by Lee Taylor
Creeping down the stairs, her pistol clutched in both hands in in front of herself, she heard Trey’s voice. Turning the corner, blood lust on her brain, she almost fainted when she saw Dameon Macarios standing in the doorway to the kitchen, her kitchen, talking with her son.
The tall dark-haired man filled the doorway with his presence, commanding the space as if he belonged there. He gave her a once over. His quick grin reminded her of her tousled hair and shorty pajamas. She could only imagine what she looked like. At the most she’d had thirty minutes of sleep. She’d spent most of the night pounding her pillow in fury, and the rest of it burying her head under the covers trying to blot out the horrible night. Her momentary embarrassment fled when she acknowledged that this loathsome man, the cause of her hideous night was casually standing in her kitchen at 7:05 in the morning.
She jerked back letting her gun slide down against her leg, and glared at him. She was glad her voice was strong given that her knees felt like rubber at the sight of him.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Trey jumped forward, reaching out to her, his face tight with concern.
“No, Mom. It’s okay. You don’t understand. This… this man is Police Chief Macarios… he came to our school and talked to us about drugs and stuff….”
Jesse waved off her son with her free hand and continued to glare at Dameon.
“I know who the asshole is.” Speaking directly to Dameon she added, “Get the fuck out of my house!”
Trey was clearly horrified. “Mom! It’s… not—”
Dameon broke in.
“It’s okay, Trey. Your mother and I had a disagreement last night. I came to apologize to her.” Taking a careful step toward Jesse, he held her gaze. His voice was casual, professional.
“Tell you what, Major. If you put that gun down on the counter, I’ll put this peace offering I brought down on the table.” When she didn’t answer, he smiled and gestured to the cardboard tray he was holding. “How about it? Is that a fair exchange? Your gun for a Vente Skinny Caramel Latte Extra Hot No Foam and a cranberry orange scone? Is that a good trade for a gun?”
Leaning over, without taking his gaze off of her, he carefully placed the tray on the kitchen table. At one level Jesse knew that Macarios thought he was trying to reason with a distraught woman holding a loaded gun, but she didn’t care. She didn’t want to be reasonable, rational. Of course she was distraught. What the fuck did he expect? Something in her face must have warned him because his expression hardened.
He held up his hands and motioned to her with a jerk of his head.
“On the counter. NOW.”
Jesse hesitated in reflexive protest, then slapped her gun on the counter, glaring at him.
She motioned to her son. “Trey, come over here by me.” Whirling back to face Dameon, she shot out, “And you! Go. Now!”
Dameon glanced at his watch. As if she hadn’t spoken he turned to Trey.
“Trey, it’s ten after seven. You’re going to miss that bus if you don’t leave now. You know Sally Hermosa doesn’t wait for anyone.” His voice was comforting. “It’s okay, son. I’ve got your mother covered. She’s fine. I’ll take care of her.”
Jesse audibly gasped, shocked at his outrageous assertion. Only the pained look on Trey’s face kept her from screaming at Macarios to leave now.
Glancing from his mother to Dameon, Trey wavered. Obviously upset, his lip trembled.
Tears hovering on his thick dark lashes, he appealed to the big man.
“You don’t understand, Sir.” His voice cracked. “My mom…. She’s been hurt. I’ve been trying to get her to go to the emergency room. But she won’t go. I… I don’t want to leave her here….”
Jesse’s protest died in her throat when Dameon frowned at her and held up his hand. Turning back to Trey, he was calm, assertive.
“That makes it even more imperative that you go, Trey. Look, Son, I’ll make sure your mother gets to a hospital if she needs to go. And, I’ll take care of her injuries if they’re not serious. That’s what I’m trained to do, just like your mother is. But when you’re the one who’s hurt,” he added, gesturing toward Jesse, “you’re not as good at diagnosing your injuries. I’ll take care of her, Trey. I promise you that.” When the young boy wavered, Dameon added, “Who’s your homeroom teacher? Mr. Salazar? Good. As soon as I take a look at your mother’s injuries, I’ll leave a message for you. But for now, Son, how about you hightail it out of here and make sure you catch that bus?”
Trey looked at his mother, uncertainty clouding his expression. Swallowing her anger as best she could, Jesse pressed her lips together. She knew how upset Trey was that she’d been hurt and needed to reassure him. She’d deal with Chief Asshole later. “Go, Trey. I’m fine. You don’t want to be late. Don’t worry, honey. I’ll take care of him!”
After the door closed, Jesse whirled back to Dameon.
“Now that you’ve terrified my son, GO. Get out of my house. NOW!”
Dameon moved toward her.
“I’m gonna ask you one time. Is there a safety on that gun? With a kid in the house—”
Jesse’s voice shook with rage. She was livid.
“You pretentious fucking asshole.”
His lip quirked up.
“We’ve already established that.”
Jesse placed her hands on her hips to keep from attacking him. She was shaking with anger.
“You accuse me of being so irresponsible that I don’t know enough to keep a safety on my gun when I have a teenage boy in the house? You overbearing—”
He put up his hand, stopping her in mid-sentence, and took another step toward her. He was now a few scant feet away.
“Okay. I’ve got that. You can forget the litany.”
He eyed her, his expression was stern. “Before we go any further, let’s get a few things straight, Major. First, I’m gonna take that gun. Second, I’m going to check you over and see if your son is right. Decide if you need to go to the hospital.”
His eyes lightened and his lip quirked up at the corner.
“Third and most important, I’m going to apologize for what happened last night and try to get you to accept my apology. Maybe we can even sit down and have a cup of coffee together.”
He waited quietly for her response.
Jesse struggled to get her breath. So many emotions were whirling though her she couldn’t sort them out. She only knew that she was furious—and exhausted. Seeing his determination, she glared at him and with a disparaging snort, shoved the gun toward him. He moved forward and picked it up. Ejecting the magazine, he winked at her.
“My grandmother was a redhead. I learned early on not to underestimate her temper.
Okay, now that I’m not in immediate danger of losing a critical organ, let’s see where you’re hurt.”
She chewed on her bottom lip and shook her head.
“I’m not hurt, Marcus Welby. Leave me alone.”
He closed the distance between them shaking his head and muttering something about damn stubborn women. Taking her arm, he pointed to the counter.
“Lean against this so you don’t fall over.”
`Jesse stepped back against the counter, more to get away from him than to comply. She tried to sound reasonable, hoping to convince him to go.
“Look, my son overreacted. Like all men do when they see a little blood.”
Ignoring her, Dameon moved in closer and met her eyes.
“Let me see.”
Jesse felt her face heat. His intense gaze made her more aware of her scant clothing. She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat and reluctantly lifted the hem of her pajama top.
Dameon’s eyes widened at the purplish bruise that had grown since she looked at it last. The discoloration ran from her hip to her ribs. It looked worse against the white gauze bandage she’d taped on to stop the bleeding.
He whistled softly and ran a finger over the bruise.
“D
amn, Major, what did this?”
She sniffed and tossed her head.
“It’s what happens when the edge of a table comes at you fast.”
He frowned and pointed to the bandage.
“What’s under here?”
“A minor scrape.”
She winced when he pulled off the bandage.
His expression darkened. “A minor scrape, huh? Is that what you call the flash of a bullet grazing your hip?”
She tossed her head.
“Look, it’s fine.
His frown deepened.
“You’ve been in combat. Don’t you have any Dermabond? That’s the best way to prevent infection in an abraded area this large.”
She gave him a dismissive nod.
“Yes, I know that. I couldn’t find any. I… I left the Post in a hurry. I didn’t bring any supplies.”
Not responding to her excuse, he pointed to the purplish black bruise on her rib.
“Hmm. And this?”
She muffled a cry when he touched it.
“Is it broken?”
She shook her head. “No, I’d know if it was.”
His brows knit together and the crease in his cheek twitched. “I’ll decide that.”
His expert fingers were strong, probing but gentle. The problem was that he was close—too close, just inches away. She shoved at the sensations streaking over her sensitized skin, startled at the tremor that shook her. If Dameon felt it, he didn’t acknowledge it. He continued to examine each wound.
When he looked up and caught her gaze, he shook his head.
“You were lucky, Major. That bullet missed you by a fraction of an inch.”
She shrugged.
“I’ve had worse.”
Dameon sucked in a deep breath, shoving at his anger. Goddammit, she could have been killed. She was right about one thing, though. Her rib was cracked not broken, and with proper treatment her open wound would likely heal quickly. He kept his voice even, not betraying the turmoil he felt. What he wanted to do was scoop her up in his arms and hold her tight. He could see that she was riding an adrenaline high that kept her from acknowledging how bad she could have been hurt. He understood. He’d been there too many times to count. Giving her credit, she probably had too.
He grinned. “Tough guy, huh?”
When she just shrugged, he persisted.
“So tough, you didn’t even wrap that rib? That’s dangerous you know. Hmmm. I agree, it’s not broken—but it needs to be stabilized.”
When she didn’t answer and looked away, he shook his head.
“Christ, don’t tell me. You don’t have an Ace bandage. Damn, woman. I thought you were a combat veteran. You know basic battleground medicine.”
Rearing up, her eyes flashed.
“I told you. I didn’t have my supplies. Look, I’m fine. I’ll—”
He shook his head and lifted her up and sat her on the counter. He grinned at her shocked gasp.
“Settle down, tiger. I’m not being critical, just concerned. You’re correct. Nothing is broken and with Dermabond that open wound likely won’t scar. Look, Major. My kit is in my truck. Can I trust you to sit here while I go out to get it?”
Dameon smiled at her but he was dead serious. She’d probably gotten as much sleep as he did the night before. She had to be running on pure adrenaline.
“How about it, tiger? Will you let me help you?”
She slammed her eyes shut, a curtain of dark eyelashes shadowing her pale cheeks. He thought he glimpsed a tear trapped at the corner of her thick lashes. But the next second her eyes opened and she pinned him with her familiar glare.
“Fine, get your damn kit. And then please leave.”
He stepped back and gave her an easy grin.
“Uh uh. Fixing you up is only step two. Then comes the hard part. Getting you to accept my apology.”
She scoffed. “That’ll be a frozen day in hell.”
He laughed at her fierce expression. “You remind me of my Siamese cat,” he said. “She’s almost as prickly as you are. I call her Sheba. I think the name fits you even better.”
He eyed her for a long moment.
“Speaking of names, if you’re done cursing me, the name’s Dameon. A gift from my Greek navy sailor father to my Latino mother before he sailed off to sea never to be seen again. Mind if I call you Jesse, or do you prefer Major O’Donnell?”
“What I prefer, since you asked, is that you get the hell out of my house and my life.”
Dameon grinned. “In that case, I’ll call you Jesse.”
He headed for the door then gave her an amused glance. She looked like a thirteen-year–old, sitting on the counter swinging her legs. Only those maddeningly enticing curves confirmed that she was not a kid. Rather she was a scantily dressed woman shooting angry daggers directly at him. Seeing her darting eyes and tense posture, his humor died and determination took its place.
“I gotta warn you, Jesse. If you lock me out, I’ll break the door down.”
“Oh great! Maybe I can add breaking and entering to my charges against you.”
When he stepped back to within arm’s reach and smiled at her, she lifted her chin.
“Or how about I lie and tell them you gave me drugs,” Jesse continued. “Or better yet, that you’re a drug dealer. Maybe they’ll strip search you. Like they did me.”
Her voice shook and Dameon saw the tears flood her eyes. His smile died. He chucked her under her chin. When she startled he pinched her cheek lightly and pressed his lips in a thin line.
“One more thing I need to add to my apology list, tiger.”
Chapter 5
Seeing her standing in the doorway, he pointed to the counter.
“I thought I told you to stay put.” Taking in her sweatpants that had replaced the shorty pajama’s, he grinned. “Hmm, I think I preferred the ones that barely covered your ass.”
He laughed when she flushed and angrily stammered, “I was… cold.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Hmm. I see.”
When her flush deepened, he relented. “Okay, whatever works for you. You could wear a burka and look sexy as hell.”
Knowing that he was pushing against a fragile barrier, Dameon decided to stop teasing her. If he was going to make it through this medic routine without tossing her on the table and tearing her clothes off, he’d be wise to hold the insinuating comments. On the trip to his truck, he’d chided himself and flat out warned his rowdy dick. Christ, this woman was hurt physically and emotionally strung out. She was fragile, vulnerable as hell. Looked like he was going to have to be the passing guard rather than the instigator in the equation. With a grunt, he acknowledged it wasn’t going to be easy.
“Come here, tiger. It kinda comes down to where I can get at you most easily and not hurt you any more than I have to. How about you lean against the counter if you don’t want to sit on it.”
When she nodded, he put his kit on the counter next to her and began taking out supplies.
He pointed to the large scrape with the inch wide gash in the center.
“Let’s start with this and then we can wrap your ribs, okay?
“Here, you lift your top so that I can cover the whole area. You better hold onto something. This stuff is miraculous but it burns like hell when you put it on.”
She tossed her head. “Do you think it’s the first time I’ve had a wound treated with Dermabond?”
“No, Major, I assume you’ve experienced this and worse. Got a few scars like the rest of us?”
When she nodded, he took a chance and added, “Yeah, I’ve found that the ones that don’t show are harder to heal than the ones that do.”
Jesse was startled at the police chief’s nuanced insight. Instinctively she started to put up her emotional shield but when he continued laying out the bandages, humming softly under his breath, she allowed herself to back off. She hoped he was talking about himself not just her. She leaned against the counter next to him an
d allowed herself to give into his presence. He made her feel small, feminine. She was so accustomed to playing a powerful macho role, it felt surprisingly good to lean on someone who was bigger and physically stronger. He was tall, easily a good three inches over six feet. He was lean, muscular—like an athlete not a body builder.
Jesse drank in a deep breath, soaking up his smell. At the heady mix of subtle cologne and strong man a rush of sensation hit her core. She tried to brush off her attraction as the byproduct of fatigue but she knew better. It was his aura. He commanded attention, oozed power. The silvery grey and black striped dress shirt, tailored black trousers with a shield casually clipped at his waist, and hand-tooled black cowboy boots could have put him on the cover of GQ. The epitome of casual male model. And she added with a guilty flush of heat, it didn’t hurt that he was sexy as hell.
Dameon broke into her wayward thoughts.
“I hate to put this on you.”
She jerked up. “Why? I can take it.”
“I know you can. But, I don’t want to spoil the smell.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Your fragrance. I’m a sucker for lemon and verbena.”
She was startled that he knew what she wore but also that, like her, he was attracted to her fragrance. Aiming for cover, she tried to make light of the comment.
“How did you know what I wear… um, your wife’s favorite?”
He smiled at her and shook his head. “No wife.”
Jesse’s cheeks heated. She looked down to avoid his eyes, to cover her embarrassment.
She knew he wasn’t married. In the middle of the night in between screaming tantrums and trying to wash the ugliness off her body, she’d booted up the internet and looked up his profile. He was 41 years old, a former Army Ranger and the youngest police chief of any major city in the country. She could still see his easy smile, and startling blue eyes that contrasted dramatically with his warm skin and sexy beard shadow. Her eyes had flown over the pages of accolades and honors from his military and police careers looking for personal details. At the bottom of the last page was the notation: Single father of Zoey Christina Macarios, 8 years old. Her heart leapt at the memory—as it had last night. And that was when she’d hated him.