Bound by Temptation
A Red-Hot Seals Novella
Trish McCallan
Trish McCallan Inc.
Also by Trish McCallan
Red-Hot SEALs Novels
Forged in Fire
Forged in Ash
Forged in Smoke
Red-Hot SEALs Novellas
Bound by Seduction
Bound by Temptation
Other Novellas
Spirit Woods
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2016 Trish McCallan
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Trish McCallan Inc.
www.trishmccallan.com
Cover design by Patricia Schmitt
Printed in the United States of America
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to the following people for their help in producing this book!
Copy Editing: Jennifer Jakes of The Killion Group
Proofing: David Steele
Formatting: David Steele
Cover Art done by: Patricia Schmitt
Chapter One
Twilight shadowed the San Diego skyline as Emma Janssen stepped onto the yellowing grass of her postage stamp lawn. Finally, after five days of biting her tongue and biding her time—pacifying herself with weekend promises—Friday night loomed before her.
She’d been late clocking out of work thanks to a network-wide failure of the hospital computer system. While most of the IT department had grumbled about interrupted weekend plans, she’d been grateful for the overtime. Those two hours of time and a half would add a thin layer of padding to her apathetic savings account.
At least until her temperamental house threw the next round of mechanical meltdowns.
Trudging up the hill otherwise known as her lawn, she pushed limp bangs out of her eyes. That haircut she’d been promising herself for the past six weeks had become a priority. When her hair started attacking her eyeballs it was time for an intervention. But first things first, like a quick dinner and a long movie. Or maybe a lengthy soak in the tub while knocking back some wine and immersing herself in the latest Nicholas Sparks novel.
A love story where the hero or heroine—or both—bit the big one would fit her mood perfectly.
She paused in front of the stairs to her front porch to rummage through her purse for her keys and breathed in the fruity scent of honeysuckle. The shrubs grew profusely to the right and left of the staircase, camouflaging her diminutive home and saturating the air with neural sedatives released by hundreds of stringy, white flowers.
Her tense muscles relaxed as the perfume hit her lungs. The stress accumulated through eight hours of ringing phones and grumpy hospital staff eased. Quite possibly that delicious smell and the momentary peace the flowers offered had influenced her decision to put an offer in on this house.
She should never have gone house hunting in the spring.
Of course the lazy-glide swing that stretched from wall to rail across the left side of the porch carried a good share of the blame for her early, misplaced crush on this place. Or at least the sweet scent of honeysuckle, the dreamy swing, and the brick fireplace inside the living room had combined to paralyze her good judgement, allowing her to gloss over the house’s size limitations and big price tag.
Obviously it hadn’t been fiscally responsible to base her house buying decision on daydreams of midnight cuddles on that swing while the diamond chipped sky spun lazily overhead.
But then she hadn’t been alone on that swing—had she?
Noooooooooo.
Shaking her head, she glared at the offending swing as she climbed the stairs. And that right there had been the whole problem. She’d still been firmly bound by the heady, sensual temptation of one Lucas Trammel. Infected by the three nights she’d spent beneath his hot body or caged in his muscled arms. Plagued by memories of his hard chest rubbing against hers, his minty breath in her mouth, his body driving her into orgasm after orgasm.
Those seventy-two hours in Lucas Trammel’s bed had sucked the intelligence right out of her brain and spun her pragmatic nature into a mushy romantic daydreamer.
That particular hookup couldn’t have come at a worse time. Dazed by mind-numbing, oh-my-God-yes-Yes-YES sex and a sudden predilection for the romantic, she’d taken one look at this place and let the Craftsman charm sucker punch her.
Three months later, Lucas was long gone and the rosy glow surrounding her house had faded. Sure the swing was lovely, maybe even heavenly, for the two minutes she had a chance to enjoy it before the bugs and heat drove her back inside her petite—read minuscule—home.
Stepping onto the porch, she turned to scowl at the oblong planters of fuchsias and pansies lining the railings. Drat! Judging by the various stages of wilting she needed to water.
Again.
Sometimes it felt like she spent every free moment watering the baskets of flowers along with the honeysuckle down below. Besides the time investment, it wasn’t exactly cheap keeping the flowers all perky, what with the price of water these days. What the heck had she been thinking, anyway? Her lethal fascination with flowering plants was well documented by the dozens of empty pots she’d tossed in the garbage before the big move. Good Lord, she’d already managed to destroy three of the five cactuses her work mates had given her as house warming gifts—and cactuses were notoriously difficult to kill.
Sighing, she shifted uncomfortably in her sticky blouse and slacks. Might as well change out of her work clothes and into something lighter and less confining before tackling the retractable hose.
The key stuck halfway into the lock, one of her new home’s more annoying quirks. She tussled with the key, forcing it deeper and breaking a fingernail in the process.
Son-of-a-drat.
She grimaced as she sucked on the nail which had fractured all the way to the pink bed and stung like the devil. Enough of this. First thing tomorrow she’d see about replacing that lock—cost be damned. This was the second fingernail she’d lost to the freaking thing.
Shouldering open the reluctant door, she slapped on the light switch and stepped inside her claustrophobic foyer. As she twisted to shut the door behind her she caught movement out of the corner of her eye—a tangled blur of …something… skittering through the shadows looming in front of her.
What the?
She jerked back to face the living room, every muscle tensing.
Her couch was shoved over on its back, the leather upholstery sliced and ratty, its fluffy white intestines strewn everywhere.
She froze in shock.
Picture frames lay splintered amid slashed canvases and fragmented glass.
Someone had ransacked her home. The realization slammed into her with the force of a fist to the chest. Her breath hitched as a pained wheeze rattled up her throat and out her gaping mouth.
She stepped back, her stomach twisting into a hard knot. A weird buzzing filled her head.
Someone had been in her house.
Who? Why?
Her gaze drifted from item to item. Disbelief flooded her.
The stained glass lamp her cousin had given her was shattered. Her bookshelf overturned, its paperback cargo littering the ground beneath it. Her collection of colorful ceramic frogs pulverized across the hardwood floor.
Another of those raw gasps cauterized the length of her throat and then the shock v
anished beneath a blast of fear. She went queasy and lightheaded in an instant.
Are they still here? Are they hiding? Are they waiting for me?
That blurred sense of movement from earlier slammed into her mind. She backed up, a thin sheen of sweat slicking her spine.
Get out of the house. Into the car. Call the police.
She spun and ran. As she fled through the door, across the porch and down the hill to the street, her skin twitched beneath the certainty that someone was about to grab her from behind.
Ten seconds later, safely locked in her car, Emma fought to control her ragged breathing. It took a few seconds to remember that her purse was still clutched against her side, which meant her cell phone was only a zipper away. As she unearthed her phone and hit 9-1-1, she stared up the hill at her house. She’d loved the richness of the gray exterior against the charcoal trim up until about two seconds ago. Now it looked foreboding. Add in the dark windows on either side of the porch along with the wide open door and the atmosphere shifted from ominous to malevolent.
A shimmer seemed to swim across the glass pane. Was the movement a figment of her imagination? Or was someone in there watching her?
“9-1-1, what’s the location of your emergency?” a nasal female voice asked.
Emma recited her name and address, surprised at how calm she sounded.
“Your phone number—in the event we get disconnected?”
She pulled back from her cell in surprise. Didn’t the emergency services have caller I.D.? But she dutifully recited her number.
“What’s the nature of your emergency?” the operator asked after a moment.
“Someone broke into my house,” Emma said, the sudden hard knock of her heart catching her off guard, as though simply mentioning the break-in had churned all the emotions up again.
“Are you in the house now?”
“No. I’m in my car.”
“The make and model of your car?”
She rattled off her car information and then glanced at her ransacked house again. Another shadow, or shimmer, or something…or maybe nothing… wisped across the blank pane. She stared so hard her eyes burned, but nothing disturbed the darkened window again. Maybe the movement had been the reflection from one of her neighbor’s trees or the angle of the window. Or …yeah…a figment of her imagination.
“I’ve dispatched the closest unit to your location,” the 911 operator said. “I’ll remain on line. Let me know when they arrive.”
Emma murmured an agreement, her eyes still locked on her house’s right window.
A few minutes later a blue sedan with lights flashing rounded the street corner and headed toward her. The lights from the strobes ricocheted off windows and mailboxes and lit the pavement with cascading rainbows of reds and blues. As they drew closer she could see two blue-suited officers in the front seats.
“They’re here,” she said into her phone, watching the cruiser park nose to nose with her sedan. “Thank you for your help.”
The police car’s doors opened as she disconnected the call and two officers emerged. The driver—a tall, lean, absolutely stunning guy with black hair and the kind of intrinsic style that made his heavy uniform look like he was wearing Armani—paused to glance around. His survey encompassed everything from her car, to her house’s gaping front door, to the neighbors watching through their window blinds.
After one final look up the hill toward her house, Officer Gorgeous headed toward her with the economical, easy stride of someone in peak condition. Which reminded her of Lucas. Which pissed her off.
Fate had just gifted her with a ten on the masculine Richter scale and she was mooning over the asshole who’d used and then dumped her?
Way to show some pride, Emma.
Officer Tall, Dark and Toe Curling rapped on the driver’s window. But when she pressed the button to roll the window down nothing happened.
Duh, the engine has to be on for the electrical windows to work.
Flustered, she shoved the key in the ignition and cranked the motor as Officer Impatient rapped again, even harder. When the engine roared to life, he stopped in mid-rap and stepped back, his hand shifting to settle on the gun holstered against his side.
Emma hit the button to roll the window down and turned off the motor, watching the officer step up to her car again. Up close the guy was even better looking. He had the high, chiseled cheekbones of a model. But his eyes…Holy Moses…his eyes were a deep blue-gray, ringed by thick black lashes. They were the kind of eyes that people paid a fortune to fake, with the kind of eyelashes that inspired a thriving, billion-dollar industry. The combination should have sent chills, and thrills, and sexual tingling coursing through her body. Should have…but didn’t.
“Are you the person who called 9-1-1?” he asked, leaning down to study her with those arresting eyes.
“Yes. I’m Emma Janssen,” she said, still reeling under the realization that her libido was apparently immune to the most gorgeous specimen of manhood she’d ever encountered.
How was that possible?
She shied away from the obvious answer.
“Could I see some identification?” His voice carried a flat, authoritarian tone.
“Of course.” She fumbled through her purse for her wallet and pulled out her driver’s license, handing it through the window to him.
He tilted it slightly, studying the small, rectangle of plastic and then her face. Thick black eyebrows rose. “The address on your license doesn’t match the address you gave the 9-1-1 operator.”
For the first time, she looked past the color of his eyes to their blank, cold expression. The frost sheening the blue-gray brought a shiver. She subtracted two points from his score on the masculine Richter scale.
“I bought the house two months ago. I haven’t had time to update my address at the DMV.”
He didn’t respond, just turned and handed the license to his partner, who turned and walked back to their squad car. To run her license no doubt. Why that surprised her, she wasn’t sure—of course they’d have to check her out. Still, gorgeous or not, the guy was becoming less appealing by the minute.
“What’s the problem?” The coldness in his eyes had filtered into his voice.
“Someone broke into my house,” she said.
The 9-1-1 operator must have told him what the call had been about, so why the questions?
He straightened to study her house over the top of her car. “Tell me everything that happened.”
“I arrived home about eight and unlocked the door to find my place trashed.” Her voice hitched. “Everything’s broken, the couch slashed. My collectibles shattered. My pictures all ruined—” Her voice climbed and then broke.
A thick, heavy pressure clotted in her chest as a sense of violation hit her. Of loss. Loss of trust. Loss of security. How was she ever going to feel safe in there again?
“How far did you go in?” Officer Chilly asked, his voice as flat and unsympathetic as ever.
She swallowed hard, forcing the tears back. “Just inside the front door. When I saw the damage I ran.”
Which didn’t sound very brave, but then she never claimed to be a hero. She left such pastimes to people like Officer Arctic.
“Did you notice anyone suspicious when you arrived home, or when you fled the house? Any people or cars that didn’t belong in the area?”
She gave that some thought, but shook her head. “No. Nothing.”
He studied her face. “What about when you were inside. Did you get the sense you weren’t alone? That someone else was in there?”
She frowned. Granted, she might have caught a fleeting glimpse of something. But then again, maybe not. Her nerves had shot straight into the stratosphere. She could have been reacting to something that wasn’t even there.
“What?” His gaze narrowed.
She rubbed her forehead. “It’s just, well I thought I saw something out of the corner of my eye when I was standing in the hall. Movem
ent or something in the shadows. But it was so quick, and I was rattled. It could have been my imagination. And then later, while I was waiting for you to arrive, there may have been movement across the right window. But again, I’m not sure. That window is at an angle and it was getting dark. So, I don’t know.”
Other than a slight bunch to his eyebrows, Officer Arctic didn’t respond. Instead, he walked back to his partner, who was climbing out of the squad car. The shorter, heavier officer handed her driver’s license over and the two conferred quietly for a moment.
By the time the officer returned to her car window with her driver’s license in hand, dusk had given way to darkness and the streetlights had come on.
“Is anyone supposed to be in the house now?” Officer Chilly asked.
“No.”
“Do you have any pets?”
“No.”
He glanced up the hill where her house sat like a big, shadowy box.
“Is there a secondary entrance?”
She nodded, gesturing toward the wood gate to the right of the porch. It was barely visible through a break between the honeysuckle shrubs. “There’s a door in the kitchen that opens to the backyard.”
Was that how the burglars had gotten in? For the first time anger stirred, lit a nice, warm blaze in her belly.
“What’s the general layout?”
She filled him in as succinctly as possible. “The hall leads to the living room. Kitchen and dining room to the right.” Although truthfully, while the realtor had labeled it a dining room, it was barely a nook. “Two bedrooms to the left, with the bathroom and laundry room between them.”
All in seven hundred and twenty-four square feet. She grimaced.
“Basement? Attic?”
“Neither.”
Unfortunately. Either would have given her more space for storage. While the shed out back helped with some of the overflow, the lawnmower and yard tools took up a good share of it.
A burst of static punctuated with words sputtered from the radio attached to the officer’s—she glanced at his name plate— Dante J. Addario’s uniform belt. He tilted his head slightly, obviously listening, and pressed a button on the microphone clipped to his right shoulder.
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