by Julie Miller
She absolutely could not like this guy.
But she’d gotten so…distracted.
Major?
What rotten luck!
The best damn kiss of her life had to come from a diehard, career-driven Marine.
Processing the introduction as if he’d just announced he had trenchfoot, she withdrew her hand and hugged her arms around her bag. She made a conscious effort to close her mouth and hide her stunned expression. Disappointment cascaded through her, knocking aside the silly fantasy she’d conjured about unzipping her jeans and doing it right here on the trunk of her car with the big, bronze hero hunk who’d rescued her.
Of course, he was military. Common sense ridiculed her frustrated hormones. What did she expect in a place like this? With a crew cut like his? With that commanding voice?
But that kiss. Ay-yi-yi.
Those eyes.
God, if he could make her horny just by looking at her across a noisy room, imagine what…
J.C. sighed. What a waste.
“You’re a major?” Maybe she’d heard wrong. She tilted her chin and searched the square jut of his jaw, the buzz cut at his temples, that sexy, sexy mouth, clinging to an impossible shred of hope.
He folded his sturdy arms across that sturdier chest and nodded. “Twelve years of service, not counting my Annapolis training. Combat, peacetime, foreign, stateside. I’m currently stationed at DoD, Department of Defense. The Pentagon.”
Impressive.
Awful.
J.C. nodded, politely acknowledging his achievements while secretly cursing the irony of their intense hormonal chemistry. “So you’re a career soldier?”
“Career Marine, ma’am,” he corrected. “A soldier fights in the Army.”
Ma’am? She’d liked honey better. Oh, hell. She shouldn’t care one way or the other.
“I see. Sorry.” Her father had been a career seaman, a sailor. A career jerk. Plenty of years to fool around on her mother before his dalliances caught up with him. “I guess there is a distinction in terminology among the different branches.”
The major grinned. Or at least, she gathered that was what the shift in the creases beside his mouth meant. “It’s a pride thing. I’m sure the other branches are just as gung ho about their nicknames and traditions.”
Ah yes, pride. One of those questionable virtues her father had possessed in such abundance. But extreme pride in the job didn’t often translate well into a relationship. She bristled at an old memory of her father jumping her case for leaving sticky finger marks on his white uniform when she’d hugged him goodbye once. “I can’t set sail looking like a bum.” He’d lambasted her and handed her over to her mother without giving either of them a kiss. “What were you thinking, Josie?”
At five years of age, she’d been thinking her daddy was leaving for another six months and that she would miss him.
She’d finally learned to move beyond such juvenile sentimentality.
Breathing deeply to squelch any lingering resentment, J.C. challenged this modern-day warrior on his pride. “Do you always correct people when they make a mistake about the Corps? I’m using the proper term now, right?”
“Right. Marines, the Corps, USMC—they’re all pretty interchangeable. Different bases, divisions, units and teams have various nicknames and numerical titles—including a few I wouldn’t use in mixed company.”
Though he didn’t expound, she dutifully smiled at his effort to make a joke. She had a few names for men like her father she didn’t care to share, either.
The major tapped his chest as the lesson continued. “I’m a commissioned officer, meaning I have a college degree and I’m specially trained for command. I go by Major or sir. Those two boneheads who were here earlier were noncoms—noncommissioned officers. Enlisted men. But we’re all Marines and we’re all necessary elements of the Corps.”
“Wow.” Fount of information that he was, she noted that he’d made no effort to deny the correction part. She arched the brow above her right eye, subtly expressing her sarcasm. “Ask a simple question…”
His jaw tightened beneath a rueful frown. “Sorry. I tend to get carried away. Semper Fi and all that.”
The Marine Corps motto. Semper Fidelis. Always Faithful. To the Corps, that is.
He was quickly sliding back into the ultraserious, all-work/no-play personality she’d observed in the bar. This guy was so career focused that he might not have the time or energy to cheat on his woman. But then, think of that poor woman who did get involved with him. Work, work, work. From the sound of things, she’d always come in second to his real mistress—the Corps.
Not a stellar recommendation for relationship material.
J.C.’s infatuation with Ethan’s kiss began to fade. It surely must have been a fluke. Or maybe it hadn’t been that great in the first place. Maybe the quality of Major McCormick’s kiss had been enhanced by the danger of the situation she’d been in and her own man-starved libido. This guy didn’t have any moves, no clue about flirting.
Ethan shifted in his dark brown loafers, diverting her attention back to the present conversation. Or, more pointedly, the awkward silence her thoughts had put between them. He smoothed one of those big hands across the top of his head, but the wave of dark golden stubble snapped right back into place.
“We never finished introductions. I’m assuming you have a name?” he asked.
“Oh, duh. Sorry.” Disappointment was justifiable. But rudeness she wouldn’t tolerate, especially in herself. After all, the major had saved her from a potentially threatening and definitely uncomfortable run-in with Juan and Manny. “My turn to backtrack. I’m J. C. Gardner.”
“What does the J.C. stand for?”
“Josephine C…” Her voice trailed off in a hiss of sound as her analytical mind finally burst through the blockade of hormones and emotions inside her.
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.
Golden opportunity.
Lee Whiteley and her readers would eat this up.
J.C. had a living, breathing, dysfunctional research specimen for her column standing right in front of her.
A major could give her a whole new perspective on the upper echelon of military men. Did a commission make a man a better catch? Make him more honorable, trustworthy, reliable than an enlisted man? Or was the rank just a better cover for his infidelities? Were officers like Major McCormick a bunch of old farts who spouted military rhetoric instead of I love you’s? Who were more devoted to the Corps than to their women? Did a man accustomed to being saluted make a good lover? Or would he expect that same kind of deference in the bedroom?
Oh, yeah.
Fifty bucks to prove a point.
Making it with a Major: The Inside Story
There was definitely a column here. Or two. Or more.
J.C.’s heart pumped a little faster, quickening her pulse. She bowed her head to hide the smug smile of satisfaction that threatened to erupt, and rifled through the contents of her purse. Her fingers tingled with anticipation as they brushed against her notebook. She breathed in deeply, her nostrils flaring as she schooled her patience and organized her thoughts.
She would have to approach Ethan McCormick differently than she’d played Juan and the other men in the bar. That had been an anecdotal study on the superficialities of pickup lines, a casual observation of how little it took to generate a military man’s interest in a woman and how far he would go to pursue a potential conquest. J.C. wanted in-depth responses from the major. Long-term evaluations. Hidden truths.
He was interested in her, judging by the way he’d made love to her with his eyes across the bar earlier. He was interested enough to follow her outside and rescue her from a couple of pesky drunks. He was interested enough to kiss her.
J.C. squeezed her eyes shut as her hormones reawakened with an involuntary flutter. An adjunct research project would be to see if she could get him to kiss her again—to find out if he was really that good with his lips
or if he’d just gotten lucky. Liar. She was the one who wanted to get lucky again.
“Josephine what?”
J.C. opened her eyes and found her focus aimed directly at the lingering bulge in his jeans. He was definitely interested in her. If she played this right, Major Ethan McCormick would make a very engaging case study. And she could maybe get a few jollies of her own—all in the pursuit of science and healthy recommendations for her readers, of course.
Adjusting her smile from amused to apologetic, she lifted her gaze to those ever-changing gray eyes. “I’m sorry. My brain jumped ahead of the conversation. I’m Josephine Gardner.” Better keep the Dr. Cyn part of Cynthia a secret if she wanted to get honest, unfiltered responses from her test subject. “But my friends all call me J.C.”
“J.C.,” he repeated, as if testing whether or not the nickname met with his approval. “Sounds like a tomboy.”
“I can be. Mostly, I’m a modern woman who—as much as I loved my grandmother—doesn’t especially care to share the old-fashioned name. And it’s Dr. J. C. Gardner, if that helps. I’m a clinical psychologist.”
His silver eyes suddenly sparkled—if she could believe a rock-solid, nuts-’n-bolts kind of guy like Ethan McCormick ever could sparkle. “Do you prefer Dr.?”
“Do you prefer Major?”
Her challenge earned a reluctant smile which revealed straight, white teeth. The effect softened the rugged lines of his face and rendered him almost handsome. “My friends call me Ethan.”
“Could I buy you a cup of coffee, Ethan? To thank you?” She pulled her wallet from her bag and held it up to appeal to his practical side, in case charm alone couldn’t intrigue him. “My treat. There’s a coffee shop just around the corner that’s still open.”
Silhouetted against the green glare of the bar’s neon sign, his broad shoulders shrugged with a heavy sigh, then settled back to near attention. She dropped the wallet back into her bag, feeling instantly on guard.
“Dr. Gardner.” Had he missed the friends part? Or was distance and formality typical of what a woman could expect from him? She’d be sure to write that one down. Later. Right now she cocked an eyebrow and waited for him to continue. “I don’t know how to ask this any other way but to come out and say it.”
“What is it?”
“Are you married?”
J.C. scrutinized the fine web of lines that appeared beside Ethan’s narrowed eyes. Any flash of silver in the irises had disappeared into gunmetal depths. He propped his hands at his waist and leaned ever so slightly forward to observe her equally intently. My God, he was serious!
Would she be in a bar, letting men hit on her if she was married? Would she be asking him to join her for coffee? She wasn’t like her father. J.C. stiffened defensively, her fists clenched around the strap of her bag. “No.” Her gaze instinctively dropped to his left hand. Naked. But that was no guarantee. She looked up and demanded the same truth from him. “Are you married?”
“Never have been.” She retreated half a step when he moved toward her and she realized just how far she had to tilt her head to maintain eye contact. Jeez, Louise, this was important to him. “Are you engaged? Living with someone? Seeing anybody?”
J.C. automatically put up her hand to block his advance and silence the inquisition. Her palm flattened against a wall of chest. Mistake! Her defensive anger got twisted up with a flare of instant desire. And both were tempered by a curious need to understand his concern with her personal status.
Ethan halted as if she’d cast some spell to keep him at bay. She wasn’t pushing, neither was he. Yet a magnetic force kept them bound, hand to chest. He stood close enough for her to detect the faint, cool scent of the soap or aftershave he used.
His nostrils flared as he breathed in deeply. But he came no closer. He was waiting. Holding back. Brimming with energy as if it required a great deal of willpower to stand so still, to maintain such control. Her palm buzzed with the intensity of the strength and emotion he was keeping in check. The tension shimmered through her, tingling in the tips of her breasts and fingers, making her breath catch in soundless, shallow gasps.
What would it take to break that control?
Is that what had made his kiss so soul shattering? Had he temporarily lost his grip on that considerable restraint?
J.C.’s hips butted against the cool metal frame of the car, but she was consumed with Ethan’s encompassing heat. Telling him to lighten up didn’t feel like an option right now. She wasn’t even sure this guy could do that. And she was pretty sure that was half of the crazy reason she was so insanely attracted to him. She liked his intensity. Focused on her and her safety, it had been devastating.
Her voice came out hushed and husky with her emotions. “I thought I was sending out plenty of I’m single signals.”
“Please. I’d appreciate a simple yes or no.”
The pale cotton of his shirt was soft to the touch, but everything was solid, warm and pulsing with unleashed energy beneath it. J.C. was tempted to break the spell of sensual overload by clutching a handful of that material and dragging him down for another kiss. But she sensed her research and any further contact with Major McCormick hinged on giving him the answer he needed to hear right now. Intellectually and physically, she didn’t want this to be her last encounter with Ethan, either.
“The answer is no. I’m completely unattached. No husband, no fiancé, no boyfriend, no lover.” Unless you’d like to change that last one?
His deep sigh mingled with her own and he smiled—a wide, tooth-flashing grin that made her think he’d just won some kind of prize.
J.C. didn’t know whether to be alarmed or flattered by his obvious relief. It took everything she had not to snatch at his shirt when he straightened and pulled away, breaking the connection between them.
“Then I’d love to have coffee with you.”
He didn’t leave her standing weak-kneed against the car for long. He turned and held out his arm like a formal escort. When she stared at it a moment without moving, he reached for her right hand and pulled it into the crook of his elbow. Muscle and skin and springy, golden hair created a sizzle of awareness at even that impersonal contact. If he was feeling any of the same sexual attraction she was feeling, he wasn’t acting on it.
Still, frustration aside, there was something earnest and sincere in the old-fashioned gesture that left her smiling and looking forward to whatever time she would get to spend with this man. J.C. smiled and strolled beside him onto the sidewalk.
Interesting research, indeed.
5
ETHAN’S EYES WERE TRANSFIXED by the dollop of creamy froth that clung to the bow of J.C.’s top lip. He wiggled his finger against his own mug of black coffee, combatting the urge to reach across the narrow booth and wipe it off, just for the excuse to touch her again.
And his taste buds were suddenly developing a craving for mocha latte. He could sweep it aside with a kiss and reward himself with the flavor of something sweeter and more potent than chocolate or coffee. But, forcibly reminding himself of his shrinking time frame, he put his depraved desires on hold and simply pointed to his own mouth. “You’ve got something there.”
“What? Oh.”
Oh, no. No, no. Ethan’s grip tightened around his ceramic mug as he watched in helpless fascination. Don’t do it!
She did it. The tip of her pink tongue darted out to lick the rim of her lips. Ethan’s crotch lurched in response beneath the laminate tabletop. His imagination skipped flirtatious innuendo and jumped straight to the idea of what else that sweet, flexible tongue might be willing to lick. Jerk!
She smiled. “Thanks.”
No, thank you were the words he wanted to say as he eased his legs farther apart on the vinyl bench seat, giving his randy instincts room to maneuver. He lifted his mug and sipped at the tepid brew, wishing it was hot enough to burn some sense into him.
Had he been dead for the past year and a half? Had Bethany’s betrayal tainted t
he allure of every other woman until now? Maybe Dr. J. C. Gardner was transmitting some secret pheromone weapon that had completely brainwashed him. This was crazy! This instant, intense, graphic desire to take this woman he barely knew and touch, taste—mate with—made him question his sanity. His cool, calm and collected persona seemed a distant memory. He was crawling inside his skin with the need to run a personal reconnaissance mission to acquaint himself with each one of her hidden feminine attributes.
Her left breast. The right one. What color were the tips? How did they taste? Her belly button. Was it an innie or an outie? Her butt. He’d already grabbed a handful of that, but his palms and fingertips itched to feel skin, not denim. And, oh, he most definitely wanted to acquaint himself with her—
“So you said you had a proposition for me?”
Ethan gulped as her words and his thoughts got tangled up in one vivid, erotic image. The dregs of his coffee ate a bitter path down his throat and he coughed in his hurry to choke down the acidic aftertaste and explain himself. He set down the mug before he did further damage to himself and held up both hands in apologetic surrender. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“What way is that?”
“You know, like…” Damn. Did he really have to spell this out for her? Though the booth’s high-backed seats sequestered them from the chatty line of patrons waiting to order their last drinks before closing, Ethan still glanced over his shoulder to ensure their privacy. He braced his forearms on the table and leaned in, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Like I was asking to have sex with you.”
There. He’d said it. Out loud.
“Do you want to have sex with me?”
Oh, yeah.
Practicality answered before lust could.
“No. Of course, not.” Her eyebrow arched at the unintended insult in his quick response.
Ethan flattened his palms against the cool tabletop in a placating gesture. He would give a month’s pay for one smooth line to get himself out of this mess right now. “I mean, I’m not against the idea. I would love to have sex with you.”