Bound By Temptation

by Trish McCallan

  Which held true until she arrived at the three shallow concrete steps leading up to the front entrance of his condo. In the grand scheme of things, those three steps should have been a piece of cake. They were only about four inches off the ground, after all. Except her knees balked big time at bending those four extra inches.

  “Oh for Christ’s sake.”

  Another thud, and she found herself swept up in hard arms, leash and all. Cocooned by bulging biceps and a firm chest, heat blasted her. Good lord, she’d thought he’d warmed her before, but with both his arms around her and his chest against her left hip, breast, and cheek—he’d transformed into a sauna and was busy turning her into steam. She tried not to melt all over him.

  He juggled her slightly, opened the door, waited for Cuddles to skulk through and kicked it shut behind him. Without speaking, the dog trailing behind them, he carried her through the cool dimness of the entryway, into the bright sunny living room and deposited her lengthwise on the leather couch.

  Unfortunately, the sofa carried dangerous memories of naked, sweaty flesh pressing her into damp leather. Her core temperature, which was already overheated thanks to her sleek, muscle bound ride, spiked into the danger zone. Her cheeks burned like fire.

  Lucas started to straighten, caught her gaze, and froze. Their eyes tangled, locked, heated. His look shifted to her lips and lingered. A moist web of sensuality tightened around them.

  “What the hell, Luc. Give the girl some breathing room.”

  The voice was familiar, but Emma was too busy basking in the hungry gleam burnishing Lucas’s eyes from brown to copper to bother placing it. For one long moment Lucas hesitated, and then, with reluctance stamped across his face, he straightened and stepped back.

  Off balance and adrift, she watched him back away. It took far too long for her anti-humiliation instincts to kick in and banish the regret that they weren’t alone.

  “I’ll get some ice for your knees,” Lucas said in a gruff voice, his hand sliding into his bulging right pocket and emerging with the vial of insulin.

  “Ice? That sounds awful.”

  “It will reduce the swelling.” He held up the bottle of insulin. “The fridge, right?” Without waiting for a response he turned with a jerky—and uncharacteristic—swing of his hips and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Suddenly noticing that she still held the leash, although there was no tension to the leather, she slowly pushed herself up and looked around for Cuddles. The dog stood rigidly next to the couch, the leash a thin leather puddle in front of her.

  “Hey, baby—” She unhooked the clip on the dog’s collar and let the leash drop, then ran a hand down the tense, arched back. With a sigh Cuddles jumped onto the couch and curled into her side. Emma shuffled over to give the dog more room. Every shimmy sent pain cascading down her arms and legs. Even her back ached. Ice? God no. But a hot bath sounded like pure heaven.

  “Nice dog,” that familiar voice said again. “How long have you had her?”

  Instinctively bristling and preparing to go all mama bear, Emma turned her head. She placed the voice before her gaze landed on Brett Taggart’s square, sincere face. Unlike his roommate, or Officer Asshole, he wasn’t being facetious.

  Relaxing, she smiled at him. “I picked her up today. But we’ve already bonded.”

  His gaze dropped to the dog trying to burrow into her waist, and he offered them both a small, lopsided smile. “I can see that. Looks like you chose well.”

  Her smile widened. Why oh why couldn’t she have fallen for this man instead of the one banging things about in the kitchen? Brett liked her dog. And he wouldn’t have dumped her and disappeared.

  If only her hormones had settled on Brett. He and Lucas looked enough alike to be brothers. Same height and build. Same brown hair, although Lucas’s was a shade or two darker. Only their eyes were different. Although the difference there lay in the color, not the expression. They both scanned their surroundings constantly with the same sharp, watchful expression.

  She frowned. Come to think of it, all the men who wandered in and out of Lucas’s condo shared the same cool, intense gaze. As though they were continually on alert, scanning the environment for hidden dangers.

  Rather like Officer Addario—which made sense when it came to his profession. As a cop he’d need that kind of attentiveness to his surroundings. But why would the rest of them need such hyper vigilance?

  “Earth to Emma,” Brett said softly.

  Working up a smile, she offered a sheepish shrug. “Sorry, I guess I’m preoccupied. How have you been?”

  His eyebrows raised. “Better than you.” He scanned her bandaged hands and the thick padding beneath the split fabric of her jeans. A nasty chill frosted his blue eyes. “Too bad Luc didn’t take all those bastards out, instead of just the one.”

  She started to laugh, but faltered at the cold look on his face. He had to be teasing. A multiple homicide because of her skinned hands and knees? But the icy, furious expression that seethed in Brett’s eyes indicated he was serious.

  Her mind flashed back to Lucas’s instant and deadly reaction to the men in the van. He hadn’t hesitated to unleash a boatload of bullets into the vehicle. Nor had he balked at killing the man who’d grabbed her.

  Just what kind of training did Naval Intelligence officers undergo? Lucas had said his job was mostly clerical, auditing and such.

  “You don’t need to worry, Emma,” Brett said, gingerly settling on the edge of the wood coffee table in front of the couch. He leaned forward to take her hands, but backed off at the low, rumbling growl that erupted from Cuddles’s throat. “We won’t let those bastards near you. You’ll be safe here. You have my word on that.”

  With two frozen bags of vegetables in hand, Lucas bulldozed his way between Emma and his roommate, forcing Brett to stand and back up. Emma frowned at the flat, cold warning Lucas shot his friend.

  What in the dickens had that been about? Possessiveness? But that would imply interest, which his three months of avoidance completely negated.

  “Make yourself useful,” Lucas snapped, “and grab her suitcase. It’s on the front steps.”

  Brett cocked his head, eying him shrewdly. “Where do you want it?”

  “My bedroom.” Lucas glanced at Emma. “I’ll take the couch.”

  She really needed to nix that idea, but she lacked the energy to argue her case. Best to save her strength and tackle that chore later.

  He waited for Brett to leave before taking a seat on the couch next to her calf and gently settling a bag of frozen vegetables on each knee. Cuddles watched him suspiciously but kept the warning limited to her eyes.

  “I called Rio, he’s sending the sketch artist here,” Lucas said, resting his hands on his thighs.

  Emma focused on the restive tap of his fingers against the faded denim of his jeans, rather than the heat and hunger sparking in his eyes. “I don’t have to go down to the police station?”

  Lucas shook his head and relief lightened her at least ten pounds. She’d dreaded the thought of the trip to the station since her painful waddle up the path to the condo.

  A long, pulsing silence fell and Lucas shifted on the couch, his thigh pressing against her leg. She scooted over a bit more and one of the makeshift ice packs slid off. Leaning over, he caught it and settled it back on her knee.

  “When did you eat last?” Lucas asked.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t kept track.” In a bid to avoid his gaze, she closed her eyes and settled against the armrest, relaxing as the icy vegetable packages numbed her knees. The pressure of his thigh burning into her leg disappeared.

  “Settle back and relax while I rustle something up.”

  His voice sounded a bit more distant with each word, as though he were walking away, even though she didn’t hear any footsteps. She rolled her head to the left and peeked through her lashes as the room fell silent. No sign of Lucas, but judging by the muted thump of cupboards closing and the meta
llic bang of pots clanging, he was making good on his promise to feed her.

  A short time later the rich, thick scent of French toast reached her. Her stomach clenched with hunger, but not for food—rather an emotional and sensual knotting. He’d made her French toast twice during those three days. The morning following their first night together, and then for dinner, two nights later, after she’d casually mentioned that French toast was one of her favorite dishes.

  Had the meal he’d “rustled up” been an intentional reminder of the weekend they’d spent together? If so, it was working. Memories reeled through her mind. Sensual memories. Hot, heady flashbacks that moistened the flesh between her legs and paralyzed her heart and lungs.

  It was hard to believe that Lucas would go to the trouble of subtly reminding her of what they’d shared, but it was equally hard to believe he’d forgotten what his French Toast had led to all those weeks ago—on both occasions—so why in the world would he make it again?

  Chapter Six

  By the time Lucas returned from showing Rio’s sketch artist out the door, Emma had sunk down on the couch with her ratty terrier stretched blissfully across her chest like an extra blanket. The ugly shadows that had blackened her brown eyes as the sketch took shape had spread across her face. She looked haunted. The artistic rendering of her would-be kidnapper apparently stirred up her earlier anxiety and fear.

  Tenderness snuck up, wrapped around his chest and squeezed, trying to choke him.

  “Hey.” He took a seat on the coffee table beside the couch and leaned toward her, projecting confidence. “You’re safe here. Nobody’s going to get past us to get to you.”

  An odd look flitted across her face, one he couldn’t quite decipher. Maybe doubt? Or disbelief? Both of which made sense. She had no idea what he did for a living, or why he and Tag were so well suited to protect her.

  Silence, when it came to his career, was essential. Not just for his personal safety, but his teammates and their families as well. SEALs were at the top of multiple kill lists. If a terrorist identified him and staked his place out, they’d locate a fair share of his teammates too. From there they could ferret out his teammates’ families.

  Ian, and the guys at the gym? Hell, they were, or had been, in the corps. They knew the price of loose tongues. But civilians? Neighbors? They were oblivious about the dangers of this world. Fuck, he’d been falsifying his career for years in order to satisfy their curiosity.

  With the exception of Tag and a couple of ex-teammates two doors down, nobody in this development knew what he did for a living. As far as they were concerned, he and Tag were Naval Intelligence officers assigned with tracking down departmental theft. So far the alias had served him well.

  The only neighbor he’d gotten close to was Emma, but hell—he’d been lying to her, too, for years. She had no clue what his life was like or why a relationship with him would be so damned difficult.

  Which meant there was no reason for her to trust him to keep her safe.

  “Look, if you’re worried I can’t protect you—” A full confession hovered on his tongue, anything to blast those shadows from her face, regardless of the repercussions.

  “It’s not that.” She stirred slightly, hissed in pain, and froze again. “I’m just really sore.”

  He leaned back. Of course she was in pain. She’d barely been able to walk from the car to the condo, and that had been a good two hours earlier. Stiffness, along with muscle and joint pain, would have set in by now. He should have given her a pain killer eons ago. What the fuck had happened to his common sense?

  “Ibuprofen will help with that.” He stood up.

  “A hot bath will work even better.” She rolled her head on the couch to stare up at him.

  “Hot water will counter the effects of the ice.” He forced himself to ignore the plea on her face.

  “I don’t care.” The look of entreaty gave way to determination. “I’m not a child. I know what works for me, and I want a hot bath.”

  “You’re knees and hands are pretty skinned up,” he reminded her quietly. “Hot water is going to sting like hell and you’ll need to change the bandages.”

  Pure stubbornness flattened her gaze. “I won’t use soap, so the pain will be minimal and I don’t need bandages. They’re scrapes, not cuts. They’ll heal better with the air flow reaching them.”

  Taking a bath was a mistake. He was certain of it. After dealing with hundreds of traumatized muscles and joints, he knew the treatment protocol to reduce pain and increase mobility.

  But she wasn’t a child. And it wasn’t his call.

  “I’ll get the water going.”

  Her face relaxed and she smiled up at him. “Thank you. Steaming hot, okay?”

  She’d managed to attain a sitting position by the time he returned from drawing the bath, but from the look of frustrated pain on her face, that was as far as she’d been able to get on her own. He handed her a glass of water and two ibuprofen tablets. After she’d downed the two pills, he took the glass back, set it on the coffee table, and leaned down, slipping his hands beneath her armpits. Straightening, he carefully lifted her.

  The flowery scent that had sucker punched him in the motel bathroom, and then teased his cock to painful urgency during that slow, erotic shuffle up the walkway, drifted from her hair, attacking his lungs and brain with its aphrodisiac properties.

  His head spun. His scalp prickled. His hands started to sweat. His cock went from stand down to full salute in a nanosecond. Christ, much more of this and he’d be stiffer than her—at least in one hard to hide spot.

  Once she was steady on her feet, he eased back, keen to step away. Jesus, he needed to put some space between them. A buffer of air to curb his base instincts. He stood a better chance of keeping his impulses in check if he wasn’t rubbing against her with every step. But when he dropped his hands she swayed and shot him a panicked look.

  Son of a bitch.

  Grimly he moved back in, sliding his arm around her waist. The feminine sway to her hips hypnotized him as he led her—one waddling step at a time—around the coffee table and down the hall to his bedroom. With each brush of their thighs, heat flared, prickling up his spine and infusing it with goosebumps. When they finally made it to his bedroom, he steadfastly ignored his bed and the erotic images it conjured, as he guided her, Cuddles trailing behind them, toward the bathroom.

  The bathroom was hot, and steamy, and brimming with flowery fragrance—which made no damn sense considering he hadn’t poured anything into the water. He settled her on the closed toilet seat and took a huge step back, his fingers itching to touch her…to slide beneath her loose clothes and search out all those sweet spots he’d been obsessing over for the past three long months.

  Jesus, I have to get out of here.

  He turned to flee.

  “You told me I didn’t know where I was headed and it wasn’t fair to lead me on. What did you mean by that?”

  Her soft, hesitant question hit him like a gut punch. He froze, escape a mere foot away.

  Ah fuck.

  But this conversation was long overdue, and maybe his explanation would reassure her that she was safe in his care.

  * * *

  Emma cringed, watching Lucas stop in his tracks. He just stood there for a moment, perfectly still and then a shudder rocked his shoulders. Slowly, he turned.

  While the question had played through her mind like an earworm for hours, she hadn’t intended to blurt it out like that. It had simply erupted from within, without permission, too pointed and too late to call back.

  “You sure you want to get into this now?” he asked quietly.

  The look in his eyes, a hungry, even ravenous, expression launched a full scale flutter attack in her belly. Her nipples tightened. Quivers spread across her chest and down her spine. Her hyped up physical reaction to him certainly hadn’t faded. And judging by the hard-to-hide erection pressing against his normally loose jeans, he was just as attracted
to her.

  “You’re damn near impossible to resist, Em…”

  His tense, reluctant admission in the car whispered through her mind. He hadn’t been lying about that. He was still attracted to her, wildly even, so why the disappearing act?

  “What did you mean, Lucas?”

  “I haven’t been completely honest with you,” he answered immediately, his brown eyes penetrating and unwavering.

  Okay… she cocked her head and frowned, trying to ignore the ache in her arms and back, and the constant stinging in her hands and knees.

  “How so?” She shifted uncomfortably on the toilet seat. Good lord, she desperately needed to sink into that delicious, steaming tub of water, but she wanted to hear what he had to say even more.

  “I’m not assigned to Naval Intelligence,” he said.

  “You’re not with the Navy?”

  “I’m with the Navy, just not intelligence. I’m a special operator, with SEAL team 7.” He paused to scan her face, before adding flatly. “I’m a SEAL.”

  A SEAL? He was a SEAL?

  In San Diego, the SEALs of Coronado were legendary. Some of her friends staked out Coronado beach, early in the mornings, around the Hotel Del in the hopes of catching the men training in the sand and surf. She’d heard about the SEALs of Coronado for years, she just hadn’t realized she’d slept with one.

  Although, oddly enough, she wasn’t surprised by the news. There had always been something ultra-capable and a bit dangerous about Lucas.

  “Well, that explains your quick reflexes and how you were able to take down the van so quickly,” she said wryly.

  It explained a bunch of other stuff too, like the vigilance he wore as naturally as a second skin, his obsession with security, his air of competence, and his honed, muscled physique.

  What it didn’t explain was why he’d dumped her.

  “I’m not bluffing when I say we can protect you. Tag and I have the skillset to do just that.” His intense gaze caught and held hers.