his last name stitched across his chest pocket and his rank insignia pinned to his collar. Hopefully it conveyed the message I’m one of the good guys. You can trust me.
“Wanna tell me how this”—he gestured to her—“happened?”
One light eyebrow arched and her mouth twitched. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Humor me,” he said, though it was clear from the twinkling eyes that she already was.
“The guest of honor canceled this evening’s celebration at the last minute, due to extreme, Tijuana-induced drunkenness. Then the key”—she jangled her wrist in the cuff—“fell down there, into the vent.” She stretched toward the edge of the mattress and pointed between the bed and the nightstand.
The pillow she’d tucked against her rolled off and, though he willed his attention to the floor vent, his eyes said fuck that and took a snap inspection of her slim, nearly naked body.
“My tool kit is in the hall closet,” she went on, absently retucking the pillow. “I’m thinking you can unscrew the vent cover, get the key out, and unlock me.”
Those gray eyes clicked to his again. She didn’t sound particularly bent about being stood up at the last minute…but that was none of his business. The way the lace bra plumped her breasts into a ridiculously opulent distraction above the edge of the pillow? Also none of his business, but much harder to dismiss. The way the matching panties cupped her like a lover? Impossible to ignore.
Everything about her appealed to him. If he’d ordered his own personal playmate, he couldn’t have come up with a better design than what nature had so helpfully packaged int
o one Chloe Kincaid. He cleared his throat and mentally stepped into a cold shower. Life had already thrown him all the complications he could handle at the moment. Even if he had been in the market for a playmate—which he wasn’t—his back pretty much benched him from play.
“Mind if I move this?” he pointed to the nightstand.
“Sure. Do whatever you need to do.” She cuddled the pillow tighter, crossed her right leg over her bent left leg, and rested her left hand on her knee. The position gave her an uncomfortable I’m-holding-myself-together look totally at odds with her casual words.
He moved the champagne flutes from the nightstand to the dresser, finding a spot for them among a terrifying arsenal of girl-stuff: cosmetics, a flea market’s worth of costume jewelry, a rainbow of scarfs, and a few things women always seemed to have but he couldn’t readily identify. No doubt about it, this woman liked colorful things—and plenty of ’em.
The nightstand was heavy enough to remind him he had pain pills for a reason. Despite the warnings from his lower back, he pulled the piece out about a foot. Far enough for him to kneel between the bed and the nightstand and get a good look at the vent. Four screws secured the vent cover over a whole lotta darkness.
He liked his chances of jimmying the handcuffs open with a hairpin or a paper clip better than his odds of retrieving the key from the bottomless vent duct.
He also liked the way she smelled. With his head level to the bed, her scent surrounded and distracted him. Sweet and edible, like cinnamon and honey. He looked over at her—a mistake because, although she hugged the pillow to the front of her body, he now had an eye-level view of the side of her lace-covered breast. Out of self-defense he turned his attention to the foot of the bed and his gaze landed on her toes. A braided silver ring encircled her middle toe. Sparkly, gunmetal polish turned her toenails into little Tahitian pearls. He imagined licking his way up her body, starting with those toes and ending at her soft, pink lips, with lots of stops along the way. His stomach rumbled. Due south, another organ he’d been slightly worried about since the chopper accident sat up and took notice, and damn, it felt good. Hoping to hide both reactions, he coughed, dragged his eyes back to the vent, and shifted until his right knee rested on the floor. Keep your shit together, McCade.
“Can you get it up?” she asked.
He blinked, swiveled his head her way and collided with guileless gray eyes. She meant the key. “Affirmative,” he deadpanned, unable to resist. She rewarded him with a laugh and an eye roll.
“I was talking about the vent cover.”
“So was I, Gutter-mind. But going that route might take a while.”
“Oh.” She recrossed her legs the other way—left over right—and gave him an anxious look. “Time is kind of…of the essence.” He forced his attention away from her crossed knees, and followed her stare to the two empty champagne flutes on the dresser. Ah. The compulsive leg-crossing made sense. She had to pee.
Before he realized his own intent, he reached out and fingered one tumbling, reddish-blonde curl. “Do you have a hairpin?”
Her wide eyes and quick inhale made him worry he’d scared her by giving in to his urge to touch, but then her lips curved. “Who are you? MacGyver?”
His smile broadened, and, dang it, that felt good, too. “I’m reasonably resourceful.”
“There should be one in the bathroom drawer.” Those pretty winter-ocean eyes gleamed and she added, “I owe you a beer if you spring this cuff in the next three minutes.”
“What if I do it in two minutes?”
“Um…I’ll kiss you full on the mouth?”
A laugh rumbled up from his chest and surprised him. “Chloe, you could teach the Corps a thing or two about motivation.” He stood. “I’ll be right back.”
Her one-bedroom unit had the same basic layout as his two-bedroom, so finding the hall bath took no time at all. The small sink with cabinet resembled the one in his apartment, too, except hers looked like a makeup counter had exploded on it. Could one woman really use all this…stuff? Apparently yes, and then some, because when he pulled open the top drawer of the cabinet, more junk spilled out. He dug deep and, jackpot, found a hairpin wedged into the bottom corner.
All the spit dried out of his mouth the minute he returned to the bedroom. Chloe lay on her side, facing the handcuff. She was trying to wriggle her wrist free, and, in the process, presenting him with an absolutely stunning view of her long, graceful back, her tiny thong, and the most mouthwatering ass he’d ever pondered sinking his teeth into. A small, colorful tattoo rode the upper curve of her left butt cheek. The low lights and flickering candles made discerning the tattoo a challenge at ten paces, but by the time he reached the bedside the lines and flourishes had arranged themselves into a small bird—a hummingbird in flight.
She was a full-fledged feast for the senses…her tantalizing scent, all the colors and textures of her, from the wild cascade of tawny curls to the sexy little tattoo. His mind ran wild for a second. He envisioned climbing onto the bed, ensuring she had a good grip on the headrails, and then covering that bird with his mouth and devouring it while she bucked and squirmed and begged for more. He’d give it to her, until she screamed his name and came against his tongue so epically the only thing he’d taste for the foreseeable future would be pure, unadulterated Chloe.
“Nice tat.” His voice sounded like a rusty hinge. She looked back at him, and then her eyes dropped to her hip and her lips twisted into a smile.
“My free bird.”
He came over and sat down beside her on the bed, resisting the impulse to reach out and trace the dark blue border of the tattoo. “Free bird?”
She rolled onto her back and he leaned over her…maybe a little closer than strictly necessary…and went to work on the cuff. “Yeah. I got the ink done a few months ago to remind me how much I appreciate my freedom.”
“Well, in that case, I’m happy to report”—he popped the cuff—“you are once again free.”
She tried to sit up at the same time he leaned in to maneuver the cuff off her wrist. They collided a little. Her breath rushed out at the impact of her breasts against his chest, and he breathed her in. His mind indulged in a highly enthralling fantasy of ripping the lingerie off, hiking her knees up over his shoulders, burying himself inside her, and showing her the joys of temporary captivity.
She let loose a little moan, which might have signified she’d read his mind, but probably had more to do with the fact that he was pinning her to the mattress. “Sorry,” he said, but the word was barely a murmur.
“No worries,” she whispered back. He slowly sat up. Those endless gray eyes of hers sucked him in. A part of him knew he was absently rubbing her wrist where her attempts to pull herself out of the cuff had left a red mark. Another part of him acknowledged the heat of her hip against his thigh. But mostly, he just drowned in her eyes.
“I hate to appear unappreciative, but I—I really have to go.”
Go? He blinked. This was her apartment, wasn’t it? Oh, wait…she had to go.
“Right.” He climbed off the bed as quickly as his back would allow.
She darted past him like a black, lace comet. “Thanks. Beer’s in the fridge. Help yourself. I’ll be right there.”
When the bathroom door slammed shut, he released a breath, shifted the missile in his pants to a less prominent position, and then made his way to the kitchen. Thanks to the open floor plan, the candlelight from the living room illuminated the kitchen. He opened the fridge, twisted the cap off a Bud, and drank, pushing aside the oddly uncomfortable realization he was probably swigging Birthday Boy’s favorite beer. He popped the top on another bottle when she joined him a minute later, wearing a short, silky purple robe that did absolutely nothing to erase the image of her dangerous curves barely covered by scraps of lace.
“Better?”
“Yes, thanks,” she said, and smiled slowly as he stepped around the counter separating the kitchen from the living room a
nd handed her the open beer. Their fingers brushed when she took the bottle from him and the casual contact got his blood pumping. “Thanks also for letting me hijack your evening with my little emergency.”
“No problem.” He felt the impact of her smile all the way to the soles of his feet, forcefully enough to have a voice in his head warning him to back off. Everything he knew about Chloe so far suggested she was an impulsive, unconventional, bundle of trouble. After bouncing around between posts and deployments in some of the hotter spots around the globe, he was ready to trade trouble for stability. Maybe even follow Trevor’s example, find a nice girl, and settle down. On top of that, his CO expected officers to set a solid example for the troops, both professionally and personally. Since Harding could put him back in a helicopter or ground him indefinitely, Michael needed to toe the line, and something told him Chloe’s specialty ran more to crossing lines, not toeing them.
“That’s very gracious of you to say, but it would have been a huge problem for me if you hadn’t stopped. You saved my sorry ass.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know about that. The Fenwicks in 2D would have heard you calling eventually and helped you out. I do know for sure one person is going to be kicking his sorry ass tomorrow.”
Her brow crinkled and her mouth tipped down into a confused frown. “Who?”
“The moron who missed out on the best birthday surprise ever.”
Her expression cleared. Then she tossed her head back and laughed, and the candlelight sent gold highlights dancing in her hair. The soft, sultry sound of her laugh grabbed him by the balls, at the same time the robe slid off her shoulder and commandeered his attention. Without seeking clearance from his brain, his hand flew out and moved the slippery fabric back into place. His internal drill sergeant spoke up again, with a short, precise order. Don’t touch. He ignored it and toyed with the smooth silk.
Her laughter died away. She looked up at him with her enormous eyes and took a slow sip of beer.
Falling for the Marine (A McCade Brothers Novel) (Entangled Brazen) Page 2