Falling for the Marine (A McCade Brothers Novel) (Entangled Brazen)

by Samanthe Beck

  Michael breathed out a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Dane. I owe you one.”

  “You owe me many. I’ll add this to the list, which, by the way, now includes an all-expense-paid dinner at Gino’s for me and my very informative lady friend. Want to tell me what this is all about?”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay, then, tack two appetizers, two desserts, and a top shelf bottle of wine onto the all-expense-paid dinner.”

  “Done,” Michael said and hung up before Dane could squeeze him for anything else.

  He walked up the stairs to his apartment relieved and ready to celebrate having the threat of a court-martial off his head. His stomach rumbled as he neared the landing. Somebody in the complex was cooking tonight and whatever they had on the menu smelled amazing. His good mood soared when he approached his door and realized his kitchen was the source of the mouthwatering aroma, but the soaring mood dipped when he found the door unlocked. He really needed to speak to her about locking the apartment when she was there by herself. Anyone could wander in.

  He locked the door behind him, looked into the kitchen, and found the oven on and the timer counting down the last few minutes of cook time. A glance into the dining area revealed the table, set for two, complete with a centerpiece of the red candles she was so fond of, but no Chloe.

  He made his way into the living room, and then proceeded to the hall. An off-key version of “Call Me Maybe,” coming from the bathroom offered a big clue to her whereabouts. Holy shit, she’d left the door unlocked while she showered. Had she never seen Psycho? Where was her common sense?

  He started to walk past the closed door, mentally preparing the lecture one of her parents should have delivered a long time ago, but the thought of her alone in the shower, all wet and soapy, chased Personal Safety 101 right out of his head. A surprisingly vivid image rushed in to fill the void—Chloe, with her back braced against the tile, her thighs clamped around his hips and her toes digging into his calves as she rose to meet his thrusts. Water pounding down on them, him pounding into her, the slide of her smooth, slick body against his. Hell, he could use a shower. He shrugged out of his shirt, pulled the dog tags over his head, yanked his boots off, and then tested the knob. It turned under his hand, and the door swung inward with a force he couldn’t account for.

  A wall of steam hot enough to wilt metal hit him first, followed immediately by Chloe. He grunted, more from surprise than from the impact of a hundred and ten pounds of towel-draped female striding into him. She squeaked and bounced off his chest. He wrapped an arm around her waist to keep her upright. Either she recognized his touch or used her X-ray vision to see him through the dense cloud created by her thousand-degree shower, but she relaxed into him.

  “Why hello, Major. Were you waiting for the shower?”

  “I was hoping to join you, but apparently I’m too late.”

  She ran her hand over his pec, giving him a sexy, off-center grin when he bunched the muscle for her. “I had no idea you were such a water conservationist.”

  He nodded and stopped fighting what he suspected was a more-sappy-than-sexy grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Conservation is a core value. Careful,” he added when her hand drifted down the center line of his chest toward his abdomen. “I’ve also been trained to respond swiftly and aggressively to any crisis.”

  “Oh dear. Do we have a crisis?”

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, ma’am, but there is a huge crisis developing.” He nudged his hips into hers so she couldn’t miss his hard-on. Her quick little intake of breath assured him she’d missed nothing, and did unprecedented things to his heart. He had a week’s worth of precedent for what it did to the rest of him.

  “Goodness…that is huge…ly alarming.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, batted her big, hazel eyes and aimed a deliberately bewildered expression at him. “Is there anything I can do to avert this impending crisis?”

  All sorts of suggestions swarmed his mind, but before he could articulate a single one the oven timer buzzed.

  “Whoops!” She wriggled out of his arms and adjusted her towel. “I forgot all about dinner.”

  He made a grab for her. “Dinner can wait. We’re in the middle of a crisis here.”

  She evaded and starting walking toward the kitchen. “No way. I cooked something special. We’re celebrating.”

  Clearly, she had good news to share as well. Her eyes sparkled. Her face glowed. All the vitality coming off her only made him want her more. He caught her around the middle and snuggled her against him, his chest to her back. “Trust me, baby, whatever the occasion, I’ve got your celebration right here.” Figuring it never hurt to underscore a point, he gave her another little nudge with his hips.

  Her laugh was gratifyingly breathless, but she squirmed away nonetheless. “Very tempting, but we’ll have to save that particular celebration for later. Those steaks you had in your freezer are too nice to let go to waste. I need to check them. You”—she pointed a finger at him and gave him a stern look from below lowered brows—“go shower. By the time you’re clean and changed, dinner will be ready.”

  He exhaled loudly, dropped his chin to his chest, and stared at the tent in his pants. “Looks like it’s you and me, buddy.”

  Low, husky, laughter trailed over her shoulder as she walked to the kitchen. He watched her go, admiring the things she did for a plain, white towel. He’d just turned toward the bathroom when the ring of his landline stalled him. “Hey, Chlo, can you get that?”

  “Sure,” she said from the kitchen.

  Awesome. He ducked into the bathroom and started the shower. The only people who called him on the landline were telemarketers, Mrs. Waverly, or…he winced as the last option occurred—his mom.

  By the time he showered, pulled on a T-shirt and some sweats, and headed to the front of the apartment, Chloe was off the phone and standing by the table in the dining area. She’d traded the white towel for a blue V-neck that slouched off her shoulders—shoulders unmarred by the line of bra straps—and a short, gray drawstring skirt. Her wet hair spilled down her back like honey.

  While he watched, she used the tip of a corkscrew to score the foil off the top of a bottle of red wine. Then she guided the screw into the cork and twisted the handle several times. She gave the cork an experimental tug and then bent over and placed the bottle between her bare feet. The move caused the little gray shirt to hike up high on her thighs, and made him wonder what, if anything, she wore beneath. She adjusted her grasp on the bottle and prepared to yank.

  He came up behind her, and, because it was there, ran his hand over her ass. “Why don’t you let me handle this?”

  She glanced up at him and he got a cheap thrill out of the way her eyes lingered on his mouth for an extra few seconds. “Seems like you are handling it,” she teased, wriggling her hips, before she straightened and handed him the bottle.

  He took it and got to work sinking the screw properly into the cork. She disappeared into the kitchen. The cork slid out smoothly, with an audible pop. “Anything else I can help with?”

  “Nope. It’s handled. Pour the wine, take a seat. I’ll have everything plated up in a sec.”

  “Who was on the phone?”

  She peeked through kitchen archway. “Your mom. She said to call her tomorrow.”

  “Ah. Mom can be a little chatty.” Especially when she wanted intel. “Did you two talk long?”

  Chloe disappeared into the kitchen again. “A little while. She divulged some secrets. I divulged some secrets.”

  “Exactly what kind of secrets did my mother divulge? Because you can’t trust what she says. She’s getting senile in her old age and a lot of times she gets me, Trevor and Logan confused.” Actually, his mom was not quite sixty, sharp as a tack, and not above messing with him if the opportunity arose. Which it apparently had.

  “She told me she’s amazed you became a pilot, because the first time you rode The Flying Dumbos at Disneyland, you scr
eamed like a little girl and pitched a fit.”

  “That was Trevor.”

  “She said you’d say that. She also mentioned this is the first time she’s ever called you and had a woman answer.”

  “Hmm. That’s probably true.”

  “Well, I explained I’m just a friend, and you were in the shower. She probably drew a few conclusions from that, but,” she walked out carrying two plates and placed one in front of him, “you can set her straight when you talk to her tomorrow.”

  “What’s to set straight? You are a friend, and I was in the shower.”

  She took the seat across from him and gave him an exasperated look. “She thinks we’re involved.”

  “We are involved, doncha think?” For some reason, this conversation was starting to irk him. “We’re sharing an apartment. We’re sharing a bed. Hey, we’re even engaged.”

  Chloe froze in the process of lifting a forkful of potatoes to her lips. “Don’t tell her that! Look, it’s one thing to lie to your CO; it’s another thing entirely to lie to your mother.”

  Up until that moment, he’d never given much thought to their actual status, but this “just friends,” default she’d come up with bothered the shit out of him. “I guess I’m confused. I’ve had my hands and mouth on every inch of you and you’ve seemed to enjoy returning the favor. In my book, that counts as involved, but obviously I’ve got it wrong. Maybe you ought to draft up some talking points for me between now and tomorrow so I don’t mischaracterize our relationship.”

  She lowered her fork and stared at him with eyes like thunderclouds. “Look, she’s your mom. Handle her however you want, but you and I both know the only reason we’re together right now is because I crash-landed on your doorstep, and you were too nice a guy to walk away from a damsel in distress.”

  A nice guy? Was she serious? Nice guy was a curse—a female code for “guy I’m with until someone who treats me like garbage and makes my pulse pound comes along.” And hold the fucking phone, she’d not just called him a nice guy. She’d called him too nice a guy. Hell, no.

  “I’m a lot of things, Chloe—a combat pilot, a trained marine, and, occasionally, even an everyday, run-of-the-mill asshole. I am not ‘a nice guy.’”

  He certainly didn’t feel particularly nice at the moment. “I think you’re ignoring a couple important aspects of this thing we have going. Aspects like how easily I can have you screaming my name and coming in my hand or on my tongue or on my cock, because that has nothing to do with you being in a bind or me being a nice guy.”

  “That has to do with me going without sex for over a year. And chemistry,” she added when he opened his mouth to call bullshit, “Nobel prize-winning chemistry, but I’ve learned not to confuse chemistry with”—her eyes slid away from his—“something more.”

  Had he let chemistry blur the line between reality and their subterfuge? Let himself believe they had something more? He didn’t know, but the fact that he started the argument in the first place drove home an uncomfortable realization. He wanted something more. What, precisely, he couldn’t say, but she clearly didn’t, or couldn’t, or wouldn’t let herself. The knowledge hit him like a sucker punch, all the more brutal because he’d seen their incompatibilities from a mile away, and still, here he sat, absorbing the blow.

  He expelled a breath and told himself to dial it back. “Chemistry, huh?”

  She nodded.

  “Nothing more.”

  She nodded again.

  “So what’s all this?” He gestured at his plate—the steak, cheesy potatoes, and the long, fancy-style green beans. “A home-cooked dinner complete with wine and candlelight seems like a lot of unnecessary trouble to go to for ‘chemistry.’” Happy with the point, he took a bite of his steak.

  She sat up a little straighter, squared her shoulders and her jaw. “We’re celebrating. I got a job.”

  The steak lodged in his throat. He took a quick, painful swallow, and wheezed, “When?”

  Her defensive expression faltered. “When what? Are you okay?”

  “Fine.” Big, fat lie. Something cold and blunt dug a hole in his chest. “When do you leave?”

  She frowned for a moment, as if stumped by his question, and then her shoulders sagged as she said, “Oh, sorry. Not a travel job. I got a temp job at a local place. Remember, I told you Loretta wanted to introduce me to her friend who owns a day spa here in San Clemente?”

  He nodded. That’s all he could muster, because most of him was too busy restarting his heart.

  “I met with her today, and we totally clicked. I loved her place, her whole demeanor, really, and just when I was getting depressed thinking I was going to have to turn her down because…well…I couldn’t accept an offer knowing I was going to bail in a couple weeks, she suggested an open-ended part-time arrangement through my agency. I said yes. Lynne got all the paperwork in place, and I work my first shift tomorrow.”

  The tension from a moment ago dissolved in the waves of excitement radiated from her. She practically bounced in her chair.

  “Sounds perfect.”

  “So perfect. I really do like the place, even if I’ll only be around for the short-term.”

  There she went again—dropping another reminder that her presence here was strictly temporary. It irritated him. A lot. “If you like the opportunity so much, why not stick around and see how things work out?”

  She swallowed a bite of steak and washed it down with some wine before replying. “You know why. I have the other job lined up in New Mexico.”

  “Pass on New Mexico. Stay here.”

  She stared at him for a long, shocked moment. Finally, she said, “I can’t. You know me. I like to keep moving. Free bird, remember?”

  His laugh sounded harsh to his own ears, but that didn’t stop him from adding, “Free bird my ass. Your nesting instincts are so innate you can’t help yourself.”

  Her chin shot up. “That’s not true.”

  “Look around this place. In the last two weeks you’ve strewn more personal stuff through my apartment than I have in six months of living here. You’re a natural-born nester. This philosophy you’ve adopted is a handy piece of fiction you came up with to justify running from place to place because you’re too scared to stick.”

  She hit him with a, you-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about glare that sparked every defensive fuse he had in him. “You know I’m right. Put your fucked-up first marriage in the past where it belongs. Drop some roots and build a real life. Find an actual home, some in-the-flesh friends, and, who knows…maybe even someone you look forward to waking up next to for more than a few weeks.”

  There it was—the true source of his frustration. He didn’t want her to leave. He wanted to be her someone and all she wanted was to move on to her next job. The realization didn’t do much for his sense of fair play. “You’re letting fear keep you drifting from place to place like an itinerate laborer. Do you seriously plan to be a free bird forever? Sounds more like a chicken to me.”

  “I am not running from anything, or drifting, as you put it.” Her wadded-up napkin hit the table to punctuate the statement. “I wanted…no…I needed a change after my divorce—sue me for being human—and Helping Hands offered the perfect fresh start. Traveling therapist is a legitimate career. I get to go to lots of different, exciting places. I call my own shots… I’m never stuck somewhere indefinitely… I-I call my own shots.”

  He refrained from pointing out she’d already used that one. Instead he sat back, crossed his arms over his chest and aimed below the belt, mentally cringing even as the words left his mouth. “Yeah, from where I’m sitting I can see this calling-your-own-shots thing has really worked out for you.”

  She sprang out of her chair so fast it might as well have had an eject button. “Maybe I’d do better if I handed control of my life to the Marine Corps and let Uncle Sam send me wherever he sees fit?”

  “God forbid. You’ve made your high opinion of military life
crystal clear. Somehow that’s too unstable a world for a woman who instead chooses to have no permanent home whatsoever.” Now he sounded sarcastic and critical, but he couldn’t seem to get a lock on his tongue because, goddammit, it hurt, knowing she’d dismissed any possibility of him being her someone right from the start, based on nothing more than his career.

  “I grew up in that world. I lived it, and I’m honest enough to know that’s not what I want. Look down on it all you want, but my ‘itinerate labor’ never required me to lie to my boss.”

  “No,” he replied with an icy calm he wasn’t anywhere close to feeling, “it required me to lie to mine.”

  “Don’t you dare put it all on me, mister. This engagement helps your ass out of a sling too, or did you forget about Sempler?”

  “Sempler didn’t file a complaint. I confirmed that today with a reliable source.”

  “Well, lucky you. Leave the dishes,” she said as she stormed down the hall. “I’ll get them tomorrow.” A second later the guest room door slammed hard enough to rattle the windows.

  He crumpled up his own napkin and threw it against the wall.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chloe flopped over onto her side, kicked the covers off, and blinked at the fierce red glow of the digital clock. 5:00 a.m. If you go to sleep right now, you can get two hours.

  Her guilty conscience pfffft’d the thought. She’d behaved like a big brat last night when a man who’d done nothing but try to help her had dared to express his opinion about her choices—an opinion he was entitled to—especially considering he’d been living with the fallout from her last round of decisions. Hurt and outrage had kept her keyed up and awake until midnight, and then, slowly, the remorse had set in. Throwing the fake engagement in his face was an especially low blow. Sempler wasn’t going to file a complaint against Michael, so their living situation remained the only reason for the deception. There was no way to look at this as a mutual solution anymore. He was risking his future to help her out. Sleep wasn’t in the cards until she apologized.